For Christine.
The flickering light of the fire in the cave sends dancing flames onto the rugged walls, reflecting off the scribbles and marks that had been so painstakingly carved into them by countless lovers, broken hearts, and more that he could never even begin to guess at. 'JAMIE LOVES CHRISTINE' was dug into the side of one, encircled by a heart, while another proclaimed that if you just called this number, you could have a fun time.
It all makes him sick to his stomach, and he turns away, closing his eyes as though in pain – not external, but internal, and he isn't sure what is worse.
"You need to eat."
The lilting voice rings through the cave, originating with the slim woman from the entrance to it, holding the sticks that she'd gone out to get. As she moves farther in, the fire seems almost to grab at her hair, drawing out the reds and golds and playing with them until they turned into brown, sinking back against her skin. Her eyes are left in shadow, but he knows they're fixed on him, and that if he'd been close enough, the worry would have overwhelmed him.
"I did," he rejoins, pursing his lips.
She shakes her head. "More than just a few crackers, Harry. You need to keep your strength up." He considers telling Ginny that there is strength enough in those few words to burn the world to the ground and keep them laughing, but doesn't bother – she doesn't want to hear it, anyway.
"I have enough strength for this."
"I know that – " and he's angered her, he can tell in the stiff way she moves when she walks farther into the cave, setting the slightly damp kindling close enough to the fire to, with luck, dry from the heat and far enough away that they won't set on fire themselves. "But you have to eat, too. What the hell kind of a life are you going to live after this?"
"I can't think of an after, Ginny. I can't think of – anything."
"You're going to have to. You think I'm about to let you die? Dr – he would kill me."
His breath stops in his lungs, the response he had dies on his lips, and the metaphors have never been so accurate as they are just now, when the image of his lover's body is still so clear in his mind as to be a photograph permanently engraved in the back of his eyelids. "Shame we won't ever find out."
It's something to be proud of, really, that his voice sounded as steady as it did; and he represses the pride that came from the way she stiffened, the words obviously finding a home in her center. Ginny crouches, long limbs folding up underneath her, and pokes at the fire, choosing not to make a response.
Regret blooms, hard and fast. "I'm sorry," he offers after a pause. "I didn't mean it that way."
There is a hesitation before she speaks, and when she does, tears are evident in the words. "Yes you did. Don't lie to me, Harry." The witch continues before he has a chance to speak – but he doesn't know what he would have said anyway. "I loved him too, you know – love him too. He might have picked you – " it says something for her that, three weeks ago, those would have been bitter words instead of heartbroken, but he would give anything for them to be the former again – "But I didn't stop loving him."
"You went away." It's the only thing he can think to say – she left shortly after Draco had chosen, had gone to Paris and Rome and left them all far behind. Harry had hoped that she'd managed to forget her feelings, too.
She sighs. "Do you think that means I stopped loving him? Not once. I had others – " a laugh, bitter and broken and everything that the Ginny Weasley he'd once known, had once loved, would never have been and now cannot ever not be – "But none of them compared to him."
Jealousy flares hot and sharp in his chest – for Draco. Because Draco never wanted her to leave, never wanted her to forget him or take another; because Draco sometimes called for her in the middle of the night, and never remembered it in the morning.
He doesn't speak for a long time, staring into the heart of the fire as though it holds the answers to the world that he has suddenly found himself in – a world where his own fire has disappeared, was taken from him as abruptly as he had never thought possible.
"We should sleep."
She nods, the only movement she's made beyond stoking the fire again in an hour, and curls up on the opposite side of him under a blanket he thinks she conjured and did a shitty job with. He does the same, and when he closes his eyes, sees only silver.
Silver and blood.
Two hours later, and he still can't get the image of – of the body of his lover – of Draco from his mind, and he's curled in a ball on the couch at Ron and Hermione's place, and Hermione's in the kitchen making tea and Ron's making firecall after firecall, and he just wants to wake up.
His eyes slip closed and the scene appears again – Draco's leaning against the wall as though he'd just decided that it's time for a nap on the ground, and if it hadn't been for the new smile that he wears proudly, carved into his throat with crimson lipstick, he could almost be asleep. There are bruises on his arms that aren't seen at first – but when Harry drops to his knees, his mouth wide in a scream that will never come out, will lock itself in his heart and rot, he can see them; handprints larger than his own, deeper in the index fingers where the owner squeezed until the dried tears on his lover's cheeks emerged.
The first thing he'd done had been to call Ron – and then the Aurors, and then Ginny. He'd hesitated for too long on the last one, though, and almost hadn't done it; but she had a right, with her status – and with Draco's soft spot for her that had never gone away and now wouldn't, it is only Right to call her. It still hurts, though, to see the disbelief that comes in her eyes – to watch as she slowly accepts that Harry would never lie about this, and falls.
Falls internally, because she's Ginny Weasley and she would sooner die than show weakness, but falls all the same, and it feels like he's watching the destruction of the only thing in the world that could have ever saved him – like he's watching his salvation destroy itself.
The revenge that shows in her eyes now, as she comes from the front door with a bang and throws herself bonelessly next to Harry on the couch and leans over as though she cannot keep herself upright – he recognizes it. He knows it's in his own eyes, the burning need for something other than the law to deliver justice – they know what caused this.
It's hate, plain and simple; the words carved onto Draco's desk – carved like a lover would, but with hate dripping from every inch as though to say that Draco will never be forgiven and is in hell, now, waiting for the rest of them – the words that say he is Death Eater scum, that he will never be anything more, and they make the blood boil in Harry's veins until he thinks he's going to scream.
The turmoil is kept internal, and only Ginny sees it for what it is – not shock, not regret, not guilt. The Harry he'd been in Hogwarts would have keeled over under the guilt of not being there, but he's Harry Potter, one of the best Aurors at the Ministry and has seen enough death to rid him of the belief that he can save everyone. There was nothing he could do – not then.
There is something he can do now.
Hermione comes from the kitchen with the teapot in her hands like it's some kind of a guard, to distance herself, and settles herself into the armchair in front of the couch. He can feel Ginny move almost imperceptibly closer to him, and he to her, until their legs are touching from their hips to their knees – he's uncurled now, siting straight, and it feels right in a way that's so, so wrong.
The brunette takes a deep breath, and Harry knows what she's going to say before she does. "Harry, you mustn't go doing anything… extreme."
Ginny stiffens, but Harry places his hand on her shoulder to quiet her. "Hermione. They killed Draco."
Her eyes tighten. "I know, Harry – " and he remembers that Draco had been her research partner, that they'd been close, too – "But the Aurors – "
The witch next to him snarls. "They won't do shit, Hermione, and you know it. They have to play in the rules."
Harry can read what she isn't saying: they don't have to. They have free reign.
Hermione can, too, and it is clear by the straightening of her shoulders that she wants to at least be able to say that she tried to stop them. "The laws are there for a reason – "
This time, it's Ron who interjects, lounging against the archway with blue eyes darkening the longer he goes on. "Let them go, Hermione." His lips tighten. "They're going to anyway, we can at least help them." And this time he looks directly at her, and Harry knows that the look he's giving his wife will get him very, very lucky that night. "If it was you? I'd have gone already. They have the right to get revenge, it's that damn law again, and – "
"But Ron, you keep trying to get that dismantled – "
Ron shakes his head, cutting her off. "This is more important."
Harry feels his gut tighten – they've fought for years to get rid of that law, the revenge and family and lover law, and if he does what he wants to do, all their hard work will be wasted. Ron knows it, too, and he gives his permission with little more than a dip of his head.
"We'll leave after the funeral," Ginny says without asking Harry – but she didn't have to. He'd been planning on earlier. "Any leads you get, Ron," and she stands, and his leg instantly feels colder, "Tell us. Immediately."
The redheaded woman leaves the room gracefully – and Harry wonders if he's the only one who knows her well enough to see the tension in her body, to know that as soon as she gets into the guest room where she's been staying she'll be gone, hiding in the bed and love of another man that will never compare.
Ron's eyes seem to say otherwise, but Harry's been doing this on his own for too long to trust that; with a nod of his own, he lays back down, saying tonelessly to the ceiling: "I have nowhere to go. Do you mind if I stay here?"
Hermione's eyes fill up, he can hear it in her voice. "Of course not, Harry. You're our friend."
He wakes up with an aborted gasp, feeling the newest rays of the dawn creeping their ways across his face with little feelers that are too reminiscent of spiders for him to be entirely okay with it. Ginny isn't in the cave, he knows it before he even looks for her, but he isn't surprised – he wouldn't want to spend much time in his own presence, either.
Standing, the man stretches, lean muscles tensing as he cracks out the kinks in his back – three weeks ago, another man would have been doing it for him, would have been pushing on the areas that hurt the worst, would have known where not to touch.
The thought is pushed from his mind with no small effort, the skin around his eyes tensing with the pain that seems almost to surround his heart, pulsing with every beat of the organ. Harry moves towards the entrance of the cave stiffly, usually lithe movements seeming almost to be stilted – as though by the lack of his other half – better half – he is not the man he used to be.
He could have said that without the universe taking away the best thing to ever happen to him.
Ginny is standing in front of the cave, face turned up to the sun; he can see the drying tracks of tears on her cheeks, but doesn't make a mention of it.
"We found a lead last night," he says quietly, trying not to disturb the peace of the dawn.
"I know." She doesn't turn to face him. "Ron and Hermione sent us an owl. They want us to come home."
He can't help it: he scoffs. "When this is done, I'm never going back to England."
It is a mark of their friendship – in the past now, but once as strong as their love, maybe even stronger – that she isn't surprised by this, or at least doesn't show it. "Yes, well, don't tell them that. They think we both are, and I should have to break the bubble they live in."
Harry's boot tip is grinding into the rocky soil at their feet, the anger he cannot put into words shown in the simple movement. "They're not thinking, then – "
She whirls, red hair slapping him in the face with the movement – but it is the look on her face that has him taking a sharp step back. "They love you, Harry, and Merlin knows why – they're worried about you." Ginny takes a breath. "Hell, I'm worried about you, and I have more than enough to think about right now. Start taking better fucking care of yourself, or I'll – "
"Or you'll what?"
Hazel eyes catch green, boring a hole into him and leaving nothing left. "Or I'll walk away right now and let you search for their hidey-hole –" the words are a sneer; those that they are searching for are little more than cowards hiding in the ground – "on your own."
He gives as good as he gets, square jaw somehow set even more in determination. "You want revenge as much as I do, Ginny."
"I can find them without you," the witch says, and she laughs – and goosebumps trail down his spine at the sound, because it's lacking so horribly in the bright joy that she always seemed to possess, entirely too full of cruel, bitter longing for a past that had almost never happened and a future that never will. It is the sound of one who has lost almost everything, one who can see the one thing she has left slipping away from her, one who isn't going to try and keep it with her but will let it fall before following it into the dark. It is a battle cry and a funeral song, and he doesn't want to hear it.
Pursing his lips, he shakes his head and turns back into the cave. "We'll leave in five, Ginny."
Her hand on his arm stops him, and her eyes are softer when he looks back at her – he doesn't know what's going through the mind behind them, but he doesn't trust it, remembering what she looked like when Draco had told her that they were over, that Harry had won again; there had been heartbreak there, yes, but there had been even more anger.
That much anger doesn't just disappear.
"Harry…" A pause, and he lifts a brow at her, waiting almost patiently – but she shakes her head and releases him, stepping back. "I'm already packed. I'll be waiting."
It doesn't even take him quite five minutes to pack everything he's got in the cave – his blanket, the small amount of food that they brought with him; his wand is kept in his leg holster, and when he steps back out with the bag on his back, she's waiting for him.
They set off together, walking the shortest distance away before Apparating to the next place they've got to find.
When he gets home, the door is open – and that sends a jolt through him. Draco isn't an Auror like he is, but he'd lived through the war, too; he should know better than to leave the door open. It creaks slightly in the wind, old hinges that he'd said he would change and never had seeming almost to rust away even as he walks up the steps to the decrepit house that they'd picked out – because Draco had wanted a fixer-upper, had wanted to have something entirely his own.
Personally, Harry would have been entirely okay with staying at Number Twelve, or even at the Malfoy Manor until they'd found a place that was of a higher grade, but Draco had been obstinate, and the former Gryffindor had never been able to deny him anything. The house had been bought after three hours of deliberation – Draco hadn't helped at all, constantly encouraging Harry to just agree to the set price because "we have the money, don't we? Just get it over with, Potter," and then he'd send a look that had every thought leaving Harry's head and scattering to the wind.
And when all was said and done, they'd been out several hundred more Galleons than they should have been, and a house that leaked in the summer and froze in the winter, with mold under the tiles in the guest bathroom and rusty hinges was theirs, and they'd christened every room in joy.
In Draco's joy, really, because Harry hadn't really cared at all where he was – he was in the middle of Auror training, and as long as he came home to a vaguely hot, probably edible meal – Draco was still learning his way around the kitchen – and a warm body in his bed, he was happy. But Draco had been travelling, he hadn't had a home, and he'd blossomed in the one that they'd chosen.
A year and a half later, the mold was gone, the leaks were mostly fixed – Draco swore he was going to fix them by next summer – and the drafty areas had been closed up. More or less, anyway; Harry was of the opinion that the one in their bedroom was left just so that Draco could have a reason to cuddle up close to Harry in the middle of the night because he got cold. The only thing left to do was fix the hinges – and he was going to do that tomorrow.
Really.
But they weren't fixed yet – they were still there, the silver bits winking at Harry from underneath the corrosive orange, flashing in the dying sun. He'd gotten off early that day just to surprise his boyfriend – lover – nothing sounded right, but whatever it was that they were, it was damn good. Damn good. But surprising Draco would entail Draco being there, and the door shouldn't have been opened.
His hand was drifting to his wand before he could even think twice about it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge – something was wrong. Something had happened, but he didn't know what, and part of him – the same part of him that had known to sacrifice him time and time again, that had known not to let Remus come with them – that part didn't want to know.
Still, though, he walked almost silently into the house – and stopped almost directly inside, green eyes wide and feeling like his lungs had collapsed around his rib cage because oh God please no, please no, please no.
The bloody handprint on the opposite wall told him, for every no his heart screamed, that the answer was always going to be yes.
Ginny's hand is thrown out towards him, hitting in the center of his chest, before he realizes what's happening, and he stops as soon as it makes contact, eyes flickering around him to see what's made her pause.
There is nothing in immediate sight, and he turns to her, demanding words on the tip of his tongue -
"There," she breathes, nodding towards some area in front of them. He squints, but cannot see anything – she answers his next question before it even leaves his mouth, and he's reminded again that she knows him better than anyone living, now. "A ward. We're getting close."
Her talent had always been wards and magic creating – he suspected that she'd learned it from Bill, and really had an affinity for something else, but wouldn't ever dare to ask her – and he trusts her implicitly when it comes to this. Her wand is out before he can blink, darting around the air as though she's prodding at a net, dipping in between the holes and tugging at the knots that hold it all together.
A near –silent a-ha is murmured when she finally finishes, and he stares at the sight that unfolds in front of him – a large stronghold has appeared where the ward concealed it, with windows that are barred and a tattered flag rising high above it.
The only sign on it is that of a lion and a phoenix, and he's seen it so much in his work that he could have given the definition in his sleep – it's sign that the Procuro claims, and they'd come to power shortly after the fall of Voldemort; primarily because of his fall, really, and Harry had never liked them. They employed violence with a passion that he rarely saw in normal terrorists, and had gone after the Death Eaters and families that hadn't been punishes.
Not that there had been many of those – the Ministry had cracked down severely on those left after the war, and though Harry had protested, he'd had next to no weight at the time to throw about. Draco had been one of the few left who hadn't been thrown into prison – and his family had been fined severely, so that many thought it was fair all the same.
He wasn't as surprised as he should have been to see that flag, though the sudden, white-hot rage that flared low in his belly shocked him more than anything else did; hefting his wand in his hand as though it was a sword and not just a simple stick of wood, the man made to stride down and take them on – only Ginny's hand on his arm stopped him.
"Stop being dumb and think," the witch hissed angrily, and when he turns to her, the same fury is evident in ever y line of her face – that is what calms him down more even than the knowledge that she is right. By moving in now, they will not accomplish anything: and it is revenge that is important. Not self-sacrifice.
"We'll need a plan."
"Thank God we've got time, then. Find a shelter. I'll find wood for a fire."
She strides away with long, angry strides, and he knows what she's thinking – it is a shame they aren't near any sort of civilization. Harry knows what she does to lose herself – he can't imagine that it would help him, but if it would do anything at all, he'd give it a shot.
Right now, though, he's got a place to stay to find, and with one last glance at the house in front of him, he leaves, too, keen eyes searching about him for it.
What he finds isn't much, but it's something – and that's better than nothing, in his not so humble opinion, and by the time that Ginny finds him again, he's got the branches pulled back and the ground patted down to make it harder. They didn't pack a tent – he couldn't stand the idea of staying in a tent, in somewhere enclosed, when Draco is in a coffin six feet under – and the tarp he conjured stretches over the little area he made into a bed.
It will be a tight squeeze, but he knows she needs it – and he needs it, too.
The knowledge dawns in her eyes, and she sets the wood down in the rock circle he formed, glancing about her. "Wards?"
"All of them."
"Set to what?"
"The highest. Anyone stepping over the line will be fried if they mean us harm." His mouth is set – there is no playing about. Harry is still within the law, and that gives him the ability to play outside it, too; and who will send the Boy-Who-Lived and the Man-Who-Won to Azkaban for avenging his love?
Her eyes flicker with the same sort of vengeance that lines every movement he makes. "Good." Crouching, the woman begins to poke at the sticks and logs, murmuring under her breath – a second later, a fire roars up, the same color as her hair.
His gaze is drawn to it as much as they are to the shimmering mane that tumbles down her back, but the former is a safer bet, and he crouches near her, holding his hands to the flames. The sun is going down, and the chill in the air is beginning to get worse. It is going to be a cold night.
When Ginny turns to him, there is nothing but business in her eyes – but she shifts closer to him all the same, and he knows why. "The front door is out – they had a guard there."
He nods absently. "The windows were barred."
"The upper story, too?"
"Yeah – but there might be places around back. Did you go there when you were getting wood?"
A grin folds itself onto her face, feral in its intensity. "Of course. There was a balcony on the second story, third window from the right."
"We should have no problem, then." His own expression mirrors hers. "We'll wait a day, watch the guards, see if they change – if we can get in through the front, we have an escape route."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we go in through the back."
She laughs again, and he shivers. "Scared?"
His eyes turn dark. "Not at all."
Draco had probably been scared, when they'd stormed into the house and left behind their mark; when the group that had claimed to deliver justice had taken away his only reason for remaining just. He is done being scared – and so is Ginny, if the pleased smirk that is lighting in her eyes is any indication.
Her hands dance in front of her on the ground, drawing battle plans before sweeping them away again and starting over – Harry doesn't think she's even realizing what she's doing, and his hand is reaching for hers before he realizes it.
He draws it back, but she's seen it, and frozen – her face turns towards him, cruel heartbreak evident on the planes of it, and longing on the edges. "Don't make promises you cannot keep, Harry."
The man's breathing is even, though his heart races. "Did you hear me promise anything?"
Full lips curl upwards, and she repeats, "Don't make promises you cannot keep, Harry."
He dips his head, and pulls his hand back entirely. Time passes slowly, and finally the witch stands, stretching sinuously, and glances skywards. The sun has almost set now, and the chill in the air is entirely too evident – she shivers. "Goodnight, Harry."
His brows pull together – she realizes, surely, that he will be coming after her to sleep in the same area, doesn't she? – but answers regardless, "Goodnight, Ginny."
The gleam in her eyes means that she knows, and she turns, pulling out the blanket and curling under it. He doesn't follow for a long time, staring into the dying fire until the last ember winks out, before finally standing himself and working the kinks out of muscles that have almost frozen in place. When he crawls under the branches and into the small enclave he made earlier, he sees – in almost-surprise – that she has left him space.
Harry falls next to her, curling his body around her own – she's gotten smaller since last time, though her muscles are more defined now, unfamiliar against his own, and she's soft in all the wrong places and hard in worse – and lets his eyes drift closed.
"What made you pick me?" Harry's question is innocuous enough, but it causes Draco's back to stiffen, where it's turned to him, the face that Harry is searching for looking out at the window.
"Because I love you. I tell you that all the time, really, Potter." His voice is dry, mocking – but there is the love that, yes, he does profess so often; Harry seems almost to preen under it, flex like a cat would stretch.
"But really," the dark-haired man presses on, "What made you pick me? She's beautiful, you and I both know it – " both of them have tasted her more than once, have felt her beauty against them in the middle of the night when the stars are out and sing to them; it is not always alone that they spend time with her, and in their own way, they both love her – "And I'm just … me."
Draco laughs, low, and turns from the window – to Harry's displeasure, his face is now cast entirely in shadow, and he cannot read the expressions that he knows the other man can easily put into his voice. "Because you didn't make me choose, Harry. Because you can be with one person and not resent them – you know Ginevra. She could never."
Harry's lips purse. "She is a – "
"Ah, ah," Draco chides lightly. "Be nice. You still love her."
"I love you more."
"I know, Harry." A sigh, the depths of which seem to contain the ocean and beg for more, almost. "I know."
The man's strides take him to the bed, where he folds himself under the covers and around Harry, and the latter sighs a little, breathing in the scent that is so uniquely his lover's – mint and clean, a sort of silvery tang seeming almost to overlay it all, and he's always thought that it's just the money that Draco grew up with rubbing off even in the man's aura that surrounds him.
His fingers reach out, dancing down the other's bare chest – he knows every scar and mark there like he knows his own hand, and doesn't linger this time; other times he does, spends hours and minutes and seconds marking every imperfection with lips and tongue and love until Draco begs for him to move on – and intertwines with the man's hand, bringing it up to kiss it lightly.
"Do you ever regret it?"
Draco's laugh rings out, sudden and sharp, like the wine that Harry hadn't liked until he'd tried it again. "Why on Earth do you ask? And why tonight?"
Harry shakes his head, knowing the blonde cannot see him and uncaring. "I don't know. I just … was thinking about her, I guess." He doesn't have to say why – it's their anniversary. Their anniversary.
The other man shifts closer to Harry, his eyes peering deep into green pools that seem to flicker with insecurity, and he pauses before answering – takes the second to brush his lips against his lover's. "I don't regret it at all. You make me happier than anything."
A smile curls up on Harry's lips like the cat he'd felt like earlier. "Good." And then there is no more talk for the rest of the night – not of Ginny, that is, who could have been across the world alone, celebrating the anniversary that the three became one for a night.
She probably was. Harry, in that moment, with Draco's body pressing against him and his lips trailing down his neck, with their hands still intertwined, didn't care.
When he wakes, he is curled around her, her small form pressed against his stomach, and he isn't entirely surprised. He doesn't move for a time, and then slowly moves his hand to run it through her hair – and he knows she's awake, but doesn't say anything. Her cheek feels like satin, the back of his hand brushing against it from time to time – there is none of the roughness he is so accustomed to littering it, but it doesn't seem to matter.
She is still as beautiful as she was when they were eighteen, with the world in front of them.
A slight sigh escapes his lips – and breaks the spell they'd seemed to linger under, as she starts, pulling away from him. He shivers, and she comes back, turning to face him so that her head is next to him, their ankles intertwined.
The last time they'd done this, their feet hadn't been near each other – hers had been perched on the edge of the bed, as though she could run away as soon as the thought entered her mind, as though she could pull herself from where she'd intertwined with him without hurting herself as she would the other.
"Good morning," she greets, and her eyes are wary.
He repeats it, and reaches for her hand. "Ginny…"
"Harry."
She isn't going to let him get away with it. "I miss him," he admits, and her eyes both let a wall fall and conjure another to replace it – it wasn't what she was expecting him to say. Perhaps it was better.
"So do I." The witch pulls her lower lip between her teeth, gaze darkening with the pain he knows is reflecting in his own. "He would hate us for doing this."
Harry shakes his head. "More like hate us for doing this without him."
A wet laugh. "If he was here we wouldn't have to."
"… Yes."
And if they were any other people in the world – if they had even the slightest amount less of baggage – if they weren't Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, they would have broken down, cried in each other's arms; because if there is one thing that has remained the same, it's that no one is ever quite going to be able to be the same that they are to each other.
They've been through too much – even Draco had recognized that, sometimes, had seen that Ginny needed Harry just as it was the other way around. And though they'd never said it out loud – perhaps they'd never even truly realized it – the insertion of a third had thrown that out of balance. Suddenly it was Ginny who needed them, and Harry who needed only Draco, and Draco who needed – they would never know.
And suddenly her lips were on his, hot and fierce against him, pulling her hands into his hair and tugging so hard that he felt his mouth part the slightest bit. His retaliation is quick, dragging her roughly against the ground so that her body is flush against his, the heat she generates so hot that it feels as though he's going to melt.
Silence gives way to pleas, and he feels as though he's folding her into him with every movement that they make – it has been so long, but they haven't forgotten the dance, and each is more skilled than they ever were with the steps.
It doesn't seem to matter that her hair falls around them, or that her eyes flash tawny-brown-gold when she comes undone, or that she is so soft when he falls onto her, wrapping long arms around his back; that her legs are smooth as her cheeks, that freckles dot her stomach in a road map that his tongue traces until he thinks that maybe he can find out where they're going.
All that matters is that there is comfort in this, a sort of reassurance in the fact that they aren't alone – that when he and she fall, they are falling together; there might not be anyone to catch them any longer, but they are going to avenge that, too, and maybe they aren't angels, but they can pretend long enough to get their revenge.
When finally they leave the shelter, it is with a silence that is full of words they will never say – and though her hair is mussed around her head, her eyes are calmer than he has seen them in years; the roiling sea that seemed almost to define the woman has not disappeared, but has stilled, and he cannot help the slight swell of pride that curls in his gut.
Plans are quickly made of a breakfast of nearby greens to watch the house, and they part ways for the majority of the day – he takes notes when things change, and watches the sky when it doesn't, and thinks not of Draco or of Ginny or of what happened, but of Ron and Hermione.
They were expecting a child – they had admitted their love so long ago that it seemed almost a foregone conclusion from the beginning – Ron had been nominated for a promotion – Hermione was making laws that would change the world – they were normal.
Jealousy had been there for so long that he didn't know how to live without it, anymore – not because they had someone they loved, because he did, or had, or still did; but because that love wasn't the fiery, all-consuming passion that overwhelmed him. It was low and steady and burned like a fire that had been banked for the night; it wouldn't flare out or up, but would remain.
His own had burned hot and imperfect – with flare-ups whenever it seemed to go down, until he permanently had scratch marks down his back and bruises on his chest and wore them like badges of honor, his eyes shining with the knowledge that when he went home, he hadn't done so alone.
And just as then, was now – when he left the lookout, he had a plan in place, and he wasn't going to a shelter that was empty, bereft; it was filled to the brim with a fire that could match his, would have matched his if it hadn't been for the ice that had been so consuming as to freeze him to her.
Part of him regrets it.
"I don't care!" Ginny spits at them, her eyes burning bright with the sort of broken hearted passion that Harry, his hand safely ensconced in Draco's, cannot begin to understand at that moment in time. "I don't care if you think that I'm crazy, I'm not – "
But she looks it, with her red hair flying wildly about her head, with long, graceful hands that have traced their bodies so many times as to know them by heart soaring through the air in the depths of her rage. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that – but Draco does.
"Stop acting it, then, Ginevra – " he's the only one who's ever called her that – "And start acting like a normal human being. You gave me the choice, and I made it."
"I didn't – " she falters, and suddenly he is afraid that she is going to cry. He needn't have worried, though – the slim woman stands taller a second later, and the weakness that flashed through dark eyes is barely visible. "I didn't mean it."
"A little late for that, isn't it?"
Harry cannot understand the venom in Draco's voice, not really – because yes, Ginny had given them the choice, had admitted that she no longer was satisfied and she deserved better, and she did, didn't she? By saying no, they'd set her free – he wanted nothing but the best for her, wanted her to find someone who could give all of him to her, and that was what she deserved, really.
Not them – not Harry, who probably could have loved Ginny if Draco hadn't been there, whose fire matched her own; and not Draco, whose refined nature would never be able to live with the wildness that she seemed to embody, with the way that she wanted it all and couldn't bother to wait for it to come to her.
"Is it?" Her voice is soft.
Draco nods, and Harry watches as her face falls – he hasn't seen that on her before. "It is. Ginevra, you knew what would happen – you knew I wasn't going to pick you. You brought this on yourself."
She seems to crumple into herself, and Harry cannot help but step forward. "Draco," he admonishes quietly, and releases his hand, moving with his other one towards her. "Ginny, hey – "
But her head snaps up at the sound, and damn it all, he's forgotten that pity is the exact emotion to never use with her. "Don't touch me," she snarls, backing away.
He stops with his hand outstretched, and knows that the expression on his face is one that he would regret if he could see it, but he takes solace in the fact that he can't. "Ginny."
The redhead shakes her head quickly, a sharp gesture that looks as though it would hurt – but maybe that's what she wanted. "Don't. Don't, Harry, you poor, ignorant fool – you'll never understand."
He's stung, and rejoins, "I got him. You didn't. But I still want you in my life, Ginny, we still want you – "
It's Ginny's turn to be pitying, now, and she does it far better than he ever could, the expression seeming almost to tell him that he has forgotten something so important that he will never truly remember it, that he will wander the rest of his life searching for it. "You might."
And then she turns and backs away and disappears, and he thinks he sees her reach a hand up to swipe at her face before she's gone – and that tugs harder at his heart than anything else has; a half turn to see that it has had the same effect on Draco's.
But there's an emotion on the Aquiline features of his lover's face that he's never seen before, but he thinks it's just hurt and loss, and moves willingly enough into arms that have outstretched for him, pulling the strong body against his own. "We'll find her again," he soothes, "She's going to come back one day, you'll see."
Draco snorts. "Yeah, but what kind of condition will she be in?"
At the time, Harry doesn't understand – but when he looks back on it, he knows that Draco saw what he never could; that Ginny had been so broken that she'd gone searching for healing and would never find it, and that the emotion he'd seen hadn't been loss, but love.
He'd never seen it on Draco's face again, not unless the man was sleeping – and those were the nights that he cried for Ginny, and Harry curled in a ball with his back to his lover's form and pretended that he couldn't hear, because his fairytale wasn't supposed to end like this.
It wasn't supposed to end at all.
The night is spent making plans, combining what they'd gathered from their day of watching into one – and he knows as well as she does that it isn't the brightest idea they've ever had, that they should have days and days and even weeks of surveillance under their belt before the even begin to think of a plan for this, but they don't care.
Revenge burns bright and fierce under their breastbones, where their hearts had stopped – pulsing and beating as if it will do it for what no longer can, and he, for one, is not upset by the lack of planning; Procuro has always acted fast, and if they wait long enough, someone else will be killed.
He is still enough of a hero to not wish that on anyone – the murderer of his own lover is in there somewhere, and he will have his justice, and that is all there is to it.
That there will be collateral damage is a fact of nature, and he doesn't care either way – what does it matter if more die when Draco is dead? What does it matter if he is hurt, if Ginny is hurt, so long as the one who took what was theirs away from them is as cold as he is now, if he is facing the same judges that Draco did?
The answer is that it matters very little, and the preparations are made with the grim determination that has so far composed of their entire escapade thus far – when they fall into the night, it is almost midnight, and the day is beginning to start once more, but neither cares; they are not sleeping.
There is no time for sleeping – there will be time for sleeping when they, too, are dead.
Instead they flaunt the fact that they are alive, with nails that dig into flesh and kisses that leave bruises, teeth that clash together and sharp, staccato gasps for air that punctuate the night in exclamation marks and commas.
That there is one who should be there and is instead buried under ground isn't ignored – the moans are an ode, the sound of flesh falling into flesh an obituary; the tears that lurk behind the near-savage clinging are the remnants of a man who had never given them all, but had taken everything they had to offer.
And when the morning dawns and they are still alive, they don't quite regret it. They have a job to do.
Each stands and does what is necessary, only the barest of words floating between them – "Pack your knives, Ginny," mingles with, "Make sure you douse the fire," and everything in the middle seems to almost disappear into the light of the sun, and he doesn't care that he has nothing profound to say for his last words.
Somehow, he's said all that needs to be said – and the bruises on her hips, on his back, say all that he never could find the words for, anyway.
"Are you ready?" Her eyes find his, and he nods with a slow, sharp grin clinging to the motion.
"Absolutely."
They leave the campsite almost silently, she seeming to float over the twigs and branches that he crashes through, and both know that they won't be back. There is no need for the silence, but it doesn't matter, because they're in the right here – avenging angels with tarnished haloes, wings that have broken so many times that they could almost fly again, and he watches her back when they reach the compound.
Her eyes are a dusky brown that he's never seen on her before when she turns to look at him, almost vibrating; he grins, drawing his wand.
"Last chance, Ginny."
A sharp, decisive shake of her head, and the grin that lifts her lips shows the sharper still points of her teeth, gleaming much as her hair is. "And leave you to have all the fun? I should think not." She hefts her wand, one of the knives that she's hidden about her in the other hand, and he doesn't envy her first victim. "Twenty people total – that's ten each. Good luck."
Ignoring the danger that the blade poses, he reaches over, pressing a hard, fast kiss to her mouth – it leaves her dazed, almost, though alive again. "I call eleven."
She laughs. "First to get eleven buys dinner."
His only answer is in the first step taken towards the house, slinking through the woods with the knowledge that this – this is right.
"One, two," Draco's voice is languid, curling out through the heavy, close summer air of the room like he has all the time in the world. Her laugh follows soon after, and Harry glances up from the book he is reading at the desk, flicking a glance towards the pair.
"What are you doing?" He asks quietly, finding it to be too much effort to exert more than the most basic of energy.
The blonde glances up from where he is sprawled across the bed, his head next to Ginny's stomach. "Counting freckles." Bright teeth show in a grin, and he adds, "I just started. Want to place a bet? Three hundred's my guess."
"For her stomach?" Harry rejoins, "I doubt it. One-fifty, and that's my final offer."
Ginny contorts herself so that she, too, can see Harry, the usually sharp edges of her face softening. "Oi! This is my body, here, you can't just make offers for me!"
Draco shakes his head, tracing his finger along some path that only he can see. "Nu-uh," the man laughs, "My body. Or, well, your body, but seeing as you belong to me… Mine."
There's something so intimate in the words he is using that it makes Harry feel almost uncomfortable, as though he is intruding into somewhere that he isn't welcome – but of course that's ridiculous, he knows that; Ginny was his first, after all, and they aren't sharing but they aren't doing anything else.
It's just the way that they always have been.
And Ginny's words just confirm that, as she shoves futilely at the head on her stomach. "I think not, Miser! My body, so just – Draco!"
The squeal has Harry half-standing before he thinks about it, war-reflexes honed by Auror training, but it's just that the man has licked a trail over her stomach, and she's shivering and laughing at the same time, squirming under his fingers – piano hands, Harry said, because the fingers were so long and delicate – and even a fool could see that she didn't want him to stop.
He puts a bookmark in the book before standing, heads towards them and waits at the edge of the bed for some kind of sign that he, too, is allowed to play – Ginny sees him right away, and holds out a hand for him to help her. "My hero!" She says dramatically, and he laughs, too, falling in between them.
Draco growls. "My prize," he states, holding the witch close to him, baring his teeth playfully at Harry. "Back off, Hero, I won her fair – and – square." Each word is punctuated by a flutter of his fingers over her stomach, an additional giggle working its way out of her throat.
Harry pounces, dragging her unresisting into his arms, where she settles happily, content, tracing her own fingers over his chest – and then ruins it by sticking her tongue out at the blonde. "Nyah," she says haughtily, "Nyah, I say."
The men both laugh, and all further talk is moot – but Harry is careful to allow Draco space with Ginny, knowing he will have his time with her later.
It wouldn't do to be greedy.
Procuro: From Latin; to sacrifice in order to avert evil.
Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of it – it's something new for me, so any and all feedback would be very welcome. If you're reading The Burning Wings, the next chapter should be out next week.