Title: Sometimes and Always
Author: fairytalemanipulator
Summary: Draco/Ginny post-war. Sticks to as much canon as possible with this pairing, and not AU or OOC. He harbors demons that wish to brand his soul. She banishes them with her radiance.
A/N: First D/G story of mine, I was inspired and sat down for two hours to write this all at once. Please review, I'm planning on a second part for this, let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see!
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"The whole course of human history may depend on a change of heart in one solitary and even humble individual--for it is in the solitary mind and soul of the individual that the battle between good and evil is waged and ultimately won or lost."- M. Scott Peck
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Sometimes he was cruel. The words he would spit out of his mouth were sent at her with such vehemence that had she been anyone else, she would retreat.
But she wasn't anyone else, which was why it worked.
When he was cruel, she retaliated, for she had quite the mouth on her as well. They would retreat to separate corners of the house, each fuming, each sorry in their own way for what they had said.
He was always the first to seek her out and apologize.
Not what one would assume of the Malfoy heir.
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Sometimes he would cry. For the first few years, she pretended not to know, pretended not to be the one comforting him in the middle of the night as the Mark burned on his left arm, a terrible memory of what he could have done and who he had been. When he would cry, she would cry. They would wipe each other's tears and wake to a new day, and he would bring her coffee and lay with her until it was time to go to work.
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Sometimes he was uncomfortable.
"Stop acting like a child!" He would sneer at her actions, frustrated and utterly nonplussed at being in Diagon Alley with bystanders gawking as they always did, noses pressed against glass, when the couple stepped out. "Pick something and let's move on!"
She didn't snap at him on those days, because underneath the rudeness she knew how he felt. His reputation was wholly tarnished, nothing but a black stain where a silver crest used to lie. His family was in shambles, and it took all his strength not to break down in front of the witches and wizards who judged him for the things they assumed he did.
"I'm coming," she would murmur, placing a soothing hand on his arm, making her small stature equal with his as she craned her neck to look in his eyes. "It's alright, Draco,"
There was always a crowd inside Madame Malkin's, watching them open-mouthed as they interacted. They didn't hide their surprise, and the couple did not hide their disdain for the gossipmongers.
He would inhale sharply and pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a nervous tic he had inherited from his father. Settling back in his chair, he would wait, his back studiously facing away from the whispering throng. Eventually Madame Malkin would notice his discomfort and shoo away the onlookers, brandishing her wand and threatening to hem robes around the waist. He never knew why she stuck up for him, Merlin knows he deserves the disapproving crowds. His wife once said that not everyone thinks in a Slytherin way—some people are simply kind, without asking for favors in return.
She was one of those.
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Sometimes he doubted their relationship.
She was a Gryffindor through and through, a fact that he told himself again and again he disapproved of until he almost believed it, but not quite. Her lioness nature was what kept him sane, and he never doubted his love for her.
He was hard pressed on occasion, however, to come up with reasons why he was good enough for her.
A pureblood former Death Eater had no place with an honorary member of the esteemed Golden Trio. He still received Howlers on occasion that penetrated their intense Manor wards which told him so, screeching so loud that she would come running, wand ready in a habit that never died after the war.
Everyone had assumed she would end up with the Boy-Who-Lived. After the war, he had seen the Daily Prophet reports of their rendezvous, and stopped reading it after it turned into nothing more than a gossip rag. Therefore he missed the screaming headlines of called-off nuptials, the detailed account of their marriage-gone-wrong, and their announcement to the public that yes, their romantic relationship was over, but they would always care for each other. He did however see, when he would go to the Ministry on business, the slight figure and shocking red hair of the jilted ex of the Chosen One. And when he saw her for the first time, two months after their supposed-to-be wedding with no ring on her finger, he couldn't bring himself to do much more than smirk at her in what he hoped was a haughty fashion.
He didn't feel much like his former self anymore, anyhow. Throwing insults at people who simply took them, or were scared off by the ex-Death Eater, was no fun. Oddly enough, he missed Hogwarts, the place that changed his life forever in ways he could not have imagined as a pureblood wizard of great ancestral heritage. He missed the challenge of bickering with Granger, watching the Weasel get red-faced and sputter, and exchange jibes with Potty.
And he missed watching the youngest Weasel's eyes light up in fire when he called her names, responding with words he was sure her older brothers must have taught her against her mother's wishes.
He missed seeing her in the Great Hall at dinnertime, although the time he saw her snogging her latest boyfriend he had half a mind to hex him into the next dimension before remembering who he was and what he was supposed to act like, and he averted his eyes before Blaise could catch on to what he was looking at.
He watched her often, because she was intriguingly different. He didn't want her in that way, or didn't think he did. He didn't know what he wanted with her. Didn't have a clue, and as a Malfoy, that was a frightening concept for him.
After the war he made excuses to visit the Accounting department of the Ministry, where the youngest Weasley was temporarily helping recovery efforts across England. She was bemused by his behavior, and he was positive she thought he was there on a vindictive mission of his own creation. He wanted her to trust him, but knew that he couldn't make her because he had done too much, said too much, and even if he hadn't carried through his actions still had spoken loudly of an untrustworthy fellow of shady reputation and character, and she was not the type of girl—no, woman—who would fall in with that sort of despicable crowd.
He teased her about her hair, sneered at her parents, threw insults at her brothers, the usual: but it lacked the typical Malfoy malice, and she picked up on that too. She took advantage of his change of heart and threw that back in his face, and let on that she knew what he was trying to do because I'm not stupid, Malfoy, you can't hide who you are anymore. So she teased him back as they fell into a familiar routine and he found himself smiling a true smile for the first time since he was fifteen years old. It was oddly comfortable to talk to her not as an heir of a grand fortune, a Death Eater that got off with a slap on the wrist, or a Slytherin, but as an everyday man—and he found himself enthralled with the easy way their relationship unfolded.
His parents were too busy with figuring out their futures to care, and the term "blood-traitor" meant nothing after the destruction of the darkest wizard in history. She was never one to shy away from someone because her family or friends would disapprove: she was too opinionated and hot-headed for anyone to control what she did, but he knew he was getting into hot water with the only girl in a family full of Weasley men. But when one day the teasing continued on into the night, past the time when he was supposed to be back at his office, and into a dimly lit restaurant where he held her hand and felt things in his heart whirr and click in a fashion he hadn't felt since, well, never— he just let it happen.
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Sometimes he felt his old prejudices resurface. He would catch up on the latest Muggle news and feel distaste for their savage culture, devoid of anything magical…how could they live like that?
When he voiced this to her, she didn't get angry the way he thought she would. She looked at him thoughtfully, reading glasses perched on top of her frizzy red hair, chin resting on her dainty freckled hand.
"I want to show you something," she had murmured seductively, sliding her arms around his back. He held on tight as they Apparated not to the bedroom, as he had hoped, but, to his surprise, to a Muggle place filled with lights and cheering people, enticing smells and beaming, chocolate-chewing children.
"What is this place?" He had exclaimed, eyes wide in what she knew was an impish delight at the Ferris wheel, carousel, and numerous game booths present in the nearby vicinity.
"Dad brought me here once with Ron, when we were little tykes. It's a carnival, Draco,"
She had never expected him to be so happy, so carefree, so—childish—and "un-Malfoy-like" in his behavior that night, and told him as such later that night as he perched on the sofa at the Manor, delightfully chewing at the cone of an ice cream.
"I had never seen anything so…happy," he had admitted to her, his eyes crackling in time to the fireplace. "And I have never seen something so beautiful,"
His eyes were trained on her, as she self-consciously pulled her tangled hair into a bun at the back of her neck, dim light glinting off of her wedding ring. He had insisted on riding the Ferris wheel three times, and it would take a lot of potion to de-knot her poufy mane.
He wouldn't have cared if she was doused in sweat. "Thank you," he whispered sincerely, words that rarely came out of a Malfoy's mouth. "Thank you for showing me." And she knew he meant it, that he had lost a childhood in the beginnings of a war that was not supposed to be his war to fight, and he was grateful for a chance to relive what could have been had he been a normal wizard.
She softly placed her arms around him, and hugged a delicate, innocent hug that he closed his eyes and enjoyed, taking in the scent of the beautiful woman wrapped around him.
Sometimes he was very, very grateful.
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Sometimes he felt distaste for her friends.
He was never put off by her parents in the way one would think—it was more that he wasn't used to the open friendliness of the entire household. He had always mocked the family he was now a part of, and had only mocked because he was distressed at the happiness that the seemingly impoverished family radiated and attracted. He was used to delicious suppers prepared by the house elves to be eaten alone in front of the latest copy of the Prophet in a lonely, ominous and cold home—not boisterous family dinners supplemented with creaking tables of food, food, and more food. The first dinner was, therefore, unbearably awkward: a house known for its allegiance with Dumbledore was now hosting a member of the enemy, and the heads of the Weasley family were none too comfortable with it.
However, they saw how the two looked at each other. And they knew he was changed. As much as he wanted to portray his bad boy image, he knew that in the post-war climate, he had to make people believe that he was not as evil as he had once been thought.
He mostly did it for her, because he knew that it hurt her when people called him names. So he didn't give them chances for that.
The big bad Slytherin was tamed, or so it would seem.
Even Weasel, the ever imbecilic git, suspected the softness growing in his heart. And neither would admit it, but Ron was grateful for the way he treated his sister, and he was grateful for the chance to have a normal life, something that would not have been possible without the powerful testimony of his former enemies at his post-war trial.
He was not on friendly terms with Granger, that relationship would remain rocky and he had no qualms about that—he enjoyed their banter, and knew that he had said too many things about her to be forgiven fully—but he never uttered the detested M-word again after the war.
Not once.
Potter, however, he could not stand.
He never understood how she could forgive him for leaving her, although she always insisted it was a mutual decision and "look what good came out of it!". The two of them remained friends, much to his dismay, and, unsurprisingly, great jealousy. Words were often exchanged between the two former rivals, Quiddich matches proposed to see the Auror versus the Death Eater, as the eldest Weasley brother put it so cheerfully.
However the reality of it was much less jolly, as he was insanely envious and Potter was unbearably calm towards him, thus reducing any satisfaction he would have gotten from pummeling the Boy-Who-Had-No-Temper.
She made him promise, though. And any promise he made to her, he would never break. He promised he wouldn't hit him, so he didn't.
He didn't, however, promise he wouldn't be jealous. And he told her this, only to have her laugh and say "If you weren't jealous, I'd be worried. I can't help but be jealous whenever Pansy comes over and I even know that you loathe her. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Sometimes, he just knew she was perfect for him.
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Sometimes his nightmares got the best of him. Some nights he was back at the Manor before it had been destroyed, surrounded by the Lestranges, his Aunt Bella, and that terrifying werewolf as his mother looked on beseechingly and his father, his ever respected father, looked everywhere but at his son or the Dark Lord looming before him. Or he was looking on with horror as the Dark Lord strung up Muggle after Muggle, be it man, woman, or child, and instructed his followers to do with them what they deserved.
He didn't think they deserved any of that.
She was a deep sleeper, so she never awoke when he yelped and shot up, heart pounding and sweat collecting on his brow.
But she would come downstairs in her golden nightgown when she felt the loss of his presence at her side in the bed, lights winking on in front of her to a muttered Lumos, gliding along like an ethereal spirit of beauty as he sat with a bowed head in his study, a book held unseen in his grasp flipped open to a random page.
She would without fail bring him a glass of water and slip into his lap, placing the book gently on the desk and without making any sounds, would snuggle against him, tracing patterns that gently soothed him on his scarred back. She would run her fingers through his mussed, silky blonde strands of hair, her arms wrapped around him in a comforting hug. He didn't always tell her what he had seen, and she didn't press. She didn't know everything that had happened to him during the war, and it was five years before he answered her questions about the scars on his body. Seeing the Dark Mark had scared her enough, and he didn't want to see that look of shame and fear on her face while looking at him ever again.
Sometimes, he just had to protect this dangerously beautiful woman who was the reason for his existence.
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Sometimes he would reminisce, a glass of good red currant rum in his hand and memories filling up his head. She had always told him that a Pensieve would be a good investment, for she worried about some of the memories he retained. However, he felt it justice that he would have to remember the things he did, and the things he didn't.
He would remember the Triwizard Tournament, the fatal end of it that would never be forgotten. He remembered, with a pang of regret and distant feeling of fear, the way the Diggory boy's body had looked when Potter had brought him back. That had been the first time he had internally questioned what the Dark Lord was attempting to accomplish, and the last time he would be foolish enough to voice those questions out loud to his father.
He would remember the days of innocence, the first year, before he knew of the horrors that lay ahead, where he would see bushy-haired Granger in the library at all hours of the day and admire her for her work ethic, competing wordlessly against her for title of the best in the class although he would never admit any of this to her had she asked.
He would see Lavender Brown snogging the hell out of whoever was foolish enough to get in her path, driving them away just as fast. Blaise was one of her conquests, and he had enough curses to say about her to last a lifetime. They often laid in the dormitory comparing girls, Slytherins and non-Slytherins, making lists of who had what assets and who would be the best at what position. Blaise had been his first best mate, and he regretted dragging him into the mess he made for himself. However, Blaise stood by him no matter what and he was ashamed to say he most likely would not have done the same in his school days.
And then he remembered her. The first time he actually took notice of her was when she went missing in the Chamber of Secrets. His heart had thud-thudded painfully because he had not known what it was like to feel that loss of someone, even someone you did not know. Then when she emerged, with the infamous Harry Potter in tow, he had felt victorious but did not know why. They were not on our side, as his father had put, and he should not have cared whether any of them lived or died.
He watched her on and off through the years, saw her grow and blossom in womanly ways and felt the tiniest inkling of attraction to her that he pushed away because she was a Weasley and he was a Malfoy and she was a blood traitor and he was a Malfoy. He forgot about her eventually, and her radiant red-brown hair, banging the hell out of Pansy Parkinson to pass the time and becoming something of a sex symbol in the Slytherin house up until his sixth year.
He didn't like remembering what happened after that.
Sometimes, he believed it best to forget.
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Sometimes, he drank too much.
He would stumble in after a hard night alone hitting the firewhiskey, smelling of cheap liquor and slurring words of hatred for everything in his way. She would yell at him, and he would yell back, his voice raised in a desperate sort of way to talk over her. She made him sleep on the couch, making disapproving noises under her breath, untying his shoes for him and shooing the house elves away for the night.
She was, however, a Gryffindor through and through, and would end up sleeping with him on the sofa that was by no means large enough for the two of them because, as she would say to him in a disgruntled fashion in the morning, "I won't be blamed if you die of alcohol poisoning overnight!". And he would pull her into his arms and smell her deliciously fruity smelling hair, appreciating that she let him back every time, and not promising that he wouldn't do it again because a man with many demons needs some way to release them, even if only for a night. And she knew that, disapproved of it, but took him back just the same.
Always, he knew she loved him too.
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Sometimes, she scared the hell out of him.
One day he arrived home at the Manor to find smoke billowing out of the front door, enveloping the yard in thick gloom, with house elves yelping inside. Swearing and using Merlin's name quite creatively, he dropped his briefcase and sprinted to the house in his Italian dragonhide loafers with his wand out.
Stepping into the kitchen, where he found the source of the smoke, he was faced with a wailing young woman with a face blackened by smoke, soot-covered hair, and a formerly white apron. Immediately scooping her into his arms he did a hasty check for injuries before asking her to bloody well tell him what in Merlin's name happened to their home.
"I just wanted to cook the Muggle way for you!" she sobbed into his collar, rubbing her smoke-covered face all over his expensive robe. "Mum always said it was more—more—satisfying than cooking like a witch!" She hiccupped, bouncing against his shoulder with a sniffle.
He wanted to yell at her, wanted to lash out at her for making his heart stop as soon as he entered the gates but couldn't bring himself to scold this darling woman who just wanted to, as she put it, "satisfy" him.
He assured her that he was plenty satisfied and with instructions to the house elves and quick waves of his wand, he set things right again.
He would surprise her, a few days later, with a wrapped package on her side of the bed. Opening it, she would beam with a face full of sunshine at him, tossing the book of "How To Cook Muggle: A Witch's Guide" onto the bed as she leapt into his arms, never losing her youthful exuberance. They used the cookbook together, with him sneakily using wandless magic to keep her from setting the house on fire or exploding something. It was worth it in the end, after two hours of hard labor, to eat a disgustingly watery pot of pasta with home made sauce and bread with his wife feeding him while sitting in his lap.
Sometimes, he truly and absolutely knew he was in love.
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Sometimes, he was so happy that he just waited for the other shoe to drop—but it never did.
She announced her pregnancy to him in a way one would announce an impending raid: she rushed into the bedroom with her wand glowing pink, brandishing it with her hair in disarray and half-dressed. It took him approximately five minutes to grasp what the bundle of energy what attempting to get across, and when he did finally understand, he could do nothing but stare at the miracle that was currently residing in her body.
His child.
Their child.
He was going to be…a father.
She knew he was terrified by it, just as much as he was ecstatic, because the word "father" brought up repressed memories and even the word "mother" triggered something of an involuntary reaction. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that it wasn't that he was unhappy about being a parent—he was frightened to be like his father.
She would remind him on almost a daily basis for nine months that he was not Lucius, and she was a Weasley and therefore automatically knew how to raise children. He would make a snide comment about that, but not too rude because he had grown to like Molly, even accept her as his family. She would make him smile to keep him from dwelling, and told him that even if he didn't know how to be a parent it would come naturally. Nevertheless, he visited every wizarding bookshop in Diagon Alley and ordered all of their parenting books, both in and out of stock, and spent each month poring over a new section. By the end of it, he had accumulated so much useless information that she was practically begging him for a Pensieve so he could have room for the important things in his mind.
By month two, he was already on edge, watching her every move and tempted to hire a bodyguard for his risk-taking wife, as ridiculous as it sounded. She refused to quit her job, but there was not much she could do as a Quiddich player during her pregnancy so she became a temporary commentator, which she begrudgingly accepted. He Apparated back and forth constantly between his work place and hers, so often that he elicited complaints from both sides while she sniggered at his overprotective attempts. He would sigh and agree with her mother that while he was being a good husband he needed to leave her be, so he would sit at his desk and work, twiddling his pen while staring at their wedding photo and imagining an extra addition.
He was going to be a father.
By month seven, she was snapping at him constantly, and he was taking it as best he could because he knew, just as he had seen when Granger was pregnant, that she really couldn't help it. It didn't stop him from snapping back sometimes, and sometimes he would have to leave and walk around for a bit, fuming and swallowing his pride to Apparate back and present his wife with a carton of the Muggle ice cream she so secretly coveted.
At month eight, she was placed on bed rest for exhaustion, and he hovered constantly, keeping a healer on call twenty four hours a day until her due date. Her small frame was being wreaked havoc by the child that was growing at a constant rate inside her, and he was plagued with fear that the mediwizard had instilled in him that if she did not deliver on time they would have to induce to prevent harm from coming to both mother and child.
He couldn't lose her. He refused to lose her. He sat by her side while she was awake, entertained her with anecdotes and making her laugh, then slept in a chair next to the bed while she slept in their king sized bed in order to give her all the space she needed.
He held her hand all the time, even when her friends came to visit, because he didn't care if they thought he had gone soft anymore.
Truth is, he had. And at the particular moment he couldn't give a hippogriff's arse who found out.
His worrying and constant insomnia had been for nothing, because when she delivered it was quick and the baby was healthy, and the first thing he heard was the child crying.
His heart stopped, and he peered in the double doors of the maternity ward to see her looking at him, her red hair matted with sweat, brown eyes glowing with new-mother pride, and he burst in to take over for the healer sponging her forehead down with cool water. As the baby was placed in her arms, she looked down into the steel grey eyes she grew to love so much that were now present in her child and he was amazed by the shock of dark, deep red hair that covered her tiny infant head.
He recognized his daughter immediately, and she recognized him. The bond between father and child was instantaneous, and as soon as he held her he realized he needed to get rid of all those parenting books. As she looked at him and he looked at her and they held their daughter in between them, neither could think of any words to summarize the experience. And as the entire Weasley family marched in, with Granger leading the way blubbering like a buffoon, he could not stop the huge canary-eating grin that was beaming from his face.
Always, he knew this life was worth it.
End of Part 1
Please review! Second part from Ginny's perspective coming soon.