Title: Fields of Gold

Author: falling into you

Rating: Mature (R)

Genre: Romance

Pairing: Draco/Ginny

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. It is all JK Rowling's and various publishers'.

Summary: They had a past. A past that ended when reality intervened. A reality that they returned to, lived out, each trying to forget the other. Years later, when they unknowingly cross paths once more, the sparks still fly. But can their love, however true it may be, survive in "reality"? Will they be strong enough to fight for it when they once let it go? Is their love simply meant to be just that – a love for one day, one night, and nothing more?

Short Summary: When they said goodbye to each other in those last, fateful days, they simply assumed their story had ended. Yet years later, their paths cross once more. Now is the time to decide: love undeniable, love true, love forever.

Author's Notes: I realize this was supposed to be a "wartime" story. Well, as the seventh book has come out and dashed out a lot of plot bunnies (and that horrid epilogue!), this is going to be kind of like a war story continued. Also, I'm merging it with my plot bunny for Leaving Paris. If that doesn't make sense, don't worry. Yes, the title of the story comes from Sting's Fields of Gold. If you haven't heard that song, you should. It's one of my favorites, and it's absolutely beautiful – the imagery and the music.

Canon Notes: I disregarded the DH epilogue when writing this because of obvious reasons. Otherwise, I'm going to try to follow canon as closely as possible. JK Rowling is brilliant, of course, and I respect her writing. But we all know that if I wrote strictly canon, Draco and Ginny wouldn't be together in the end. Although I could see the angst play out pretty well. Ah, another story, another time, Dear Readers.

Prologue: In My Own Words

The candle threw its light over the young boy's face as he swept expertly through the darkness, clutching the candleholder. He briefly reflected on how he could never sleep lately, and so how he'd taken to wandering through the dark hallways, as if he were searching for something.

No one knew about his midnight excursions, despite the precautions that been added for the last twelve years, ever since he was three, to contain his habit of wandering. There was no doubt this place was beautiful; architects and landscapers loved the place. Those who believed themselves to be art connoisseurs of the finest degree could be seen at the annual house tours pointing at various objects and proclaiming loudly for all to hear how it was a perfect example of the so-and-so art period, whereupon they would then sigh heavily and anguish over how "it just isn't made like this these days", shedding a few obligatory tears until they fell upon their next prey of choice to praise and sigh and tear over, and so on. What critics and lovers alike probably never knew was that despite its seamless combination of antiquity and style, it was dangerous to wander around in such a place. The corners of the boy's mouth lifted at this thought.

He paused in front of a tapestry depicting the story of Hades and Persephone, one of his favorite myths. Unlike much of the artwork in the Wizarding world, it didn't move. Rather, it was like Muggle pictures, capturing each scene in all its glory. Though it wasn't the first time he'd seen it, the boy's eyes sparkled as he looked up at it. It was huge, stretching across the hallway so long that he relived the story as he walked by, lifting his candle up at times to see the pictures clearer.

He saw the young woman, only a girl really, picking flowers in a field. Her pale, slender fingers twined about the stems of daisies and poppies. Her innocence shone through in the open expression on her face and the white sundress she wore, so white it was almost blindingly painful. No matter now many times he passed by this particular tapestry, he could never fail to wonder at her almost complete oblivion to the sudden departure to the Underworld she would soon take.

The next section of the tapestry depicted a Hades so intimidating the boy could feel the darkness radiating off the woven silk. When the boy was younger, he had thought it was evil centered in those dark eyes. Now that he was older, feeling some of the same indescribable emotions, he could see that the expression in those intense eyes was a deep desire mixed with traces of bafflement, as if Hades could not fathom the reason behind his lust for not only the woman herself, but also her innocence and purity.

It was always a surprise to see how quickly the next frame changed. One side of the boy's mouth quirked upward. He loved the motion in this part of the story, the flurry of color and light when Hades swooped down in his chariot and grabbed Persephone, making her drop the crown of honeysuckle she had made. Yet Hades had made sure to carefully step over the flowers she had plucked so as not to crush them.

The motherly fury in the following parts made the boy shudder, for it reminded him of scenes too close to home. He knew Demeter's rage was justified. Most mothers would be upon finding that her only daughter had been kidnapped. While she stormed about, calling for a meeting with all the gods and goddesses, the anger and fright was clearly visible on her pale face.

Hades' world was such a contrast to the previous sections, but this juxtaposition only emphasized what the boy saw as Hades' loneliness. The story of the god of the underworld kidnapping the beautiful daughter of the goddess of the harvest was oddly touching to him. While Demeter's fury made the air around her turn bright, angry colors, Hades' world was bathed in shades of blues and greens and silvers. The one beautiful object in his underworld was Persephone. She glowed a creamy gold, her eyes closed as she rested upon a large ornate bed. Her distress was betrayed only by how tightly she clutched the burgundy sheets in her small hands. Hades' own distress was evident by his pained expression as he pleadingly showed her the tables heavily laden with mouthwatering food and drink. There was pride in his face too, but it was pushed aside, sacrificed for this woman, his woman.

Now toward the end of the tapestry, to the part of the story where Persephone ate the few pomegranate seeds that seal her fate, the boy slowed. He ran his hand over the pomegranate Hades clutched in his fingers, holding it out to the lovely but pale Persephone. The brilliant crimson seeds glimmered in the candlelight. Suddenly the pomegranate widened to form an opening large enough for him to walk through. His eyes widened, more from excitement and anticipation than shock. He was used to such secret passageways, for things weren't always as they seemed.

He went through and found himself in a small room that was comfortably furnished. He saw a fireplace and fumbled for his wand in the front pocket of his robes, uttering a spell that lit the empty hearth with a crackling fire. Turning back toward the doorway, he was satisfied to see that it had sealed itself shut. The room itself was unused, for the air seemed just the slightest bit stale and a light flutter of dust rose when he sat in an armchair, sinking into its softness. As he placed his candle on the table beside him, he noticed that there were a few books lying there.

He picked up the first of the books, a slim leather bound novel with a swirling script reading Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare once he'd blown a layer of dust off the cover. He vaguely remembered something about this play, of two star-crossed lovers, of the hidden romance, and of their tragic ending. Underneath was a morbid looking book, a night black novel with a deep red rose on the cover titled The Phantom of the Opera. He could only fleetingly remember it was about a disfigured man longing after a beautiful opera singer.

There were a few more books, but he pushed them aside and found a plain red book embossed simply with a gold colored 'Journal'. His brow furrowed in thought. He opened the book and a photo fell out. It was a red haired woman in a wedding dress being carried by a tall blond haired man. However, neither was looking at the photographer, for both only had eyes for each other, their expressions clearly showing their love and passion for one another. They laughed silently, the moment captured perfectly in the moving photo. The boy grinned at the picture, turning it over to find a date written in a smooth feminine flowing hand.

He found a letter along with the picture. Although it was an expensive, pristine white parchment only the very wealthy could afford, the paper was crinkled and worn, as if someone had spent hours reading and rereading the words, touching the words with shaking hands. The writing was strikingly masculine, yet elegant and beautiful at the same time.

Dearest Ginevra,

That hideous excuse for a witch (this was crossed out) The lovely and accomplished Hermione Weasley has just informed me that I can't enter your dressing room. Some old fashioned belief that to see a bride in her wedding dress is to court bad luck. And now she is insisting on me carrying you over the threshold tonight so you won't trip over it. I have just informed her, in my haughtiest air, whether she would like us to jump over the fires at Beltane to ensure fertility as well. Isn't it just wonderful how red she gets? Now she is muttering something about needing all the luck you can get and has thankfully ceased reading over my shoulder so I can write in peace, deciding to straighten up some flower arrangements instead.

I suppose, love, a few superstitions scattered about wouldn't hurt. It's true we'll need all the luck we can get. I used to believe luck is something you made, something that you had to work for. Luck didn't come to those who wiled away the hours, complaining and lounging around. After everything I've done, the places I've seen, I can't help but to insist that my fate is in my hands, and my hands only. Perhaps I still believe that, but I have learned something else. Sometimes fate throws you something, something special that you have to take without asking questions. Because it's during those times that define who we are and who we become.

We're getting married in five hours (I don't understand why it would take you five hours to dress, I'm still here in my robe, after all) and all I can say is "Merlin help us." It's been years since those days among the fields of barley, but I can still remember you there. I was so young and stupid, as young wizards tend to be, but you loved me anyway. And for that and more, I loved you. I still love you.

I can't say that the years we were apart were wonderful, but in their own way, they were essential. If we had stayed together right after the War ended, I don't think we could have lasted, to be honest. I was still lost, still that boy afraid despite the false bravado, the boy who called you carrot-top and bloodtraitor (though I must admit it was, and still is, great fun to poke at The-Boy-Who-Lived and his Loyal Sidekick). I've learned things, traveled places, seen different cultures. And so I've grown.

Now that I'm sounding sentimental, a regular Hufflepuff, almost (the horror!), and that infernal bushy haire (again, crossed out, but still legible through that straight line) that brunette goddess, is coming (another cross out) back and telling me to finish up this letter so she can return to you, I'll just add this. I love you. Sometimes I'm amazed. I wake up in the morning next to you and see you just there and I wonder. Every moment with you (yes, even during your tempestuous moments, do you know how tempting you look when you're angry?) is something to be treasured. And I will, I promise. I might be a Slytherin, cunning and sneaky, but remember this. I promise to do right by you and give you children and grow old with you and love you.

The Weasel Wife is now openly reading the letter and hasn't even forced me to cross out (the boy laughed openly now as he read the crossed out unfinished sentence) I spoke too soon. HERMIONE is now openly reading the letter and has gone googly eyed over the word 'love'. And so, because she is still peeking glances even after shooting her my infamous death glare, I'm sorry to say you're going to miss out on the more interesting comments, shall we say? But never fear, I was always more a man of action than words, you know that. I'll show you…tonight.

Love,

Draco

His cheekbones flushed a rosy red, the boy tilted his head sideways and carefully placed the picture and the letter on the table. Still a little embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to wash away a young boy's curiosity, he settled back with the journal in his hand, wiggling to get comfortable. Opening the journal to the first page, he noticed that the journal was written in that same flowing feminine hand as the date on the back of the photo. He started reading, knowing that he would be here for a long time.

I suppose I was one of those people who had their life planned out for them from the day they were born. I was a Weasley, Ginevra Molly Weasley, to be exact, with the red hair and, quoting Draco from the infamous Hogwarts days, "the family with more children they could afford" (just with more colorful language). It was expected of me to get an education, train for a decent job that I enjoyed, marry a nice man, and have children. Nothing in my early years could have belied these mediocre expectations. Even though I was the only girl born to the Weasleys in who knows how many generations, that's what I was going to do. The Weasleys were a not-so-rich, respectable pureblood family. No fireworks, no dramatic romance, no riding off into the sunsets for Ginny.

Then I started dating Harry in my fifth year, his sixth. Suddenly all those fairy tales came back to me; the gallant knight saving the princess, rescuing her from the evil witch and dragon. Famous Harry Potter and little Ginny Weasley, 'what a wonderful couple', all the aunties had said (with the exception of Harry's Aunt Petunia, she couldn't care less). They would squeeze my cheeks tell me how lucky I was to have him. How little Ginny had such a crush on him ever since she was eleven, her brother's best friend, even before she saw him. How Harry saved her from "that terrible Tom Riddle" and she hoped he would finally fall for her, which the obliging Harry did, eventually. How they would marry and have lots of little Harrys running amuck.

It wasn't that I changed when I met Draco Lucius Malfoy in those stormy, turbulent days, it was that somehow, he became a part of my life, so much a part of it, that when he was gone, I felt the ache, although it would be years until I grew to finally understand what it was that I wanted, needed.

I loved Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, there was no doubt about it. But I started to wonder if what I wanted wasn't to be rescued, but to rescue someone or something. I didn't want to be Sleeping Beauty, I wanted to be Belle from Beauty and the Beast, wise and clever and brave enough to tame the beast and find the man within. Or perhaps that is still too extreme. What I wanted seemed so simple now that I think about it, and yet so hard to find that perfect balance. What I wanted was for someone to need me just as much as I needed them.

It's so hard to write things down again. I've loved it ever since I can remember, drawing pictures when I hadn't learned yet to write. And it all stopped with Tom Riddle's diary. I will always remember him as Tom, forever catching myself before I can say Tom instead of Voldemort. It all stopped then. I feared writing then. Feared the whiteness of the pages, the smoothness of the quill flowing over the blankness, fearing that one day, another diary will respond. I loved him. Loved the fact that he always was interested in what I had to say. How he had always cared.

Maybe the hardest thing about writing this is how I am writing again. Or maybe it's how I must reflect back on my confused feelings and thoughts that I had. Or maybe on how I let down so many people, in so many different ways. Or maybe it's how I will leave a part of myself within these pages.

But I must digress. That isn't the important part either. I suppose I must start from the beginning…

Author's Notes: I hope you all enjoyed that. Yes, Moonlight Sonata is on hiatus, but this is a beginning. I know I've been away for a ridiculously long time, but my muse died and my only recollections of fanfiction and the Draco/Ginny world was of the reviews I continued to recieve (THANK YOU) for Match Me. So here's a new story that I hopefully will work with for through the end. I would expect updates about once to twice a month, as it is my senior year and I have college applications to finish.

For all of you who have followed me through until now,
falling into you