Disclaimer: : This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Authors Notes:
Thank you to all of you who have reviewed! And all of you who haven't! This chapter is for all of you who will still read this story, even though it has been pitifully long since I have updated. As I promised this chapter will have more Lucius/Ginny action in it, and LEMONS! Hooray! Let me now what you think!
It is mid afternoon on Friday when the dress maker arrives. I'm still in my old bathrobe and my hair is drawn up in a sloppy bun on top of my head. I am heartily embarrassed when I open the door. I expect some middle aged, toffee-nosed, tailor from Twilfit and Tattings, possibly the same one that Narcissa saw. But Lucius, it seems, has a sense of tact and sent Detree Millings instead.
Detree has a clipboard tucked under one arm and carries a black leather bag at her side. I show her into the kitchen and make her a cup of tea. I apologize for my lack of dress and she waves a plump hand explaining that she has come to homes where women weren't wearing anything at all.
I laugh.
We make short conversation as she takes measurements of my waist, bust, and hips.
"Hmm" she says, her enchanted tape measurer zipping back into her hand. "That's interesting."
"What is?"
"Miss Weasley," she lets the end of her quill trail across her bottom lip. "Have you lost any weight, recently?"
My ears grow warm.
"No-" I start to say.
"It's okay," she whispers, leaning in conspiratorially. "Bulimia?" she sips her tea, "you can tell me, I've covered for other witch's before."
"No" I say, "that isn't it."
"Oh." Detree's round black eyes widen. "I'm sorry, Miss Weasley. You're just so thin that I assumed you…'
"It's all right Detree," I mumble, looking away. "I er, I actually have lost a bit of weight lately. It's just-"
"No, no, no, no, no," she says, flapping her small hands around my face. "You don't need to explain."
Several awkward seconds pass before she begins to show me some fabric swatches.
"Mmm," she presses her mouth together when I hold a swatch of pale green to my arm. "Green is always a trying color." She looks disdainfully at the cloth. "In some lighting it can make you look sallow."
"Oh."
"Here," she solicits, "how do you feel about these colors?"
I imagine that my eyebrows have gone up several inches, for when she lays several thin pieces of fabric on the table, she smiles and says, "Oh, don't worry. When they're layered you can barely see through them."
"Barely?" I wheeze, badly wishing for a cigarette.
The possibility of Lucius seeing me in any of these sheer materials is alarming and elating. My heart flutters when I think about the other night.
Fire, whispers my brain.
"Detree" I say, my hand suspended on a gold swatch of fabric. "How long have you worked for Lucius?"
"For Mr. Malfoy?" She stops what she is doing and looks thoughtful. "I haven't worked for him for very long, no," she says. "But my mother worked for Eloise Malfoy, who was his mother."
"Oh." I was sort of hoping that I could pump Detree for information about Lucius. But even I have to admit that my heart isn't really in it. I suppose I'll be shown his true nature before long.
Detree does most of the talking while I nod and shake my head.
It's hard to explain the surrealism of my position. Or perhaps it is painfully simple, but I cannot find the words to describe it. Detree drapes bolts of fabric over me and I find myself adrift in a sea of thought, not particularly interested in the fabric that is being Detree is presenting to me. Lucius Malfoy's wife. Lucius Malfoy's wife. Lucius Malfoy's wife. I repeat it to myself as Detree pins the hem of my dress, but I cannot make it fit.
"The ball is one week from today," she enunciates, pins sticking out of her pursed mouth. "So I should have the gown to you by Wednesday at the latest."
"That's fine" I say, retrieving her tea cup from the kitchen table, and depositing it in the sink.
She waves her wand twice and the gold and pink chiffon that we deciding on rolls itself up, and fits miraculously into her small black bag.
She smiles brightly and tells me that she is making shoes that will match, and she asks if I already have a seamstress making my wedding gown.
"No," I murmur. "I don't. But I'll owl you."
We walk to the door.
"Good day Miss Weasley." And she disapparates in the middle of the back lawn.
I take my own mug in my hand and sip considerately. Some women, I know, become giddy and annoying before weddings. And even I know, that had my wedding been based around marrying Harry, that I too would have fallen prey to this montage of white dresses and the ludicrous notion of fairy tale endings. But I can say with certainty, as my tea grows cold, that fairy tale endings are not in my immediate future.
Lucius is charming certainly, when he wants to be. And even, if I stretch myself, I may grow to tolerate him. We may even forge a friendship, who's to say? But I fear that love is not a feasible option.
But not all hope is lost. Though he is a racist, and guilty of unspeakable crimes, I cannot deny my unadvisable attraction towards him. I faintly recall the broadness of his shoulders, and smooth cadence in his voice.
I feel the vestiges of last evenings encounter flitter through my conscious, and my cheeks and chest grow warm.
I have been touched by other boys, but never by a man. I shouldn't, but I compare him to Harry, and the gentle (and admittedly un-skilled) groping that we shared down by the lake. When it was Harry that was touching me, it was always so sweet and pure, the fairy tale. But Lucius was deliberate and (for lack of a better word) passionate. I feel my heart palpate and my stomach clench when I think about his hands massaging my breasts, and the wonderful feeling of his mouth on my neck and ear. I touch those places lightly, wondering what sex will be like with him. I wonder if he will mind my lack of experience, because I don't believe that my two rolls in the hay with Seamus Finnegan qualify me as an expert.
The knock at the door startles me.
I press my palms to my cheeks and feel their warmth. I think it must be Detree, perhaps she forgot to mention something to me.
I try to make my face impassive, and maybe she won't be able to see right through me. Maybe I was only washing the dishes.
But I start when I open the door to Padma, her face tear stained and nose red.
"Padma," I say. "What is it?"
But I think I already know.
"Par- Parvati is dead," she chokes out.
"Oh," I try to sound sympathetic.
"I'm sorry Padma, come in."
I usher her inside and she sits, shaking, on the patched davenport.
"I knew something wasn't right," She sobs. "I could feel it, and-and –and I just knew." She shakes with the effort to wipe her nose. "So I went to the hospital and the healers told me!"
I don't say a word; I wouldn't know what to say. For a while it was easy, so many people had died that I had conditioned myself to have a slew of condolences ready at any given moment.
"They told me that she woke up!" she wails, resting her head in her hands. "She asked for our mother and then she-she –she-died!"
I rub her arm and try to console her. I say things that I admit won't mean much to her, things that aren't as sincere as they should be.
"What am I going to do Ginny! Oh god!"
"I'm sorry Padma," it's a lame attempt at comfort when I get up and retrieve tea. And even though I have been through the same thing, over, and over, and over again, my heart feels frozen. I feel nothing.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The morning of the ball dawns sunny and cool. I wake up when the sky is still dove grey and in the east I can see pale pink erupting on the horizon. Though, really, I haven't slept much. My nights are still plagued with disturbing dreams that wake me, and make me clutch my wand.
Last night I slept with all of my clothing on again, and when I was shaken from sleep by the image of Fluer's body, rigid with death, I grabbed for my wand.
I sit on the back porch of the Burrow. My hair is lank and my face is still tired from sleep. Its times like this, times when the Burrow is bathed in semi-darkness, I can still pretend that my family is upstairs sleeping. I can pretend that my life is the way it was, the way it is supposed to be.
I can sometimes close my eyes and lean my head back, and see what I want to. I see my mum in the kitchen making porridge and kippers, and dad in the garage, taking apart a toaster. I can see Ron, sleeping until noon, and I can hear the jarring explosions coming from the twin's room.
But the images are fleeting and silly, and pretty soon they evaporate like water. I pull a thin cigarette from my dressing robe and light it with my wand.
I have been smoking with increasing regularity.
I inhale sharply and exhale through my nostrils. Today is going to be a long day. I mentally think of all of the things that need to be done. And to be frank, they are all petty and unimportant in the scheme of things. But they still need to be done. And the terms of my engagement with Lucius, I'm sure, dictate so.
I take another long drag from my cigarette before putting it out in the coffee can by my chair.
I take a lukewarm shower and charm the hair from my legs and underarms. I shouldn't do this for him, my mind screams at me to stop and let him have me the way I am, hairy and depressed. But once again I am consumed by the thought of how he can make me feel, and it consumes me so completely that I break down and shape my eyebrows as well. The charm is tedious and time consuming; Romilda Vane taught me how to do it in my fifth year at Hogwarts.
When I am done I pace the hallway and find my way to my bedroom.
It seems like it has been hours since I woke up already, but I look at the clock and deflate when I see that it has only been two and a half hours. Twelve hours to go. I wring my hands anxiously and lay flat on my twin sized bed. I have to remind myself to be careful, it's only to easy to fall asleep in the middle of the day.
I stare at the ceiling, an all too familiar practice.
I still don't know what I'm going to tell Percy. Circe above, this is not good. I am furious with myself for getting myself into this mess. Why, oh why did I stop in that alley for a cigarette? Why couldn't I have reported him to the Ministry? And why, why, why does it have to be him of all people!
I wish there was someone else to blame for my stupidity, other than myself I mean. My eyes flick over to my wardrobe, where my gown is hanging, with the plastic still on. I haven't even looked at it.
I don't even want to.
I look back up at the ceiling. I distantly wish that lighting would strike through the roof of The Burrow and that I would go up in flames. But I know that wishes don't come true. They are horrible, pitiless things. Things that make you believe, make you hope beyond hope that things will iron themselves out.
Well they don't.
My life is a testimony to how well wishes screw you over.
This is not my life.
I wish this were not my life.
I really wish that this was not my life?
Nothing.
I close my eyes and fantasize about a life that doesn't so closely resemble hell, but when I open them again the room is dark. I look at the clock.
"Fuck!"
I sit up straight in bed. It is six o'clock in the evening; I slept for almost ten hours.
I bolt into the bathroom and pull my hair into a loose bun. I wash my face in freezing cold water that makes me shudder.
It takes me one hour, twenty seven minutes, and fourteen seconds to get ready. And even I have to admit that I look nice. The vestiges of the Ginny that went to Hogwarts is almost to close for comfort.
And the gown is gorgeous.
The bodice is pink, fitted, and makes my protruding ribcage less noticeable beneath the tight fabric. The skirt is a swirling, layered piece, with at least seven different shades of gold.
I have never been to Malfoy Manor, so I floo into Lucius' private parlor.
He is expecting me.
"My dearest Ginevra," He drawls.
The leer he gives me is not lost.
"You look ravishing."
"Thank you," I choke through a mouthful of floo powder.
"Did you have any trouble with the seamstress that I sent?"
"No," I say, "she was wonderful."
"That's good to hear."
He gives me a warm kiss on the cheek and I fight myself not to blush.
He offers me his arm and escorts me downstairs.
I itch to look around. But from what I can already tell, Malfoy Manor is already everything that I have been told it would be.
Finely woven carpets lay over the light stone. Rich marble tables lean against the walls.
There is definitely a woman's touch that lingers in the air. Something about the lightness to the colors that suggests sophistication that only a woman, a socialite, Narcissa, could envisage.
The tables in the hallway are strewn with family photographs. Though some look as though there are empty spaces where other pictures used to be. Maybe Narcissa's pictures.
Did Lucius remove them because I was coming? Or did he remove them after she killed herself?
We come to a double stairwell that over looks the foyer.
A sea of guests is swarming in and out of a large archway that I suspect must lead into a ball room.
"Lucius!" a voice booms suddenly.
I jump slightly at loudness and good-humored tone to the voice.
Lucius rubs the top of my hand, cups my cheek, and kisses me on the mouth. There are now fifty people looking up at us.
I want to blush, but a block of ice feels as though it has been bedded inside of me somewhere.
Lucius leads me down the stairs, to my doom it seems, and introduces me to a bald man called Grier.
His wife's name is Portentia, a tall woman wearing pale robes, and graying brown hair.
"What lovely robes," she comments. "Surely not Madam Malkin's?"
"No, they aren't."
"Goodness Ginevra," she laughs lightly. "I wish that Lucius would have told us about you sooner."
"Oh?" I can't help but asking.
"Mmm, yes." She replies. "I'll have to take you to our club and show you off for him."
We walk into the ball room, Lucius talking to Greir, Portentia trying to drag me into conversation.
"Everyone is asking about you," She says softly. For we have just entered the ball room and several conversations stop.
"Really?" I ask bemusedly.
"Undeniably," She smirks.
"Ginevra," she smiles and steers by the elbow. "This is Helena Avery."
"Hello. My, but aren't you young." Helena has a sharp, pointed chin, and yellow hair that is drawn up.
Portentia laughs carelessly.
"Helena, this is Ginevra Weasley, Lucius' fiancée." Portentia stage whispers that last bit.
"Ahh, of course." She replies. "Your so thin dear." She says matter of factly.
"Yes," says a third witch who has entered our circle. "You'll have to tell them your secret."
Helena stiffens when a woman with long blond hair and silver robes places her hand gently on her shoulder.
"Stella." Portentia says stiffly, "I didn't know you were coming."
A glass of champagne appears in my hand from nowhere, and I sip interestingly.
"Mmm," Stella has pale blond hair that hangs loosely at her waist, and crows feet around her hazel eyes, "But what kind of neighbor would I be?"
Helena and Portentia exchange dark looks.
"Ginevra, this is-"
"Stella Bedivere," Stella enunciates, through a sip of champagne. "Your nearest neighbor."
Her hand drops from Helena's shoulder and to her side.
"Indeed," Portentia says disdainfully. "It's only too bad that-"
"Darling," Lucius has just joined us. "Ah, I see you've met Helena Avery." He spies Stella and the corner of his mouth quirks. "And Miss Bedivere."
"Lucius." She acknowledges, raising her glass in a mock toast.
"Dearest," he coos to me. "Allow me to introduce you to a business associate of mine."
He leads me away and pulls me onto the dance floor.
"I thought I was being introduced to somebody." I say accusingly.
"No, I thought perhaps that I should rescue you though."
"Rescue me?" I look at him suddenly, "from what?"
"The two women with whom you were just speaking were Narcissa's best friends."
I peer over his shoulder at Portentia and Helena, who are deep in conversation, but stop at once when they see me looking at them.
"Oh." I can't say why I am surprised.
"Indeed," he smiles slyly, and pulls me closer, bidding me to put my arms around his neck.
I do.
He leads me into a waltz and twirls me twice; I suppose that we are supposed to be acting as though we are in love.
I should probably be gazing into his eyes or some shit like that, but I can't help but stare into the crowd.
I look away from him, and into the ocean of guests.
Immediately I wish that I had been staring into his eyes, for I see Druella, awash in sea green robes, speaking to a thin girl with short black hair.
The second girl is lanky and pale, from what I can tell, and she looks vaguely familiar, maybe someone I went to school with. But I can't tell, half of her body is facing away from me, and Lucius is leading me in the other direction.
They are both sipping some strange looking purple drink. Druella says something to the second girl who laughs and turns away.
I crane my neck now, sure that I know her from somewhere, when it strikes me.
The girl is Pansy Parkinson.
I thought she was dead. She looks terrible. Not that what she looks like is the most important thing, but she really looks awful. Like me, she is thin and slightly gaunt looking. Her eyes are hung with dark circles and her smile is false and lifeless.
Lucius seems to have noticed that I am else where. He nudges me and I snap out of my reverie, annoyed.
"Are you going to tell your brother about our… engagement?"
I look up at him suddenly.
"Why?"
"Why?" His pale eye brows raise and he laughs lightly. "Do you think he'll miss your picture in the gossip column of The Daily Prophet tomorrow morning? Or the fact that the entire Ministry will be abuzz about the ball on Monday morning?"
I chew my lip.
"No, I hadn't thought about that."
"Hmm," Lucius hums.
"I suppose I'll have to go and see him," I say nervously.
"Yes," he intones, stroking my neck with the tips of his fingers.
I shudder faintly, but I don't stop him. The thrill of physical contact with him is pressing in on me, squeezing the will that I have to say no to all of this.
The second song ends and I make my way towards the edge of the crowd of guests, I tell Lucius that I need to powder my nose. Someone says a dry "hello" to me, but I keep pressing between the mass of people until I make my way into the bathroom, where I flick on the lights and lean against the door.
My room tilts, and I lean my head against a mirror and let the champagne have its effect on me.
My breathing is labored and I close my eyes tightly, willing away the impending anxiety attack.
The thought of Percy finding out about all of this is suddenly overwhelming. I had thought about it before, but I never dreamed that he could find out from another source. Which in hindsight, was absurdly stupid of me, considering that he works for the Ministry, which is not exactly known for its' discretion.
I brace myself over the sink and dry heave.
There is a tap at the door which turns out to be a house elf, wearing a toga that might have been a table cloth at one time.
"Miss Weasley!" the house elf squeaks. "Master is wanting Tinker to see if you are well and if you require anything!"
"I'm fine."
"Tinker is happy to hear so Miss, Master is wanting Tinker also to give you this."
The elf snaps her fingers and a drink that looks like spiced rum or cider appears on the bathroom counter.
"Good evening Miss."
Tinker disappears with a loud crack.
I meet Lucius in the foyer. The ball is winding down and several wizards under the influence of scotch and firewhiskey congratulate Lucius, while their wives peck me on each cheek.
I am on my second spiced rum when Lucius gives me an impromptu tour of his mansion. I feel slightly dizzy and when I sway slightly Lucius sits down with me on a day bed in one of the guest suits.
I haven't been drunk in a very long time, since Hogwarts, and I let Lucius lay me down with one of my legs dangling over the edge of the day bed.
I'm almost surprised at how loose, how pliable I feel. I had nearly forgotten that alcohol has this sort of effect on me.
Lucius is speaking lowly to me, caressing my neck and arms. I suppose I should feel taken advantage of. Liquored up and unable to make grown up decisions.
But in spite of all of it, the cunning that I know he must have used to follow me, and the ingenuity that it took for him to arrange this, I don't give a fuck.
I let him lower the straps of my dress and unbutton the bodice. My breasts fall free and and Lucius gives them an appreciative look.
I sigh against his neck when he takes one in his mouth and rolls one nipple between his teeth.
He shudders and murmurs his approval in my ear.
He begins to unbutton the front of his own robes, but in my half-drunken state help him by tearing the front and he groans softly when I rake my nails down his pale chest.
It all seems beyond my control, as he pushes the flowing fabric of my gown up my thighs. Or when he rips my underwear off and tosses them across the room.
I told you I have already done this twice. When Seamus and I didn't want to die virgins, thanks to me he didn't.
But when it is Lucius sliding inside of me I moan and pant for breath. I claw at his back and leave red nail marks on his white skin.
I don't even think that I must look like a whore or notice that the world has gone fuzzy.
This is so much better than masturbating.
He slides in and out, in and out. Oh, and he does it with so much finesse. I almost feel bad that I've only done it twice before.
Finally I come, so hard that my eyes roll back in my head and I cry out.
"OH GOD!"
Lucius finishes just after me with a cry that sends the owl that just swooped in through an open window off in flight.
The world swims and I fall asleep with Lucius laying his head on my chest. And for the first time since mum died, I don't dream.