Chapter Twenty-six
Fallen Hero
Almost 4 months later
Ginny Weaseley was kneeling, one hand holding her hair back from her face the other placed on her now more than slightly rounded tummy, in front of the toilet after waiting out what had become her daily dose of morning sickness.
Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, as she tried to control her labored breaths.
Until suddenly, she started heaving, again.
Slow minutes later she rose to her feet, casting a quick wandless-spell (one of the few liberties Draco had afforded her before he left) at the mess she'd made as she made her way to the basin to splash water on her face. She caught a glance of herself in the mirror as she made to reach for her tooth-brush, Merlin she looked like death!
She was pale from her continued morning sickness, so pale, that the freckles across her nose were prominently visible while the rings of black around her eyes made her look absolutely ghastly!
'Why you look a fright dear! Fix yourself up before your man sees you!'
Ginny glared annoyed at the enchanted mirror.
Her man indeed.
Draco bleeding Malfoy had barely been to the mansion at all.
He'd come back from some meeting the last time she'd seen him, seething.
Four months ago – Malfoy Manor
CRACK
"Where the hell, have you been?" snapped Ginny, annoyed beyond reason after having spent the entire day and more than half the night waiting for him.
"Weaseley, now is not a good time, leave." He retorted his voice unnaturally gravely as he started to tap a series of codes into a patch of air on the far side of his bedroom.
"Excuse you?!" Ginny demanded, one eye on the barely visible crack in the air which was now steadily expanding.
Draco however didn't even deem it necessary to answer her. He pulled a piece of parchment from his cloak pocket, and thrust it into the unveiled darkness.
"Who are you sending that message to?" demanded Ginny her voice now devoid of the indigence it had previously held.
Draco however continued to ignore her as he methodically closed the tear in the air.
"Is something going on? Is someone hurt? Draco dammit answer me!"
It was however all in vain, for none of Ginny's pleading or shouting garnered any reaction from the stoic young man carefully going through specific drawers and cabinets as he threw potions and parchments alike into a miniature leather satchel which seemed to be holding them with ease.
Just as it seemed he was finished and was about to leave, Ginny, grabbed at his arm, " Draco." She pleaded.
He shut his eyes, automatically thinking back to the last time he had heard her voice so soft, so wistful, and the name of her former fiancé floated to mind.
Even in a drunken stupor it was his name on her lips.
Fool.
He thought back to the fear that had haunted him even before Pansy.
He knew one other who had also been blinded by emotion, who had, in her weakest moment, still called out for the very man who was torturing her.
He thought of the listless, gaze, in her sapphire blue eyes.
He thought of all she would no longer see.
Of the man who had done that to her.
The man he had to stand beside, in each meeting, each moment thinking how she had been nothing more than an object, a thing he used to sate his masters thirst for 'proof of loyalty'.
He clenched teeth, and silently pulled his arm out of her grip, ignoring the irony that she had laid her hand on the very mark of destruction.
Four months ago-Battle lines-Egypt
"Sir, there's a message for you, Sir." The gnarled hand that pushed forward the letter, shook ever so slightly.
Daspuk, had not spent the past seven-hundred years, as a Gringotts goblin without learning to feel through a few messages.
That letter his master had so carelessly flicked on the table, as he explained battle strategies, to the rest of his unit, was the bearer of ill.
He could feel it.
He was after all a goblin.
And goblin magic despite not having the flashiness of wand magic, was a more natural, more intense form of magic.
William 'Bill' Weaseley, oblivious to all this, continued to work through the correspondence he maintained with the other member's of the Order for information about the approaching troops.
The werewolf raid last week could have taken down more than 20 wizards with the strength in numbers alone. Lupin's information, despite not giving them a lot of time to prepare, had saved more than one life that night.
Never-the –less there had been casualties. Amos Diggory had been one of the strongest leaders their forces had. His absence more than any other of the lives lost that day would hurt their forces.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, things were going to get a lot worse if things didn't turn around fast.
Irritated he reached out for the stack of correspondence left by his contact goblin.
Frowning he tossed two letters in, two different languages, deciding to translate them after he got back from the field today.
There were three others.
One was an update from Remus on the werewolf position.
Another was a report from Sarah Fletcher, the Order's , Head of the U.S.A branch, with a short side note mentioning that the Vampire attacks were near about unchecked and going up by the minute.
The last looked like a Head-office summons, thinking, that the last thing he had time for right now was a summons, what did McGonagall want any way, for him to play lip-service to her or do his job.
Aggravated once again, he unfolded the letter, and read through the four terse sentences.
Lean, fingers clenched convulsively on the sheet of paper.
A strangled sound of denial escaped him.
He glanced down one last time at the last sentence of the paper, in the same moment, the naked pain in electric blue eyes, changed to indestructible ice.
His eyes closed as he allowed himself one more moment of self-pity, of pain, of torture.
Gone.
She was gone.
His love.
His wife.
His child.
His entire world, his pride and joy.
He remembered quiet moments beside the fireplace.
He recalled the moment she came walking down the aisle to him a goddess in white.
The day she told him, they were about to become a family.
Silent tears coursed down rugged male cheeks.