A/N* WOW! This is the first story I've written completely by hand—a paragraph now and then when I had free time during classes and I am SO glad it's finally finished! It's been done for forever, but I've just always been sooo lazy and never typed it up. Anyways, you'll find that this is a bit different from my first fics in that its NOT fluffy…it's a darkfic…but D/G, as always. Only D/G. ^_^ and I promise to update Masquerade soon. For now…enjoy this one (I hope). =D
Conspiracies of the Mad
Time has not been kind to Ginny Weasley.
She is but in her thirties, yet her skin is devoid of radiance, and her red tresses limp. Her movements are forced and languid, and all around her there is an air of unease, not quite of old age but certainly not of youth. Against the hospital bed she is frighteningly small, lost in its stark, blinding white, and the medics can't help feeling crushed by her pathetic helplessness.
They try to aid her, they really do, but she cannot be helped, for it is impossible to force something against her will. Throughout her life, Ginny has been tenaciously obstinate, and that certainly will not change now. Among other things, her eyes remain: they are still the window to her soul, yet that is what terrifies her loved ones above all, because they are a dull, rusted brown, weary of life and utterly, entirely hopeless.
She spends her days staring blankly at the rows of gardenias her sister-in-law Hermione has brought, outwardly placated by their exuberant beauty. Though she rarely speaks, Ginny is still cordial to the nurses, and she waits, like a cat waiting to pounce, for death, because she knows that it will come for her.
But she is oddly, oddly happy.
~*~
The official return of Voldemort had been decidedly less pronounced, and Ginny scoffed at the notion that evil—weak evil at that—could affect her beloved family, her perfect life. She was fresh out of Hogwarts at the time, bubbly, vivacious, and a smashing saleswoman for Fred and George's gag shop.
And she was dating an auror. Not just any auror, really, but the famous Harry Potter. Sure, he was tad bland and she cringed at his sloppy kisses, but for most part he quenched her fear of dying a spinster and with predictable, practical Harry she was, in all sated.
Wasn't she?
Ginny glanced up from her murky tea—Harry always ordered for her when she ran late—and sighed to see him biting his nails once again.
"What?" Harry demanded peevishly.
"Nothing," Ginny lied. "Tired, that's all."
"You're tired," Harry harrumphed. "Wait until you hear about my day. We captured that blithering death eater, Vincent Crabbe, and boy was he one big idiot. Would you believe he tried to run away from us? Well, it was all wasted on his part anyways, and—" He stopped, narrowing his green eyes at her. "Gin, why are you wearing that cloak?"
"It's cold," Ginny grumped somewhat disagreeably.
"Of course it's cold," Harry rolled his eyes. "It's winter. But I can barely see your face from under that hood."
That's the point, thought Ginny, but she remained silent. Instead, she took a sip of her god-awful tea and met his reproachful gaze with defiant, almost resentful eyes, staring stonily.
"Honestly!" said Harry after a moment, not bothering to mask his annoyance. "It was just a suggestion."
"I know," Ginny replied, quietly and untruthfully.
"I just don't get you," Harry huffed. "How are we supposed to be a proper married couple if you can't even take my comment?"
"Married?" echoed Ginny, alarmed.
For a second, puzzlement clouded Harry's face, but then he broke out into a forced, uneasy grin. "Oh," he chuckled nervously. "Oops."
"Oops, what?" Ginny demanded.
"Oops…I haven't told you yet?" Harry offered.
"Me?" Ginny repeated. "Who have you told?"
Harry squirmed. "You're family," he admitted meekly. "And uh, some other people. Gods, Gin, don't be mad. I was going to propose today, I swear—"
His voice trailed off as Ginny snapped her fingers at the nearest waitress. "Bring me today's copy of the Daily Prophet," she ordered.
"Ginny, don't" Harry began, emerald eyes pleading.
"Don't what?" She snapped, rendering him speechless as she snatched the paper out of the startled waitress' hands. Her livid brown eyes scanned the headlines, and Harry buried his head in his arms, seemingly shrinking under the curious stares of onlookers. When he glanced up, she was watching him, her face pale, shocked, and most of all, disappointed.
Harry opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could form the words a flash of green cracked behind him. Ginny shrieked as the killing curse boomed out, but it was lost in the panicked screams of the crowd. As she ducked under the table she heard Harry's chair scraping back, his voice loud as he swung to face the attackers. Keep quiet, she urged herself. It will be over soon.
Not soon enough.
Another ear-splitting scream, and a middle-aged witch fell to the cold stone pavement, her head slamming downwards with a tremendous crack, blank eyes lolling and open, dark mouth foaming. Unable to contain herself, Ginny screamed until her throat felt raw, until the only sounds in the gloomy, quiet afternoon were Harry's cries and her long, anguished wail. A pair of beefy hands locked around her quivering shoulders, roughly hoisting her up so she was pressed against a wide, warm body, one huge arm across her stomach barricading her from movement. She struggled nevertheless, hood obscuring her vision as her captor let out an amused, mirthless laugh at her wasted efforts, no doubt entertained.
"Let me go," she cried, gritting her teeth and straining against him once more. Somewhere in her terrified haze she could hear Harry calling her name, but it fell upon deaf ears for in that moment, her gaze landed upon a single, black engraving on the forearm around her, protruding from under dark, heavy robes, unmistakable and abhorrent.
The dark mark.
She surrendered her struggle then, letting out a shocked, strangled cry. "You're a death eater," she gasped.
"No shit, missy," the man hissed, his breath rank and hot.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" She heard Harry shout. "Let me go now, or all of you are going to…"
And then he fell silent, and there was a scuffling of feet that indicated a parting of people. Damn this hood, Ginny thought furiously, wishing to hell she had just one had free to move it away so she could at least see what was happening.
"I should have known," Harry spat. "You're their leader, aren't you? You—you initiated this attack, this senseless massacre. Let me guess, Voldemort's wishes?"
"Smart, are we now?" a voice replied—male, cold, and rich in tone. "You want a halo for that, saint Potter?"
And familiar, so heart-achingly familiar. It couldn't be…
"Well, what are you going to do now?" Harry yelled. "Take us back to your fucked-up half-blood's lair, Malfoy?"
It was.
There was a bellow, and somebody from Ginny's left lunged forward, most likely at Harry. "Nott," Draco Malfoy's sharp voice rang out. "I don't recall permitting you to move."
"But my lord," Nott protested. "He called our master a—a—a half-blood!
"I am not deaf, you insolent idiot," Draco said coolly. "But we will not torture our prisoners—" a pregnant pause "—yet." And Ginny could picture the smug smirk curling his lips so very perfectly.
"Why here?" Harry demanded, breathing ragged and laced with venom. "Why now?"
"It was easy," was Draco's simple answer, and he began reading what Ginny realized with a sickening lurch was her strewn-aside copy of the Daily Prophet. "Harry Potter to propose to mysterious girlfriend at Les Trois Nuits. Funny, Potter, that you conceal the identity of your girlfriend so well, yet splash your rendezvous location to Rita Skeeter." He clucked his tongue mock-sympathetically. "It's a pity."
He didn't know who she was.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" shouted Harry. "One last personal blow before Voldemort falls? Tell me what you fucking want!"
"You," Draco replied bluntly. "Regardless of whether the ministry catches me or not—which I guarantee you, they won't—only one of us can emerge triumphant. And I'll be damned if its you."
"Too late," Harry muttered, and the death eater to his right struck him across the shoulder.
"Release the girl," commanded Draco, voice gleefully sardonic. "You're fiancée can be the messenger of your demise."
The iron grip of pressure around her arms disappeared, and Ginny tumbled to the ground, landing a mess of robes at his feet. As her hood fell back she gave a sharp intake of breath, meeting his expressionless mercury eyes and feeling both angry and terrified.
And everywhere, the quiet.
She tried to imagine what Draco was seeing—startled brown eyes both fiery and disdainful, pale, cold cheeks, the messy chignon of copper curls unfurling around her face. But he hadn't changed nearly enough, and the icy gray void of his eyes gave no indication of his thoughts. "Miss Weasley," Draco finally said, lips curving into a acerbically amused sneer. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Malfoy," Ginny forced out.
"Well, said Draco, turning to Harry. "So she's your fiancée. Almost makes this whole attack unnecessary."
"What the hell are you playing at?" Harry bit, wincing a tad.
"Oh that's right," Draco drawled, causing Ginny to squeeze her eyes shut. "You don't know."
Harry's suspicious gaze darted from Ginny to Draco, and then back again. "What?"
Draco was looking imminently pleased with himself, and he advanced towards the shorter man slowly, the smirk never once leaving his lips. "She didn't tell you, did she?" Draco said. "Made you think she was chaste and innocent—"
"She is!" yelled Harry, taking his bait.
Shut up, Malfoy, Ginny thought furiously, you sodding bastard just shut the hell up, please please please. But it was all in vain.
"You know," Draco began, "It's the nature of women to compare past with present." He leaned in close to Harry's face, whose wide green eyes were livid yet confused. "So isn't it comforting to know," he said softly, "that each time you bed Miss Weasley here, she'll be comparing you…with me. Each time you make a lukewarm attempt at lovemaking, she'll remember how I fucked her raw our seventh year, Potter, until it hurt and she begged me for more."
"You lie!" screamed Harry, his breathing in pants now.
Ginny shuddered, shrinking under the incredulous stares of the leering death eaters. I wish he was, Harry.
"Isn't it comforting," Draco continued mercilessly, "that she probably doesn't let you in her pants now, but spent countless nights in the head boy's sheets. And you know what, Potter?" His sneer grew colder. "She meant nothing to me."
Tears stung the corners of Ginny's eyes, not of hurt necessarily, but hate, pure and intense. "Shut up," Harry said hoarsely.
"You can't change the past," Draco went on. "Can't return the blood of a virgin. She loved you, you know, only you were too busy lusting over Ronald Weasley's disgusting little bitch of a mudbl—"
And Harry lunged forward as best he could, spitting in the Slytherin's face contemptuously and shouting various obscenities. But Draco side-stepped the attack nimbly, merely smiling the same lipless, infuriating smile. "I bet you had to put an Imperius on her," snarled Harry. "Nobody would willingly touch you, Malfoy. " He cast a glance at Ginny, but she was watching the blond with rapt, horrified eyes.
Draco strode towards Ginny, ignoring Harry altogether. With a flick of his wand, ropes appeared around her wrists, and she was yanked to her feet for him to ascertain of their security. "Tell you what, Potter," Draco said, tugging on the ropes. Once satisfied she couldn't possibly escaped, he turned to face Harry again. "You come with me to Voldemort—" Draco paused "—wandless, and I'll let weasel here go."
"What?" demanded Harry, as if he hadn't heard the taller man correctly.
For a moment Draco studied him, eyes hooded and calculating. "You love her, don't you?" He sneered.
"Of cour—" Harry began.
"Isn't that what love is?" Draco went on. "That overpowering emotion for the person you would sacrifice your life for?"
"You wouldn't know anything about love," Ginny cried out then, her voice ringing clear and sharp in the still air. Immediately, Draco directed his silver stare upon her, along with the rest of the men, and she seemingly shrunk as Harry narrowed his eyes in slight confusion.
A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of Draco's lips, and he met her own defiant gaze, cold on hot, ice on fire. And finally, their eyes never once parting, he murmured, "Well, Potter? Have we a deal?"
Ginny trembled, afraid to move, to speak, to think. But Harry's hesitation was enough for Draco, and he snapped two fingers at Douglas Lestrange. "Take her to the Second Lair," ordered Draco. "She is not to be let out of the Fairhaven room, understood?"
"Yes, Malfoy," rasped Lestrange.
"Wait!" cried Harry, wetting his lips. "What can I do, Malfoy? Information? Galleons?"
Draco eyed him almost curiously. "I thought we went over this," was his cool response, and Harry fell silent once more. Draco stepped closer to Ginny, bent his head so that only she could hear him speak. "But Potter was right, Virginia Weasley. I do lie."
And before she could comprehend his words, her world turned black.
~*~
"You have a visitor, ma'am," says the nurse. She is a thin woman, shaped like a rail, bespectacled blue eyes peering out at her inquisitively.
"Gin?" a voice calls from the door, and Ginny's seventeen-year-old niece Emily appears. She's quiet in temperament and speaks in lecturing tones like her mother, yet Ginny is rather glad to see her.
"Hullo, Em," greets Ginny, the kindest she's been in months now.
"Hello," Emily says pleasantly. "Mum's just outside the door."
"Where's Ron?" Ginny asks.
"Here," He says as he enters, followed by Hermione. A nine-year-old girl is fast asleep in his arms, and he explains lamely, "Lori was tired."
"And Will had a quidditch match," supplies Herm, smiling apologetically. "He couldn't make it."
It doesn't matter. She does not need their rowdy teenage son to drop the bomb. What she does need, however, is Harry.
Harry Potter is Ginny's husband. He is still an auror, still handsome and fit despite his age, and recently ranked one of Witch Weekly's Ten Most Desirable wizards. They have been married for seventeen years now, a perfect, peaceful marriage. They live in a thirty-room brick estate, where they host charity events annually in honor of Voldemort's defeat twelve years ago and play croquet—up until Ginny's illness, that is. Ginny does not have a job, but she is content in letting Harry be the provider because she loves him with all his heart, would die for him, and is sated with his mere presence.
At least, that's what the public sees.
In truth, they have not shared a bed since their honeymoon, and rarely speak to one another. He loves her, if half-heartedly, but is most at peace when she is asleep. He has a mistress and she knows, but she does not mind because in truth, she does not love him.
She never has.
~*~
He found her restless and angry when he apparated to the Second Lair, second of many. She was tied to a grand stone pole rising out of the smooth marble floor, had been for nearly forty-five minutes, her wrists bloodied from futile efforts of escape. For a fraction of a second he paused in the shadows, watching her sigh with exasperated despair.
Ginny lifted her head slowly at the sound of his feet, gazing blankly as his black-clad form strode purposefully, gracefully, into the chamber. Time had not diminished the haughty elegance of Draco Malfoy, nor his agility and opulence. He was not handsome in conventional terms, not with his slender, narrow hips and lean arms sinewy from quidditch. No, Draco was too angular, his aristocratic features too sharp, but then again that was Draco in one word—sharp, cutting like the edge of a fresh blade, jagged and cold.
Yet at the same time he had been a magnificent lover, keenly attuned to her needs and honestly deserving the sex-god-of-Slytherin label Hogwarts had so cordially endowed him with. True, Draco was not Poster-boy Harry Potter, but he possessed an icy, tranquil aura around him, so light, so untouchable. He was like Adonis.
And once, he had been her Adonis.
They did not speak to one another, but the air was thick with tension and with a calculating gleam in his cloudy gray eyes, Draco lowered himself into the high-backed chair facing her. He did not seem about to speak, either, long fingers drumming against the polished wood, observing her and memorizing the painfully familiar features of her face.
For her part, Ginny was too frightened and livid to translate his frigid silence or tense stance. She glared at him darkly, death eater Malfoy, beautiful, cold, powerful death eater Malfoy. The quiet was unbearable, and finally she spat, "I hate you."
He did not look surprised in the least, and smiled, a chillingly empty smile that did not quite reach his steely eyes. "And why, Weasley?"
"You're despicable," raged Ginny. "And horrid, and a servant of Voldemort. Need I say more?"
There was no response from Draco, who cocked his head at her as she raised venomous brown eyes to meet his expressionless gaze. She was not in any standards gorgeous, but still, in his eyes, oddly attractive. Her nose was too small, her freckles too plenty, and that hair too red, yet taking in the fire emanating from those multi-faceted eyes he felt what could have been. . .nostalgia.
"Why," Ginny demanded, "Are you looking at me like that?"
He ignored her, instead lifting himself languidly out of the chair and sauntering with irritating arrogance to the flickering fireplace. "I wouldn't speak to me like that if I were you," said Draco, his back to her. "Which, thank Merlin, I'm not."
"And why, Malfoy?" she mocked caustically.
He turned his head so very slightly, so she could see the outline of his profile illuminated by the only light in the windowless room. "Well," he drawled, "For one, your life is in my hands."
"I don't fucking care," snarled Ginny, "What you do with me. It isn't as if I expect you to return me to Harry anyhow, bastard."
Now Draco faced her fully, raking his eyes over her stained, disheveled form shaking despite herself. "The last time you spoke to me like that," he said with a faint smirk, "this—" and he dipped his hand into the front of her robes "—happened."
She jerked away as best her bondage would allow. "Don't. Touch. Me." She hissed.
"So you're, what, 'saving' yourself for Potter, hmm?" Draco snorted, eyes growing even colder but not in the least fazed.
Her own eyes watered. "You left nothing left for him to save," she whispered, angrily, painfully.
"I can't argue with you there," agreed Draco.
"And I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot-pole," Ginny went on darkly. "You sorry little ferret of an arse."
He seemed, if anything, amused. "Funny," he remarked in a low, dangerous voice. "I remember when you couldn't go for more than a week without touching me." She scowled at him fiercely, and he leaned in close to her face. "I was your best, and you damn well know that."
It wasn't easy to avoid his penetrating silver stare as she murmured quietly, "I don't exactly have anyone else for comparison."
The feral grin that curled his lips she had seen countless times in the past, and she closed her eyes from the intensity of his; to this day, she still couldn't comprehend the odd turn of events her sixth year, how they had been arguing one moment and making a sweaty mess of his sheets the next. And he had become, in that moment, an addiction, her addiction, and she couldn't seem to get enough.
"You remember," Draco observed.
"How the hell am I supposed to forget?" said Ginny bitterly, breathing in rapid pants. "You—you bloody broke my heart, Malfoy."
"It was sex," Draco snarled, as if that explained everything.
"I loved you!" Ginny shouted.
"How the hell was I supposed to know that?" he demanded harshly. "We never spoke outside of my chamber—"
"But we spoke inside," Ginny insisted accusingly. "And you knew. You're not stupid, Malfoy, we both know that."
"Maybe I knew," Draco shrugged, fixing her with a piercing gaze. "I knew, and I just didn't care."
And at his admittance, she fell silent. There was nothing left to say. Letting out a shuddery sigh, she closed her eyes once more, lashes wet with tears. "I really hate you, you sick son of a bitch," she said softly.
He blinked at her, then lifted her chin with one slender finger, forcing her to match cold silver with watery brown. He did not say anything at first, simply taking in the pain and longing that reflected sorrowfully back at him, studying her as if to decipher her thoughts, her heart. "No," Draco finally replied. "You don't. You could never—" and he placed a hard, open kiss on the curve of her neck "—hate—" another, on the other side now "—me." And he pulled back, staring at her intently.
She was short of breath, glancing surreptitiously to his lips just inches from her own, and she swallowed audibly. "Draco," she whispered, as if she spoke any louder the fragile tranquility, the fleeting understanding that had formed, would shatter irrevocably beyond repair. His first name was one that had not fallen from her mouth for years now, and one she had not meant to call him by.
If he had heard her, he did not respond. Instead, Draco concentrated on her lips, which had parted involuntarily, and breathed a bit louder as the velvety pink of her tongue darted out to wet them. She wanted him to kiss her, he could tell, and she hated him, hated herself, for the feelings she couldn't possibly deny.
"Draco," she said again. They were so close, he could almost touch his nose to hers. "Why—why did you—" she hesitated, but then went on. "Why did you leave?"
His eyes hardened, and he straightened as if she had slapped him. "That," he said in a heartbreakingly steely voice usually reserved for Harry, "is none of your sodding business."
She jerked angrily at the ropes, crying out as they cut deeper into her wounded flesh. "You made it my business," Ginny all but sobbed. "You made it my business when you kissed me like you meant it, when you kissed me like you wanted me to kiss you back, and love you, love you so much." And she twitched against the ropes hysterically, tears streaking her cheeks as she let them fall freely.
"What the hell did you do to your hands?" demanded Draco, noticing for the first time her grimace of pain. Before she could respond, he had flicked his wand and undone her ropes, causing her to stumble forward in surprise and collapse into his chest.
Draco pushed her away roughly, and with a flaming face she stammered, "I—um—oh—"
She swayed, not used to the freedom of standing untethered. But then he had settled her into a chair, if violently, startling her with the gesture. "Stupid girl," he admonished, conjuring a basin of warm water and a small, white towel.
"What are you—" she began with an involuntary whimper.
"I guess you failed to pay attention in healing," snapped Draco, and lathered one wrist with charmed water. "You always wash away the blood before healing, Weasley." His voice was harsh but his long, nimble fingers gentle, so gentle.
Without meaning to, Draco had knelt on the floor, between her legs, inhaling the sharp tang of blood under heated water as he tended to her wounds. "And you ask why I left," Draco said, somewhat bitterly. "When you would rather torture yourself to be Potter."
"I was not torturing myself for Harry," Ginny said steadily. "And torture is not physical pain, Draco Malfoy, its watching the one person you would have loved for eternity never love you back."
Draco finished cleaning one arm and moved to the next. "Then I guess you wouldn't know anything about torture," he nearly mumbled. He did not meet her eyes as he said this, concentrating diligently on her bloodied flesh instead.
An errant strand of white-gold hair freed itself from its pomade grasp, and with hitched breath Ginny reached out to smooth it behind his ear. "Why did you leave?" she whispered once more.
He glanced up, and she was lost in the gray depths of his eyes. "What did you expect?" Draco scoffed, rinsing the towel. "Marriage?"
"Well," was her uneasy reply.
"Be realistic," said Draco and took out his wand. He watched in satisfaction as the cuts disappeared, then gracefully moved to his feet.
"I should have," Ginny said flatly. "Oh, like the great Draco Malfoy would stoop so low as to marry a Weasley."
He whirled around angrily, a cloud of black. "Like it was my fault," he spat. "What about you, Gin—Weasley? Were you honestly going to tell your parents, your brothers, that you wed a death eater?"
"You didn't have the dark mark then!" cried Ginny. "You were—you were—"
"I was what?" shouted Draco. "Good? Reformed? Maybe you've forgotten, but I was born a death eater. My parents are Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, Weasley, it didn't matter when I got the sodding mark because this is my destiny."
"So you thought it would be just fine to leave without telling me why?" Ginny shot back. "You thought that your servitude to Voldemort would cease my feelings? You were my entire bloody world!"
And then he had closed the distance between them, his lips on hers violent and lustful. She kissed him back with fervor, missing the sweet hazelnut taste of his mouth, missing his lean arms supporting her. Her fingers curled into his hair, eyes fluttering closed, and she forgot about Harry, about the café massacre, because there was nothing but Draco in her mind.
She was gasping for air when he pulled away, fingers tracing circles on the small of her back. "You are my entire bloody world," Draco growled into her thick curtain of hair.
"You shouldn't—"
"Shut up," he ordered, and then gladly made her with his searing kisses, making the lower of her belly coil as his hands played with her blouse. His lips were not as cool as his demeanor (though that itself was losing composure by the second) and he nipped at her lower lip tenderly, tongue dancing with hers. It became at that moment impossible for Ginny to deny that she wanted him. He smiled against her lips at her body's involuntary response, willing her to relinquish the fight.
And she did.
"You're right, you know," Ginny whispered hoarsely as he lifted her up onto his magnificent bed. "I could never hate you."
Later she was huddled by his fire, his luxurious sheepskin rug beneath her. She was immersed in thought, one of his silken sheets serving as a makeshift dress, and did not notice Draco awaken until he was beside her, suckling at her neck.
"Draco," she murmured, and pulled him down beside her.
He submitted, and allowed Ginny to rest her head peacefully on the smooth marble of his chest. One hand played with her soft auburn curls, the other idly stroking her back, and they lay together in silent harmony, both knowing that at dawn their world would once again evaporate.
"I. . .love you," she said quietly against his skin.
The stroking ceased momentarily, but then Draco resumed a light tapping of his slim fingers along her spine. "He's not coming for you, you know," he said.
She knew.
~*~
"So how are you feeling?" asks Ron. It has been nearly five minutes since anyone has spoken, and for him the silence is unbearable.
"Ron," Hermione chastises.
"What?" he demands.
"How do you think she feels?" his wife hisses. "She's—"
And she cannot say the word, so Ginny does. "Dying," Ginny supplies, rather lightly.
Hermione looks in equal parts appalled and fascinated, whereas Ron simply looks horrified. There is, of course, no tactful way to admonish Ginny's frankness, and Ginny does not feel she has wronged anyone anyhow. Finally, Emily speaks. "You're not scared, Aunt Ginny?"
"Emily," Hermione and Ron say simultaneously.
Ginny ignores them, for at this moment she hears Harry's new Prada shoes (he did grow up in a muggle world) clicking down the hall. "I am not," says Ginny loudly. "I welcome death."
Harry is uncertain what to say as he appears at the door, black hair tousled and green eyes startled. "Gin, dear," he begins hesitantly.
She does not carry out his façade. She has not the time nor peace of mind to do so, and instead greets him with a smirking half-smile. "For once," she tells him almost gleefully. "I'm glad you're here."
Hermione is feeling rather pitiful towards Harry at this moment, who is shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Where's Adessa?" she asks gently.
At the mention of Adessa, Harry beams. "She's coming," he replies proudly. "She has to speak with Dumbledore about becoming Head Girl next year. Top of her class, you know. And a mighty good seeker too."
"A true Potter," agrees Ron heartily, who is rather fond of his sixteen-year-old niece.
Ginny snorts. "Still in reminiscence of your glorious Hogwarts days, I see."
Ron glances around confusedly, and Harry snaps, "Yes, they were memorable times."
"Quidditch and invisibility cloaks," adds Hermione cheerily, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Quidditch," repeats Ginny. "You won every game, right, Harry?"
Again, he beams. "Just like my daughter."
"Except," Ginny continues, "when you lost."
His face darkens. "That stupid ferret had an enchanted broom," he cries angrily, and Ron nods in empathetic agreement.
"Did not," says Ginny. "You're just jealous, Harry, because you know very well you weren't the best. You knew Draco Malfoy was better than you—as a seeker, as a student, as a lov—"
"And he's dead!" shouts Harry, causing Lori Weasley to turn on her side. "A lot good that did him!" Hermione and Ron stare at him with curious apparition, and Ginny closes her eyes wearily.
"We all know who's responsible for that," Ginny tells him in a quiet, tired voice. "You remember, don't you, dear?"
"No," Harry says shortly, and turns away from her. He detests Ginny's cryptic questions, her unbidden implications. That is not the problem, however, the problem is that he remembers all too well.
~*~
"Made you think she was chaste and innocent. . ."
". . .comparing you. . .with me. . ."
"Isn't it comforting to know. . ."
"I fucked her raw. . .raw. . .raw. . ."
"Ah," Harry groaned loudly, massaging his throbbing temples as he dropped his quill onto his desk. It was night, and he was the only one left in the regal Auror's office, clock ticking relentlessly. Not that he minded—his workaholic tendencies were what drove him to the top. But this particular night his mind simply wasn't focusing, and nothing was getting completed, nothing at all.
There came a knock on his door—soft, timid, and just a tad bit unsure. He pushed back from his table, craving a distraction, and made his way to the door. The knocking grew louder, more persistent, and Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm coming," he said impatiently, swinging it open.
For a moment, the room was entirely silent. Harry squinted, not certain his eyes were functioning, and took in the waves of familiar mahogany curls, polished like the gleam of new leather and wide, sorrowful golden eyes. She was, indefinitely, one of the last people he would've expected to see outside his door on a cool Thursday night.
But she was there, in the flesh, Blaise Zabini.
"Zabini," Harry said, recovering. "What a…surprise."
Blaise flicked her placid golden gaze down the length of his body before answering, her full lips curving into an unreadable smile. "At least you're honest," she said dryly.
"Er, right," Harry replied, and then froze in an awkward silence.
"Mr. Potter," she smirked. "Where are your manners? Aren't you going to invite me in?"
He grimaced. "What do you want?"
With startling frankness, she pulled back the sleeve of her elegant black robes, where a charred mark was branded into the soft flesh of her skin, a mark he had seen too many times. "I won't play games with you," Blaise told him quietly. "I'm a death eater."
Harry lifted his gaze from her forearm to stare at her blankly. "We execute death eaters, Zabini," he said, firm, stiff, resolute. "You won't be able to walk out of here freely, you know."
"I know," was her response. "I am. . .ready for the consequences."
Harry hesitated.
"It's not a trick," Blaise promised. "I just want a few moments of your time. I have nothing to fight for anymore, and if I'm going down, then so is he."
At her last words, Harry's ears perked up. Could it possibly be. . .
"You're willingly giving yourself up?" Harry asked suspiciously.
"I thought we went over this," she replied, and swept into his room.
"Why, Zabini?" Harry wanted to know. "Why now?"
"Please," she said in her lilting, melodious voice. "Call me Blaise."
Again, he hesitated. In his silence, she strode to the window and drew back the heavy red curtain so moonlight spilt into the office, highlighting her soft features. "Okay," he finally agreed, incredulous he was holding civil conversation with Blaise Zabini. "So answer me then, Blaise, why?"
She played with the ends of her silken hair, eyes empty as she gazed at him. "He doesn't. . .love me. . .anymore," Blaise told him quietly. "I don't think he ever did."
"Who?" pressed Harry.
Her answer was simple, painful, and direct. "Draco Malfoy."
"I don't understand what he has to do with your allegiances to Voldemort," frowned Harry.
She whirled around. "I don't care about Voldemort's damn cause," Blaise pronounced. "I never have. I cared about Draco, doing what he thought was right. I thought. . .I thought he loved me. But he doesn't. He loves her."
Harry swallowed. "Her?"
"Weasley," spat Blaise.
He breathed in sharply. "Did he tell you this?"
"No," Blaise said. "But I can tell. When he brought her back from the café, the way he looked at her. . .he's never. . .he's never looked at anyone the way he looked at her."
"And you came to me because. . ." Harry trailed off.
Blaise pierced him with a penetrating stare "It's been three weeks since Weasley was 'kidnapped,' Mr. Potter. Have you done anything to find her, to save her?"
His throat felt dry. "Well, I tried, but I figured she was as good as dead."
"She isn't," said Blaise darkly. "Not that I've seen her, mind you. She hasn't been out of his chamber once."
"She's in his chamber?" Harry cried, aghast. Blaise nodded. "Are they. . .is he. . ." and he couldn't finish the sentence.
"Is he fucking her?" Blaise supplied wryly, letting out a light chuckle as he winced. "I don't know."
"Oh." A pause. "Does she love him?"
Blaise glanced at him from under a thick fringe of lashes. "I don't know that, Mr. Potter. But she'd be crazy not to. Draco Malfoy does not love very many things, but the ones he does. . ."
A surge of inexplicable anger coursed through his veins. "What do you want me to do?"
She smiled. Blaise was a beautiful woman, but it was in no part because of her smile—that was chilling and calculating, bloodless to the core. "I cannot be with him if he does not want me," she said softly. "But I can make certain that she won't be with him either. Only one thing may separate Draco from the weasel, and that is death. Only one person may bestow death upon the invincible dragon, and that is you."
Harry gave a shuddery sigh. "You want me to kill the man you love."
"I do love him," replied Blaise. "I will continue to love him long after you have me executed, Mr. Potter. Death and time do not diminish love, you know. And they will not ease the fact that he does not love me. I want him to hurt for hurting me."
"I see," said Harry, and then it was quiet.
Blaise reached into her pocket, and in a split second Harry had pulled out his wand, pointing it just millimeters from her neck. She shot him an injured look, eyes flickering to his slightly trembling hand. "Why Mr. Potter," she drawled. "Don't you trust me?"
"I have seen the throes of war and the woes of death. I have seen Voldemort in the flesh more times than I'd like, sons and fathers separated at his hand. I have seen my fiancée, the younger sister of my best friend, abducted by my childhood nemesis, and I can tell you now, Miss Blaise Zabini—" Harry paused to catch his breath "—I trust no one."
She merely blinked at him, pushed his wand away. "I did not come here to attack you," Blaise said, handing him a folded sheet of parchment.
He took it gingerly, scanning startled green eyes over its contents. "What's this?"
"A map," Blaise replied. "Of the second lair."
There was yet another pregnant pause, and when Harry glanced up he seemed almost wistful. "I still have to send you to Azkaban," he told her.
"I know," she said, and pressed a dry, soft kiss upon his lips. "But promise me, Mr. Potter, that I shall not have died in vain."
And as the dementors carried her away, she saw in his eyes that he would not break his word.
~*~
"I don't understand," Ron says loudly, "Why you two are bickering like this."
"Yes," Harry agrees. "I would just rather we get along."
"I don't want to," says Ginny stoutly. She glares at her husband, brown eyes resentful and annoyed.
"How have I wronged you?" cries Harry. "I've provided for you for seventeen years, loved you, honored you—"
"Honored me by shagging Cho?" shouts Ginny.
The room is silent.
Harry's lower lip curls in anger. "That is not my fault," he says. "You wouldn't even touch me any more."
"Because you disgust me," Ginny tells him reproachfully, truthfully. "You aren't a man of honor, Harry, because you take the back door out. Your battles are not won because you are stronger, but because you play dirty."
Harry scowls. "You don't make any sense, Ginny."
"Please," begs Hermione. "Let's just stop fighting."
"I don't plan to," Ginny says resolutely. "I want Harry to suffer for what he did." And she directs her furious stare upon him, grinning as he wilts like a flower without water.
"What did he do?" Ron asks in a feeble voice, curious despite himself.
"Ask him," Ginny tells her brother sweetly. "He knows."
Harry leaps up from his seat and glowers at her. "Do not tell me this is about him," he declares darkly. "Because that would make you a bitter, bitter woman."
"Well," says Ginny, "I have a lot to be bitter about."
~*~
The room was dark as always when Ginny awoke, warm under the snug comfort of soft down, but cold without his presence. She adjusted her eyes to the dimly glowing lamp in the far corner of the chamber, where Draco was bent over an impressive mahogany desk, hand moving furiously across a parchment. For a few seconds she watched him, his grace and masculine beauty, unable to keep the content, pleased smile from curling her lips. His was a face she would never tire of.
Three weeks. Ginny let out a soft sigh and reclined in the satin pillows, playing gently with the hem of her white nightgown. Three weeks during which she nearly forgot she was a captive, abducted by the death eaters, three weeks it had been since she last say daylight. And the strangest thing of all was that she couldn't bring herself to care.
It was not an ideal romance, not even close, yet Ginny could honestly consider those weeks as some of the best in her life. Harry would not 'save' her, not at the risk of his high auror position, and it didn't matter, because she didn't want him to anyhow. She slid out from under the covers, shivering from the ubiquitous chill, and reached for Draco's elegant black robe. Wearing death eater clothes would never feel normal to her, but the lingering scent of Draco was unbelievably natural.
He had not noticed her yet, so she padded quietly to his chair after a few futile attempts at salvaging her tousled mane. Tightening his silken robe, she tenderly tucked her arms around him and whispered, "Good morning."
Draco craned his neck, steeling eyes scanning hers before he swiveled and tugged her onto his lap, latching his lips to the milky skin of her neck. She sighed against his ear as he trailed that marvelous mouth up along the curve of her chin and left tingling, butterfly kisses all across her cheek. And then he pulled away, massaging the bone of her hip through the thin fabric of her gown with calloused, slender fingers. "More like afternoon," he grumped, only it was more affectionate than angry, and she giggled, leaning forward to capture his thin lips with hers. She loved the way he tasted, fresh and cold all in the same moment, and he let her run boneless fingers through his hair, wishing she could for all eternity and knowing in her heart she wouldn't be able to.
"Draco," she breathed, tracing the contour of his jaw with light hands. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."
"I know," he replied, voice muffled by her body. It did not bother her that he never did vocalize his affections—Draco was biting with insults, but horrid with compliments, and that she understood him well enough to recognize this pleased her all the same. The feelings he invoked within her she had never thought possible, and even after so many years he set her need aflame.
Security.
His lean arms came around her, nestling her comfortably in the warmth of his lap, bringing her close to his chest, to his heart.
Passion.
She lowered her mouth to his in yet another crushing kiss, as if she had but one breath left and reserved for him.
Love.
And then her mouth parted for him, and he eased her worries and assuaged her pain, his lips full of promise, promise, promise.
Eternity.
Two loud knocks sounded at the door. Ginny lifted her head reluctantly, glancing at Draco with wary, questioning eyes. "Ignore it," he murmured before covering her lips once again in kiss after breathtaking kiss.
The noises sounded repeatedly, urgent and demanding, and finally Draco pulled away, exasperated.
"What is it?" asked Ginny softly, stroking her fingers along his chest.
"Probably LeStrange," scowled Draco. "Open the door for him, would you?"
She nodded and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before dutifully climbing off his lap and shuffling to the door. "Yes?" she said as she swung open the door, and nearly fainted to see him—Harry Potter. From behind him she could see bodies, clad in black and heaped in piles, every one of them obviously dead.
Before she could comprehend, two of the burly men alongside Harry had shoved her roughly against the wall, making it possible for Harry to stalk into the room. "What the hell—" Draco began, leaping up from his chair.
"Only one of us can emerge triumphant, remember?" Harry yelled. "And since you're already dammed, I guess it'll have to be me."
One of the aurors swiftly pulled out his wand. "Stup—"
"—vada Kedrava!" He fell to a lifeless puddle around Harry's feet, and Draco straightened. "Go ahead, Potter, send your men at me."
Harry vacillated. Draco could see it, Ginny could see it, and at the flick of his right wrist another auror charged at the blond. "Avada—"
And he too, was silenced.
Ginny let out a choked sob, causing Harry to turn his head. He seemed to notice her for the first time, taking in her disheveled hair and flimsy nightgown riding up her thighs from under a robe that was unmistakably Draco's. "Ginny," he said slowly, and despite all the time she had known him, she couldn't tell what he was thinking.
"Release her, Potter," Draco commanded coldly.
"A shame," replied Harry. "You don't even know when you're defeated."
Draco's silver eyes glowed dangerously. "A duel, then, if you cannot distinguish winners from losers."
Harry tilted his chin. He loathed Malfoy with a vehement passion, but could not deny his skill. His death eater skill. "Okay," Harry finally agreed. "To. . .the death."
"No!" screamed Ginny. Harry could not tell who she was panicked for, and this angered him even more.
"Deal," Draco inclined his head, stretching out a hand.
"Dominitia Fortis!" shouted Harry, and ropes appeared suddenly, binding Draco to the wall.
They all knew what was impending. She locked eyes with Draco, ready to beseech Harry with all her strength, but something in those mercury depths stopped her. Don't.
If you're going down, I am too.
But his icy eyes remained firm, unwavering, and she gave a shuddering sigh, pleading silently with Draco, with Harry, with the Gods. And it enraged Harry to see Draco's gaze focused on Ginny, his fiancée, the young girl Lucius had tortured so horribly. Yet there he stood, fate in Harry's hands, and he was staring at Ginny.
"He loves her. . ." Blaise's voice echoed mercilessly in Harry's mind. "Draco Malfoy does not love many things. . ."
"Crucio!" Harry shouted, and a searing flash of white-hot pain rippled through Draco, as if someone had wrenched a blade into his gut and twisted it with ruthless abandon. Draco willed himself not to cry out in immense pain—he thought of his father, relentlessly strict, and then of Ginny, her delicate smile and pliable lips.
The scream that erupted into the air belonged to Ginny, not Draco. She did not scream his name—the last ounce of her sanity warned it would be unwise to do so—but let loose an anguished shriek that only further infuriated Harry.
"Who's the winner now, huh?" He demanded, and swung his fist into Draco's midsection with intense viciousness.
Blood flew from Draco's mouth, splattering on Harry's pristine robes. "You know who won the real prize, Potter," he sneered.
"I don't know what the hell you mean," snarled Harry, and brought the point of his shoe angrily into Draco's knee.
"Do you?" The blond spat, along with another mouthful of blood, grimacing from the pain.
"Crucio!" Harry yelled once more, Ginny's ceaseless screams reverberating through the otherwise silent chamber.
Draco lifted his head slowly, a disgusted smirk still upon his lips. "Don't tell me that's the best you have," he rasped.
And then Harry had whipped out his ruby-encrusted pocket knife, slicing it through the dank air, across the tender flesh of Draco's cheek. He panted, the luminous scarlet incongruous with his normally pale skin, and glared at Harry. Pain is weakness. Pain is weakness. Pain is weakness.
"Crucio!"
Draco could not carry the façade any longer—the pain was excruciating, overwhelming, suffocating, consuming. He twitched against the wall, screaming, a mess of blood and sweat and standing human torture. And Ginny cried, sobbed, her face wet with unstoppable tears as her heart ached for him.
Harry plunged his knife into Draco's lower belly, inducing an agonized cry. "You want more?" He shouted in a sadistic voice most unlike himself.
"Draco!" Ginny screamed as she struggled to reach him, unable to suppress her horror. And she screamed his name, not caring of the consequences, just him as Harry withdrew the blade and stabbed him again, ramming the hilt forcefully against his torn clothes.
His name was the last word to pass her lips as she fainted in oblivious delirium.
She came to nearly thirty minutes later, her world a hazy gray as she struggled to sit. There was a throbbing pain in the back of her head, and everything was. . .shaking, convulsing erratically. A glance to her left displayed a darkening, cloudy sky and she realized, with a jolt, she was in a carriage.
Draco. Blood. Crucio.
"Ginny?" came a soft, male voice, a distinctly un-Draco voice.
Harry.
He slid an arm around her, helping her up against the slippery leather. She stared at him with wide eyes, realizing he had changed robes and then gasping when she saw that she was still dressed in Draco's. "Harry?" she whispered, disbelieving.
"It's okay," he assured her, a bit stiff. "You're okay."
"What. . .happened?" she asked quietly.
Harry regarded her with solemn emerald eyes. "You fainted," he informed her matter-of-factly.
"I know that," said Ginny.
And then, quiet.
"We dueled," Harry cleared his throat. "Malfoy and I."
"I recall," she glanced up at him, a million emotions conflicting within her soul. "Isn't it customary to start curses after you shake hands?"
"Malfoy was a death eater, Gin," Harry explained in a patronizingly patient tone. "There is no 'custom' with his type."
Was.
She forced back tears. "Oh."
"What I want to know," continued Harry, as if she was not shattering into jagged little pieces, as if everything was oddly close to normal, "is why you screamed his name."
"When you. . .killed him, you mean?" Ginny said, and it pained her to verbally acknowledge that Draco was gone.
"No," replied Harry, bitter and sarcastic. "That other time."
There are plenty of times when I screamed Draco's name, Ginny wanted to say. She wanted to tell him, graphically, exactly when and where and why she had screamed his name, wanted to explain to him exactly what his lips were doing at the moment, his hands, his words. It would just about kill Harry, she knew, and she itched to launch into a torrent of hurtful words. "You didn't. . .fight him justly," was what she said instead, after a long, indecisive pause. "You attacked him before you shook hands. . .it was. . .unfair."
Harry's eyes hardened. "All's fair in love and war," he muttered.
She saw then what she needed to do, watching him brood against the ever-darkening sky, and reached for his hand, trying not to shudder. "And love, Harry," Ginny said softly. "All's fair in love and war."
His face lit up, and he smiled at her cautiously. "I just want you to understand that he was a bad person," Harry insisted. "He deserved to die."
The taste of bile rose in her throat, but Ginny forced it down. "I do," she told him, masking distaste with complacence. "Of course I understand."
He smiled at her, the boyish, crooked grin she had once loved so much. "Are we okay, then? You aren't still upset over the, er, engagement business?"
"As soon as possible," Ginny promised, voice laced with sugar, "We can tie the knot. I would be honored to be Mrs. Harry Potter. It's a dream come true, you know."
From the corner of his eye he observed her, Virginia, the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. That she wholly loved him was something of which Harry had his suspicions, but that was not the point. The point was that he had won over Malfoy, in life, in death, in love. And there was nothing more satisfying than defeating his greatest enemy in all aspects of the game. Harry sat back with a small, content smile, knowing that vengeance on Draco Malfoy was worth the strife that had gotten him there. For every time he insulted Hermione, for Ron, for Blaise Zabini, he thought, and most of all, for me.
He would not question Ginny's past. He did not want to know and it did not matter. What did matter was the future, his future, and vindictively Harry reminded himself that Malfoy did not have one.
As the carriage bumped along, Harry did not notice the tear that leaked out of Ginny's eye. He did not notice her soft shiver as she struggled to mask her mourning for Draco, and he did not notice her inhaling the black robes for one last, familiar scent of her dearly departed.
But that was the way she wanted it.
~*~
"I still don't know who 'he' is," Ron complains loudly, like a child deprived of sweets.
"He," Ginny informs him matter-of-factly, "is Draco Malfoy."
At this, Ron seemingly turns both purple and white. "What?"
Harry swings around and settles in a worn armchair. "Your sister," he tells him pointedly, "has been repeatedly mentioning that ferret as of late."
"Who's Draco Malfoy?" Emily wants to know, but nobody answers her.
Hermione stares at Ginny with perplexed eyes. "I. . .thought he died," she says.
"He did," replies Ginny, voice broken and strained. "Harry killed him. He had to violate the regulations of a duel, of course, but he still tortured and kill him."
Hermione looks aghast, but Ron merely snorts. "Serves him right," he huffs.
"Dad!" cries Emily. "I don't know who this Draco Malfoy is, but I don't think anyone deserves to die that way."
"Well," says Ginny caustically, "Harry would have to disagree with you there, Em."
"I just don't get why you care!" shouts Harry. "You said you understood why I killed him, you said so seventeen years ago, remember?"
"Of course I remember," she answers. "I remember everything. It just so happens that I lied."
Harry's entire face darkens to an unattractive crimson. "What was he to you, hmm? Don't tell me he was right about your past."
"I loved him," she seethes. "I loved him, and you and your boyish, puerile jealousy slaughtered him in cold blood."
"So he was right," Harry spits. "You—you slept with him at Hogwarts, didn't you? You. . .whore."
Ron jumps up in shocked fury, but his wife holds him back. "This is not your fight," Hermione whispers.
His insult does not deter Ginny, who flashes Harry a cold, smirking smile. Draco's smile. "That is not what bothers you," she tells him with calculating, accusing eyes. "What bothers you is that I was his whore."
And Harry has no response to this, because in his heart he knows that she is correct.
Finally, he asks, "Then why did you marry me?"
Ginny stares at Harry blankly, and her answer is simple. "Revenge, I suppose."
"A lot good that's done you," Harry explodes. "A loveless, sexless marriage for seventeen years—I, I had Cho, but who did you have? What did you have? A memory of a dead Death Eater. Oh yes, Gin, great revenge."
The rest of the room is watching him, red with anger, and they are enraptured by the perverse turn of events, drawn like a grotesque accident scene. "So," Ginny says after an elongated pause, "you really think you've bested me—" she smiles once more "—me, and Draco."
Harry falls into her trap. "Quite obviously," he snarls. "Look at what you've left with, and then look at me. A beautiful woman, a high-paying job, a wonderful daughter—"
"Oh yes," Ginny chuckles mirthlessly. "Adessa."
He narrows his eyes at her. "Yes, Adessa. The only good thing from our so-called marriage. Or don't tell me, you adopted her?"
"She was born," Ginny goes on, "Eight months after I married you."
"Premature," says Harry, and then becomes quiet. The steady beeps of her monitor echoes through the room, thriving with tension, with the implications of Ginny's silence. "No," he says, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "You wouldn't. . ."
"Three weeks," Ginny shrugs. "Three weeks is adequate time to get pregnant, Harry, especially if you're as busy as Dra—"
"No!" cries Harry, and throws his coat vehemently the floor. "You cannot be bloody serious!"
"Why do you think I was so quick to marry you?" Ginny is staring at him forcefully, piercingly, so he can understand the full veracity and weight of her words."
Harry is spluttering now. "You—you—you—"
"She's the pride of your life, isn't she?" Ginny takes delight as he squirms in incredulous disbelief. "You splash her name all over the papers, let her bathe in the public light, beautiful, privileged, talented, intelligent Adessa Potter. So how does it feel to know that your genes had nothing to do with who she is, Harry? That she is, rightfully, a Malfoy?"
Nobody dares to speak—Ron is nearly ashen and Hermione looks frighteningly close to fainting. But Ginny is not finished. "How are you going to face her, Harry?" she taunts. "Knowing that you killed her father, how are you going to face her?"
"Shut up!" screams Harry, and strikes her across the face. Five red imprints linger where his fingers touched her, but she laughs instead, seemingly immune to the pain.
"What are you going to do?" Ginny says in between hysterical fits of laughter. "Kill me like you do all your demons? Go on. I am not afraid of death."
"Ginny!" cries Hermione.
"And you want to know what the hardest part of my vengeance was?" Ginny continues. "Having to sleep with you, Harry, having to pretend it was Draco only you are pathetic, pathetic and—"
He grabs her from around the shoulders and begins to shake her erratically, willing silence, anguish, death. "You are horrible," he yells. "Wretched and horrible!"
And as Ron leaps, finally recovering from statue shock, to pry him away, a soft, surprised voice stops them all. "What is going on here?"
Adessa.
Harry turns slowly, releasing his wife, to face the young woman whose seeking skills are not his, whose dry humor is not his, because she is not his. And it becomes, suddenly, horrifically apparent who she truly is, and he cannot help but berate himself for not noticing before. "Mum?" Adessa asks. So familiar, yet so not. Pale, with sharp features. Coppery red hair.
Light grey eyes.
Why didn't I see it?
Or had he—and not wanted to believe it?
Beside him, Ginny is still laughing—no, cackling. "You know what it's like now, don't you?" she hisses feebly. "To have everything you love and cherish ripped out from under you. Who's the winner now, Harry?"
He continues to stare at her in befuddlement, mouth agape, oblivious to his surroundings. His gaze flickers to Adessa, then Ginny, and finally he says in an awed voice, "You're mad."
"No," corrects Ginny. "I'm madly in love."
And then she closes her eyes for the last time, and slips into eternal sleep.
I'm coming, Malfoy.
~ FIN ~
A/N* so there it is! Completed! Yes, I know, I killed Draco. See I can't possibly do that in a regular fic. . .and it was still so hard. . .::sigh:: I know, it was a bit odd, but I still had fun writing it. I'm thinking about writing a prequel to this…a "how D and G came to be" kind of thing, but I'm not entirely sure. It could be fun.
Now. . .the higher powers command you to REVIEW!