Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N I know, I know, it's been a month or so. I sent it to my beta (Priscilla) but she never emailed me back (I suspect Gmail has been malfunctioning again) so…here's the unbeta-ed version. Anyways, I realize the previous chapters have not been heavy in D/G, but be glad because the D/Gness should be starting just about now. D. So read, hope you likey, and don't forget to review!
Morning MadnessEverything was a brilliant white as it had been in the Freedom League, so white she couldn't tell whether it was merely the surroundings or whether she had gone blind. She was sitting alone in the corner, backed into hard plaster and shivering in a feeling of damp and cold isolation. And then the blindness was lifted and she could see once, could feel once more, and she was standing in a field of endless green. The sky was teeming with the cloudy violet of sunrise, yawning lazily over rolling hills as a light wind danced through the trees. Now it was not cold, but nor was it warm – there was, in fact, no temperature at all. The grass beneath her feet tickled her toes, the fabric of her nightgown tickled her calves, and in the far distance there was a man, and his back was to her.
"Sir," she whispered, but was she truly whispering? Was she even speaking? The figure turned, illuminated by the ephemeral sun, and she gasped. "Colin?"
And the blond hair disappeared suddenly, changed color and texture and shape until it was a bright, coppery red, flecked with gold just as hers was. Before her eyes the face changed, shifting length and conjuring freckles, and then the eyes that were looking at her were no longer blue but brown, and she stumbled closer.
"You're late, you know," he told her, and reached out a hand. "I've been waiting. I thought you'd never get here."
"Where?" she asked frantically, and then she was so close to him.
He sighed. "I suppose you haven't. I suppose I'm wrong."
"I—I don't understand." And she moved to grasp his open hand, except then he was not so much her brother, growing taller and hair becoming a snowy, unmistakable white and she was confused, so confused, dropping her hand and choking back her disbelief.
Dumbledore smiled at her in that familiar way of his, sage but not unkind. "There are many things in this world you are not meant to understand," he told her, "Many things humans in general are not meant to understand. There are places you must be and people you must see…I will let you on your way now."
"Wait," she cried desperately, reaching her hands to fist into his robes. "Wait!" But quick as he had appeared, he vanished, growing thinner before her until she found her fingers clasped upon insubstantial air, until she found that she was alone.
And then the field was empty once more, empty and green and vast and infinite, stretching to bounds of the earth with no definitive end.
Ginny shot up in the bed, a thin sheen of perspiration about her forehead and her hair sticky against the nape of her neck. Colin…Ron…Dumbledore…Everything was a whirl in her mind as she regained her senses – sound first, then smell, then touch, and then sight. And then the events of the night before came rushing back to her like ice water on a muggy summer day, and she fell limp, clutching the thick satin comforter and feeling desolate.
As the world she was in settled around her, she let herself lean into the soft bed and close her eyes in exasperation. Not since she was fourteen had she truly dreamt in her sleep, and if she had they were meaningless interludes, snapshots really, that were always lost to her when morning came. Not since she was fourteen had any of her dreams affected her the way this one did.
I swear its this place, this mansion, she thought bitterly. I swear it must be cursed. That's why I feel so goddamned tired right now.
Stretching her arms above her head, Ginny twisted her neck to glance at the clock beside her, and blinked fervently. "That's impossible," she said aloud, rubbing her eyes and staring once more.
Since she had graduated from Hogwarts, Ginny had been inclined to spend much of her morning in bed. First, she was her own boss, and finding that most of her customers stopped for tea in the afternoon she found no need to open it before noon. Then, after Ron's death, her position at the Ministry had thankfully condoned such behavior, as most investigation saw a lag in activity before evenings anyhow. Her natural body clock, thus, was set perpetually to sometime late after ten but before eleven – a hazy span of an hour which depended solely on her rest the night before.
So why the hell was she awake at eight in the morning, sodding dream or not?
Before she had time to pursue this thought, the door to her bed burst open. Ginny shrieked, burying herself beneath the blankets despite the ample nightgown she was wearing, and felt nothing short of foolish when one of the house-elves peeked in, eyes wide with fright.
"Is Miss Worthington all right?" squeaked the elf worriedly.
She nodded, feeling her thumping heart slow beneath her hand. "I was just surprised, that's all."
"Master sent Rosie here," said the elf. "Master is not happy."
"Master Draco Malfoy?" Ginny asked, making a face even as she said the name.
Rosie bobbed her head. "Rosie has no other master. Master is in the dining room, and he is not happy."
"It's eight," groused Ginny, pointing to the clock for emphasis. "There is no need to be in the dining room at eight."
Rosie trembled. "But Master is eating," she said primly. "And he is alone."
Fighting her urges to retort with a biting reply, Ginny reminded herself that it was not Rosie's fault her master was such an utter toad, and forced a smile upon her face. "Very well, Rosie. Tell Mast—tell Malfoy that I'll be there in a moment."
The house-elf sniffled, lifting her chin and exiting the room immediately.
"It's eight in the morning," Ginny complained to nobody in particular as she reached for her nightrobe and vehemently fastened the waistbelt. "I should not be up at eight in the morning." She made a half-hearted attempt at fixing her hair, but then decided she had no need to beautify for Draco Malfoy.
The mirror cringed at her. "You look absolutely fatigued!" it trilled.
"Oh, but Master can't eat alone," Ginny mimicked in a high-pitched voice, tightening her robe about her and grumpily storming out of her room, all the while feeling deprived of sleep and conjuring pleasant images of severely hurting Malfoy.
On the other side of town, Hermione Granger had been awake for two hours already. She was an early riser, always had been. Even before her Auror-training days, she'd risen in the wee hours to exercise and study, holding the belief that someone in her position should keep a well-regulated regime to, as she explained to her peers, stimulate her mind and body. Her roommates at university had grumbled at this, and so had Harry when he'd lived with her and Ron. But never Ron. He may have had a quick temper and fickle disposition, but with Hermione he'd been patient, so patient, and always supportive. Then again, he did have his own personal reasons for wanting her body to stay lithe and energetic.
She strolled along Hayworth Avenue, the small, bustling road on which she lived. Yes, England had changed, but there were still some things that wouldn't. People were still as willing to pretend that demise was not upon them, that Voldemort had no chance remotely of winning this war – a fact Hermione herself had believed in until recently. The smell of fresh-brewed tea and newly baked pies lingered in the air, owners of the various bakeries calling out for customers. She passed a group of young wizards – they couldn't have been more than twenty-two, and smiled wryly as they hooted and called at the pretty brunette witch behind her.
Once, she thought, catching reflection of her tired face and austere bun, she'd been partial to such frivolities. No, she'd never been particularly gorgeous, not in the manner of Cho Chang at least. And she'd never had a certainly individualistic appeal like Ginny's spitfire charm. But on the other hand, she wasn't ugly, but rather somewhere in between. Somewhere plain. Somewhere safe.
Hermione had never felt the need to feel pretty. Ron made her feel plenty wanted, and life was easy for her that way. She listened to her girlfriends complain incessantly about the difficulties of snagging a man in this day and age, and would look gratefully towards the small silver band around her finger, the "promise" ring Ron had bashfully given her in their seventh year. For the most part, she kept herself clean and tidy, along with some vanities such as lip salve and eye kohl. One thing she did love was her hair, which was rather odd considering what a loathsome feature she'd considered it at Hogwarts. She learned by now that straightening charms were too much of a hassle, and instead spent a good deal of time and money to keep it untangled and soft, and left it in enviable rolls around her shoulders.
There was no need for that anymore, though. She hadn't the energy to keep up appearances, hadn't the resolve to find someone who would smile shyly every time she wore a stunning dress. These days, keeping her face scrubbed clean and her hair tidily tucked away were as good as she'd get. Men could take it or leave it.
Thomas had taken it.
The thought came into her mind before she could stop it, and Hermione winced.
She didn't want to think about Thomas Francis, not now. Not ever, if she could have her way, but Merlin knew that never happened. He materialized in her mind then, smiling in that mysterious way of his. He wasn't a remarkable man, not like Ron. A writer, Thomas had never been able to hold any one job down, flitting from flat to grubby flat and living on the articles and exposes he wrote for whatever small publications the war hadn't yet annihilated. Hermione had told him over and over again that nobody wanted to buy novels in such a time of despair, but he went on working stubbornly, insisting that his weren't any ordinary novels.
Unlike Ron, however, Thomas was charming. Well, that wasn't exactly fair, because Ron was charming in his own way, especially to her. But Thomas had the classic sort of appeal that few women could resist – the rugged build of someone who worked hard for his body, delightfully big blue eyes fringed with lashes so long they were nearly effeminate, and a gorgeous smile, the type of smile which tilted at one corner and showed a row of gleaming white teeth and really made all the women melt. Thomas was the sort of man she'd never imagined she'd be with, the sort of man who dated tall and leggy models with thick foreign accents and pert silicone breasts.
They didn't get on as well as she had with Ron. Hermione hadn't expected they would, but then again she didn't know what to expect seeing as Ron was the only man she'd ever been with until Thomas – excluding, of course, the occasional awkward fumble with Viktor Krum back at Hogwarts. He was sweet and kind and distant all at the same time, as she'd heard men to be, and when he'd proposed not three months later she'd been ecstatic that she hadn't lost her touch, that she wouldn't die a spinster. He wasn't Ron, but he was handsome, decent, and knew about fifty different positions in bed, and most importantly, he wanted her.
She had never considered the fact that she didn't love him. That she never had.
It was too late for regrets, anyhow. There was nothing she could do about it outside of mulling over her mistakes, and, as she'd told Ginny, she knew the right thing to do was to break it off.
Ginny. Hermione was never close with Ginny Weasley, even though they were sisters-in-law. She'd always liked the girl, that was true, but there was so much difference between them, in age, in character, in belief. They were friends before Ron's death, but only in the loosely affiliated way that suggested to outsiders it was more a matter of convenience than anything.
Yet here was Ginny, back in her life, and for the first time Hermione felt a pang of what could've been genuine caring for the girl. She felt the tinge that maybe, just maybe, they had something in common, something that went beyond Ron's death. And for the first time since Ron's death, she felt that she wasn't alone in this desolate world.
This thought in her head, Hermione ducked inside a small flower market, preoccupied with thinking about Ginny and the sort of bouquet she should purchase for a pregnant Freedom Leaguer. So preoccupied, in fact, that she didn't see the dark-haired man before her until she ran into him, literally.
"Oh," gasped Hermione as he dropped the armful of flowers he'd been holding. "I'm so sorry." Immediately she fell to her knees, picking up the beautiful roses and lilies and trying to desperately arrange them in a semblance of what they'd been before. "I don't know the slightest thing about arranging flowers," she apologized as she worked, not yet daring to look at his face.
He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a slightly forced laugh, a familiar laugh, a laugh she'd heard before. "Hermione," he said then, and she froze, lifting her eyes up the length of a pressed trouser and woolen sweater to see a pair of cloudy green eyes behind black rims she knew all too well.
She straightened sharply, nearly dropping the flowers again. "Harry Potter," she said in a stiff voice. "What are you doing in Hayworth?"
Draco was eating when Ginny entered the dining room, immaculately dressed in his day robes with every hair in place. A part of her felt sure he dressed so just to spite her – as who really had it in their right minds to look flawless for breakfast? Not that she was inclined to think of him as flawless – Merlin knew he had his share of flaws – but she lacked better words to describe his neatly pressed slacks, his unblemished face, his disgustingly expensive and most unwrinkled shirt. Ginny found herself feeling particularly filthy as she hesitantly made her way towards him, uncertain as to whether she was supposed to eat with him in the first place.
He ignored her very presence until she was standing right before him, and only then did he set aside the newspaper he had been casually scanning to look at her. Taking in her disheveled appearance, there was a brief expression of shock that flitted across his face, replaced quickly by disdain and cold amusement. He said nothing at first, but the silence and the smirk upon his face told her all she needed to know. Face flaming, Ginny took a seat gingerly beside him, now more concentrated on averting his derisive stare than following the rules of etiquette.
"Well," Draco finally drawled, full of icy scorn, "Look what finally showed up to breakfast."
"This isn't breakfast," she grumbled as one of the house-elves set a plate before her. "This is a sodding midnight snack."
He raised an eyebrow. "Not a morning person, are we?"
"Not a person who wishes to be with the likes of you as the first agenda in her day," she retorted, eyeing the beautifully arranged food with a degree of distaste.
"You sound rather ungrateful," he said calmly, though his voice was completely flat – devoid of amusement or emotion. "Must I remind you, Ginny, that you are currently being paid to stay in my home and eat my food?"
She smiled as sweetly as she could. "Must I remind you, my Lord," she answered, matching his tone, "that our contract is bound with the most powerful of magic?"
It was his turn to smirk once more. "Ah," said Draco, nodding. "Magic, yes. But all contracts come with loopholes, you know. And considering that I drew up the contract, to make the wild guess that the loopholes would be in my favor might just turn out to be wise."
Internally, Ginny winced. She should've known that Malfoy would've added in some clause that would keep her captive at his will; after all, all Malfoys were notorious for their 'convenient' contacts. And he was, without a doubt, the essential Slytherin. But refusing to let him gain an advantage, she simply smiled – knowingly, she hoped—and said, "Of course, my Lord. I'm just telling the truth. You wouldn't want me to lie, now would you?"
For a moment, she thought she had struck a nerve, but he only returned her smile, tooth for tooth. "Of course," Draco replied almost brightly, and directed his attention once more to his plate, signifying that their discussion was most definitely over.
She gave a small sigh – of what, she wasn't entirely sure – and stared at the array of forks and spoons and knives with concealed confusion. Why does anyone need so many utensils for a meal? Ginny thought incredulously, running a light finger over the spotless silver. Never had she understood the difference a fork could make in eating sausage and muffins, but then again, never had she understood the lives of the filthy rich. Not that she'd been given the opportunity, either.
Until now.
Sneaking a glance at Draco, she saw that he was paying her no attention at all, alternating his concentration between the paper and his food. His hand, unfortunately, was hidden beneath the mass of paper, as at this particular moment his eyes were fixed upon the article. Briefly, Ginny contemplated asking him, but her own pride knew that the only response she'd receive would surely be filled with contempt. I could just not eat, she thought. I could wait for him to leave and then eat with my hands. Or any random fork, for that matter.
As if reading her mind, he asked in a disinterested tone, "Aren't you planning to eat, Ginny?"
"I'm on a diet," she answered primly, hoping it would suffice.
He raised his eyebrows and raked a slightly bored gaze over her body. "I suppose I can see why," he replied, and then went back to reading.
Despite that she didn't care what he thought of her, and despite that the diet excuse had been merely a lie anyhow, Ginny felt a hot, indignant flush creep across her neck. "Frankly," she told him, a little more huffily than she would've liked, "I don't give a damn what you think of my body. I'm perfectly fine with it."
"Mmm," he said, not looking at her. "Then why aren't you eating?"
He had a point. Scowling fiercely at his lowered head, she muttered, "Imbecile," and took to glaring at her food. Her stomach was growling, however, and the food did smell delicious…if only Malfoy would move his hand, or take a bite, she thought disagreeably.
"My Lord," she finally said, as pleasantly as possible. "I was wondering if perhaps I could see that intriguing article you're reading?"
Draco narrowed his mercury eyes at her with unhidden suspicion. "If you don't want to eat," he replied smoothly, "You're welcome to leave, you know."
"I realize," she said, gritting her teeth. "I am planning to eat, thank you, I'd just…it's habit that I read the paper before I eat."
"Well," he smirked, setting down his paper. Yes! Medium-sized fork with a rose trim. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I somehow don't think you're interested in the business section. It's all numbers, you know. A bit too complicated for the—" he paused "—likes of you."
Ginny nodded. "You're right," she said cheerfully, and picked up her fork – the right fork.
"Am I?" He was much less surprised than she'd expected him to be.
"Of course, my Lord," she answered. "Though tell me, why exactly are you reading the business section? I wasn't aware of your interest in the business world."
He took the bait. "And why wouldn't I be interested in the business world, Ginny?"
She shrugged between mouthfuls of her food. "I don't know, I just—well I guess now that I think about it," she replied, "I really don't know why you wouldn't be. Though I don't know why you would be either. Tell me, what is it that you do again?"
His eyes darkened to a silver so cloudy it was almost black – like hematite, Ginny noted. "My personal affairs," Draco hissed, and his voice was all ice and hatred again, "are absolutely not matters that common civilians should be concerned about." Tossing down his napkin angrily, he shoved away from the elegant dining table with a scrape of his chair.
"You don't know that I'm common," she retorted before she could stop herself. "You don't even know anything about me besides my name, so you therefore have no right to assert that conclusion."
"Really," he leered. "Then explain to me why you would take this job, if you have ample money. Explain to me why you gaped at my house like a starving man at water, and why every time you see a new room you're struck with awe. Explain to me why—" and he grinned now, only it brought her no comfort "—you don't even know which breakfast fork to use."
She jumped in her seat, letting the fork clatter onto the porcelain plate loudly as a scarlet blush reddened her cheeks. "Why you—" Ginny started indignantly, and then saw that he had already disappeared out the doors.
The silence was overbearing. Technically, it wasn't silent, as there were other customers in the shop and the bustling sounds of morning, but in that moment Hermione felt as if it were just the two of them, trapped in a vacuum of emptiness for a long, drawn out moment before Harry Potter replied. A part of her expected him to disappear any moment, for her to wake up and realize he was just a chimera.
He didn't. Instead, Harry shrugged, gesturing around at the flowers around them. "Buying a bouquet," he said, sounding a slight bit uncomfortable. "This store is highly recommended. You?"
"I live down the street," replied Hermione shortly. "Or maybe you forgot."
He wasn't at all fazed by her cool tone. "That doesn't explain why you're in the flower shop," He said almost teasingly. She scrutinized him for a moment, scrutinized the changes that had taken place in the long years since she'd seen him. He'd filled out a bit, become more bulky in muscle, which, coupled with his confident stance, gave him a slightly imposing demeanor. And his hair was now it was cropped close to his head, giving outsiders an illusion of neatness, though still slightly unruly if she looked closely enough. His clothes, however, shocked her the most – the Harry Potter she knew was most comfortable in loose sweats and a Chasers shirt. Never before had she seen him particular to style, but now here he was, dressed in clothes she'd envisioned brooding artist types to wear – neat slacks with cuffs over shiny black loafers and a form-fitting sweater that she highly doubted was of much comfort.
But his glasses hadn't changed, nor his voice. Gods, his voice – how could I have forgotten that voice? His voice was part of his charm; it was what lured dozens of women to his flat after they'd graduated. It had deepened surprisingly near the end of their sixth year, and by the time he was eighteen had taken on a hypnotic, musical lilt that few could resist.
"Well?" He prompted with a dimpled smile.
"Um," Hermione frowned. She hadn't been expecting this – this friendliness. But then what was she to expect from the famed and magnanimous Harry Potter? "My friend, uh, I'm buying them for a friend. Special occasion"
Harry laughed again, and it sounded more natural this time. "Isn't that usually the guy's role?"
"Well, she's a woman," she answered, then blanched at the implications.
There was a slightly stricken expression on his handsome face – handsome, Hermione noted, even after all these years. "A woman?" he echoed, a glint of what could've been shadowed curiosity appearing in his eyes.
"A colleague," she resisted smirking. "She's pregnant, and it's a congratulatory gesture."
He colored visibly. "Right, of course." Then, as she flashed him a tight smile and started to turn the other way, he shot out a hand and grasped her arm. "Hermione," he said again, and for some reason her name sounded different coming from him.
She turned, expectantly, because despite all that Hermione Granger had been through, she was not equipped to walk out on Harry fucking Potter. "Yes?" She said brusquely.
There was a slight hesitation before he went on. "I haven't seen you in so long, Mione," he started in a rush, and if she didn't know better she would've guessed he was nervous, "and I was thinking maybe we could grab some lunch some time, you know, catch up."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "As in a date."
He looked surprised, and then alarmed, and took a few quick steps backwards with his palms facing her. "No," Harry said quickly. "A friendly thing."
She frowned, feeling all the resentment and anger and sorrow she'd bottled up from being deserted after Ron's death bubble to the surface in a hot, scalding rage. And it wasn't because Harry was making a reappearance in her life, either, no, Ginny had proven she was fine with that – it was that he could waltz into her neighborhood flower market and think she'd forgotten all about his past indiscretions, simply because he was Harry Potter.
Boy, was he ever wrong.
"A friendly thing," Hermione repeated in her most level voice. "A friendly thing."
He nodded, though still to cautious to show relief.
"Let me tell you something, Harry Potter," Hermione hissed. "We are not friends. Friends do not desert their friends in a time of crisis. Friends do not go for years without even asking or caring about one another. Friends do not take a bloody fucking decade of trust and warmth and love and throw it all away like yesterday's trash." She swallowed, and he blinked at her, stunned into speechlessness. "And as for non-friendly relationships," Hermione continued, waving her hand – and the shiny diamond on her fourth finger – in his face, "I'm engaged. But you would know that, wouldn't you, if you'd stuck around when I needed you most. You would know that if you'd been at all a friend."
Leaving one very shell-shocked Harry Potter standing limpid in Hayworth's finest flower shop, Hermione turned on her heel and stomped out the door. For one brief, gratifying moment, her heart swelled with a pride and content and satisfaction from telling him off, from delivering the speech she'd delivered to her shower wall thousands of times over.
And then she reached the Freedom League, where the streets and people and atmosphere were as bleak as ever, and whatever gratification she'd felt promptly gave way to a dull, bitter aching that left her feeling emptier than she'd ever thought possible.
After breakfast, Ginny set about the sprawling grounds, pockets bulging with cameras. A quick glance around the hall told her that Draco had retired to his study, and she found this the opportune moment to go about planting her devices, as the sooner she did, the more information she was likely to collect.
Stupid loathsome toad, she grumbled to herself as she trailed down the empty and cavernous halls, wrinkling her nose at memory of their unpleasant morning encounter. She was beginning to wonder as to why he'd hired her in the first place, as he didn't seem keen on her at all; in fact, if she didn't know better, she would've thought that he was treating her exactly as he had at Hogwarts. A chill ran through her at this thought, and she dismissed it quickly, safe in the knowledge that her true identity was a secret safely kept.
Her first stop of the day was Malfoy's bedchamber. It was also, coincidentally, the absolute last place Ginny wanted to be in. However, of all the rooms in the mansion, her two best bets were placed with his bedchamber and his study, the latter of which was currently occupied. A rush of adrenaline pumped through her veins as she stopped at his double doors, glancing around for house elves before slipping inside.
"Merlin," Ginny breathed as she slowly shut the door behind her and took in the grandeur of his chamber. If she'd thought her guest room stunningly large, his was beyond compare. It was at least five times larger, and comprised of three separate areas – a lavatory as all bedchambers in the Manor had, an octagonal floor raised a few feet off the floor on which an enormous four-poster bed rested, and a sitting room surrounded by ceiling high windows. Malfoy had a penchant for large windows, Ginny noted, fingering the rich green curtains and fat silver tassels – Slytherin colors – and recalling the identical windows in his study.
Quickly, she slithered behind the curtains and anchored one of the cameras just where windowpane met wall. This should cover most of the sitting area, she concluded after a few moments of twisting the camera for optimal range. Feeling pleased with herself, she made her way up the steps towards his bed, which was sheathed in the same curtains on his window. "You would think," she muttered to herself, "That after all these years he'd have gotten sick of his bloody house pride." His room had an unsettling aura about it that she likened to the dungeons at Hogwarts, a coldness exemplified by the Slytherins in dosages more than she could tolerate. But then again, she was in his mansion, and the entire place reeked of the strange essence Malfoys always possessed – arrogance and wiles and mercilessness all mixed into one.
There was a slight feeling of guilt that washed over Ginny as she opened his drawers. Not that she had any qualms about bringing Malfoy down; she was simply unaccustomed to rifling through the possessions of others. Even her previous auror work had never brought her into spying at such a close and personal range, and she felt rather uncomfortable. But she was here to do a job, Ginny reminded herself, and she would put that unease safely behind her. Carefully, as so not to disturb his things too much, she lifted them out of his bureau, memorizing their exact positions so as to replace them easily later.
A spare wand…some letters…what, no playwitch? Then again, why would someone need the paper version if they can have the real one? Shivering despite herself, Ginny banished those thoughts from her head and unraveled the loose string around his letters. There were no more than three, contained in dust-eaten envelopes that indicated that he'd had them for at least two years. They were written on Forsyth parchment – thick, smooth, waterproof parchment made from the enchanted woods of Forsyth that sold for more per sheet than a lifetime's supply of Ginny's normal paper. Obviously whoever had written to Draco held enough power to obtain such parchment, enough wealth to purchase it, and considered him important enough to go to such lengths for a letter.
Ginny wondered for a brief moment if Draco had been married before, perhaps to rich and beautiful Slytherin as he was destined too, and decided with some reluctance that the possibility was very much real. No, he was not the type to be tied down to a single woman, but then on the other hand she had not thought him the type to save letters from a woman either – so therefore, if the latter were false, he could very well have fallen in love.
The thought propelled a complex plethora of emotions within her ranging from disgust to disbelief to a slight tinge of jealousy. If Draco Malfoy could love and be loved, why wouldn't she?
You're being ridiculous, she scolded herself. Draco Malfoy, as she well knew, was incapable of love and after all, there was no evidence the letters were even from a woman. They could just as well be from a childhood friend – or his father, even. With that in mind, she removed the first letter carefully and smoothed in on the rich wood of his bureau, her heart jumping when she saw that the paper was absolutely, most definitely, blank.
To her entirely unexpected surprise, however, a soft female voice began to speak. "Draco, darling—" it began.
With a shriek, Ginny dropped the letter, causing the parchment to fold up and immediately halt whatever it had been saying. She sank to her knees slowly, a hand pressed over her heart and listening to her own pulse slow down. Dear gods, she realized with a start, It's not just Forsyth parchment, it's enchanted Forsyth parchment. As a child, she'd been told of such magic – the special, scarce paper that recorded a person's voice rather than their words.
And then the voice echoed in her head – Draco, darling – and she realized that it she had indeed been right – it was a woman. Taking a deep breath, Ginny reached for the parchment and unfolded it once more, feeling somewhat envious of the melodic lilt of this mystery woman's voice.
"Draco, darling," the voice started once more. "I hope you are well. I am simply writing as to assuage your worries. You are a grown man and despite your adamant refusal to admit your love for me, I know you do. Things here are not as smooth as I'd have wished, but I am confident I will be home soon, so please take care of yourself in my absence, and remember that I love you dearly."
There was no indication as to who she was.
Ginny felt an overwhelming shock settle about her. To her knowledge, and to the knowledge of the world that knew him, Draco Malfoy was cold and indifferent to those who cared about him – and yet here she was, somebody who evidently cared very much for him. What had become of her? She found herself wondering. There were but three letters, and she was obviously not around any longer – or I haven't met her yet, Ginny frowned.
Intrigued by the unknowns and possibilities of this woman, she slid the first letter back into its paper sheath and reached for the second, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as the voice began again. There was something oddly familiar about the voice, about the calm and composure and slight hint of arrogance which resonated within.
"My dearest Draco. I know I am not supposed to contact you, and until this task is complete you shall not be hearing from me again. I will be very much glad when this task is complete, for this place is cold and dreary and I miss the warmth of the Manor. May I plead once more for you to retake your residence there when I return? I realize you have not the best memories of your home, and I realize you are perfectly content living on your own, but do know that it will always be your home. I must keep this letter short now, darling, for I have not much time left. Take care of yourself."
She must be involved with the dark arts somehow, Ginny thought excitedly. The task she had been speaking of, coupled with the date, all matched up to one of the largest and most brutal attacks by Voldemort in the history of England. This woman must have been involved in this raid, and no doubt she had served underneath the Dark Lord. In fact, she concluded, this woman could be her very key to incriminating Draco Malfoy – why else would he have her letters? Eager to see her whereabouts after the attack – as there was a third letter, which indicated that the woman had not perished, Ginny hurriedly put away the letter and opened the last.
"Draco, love," the letter began, and Ginny frowned. This time, the woman did not sound as nonchalant. Her voice was rougher, more cautious, as if she were—whispering, Ginny realized, she's whispering. "I hope you will be able to read this before the news comes. I hope you will be able to read this at all."
Oh, Merlin…it can't be her…
"Your father and I have been compromised, Draco."
It was.
"We are currently in Azkaban, just a few moments away from execution. They have spared us the Kiss, my son, but they will not spare us death. And I would not like them to, because I have lived and fought for my cause, and I am prepared to die for it. I have but one regret, and that is that I cannot see you anymore. I do not wish you had come on this task with us, for you are young and bright and you have a chance to lead England down the road she is destined to take. Rather, I am glad you may carry out what I in my old age failed to do so. Your father's will is in Gringotts, where it will be enacted once official news of our death arrives. I know you will honor your family by moving into the Manor, by caring for the sacred grounds our family have held for centuries for now. And I hope you honor me by serving that family well. The power is in your hands now, the power your father has prepared you to receive since your noble beginning. You are no longer Draco Malfoy, but the Lord of Malfoy Manor. Per honor ad victoriam, per bellum ad pacem. I love you always."
There reigned a heavy silence over the room as the letter came to an end. Ginny leaned back against the thick comforter of his bed, emotions racing through her head as she stared at the blank parchment. Of course, Ginny realized, Azkaban had windows. They weren't large enough for even the smallest child to fit through, but certainly large enough for a well-trained owl to receive a letter. She remembered now, the night they captured Lucius Malfoy and his band of staunch followers. She remembered how they had tossed in a diary and writing utensils simply to spite the family she so loathed. She remembered the beautiful woman they had captured alongside Lucius – Narcissa Malfoy. But most of all, she remembered the beautiful white owl which soared above in the sky away from the prison as she and her brother had stepped outside. "Look," Ron had said, "She's warning Voldemort that he's going to lose." She had told him not to be daft, and had not thought any more of it.
Until now.
This letter has nearly enough, Ginny thought dizzily as she began wrapping the string around them. She nearly implies that he's entangled with the Dark Lord – and it's certainly good evidence. The excitement she should've felt, however, was slightly dampened by a confusing wave of sympathy, for she knew what it was like to lose a loved one – to lose family. It's the fault of those like me that his parents are dead.
But it's the fault of those like him that Ron's dead, she reminded herself angrily.
Pushing the guilt out of her mind sharply, Ginny stood and began the daunting task of diligently rearranging Draco's bureau, just as she'd found it. Even despite that it looked identical to before she'd come across it, there still seemed something missing – as well there should, since something was missing. Determined to take the letters with her, she set them in the drawer just for comparison, just to see if indeed the letters completed the undisturbed setting she was aiming for.
Well, Ginny finally decided, sweeping her gaze over the contents once more, it would just have to do. She needed those letters direly, and Draco had no way to link the missing property to her anyhow.
Making up her mind, she was just about to remove them once more when the door opened.
With a startled gasp, Ginny whirled around, slamming the drawer behind her just in time. In the drawn out silence of the tension-thick room, she could hear her heart beating erratically.
"And why are you in here?"
-End of Chapter 4-