Hello, my readers!
I am so, so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Over the past couple of months, there were some personal things that I had to deal with and this story had to take a backseat. In any case, I'm all better now and I'm back with this super long chapter. I hope you all enjoy it.
Oh and thank you to all the reviewers for your kind words. This one is for all of you!
WILFULLY: CHAPTER 12
It was rather alarming, Draco Malfoy mused, how visceral and jarring his reaction was every time the thought of her eyes crossed his mind.
It was as if she was haunting him, and he did not know how to escape her.
xx
"What are you doing here?" Draco demanded, making no move to lower his wand.
"What, no hello?" Antonin Dolohov did not seem at all intimidated. He tilted his head to the side, his thin lips curved into a smile that made his pale, twisted face even more terrifying. A few moments of silence passed and then he shrugged indifferently, as if he knew that he would be getting no reaction from him unless he talked. "Well, you weren't coming when I called. How else was I supposed to get in touch with you?"
Called? What was he talking abo– Before the question in his head was even finished, Draco had already figured out the answer to it. And it was not a comforting answer at all. The Dark Mark burning was a summon, as it always had been, but it was Dolohov doing the summoning. "How?" he asked, unable to keep the bewilderment out of his voice. "Only the Dark Lord could use the Mark."
"The Dark Lord created the Mark as a tool for communication. But spells can be tweaked to allow others to use the Mark for that same purpose. It took me years, but I think I'm starting to get the hang of it now." The air of smug victory faded as Dolohov eyed him dangerously. "Dare I ask why you didn't answer the call?"
"Why should I have? For all I know, it could have been a trap."
"I always knew you were smarter than you let on, Malfoy."
The compliment did nothing to soothe Draco's nerves. It was a very dangerous situation he was in, and he knew that the only way he was going to make it out alive was if he chose his every move carefully. The first move, then, was to lower his wand; he did not want to do it, but it was the only way to find out Dolohov's motive. If the man had wanted to kill him, then he would have already attacked by now. The fact that he hadn't indicated that he wanted something else, and Draco wanted to make it seem like he was listening. "What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted: Justice, order, balance."
"Oh, is that it?"
"I want us Purebloods to get the respect that we deserve. I want those filthy Mudbloods eradicated. I want the Muggles to bow before us as they should."
The answer was more or less what he had expected, and yet, hearing it out loud filled Draco with both wariness and weariness. "The war is over."
"The war isn't over until I say it is," Dolohov growled. "We're going to turn the Dark Lord's dream into reality."
"What good will that do? The Dark Lord is gone."
Dolohov took a step towards him, then another, his gaze filled with a suspicion that did not bode well. "Don't tell me you've switched sides, Malfoy."
"The side I was on is gone. Now, I'm only in it for myself."
That made Dolohov smile; Selfishness, after all, was a trait that all Death Eaters respected. "And is this the life you want? The Malfoy name in gutter, your father rotting away in prison, your mother disappeared from the frontlines of the society where she truly belongs. And you – hell, the only reason people are willing to give you a chance is because you're shagging that Weasley bitch!" he shuddered. "How low you've had to fall, Malfoy, just to feel accepted."
Draco pressed his lips together. He did not like the way the man was talking about Ginevra. He also did not like how some of his words seemed to hit a nerve. Sure, Draco understood now that the Dark Lord's path had been one of hate and insanity, but he would be lying if he said that he did not miss the time when he and his family had been trusted, revered even, in the wizarding society. His parents had been prominent figures, with power and a voice that people actually listened to. And now… Now, they were all in the shadows, desperately trying to outrun the suspicion that followed them everywhere.
"Don't worry, Malfoy," Dolohov went on. "That will all change."
"And I suppose you will be the one to make it happen?" he demanded.
"We will."
"So, you're here to recruit me?"
"I didn't think there was a need to recruit you. You are one of us." Dolohov waited for a response, but when none came, he continued with what was clearly forced patience. "I know you are following your daddy's footsteps by blending in and biding your time. Understandable – there was no need to risk your neck when we had so obviously lost. But now it's starting all over again. You must do your duty, Draco. Your cause needs you."
To somehow be a part of yet another conflict was the last thing Draco wanted; he hadn't even gotten over the trauma of the last one he got entangled in. "Dolohov," he said in a voice that was filled with bewilderment, and he made sure to keep his expression contemplative, as if he was mulling over what he had just discovered – as if he had decisions to ponder. It was the only way to get out of this conversation for the night without having to pledge himself to the cause. "This is a lot to take in."
Dolohov eyed him for a long moment, his expression so well masked that he would have needed a bunch of diagrams and a dictionary of indecipherable runes to read it properly. "Alright," he said finally and took a step back. "Take some time to think. But remember, Malfoy, you are either with us or against us. Choose wisely."
xx
It was a restless sort of night.
Out of nowhere, the sky had decided to break loose and allow a roaring blizzard to sweep over the countryside. The strongest of the trees quivered in the merciless winds and dense snowflakes rained down, covering everything the eye could see in a sheet of white.
Inside the warm Malfoy Manor, sleep eluded Draco. He tried lying in bed for the longest time, but after a while the walls of his bedroom seemed to close down upon him. So, he paced up and down the hallways of the Manor impatiently, thinking of ways to silence the multitude of thoughts roaring inside his head.
The thought of another war brewing alone chilled him to the bone. He was not at all interested in working with the darker forces to bring back the Dark Lord's rhetoric. Telling Dolohov that was out of the question, though. The man had been notorious during the war, and Draco had been a part of enough Death Eater missions to know that he had earned his reputation.
Truth was, he genuinely did not care who was in control of the Ministry. His own interests now lay in expanding his business, and as long as he did that within the legal frameworks of the government, no one could bother him. Besides, Potter, Death Eaters – they didn't matter. Draco was done being a soldier.
Sometime in the late hours of the night – or was it the early hours of the morning? – he found himself seated at his desk in his study with a decanter of firewhiskey. And as he downed the contents of what was his seventh or eighth glass, he conceded that by buying some time from Dolohov, he had managed to stall absolutely nothing.
Everyone who knew Draco (which unfortunately included the ex-Death Eaters) knew that there was no way in hell that he would ever abandon his family's Manor and business. His father was in Azkaban, and it would not be difficult to find the address of the Tuscan villa that his mother was living in. The Malfoys were not a hard bunch to track, and Dolohov knew that. If the Death Eater did not get the answer he desired, he would most certainly pressure or punish Draco. Which meant that he and his family were in danger. Again.
Shit.
"Hurry up, Draco," his aunt Bellatrix whispered, her voice brimming with barely concealed excitement as she practically pranced towards a simple cottage in the village of Braythorn, trampling the neatly planted carrots under her leather boots.
It was a straightforward mission: an Auror named Jacob Hornsby had been causing trouble for the Death Eaters by relaying confidential Ministry information to the Order. He needed to be taught a lesson. The fact that Hornsby was himself a muggle-born wizard and had married a muggle did not help his case either. Though Hornsby had hid his family months ago, Dolohov, being the cunning bastard that he was, had managed to find out the location. The Dark Lord had ordered Draco, Dolohov and Bellatrix to go and wreak some havoc.
By the time Draco entered the little cottage, Dolohov had already cast the Cruciatus Curse on Hornsby's wife, a pretty woman with dark hair, who was writhing on the floor. Her pitiful screams were almost enough to take his attention away from the corpse of an older man that lay not far from her. It seemed that Hornsby's parents had picked the wrong day to visit their son's family.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hornsby's mother run up the stairs. Bellatrix followed her with great enthusiasm. She did always love it when they ran.
"Search the house," Dolohov commanded.
Draco obeyed wordlessly, eager to get away from the cries echoing around the room. He cast the human revealing spell in the kitchen, and upon finding nothing, went upstairs where his aunt was clearly having the time of her life drowning the old woman in the bathtub. Shoving down his repulsion, he wandered into what appeared to be the master bedroom, where he didn't even need a spell to know that someone was hiding in the wardrobe.
Hornsby had allowed his parents and wife to suffer while he hid away. That fucking coward.
Draco inched towards the closet slowly and flung open the door, his want at the ready. It wasn't the Auror he found inside, but a girl no older than five or six years. She retreated back into the corner, her big brown eyes fixed up on him in fear.
Hornsby had a daughter.
That complicated things. Draco knew for certain that both his aunt and Dolohov would have no hesitation whatsoever in killing the probably magic-less child of a mudblood blood-traiter, but he did not think his personal moral compass would allow such a thing.
It took him less than a couple of seconds to make up his mind and he took a step forward. The child shrunk from him, and he raised his hands, palm open, both to stop her from running away, should she try that, and to assure her that he had no intention to hurt her. "Stay here," he whispered urgently. "Don't make a sound."
Without waiting for her response, he picked up a bunch of heavy fur coats hanging in the closet and dropped them onto her little form. Then, just to be sure, he cast a concealment charm on the pile of fur, hiding the ugly winterwear and the girl beneath it from view entirely. It wasn't ideal, but it was all he could do on such short notice. He shut the door of the closet quickly and marched out of the room, only to find Dolohov walking towards him.
"Did you find Hornsby?"
"No." Draco lied smoothly. It had always been easy for him to retreat behind an emotionless mask. "What about his wife?"
"Dead." Dolohov peeked into the master bedroom.
"I looked in there already. It's all clear."
The older Death Eater hummed in a disinterested way and then wandered into the bedroom.
Draco's heart sank. He waited in the hallway, and sure enough, he heard the little girl let out a squeal. He marched inside to find the child cowering on the floor.
"You said you searched this room," Dolohov said casually.
"I did," Draco lied once again. "There was no one here."
"You need to look harder, Malfoy. These filthy buggers will hide just about anywhere."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good." Dolohov pointed his wand at the little girl. "Crucio."
She toppled to the ground, her body twisting in most unnatural ways and her shrill screams nearly piercing the air.
Draco flinched, for once relieved that his face was hidden behind his Death Eater mask. He wanted to stop the torture, he truly did, but he knew deep in his heart that it was not in his power to do so. If he interfered, Dolohov would not only make it worse for the girl but also tell the Dark Lord, which would only end in pain for him and his family. No, he could not stop it. And yet–
"Stop!" he found himself saying. It was a stupid move, really; his heroics were going to get him killed... Unless he came up with something smart. "W-We should go before my aunt sets the house on fire." Which would be very, very soon if past missions were anything to go by.
It worked.
Dolohov ended the spell, as if he had just remembered Bellatrix's infamous ways. "You're right. Let's go," he turned to leave, then pointed his wand once again at the wide-eyed little girl in afterthought. "Aveda Kedavra."
A jet of bright green light filled the room and–
"NO!"
Draco jerked awake with a loud cry, his body quivering and his head pounding rather painfully. His cheeks felt wet, but he could not tell if it was sweat or tears.
It was probably late morning, judging by the light streaming in through the windows; it was a miracle that he had not woken up sooner, but then again, that nightmare had gripped him pretty tight in its talons.
Will those damned memories ever leave him alone? He knew he had been a part of some terrible things, but had he not been punished enough? Merlin knew he had paid his dues time and again, and yet his past continued to haunt him.
That girl. Salazar, that poor little innocent girl.
It was times like these when Draco found himself wondering if it would be better if he just ended it all. He was utterly exhausted of trying to make the best of the shit that his life kept on throwing his way. If he just found the courage to kill himself – he knew how to brew plenty of poisons, some that could kill painlessly – it would all be over in a jiffy. He would be in a better place; not in heaven or hell, mind, he didn't believe in those, but he would definitely be at rest.
And yet, as tempting as the thought was, he could not bring himself to go through with it. It felt like the coward's way out, and had he not spent too many years being a coward already? Besides, if he was honest with himself, he did not want to die. It was his demons that he wanted rid of, not his life. He just wanted to move on from the scars that the Dark Lord had carved into him. He just wanted to be free.
But that seemed unlikely.
He could still see the bright green light and that little girl's body collapsing on the floor of that bedroom. Still. Silent. Dead.
The bile rose up his throat and Draco vomited on the beautiful handwoven Persian rug in his study room, where he had fallen asleep. The sudden movement only seemed to make his headache worse, which somehow made him throw up even more. It was as if he was caught in this horrible cycle – and all the while, that child's lifeless eyes were somehow etched in his vision.
No. Please, no.
Her eyes. Her big, beautiful, lifeless eyes.
Merlin. He needed to get away.
xx
This had to be the stupidest decision he had ever made, Draco mused. Well, perhaps not the stupidest (he and Blaise had, after all, gotten involved in the incident-that-shall-never-be-named when they had visited Prague to attend the opening of Daphne's cousin's nightclub a few years back), but willingly attending the wedding of Ron Weaselbee and Hermione know-it-all Granger had to be in the top three of that list.
The sky was partially clouded, allowing the sun to brighten the day every now and then, but the air was freezing cold. The snow in the grounds outside the Burrow had been partially cleared away to make room for the huge marquee, and he could hear the pleasant sound of music and chatter inside. It was late afternoon, which meant that the wedding ceremony was finished, and the reception party was going on.
No one would be ecstatic to see him. Ginevra had talked about the wedding preparations often, but not once had she asked him to come, so he wasn't sure if she wanted him there. Granger had invited him, though, and she had said that the invitation was still there even when he had declined… Besides, he had already dressed up in his fine formal robes and came all the way here; it was too late – and too cowardly – to turn back. So, he squared his shoulders and made his way to the entrance.
The first thing that hit him was warmth – comfortable, non-freezing warmth. Thank Merlin. The next thing he noticed was the scent of the flowers; the entire place was decorated with white and pink roses. About twenty round tables were set up around a large dance floor, upon which numerous couples were swaying merrily to the tunes that the band was playing. It wasn't a grand reception, but he could admit that the aesthetics were not entirely unpleasing to the eye.
He didn't have any more time for observations, though, because only a few feet inside of the tent stood the newly married couple itself.
They stilled when they saw him, but Granger was quick to compose her features into a polite smile. "Malfoy!" Her welcoming tone surprised him, but only for a moment. It was the joy of a bride; she probably would have embraced Voldemort had he shown up at her doorstep. It was ridiculous, really, how people seemed to forget all enmities on their wedding day. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Yes, well." Draco said. "Congratulations on your nuptials."
"Thanks, mate," Weaselbee said in an overly polite and overly sarcastic tone. "You shouldn't have bothered coming."
It would be considered rude to punch the groom on his wedding day, wouldn't it? "I was invited."
"I know." Weaselbee seemed very much annoyed but not surprised; his fiancée – now wife – must have told him of their bizarre Gringotts meeting.
"Thank you for coming," Granger said as she needlessly straightened the humungous skirts of her white dress. She did look adequately attractive, he noted, then quickly decided that copious amounts of make-up and hair products must have been required to make her appear so. "Please, do enj–"
"Ginny and 'Mione may be willing to give you a chance, but you're not fooling me with your good-bloke act, Malfoy," Weaselbee cut in, and his bushy-haired wife rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "You being here changes nothing. I know what a pathetic git you are."
"There is no need for provocation," Draco said coolly. There were limits to the amount of Weasley dung he'd endure, after all. "Everyone, including your sister, knows that I am perfectly capable of impertinence and that I shall resort to it of my own volition, should I desire to do so. That I haven't desired so is a testament to my regard for Ginevra."
The ginger idiot went red in the face and was clearly about to retort in a way that would start a quarrel when–
"Draco!"
A very familiar feminine voice caused him to turn. Ginevra Weasley was making her way towards him and – Salazar's sweet blood! – she was a sight to behold. Her dress was light blue, with a deep V-shaped neckline that revealed the beautiful pale skin between her breasts. She had styled her hair into waves and kept her makeup subtly soft – winged eyeliner, decent highlighter and a natural coloured lip colour. It was not a well-known fact for logical reasons, but Draco was actually well-schooled in identifying different types of makeup; growing up with Pansy Parkinson for years did that to a person.
"What are you doing here?" Ginevra asked once she reached him.
"Granger invited me," he replied, then glanced briefly at Weaselbee. "And your brother has been most kind with his welcome."
There was some sarcasm imbued in his voice, but Ginevra did not seem to notice it. Instead, she threw herself into his arms. "I'm glad you're here," she murmured in his ear, then pulled away to look at Granger. A conversation seemed to take place between the two women with only a single glance, and then she turned to him once again. "Come."
Sweet Merlin, her dress was backless. It should be illegal for someone as beautiful as her to wear something as tempting as that in public. He certainly wouldn't mind it if she wore that in the bedroom and did some rather naughty things for and to him. As interesting as that line of thought was, he quickly abandoned it. It would not do to fantasize about his girlfriend like that in the middle of her brother's wedding.
By the time he snapped out of his rather inappropriate thoughts, he realised that Ginevra had led him to a nearly empty table – nearly, because there were two very familiar people sitting there.
"Hello, Draco," Luna Lovegood greeted him with the same soft, dreamy voice she had had back at Hogwarts. She had grown into a rather attractive woman over the years, he noted. It was a pity though that she had not outgrown her eccentric fashion sense. Currently, she was wearing a bright orange fluffy dress (that was just too fluffy) with matching vegetable jewellery.
"Luna," He nodded as he took a seat next to Ginevra, then glanced at the fourth person at the table. There was a man who did not look anything like his childhood. Who would have thought that a day would come that Neville Longbottom would not only look fit but also dress in quite decent formal robes? "Longbottom."
"Malfoy." Longbottom raised his glass of firewhiskey. "You're the last person I thought I'd see at Ron and Hermione's wedding."
"If it helps, my presence here is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you."
And that was the only response everyone who wondered about his sudden arrival would be getting. What else was he supposed to do, tell them the truth? That it was his utterly desperate desire for a distraction that had brought him here. He had been going insane pacing restlessly in the Manor, reliving a past that was hell-bent on tormenting him. He had needed an escape and he had no one to go to. His mother was just out of the question; she'd worry too much. And Blaise was away on a weekend getaway with Daphne. This was the only place that had come to his mind.
He had suffered terrible nights before – during the war, and right after it – but it had been a few months since he found himself haunted by such demons. Well, the demons had returned last night and they would not leave him alone.
Hornsby's daughter. She had had the roundest, biggest brown eyes he had ever seen, filled with curiosity and fear. And such rosy cheeks… That didn't last though. By the end, the life had left those eyes and the colour had drained from those cheeks.
No.
He forced himself away from the dark thoughts, only to realise that the other were staring at him, as if waiting for his response to a question or a comment that he had clearly not paid any attention to. "Sorry," he said. "I missed that."
Longbottom glanced at the others before turning to him, an eyebrow raised. "Are you alright?" he asked slowly.
"Yes," Draco replied almost instantly. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, you looked like you–"
"Like you were lost in your own world," Luna cut in. "I do that too sometimes."
That he was behaving in a manner that Luna Lovegood found to be relatable was hardly consoling. Worse, of course, was the fact that Ginevra was staring at him with a small frown, as if she was trying to read him, and he worried that she might succeed to an extent. The last thing he wanted to do was share his despairs with her.
Mercifully, the arrival of an old witch with grey hair and a beaky nose brought a much-needed intrusion to their table. "There you are, Ginevra," she said. "Have you been avoiding me, child?"
"Of course not, Auntie," Ginevra got up to hug the woman. "I didn't notice you."
That last statement alone made it clear to Draco that she had been trying to avoid the elderly lady, whose ancient-looking gigantic pink hat made it impossible not to notice her. Suppressing his amusement, he stood up as a gentleman would when a lady approaches a table. His movement, though, attracted attention towards him.
"Finally. Someone who is wearing proper clothes!" The old woman declared as she eyed him from head to toe. "And who's this young man?"
"This is Draco Malfoy, my boyfriend." Ginevra introduced them. "And Draco, meet my great-great aunt Muriel."
Draco held out his hand with a polite smile. He liked this old witch who clearly had an eye for good dress sense. "It's a pleasure to me–"
"So, you are courting a Malfoy, then?" Muriel asked Ginevra with disdain, making no move to take his hand. "I saw those risqué photographs of you in the paper and hoped that it was some sort of trick – they can do so much artificial stuff to photos these days, you know? – but I should have known. Rita Skeeter would never write lies. She's as honest as they come."
Huh. Maybe he had been to quick to judge this old hag.
"A Weasley and a Malfoy!" Muriel scoffed as she sat down and gestured for them to do the same. "Did you get yourself checked for an Imperius Curse?"
Ginevra picked up a glass of wine from a floating tray and plopped down in her seat. "As a matter of fact, Bill did," she said icily. "And he found nothing."
"He's a good curse-breaker. His checks must have been correct – unless he was distracted by that French wife of his," Muriel shook her head. "A part-Veela, a muggle-born and now a Death Eater. You Weasleys do choose the most curious partners."
"Ex-Death Eater," Luna interjected.
The old woman shot her a rather judgmental look before turning to Draco. "I have you to say, you look much more handsome in your photos than you are in real life," she said. "Dare I ask what scheme you have got hatching, Malfoy?"
"Scheme?" Draco asked, baffled.
"Well, there has to be an underlying evil reason as to why you're interested in Ginevra here."
"No, ma'am."
Muriel hummed thoughtfully, as if pondering whether he could want something else with her great-grandniece other than to further his supposed diabolical plans was possible. "I suppose that makes sense too," she finally admitted with a shrug. "She has an above average face and excellent child-bearing hips."
Ginevra, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of her wine, sputtered her drink just as her cheeks went red. "Aunt Muriel!" she reprimanded, outraged.
Neville let out a laugh that he tried to cover up as a not-so-subtle cough. Even Luna raised an eyebrow.
Draco pursed his lips in amusement, wondering how odd it was that he found himself actually liking this uncouth, rude and downright blunt old hag. "I think Ginevra is a most singular woman, ma'am," he said politely, then added as an afterthought: "And I can unashamedly admit that I am most fond of her hips, though not for the reason that you mentioned."
Ginevra's head snapped towards him, her mouth hanging open, and he cheekily winked at her. Her face turned an even deeper shade of red, which he did not think was even possible. Any more red and she would turn into an actual tomato.
"Such lewd conversation," Muriel tutted. "It's your fault, Ginevra, what with dressing like that and flaunting your – your assets!"
"I believe the word is 'breasts'," Ginevra said coldly. She had clearly turned her embarrassment into irritation. "And they're mine so I can flaunt them wherever I want."
"Young people these days!" Muriel scoffed dejectedly, as if she had no hope that the future generations would ever be able to do something right in the world. Then – "Is that Minerva McGonagall? Blimey, she's gotten old." She stood up and pointed towards the Headmistress of Hogwarts, who was sitting at a table in the opposite corner of the marquee, chatting with some other guests. "Well, take me to her or have you no manners left at all?"
"Of course, Aunt Muriel," Ginevra said as she stood up, an odd relief hidden in her voice as if she was glad to take this rude relative of hers away and put an end to this train wreck of a conversation. Escorting said relative away would mean that she would still have to endure more of her commentary though, which is probably why she grabbed Longbottom's glass of firewhiskey before she left.
Draco watched them go. "Charming woman," he commented dryly.
"Yeah," Longbottom agreed. "Scares me as much as my gran once did."
He remembered how terrified the once-fat kid had been of his grandmother back at Hogwarts. "Is there anyone who hasn't bullied you, Longbottom?"
Longbottom crossed his arms defensively. "My gran was stern, but she loved me and she did the best she could. All our families did." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Except maybe yours."
"Wanker," Draco simply said, choosing not to be offended by the comment. It did not matter to him what others thought of his upbringing. He knew his parents had indeed done the best they could, and he did not fault them for anything. Not anymore. He had been raised a certain way, yes, but he had never been stupid. He had been wilful, and his own personal slate was anything but clean.
"She was right about your appearance though. You have circles under your eyes," Luna spoke up, her twinkling eyes fixed on him. "You should try using the saliva of a Blibbering Humdinger. It's said to be very good for the ski–"
"Oh, shut up, Loony!" He scoffed, unnerved by her comment. Did his appearance give away the fact that he was haunted by his nightmares?
"Oi!" Longbottom sat up angrily, ready to defend his girlfriend.
"It's alright," Luna placed a hand on his arm. "I don't mind it when Draco calls me that. It's like an inside joke for us… Oh, look!" she stood up. "Charlie is here. I have to continue our discussion about dragon livers. Excuse me."
She left, but a bitter reminder that Luna Lovegood had once been a prisoner in the cellar of the Malfoy Manor stayed with Draco. He had seen her only four or five times back then; he had gone to make sure that she was being fed properly and had somehow ended up sitting there and talking to her. She was loyal enough to never reveal anything about the Golden Trio or Dumbledore's Army, but she didn't mind talking about the classes at Hogwarts and which professors she thought suffered from usual Wrackspurt attacks. The conversations had never lasted more than a few minutes, but they had been a much-needed escape for both of them.
Conversations with Luna Lovegood – that is how low he had fallen during those times.
Longbottom's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he blinked up at him foolishly. "Pardon?"
"I… was asking if you'd finished your research on the Sopophorous," Longbottom said slowly, then leaned forward. "Are you alright, mate? You seem pale."
"I'm fine." Draco replied automatically, then launched into a discussion about the healing characteristics of the Sopophorous plant. It was a pleasant conversation that not only provided him with a much-needed distraction from his past, but also gave him an insight into Herbology that he very much needed for his work. As he spoke to Longbottom, he realised that the man had an admirable understanding of plants and their properties, which could prove useful for the project that he had in mind.
Some twenty minutes later, the two of them were still enthusiastically discussing whether the bark of Moonseed could be used in a life-saving potion rather than poison, when Draco's gaze fell upon the dance floor.
Ginevra was dancing with Harry Potter.
Potter leaned forward to whisper something in her ear, and as he did, his arms tightened around her waist. She did not seem to notice, or perhaps she did but had no objection to it. Instead she laughed. and he joined in a moment later. They seemed to be the very picture of a happy couple.
A little green monster rose up within Draco, filling him with an intense dislike of what he was seeing. It wasn't hard to understand that the monster was called jealousy, it was somewhat surprising that he would experience the feeling with such intensity – so much so that he had half a mind to storm over there, pull Ginevra away and challenge that spectacled git to a duel. As tempting as the thought was, he held his relationship in too high a regard to succumb to a petty feeling such as jealousy. He could not, however, continue to sit there anymore.
He excused himself politely and walked over to the edge of the dance floor.
It took Ginevra about half a minute to notice him and her lips turned into a smile, as if she knew that he was waiting to ask her to dance with him. She winked, then focused her attention back on Pothead and resumed whatever conversation they were having.
Draco waited patiently. He didn't have to for much long though, for the song came to an end soon enough and he took the opportunity to approach. "May I have this dance?" he asked his girlfriend.
"You may," Ginevra responded. She smiled at Potter – who, all of a sudden, seemed rather disgruntled – and then stepped towards him.
When Draco was little, his grand-mère had hired a special instructor to teach him proper dancing. He had spent years stuck with Pansy, Nott and Daphne, trying to master the Tango – which he had after a while; he never boasted about it, but he'd actually enjoyed learning Waltz and Viennese Waltz. The orchestra had already started up a melody that would have been quite fit for a Waltz, but he did not want to show off his skills. Perhaps one day he could take Ginevra out dancing and surprise her, but for now, he was more than content with wrapping his arms around her waist and just swaying to the tune.
"You look beautiful," he told her.
Ginevra's eyes met his. "And you, handsome."
"I know."
That made her giggle, which was not a very common occurrence in his experience. "Modesty suits you, Draco." Her words were slightly slurred, and her cheeks flushed. He wondered how many drinks she had had since she had left him to escort her great aunt away.
"Most things suit me, Ginevra," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Must you call me that?" she made a face. "Aunt Muriel calls me that."
"Well, it is your name."
"My name's Ginny."
"It really isn't," He pointed out. "It's a bas–"
"Bastardization of my name, I know." She pursed her lips as she frowned in thought. "What sort of a person uses the word 'bastardization'?"
"The kind who has a rich vocabulary." Draco stated. "Besides, I don't like G-Ginny." Salazar, he had stuttered even in uttering that ridiculous shortened name. He never quite understood why people did that; surely, ruining a proper full name could not amount to expressing affection?
She made a face. "From your mouth, I don't like it either," she said, then added with a resigned shrug. "Ginevra will do."
"Thank you," he said, glad that she had seen reason.
They fell into a silence after that and just moved to the soft melody that was playing. He absently started brushing the tips of his fingers on the skin of her back, and she let out a soft sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. It was most intriguing how much at peace he felt in that moment; all the noise of the world just seemed to fade away, leaving behind a much-needed emptiness.
"You smell nice," Ginevra murmured, then looked up at him suspiciously. "How come you always smell nice?"
Had he been a modest person, he would have stated truthfully that he did not smell nice all the time or that he had a fantastic choice when it came to colognes, but as it was, he knew he had to respond in his usual manner. "Because I'm me."
She rolled her eyes. "A big-headed git, you mean?" she asked, but then launched into a story about the different body odours she had had to suffer while growing up with two dozen brothers. Apparently, training with the Gryffindor Quidditch team was not a flowery experience either. If anything, it had been worse. One time, she had actually tied her scarf around her nose to keep herself from fainting.
Draco was, however, too distracted by a somewhat amusing revelation to even think about how he always knew that Gryffindors were utterly classless, good-for-nothing, smelly buffoons. In that moment, all he could focus on was how animated Ginevra was as she babbled on – for that is what she was doing – about a topic that a sane person would never really wish to discuss in such great depth. That, too, in the middle of the dance floor at a wedding. Which led him to a very simple conclusion: "Ginevra Weasley, you are a talkative drunk."
Her eyes widened dramatically. "How dare you?" She gasped, outraged. "I'm not drunk. I'm… tipsy."
"Oh, really?" he raised an eyebrow.
Ginevra nodded enthusiastically. "You do not want to see me drunk."
His curiosity was piqued. "Now, I kind of do."
She laughed at that. "You're annoying. And cute."
"Hold your Hippogriffs!" he huffed. "I am not that."
"Yes, you are. Especially when you act all indignant over adjectives." She raised her hand to poke the tip of her nose with her finger. "Cute!"
"Alright, that's it." He stopped dancing and started leading her off the dance floor. "You and I are going for a walk." In his experience, a stroll always helped clear one's alcohol-addled head. And if not, at least she could be her sloppily happy, stupid-adjective-labelling self away from the eyes and ears of the Weasley clan and save him the humiliation of being labelled 'cute' in front of the people he did not like.
They paused long enough for Ginevra to summon her cloak and then they ventured out into the grounds. A blast of chilly wind hit them, causing her to gasp and him to falter momentarily, wondering if it was a wise suggestion that he had given, but then she leaned against him as they continued down the narrow path that had been cleared to lead the guests into the marquee.
"So," she said after a short while. "I must ask: Are you alright after last night?"
Draco stiffened, a deep fear taking root in the pit of his stomach. She couldn't know, she couldn't possibly know… "W-What happened last night?"
Ginevra turned her head to look at him, her brows drawn into a frown. "Your tête-à-tête with Pansy Parkinson."
Relief swarmed him instantly, and he felt the need to sag his shoulders, though he didn't for fear of seeming conspicuous. Her words did fill him with a sense of wonder, though. Had his run in with Pansy only been last night? Merlin. It felt like a decade had gone by. That he had nearly forgotten about that disaster wasn't surprising, though; he was more concerned about the Dolohov conundrum now. "Eavesdropping, were we?" he sneered. "I thought something sneaky like that would go against that self-righteous sort of honour that you Gryffindors have."
"It's not my fault you chose a spot six feet away from my table to pour your heart out to your ex," she retorted defensively.
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough to know that you were heartbroken."
There was something in her tone that caused him to glance sideways at her. "Are you jealous?"
"Me, jealous of pug-nosed Parkinson?" she scoffed. "Please!"
It was very intriguing how her voice seemed to get slightly higher as she said that, which led him to a startling conclusion. "You are jealous," he said, and realised that though he would never say it, the idea of Ginevra being jealous of Pansy did please him. It meant that he wasn't the only one who sometimes felt the sting of the green monster.
"And you're a presumptuous bastard," she snapped, her cheeks red. "I think I'm going to go back and continue my dance with Harry."
With an air of indignant fury, she turned to leave but he grabbed her arm with an amused laugh. "Alright, fine," he said. "I won't say it."
"Or think it," she ordered. "I have no reason to be jealous of her."
"That you are right about, my sweet."
It seemed as if she was trying to resist it, but the corners of her mouth tugged a little, which was a good sign. "And am I right about the other thing as well?" she demanded, and when he raised an eyebrow in question, she went on to elaborate. "The drama between you and her?"
Well, Ginevra Weasley was nothing if not relentless. It was a quality he both admired and found annoying.
"I'm fine," he told her with a slight shrug. "Pansy was a very important person to me growing up and I do miss being friends with her, but I wouldn't change what happened between us. Last night only gave me a closure that I didn't even know I needed."
Ginevra didn't ask any further questions, but her fingers did brush against his, whether to offer comfort or to just express her feelings – relief? Gratitude? Fondness? He couldn't really tell what was going on in her head, but he did grab her hand, almost startled at how much he relished having her by his side.
Their little walk had led them to the front steps of the Burrow, and just as he was about to turn around to head back, she tugged at his hand and led him inside the house. It was quiet because all its occupants were back at the reception, and Draco took a seat at the couch in the living room.
Ginevra, who had volunteered to hang her cloak and his coat at the hook, wandered past him towards the kitchen. "Drink?" she asked.
"No, thank you." He replied. The monstrous hangover he had experienced in the morning was still fresh in his mind and he was not looking forward to experiencing anything even remotely close to that, especially when he had so much to do in the coming days. "I don't think it'll be wise for you to have some, either."
"You're not the boss of me, Malfoy!" Her voice wafted towards him, and she reappeared a few moments later with two glasses of Firewhiskey in hand. She held out one for him. "It's my brother's wedding."
Reluctantly, he accepted the glass and raised a dubious eyebrow. "And that means…?"
"That means drinking, dancing and more drinking." She kicked off her pumps and plopped into the seat next to him. "Isn't that the whole point of wedding parties?"
He snorted. "I'd like to think there's more to it than just that."
"Aren't you a romantic?"
"Only rarely."
Her lips curved into a smile as she curled her legs beneath her. For a short while, they enjoyed their drinks in silence, and then she spoke. "I'm sorry we haven't had much time to talk recently."
Draco shrugged away that rather unnecessary apology with a slight shake of his head. "I've been busy as well."
"I was barely there for you when Harry took you away for questioning." She paused for a moment, then continued in a soft voice, "I shouted at him for that, y'know? Told him he was being an idiot."
"While I do agree with that statement, you shouldn't have," he told her as he put away his half-full glass on the table. "The feud between us is… complicated. And I'd like to think that I can handle it on my own."
"Did you?"
He thought back to all those frustrating hours he had spent in the Ministry only a few nights ago. Merlin, it felt like ages had passed since. "I did."
Ginevra seemed dubious. "And the Aurors are okay with the way your Dark Mark looked?"
"They're never okay with me, but they have no evidence whatsoever of my involvement in anything even remotely controversial." That is, of course, barring his surprise meeting with Dolohov last night and his newfound knowledge that there was another Dark movement brewing underneath the very nose of this good-for-nothing Ministry. He couldn't tell her that, though. It was best to keep her away from this mess and stay away as much as he could himself. "I'm clean."
She downed the content of her glass and placed it on the table with a loud clink, deep in thought. "I cannot help but wonder if this is because of me. Because you and I are–"
"I hope this isn't the beginning of a break-up speech," he warned. Holy Merlin, he would grab her and shake her until she came to her senses if that would be the case.
"No, of course not!" She replied. "But you cannot deny that our relationship–"
"Ginevra," he cut her off with a slight shake of his head. "While it is true that our relationship has certainly fuelled Potter's anger towards me and will most probably lead to some heated confrontations between us in the future, I do not think for a second that his actions were driven only by jealousy."
"You're right," she sighed dejectedly. "Still, if there is anything I can do."
He reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers against her soft cheek. "I appreciate the offer, my dear, but some battles I need to fight by myself."
She leaned into his touch, a small smile playing on her lips. "You know, I really admire how pragmatic you are."
"Did you just praise me instead of the usual 'arrogant git'?" He raised an eyebrow in mock alarm. "Who are you and what have you done to my girlfriend?"
"Maybe it's the whiskey."
"In that case, I shall endeavour to get you drunk more often."
Ginevra laughed and then leaned forward to kiss him – a gesture that he welcomed wholly. Her lips were pleasantly soft, and he buried his fingers in her red hair and scratched at her scalp in a way that he had discovered she quite liked. She moaned softly and pressed herself closer to him, another thing that he welcomed.
It was only when she pushed herself into his lap that he realised that they were in the bloody living room of the Weasley house. "Ginevra," he pulled away. "Someone might come in."
"Everyone's at the wedding," she whispered before reclaiming his lips.
Yes, well. She was right about that, but what if one of her two hundred thousand wanted to use the loo, or what if her parents decided to come in and take a break from the monstrous children they had sired?
It's not that Draco was afraid of getting caught snogging his girlfriend, but the idea did not seem much too appealing to him, especially considering that things were starting to heat up between them if Ginevra's subconsciously rolling hips were anything to go by. Had they been at the Manor, he would have had no qualms about allowing their situation to progress naturally because the chances of anyone walking in were minimal; living alone in a large mansion did have its advantages, after all. But here – no. It just felt wrong.
Sweet Merlin! She had somehow managed to sneak her hand in between their bodies and the heel of her palm was grinding into the front of his trousers. Between that and the way she was nipping at his lip, lust began to pool through his veins – how could it not? – and his body began to react to her touch.
"Ginevra–"
"Draco," she breathed.
Every bone in his body craved for her, but to give in would leave them at a risk. Anyone could walk in; his propriety would not allow him to even consider that possibility, which is why he grabbed at her arms and tried to push her away. "No," he mumbled. "Not here."
She let out an exasperated groan, then stood up quick as lightning. For a moment he thought she was angry, but then she grasped his hand, pulled him to his feet with surprising force and led him up the stairs. He followed – not that he had much choice; her grip was quite strong – until she shoved him through a doorway on the first landing.
He knew instantly that he was in Ginevra's bedroom. It was small but cosy, with a bed pushed up against a window that overlooked the orchard outside, and a desk and chair to his right. The walls were painted cream, but he could tell that they had once been a different colour. Perhaps pink.
His grand-mère had always said that it was possible to tell volumes about a person just by observing his dwelling place, and as much as he wanted to look around Ginevra's room, he did not have the time to do it–
The door behind him had slammed shut and his kind-of-tipsy and lust-addled girlfriend had pounced on him.
He stumbled back and his foot caught in the corner of the rug. Having nothing to hold onto, he fell to the ground, though not before knocking his head into the foot of the desk with a rather loud smack. Pain erupted like fireworks, so much so that he barely noticed when he landed on the ground, though he did realise it when Ginevra ended up falling on top of him and knocked the breath out of his lungs.
Lack of air and blinding pain – almost literally, because all he could see were dancing stars – was not a good combination, Draco mused. He did not have time to swim out of it, for his girlfriend, who had either not realised that she had nearly cracked his skull open or did not care about that fact, kissed him. The taste of her mouth was quite pleasing, though, so he decided that he could forgive her.
Her fingers made a quick work of the buttons of his shirt before travelling lower to his trousers, and the touch of her lips moving down his chin lulled him into an odd feeling that he could only describe as being underwater. That, combined with the shock of his throbbing head, left him not being able to do much than follow her lead.
Ginevra was swift with her movements as he pulled his trousers off and her dress up – the movements of a woman who knew what she wanted, and by Merlin, she took it. As he lay back, watching her move above him, their bodies connected in the most sinful of ways, moans of ecstasy escaping from both their lips and raw pleasure of her touch soaring through his veins, it occurred to him that she was basically fucking him into the floor. And he had absolutely no problem with that. In fact, she was very much welcome to do so anytime she wanted.
There were multiple moments when he thought that his heart was going to give out but he could not bring himself to care much about anything other than the indescribable things Ginevra was doing to him. At long last – or perhaps too soon, he could not tell – it was over. She collapsed on top of him, her body shivering as the last tremors of her orgasm faded away, and he blinked up blindly at the ceiling of her room, panting like a rabid dog. It took a minute or two for him to catch his breath, and he let out a laugh.
"I am definitely getting you drunk more often," he said.
With a chortle, she raised her head to look at her, her eyes twinkling with mirth and her cheeks red. "Git." The tip of her nose brushed against his. "My git."
"Yours," he agreed as he raised his head to place a quick but firm kiss on her lips.
They stood up then and started fixing their dishevelled appearance in relative silence. Draco finished up first; as much as his vanity demanded perfect clothes and hair, he still had much less to fix compared to a woman. So, while Ginevra walked over to dresser mirror to redo her makeup, he took this time to study the little things in her room that he had previously missed.
There was a pot of flitterbloom on the windowsill, its long tentacles swaying aimlessly. The door to her closet was ajar and the contents inside were spewed so madly that he had to actually shove away the urge to organise them; perhaps he could lecture her about the wisdom of keeping a neat wardrobe some other day. On the wall above her desk was a shelf laden with an impressive collection of books. On one side were muggle books: the complete works of Jane Austen, Oliver Twist, and The Lord of the Rings. On the opposite side were the books from the wizarding world: The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Why I Didn't Die When the Augurey Cried by Gulliver Pokeby, Sage of Eternity by Mathilda Bones, The Noble Sport of Warlocks by Quintius Umfraville and The Bludger Chase by Caitriona McCormack.
What caught his eye, though, was something that lay in the middle of the shelf, between the books: Four photo frames. The first was a photo of a teenaged Ginevra with her parents and brothers. The second was a photo of her with Weaselbee, Granger, Longbottom, Luna and Potter. It must have been taken when she was still dating Scarhead, judging by the way she rested her head on his shoulder and leaned into his touch while they all laughed at something Weaselbee was saying. The third photo was a group shot of the Holyhead Harpies celebrating a victory. The last photo was of her and one of the twins – the one who had died. In the photograph, Fred (was that his name?) pulled at Ginevra's hair and she elbowed him swiftly in the gut, and then the two smirked at each other, their expressions dripping with mischief and sibling love.
In the time that they had been together, she had never really spoken of her dead brother to him but he doubted it was because she had gotten over the loss. Draco had no siblings himself; Blaise was the closest thing he had to a brother, and he could not imagine his life without that whiskey-stealing, obnoxious bastard. How utterly terrible the trauma must have been for her.
The war had taken so much from so many. He doubted there was a person back in that marquee who hadn't lost someone dear to them at the hands of the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters. He had been one of those Death Eaters, and his hands were coated red in blood as much as Dolohov's or Bellatrix's or his father's. It didn't matter that he had had no choice but to take the Mark, that he had done so to protect his family. Besides, he could lie to the world, he could not lie to himself; a part of him wanted the Mark. He had yearned for glory. He had wanted to impress his father and to please the Dark Lord. As a result, he had been a part of unspeakable missions and ended up causing so much harm.
Hornsby's daughter. That poor little girl. And her wide, lifeless eyes.
A pair of arms wrapped around his middle, and Draco nearly jumped in surprise, only to realise that it was just Ginevra. Her hair and makeup back in place, she rested her head against his shoulder. "What are you thinking?" she asked softly.
Oh, she did not need to know the answer to that. "It's a good book – Sage of Eternity," he lied smoothly, then turned around to face her. "We should head back, don't you think? Or everyone at the party will think you've abandoned them."
"I think everyone is more interested in Ron and Hermione today," she said. "But you're right."
They left the house in silence, and Draco felt no desire to fill it with conversation. The memories of the war had soured his mood. He had always known that he could not deny his past; his deeds were beyond that. He could not run either – and he hadn't run when the Aurors had come to arrest him six years ago. He faced the consequences of his actions. He had shut the door on his past so he could start anew.
It seemed the past was not ready to let go of him just yet.
'You are either with us or against us. Choose wisely.'
Dolohov's words rang in his ears, and he felt dread take hold in the pit of his stomach once again. He did not want to get dragged into this, not again. Not after all this time. Not after all that he had suffered. No one knew what he had had to endure, no one would ever understand what he had lost. He had paid a terrible cost for the Mark branded onto his arm. And now the darkness was gathering once again.
A gentle nudge caused him to snap out of his thoughts. Ginevra was staring at him, as if waiting for his response. "Sorry. I missed that," he said for the second time that night. Or was it third? "What were you saying?"
Her brows drew into a frown. "Are you alright?"
"Of course."
His response clearly failed to satisfy her, for her frown deepened. "I've been noticing you since you came here." She stopped outside the marquee and took his hand in hers. "You seem… worried."
He did not wish to deny the truth behind her observations, but he was not ready to confirm them either. "It's a happy day for you and your family," he said instead. "You should enjoy it." The merry gathering inside the marquee had provided a decent distraction, but it did little to ease the turmoil brewing within him. He saw no reason to force it upon her as well. Not just yet, anyway. "We can talk about the world later."
She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "I will hold you to that, Draco Malfoy." That was not surprising, of course; stubborn wench that she was, she would bug him to death until he answered her questions. And then follow him into the grave to get some more.
He smiled slowly, feeling an odd fondness at this infuriating trait of hers. "I should go." He had come here for distraction, to clear his mind and he had achieved that. But now, he was lingering here for longer than necessary, especially when there were more pressing matters that he demanded his attention. His father would be safe in Azkaban, but the wards around his mother's residence in Tuscany needed to be strengthened; Dolohov was the sort of arsehole who would use her to blackmail him into submission, and that would not do.
"Already?" Ginevra asked. "You've barely stayed an hour."
"It's much more than I can bear of your Weasley clan, I assure you." He told her. "Besides, I know I'm not welcome here."
She opened her mouth to rebut, but he stopped her with a gentle kiss. "Alright," she mumbled reluctantly when they parted. "Go if you must." She tugged at his hand, then, her eyes boring into his. "Draco, you can tell me what is bothering you."
"I know." He placed another, longer kiss on her lips. "I will see you soon, darling." And with that, he walked away.
xx
It was rather alarming, Draco Malfoy mused, how visceral and jarring his reaction was every time the thought of her eyes crossed his mind.
He had been to many Death Eater missions, each more terrible than the last, but Hornsby's daughter had haunted him like no other. It had been such a waste of life, and he was as much responsible for it as Dolohov.
Dolohov.
Back then, there had been no escape for Draco; after all, there was no denying the Dark Lord. But this time, he would not allow the same pit to swallow him. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but for the sake of his mother, for the sake of Ginevra and for the sake of his tortured, shattered soul, he would find a way to resist Dolohov's mad mission.
Wow, that was long, wasn't it? Draco is such a complicated character to write, but I enjoy the challenge very much. I hope you all like my version of him.
Once again, I'm sorry for the delay in the update and I wanted to let you all know that while I may be late with updates (though I'll try my hardest not to be), I'm never going to abandon this story. I plan on writing all of it, and you're all in for a wild ride!
What did you think of this chapter? Do let me know. REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!
Until next time! x