Hello, my wonderful readers!
I'm back with yet another chapter. This pandemic situation has left me at home with not much to do, so I decided to write, and this chapter certainly seemed to write itself! I had planned something and well, it took a life of its own.
I hope you all like it. Please do leave a review and let me know.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. This fanfiction belongs to me.
WILFULLY: CHAPTER 16
Draco Malfoy was a man of many secrets.
Secrets he had guarded deep inside his heart, secrets that would ruin him if they ever came out. And Ginevra was asking for a glimpse into them. But could he trust her enough to allow that?
He did not know.
xx
Even though it had been claimed that the night would be celebrated in relative solidarity because of the recent tragedy that had befallen the French magical community, it was obvious that the Lefebvre had spared very little expense in arranging the New Year's Ball.
Yes, the usual twelve-feet tall ice sculpture of the dancing mermaid and the wine fountain with faeries was missing, but the ballroom of Château d'Orchidée looked as grand as ever. Crystal chandeliers spiralled down from the arching ceiling, painted with an abstract mural in matte gold and navy. That was the decoration theme this year, an obvious departure from the bright and sparkling shades that the family usually opted for. Instead of the usual full orchestra, the famous Starlight String Quartet sat in a corner, playing classic tunes that were partially drowned by the chitter-chatter of some two hundred and fifty guests, half the number that were usually invited. Golden trays floated about the ballroom, laden with flutes of champagne and various hors d'oeuvres.
A disgruntled Draco made his way through small groups of people, keeping his gaze fixed on the finely polished floor so as not to attract conversation. He had just escaped a rather cold but forcibly polite encounter with Lukas and his group of friends. Things had been frosty between the two distant cousins since their last argument - Which was fine, really. He had never liked Lukas much, anyway.
Draco spotted Blaise Zabini standing alone not far away and hurried over to him. "Bastard!"
"I know my father often refers to my mother as 'the harlot', but I can assure you that they were married when I was born." Blaise sniffed in disdain.
"Not you. Lukas."
"Oh. He might be. We'd have to look into it." He eyed Draco with the critical gaze of a healer and not a friend. "You alright, mate?"
"Bite me," he snapped. He was fine, really, and could do without some mothering for one night. Truth was, he would have loved to play the 'bad health' card to avoid coming to this ball, but no one here knew that he had been unwell, and he wanted very much to keep it that way. Besides, it was imperative that he socialised with people of import, so as to keep the Malfoy name ringing in the right circles.
Blaise, who had taken his rude response as an indication that he was indeed alright, picked up a smoked salmon canape from a passing by tray and plopped it into his mouth. "Will Miss Weasley be joining us tonight?"
Draco glanced at his watch. Quarter past seven. "I hope so."
"She was quite concerned about you."
"Yes, mother mentioned that." His mother had also mentioned that Ginevra was impertinent and perversely headstrong, but he did not think Blaise needed to know that.
Apparently, he already did. "They did not get along," the dark-skinned man snorted. "How come you hadn't formally introduced your girlfriend to your mother after all these months of dating?"
Three-and-a-half months of dating, he wanted to correct, but getting technical with Blaise never ended well. The wanker knew how to respond in a similar tone all too well. "There was never a right time," he said instead.
"Trust me, the way they met wasn't right either," Blaise said dryly. "If it wasn't for their concern for you, they would have surely duelled right there in the corridor. On the plus side, carrying them to the Janus Thickey Ward would have taken no time at all."
"Cheers." Draco glanced gloomily at his mother, who was currently talking to Lady Océane Maret, the editor-in-chief of Le Cri de la Gargouille.
Once he had recovered enough to hold a conversation, Draco and his mother had ended up having a row over Ginevra. His mother had stated that he had exhibited poor taste in choosing a companion. He had retorted that she was allowing her past prejudices to cloud her judgment. To which she had replied that even a blind man could see that a Weasley was not fit for a man of his station. He had reminded her that he no longer had any station because of the decisions she and his father had made.
It was the first time they'd had a proper fight in years, and it had ended only when Draco attempted to storm out in anger and ended up fainting in the veranda. He knew that the truce was temporary, and the subject of his girlfriend was bound to come up again sooner than later, but he also knew that it would be a futile quarrel. His mother was a rigid woman, and he was her son in every way. It was unlikely that either of them would back off. He hoped she would, though; he loved his mother dearly and would do anything for her, but Ginevra made him happy.
Whether that happiness would last, was another matter entirely. There were questions that Ginevra would ask now. Answers that he would be bound to give, if he wanted to keep her. And chances were that she would not stick around after that. He could not see how she'd want to…
"Why are you dissecting my relationship," Draco began in an attempt to distract himself from the abyss of his thoughts, "Instead of paying some attention to your own wife?"
"My dear wife is occupied." Blaise nodded grimly at Daphne. She stood by the hearth, chatting amicably with a man with greying hair, wrinkly face and a gigantic moustache, who was leering at her low-cut gown in a not-at-all subtle way.
"Old colleague, I presume?" Daphne had left Hogwarts after their sixth year and transferred to Beauxbatons. After that, she worked for the French Ministry of Magic for a year before moving back to Britain.
"Old, yes. Look at his moustache!"
"Just because you can't grow one, mate."
"Hilarious," Blaise snapped, still glaring daggers at the man. "Pretentious bugger."
"I'm sure he thinks the same about you." Draco said matter-of-factly. If anyone was to create an award called the Order of Pretentiousness, Zabini would most certainly win it. First Class.
Blaise shrugged indifferently. "At least I'm not a lecherous git."
"That's because you get to shag Daphne."
"Of course, I do. She's my wife."
Draco refrained from boasting about how he had had a large part to play in that particular outcome. No doubt, his best mate would not appreciate being reminded of the fact that his had been one of the most hopeless love stories for a very long time. "Why don't you go stand next to her, then? Remind that 'lecherous man' that she's taken."
"I should." Blaise straightened his jacket. "I will."
Draco watched with some amusement as Blaise sauntered over to Daphne and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. She continued to talk passionately, but learned into his touch. The movement was barely noticeable, but it seemed to come naturally, without thought. The moustached man must have noticed it too, for though he kept on nodding politely in response to her words, his shoulders did drop a bit.
Who'd have thought that Blaise Zabini, vain wanker extraordinaire, would be jealous of another man?
You learn new things every day, Draco mused as he turn on the spot – and froze.
Some fifteen feet away from him stood Ginevra Weasley, garbed in a plain black gown with full sleeves that hugged her torso like a corset would and then flared into voluminous skirts below the waist. The only part of her skin that was visible was above her sweetheart neckline; he could not understand how a dress could be so chaste and yet make the wearer look so unbelievably sexy.
Their eyes met and she faltered. Her lips, painted blood red, curved into a smile.
It was as if he was put under a Veela spell. He had no control over his body and no thought in his mind except her. His feet sprang into action on their own accord and carried him to her. Up close, he noticed that she wore no accessories, only the pendant that he had sent to her as a Christmas gift, the tiny diamond glinting in warm light. That she had put it on was a good sign.
"Ginevra–" he began, but that was all he could say before she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He pulled her close, running his hands over the soft silk of her gown.
"You're alright," she murmured, her breath hot on his ear. Her voice was laden in relief, and he was touched by the sentiment behind it.
"Yes," he said, and glanced around nervously. A few of the guests nearby had paused their conversations to stare. He was well-known in this circle, so no doubt people were hungry to sate their curiosity. The two of them greeting each other with an emotional embrace like they'd been reunited after a battle was certainly something that would spark gossip. "No one here knows of my illness," he whispered quickly. "You mustn't mention it."
She pulled away at that. "But you promised–"
"Yes." He had promised her answers, and by Salazar, he was going to give them to her, even if it cost him everything. "Later."
She eyed him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright."
With a smile, he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. "I'm glad you're here."
"How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not that easy to woo?" She tried to sound miffed, but her cheeks had gone pink.
"My experience shows otherwise."
She smacked his arm lightly. "Are you calling me easy?"
"My dear Ginevra," he said. "If there is one thing you most certainly are not, it is easy."
Her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to gauge whether he was complimenting her or insulting her. Then, she simply turned away and grabbed a glass of champagne from the floating tray. "Where did you spend your holidays?" she asked casually. The important questions would have to wait, but she was not going to give up the interrogation entirely.
"At my mother's villa in Tuscany," he replied. "I'd have preferred staying in London, though I will admit that the country air was refreshing."
"Hmm." In the midst of observing the ballroom, her gaze flitted to him, but it was difficult to tell whether it was to gauge his honesty or because she simply wanted to look at him.
"You're wearing the pendant I gave you," Draco couldn't help but state. "So, you cannot possibly be as angry as you're trying to seem."
"Would you rather I take it off and throw it in your face?"
"I'd rather you smile at me."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because I am – what was it that you once called me? Ah yes – 'your git'."
"You got the git part right," Ginevra mumbled, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. She raised her fingers to touch the pendant resting at the base of her throat. "Thank you for this, by the way. It is precious."
"I was going to use that term for you, darling."
She snorted at that. "My, my, someone is leaving no stone unturned tonight."
"It's been a while since I've flirted."
"So, you're exercising your muscles on me?"
There was a bawdy joke in there somewhere, but he decided that it would be best if he not voice it. "Well, it's you or a friend of my grand-mère." Draco pointed towards a white-haired witch with large, gold-rimmed spectacles and a hat with a stuffed nightingale. "She always caresses my bottom under the guise of a hug, so I'm guessing she might be interested."
"You should be flattered."
"Why?"
"Don't men like older women?"
"Older, yes. But I do draw the line at ancient," he said dryly. "Doris was, in all fairness, a beauty back in her day."
"Doris?" She was trying to hold back her laughter and failing superbly at it.
He tried to shoot her a look but could not bring himself to feel indignant at all. Her eyes were twinkling with mirth and her cheeks were pink. She hadn't tied her hair but allowed it to fall straight on her back, just the way he liked it the most. "Are you finally smiling at me, Miss Weasley?"
"I'm laughing at you, but close enough," she replied cheekily.
Draco would have continued with the banter, but he was distracted by a sudden hush that had fallen over the crowd. Frowning, he turned and saw Edmond Lefebvre, his great uncle and the second most-powerful man in wizarding France, welcome a pale, teenaged boy, who looked like he would give anything to not be here.
"Is that…?" Ginevra began.
"Jeremy Chaucer," He answered grimly.
Jeremy Chaucer's tale had been the headline of every wizarding newspaper (and a few muggle ones, though the details were varied due to obvious reasons) for weeks now. Back in November, when Jeremy had been attending classes at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, a group of three muggles had broken into the Chaucer family home and murdered his parents, his older brother and his two younger sisters. The murderers had left a message, too, written in blood on the living room wall: 'Death to Magical Freaks'.
Though it was not common knowledge yet, Draco had been told by Edmond that the one of the killers, Samuel Carre, was actually the cousin of Jeremy's muggleborn best friend and classmate, Emily Carre. That was how they had found out the Chaucer's residence.
Edmond was making a speech now, and the entire ballroom was holding onto each word. It reminded Draco of Potions classes with Snape back at Hogwarts.
A slight nudge in his ribs caused him to look at Ginevra. "What's he saying?" she whispered.
Oh. It hadn't even occurred to Draco that Edmond was speaking in French. His parents had ensured that he started learning the language very early on, and with so many French relations to practice with, it came naturally to him at this point. In fact, sometimes, if he stayed too long in France, he found himself thinking in the local language.
Ginevra elbowed him again, this time a bit harder, and he got to work. "He's telling Chaucer how sorry we all are for his terrible loss," he translated for her in a hushed whisper. "Everyone here is willing to provide him with any support that he may need… We're his family now – I doubt Chaucer would want that twat Lukas as a family member. One time, when we were little, Lukas stole my robes and–"
"Focus," she hissed.
"As horrible as the loss is, we should all try to move on… His family would've wanted him to be happy – Easier said than done – He's assuring him that the murder of his family will not go unpunished… They will make an example of the killers… make sure that no Non-Magique will ever dare threaten us again…" Draco hesitated, unsure if he should continue. Ginevra had expressed her extreme dislike for the Security and Surveillance Act that the French Ministry had passed, so much so that she'd ended things with him over it. Sort of. "He's talking about the Act that you hate, about how it'll help protect wizards and witches… prevent such atrocities from ever taking place again. You get the gist."
"Yes, I do," Ginevra stated coolly. "It's cruel to invite the poor boy to a ball and put him through this."
Draco didn't say anything. He felt sorry for the boy but could not help but admit that inviting him was a good political move on Edmond's part. Tragedy always sparked emotions; Jeremy Chaucer was inevitably going to become a figure that could fuel some massive change in how the magical world is run – most certainly in France and maybe, if the cards were played right, in neighbouring countries as well. Whoever controlled him would be able to control the discourse that was to come.
And it would not be very hard to control Jeremy Chaucer. He was a sixteen-year-old boy who had lost everything and would do anything not to feel any more pain. Draco knew all too well what that felt like, and he knew how easy it was to take advantage of that.
One sweeping glance of the ballroom showed that Edmond's speech was having the desired impact. And when Edmond proposed a toast to Jeremy Chaucer and his bravery, there was not a single person in the ballroom who did not raise his or her glass.
The only silver lining was that dinner was announced right after, and guests made their way to the adjoining hall where about twenty round tables were set with gleaming golden plates and cutlery. Draco and Ginevra were shuffling inside when Edmond came over and graciously invited them to dine with him at the Head Table.
As they made their way towards the table, they saw Edmond lead Jeremy Chaucer over from the other side. It was not at all surprising, Draco mused as they took their seats, that all the people sitting at this table held power in one way or the other. There was Edmond, the politician. Chaucer, the pawn. Draco, the businessman. Ginevra, the Quidditch star. Luc Bonnaccord, the French Minister for Magic and his wife. Marc Pascal, one of the wealthiest businessmen in France, and his wife Lucile Du Toit, who was the Head of the Bureau de la Justice Magique. And Doris Costeau, his grandmother's friend whom he had pointed out earlier; he knew for a fact that she held great influence at the International Confederation of Wizards.
Draco noticed with some glee that Lukas, Edmond's own son, was not deemed important enough to warrant a seat at the Head Table. The git was sitting at the far-end of the hall with his friends, deep in conversation. He spotted Blaise and Daphne nearby, their fingers intertwined; the moustached man was nowhere in sight. His mother was sitting at the same table, still chatting with the Lady Maret.
Small talk had erupted around their table, and Draco dutifully introduced Ginevra, but soon everyone's attention was fixed on the navy cards resting on each of the empty plates. Gold writing had appeared on each of them, listing the menu for the night.
He picked up his card, wondering what he would like to have. The fish seemed good: Filet de sole poché, garni d'une purée de champignons et enrobé d'une sauce au fromage. And then it occurred to him that the menu was in French.
Though he'd charmed Ginevra's invitation to rearrange itself into English, he doubted very much that the menu could do the same. He glanced to his right and, sure enough, she was frowning at the foreign words. And she was too hard-headed to ask for help.
He wondered what she was going to do. Probably order blindly, but wouldn't that be awful, to sit with what she believed were conceited people and pretend to stomach food that she may or may not like? Besides, she was looking unbelievably attractive this evening, so much so that every time his eyes wandered over to her (which was happening quite often, he'd noticed) he felt a silly jolty feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It would be best to put her out of her misery.
"The second dish," he said to her. "You'll like it."
Boeuf Bourguignon
Ragoût de boeuf préparé au vin rouge, avec bacon, oignons et champignons
Ginevra's frown only deepened. She glanced around the table, where half the people had already ordered their food, and back at the menu. It took him half a minute to realise what the problem was. Stifling a laugh, he leaned sideways and whispered the correct pronunciation into her ear. Once, twice, even more slowly, enunciating every syllable, then pulled back to place a soft kiss on her pink cheek. Salazar, she was the sexiest woman he had ever seen.
"Monsieur Malfoy," Doris Costeau began slyly, her eyes twinkling. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" What are you doing?
Draco straightened up quick as lightning. "Rien du tout," he replied, then quickly read the name of his dish off the menu. It appeared instantly on his plate, and he noted with pride that so had Ginevra's. She had done the wise thing of whispering it loudly rather than speaking it loudly.
"It did not look like nothing," Lucile Du Toit teased. A tall woman with a beak-like nose and a surprisingly soft voice, she was an old friend of his mother's.
Doris fanned her face and let out a blissful sigh. "Ah, être amoureux!" Ah, to be in love.
"I'm not," Draco replied instantly, firmly. "Nous ne sommes pas." We are not. And it was true. He had no doubt that he cared for her very much, but it was not love. And she wasn't in love with him either.
The women did not seem to believe him, and Du Toit said, "Tu fais un joli couple." You make a lovely couple.
"Merci," he mumbled and dug into his meal, which was delicious.
Across from him, Edmond and Bonnaccord were deep in conversation about the renovations of the Bureau des Accidents et Catastrophes Magiques and how some employees were not at all cooperating when it came to the new policy of having a standard office cubicle; one particular employee really liked having a pool next to his filing cabinet.
To his right, Ginevra was telling Doris about her career. Mrs. Bonnaccord had engaged Du Toit and Mr. Pascal in a passionate discussion about how the closure of Leclère Robes would deprive the French wizarding class of the finest handmade lace-hem robes. Surely, the Ministry could convince Gringotts to lend the owner some more gold?
"You are Monsieur Malfoy?" A timid voice to his left spoke up. "Draco Malfoy?"
Somehow Jeremy Chaucer had ended up sitting next to him. Up close, the teenaged boy looked even more pale, with big hazel eyes and light freckles. "That is my name," Draco answered politely.
Something flashed across the boy's face, a recognition of sorts, but he could not quite decipher it. "It iz an 'onor to meet you, Monsieur Malfoy," he said, his voice laden with something that sounded a lot like awe.
Draco frowned. "Forgive me, but how do you know me?"
"I know of you." Chaucer looked around the table, where a couple of people were clearly listening to the conversation. It was the first time he had spoken up of his own accord, after all. He turned back to him, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "I read Ze Practical Potioneer."
"Ah," Draco said. The scholarly journal had published an article written by him over a year ago, an achievement that he was quite proud of. "So, you like potions?"
He nodded but did not speak any further, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the others, which was getting rather obvious now.
Every now and then, Draco felt the boy glance towards him but every time he looked back, he was looking away. Maybe he had imagined it. Still, as he chatted amicably with Ginevra and Doris over dessert, he could not shake the feeling that there was something more that the boy had wanted to say to him.
The matter completely evaporated from his mind by the time he and Ginevra made their way back to the ballroom, where the quartet was playing a lively tune and some of the younger couples had already made their way to the huge dance floor in the center. Small tables had been erected in the very back for people who wished to sit and converse, though most of the spectators chose to stand on the sides and enjoy a clearer view of the dancing. Trays floated around once again, this time laden with a wider variety of drinks.
His mother stopped by them briefly, and she and Ginevra greeted each other with such icy politeness and forced smiles that he felt that Blaise had grossly understated how horrible their meetings at St. Mungo's had been. Still, as he watched his mother glide away to speak to a few of her old acquaintances, he felt that this was a matter that he would have to work on tactfully. Perhaps, over time, the two women would come to be civil to each other.
"Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?" he asked as he picked up a glass of scotch from a floating tray.
Ginevra, who was trying to decide between champagne and red wine, glanced sideways at him with. "You didn't."
"Forgive me, then."
"I will, once you actually compliment me."
He laughed. "You look radiant, darling."
"You don't look so bad yourself, mister."
"Don't I always?"
She rolled her eyes, but did not say anything.
"By the way, I never thanked you for the tickets," he said. Once he had recovered a bit, he'd had a chance to go through the Christmas gifts she had left for him in the hospital, and he'd been extremely pleased to find two tickets for the quarter-finals that Puddlemere United had qualified for. His favourite team was in excellent form this year, and he would not be surprised if they actually won the League. They will, they had to! "Of course, the book was a far precious present."
'How to Be A Good Dark Wizard?' had indeed been an interesting read. A small, satirical volume, it made fun of swishing black cloaks, discouraged the reader from making pompous speeches and just get on with the villany, and continuously warned against attacking babies in cribs ("You don't have to kill the baby. You can just not change its nappies. Poo will attract the rats, and rats will start the Plague. So, instead of killing one annoying baby, you would be killing at least a few thousand until some hero decides to invent a cure. If only Lord Voldemort had played the long game, we would be living in much murkier times now. But he overlooked the power of baby poo, and one can't blame him. He couldn't smell it, being nose-less and all that. Lucky bastard.").
Ginevra grinned. "I hope you'll learn something."
"It is showing me the ropes," he joked, then glancing at the dance floor, asked, "Do you dance?"
"Not like this," she replied. He assumed 'this' meant formal ballroom dancing; a waltz had started now. "My dancing is what you saw at Ron and Hermione's wedding."
"I'd ask you to dance, but I do not have the strength." There was bitterness in his voice, even though he had tried to control it.
At once, her gaze snapped to him, full of concern, and her voice dropped to a low whisper. "Are you feeling unwell?"
"No. Just… not up to dancing yet." He smiled apologetically at her. "It's absolutely norm–"
A hand wrapped around Draco's arm and whirled him, so that he was looking into the familiar bright blue eyes of Daphne Greengrass-Zabini. She stepped closer to him until their noses were practically touching, and hissed, "Tell your best friend to behave."
"If you couldn't put a leash on him, no one can," Draco responded, completely unperturbed. Daphne had a habit of forgetting the importance of personal space whenever she was irritated.
"He's behaving like an over-possessive prick."
Blaise, who had walked up behind his wife, looked utterly exasperated. "I only said that it is possible to hold a conversation with a woman whilst looking into her eyes. I don't know why that harmless comment offended Mr. Bennett," he shrugged, then nodded politely at Ginevra. "Hello, Miss Weasley."
As if realising that there was someone else witnessing their conversation as well, Daphne turned to Ginevra with a bright smile. "Miss Weasley, it's so nice to finally meet you." As the two women shook hands, she asked, "Tell me, what would you do if Draco insinuated that you are a wanton harlot?"
"I never insinuated that–" Zabini's outcry was drowned in Ginevra's straightforward reply:
"There would be eagle-sized bats flying out of his nostrils for a week. But I think Draco knows better than to say something like that to me, don't you, darling?"
Daphne eyed the redhead appreciatively. "I like you," she said, and Draco knew that it was no small feat to impress her so easily. "See?" she turned to her husband. "Bats out of the nostrils! Is that what you want me to do to you?"
"I was only concerned that Mr. Bennett's lecherous gaze might make you uncomfortable, love," Blaise said through gritted teeth.
"Oh, I was counting on his gaze!" Daphne jerked her head carelessly, her shoulder-length golden hair bobbing as she did so. "I learnt long ago not to let unwanted male attention hinder me. In fact, a testosterone-addled brain can prove very advantageous at times." She ran her palms over the front of her dress, where the curve of her breasts was quite visible from the low-cut neckline. "Besides, I can't help it if I have beautiful breasts."
Draco's gaze flickered down for a moment. "They are indeed beautiful," he conceded. And upon noticing Zabini's glare and Ginevra's frown, hurried to elaborate: "I mean that in a completely objective, factual way."
"Thank you," Daphne caressed his cheek, then turned to her husband. "Now, if staring blatantly at my chest means that Mr. Bennett will aid the International Office of Law in an ongoing case, then I'm going to let him. And if you do not cause any hindrance, I might let you do more later tonight."
"Gross," Draco muttered.
In an instant, Blaise's irritation vanished. His wife, who already knew that she had won, swept away towards the same moustached man from earlier. Blaise straightened his jacket. "Well, that settles it then." And he followed her.
"They are… unique," Ginevra stated once he had left, her voice somewhere between incredulity and amusement.
"You don't know the half of it." He turned to look at her, and a sense of doom descended over him. The dinner, the dances, conversations with friends and strangers could only provide so much distraction. How much longer would he be able to put off the inevitable? She wanted answers, and he had promised to give them to her. Even though he did not want to. Every bone in his body screamed at him to just run away. But he couldn't. This was a risk that he would have to go through, and then deal with its consequences, whatever they may be. "Should we talk?"
Her smile faded. "Sure."
"It will take a while. We might miss the fireworks."
"I'll live."
That settled it, then. Draco grabbed her hand and led her out of the ballroom and down the hallway, all the while reminiscing of another time when he had done exactly that in this very place. It was the day their relationship had begun – well, it had been nothing but a quick shag at the time, but it had certainly laid the foundation of the attraction that now existed between them.
Instead of taking her to his great uncle's study, as he had done the last time, he led her up the grand staircase, down a hallway and into the guest suite where he always stayed whenever he visited.
A large roaring hearth was the only source of light in the Green Room, which was named so because of the dark green tapestries that covered its walls. A pair of mahogany armchairs and a set of pouffes sat before the fireplace, so obviously comfortable that they seemed to call out to them. There was a small bar by curtained window and a desk in one corner, on top of which lay a tedious, half-read report about a large order of Anti-Paralysis Potion placed by the Asclepius Hospital for Magical Afflictions in Athens, Greece. He'd have to go through that tomorrow to ensure that there were no delays with the shipment.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," Draco said much too formally as he summoned a bottle of firewhiskey and a pair of glasses. They sat down in the armchairs by the fire, and he started pouring the drinks manually, just so he had something to do. "You have questions."
"How are you?" Ginevra asked. "Really."
She'd taken him off-guard already; he hadn't thought that her first inquiry would concern his well-being. He glanced at her, saw how the firelight glinted in her eyes. "I am better, for the most part."
"Your sickness wasn't an infection, like last time?"
"No."
"It wasn't an infection the last time either, was it?"
"What makes you say that?"
"A hunch."
He could not help but be impressed by her intelligence. Not many people would have connected the two instances of illness so easily, considering how much detail he had imbued into his concocted story back then. "No, it wasn't an infection the last time."
He thought she would get angry because she had been being lied to, but once again she thwarted his expectation by nodding slowly, as if he had simply added absolute certainty to something that she was already almost sure of. "Well, then," she leaned back in her seat and took a sip of her drink. "Tell me the truth."
This was it, the moment of reckoning. Shit. Would it look weird if he just put his head in the fireplace instead?
"I have promised you the truth and you shall have it, but I will ask for a promise in return," he said monotonously as if he had rehearsed these words, which he had. "I want your solemn oath that whatever you will learn tonight will not be passed to anyone else, living or dead. No matter what happens, whether we stay together or not, you will not divulge this information unless you have my explicit permission to do so."
"I don't understand." Ginevra's brows had drawn into a frown. No doubt she had not thought that the answers she sought would be that big a deal.
"Your word, Ginevra. Do I have it?"
She continued to look at him in that confused way, as if she was wondering if he would laugh and tell her that this has been a joke. Then her expression cleared, as if she had realised that this was not one. "You have my word."
"I also have a request: once I start talking, please try not to interrupt." He said as he finished his glass of firewhiskey, refilled it, downed it and set the glass on the table with trembling fingers. "During the war, Potter, Weasley and Granger were captured and brought to the Malfoy Manor. Did they ever tell you about that?"
"Yes," her brows were drawn. "But what does that–" And then she stopped, as if she had suddenly remembered the request he had just made.
"I remember that day so clearly…" The Dark Lord had sent him on a series of rather horrifying missions, and when he had returned home for Easter, he had been called to identify Harry Potter. Draco had bent down before the young man with the disfigured face, looked into his very familiar bright green eyes, the eyes of his greatest nemesis from Hogwarts. "I knew right away it was Potter. Why I lied to protect him, I'll never understand myself."
After the daring escape of Potter's gang, Narcissa had rushed Draco out of the Hall and he had fled to his room like a bloody coward. He remembered sitting there, trembling like a leaf, waiting for the inevitable consequences of his actions.
"The Dark Lord was not happy with what happened," he said needlessly. Lord Voldemort had punished Bellatrix first, then Narcissa but Lucius had stepped in, admitting that most of it was his mistake; no doubt an attempt to save his wife from some pain.
His mother always said that they were surprised to see the Dark Lord fall for it – but he hadn't. By Salazar's blood, he hadn't. The Dark Lord had known what their true weakness was. And so, he had sent Lucius and Bellatrix on some errand, promising retribution if they failed him, ordered Narcissa confined to her chambers in her own home, and summoned Draco alone to the Main Hall.
"He called me, wanted to know why I didn't recognise Potter. I told him about the stinging jinx, that I wasn't sure it was him. He asked why I didn't recognize Granger and Weasley. I told him I'd never paid much attention to them at school. " A bitter smile touched Draco's lips as he poured himself another drink, letting the sting of the alcohol soothe his throat and warm his belly. "He wasn't stupid, he could see I wasn't being honest. So, he tried Legilimency."
Serving as a Death Eater had made it even easier for Draco to numb his emotions and compartmentalize his thoughts. He had become a far superior Occlumens than his Aunt Bellatrix could predict, strong enough to hold off even Lord Voldemort – at least for long enough that he grew impatient and withdrew; Draco had no doubt that his mental barriers would have crumbled had the probe continued for another thirty seconds. "When that failed, the Dark Lord grew very angry," he whispered, repressing a shudder. "He continued to interrogate me, probably waiting for me to slip up."
"Why did you not tell everyone that it was Potter?"
"I didn't know, my lord. I swear."
"Why would you want to protect him? Not starting to feel sorry for your old schoolmate, are you?"
"Please, my lord, I didn't know. I wasn't sure. Please–"
"You're lying. Crucio!"
He writhed on the floor for what felt like centuries, his bones and muscles on fire. When it ended, he heaved a shaky breath, spat out blood and glanced up at Lord Voldemort. "I'm n-not lying. P-Please, my lord. Please…"
"Show me, then."
Even through the remnants of the pain, Draco emptied his mind of all his thoughts and memories about Potter, Weasley and Granger. He allowed the Dark Lord to invade his mind, but only gave him access to bits of his life that were harmless: studying for Transfiguration exam in the Hogwarts library with Zabini, eating dinner in the Great Hall with Crabbe and Goyle, playing Quidditch against Hufflepuff, dining with his parents in the Manor, laughing as an irate Pansy told him that the idiot tattoo-artist had drawn a peony on her wrist instead of a pansy...
As the Dark Lord drew nearer to Potter's capture and subsequent escape, Draco struggled to create a faux memory, one where a redhead boy and a familiar but not-too-familiar girl with bushy hair were held captive by the Snatchers, where he himself knelt to examine a massively disfigured face and said, "I don't know. I'm not sure."
But the Dark Lord was nothing if not an exceptional Legilimens. He lingered on the memory, went through it again and again, and Draco started to panic. He hadn't imbibed enough details in it; Potter had no eyes, Weasley's face was blurred, his own words were robotic. And slowly the actual memory started to seep into his concocted one: Potter's eyes were turning green–
Salazar, no.
He couldn't let the Dark Lord see the real memory. He would find out that he had lied, that he had known with absolute certainty that it was Potter and had feigned ignorance. No, no, no, the repercussions would be unimaginable, the punishment too harsh. Panicking, Draco veiled that memory altogether, letting it seep away from his mind so that no one could glimpse it again.
Which was perhaps just as bad, for now the Dark Lord knew that he was hiding something.
The presence in his mind vanished, and he found himself staring into the livid eyes of the most dangerous Dark Wizard on the planet. "You dare deny Lord Voldemort?" he roared. "You, a cowardly little boy?"
"No, my lord," Draco was trembling. "Please, I don't–"
"Your parents are not here to protect you now, as if they could! You stand here, wandless, before me and disobey my command?"
"N-No. P-Please–"
Lord Voldemort raised his wand, and Draco knew that he was going to die. This had not been a mere disobedience that could be punished with the Cruciatus Curse. This was bigger. He had knowingly protected Potter, the number one enemy. This was a sin, and such sins were beyond forgiving in the Death Eater code.
He was going to die.
Except he didn't want to die. So, he turned around to run; let them call him a coward, he was perfectly fine with being a coward as long as he was a 'living' coward. Even as his feet moved, he knew, somewhere deep down in his heart, that running was futile. There was no escape, there could be none, and yet he hoped. He had to try.
Petrified, he chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw a terrifying light emit from the tip of the Dark Lord's wand–
Draco snapped back to reality, distracted by the pounding in his ears. He blinked and eyed the Green Room, unsure of how much of his story he had actually divulged, but he must have said enough because Ginevra was now kneeling before him, her hands on his thighs. It occurred to him that the reason she had moved closer to him was because he was hyperventilating.
"Take a deep breath. In. Out," she instructed, and he obeyed wordlessly. "Yes, like that. In. Out. Again, again and one more time."
It worked. The pounding in his ears, which must have been his thudding heartbeat, faded away. His limbs felt heavy, but he hurriedly took off his blazer and tie, and even unbuttoned his shirt, letting the cool air caress his sweaty, pale skin.
He leaned forward tiredly, his gaze locked with Ginevra's, who had made no move to return to her seat. He grabbed her hand and slowly moved it under his shirt, round to the scar on her lower back. It was a scar that he had never really let her explore; every time she would touch it, he would distract her with words or kisses. She'd never brought it up, so he assumed the distraction had been successful.
But now, her fingers moved over it slowly, inquisitively. "Is this where…?"
"Yes." It was where the Dark Lord's curse had hit him. Even after all these years, this circular patch of his skin, as big as her fist, looked as if it had been flayed, imbued with greyish ink, regrown and burnt again. In simpler terms, it was an ugly remainder of a cruelty that he had had to bear. "I-I don't recall much after that. Only flashes. I saw my mother and Professor Snape hovering above me. They looked frightened. And Blaise was there. He said something but I don't know what. I saw lime green robes and vials of potions and saw my father arguing with my mother, but nothing made sense. I was engulfed in a never-ending pain, so raw and deep that it made the Cruciatus Curse look like a joke," he told her. "I woke up in St. Mungo's a fortnight later."
With a horrible scar on his back and another long, knotted one on his thigh where his leg had apparently broken, bone protruding from skin and the nerves inside singed. He had never seen his parents look so relieved. Even the healers had looked like it had been some sort of a miracle. He was discharged after another fortnight, and by that time the Golden Trio had broken into and escaped from Gringotts in a rather dramatic fashion. Needless to say, the Dark Lord was once again furious. He slaughtered so many Gringotts employees in the Main Hall of the Malfoy Manor that it took the house-elves days to remove the blood stains.
"The Battle of Hogwarts took place after that. Lord Voldemort was defeated, the Aurors put me in Azkaban to await trail," Draco said. "And that's when it first happened."
It started with a headache, and then he was writhing on the dingy floor of the cell he was chained in. He must have had a high fever, for there were hallucinations: The Dark Lord getting ready to punish him, the Death Eaters leering at his weakness, a teary-eyed Pansy in Hogwarts uniform asking why he wanted to break-up, his father expressing his disappointment in him... He suffered through his worst fears and his worst memories, all the while his body convulsed in pain. "I don't know how long it lasted, hours or days; there's no way of telling time in Azkaban, but I assumed it was because of the Dementors." Who, for reasons beyond him, had come back to guard the prison; he later found out that the interim governing body at the Ministry of Magic had signed yet another pact with them – a pact that had been renegotiated only a few months ago. Idiots.
"After my trial, I moved back to the Manor, where I had a similar episode. That's when I started wondering. I'd thought that the Dark Lord had merely punished me that day after Potter's escape, but I should have known better." He looked down at his hands, a pointless urge to stall rising in him. "Blaise helped a lot. He was studying to become a healer and his father is an accomplished one in Italy."
"Blaise's father?" Ginevra cut in, inadvertently fulfilling his desire to delay the inevitable. The interruption made sense because as a member of Slughorn's idiotic Slug Club back at Hogwarts, she must have known that Blaise's mother was famous for having a long line of dead husbands.
"He's not dead. Blaise's parents divorced when he was little. They do not get along at all, and he pretends to get along with them. It's complicated."
"I see."
They dissolved into silence then, but Draco found there was no peace in it. There was an uncertainty between them; she was curious but not prying out of respect, he was utterly uncomfortable at baring his soul to someone else. Not to mention that he could see no ray of light at the end of this. It was going to end bad, and these quiet delays were not going to make anything easy. Might as well finish what he had started.
"It's a curse, some form of ancient Dark Magic that the Lord Voldemort twisted and cast upon me. As a result, I have these… episodes, which you have witnessed. That's why I collapsed that day at the Burrow, and that's why I was in the hospital months ago." He saw that she had visibly stiffened, her face reflecting a horror that she clearly could not absorb. Hoping to soothe her somewhat, he forced a smile. "You ought to be a detective of sorts, darling. You guessed that it wasn't an infection."
"Not funny," Ginevra snapped.
"No, it isn't," he conceded.
She bit her lip, deep in thought. Then – "I have questions." She had settled on the rug by now, her chin almost resting on his knee. It didn't feel right, having her by his feet.
"Perhaps you'd like to sit elsewhere."
"I'm fine." She dismissed his suggestion with a wave of her hand, then asked, "H-How often do you…?"
"Every few months. There isn't a noticeable pattern; I've had suffered attacks in consecutive months, and I went attack-free for almost a whole year once." Draco tried not to let his frustration show, but the unpredictability of this damned curse had been nothing but a pain in his arse for six years now. There were so many dreams and desires that he had had to shelve just to make room for the fact that he could drop at any time. "I've learned to recognise the triggers, though: dizzy spells, headaches, nosebleeds. I can usually tell when I'm about to fall sick." He would have known that day at the Burrow too, had he only paid some attention to what his body was trying to tell him. The exhaustion of working days on end and the excitement of sharing the news of his Nimbus venture with Ginevra had left him too distracted. He ought to kick himself for it.
The wheels were clearly turning in Ginevra's mind, for continued to observe him closely, her brows drawn. "If it is Dark Magic, then why did Zabini use muggle medicine to treat you?"
"Because the curse fights against any spell or potion aimed to directly counter it's effects," he answered. It had taken Blaise's father and his colleagues a while to figure out a way to tweak potions and spells that would fall in the gray area and would work on him – and even then, they had found that mixing them with muggle medications worked best.
"Back at the hospital, you looked like…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, shaky as if she was terrified even to think of the condition she had witnessed him in. She reached out and placed her hand atop his, a warm comfort in an otherwise cold life. "Will this curse kill you?"
"No. Nor will it shorten my life. As far as I know, it won't be passed onto my children as well." The curse disarmed him from being normal by causing him inconceivable pain, by wracking his body in such severe fevers that his organs struggled to continue on, by drowning him in such raw misery that he practically wished for the release of death. But he would not get it, not from the curse at least. "It is my punishment to bear for as long as I live."
"Oh, Draco," she breathed, and he noticed with some alarm that her eyes were filled with tears. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't need your pity, Ginevra," he snapped, wrenching his hand free from her grip. Pity would be the worst way for them to end things, and he would not have it.
"I'm not pitying you. I'm–"
"Feeling sorry for me? Yeah, that's called pity, darling." There was bitterness in his voice once again, and he took a few, deep breaths until he felt it drain away, leaving him hollow. In a softer, kinder voice, he said, "You don't have to try and comfort me, Ginevra. I just wanted you to understand."
"Alright." She nodded slowly, as if she could not quite get a read on him. "I appreciate it."
"And now that you do, you are not obligated to stay."
Ginevra did not respond instantly. But when she spoke, her voice was laden with something akin to incredulity. "Are you breaking up with me?"
Yes. No. Was he? He did not know himself. "I understand if you want to end things between us now," he said as he got up and took a few steps away from her. "I only ask that you keep this a secret."
It was vital that his condition remained a secret. He had enemies who would pounce on him if they knew. And he didn't want pity. He did not want to look weak.
So far, the only people who knew were his parents, Blaise, Daphne, and a small number of people at St. Mungo's who were bound by their oaths of confidentiality. He hadn't even shared this with Pansy, the woman he had loved so dearly; as a result, she had accused him of hiding things, of not letting her in. It was a major factor behind their break-up.
But now, he had told Ginevra.
Merlin, this was the first time he had been this honest with anyone, and while he did feel a bit lighter, he also felt as if a new weight had been placed on his chest; he did not know what the consequences of this night would be.
"You're a bloody idiot, Draco!"
"Am I?"
"Yes! I don't scare that easy." Ginevra got to her feet and raised her chin in a stubborn way that said that she had no intention of letting him push her away. "I wasn't scared by Voldemort himself, I will not be scared by a scar he left behind."
"The scar comes with a lot more."
"So do you."
"Exactly." Salazar, was she really this naïve? Did she not understand everything he had just said? He was a bloody cripple, forced to hide away from the world every time his damned scars flared up. He couldn't even play Quidditch for too long without the muscles in his thigh freezing up – another gift from the Dark Lord. "I don't think you want to be with a man who comes with all this chaos."
"Why don't you let me decide what man I want to be with?"
Draco was stumped. He hadn't thought that she would want him. He hadn't allowed himself to imagine such a possibility. "You mean it?" he asked. "You still want to be with me?"
"Yes!" She sounded exasperated. Then, her frustration vanished, and she looked straight into his eyes. "Yes," she repeated in a softer but firm tone. "Of course, I do."
An emotion bubbled deep within him, one he could not name. It rose and rose until it lodged itself in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Overwhelmed, that was what the emotion was called. Or was it grateful? Relieved? Moved? Perhaps it was a mixture of all of them, a strange concoction of feelings that he had never felt before.
The world around him swam, but Ginevra remained so clearly in focus – until she wasn't; he saw her through a blurred daze, and felt his knees give away. He crumpled to the floor with a strangled gasp, feeling something wet drip on his cheek. It took him a moment to realise that it was his own tear. It was repulsive, really, that he had let his feelings get the better of him. His father would call it weak.
"Draco!" There were soft hands on his shoulders now as Ginevra knelt before him, looking at him in alarm.
"T-This is – I mean, I'm n-not–" He stopped, unsure what he wanted to say.
"If your Dark Mark or Death Eater robes didn't push me away, did you really think I'd leave you over a curse you suffered because of your bravery?"
Draco had been called many things in his life. Brave was not one of them. If he was being honest with himself, he thought he had been foolish to deny the Dark Lord all those years ago; had he known how much agony would be in store for him, he would never have protected Potter. But that she, Ginevra Weasley, thought his actions had been brave meant a lot. Bloody hell, he had not known that her validation would be so important to him.
And now, after years of being labelled a villain, a coward, a bully, he was brave...?!
He shook his head lightly, pressed his lips together in a futile attempt to keep everything at bay, but he could not. He felt his face crumble, felt his barriers break and he threw himself in her arms with a cry. Weak, weak, weak! – burying his face in her the crook of her neck and weeping like a child, but by Salazar, he needed it. He needed to let it out, and he did. His pain, his frustration and the sheer injustice of that damned curse rolled out of him and he cried for himself, for a punishment that he would have to suffer for the rest of his life, for the nightmares that will never leave him and for the loneliness he will be entombed in because of it.
It took a while for his tears to stop and his sobs to reduce to the occasional hiccough. Ginevra held him this entire time, her hands running consolingly over his back as she murmured words of comfort in his ear.
Finally, he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. Up close, he could see that her eyes were wet too; he could practically could the glimmering tears on her lashes. "Ginevra," he whispered and claimed her lips in a fiery kiss, hoping to convey his gratitude through his touch.
They rose to their feet breathlessly, and he led her to the adjoining bedroom. Moonlight streaming in through the tall windows lit the otherwise dark room, painting its pastel green walls in a pale light. Draco stopped by the large four-poster bed to kiss her once again, this time much more tenderly. Their clothing came piece by piece, and they dropped onto the quilt.
Her freckled skin tinged blue, red, yellow and green, illuminated so because of the grand fireworks in the sky outside – and he realised that the new year must have started. Oh, well. He would wish her in the morning; they had said all their words, there would be no need for any more this night.
Ginevra paid no heed to the loud whistling, crackling, booming sounds of celebrations outside either. Her fingers prodded at his scars tenderly, then traced his spine before burying in his pale gold hair; he had realised early on in their relationship that she quite liked making a mess of his usually well-kempt hair, something that he allowed her to do whenever they were intimate.
He let his own hands roam her body, feeling the curve of his hips and the swell of her breasts. His fingers prodded and explored and teased, causing her breath to hitch.
Once the anticipation became too much, he joined their bodies. She let out a gasp, he a grunt and they stilled for a moment. They had danced this dance many times before. There was one less veil between them, an unburdened secret that allowed them to look at each other with much more clarity. He had fucked her before, he had had sex with her – but as he moved to a slow, sensuous rhythm, her caresses gently on his skin and his gaze locked with hers, Draco realised that this was the first time he was making love to Ginevra Weasley.
xx
Draco Malfoy was a man of many secrets.
And he had now divulged one of his biggest secrets to Ginevra. Whether it was the right decision or not, he did not know, but she had stood by him through his sickness, which meant that she had earned the right to know the reason behind her vigil.
There was still plenty he had not told her: his adventures as a Death Eater for one, but he was never going to share those and he had a feeling that perhaps she wouldn't want to know such details either.
She also did not know about the emergence of Antonin Dolohov and his offer to rejoin the ranks of the Death Eaters. The last few weeks had gone by in silence, but Draco reckoned that Dolohov would get in touch with him soon; it was not like the bastard to let things go without a definitive answer. What answer Draco would give was still undecided... He did not want to become a part of that wretched movement again, but saying a flat-out 'no' would mean that his and his family's lives would be in mortal danger.
But he couldn't quite bring himself to panic about that looming danger; Ginevra was lying sound asleep in his arms, and her soft breaths soothed his worrying heart. For now, Draco was content.
I do not speak the French language myself, but Draco does so I had to enlist the help of Google Translate. If there are any mistakes, please forgive me!
Other than that, what did you think of the chapter? Please leave a review and let me know.
I'm going to start working on the next chapter soon, and I'll post it as soon as its finished. Until next time! x