A/N: Thanks for the reviews so far, loves! This ended up being quite a long chapter, so hopefully it continues to hold your interest, haha. Fair warning; there is a WEE bit of non-consent/reluctance here, but hopefully nothing too triggering! As usual, let me know your thoughts. Xo
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its universe, and all of its various components belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Inc. No profit is being made from this work of fan fiction, and no copyright infringement is ever intended.
Of Jackets & Gentlemen
Part III
A dreary February evening rose over London; dark, brooding grey clouds loomed threateningly as the first fat droplets of rain began to fall. Despite this, a merry fire crackled in Ginny's flat, warming the room and turning everything to gold. The apartment was large but cozy, with long Victorian windows and creaky wooden floors; she had filled it with all manner of eclectic furniture—some thrifted from estate sales, some newer modern pieces, and virtually almost every wall displayed a piece of original artwork that she had purchased on her travels. She had enchanted a large vase of peonies to bloom throughout the winter on her low, midcentury coffee table.
The apartment was also filled with two of her favourite people: Hermione and Luna. But at this particular moment, Hermione and Luna were the two people that she wished would leave her alone immediately.
"Ginny, you're making a mountain out of a mole hill," Hermione said, and continued, over Ginny's indignant noise, "I'm sorry but yes, you are."
Luna made a noise of agreement, but said in her calm, dreamy voice, "I wonder if Ginny could maybe explain to us why she's feeling so antagonized by this invitation?"
"Bless you Luna." Ginny sauntered over to the kitchen, drawing her woolly cardigan closed around her thin frame. She pulled a pamphlet off her fridge and perused it distractedly. "Should we get Chinese take away?"
"Can you please stop dodging the question?" Hermione snapped, standing up and throwing her hands in the air. "Ginny, you need give us a rational explanation as to why you're refusing to come to the most important charitable event in this orphanages history, when you know we count on you to work the room and convince those fat cats we need their galleons." The brunette came to stand directly in front of Ginny and looked at her with pleading eyes. "Please, you're so good at it. We need you. I need you. You know how hard I've worked on this. What's changed?"
Ginny sighed heavily and sat with a petulant pout on the kitchen bar stool. Putting her head in her hands, she took a deep breath and began to recount to her friends the narrative of her run-ins with Draco Malfoy over the last few months. First their reintroduction at the premier league after-party, and the tender interlude they shared on the dock outside; then their fiery run-in at the Owls Club, and his uncharacteristic apology.
"That was almost two months ago," she said, rubbing her eyes and running her hands through her hair. She reached for a scroll of parchment on the table in front of her. "And then two weeks ago, his owl brought this in the mail." She flung the parchment open at Hermione dramatically. It was the standard, run-of-the-mill invite to the annual charity fundraiser for the Malfoy Estate Orphanage, but a little note-sized piece of parchment fluttered out and landed at Hermione's fingertips.
Hermione, who had been silent throughout her entire explanation of the circumstantial meetings with Draco, turned the little parchment slip towards her with a slender finger. Something like a smile was pulling at the corner of her mouth. She read the note aloud.
Ginny,
If I recall correctly, you're usually present at this humble little event; I hope that this year will be no exception. Come an hour early. There's something I would like to show you.
Draco Malfoy
Ps: that jacket is worth more than your entirety of your wardrobe, Weasley. It was not a gift. Bring it with you.
Hermione finished reading. She looked up at Ginny, who was shocked to see the brunette smiling at her with real mirth in her eyes.
"Ginny," she laughed, shaking the little note in the air, "you're refusing to come to the fundraiser, kicking and screaming, because Malfoy is flirting with you?"
Ginny grabbed the note out of her hand and glared at her.
"Hermione, did you not hear a word I said earlier?" she hissed, rolling the note back up into the parchment. "I can't go. I am not myself around this man. He gets under my skin and it's like I fall into some sort of trance; he's a snake charmer. I can't possibly play into his little game of flirtation. I'll end up doing something I regret."
"Like having sex with him?" Luna asked with genuine, innocent curiosity from the couch.
"Ginny, don't be ludicrous," Hermione snapped. "You are a grown woman with complete autonomy. You won't do anything you don't want to do. And if you do want to shag Malfoy, then do it. Merlin knows how long it's been for you, and you could do worse than Malfoy."
"Hmmm," Luna agreed dreamily. "He is rather tall and handsome, isn't he?"
Ginny let out a strangled cry of frustration.
"Ginny," Hermione said, her patience clearly wearing thin, looking down at the rather large glass of wine the younger girl had poured her. "I love you, but sometimes you really don't know what's good or right for you." She heard Luna giggle behind her.
Ginny was quiet for a few moments, trying to understand what Hermione meant by that.
"I have to say Hermione, I'm surprised at you," Ginny said disbelievingly, and turning to Luna, "you too Luna. I can't believe my ears."
"You know what I can't believe," Hermione retorted after taking a long sip from her glass of wine, "I can't believe you're actually considering not coming to this incredibly important event because you're scared of falling for Malfoy. Ginny, you know how hard I work on the board of this orphanage. This is a good, important cause, one that you yourself have always been partial to."
When Ginny looked at her miserably, Hermione softened. "You haven't been your normal adventurous self since you and Jared broke up. You've kept locked away in your flat, punishing yourself by refusing to have fun—"
"That's not true!" Ginny cried, glaring at Hermione. "I am not punishing myself—"
"Yes, you are," Hermione replied firmly. "You loved Jared but you weren't in love with him. He didn't ignite anything in you, there was no spark. And you're punishing yourself for feeling like you hurt a good man because he wasn't enough for you. But you know what Ginny? Life is hard. And sometimes being with a 'nice' guy doesn't cut it. So buy the sexiest gown you can imagine yourself wearing, show up to the event early to meet Malfoy, and see what happens. Life is short. Shag the handsome jerk. Come to this important event. Just don't be frozen into being this little wallflower that I know you're not!"
Hermione finished her rant, breathing heavily, eyes bright.
Ginny was stunned. She considered the pretty older witch in front of her. Hermione was not just intellectually brilliant; she was quite emotionally intuitive as well. She had never once told anyone how guilty she had felt about breaking up with Jared, the sweet American quidditch player she dated for over two years. He was a good man—a great man, handsome and sweet and attentive—and it broke her heart that she couldn't muster up the feeling of real passion towards him. She had been punishing herself; ignoring the advances of the many handsome suitors around her, not allowing herself to be excited by anything after breaking his heart. She was moved that Hermione had seen through her like glass; she was lucky to have her as a sister in law.
She thought of Draco—with his capricious eyes and his sharp angles, the way her temperature rose whenever he was in proximity. He wasn't just the promise of a good time; he was the promise of playing with fire.
"Fine," Ginny said, finally. "Fine, Hermione. I'll go."
Hermione clapped her hands together and grinned. "We have to find you the perfect dress. Come with me to the shops tomorrow. We need something that will have both Malfoy and those investors eating out of the palm of your hand."
"What a funny image," Luna said dreamily.
Ginny laughed, finally, genuinely. "What would my brother say if I told him you were trying to use me as sexual bait, Hermione?"
The brunette witch grinned. "I would deny everything."
The evening of the Malfoy Estate Orphanage Ball brought a crystalline clear sky. Ginny watched the winter sun set from her large window as she put the finishing touches on her make up; Celestina Warbeck was crooning softly on the wireless. The words that Hermione had spoken to her a week earlier rang in her ears as she appraised herself in the mirror. Don't be frozen into being this little wallflower that I know you're not. She had been right. Her fire had been dulled these many, many months—but tonight she would wear a dress that would make her look like a lick of flame.
Hermione had helped her pick it out in an expensive shop in muggle London; it was lucky for her that the trend at society events these past few years leant towards muggle fashion, because she didn't think she could manage this level of sexy in any formal wizarding robes, no matter how fine they were.
The dress was a sensual swath of heavy, slinky satin that clung to her curves, but was by no means unflatteringly tight. Just the right amount of snugness in the middle to make her waist look impossibly small, but to give any onlookers only a vague idea of exactly how shapely her bum was. It was cut into a low, deep V at the front, which worked for Ginny as she was rather small on top. It showed off her freckled collarbones and shoulders to great advantage. The dress was a pale gold, the colour of champagne in candlelight, and fell shimmeringly to her ankles, where strappy, high white heels poked out. She had clasped a narrow collar of bright, solid gold around her throat and lined her eyes with kohl. Her hair was half up, half down, exposing her long neck and bare earlobes. She had not dressed to impress like this in what felt like years. She felt powerful, radiant.
A crackling noise from her living room alerted her to someone's presence in her floo. She stepped out of her bedroom and turned the corner to see Hermione's smiling face.
"You look brilliant," she beamed, looking at Ginny with wide eyes. "An absolute knock out, Ginny."
"You sure?" the red head asked nervously, smoothing down the front of her dress self-consciously. "I don't look like a tart?"
"I would never let you look like a tart and you know that," Hermione retorted. "You look sexy but sophisticated. The dress is flowy enough to leave plenty to the imagination. The colour is perfect on you. I couldn't have hoped for better." She paused and smiled smugly. "Malfoy is going to have a heart attack."
Ginny laughed nervously. "We don't know for sure what his motives are with me," she said softly. "He could just be trying to be my friend. He's dated supermodels Hermione—"
"Good Merlin. Do you hear yourself Ginny?" Hermione interrupted, not bothering to hide her eye roll. "You don't actually care what he thinks, remember? Just go and have a good time and be your snarky self. And don't forget to work your magic talking to all those old aristocrats with more money than sense." She smiled reassuringly at Ginny. "I'll see you there in a couple of hours. Shouldn't you be headed to the Manor now?"
With a pop, she was gone.
Ginny looked at the empty fireplace, lost in thought. She felt nervous; over the last several weeks, well before his casual note arrived, she had been horrified with how much she had thought of him. She grew especially distraught every time her body reacted to the memory of his low voice, his eyes darting to her mouth, to the memory of his fingers around her wrist. She had always been too susceptible to the charms of powerful, indifferent men. She caught herself worrying at her thumbnail and grimaced. She straightened her back and took a deep breath.
You're overthinking this Ginny, she thought, reaching for her formal black cloak. He's just a man. Flesh and blood and bone.
Ordinarily, it was impossible to apparate onto the grounds of the former Malfoy Manor; since it had been converted into an orphanage, it had felt like the entire countryside around the manor had taken on a sort of open, welcoming liveliness. As she approached the large, impressive estate with its sprawling grounds, warm candlelight flickering in each of the windows, she paused to take in how foreboding it must have once looked. She tried to imagine the young Malfoy child, sneeringly told over again of his blood inheritance; how the child must have looked out of his bedroom window at the magnificent grounds, feeling more like the entitled prince she knew him to be, year after year.
She stood outside the house for several long moments, shoring up every evil, gut-wrenching memory of Malfoy she could muster. Not because she wanted to hate him; she only hoped that it might create the veneer of indifference she needed tonight.
With a final sigh, she walked through the gates of curling wrought iron and was soon at the front door of the manor. The tall, intricately carved oak doors rose above her. Before she could raise her hand to knock, they opened with a loud creak.
She realized she hadn't stopped to think about what to expect when she entered the house; the question was answered for her when she saw it blooming with activity. Children, caterers, official-looking wizards and witches were milling about, some running this way and that; huge garlands of white flowers were being spelled into the air by a harried-looking witch, while rows of dancing, pale white candles rose gently into the air, guided into place by another witch. She glared at two small children who whooped with laughter as they ran in front of her.
Ginny couldn't help but smile at the energy in the grand marble foyer. In some odd way, it reminded her of the burrow on Christmas.
Suddenly, a ghost came through the wall. "Hullo," he said to Ginny with sullen formality. "Are you here as help or as a guest this evening?"
Ginny bristled. Did she look like she was here to serve food? Leave it to Malfoy's ghost to remind her of her poverty less than two minutes into the evening.
"A guest," she said coolly. "Do you know where I can find Mr. Malfoy? I have an appointment."
The ghost frowned but nodded. "He is in the library. The large room at your right on the first landing. May I take your cloak?"
Ginny hesitated for a second, not sure she was ready to part with the heavy covering that shielded her eye-catching dress from the world. But then she nodded and undid the clasp, allowing the ghost to slip the cloak off her shoulders. A young teenage boy had been walking through the foyer, likely a resident of the orphanage; he caught sight of Ginny and walked directly into a pillar. Blushing, he scurried away. Ginny hid her smile. Bless you, Hermione, she thought.
She gathered her skirt in her hands and began the descent up the wide, gleaming marble staircase before her. Her heels clicked echoingly as she stepped, loud despite the commotion below her. She heard voices coming from the room at the right of the landing; she pulled her shoulders back and walked slowly but confidently into the large chamber.
The soaring, vaulted ceiling of the centuries-old library was illuminated by the floating candles she had seen downstairs; they cast dancing shadows on the thousands of leathery, dusty books that lined the towering mahogany shelves on every wall of the room. At the centre, amid gleaming hardwood flooring, was a collection of plush couches and chairs atop what looked to be an ancient Persian rug that could only be at home in a room such as this one.
Leaning with one hip against the back of a settee, arms indifferently crossed, was Malfoy. He was talking to two men; one she did not recognize, and the other she recognized immediately as Blaise Zabini.
Malfoy had turned his head when she entered, and for only the briefest moment, his eyes registered surprise. His face was impassive, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. If she had blinked, she would have missed the way his eyes swept over her, moving from her face to her body and back again. Aside from this lightning quick appraisal, he was unmoved. A small pang of disappointment knocked at her heart.
What did you think he was going to do? Faint? she thought sarcastically.
She noticed the other two men turn to look at her. The man she did not recognize, a pale, tall blonde like Malfoy, was looking at her like he had been hit in the face with a Bludger. Zabini let out a low whistle of approval.
"Weasley," Zabini said, rising from the couch and opening his arms, smiling at her approvingly. "You are a fucking vision, darling."
Ginny smiled warmly at Blaise. While they were not close friends, she had attended many parties with Blaise and the occasional dinner, as several years ago he had dated one of her closest friends, Dean Thomas. Dean had come out of the closet to her shortly after the war, and they had laughed endlessly about their pubescent relationship. Over the years, she had been alongside him as he got together (and broke up with) a slew of devastatingly attractive, successful wizards; Blaise Zabini was at the top of that list. She liked Blaise, and if she wasn't so loyal to Dean, she probably would have tried to a lot harder to stay in touch with him after their break up.
Having Blaise break the ice was a huge relief. She came straight to him and allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug. Kissing him on the cheek, she looked into his long, green eyes and laughed. "Do you like the dress?"
"You look like a fucking galleon. I adore it," he drawled, stepping back and appraising her at a distance. "Draco, have you ever seen such radiance?"
She looked at Draco and tried to remain neutral as she watched him appraise her, slowly and more deliberately this time. His clear grey eyes flicked lazily from the hem of her dress, to her hip, running the length of the deep v of her bodice, resting on the collar of gold at her throat before meeting her eyes with his approving stare.
But all he said was, "You look nice."
She fought the urge to frown at him and instead smiled tightly. "Thank you," she muttered. The man beside Draco, who was most definitely related to him, cleared his throat. Ginny turned to look at him and was struck by how handsome he was. Less intimidating and hard-edged than Malfoy, not as tall, and not as aristocratic and powerful looking; but attractive none-the-less.
"I'm Damien," he said in an accent that was clearly French, holding out his hand. "Draco's cousin from France."
"Ginny Weasley," she said, and extended her hand to shake his; she was floored when instead he took it and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on her upturned palm.
"On m'a tellement parlé de vous," he said, releasing her hand gently, eyes smoldering.
Draco's eyes narrowed and he hissed, "Ça suffit, Damien. The girl doesn't speak French."
Ginny was tempted to ask him to repeat himself in English but looking at the unusually annoyed expression on Draco's face, she wondered if perhaps it was better she did not know.
Instead she smiled as calmly as she could and said, "Is this your first time at this event? It's always such a lovely evening."
"Oui," he nodded, looking intensely at her. "I am very lucky that my cousin deigned to think to invite me this year."
"Yes," Draco drawled, looking at the ceiling in boredom. "A decision I'm not regretting at all."
Blaise laughed. "Whilst I am loathe to tear myself away from this comedy of errors, I fear I must— I'm sure my assistants are in need of my guidance," he sighed. Ginny realized that Blaise was likely the event coordinator for the evening, which made so much sense; he had been growing his event-management career over the last several years across Europe.
"Will you be around tonight?" Ginny said, turning to him and giving him a hopeful smile. "We have so much to catch up on."
"Absolutely sweetheart, I will make a beeline for you the second everything is under control. Are you still dating that American hunk?" he leaned in and asked conspiratorially, wagging his eyebrows.
Ginny was immediately flustered. "Oh, I—no—no we broke up," she managed, blushing furiously as she noticed Draco train his curious eyes on her face.
"And good riddance!" cried Blaise, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Onto the next, darling. Anyway, I must run." Blaise turned to go and paused, eyes darting cleverly between the three of them in the room. "Damien pet, will you join me? I want to get your opinion on one of the wines we're serving this evening."
Ginny looked at Damien who was looking at her. She guessed, from the flush that came over his face, that he did not want to leave. Still, he looked at Blaise and nodded. Turning to Ginny, his pale eyes dancing, he asked, "will you save me a dance or two tonight Miss Weasley? I would hate to go back to France without having danced with the most beautiful woman in England."
She goggled at him and nodded, dumbly. Blaise looked impressed. Draco merely looked bored, though a muscle was twitching furiously at his jaw. His eyes burned a hole into the back of Damien's head as he walked away.
There were several beats of silence in which Ginny realized her and Draco were alone. She turned to look at him.
"I'm sorry about Damien," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "You should not under any circumstances feel obligated to dance with him."
Ginny laughed. "I find him rather charming," she said.
"He's a prat," Draco replied, unkindly.
"Hmmmm," she said, tapping her newly-manicured finger against her lips, smiling playfully at Draco. "Now who's jealous?"
Draco's eyes glittered dangerously; they left her face and travelled slowly down her body. "I mean, I suppose I can't blame the man for trying," he drawled. Ginny felt that treacherous heat curling in her belly again. "You're supposed to mingle with the potential investors, Weasley, not send them to early graves."
Ginny blushed furiously but managed a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment, Malfoy," she said. And then, out of nowhere, a realization. "Oh no," she gasped, eyes wide. "I forgot to bring your jacket! I was so pressed for time and I had it on the back of a chair ready to go and I completely for—"
Malfoy smirked, waving a lazy hand in the air. "Forget it Weasley. I'll get it another time," he interrupted.
She was mollified. "Ok," she nodded. "Another time." She wondered what that meant.
She turned away from him, feeling a bit awkward, and walked slowly with interest towards the impressive, towering wall of bookshelves. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up, suppressing a shiver.
"Was this library here when you were growing up?" she asked quietly, noting how many titles were in Latin, French, or other languages she could not read.
She felt, more than heard, Draco come up behind her. "It's always been here. Though this is merely what's left of the Malfoy family library after the aurors pillaged the place," he drawled. She turned to see him put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking disdainful. "There used to ancient texts in here, tomes that would have made the restricted section look as unsullied as Longbottom's bedroom."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "You sound resentful," she noted coolly, "as if you wish you still had them."
Draco scoffed at her. "Don't be so holier-than-thou Weasley. Don't forget that I invited the aurors into the estate after my father was imprisoned. I imagined they would take those books. I didn't put up a fight." He regarded her evenly. "Doesn't mean that I don't wish that the Malfoy inheritance, collected over centuries, was not wholly intact." His voice had an arrogant edge to it, and she imagined that she could never understand what it would be like to have a legacy such as this.
Ginny was quiet while she pondered that. After a silence, she said, "fair enough." And then a question struck her. "Where do you live now?"
He raised his eyebrows in amusement at her. She wondered if that was too intimate of a question.
"I have a house near Harrow-on-the-Hill," he murmured. "It used to belong to my maternal great-grandmother. Though I only spend half my time in England, as you can imagine."
She nodded. "Do you miss living here at the manor?" she asked innocently, making polite conversation the way she would with any ordinary person. But she realized her error in asking when his eyes shuttered like windows gone dark, his mouth forming a hard line.
"No," he said coldly. "I don't."
She bit her lip and nodded again, looking at the floor as if there was something particularly fascinating about it. If she had taken even a moment to consider the question, she would have realized the implications of what she was asking. She couldn't imagine the pain and fear that plagued these walls when Lucius was alive; the screams that would have wrenched a young Draco out of his sleep; his horror upon entering his family's dining room only to see Voldemort's soulless eyes looking at him. She wanted to kick herself for asking the question. That was foolish Ginny.
She looked up and was about to stumble through an awkward apology when she saw that he was smirking at her.
"You're so…" he began, eyes dancing. He searched her face with amusement. "…wholesome."
She glared at him, not quite comprehending what his comment was implying, heat rising to her cheeks. Changing the subject, she asked mockingly, "is that what you're wearing tonight?" nodding at his dark-wash jeans and plain black sweater. "I'm sorry to say it's a little underwhelming."
He looked at her witheringly, but his eyes were laughing. "Obviously not. My suit is laid out in the study." He looked at his wrist to check the time and she noticed he was wearing his vintage Rolex again. She wondered how it came to be that Draco Malfoy wore a muggle wristwatch. Granted, an awfully expensive piece of muggle technology, but muggle none-the-less.
"I imagine the guests are starting to arrive," he said. "I should change."
"Oh, is that what you wanted to show me?" she asked boldly, attempting to flirt. He looked merely confused. "Excuse me?" he asked, eyes blank.
She was annoyed and embarrassed now. "In your letter, you git. You said you had something to show me," she snapped. "Or have you forgotten?"
He looked immediately sheepish. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I did have something I wanted to show you." He looked again at his watch. "But I won't have time now. Tonight," he said, coming forward to stand closer to her. "Tonight I'll find you and I'll show you."
"But—" she began, incredulous. "I rushed getting ready so that I could get here early!" She knew she sounded petulant. "You can't just ask a woman to show up an hour early to an event like this for no reason!" She placed her hands on her hips and scowled at him.
He smiled, something unexpected darkening his eyes, and moved a few steps closer. Ginny's breath caught and she hoped he hadn't noticed. He brought his hand up to push a heavy, curling tendril of her red hair off her collar bone and over her shoulder. She fought the urge to shiver as her pulse quickened.
"You don't look like you were rushed," he said quietly, running a knuckle gently along the bright rope of gold at her throat. "It was worth it to see you alone for a few moments before they ship you off to Azkaban for inciting a riot of desperate wizards."
Despite the blood-heating intensity of the moment, and even though he was so close she could feel his breath stir her hair—she dissolved into giggles at his comment. She stepped back, still smiling, shaking her head at him. She knew the colour was high in her cheeks because he was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and—something else.
"I'll see you down there, Malfoy," she said, hearing the smile in her voice. He cocked his head and nodded at her, the unreadable look still moving across his face.
She turned and left the library, biting her lip with pleasure.
After a brief layover in the sprawling marble guest washroom, she found Hermione in the cavernous ballroom where the event had taken place for the last four years. The pretty brunette wore a luminous dress of a deep royal blue, the bodice a gorgeous tapestry of rich beadwork. Her hair was up in an elegant bun, large Ceylon sapphires dangling from her ears. Ginny thought to herself, as she frequently did, how lucky her brother was.
"Ginny," she said, looking up from the clipboard in her hands and grinning at her. "How are you?" Hermione waggled her eyebrows at her knowingly. "What have you been up to?"
Ginny shrugged one shoulder, smiling hopelessly. "Honestly, not much of anything," she said. She added, after Hermione's inquisitive look, "I'll fill you in later."
Over the next hour, the ballroom filled with guests as far as the eye could see; gorgeous, sweeping dresses of expensive fabrics, glinting jewels, handsome wizards in smart tuxedos. As much as this was an important charitable event, it had quickly become one of the most important social events of the year. Anyone with even a faint interest in seeing how the elite of wizarding society lived would have wanted an invitation to this ball.
Ginny fell into her role with ease. Since the inception of the orphanage, Hermione relied on the celebrity attendees to mingle with potential investors to generate their interest in their philanthropic project. The orphanage housed over two hundred children, primarily muggle-borns who lost their parents during Voldemort's brief but violent rise to power; the entirety of the wizarding community knew the importance of the orphanage. Ginny had always wondered whose idea it was to convert Malfoy Manor in this way. She thought she would ask Hermione the next time she thought of it.
She had briefly caught up with Harry and Luna, who came together. Ginny knew that there had been something lingering between her childhood ex-boyfriend and her soft-spoken Ravenclaw friend for years, and was wholeheartedly supportive, but didn't pry. She figured that in time, someone would bring it to her attention. Tonight, Harry looked very sharp in his deep navy suit, and Luna was head-turning in a long-sleeved dress of lime green. It was certainly not a colour that Ginny would have ever chosen for anyone, but Luna rewrote the rules of fashion wherever she went.
She had shared laughs with Lee Jordan, Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood over Fred's choice in tuxedo for the evening; a bright white number with a matching top hat. Angelina looked at her husband with fond annoyance. Ginny imagined that she was probably wearing that expression often wherever Fred was concerned.
Now Ginny was standing near one of the windows, in conversation with two older Swiss wizards she did not know. They had approached her, one of them asking her if she was indeed Ginny Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.
"I am," she replied, smiling confidently. This was why she was here, after all.
"Oh, my daughter is obsessed with you," one of them said, in a thick German accent. "She will be so sad to know she missed an opportunity to meet you in person!"
Ginny laughed graciously. "I am deeply flattered Mr…?" she asked, extending her hand.
"Glauser," he replied, shaking her hand. "And this is Mr. Desrochers. We are here tonight representing Helvetic Bank and their philanthropic interests."
Ginny felt her heart pick up pace a few beats. Helvetic Bank was the offshore Swiss bank favoured by the ultrawealthy across wizarding Europe; she imagined that the connection to the Malfoys was not by coincidence.
"Wonderful", Ginny said warmly. "And do you know much about the Malfoy Estate Orphanage and its history Mr. Glauser?"
"I'm afraid very little my dear," the older man chuckled. "To be frank, we are in attendance tonight only because Master Malfoy reminded me that I have not come to any of the previous events, and that I should be ashamed of myself." He and his friend laughed nervously.
Ginny could imagine Draco's smooth drawl as he lounged in his study, confidently and casually telling the dizzyingly wealthy Mr. Glauser that he should be ashamed of himself. She smiled, more at this private thought than at the two men.
"Well," she began, measuring her words. "I might be a biased opinion, but I can see why Mr. Malfoy was so insistent—this orphanage has come to represent so much to England in our post-war moment. The management and the staff work tirelessly to provide a safe, therapeutic and emotionally rich experience for the children here, who have seen so much suffering. I imagine that in Switzerland the wizarding community still feels the affect effects of Grindelwald's legacy; I can only hope that the orphans borne from all that destruction had a place as special and as safe as this."
The two men were quiet at her words, looking at her thoughtfully. "My uncle had been made an orphan by Grindelwald," Mr. Desrochers stated after a few moments, speaking for the first time, eyes meeting Ginny's sadly. "If the family history is true, then I do not, unfortunately, think that he had the support network that this institution offers its wards."
Ginny instinctively laid her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said honestly.
Turning to Mr. Glauser she said firmly, "Wizarding communities all over the world, no matter how sophisticated they are, neglect their weakest and loneliest members. The Malfoy foundation is working tirelessly, and at a deficit, pouring money into this project to make sure these children are not forgotten."
The two white-haired men turned to each other to exchange a significant look. Ginny felt herself on the edge of a win, and tried her luck, attempting a light-hearted tone of voice. "If you don't consider this too forward Mr. Glauser, I would be more than happy to give your daughter a private flying lesson as a sincere thank you for a promised monthly donation to the orphanage," she winked, and was relieved to see him laugh. "It's a win-win situation really."
Mr. Glauser thrust his had out in front of him. "You have yourself a deal, Miss Weasley." She reached out with her own firm handshake and grinned, her heart soaring.
"Edvard, Benoit," an amused voice drawled from behind her. "Do I need to save you two from the charms of Miss Weasley or is everything under control here?" Ginny turned to see Draco approaching them, a cocky smile on his face.
She tried not to stare as her breath caught in her throat. Draco was wearing the aforementioned suit, and the effect was devastating. It was a deep charcoal colour, with a fine, elegant weave to the fabric; it forced her to take in the breadth of his shoulders and the tapering line down to his slim hips. The slacks showed off his Qudditch thighs to great advantage. He wore a narrow black tie, a gold antique pocket gleaming beneath his open jacket; his shoes looked like they cost more than the entirety of her outfit for the evening. This is ridiculous, she thought resentfully.
He came to stand with them and the two men eagerly reached for Draco's handshake.
"I'm afraid you're too late Draco," said Mr. Glauser with a belly laugh, smiling shrewdly. "I'm afraid that this exquisite woman has already secured your foundation a generous monthly donation from Bank Helvetic."
Draco raised one eyebrow in surprise and turned to look at Ginny with an odd light in his eye. "Is that so?" he murmured. "I'm impressed. And here I've been trying to get blood out of a stone for years. I'll need to keep you by my side, Miss Weasley."
To an innocent bystander, his statement wouldn't have been particularly scandalous. But to Ginny, who recalled the possessive way he had touched the chain at her throat earlier, as though she were a pet that he was admiring, his words sounded like a delicious threat.
She managed to smile evenly at the three men. "Nonsense Draco," she said softly. "Mr. Glauser was convinced only by his empathy; he is entirely too generous, and we certainly do not take his generosity for granted. Thank you on behalf of the children, sir. Please do owl me the next time you and your daughter are in England and I would be happy to meet. If you'll excuse me," she said, nodding warmly at the men.
She moved through the crowd towards the bar. At some point during her conversation with the Swiss bankers, she had finished her wine. The bar was also on the opposite side of the room from Draco, so it seemed like the safest place to be.
"Good evening," she said to the bartender, a young wizard who blushed terribly as she approached. "A glass of Sauvignon Blanc please."
"No," said a voice from beside her, somewhat familiar. "She'll have the Pinot Gris."
Ginny, annoyed, turned around and came face to face with Damien, Draco's French cousin. She recalled their meeting in the library earlier and felt uneasy about his blatant interest in her; she wondered how much of that had to do with the fact that it seemed to bother Draco a bit.
"Damien," she said, trying to smile pleasantly. "I'm afraid I really am partial to the wine that I had ordered."
"Ah," he said, nodding as he took the glass of Pinot from the bartender. He smiled suavely at her. "But this particular Pinot was made in my vignoble in Alsace."
Ginny blinked, taking the glass from him, and looked at the bottle still sitting on the bar. La Terre Malfoi the white, crisp label read. Then she remembered Blaise asking Damien to accompany him on a wine tasting downstairs.
"You're a winemaker," she said, laughing. "Incredible. Draco didn't mention this little fact." She swirled the wine around in the glass and took a long sniff. "Apricot, honey, spice," she murmured. "—and a stony mineral?" she asked, bringing it to her lips and taking a sip. It was lovely.
"Very good," he said approvingly, leaning confidently on the bar. She looked at him carefully over the rim of her glass. So many similarities to Draco, but somehow, where Draco was controlled caution and aloof arrogance, Damien was a little too eager, too obvious in his flirtation. He is French, after all, she thought with some amusement.
"I'm not surprised my cousin didn't mention this to you," he said smoothly, his voice tinged with coldness. "He likes to keep our relationship a secret, that one."
"Oh," Ginny said, feeling abstractly sorry for him. "Honestly, I hardly know Draco. He doesn't tell me much of anything at all. We've hardly spent any time together."
"Is that so?" Damien said, a curious smile on his face. "I had wondered as to the nature of your relationship."
Ginny blushed. "There is no relationship," she said truthfully. As much as she liked to turn the idea over in her mind, what it would be like to be with Draco, the reality was that a few brief flirtatious interactions did not a relationship make.
"In that case," Damien drawled, holding out his hand. "Will you dance with me?"
Ginny bit her lip and looked out onto the floor. There was a crooning song playing over the ballroom and many couples were dancing at the centre of it. She looked quickly for Draco, who she spotted talking closely with a beautiful blonde witch, who was wearing an extremely low-cut dress and was looking up at Draco like her birthday had come early. Ginny grimaced. To his credit, Draco didn't seem nearly as affected by her as she did by him, but Ginny did wonder if he really needed to be standing so closely. No relationship, remember? the voice in her said firmly.
"Ok," she smiled, nodding at Damien. "Once dance." She put her hand in his large, warm one and let him lead her out to the floor.
She tried not to squirm as Damien pulled her waist to him and grasped her hand firmly in his own. She rested her hand lightly over his shoulder while she let him lead her across the dance floor. He was an exceptionally good dancer, which was surely to be expected, Ginny mused. A French wine-making Malfoy would certainly have been born knowing how to dance in ballrooms.
She told him so, for lack of anything else to say. She felt him laugh against her ear. "In France we pride ourselves on making sure our beautiful dates are having a good time," he said. "So we learn how to dance. Ladies like to dance, no?"
Not all ladies, thought Ginny stubbornly, who wasn't ever very keen on dancing.
He spun her in an elegant spiral and pulled her close again. She wasn't sure what to say so she said nothing. As they moved through the crowd, she noticed Draco and the beautiful witch again. This time, she saw that she was holding another mans hand; a portly, significantly older gentleman who was engrossed by something Draco was saying. Likely a business partner of Draco's. So the witch was spoken for, and judging by the way she was looking at Draco, perhaps regretting her choice in husband.
He looked up as Ginny and Damien passed and she caught his eye and smiled weakly. He only blinked at her, surprise colouring his face. He arched one eyebrow at her. They moved through the crowd and Draco disappeared.
"My cousin," Damien said, interrupting her train of thought, "is quite a character is he not?"
Ginny paused. "He is," she said carefully. "I'm sure you understand him very well though."
"Not very well," he replied, chuckling. "But he does seem to have an effect on beautiful witches that I will never understand." He looked at Ginny meaningfully, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
"You don't mean—" she stuttered, eyes widening, shaking her head quickly. "I don't—not me—if—if that's what you mean," she finished lamely. Damien threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh no?" he asked. "I must say your blush is very becoming when it moves up your neck like that."
Ginny ducked her head. Damn her stupid freckled face.
"It is ok, Ginny Weasley," Damien said in his pleasant accent. "Your secret is very safe with me." He squeezed her hand lightly. "Though I wish I could hold even a fraction of your interest the way he does."
She laughed nervously and finally met his eyes again. "It's stupid," she murmured, shaking her head. "Our families have always been enemies. He was terrible to me in school. I really don't have many good memories of him." She sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, you seem like a much nicer man than he is."
Damien laughed again and said, "ah, ma petite—'nice' has rarely worked in anyone's favour."
She shook her head firmly at his statement. "Nice and handsome," she replied quickly.
The conversation with Damien continued for another two songs, and Ginny wasn't sorry for it. She felt immediately more comfortable around him after it was made clear that her interest didn't lie with the French Malfoy. And Damien was clearly such a confident, good natured man that it didn't seem to bother him half as much as it might have bothered someone else.
He told her of his summers spent at the Malfoi family estate on a river near Lyon, how his snobbish younger cousin Draco would show up for a few weeks at a time, pale and easily sunburnt. Ginny had laughed when he told her how badly Draco spoke French through his childhood and teenage years.
After the third song, Ginny thanked him with a hug and they parted ways. Ginny went straight for the balcony, as she was rather flushed from the dancing and the wine. As she stepped onto the verandah, her skin instantly cooled. She took a moment to adjust her hair and her dress before she leaned on the railing with a heavy sigh. She took a long sip of the pinot gris—it really was delicious—and looked up at the curtain of heavy stars.
She had just begun to collect her thoughts when his voice broke through the silence.
"I was wondering when you would extract yourself from my cousin's arms," Draco drawled. Ginny turned her head and looked over her bare shoulder. She smiled coyly. Had he watched her come out here and followed her?
"He's not a prat, you know," she quipped, turning her face back up to the stars. "He's a very good dancer."
Draco snorted. "Whatever," he replied, and she noticed him come up beside her to lean on the balustrade as well. "Did he convince you to run away to France with him?"
She grinned. "I'm considering it. You seem to enjoy France, so why shouldn't I?" She shrugged, taking a careful sip of her wine. "It's not like I've got anything better going on here."
She had chosen her words carefully and was pleased when she saw him turn to look at her. Though he was not standing particularly close, his miming of her body language and his eyes on her face made her heart beat a little faster. He held a heavy crystal scotch glass lazily between his long fingers, a whisper of liquid left.
"So," she said, filling the silence. "Where's your mademoiselle?" She wished she hadn't sounded so disdainful as she asked that question.
"Who?" Draco asked, brow furrowed. He seemed genuinely confused.
Ginny laughed. "That sexy French woman you were snogging in the Owls Club," she retorted, shaking her head. "Who else?"
"Oh," he said, realization dawning on his face as he bit back a smile. "You think she's sexy?"
Ginny whapped him on the shoulder. "I'm serious," she said, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible.
"She's not my anything," he drawled. He stood up straight and stretched his arms out wide, stifling a yawn. "We just have a good time together. I have no idea where she is. Somewhere in France I imagine. She travels a lot." He finished the whiskey in his glass and set it down on the railing. "She's a model you know."
"How wonderful for you," Ginny said tightly.
Draco grinned. "Are you doing something important right now?" he asked, pulling his wand out of his jacket pocket.
"Er," she paused. "I don't know how to answer that question without hurting your feelings."
He barked a genuine laugh, his platinum hair falling into his eyes roguishly. He walked to the edge of the balcony. "Accio Yajirushi," he called into the night, raising his wand.
Yajirushi was one of the most coveted broomsticks available, Ginny knew; developed and perfected by Japanese broom engineers. She cocked her head. "Are you going somewhere?" she asked.
The sleek broom could be seen sailing through the air. Draco caught it effortlessly with a raised hand. He swung his legs over the balustrade and hopped on to straddle it with ease.
"We're going somewhere," he replied, holding out his large hand. He looked like something out of a Witch Weekly magazine spread; a handsome man in an impeccably tailored suit, riding an expensive broom. The February wind mussed his hair about his head and blew his jacket out behind him.
Ginny looked from his outstretched hand to his face, and for the very first time, she saw self-doubt in his eyes.
"I want to show you the thing I mentioned in my letter," he said over the wind. "We'll only be gone a few minutes."
"I hate riding side-saddle," she whined, stepping closer. "And I'll freeze."
He rolled his eyes and yanked off his jacket, his thighs the only thing gripping the broom. She tried not to notice. He tossed her the coat and she slipped it on without question. She sat on the wide railing and swung her heeled legs over the side. The long side slit of her dress, which she had genuinely forgotten was there, fell open to the top of her creamy, freckled thigh. Draco didn't even bother hiding his gaze.
"Nice legs Weasley," he drawled, meeting her eyes again when she yanked the skirt back into place and glared at him. He had maneuvered the handle of the broom right up to her so that all she had to do was slide on; she managed it as gracefully as she could, but quickly clutched the side of Draco's shirt.
"I hate riding side-saddle," she said again, more nervously this time. As a pro Quidditch player, she was unquestionably comfortable on a broom—but this, side-along in her heavy gown and heels, relying on someone else to steer—was not ideal flying conditions.
"Put your arms around me, dummy," he murmured over his shoulder. The scent of his signature cologne, which permeated her senses, was dangerous at this height.
"Dummy?" she echoed, narrowing her eyes at his broad back. "Couldn't we just walk where we're going?" Still, she followed his instructions and brought her arms all the way around his torso and held tight. She tried to put the obvious hardness of his abdominal muscles out of her mind.
"No," he said simply, and they shot off into the night.
Ginny pressed her cheek into his shoulder as they sped over the grounds, watching the various rose gardens and fountains and trails meander beneath them. If you had told her at last year's Malfoy Foundation event that she would be wrapped around Draco in all her finery, letting him whisk her to Merlin knows where on his broom, she would have laughed in your face.
Draco stopped the broom over an empty field. "Here we are," he said. He sounded muffled like maybe he had a runny nose from the cold. It was the most endeared she had ever felt towards him.
She peered over his shoulder. They could have walked this distance, but it certainly was worth flying given how little time they had. She looked out onto a vast field. It appeared to be an unfinished project that had been started, then paused for the winter.
"It's a field," Ginny said dully. Her bum was starting to ache.
"Well observed," he sneered, circling the broom slowly over the dark expanse below. "Look closer, Weasley."
She furrowed her brow and really looked at the space. There was actually quite a bit of scaffolding, a skeleton of a large oval structure, with poles moving towards the sky and what looked like the beginnings of a halo of bleachers.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "It's an Olympic-sized Quidditch pitch!"
She felt his shoulders relax and imagined he was smiling. "Yes," he said over his shoulder. "We started it this past summer. I have big plans to reveal a professional premier-league Quidditch camp next year. The foundation children will learn to fly here, and the best of them will be groomed for professional recruitment."
Ginny gaped. The only other place in Britain where kids were ever recruited into professional Quidditch leagues was Hogwarts. She realized that she had never stopped to think about how little facilities were open to children who wanted to train from an early age; Draco was filling a gap that the Quidditch community never knew they needed.
"I don't know what to say," she replied after many moments of staring out at the soon-to-be stadium. "This is incredible, Draco." He turned his head towards his shoulder to look back at her and she was arrested by his long, clear gray eyes.
"You approve?" he asked quietly, his mouth close enough to her eyes that she could see the slight stubble along his jaw.
"Of course," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded and turned the broom around, heading back to the manor. Ginny turned her head, resting it against his warm, hard back, and watched the pitch disappear out of sight.
As he brought them in to land, he took them to the front door where she had first entered. He hovered close to the ground and she slid off the broom, miraculously not tripping over her stiletto heels. Draco hopped off his broom and dusted off his pants. With a wave of his hand, the expensive broom drifted off into the night.
"Thank you," she said quietly, gently sliding his suit jacket off her shoulders and holding it out to him. "I'm more than impressed. I hope that I'll be invited to watch the training when it starts. It's such fun to see the wee ones fumble on their brooms while they get their wings," she mused.
Draco reached for his jacket and casually threw it over his shoulder, holding it in place with a crooked finger. The way his eyes were searching his face, the way his brow was furrowed; it was as though he was weighing his next words carefully.
"What?" she asked, chewing on her lip nervously.
"You inspired the idea," he said calmly, walking closer, slowly, until he was only a few steps away. He was looking at her without a trace of malice or guardedness; the pulse at his throat appeared to be jumping.
"Excuse me?" she asked, confused. Surely, she hadn't heard that right.
"Do you remember, maybe five years ago, you had just started flying for the Harpies and we ran into each other at Wood's afterparty?" he looked a bit pained now, and trained his unreadable eyes over her head. "We got into that argument and I was an arse and told you that you cost your team the game?"
Ginny was floored. So he did remember. Not only did he remember, but there was remorse in his voice.
"Yes," Ginny replied, crossing her arms under her chest. Her voice was cool. "You were a total dick. Continue."
He smiled tightly and said, "I'll never forget what you said to me that night. About how if the stars didn't align for you time and time again you would have never been able to play Quidditch, let alone professionally. How despite your family's…lack of disposable income—" he finished politely, clearly straining to remain civil, "you managed to sneak into Quidditch clubs and watch them practice, then practice with your own hand-me-down malfunctioning broom—"
Ginny was reeling. She must have been quite tipsy and upset if she had detailed to Malfoy her unfortunate childhood circumstances in the middle of their fight. And she knew he was telling the truth because vague recollections of the interaction were coming back to her.
Fuck you, you arrogant toad, she hissed, slamming her hand on the bar beside her. Do you know how much I had to beg borrow and steal to practice Quidditch as early as I did? You had everything given to you, you would never know the embarrassment of trying out for one of the few ministry-subsidized spots at a Quidditch camp only to have a broom that belonged to your grandfather malfunction on you—and because of that you'll never know the pride and accomplishment of being where I am. How dare you tell me I should be put back onto reserve—
Now she remembered. She could tell he saw the remembrance flooding into her face. She looked down at her shoes. "I was drowning my sorrows in wine that night," was all she said, quietly.
"And I've been watching your games since then," he said, equally quietly, still looking at her steadily. Her heartbeat quickened. "You more than deserve to be the star of that team, Weasley. Your natural skill and dedication to the game are impossible to ignore." He shrunk the space between them by taking another step forward.
"I've been thinking about it for years," he said, stormy eyes trained on hers. "About how you rose above your circumstances thanks to your ambition and your resourcefulness. But it doesn't have to be like that; it shouldn't have to be such a fight for poor kids. I wanted to put measures in place that would even the playing field and make Quidditch a more accessible sport in Britain."
Ginny's head was reeling. She could not believe this was the same sneering little monster whose father bought the entire Slytherin team new brooms to secure his spot as seeker. She could not believe that he was moved enough by the differences in their childhood to take on an initiative like this.
Almost as if he was reading her mind, he said, "I have many years of hard work ahead of me to undo what my father did, to come back from what I almost became," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I am not ashamed of the Malfoy name, I never will be—I know the greatness my family has seen—and I intend to restore that greatness; to make it a name that is powerful not in the fear it strikes, but in its association to revolution, to reform—" he broke off suddenly. The night around them was eerily quiet. "I'm rambling. I'm sorry."
"No," Ginny said, reaching her hand out to touch him; but she thought better of it and it fall to her side again. "No, it's all just… very surprising to me. I'm just—processing everything."
"While you're processing," he began, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body. The front doors of the manor were wide open, and they were standing in the river of light that poured from the house. He was dangerously close to her and Ginny was very confused by his sudden switch in energy; he had just minutes ago been more vulnerable than she had ever seen him—now he seemed large, dominating. "You should know that since that argument at Wood's, you've crossed my mind outside of the Quidditch pitch too," he murmured.
He had dropped his mouth to her ear, his husky voice low and mesmerizing. Ginny was trying to grasp the meaning of his words but found herself painfully distracted by his breath tickling her earlobe. She was trying hard not to step away in fear—fear of the ache that was suddenly and acutely between her legs.
"I don't understand," she whispered, raising her head her look in his eyes, which were intensely focused on her, quickly darkening with desire. "You're implying I've been on your mind all this time—I haven't seen you for years—" she was cut off by the sound of his coat falling to the ground.
His large hands reached for her hips and pulled them towards his, quickly, and with a force she did not see coming. His fingertips dug into her tender skin, and she audibly gasped when she felt something long and hard press against her pelvis. He had not once broken eye contact with her.
"That night you told me off, I couldn't sleep—I kept seeing your eyes and lips and hair over and over again in the darkness," he hissed, dropping his mouth to the column of her neck. The sigh that escaped her lips surprised her. "Those fucking freckles," he added in a harsh whisper, sliding one hand up from her hip to her stomach, pausing for a second and then sliding up her torso to grasp her breast.
Ginny whimpered and clutched at his shoulders, her head falling back as he dipped her backwards to press hot, urgent, open-mouthed kisses to her neck. She was grasping for some clarity, but the reaction her body was having to him was unprecedented. In her haze of lust, she heard a moan—her own moan—and felt one large hand cup her arse cheek through her satin dress, while the other hand pushed the strap of her gown off her shoulder, fingertips brushing her hard nipple over the thin lace bra that covered it.
The searing arrow of ecstasy she felt as his calloused fingers teased her breast somehow jolted her back into reality. She opened her eyes and realized that he had managed to slip the top of her slinky dress down to her waist, and that he had her lower body pressed against his in the most scandalous position; all this, in front of the open doors of Malfoy Manor where hundreds of finely dressed people were milling about. Horrified at the thought of being caught in such a scene, she reached for her dignity through the fog of desire, the way one might reach for an outstretched hand in the thick mist.
"Draco," she gasped, putting both of her hands on her chest and pushing with all her might. Not having seen her objection coming, he stumbled back and looked at her with wide eyes. "What the fuck," she hissed.
In her clarity, she was becoming aware of the fact that despite it only being mere minutes ago that he began touching her, he had managed to grope and partially undress her in that time. And, she paused as she glared at him, pulling the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder, he had not actually even kissed her.
"What exactly was your intention," she whispered, feeling her face redden with anger and shame. "Were you going to just fuck me here outside the front door?" Her voice broke on the question.
Draco was rubbing his temples, eyes closed. He was flushed, his hair more disheveled than she had ever seen it. She could still see the evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. She quickly averted her gaze.
"Weasley—" he began, voice hoarse.
"Oh, so we're back to Weasley, are we?" she asked coldly.
"Ginny," he started again, opening his eyes. She could not read his expression at all. "I'm sorry—I don't know what I was thinking, losing control like that—I wasn't thinking—"
"Of course you weren't," she snapped, taking a step back. "You're so used to taking what you want—not caring who you step all over—"
A strange fire came into his eyes. "Step all over?" he asked lightly, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Were those not your moans I heard moments ago?" He spat the question at her. "Look. You don't understand how I've—"
Slap. Ginny had rushed up to him and slapped her open palm against his face, hard. His head turned with the impact. He held it there for a few seconds, looking stonily away from her. A red mark blossomed immediately.
"How dare you," she seethed. Rage was rising in her chest like a tidal wave. "How dare you use that against me when you're the one who lunged at me like an animal. Taking me to see the quidditch pitch and telling me I inspired you and how I had lingered in your mind—" she felt hot tears welling up in her eyes. "Then the second I let my guard down you just—paw at me, like one of your Quidditch groupies."
He was glaring at her. "You think I said those things to take advantage of you." It wasn't a question.
"Shut up," she spat, and gathered her dress in her hands. "I can't believe I almost fell for your little show. And to think that I—" she paused, drawing a gasping breath. She would not cry in front of him.
She walked quickly towards the doors, then stopped before she reached them. She turned to look at him. He had his back towards her, head tilted up to the sky.
"What would you have done," she called, voice clear and even. "What would you have done if I didn't stop you? Would you have spared my dignity? Or would you have used me right here on the spot and discarded me like every other woman you 'have fun with?'"
She waited a few seconds. She saw his shoulders tense but he didn't turn around. Setting her mouth in a firm line, she entered the house. She saw the ghost butler and asked for her cloak. Within a minute, she had apparated off the property, tears burning her eyes.
As Ginny undressed for bed that night, she saw the ghosts of small bruises blooming at her hips where he had pulled her to him. Her mind was completely blank; she could not, for the life of her, explain what had transpired that evening. Her mind, body and heart were fighting a terrible battle, each trying to take precedence over the other.
She had no clear thoughts, only a dull ache in her chest. The only thing she could see when she closed her eyes was Draco's silvery head, tipped up to the sky and awash in starlight.
A/N: this was an unexpectedly long one! Please don't hesitate to leave me your thoughts in a review! xo
