A/N: I'm churning out these chapters faster than anticipated! Thanks for all the nice reviews so far, friends. It's good to know people still carry a torch for Draco and Ginny! :)

Just a little note about this chapter: in it, I explore the pagan celebration of Beltane. I know that this is a real religion and a real holiday, celebrated by wonderful people all around the world. I tried to stay as accurate to the actual rites and traditions of Beltane, but I have taken some liberties here and there. I sincerely hope that this does not offend anyone; I am interested in the holiday and in paganism in general, my inclusion of it in the story line is intended to be a respectful one.

Hope you like the chapter folks! Please review, reviews keep me motivated to write. :)

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

Chapter V - part I

The damp chill of March gracefully made way for a wet and quiet April, which in turn blossomed into a moderately balmy May; small flowers cropped up all along the streets and people traded in their coats and cloaks for lighter fare. The sun peeked out between the clouds with more frequency, emboldened by the joyous greetings it received.

The last several weeks had slipped by without incident, uneventful and pensive for one Ginny Weasley. After long deliberation with her family and her Quidditch mentors, she decided to announce her siren song season with the Holyhead Harpies. Her coach was upset but understood, promising her that this would be the best year of her career; her manager bemoaningly told her that she could no longer handle the volume of fan mail she was suddenly receiving.

In general, Ginny was content, and looking forward to the next chapter of her life; she mused on what sort of work to look for post-retirement— she wanted to take a path that she would find both fulfilling and challenging. She was leaning heavily towards becoming a coach herself, or perhaps a talent scout for new recruits. But her last several years as a top player in the Premier Quidditch League Club had set her up quite nicely financially, so she was in no real rush to find work.

However, while a bow was wrapping neatly on her career, the pretty redhead was not at total ease.

Her last in-person encounter with Draco Malfoy was as fresh in her head today as it was the night he stood stoically in her bedroom, unfurling his dark past like a dusty tapestry. After many weeks of distance and perspective, Ginny found herself regretting how she had left things with him.

She felt foolish that she tried to hug him, tried to force him to explain what he thought she meant to him. She had told him that she wanted to be friends, and then immediately betrayed that declaration with her actions. How he recoiled and pushed her away, making it clear that this was not some temporary ailment, and that she should not dare to hope that she could change him. She felt silly, naive.

Despite her hot-faced embarrassment and the spiral of self-doubt she was in, the enigmatic Malfoy heir did in fact keep his promise to write.

A week after he disappeared from her flat, on a particularly sunny but cold afternoon, a solemn looking, small eagle appeared on her windowsill. He was holding a letter in his beak. Ginny knew immediately, with a pounding heart, that the note was from France. Only the French wizards used eagles in lieu of owls.

Ginny,

It's a bit overdue, but just wanted to let you know that I did not die a miserable death over the English Channel, and I am in fact alive and well in France. I am spending some time with Damien in Provence before heading to Paris. He sends his regards. (He actually asked me to send his "love" but I found that too revolting.)

I don't know where your head is at after our last meeting; to be honest I don't know where your head is at concerning me in general. But I hope you've managed to forgive me for that night at the manor.

If you meant what you said, I would be happy for your friendship.

Take care of yourself,

Draco Malfoy

Ginny had not been able to make heads or tails of the letter, despite reading it several times. It was just as ambiguous and devoid of emotion as the writer. Did he want her to write back? Was he actually happy to be just friends? Why couldn't he have said something just a bit more feeling, like "I wish it wasn't like this—I care for you"?

Because you ninny, he doesn't actually feel that way. You really are a little girl.

Ginny found herself smiling wryly when she thought of the night they had first reconnected, out on the dock on the dark river; she had said I know you don't have any feelings. Such irony.

After a few days, Ginny succumbed to her impulses and attempted to write a response. Not because she had anything she clearly wanted to say, but because she was compelled to find some way to stay close to him— despite her best efforts to distract herself, he was still plaguing her thoughts with his mercurial eyes.

Draco,

I was pleased to learn that all is well for you in France. I hear Provence is beautiful this time of year; maybe one day I will see it for myself. If you can stomach it, please send Damien my love as well.

I never did thank you for trusting me with this secret. I do forgive you. I think we could be friends; as much as two people who spend half the year apart in different countries could be friends.

Have a solid Quidditch season— I'll try to watch for your games when I can.

Yours,

Ginny Weasley

She had agonized for at least ten minutes before signing off with "yours". Was it too intimate? Did it betray the fact that she was, in fact, his? (His insofar that at practice earlier that day, the very handsome sports doctor, who for years Ginny had admired as a good-looking, smart, nice wizard, had shyly asked her if she'd join him for dinner one evening, now that she would no longer be his patient— she hadn't even heard his question because she was lost in thought about Draco.)

Letting out a hiss of exasperation, she signed the letter with the damned word and sent it off.

That had been several weeks ago, and she hadn't heard from Draco since.

Rationally, she knew that she had said nothing in her letter that warranted a response; still, she couldn't help feeling disappointed that he didn't try harder to keep their conversation going.

Ginny was in a grey area she'd never been in before; men either made it very clear that they were pursuing her and had feelings for her, or, they attempted to waste her time with a few dates before she cut them off. Almost thirty years old, she knew better than to pine for a man who wasn't interested in committing to her.

Draco was an exception, of course, for several reasons: primarily, she couldn't control her intense attraction— it was there with blazing force, too strong to be squashed by intellectualizing it away.

Also, she couldn't help but feel, though he did not say explicitly what he thought it meant, that he was sincere when he said he felt affected by her after their fight all those years ago.

A small voice in her head laughed coldly.

How highly you think of yourself Ginny, it mocked. You think you're more special than the rest? You're a vessel to him, like anyone else. You've always been easy prey to silver-tongued men.

She repressed a shudder, thinking of Tom, how she had ached for him and his approval in her childish longing. Even with the Dark Lord banished into the ether, Tom's greed continued to affect her—he had pulled any hope of a future with Draco down into hellfire with him.

"Ginny," Hermione laughed, "you could never be happy as a coach or a scouter."

"Why?" the redhead replied distractedly, looking up from the pile of Hawthorn flowers on the long harvest table before her. "I have all the experience I need to do either job fairly well, I think."

"No one is saying you wouldn't excel at either one, love," Hermione replied gently, twirling her wand idly as she flipped through the pages of the Daily Prophet.

She stopped and smiled at the picture of Ginny on the sports page of the newspaper; a large portrait of her mid-air, racing towards the goalpost with the quaffle under her arm. She had always liked that photo, taken of during a spirited match against the Tutshill Tornados. Her hair had come loose from its tie and was blowing out like a banner of fire beneath her helmet. The words emblazoned beneath the moving picture read 'TWO TIME FEMALE MVP GINNY WEASLEY ANNOUNCES HER FINAL SEASON IN PREMIER LEAGUE QUIDDITCH; BIG BROOM TO FILL FOR LAST YEARS CHAMPIONSHIP FINALISTS HOLYHEAD HARPIES.'

"I love this photo of you— you look like a warrior queen," Hermione mused out loud.

Ginny giggled. "Yeah, a warrior queen who went home that night and ate cold Chinese food in her underwear."

"We all have our creature comforts," the brunette replied sagely. "Anyway, all I meant was that I think you would spend your days distracted by how much you miss the flying and the actual thrill of competition. Why not find something not Quidditch-related?"

Ginny paused her snipping of the stems and looked at Hermione blankly.

"Quidditch is all I know," she said quietly. "I don't really have skills or expertise in anything else."

"You have plenty of skills," Hermione replied. "Like—"

Ginny waited, smiling. "Like?"

"It'll come to me," Hermione said sheepishly, becoming interested in a stray flower on the table. She changed the subject. "Are you making a mayflower crown for Beltane?"

"Yes," Ginny said, not offering any more information.

In the British wizarding world, spirituality was extremely private to the individual witch or wizard. No one dared ask someone else what their religious views were; whether you were a staunch student of magical science (like Hermione was) or a believer in pagan witchcraft (like Ginny), your beliefs and opinions were your own and not up for discussion or debate.

Ginny knew that Hermione didn't observe the Old Ways and put absolutely no stock in "unscientific" magic. However, she never once tried to belittle Ginny's participation in ritualistic Old Calendar holidays, and always made sure that she wished Ginny a happy Beltane or Samhain, whatever the case may be. Hermione was nothing if not democratic to her core.

Ginny had started attending the Beltane fires when she was just a little girl, hand-in-hand with her mother Molly and her aunt Margaret. While the Weasleys as a family were not particularly spiritual, the Prewett's, Ginnys maternal side of the family, were devoted to the Old Ways of worship. Molly had felt she was too old to attend the bonfires in the last several years, but she always made sure to visit Ginny with homemade fried honey cakes and honey mead, which were traditional social offerings during the Beltane season.

It also happened to be Ginny's favourite celebration. For the past three years, Ginny had gone with Luna Lovegood instead of her mother; it wasn't that Luna was particularly spiritual or devoted, but she was always keen to join in the revelry and ancient magic of the evening.

Beltane celebrated the fertility of spring, and the abundance of the coming summer. Every year she would pack a bag and fly up to the bonfires in the deep woods along the west coast of Scotland; hundreds were always present for a long night of dancing and fire jumping, merry-making til the sun broke over the highlands. Even now, sitting at her kitchen table in London, she felt the anticipatory thrumming in her veins, the drums beating loudly in her head.

"It's beautiful," Hermione murmured, drawing her out of her reverie. She picked up a Hawthorn flower and smelled it gently.

Her crown was coming together well, deftly woven with her experienced fingers. Her aunt Margaret, long departed from this world, had patiently taught her how to weave a Mayflower garland when Ginny was only a little girl. Around this time of year, she thought of her aunt's wise, kind eyes often.

Ginny had just placed the crown on her head to test the fit, when suddenly a small fire sprang to life in her floo. Both women turned quickly to see the flames turn white— meaning a delivery was on its way.

"Delivery from Enchanted Blooms London for Ginny Weasley on route. Does the recipient accept?" The cool, disembodied female asked the room.

"Er, sure," Ginny said, raising her eyebrows at Hermione.

"That's a very expensive flower shop," Hermione murmured, widening her clever eyes in intrigue. "Ginny! Are you seeing somebody?"

"No!" she laughed. "Not even a little bit. Well, I did accept a date with the cute Harpies mediwizard for next week..."

Her sister-in-law clapped her hands excitedly. "Maybe they're from him!"

"Maybe..." Ginny trailed off, picking up her garland and inspecting it. "Doesn't seem like his style though."

Seconds later, there was a sharp knock at the door. She unlocked it to find a house elf holding a delft-painted porcelain vase boasting a stunning, heavy bouquet of rich, artfully arranged blue flowers. The elf seemed to be teetering under the weight of it.

"Delivery for Ginevra Weasley," the small creature squeaked, dramatically thrusting the blooms at her.

"Oh, thank you," she said with surprise, taking the vase carefully from him.

"Merlin, what an arrangement," Hermione breathed, coming over to the door after Ginny closed it. "Cornflowers. The colour is...otherworldly."

It was an apt description, Ginny thought. The blue was electric, mesmerizing— they looked like they cost a small fortune.

"There's a card!" Hermione said excitedly. "Open it!"

Ginny put the enchanting flowers down on her table and studied them. They looked exceptionally at home in her eclectic apartment—as if the sender knew that traditional red roses would never suit her or the space she lived in.

The other girl came to look over her shoulder as Ginny tore open the envelope and read the message.

Always leave them laughing, as they say. Well done. Congratulations on your retirement.

-DM

"Ginny," Hermione gasped, snatching the card out of her hand. "Malfoy sent you these flowers?"

"Hey!" she cried, blushing furiously, reaching for the card that Hermione was reading. "Hermione—give that back!"

Hermione read it one more time with eyebrows raised, before she held it out to her with a smug look on her face. Ginny snatched it back furtively.

"You told me nothing ever came of your little flirtation with Draco," she said, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. "This," she gestured towards the very large, very undeniable arrangement of flowers, "is not nothing."

"I promise, Hermione," she lied, her face still aflame, "I told you—we just had some pleasant chat at the ball and that was it. I haven't seen him since."

When Hermione had finally managed to corner Ginny at one of the Weasley brunch gatherings several weeks ago, shortly after Malfoy's last visit, she had grilled the younger girl for long-awaited details. Ginny had lied through her teeth; while she did tell Hermione that they had gone for a cozy ride on his broom to see the Quidditch pitch being built, she completely omitted the part where he nearly seduced her on the front lawn. She also made no mention of his visit to her apartment, and certainly did not betray his dark confession to her that night. While she enjoyed gossip as much as the next person, she had always known where to draw the line with other people's secrets.

If Hermione seemed dubious a few weeks ago when Ginny had first insisted nothing had happened, she was downright suspicious now.

"Ginny," she began, walking over to the flowers and pointing at them as though they were a suspect under investigation. "I work with Malfoy fairly regularly. I have never received flowers from him on any occasion—not when I gave birth to Rose or Hugo; not when I received the bloody Order of bloody Merlin—" she laughed, shaking her head firmly. "No, no, Ginny—he fancies you."

"No, Hermione," she sighed. "He doesn't."

Ginny's head was starting to hurt. She had never in her adult life wanted to tell anyone a secret as badly as she wanted to tell Hermione what Draco told her.

"He does," she pressed, looking annoyed. "Ginny, I can't claim to know Malfoy as well as a close friend might know him, but I do know that he never bothers with gestures or notes or sentiment—"

"He just wants to sleep with me," Ginny said dully, rubbing her forehead.

Hermione paused. "I think it's more than that," she began softly.

"It's not," Ginny interrupted, irritability. "I can just tell."

The older witch looked unconvinced. There was a minute of silence while she stared at the flowers.

"Y'know," Hermione began softly, "the Malfoys are one of those ancient families that would have held onto arcane traditions like sending messages hidden in the language of flowers."

"The language of flowers?" Ginny repeated, perplexed.

"Yes," Hermione replied, tapping her lip thoughtfully. "Back in the dark ages, it was popular to give a specific flower when you wanted to convey a specific message, whether it was good news or bad news, a declaration of romance or rejection, a peace treaty, a death in the family, and so on…" she trailed off. "The practice of it died out amongst the common folk, but the nobility held onto it well into the Edwardian era and beyond."

Hermione peered at the cornflowers closely, as though they would start spilling their secrets. "These flowers are beautiful, yes, but they're far too specific. Why would he have gone out of his way to get cornflowers, of all things? They're not even in season."

She turned to Ginny, her eyes wide and wild. "Can I use your Floo?"

Before Ginny could nod—dazed as she always was when her sister-in-law displayed the depth of her knowledge and deductive reasoning—she had stuck her head in the fire.

You could never properly hear a Floo conversation if your head was not actually in the grate, but Ginny realized that Hermione had floo'd her brother, because she heard her asking Ron to fetch something. A minute later, more questions, then Hermione saying something impatiently.

A few minutes later, Hermione pulled her head out of the Floo. She shook some ash out of her hair but missed the smudge of soot that remained on her forehead.

"I remembered I had a book at home about old methods of magical communication, and it had a long chapter on the ancient language of flowers," she explained. "I asked Ron to find it and look up the part about cornflowers."

"And?" Ginny asked, feigning cool disinterest while attempting to quell the hope bubbling up within her.

"Well, after hearing the answer I think it's safe to say I was mistaken that he sent them to communicate a hidden message," she sighed, rubbing at a spot of soot on her shirt. "The book says that cornflowers were sent to convey the sentiment 'I am bound by another contract'; they were usually sent by prisoners or slaves to their loved ones." Hermione looked up at Ginny and frowned. "That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"

Ginny looked at the vibrant flowers, glowing radiantly in the fading light of the sun falling through her window.

"No," she lied. "It doesn't mean anything to me at all."

That night, Ginny dreamt; if someone had been in the room watching her, they would have seen the petite woman turning fitfully in her sleep, growing more and more damp with each passing moment, sweat soaking through her sheets and matting the tendrils of copper hair to her pale face.

And this is what she dreamed:

She was at the Beltane Bonfire—it was her favourite festival, in her favourite place. She was half-way through her seventeenth year, on the cusp of graduating from Hogwarts. The end of the war was a not-so distant memory; her and Harry had broken up, as amicably as these things could happen, a few weeks prior.

The first Beltane in the aftermath of the war was cause for frenzied celebration, and that was exactly what she was in the middle of, in the firelit, damp woods.

Ginny had wandered away from her mother and aunt who were deep in boring gossip with two other witches. Around them, hundreds of revelers sang and danced and drank with great merriment; musicians played fiddles and flutes and beat drums to a jaunty Scottish folk tune that Ginny loved. Unnoticed, she slipped away to get a better view of the fire jumping.

The fire jumping was a necessary event at the Beltane bonfires, and probably the most entertaining part of the evening. Dozens of young (and not so young) wizards (and a few witches) would line up to take turns to see who could jump the highest over the main fire, which always grew taller and taller as the night progressed. Moving through the crowd and reaching the front to get a better look, she could see that now, the licks of flame were as high as the tops of her thighs.

She turned to admire the line of young men waiting for their turn to jump—they were a blush-inducing sight: long, lean, sinewy bare torsos gleaming with sweat from exertion and their proximity to the fire. Young men, some her age, most a bit older, laughing and whooping with their hair falling boyishly into their eyes. Many of them wore masks, which was also a common sight—masks of leafy oak leaves that covered the entirety of their face and hair, only their eyes visible, foliage brushing their strong shoulders. The sight was wildly pagan, debaucherous, and aroused in Ginny's belly a dangerous heat. It was a very precarious situation for a pretty girl of seventeen.

She noticed some of the boys looking at her with flirtatious eyes, subtly nudging each other to look in her direction. She made sure to keep her gaze trained on the fire, hoping none nobody would notice her blushing. It was only recently, on the cusp of graduating from Hogwarts, that Ginny had come to terms with, and believed, the fact that she was an exceptionally pretty girl.

Each boy took his turn jumping over the fire; some did it moderately gracefully, others clumsily; others actually fell into the fire and had to be immediately doused with a magical solution by a nearby, harried-looking mediwitch. The crowd roared with laughter or approval at each jump.

Some of the older, more confident boys cast sidelong glances at Ginny after they completed their turn, looking to see if she had noticed. She thought the attention was entirely ridiculous, though it was of course, entirely flattering. She wished that she had the nerve to smile back at one of them. Somewhere along the path of her short-lived romance and subsequent break-up with Harry, in the aftermath of the war, she had lost some of the bravado she had possessed in her early teens.

She turned to look at the last boy left to jump. He stood a good distance from the fire, directly across from her line of vision; through the smoky haze, she could only tell that he was rather tall, with lean, muscular arms. His bare chest was pale in the moonlight; he wore a headmask of oak leaves like some of the other boys.

As he poised himself to jump, crouching low to the ground like a wolf, something strange happened to Ginny. It was almost as if the breeze stilled to a halt; the sound of the music and laughter that surrounded her became muted, like she was underwater. All she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears; her vision had darkened, narrowing to only the young man who was now running intently towards the fire—towards her, as though through the flames.

He leapt, his arms thrusting into the air and lithe, long legs askew as he sailed across the fire on his side; the underside of his thigh, clothed in black pants, only barely grazed the fire. He landed, not completely gracefully, on his feet a few inches from Ginny.

On his impact, her world came back into sharp focus. She could hear the loud cheers of the crowd around her—his had clearly been the most successful jump—and she could see that the masked boy who rose from his crouch was at least a head taller than her.

Her eyes first saw the silver belt buckle, in the form of the ouroboros; the serpent swallowing its own tail. It sat below his slim, pointed hip bones. Her gaze moved, transfixed, up his body, taking in the taut, hard stomach with the line of pale blonde hair up to his navel, the broad chest and shoulders, glowing with a sheen of sweat. A gold chain with a small, blood-red garnet stone hung against the pallor of his elegant neck. The large headdress hid his face from view completely, but his cool, calculating eyes looked so familiar to Ginny that they unnerved her; had she seen them somewhere before? They were the colour of a silver coin seen through dark water.

Silhouetted against the blazing fire that raged behind him, he looked like something ancient and ethereal; his body, damp with sweat, loomed over Ginny and she felt her knees nearly buckle beneath her from the intensity of his gaze.

He came to stand a few inches closer to her. She was vaguely aware of the crowd falling silent, watching them intently. Perhaps they were as mesmerized by him as she was.

The mysterious boy reached for something at his hip. Ginny saw, through the haze of heat that seemed to be slowing her thoughts to molasses, that he was deftly untying a ribbon that had been pulled through one of his belt loops. She barely saw it before he removed it, but she noted it was the most beautiful shade of green.

Wordlessly, he reached for her hand and raised it to the small space between them. She couldn't suppress the tremble that moved through her when he touched her. He quickly looped the ribbon twice around her wrist and tied it in a bow. Though she could only see his eyes, she saw his smile in his steady gaze when he looked at her.

Through the hushed silence of the crowd, a voice cut through the night.

"The May King has marked his May Queen!"

Ginny turned, heart racing, to look at the old, weathered witch who had spoken with such authority. The crowds parted for her. She immediately recognized her as one of the Elders of these woods; she had been present at every Beltane celebration that Ginny could remember. Her Scottish lilt was strong. She wore long black robes and a heavy pendant of glass against her chest. She approached the young strangers and peered sharply into their faces.

"The Goddess smiles upon us tonight," she murmured, clutching the orb she wore on a chain. "The Old Ways are alive; a union of these most ancient houses would be a blessing upon the year to come."

Whispers spread like wildfire amongst the crowd. Somewhere behind her, she heard her mother's voice. She looked up into the eyes of the man before her, who stood still as a statue; in his eyes, she read a most perplexing mixture of desire and fear.

Neither of them had uttered a word.

A group of masked boys, of similar build to him, and likely of similar age, gathered around him with shouts of masculine approval. He seemed taken aback to be swept up and hoisted on their shoulders. The crowd once again began to whoop and clap, and a song that Ginny had never heard broke out amongst the musicians. As he was carried away, he broke eye contact with her and whatever spell Ginny was under came undone.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned to see her mother looking at her with wide, over-bright eyes, as though she was on the verge of tears. A sad smile played at the corner of her mouth.

"Ginny," Molly said, stepping away from her aunt, who also had a bittersweet smile on her face. "Darling, I'm sorry I wasn't paying more attention to you. Are you ok?"

Ginny took a moment to answer. "I think so," she said, barely recovered from what felt like a tornado of energy around her. "What just happened?"

Molly smiled at her daughter and Ginny could now see for certain the tears in her eyes.

"Oh my dear," she said, her voice breaking. "I can hardly begin to explain what it means to be marked as the May Queen by an Elder of these Woods." She patted her daughter's hand. "The blood of the house of Prewett runs through your veins even more deeply than I suspected."

The confusion must have shown on Ginny's face because her mother tutted.

"I will explain everything to you when we're home, alone," she reassured her daughter, dabbing at her eyes. "Maybe don't mention this to your father," she added, leaning forwards to whisper in her ear conspiratorially. It was the first and only time her mother had ever encouraged her to keep a secret from her father.

"Mum, do you mind if I go say goodbye to—" she paused. "To the boy who gave me this?" She held up her wrist where he had tied his favour.

Molly drew a deep breath. "Go. But Ginny—" her mother caught at her hand as she turned to leave. "If he…if he…"

"Yes?" Ginny had never in her life seen her mother so flustered and embarrassed.

"Remember that you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You can say no. I will be waiting right here by this tree with your aunt to take you home." She was wringing her hands with worry, the way she might have done on those nights Ginny found her up late, staring out the window, thinking of the trouble her boys were getting into.

"Say no?" Ginny echoed, feeling deeply unnerved by her mother's ominous warning and obvious discomfort. "What would I say no to?"

Her mother smiled tightly. "Just go say your goodbyes, my love."

It didn't take long for Ginny to pick him out of the crowd; he was a bit taller than most of the men there, and the flashing silver of his serpent belt caught the firelight whenever he moved. He was drinking what appeared to be a glass of mead while leaning casually against a tree, surrounded by other masked fire jumpers. From the way he stood, and the air of lazy confidence he carried, it was clear that he was the leader of the group of boys that surrounded him.

She wasn't sure how, but even from a distance, she could tell that he had seen her as well. He said something quickly to his friends— she couldn't hear him from this distance— and walked away from them into the darkness of the forest. Ginny quickened her pace so not to not lose him.

When she entered the grove where she had seen him disappear, the first thing she noted was the deep, earthy smell of peat and the damp after-rain smell of the woods. It filled her senses with its smokiness and made her feel drugged; it tickled a part of Ginny's mind that felt like it had been sleeping. A memory perhaps? No— something older than a memory.

She stood still, looking up at the canopy of trees, behind which the stars could barely be seen. If not for the enormous light of the blazing bonfire nearby, she would be in complete darkness.

She heard a branch snap somewhere to her left; she turned to see him standing between two trees.

Feeling rooted to the spot, unable to move, Ginny tried to smile.

"Hi," she murmured.

The unidentified boy, her May King, stayed silent. He walked towards her, moving with slow, aloof steps—unhurried, almost arrogant. Ginny felt more and more, with each second that passed, that she had seen this walk—seen these eyes.

She noticed, where she hadn't before, that a bandage was wrapped around his forearm; it appeared to be crusted with old blood on the underside.

He finally came to stand before her, tantalizingly close; enough that she could reach out and touch him, though she kept her arms firmly at her sides.

"Your arm," she whispered; her voice was failing her. She inhaled his heady male scent, the smell of sweat and peat smoke, and it was dizzyingly arousing. The firelight in the distance was casting a warm play of light and shadow across his bare chest; she saw the lean muscles moving under his skin as he took another step closer to her with wolf-like movements.

She stopped breathing altogether when he lightly touched her waist; at that moment, she knew, like a key into a lock, exactly what her mother had meant when she told her she could say no.

Her silent suitor continued to look down at her, and she could see the controlled desire in his eyes. His gentle touch at her waist had become a firm grasp with both hands, his thumbs tracing the bottom of her ribs. He was very slowly walking her backwards, she realized, when she felt her shoulders graze the rough bark of the tree that she was now gently pinned against.

You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You can say no, her mother had said.

When she felt the sharp, exquisite ache of desire between her legs, she knew without a doubt that she did not want to say no. She lightly rested her hands on his shoulders, flexing her fingers there, savouring the raw strength that seemed to course through him.

His hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration of her sides and her hips. She felt herself sigh and looked down; there was less than an inch of space between them. His pale skin against her whiter dress, the snake gleaming below his defined stomach, his large hands slowly, so slowly, raising her skirt.

She looked up into his eyes; they were burning with an urgent, unasked question. There was some hesitation in his movements.

Will you let me, his desire-darkened eyes were asking.

They were heavy lidded, transfixed. Ginny felt her arousal almost completely dampen the modest knickers she wore. She wanted to ask him to take off his headdress, so she could see his face, so she could kiss him—but an animal, savage part of her she had never met—didn't wait to speak, didn't want to break the spell. She wanted to succumb to the frenzied desire that was moving through her body unbridled.

She felt herself smile, inexplicably, in a way that was probably more wanton that she had ever smiled before. She reached for his belt and softly tugged, urging him closer. It was all the confirmation he needed.

In a swift movement, he had reached down and grabbed both her thighs, raising and pinning her against the tree as though she weighed nothing. Instinctively, she wrapped her slim legs around his waist; her light spring dress had risen and gathered between them. She heard him hiss with pleasure behind his mask, as his hardness met her soft body.

She felt one of his hands tighten on her thigh to support her weight, while the other hand confidently reached between their bodies to touch Ginny where she was most aching for his touch.

She bit her lip to stifle the moan that tore from her mouth as his deft fingers pushed aside the material of her knickers to slide teasingly against her. She was embarrassingly ready for him, but grew even more aroused when she heard the feral growl low in his throat, clearly pleased by what he found between her legs.

"God, you're wet," he said breathlessly, muffled by his mask, his voice hoarse. It was the first time he spoke. If Ginny had not been in the fog of lust and abandon that was currently consuming her, she might have noticed that his voice was not unfamiliar to her.

"It feels like I'll die if I don't fuck you," he whispered urgently into her ear. His fingers were now moving inside of her in a slow, maddening rhythm; his thumb very gently brushed the sensitive bundle of nerves that had been screaming for his touch. She moaned and her head fell to his shoulder.

He stopped his torturing of her for only a moment to reach up and pull her dress roughly off her shoulders. The fabric fell away from her bare breasts and he cupped one possessively, pulling at her nipples with his fingers.

She moaned again and again, the sound filling the woods like a heathen waterfall. He seemed to sense that she was close because his hand returned to its ministrations between her legs. This time he swiftly brought her to an earth-shattering climax, and she stifled her scream against his neck.

After the waves of exquisite orgasm subsided, she raised her head and let it fall back against the tree. He slowly lowered her to the ground; she stood shakily on her feet, clutching at his arms to steady herself. They were both breathing heavily, foreheads almost touching.

Her dress was still pooled around her waist; she pressed against him feverishly and reached for his buckle, fumbling with the clasp. He chuckled low in his throat, amused by her attempt to undress him. She saw desire and laughter—and some smugness—in his eyes, which peeked out between the leaves that obscured his face.

"I've never," she began shyly, finally managing to undo antique-looking buckle, "—um, never actually gotten to this part." She looked up at him. She hoped he understood her meaning.

She felt his body stiffen; he grabbed her hands and stilled them where they were unbuttoning his trousers. His eyes betrayed genuine surprise. He cocked his head to the side inquisitively.

"I'm still-" she whispered, looking down at his pale, long-fingered hands where they had encircled her wrist. "I've never had sex," she finished, biting her lip.

His exhaled a long breath, his expressive eyes somehow softening and darkening at the same time. He was quiet for what felt like several minutes.

"Can you say something?" she finally snapped, the spell of moment broken. She had pulled her dress back up to cover her breasts several moments ago, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

"I can't take your virginity," he said hoarsely.

"Why not," she said, crossing her arms and trying not to feel slighted. "I'm seventeen, I can think for myself and I want this."

He began to do up the buckle on his belt, shaking his head.

"I can't," he said coolly. He raised his head, clad in the headmask; some leaves fell gently to the ground.

Ginny tried to fight the tears that were welling in her eyes. She felt ashamed, rejected.

"Just because I'm inexperienced—"

"No," he said, more gently now; he closed the distance between them again and raised his hand to curl a tendril of her red hair around his fingers. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I want to. Look at you." His voice was a caress that made her shiver. "But you deserve better than to be taken here on the forest floor."

"But—" she began, wanting to tell him that she couldn't think of a better way to lose her virginity if she tried.

"I have to go," he stepped away, slowly walking backwards, hands in his pockets.

"I won't ever forget this night. Thank you, Ginny Weasley."

He apparated away.

It wasn't until she had reached her mother, whose eyes she couldn't meet, that she realized she had never actually told him her name.

When Ginny awoke from her dream, she lay in bed, unmoving, staring at the ceiling for a long time. She felt a terrible headache coming on. She did not, as she usually did after such a vivid dream, reach for her vision journal. She felt no need.

That hadn't felt like a dream; it felt like a memory.

When she finally managed to mobilize herself and stand on her shaking legs, she felt as though she was about to faint. She walked in a daze to her bathroom, nearly falling once, and gazed at her haunted eyes in the mirror. She was covered in sweat; she felt as though she had a fever. Her head was splitting from a migraine that was coming on in full force.

Frantically turning on her tap, she washed her face in ice cold water for longer than was necessary.

Her headache felt unnatural, more than just physical; somehow, it felt like it was a psychic headache. Was there such a thing?

Her heart was racing; between the excruciating pain that felt like it was going to split her head open, and the waves of horror lapping at her feet from the dream-turned-memory, she felt the bile rise into her throat.

She fell to her knees in front of lavatory and was violently sick.

Within minutes, relief from the headache washed over her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leant her head back against the cold porcelain. The racing of her heart had slowed, but she was still shaking from what felt like a near-death experience.

Free from the vice grip that was her migraine, she stared into space, turning the dream over in her head like it was a curious object she found in a shop.

She knew, inherently, inexplicably, that what she saw in her sleep was not a normal dream; something was tapping at the peripheries of her unconscious, like a hook tugging at something unseen below dark water. It the feeling of knowing there was something important you were meant to do but forgot, amplified threefold.

She did the only thing she could do, helpless on the bathroom floor—she tried to remember what she did on the Beltane of her seventeenth year. It had been over ten years ago, so it was like digging through fine, shifting black sand.

The year Fred and George came and put fireworks in the bonfire—no, that had been when she was nineteen.

The year she caught Luna snogging a boy in the trees—not that year either—that was after her twentieth birthday.

The year Molly scolded her for drinking too much mead and throwing up in the woods—nope. Sixteen.

The year that she invited Harry but he declined—they broke up a few weeks later—yes—yes, seventeen.

She cast her mind back to the memory. She had invited Harry as a last-ditch effort to spend some time with him, to try to feel close to him again; it had felt forced, strained. She was secretly relieved when he said no.

She knew she went that year. But when she strained to see the evening, how it had actually went, what events transpired—it was filled only with visions from her dream. The line of boys at the fire; the lithe one, her May King; the serpent belt at his hips and the warmth of the fire on his chest.

No, that couldn't be right. She screwed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, willing the real memory of the Beltane Bonfire that year to come to the surface. But all that came to her were more visions from her dream.

His hands on her hips, and then between her legs; the feel of the bark on her back; her bare breasts against his bare chest; her screaming climax as she bit down against his neck.

Tears sprang into Ginny's eyes. What was happening to her? Were these her real memories? Why was this the first time she had ever thought of them? She had from time to time in the last ten years thought back on all of her sexual and intimate encounters, especially recently; this particularly important one didn't exist in her mind before now.

No, she thought firmly, desperately. It had to have just been a vivid, hyper-real dream. She decided she would visit Luna tomorrow to talk to her about it. Luna was always the best person to talk to about her dreams.

After what felt like an hour, she peeled herself off the bathroom floor and ran a shower. She tried to clear her mind, taking long, deep, slow breaths the entire time. By the time she was done, she felt distanced from the panic that had consumed her earlier.

With a cozy towel wrapped around her, she began to brush her wet hair out. She thought perhaps she would let it dry in a braid, to give it some wave. She opened her bathroom drawer and pulled out an elastic, which she gripped in her teeth as she smoothed out her hair and began to braid.

She looked down from her reflection with the intent to push the drawer shut with her knee; what she saw there made her blood run cold. The hair tie fell out from between her teeth as she gaped.

Letting her hair fall, she felt her mouth go completely dry. The offending object was so innocent, and yet it made Ginny feel like her entire reality was crumbling around her.

A scrap of fabric; a long velvet ribbon in a deep hue of olive green. The last time she had seen it, it had been tied around her throat as a choker necklace— at the Qudditch after-party on the Thames, where Draco gave her his coat.

No, she thought. The last time you saw it was an hour ago in your dream.

It was the favour her May King tied around her wrist.

Ginny reached for it as tentatively as if it had been a snake poised to bite her. Curling it around her fingers, she stared. She must have worn this ribbon almost a hundred times; to parties, to bonfire nights, even to brunch with Hermione. It was one of her favourite accessories.

But when Ginny tried to remember where she first got it from, the very first time she laid eyes on it—she could not recall the actual memory. She could only see the strong, slim fingers that had tied it around her wrist in the shadow of a raging fire.

The voice of the old witch from her dream rang through her head like an ancient bell: The Old Ways are alive.

Ginny felt as though she was going crazy. She looked down at her towel, at the objects around her bathroom, clawing for some semblance of normalcy.

I bought this towel at a sale in Diagon Alley; and Angelina gifted me that perfume two years ago; I purchased that poster at a flea market in Paris; I discovered this mascara at one of those muggle drugstores with Luna—

I got this ribbon when—

But nothing came to her, save for that evening by the Beltane Fire, clear as a moving photograph. It was like her actual memory had been taken and replaced with the one from her dream. Unless—

Unless it was the actual memory.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Did this ribbon just materialize into her life? Should she check herself into St. Mungo's?

She did the only thing she felt she had the strength to do at that moment: she dropped her towel and crawled into her bed, curling under the heavy duvet. She closed her eyes and felt the tears come, the long green ribbon still clutched in her hand.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts, friends. I've really enjoyed reading every single one of your comments!