A/N: Hi friends! Sorry there's been such a delay with this chapter. Boring real-life stuff always seems to eat up my time and energy. I've been motivated by the reviews I've received of late so thank you to everyone who put a fire under my butt to keep me going—your words make it all worthwhile and I love you guys. Hope you enjoy this chapter, which is meant to be the second part of chapter five. I've already started writing chapter six—I just have to make time to finish it! Wish me luck 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

Chapter V – part II


Ginny spent the entirety of that day and night in her bed.

The last time she had been missing chunks of her memory, it had been a result of the darkest, most sinister magic imaginable. Anyone in her position would have felt like they were going crazy; for Ginny, that feeling was amplified by the childhood trauma of Tom's possession of her.

She tossed and turned in bed for what had felt like hours, staring at the ceiling blankly. Sometimes she cried, feeling helpless and lost at sea; other times she screamed into her pillow, enraged by the possibilities swirling through her head. She did not eat once that day, and only got out of bed to get a glass of water. Somehow, she felt that if she stayed contained within the walls of her flat—or even better, resigned to her bed—she could keep a grip on reality.

She watched the sun set with puffy eyes from underneath her blanket. The only time her anxiety eased even slightly regarding this memory—for she had no choice but to call it a memory now—was when she stopped to think about the memory itself.

She felt that she should be angrier or feel more violated; she had been only seventeen, and she hadn't even seen his face. But there was absolutely no denying to herself that she had wanted him and given her consent. She knew that she had not felt unsafe; in fact, the memory of his body heat and his scent and the sheer strength of his hands where they held her—she had never felt safer or more worshipped in her life.

She closed her eyes and felt her body ache from the heat of the imagery unfurling in her mind. He had touched her with a deftness and passion that made her long for him, even now; him, this forgotten ghost from her past—this young man without a face. She realized, at some point that day, that if the memory was in fact real—it had actually been the single most erotic encounter of her life.

Fast forward ten years, she now long-knew the implications of what it had meant to be the May King and Queen. The rites of the Old Ways were often ripe with symbolism, and the two youths selected by the Crone to fill these roles were meant to be a representation of the marriage of the God and Goddess, their union an ancient incantation for the fertility of the land.

In modern times, the "union" part of the ritual was mostly symbolic, and the youthful pagans would simply dance together, or maybe exchange a kiss to the cheers of the crowd around them. But in ancient rites—in the oldest religious texts of the Gaelic and Celtic wizarding world—the union was much more intimate, much more literal.

Ginny shuddered. That was why her mother had been so upset that night; why she had wrung her hands with worry and warning. She thought that this boy might try to force himself on her, to use the excuse of a sacred rite to do what all untrustworthy teenage boys do—take advantage of naïve young women.

At the thought of her mother, another thread began to gently loosen itself in her mind. Ginny very slowly sat up in bed. She knew, with a sinking weight in her stomach, that her mother was the only person who could shed light on what had actually happened that Beltane night a decade ago. And she suspected, if the unpleasant tickle of rage that was prickling her skin was anything to go by, that she would not like what she would hear.


When Ginny dismounted her broom in front of the Burrow, she felt sick to her stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the queasiness of the last 24 hours. She had become emboldened in her suspicions regarding the gap in her memory. She wasn't sure how she knew, but a powerful feeling of intuition, or perhaps even memory, led her straight to her mother's doorstep for what she was sure was going to be a deeply unpleasant confrontation.

As she approached the door of her childhood home, she could see through the window a periwinkle blue springtime cloak hanging in the foyer. Hermione was here. Her heart lurched.

At first, she thought to turn back. This wasn't the conversation to have in the presence of her sister-in-law—her mother would be mortified and Hermione would insist she see a doctor. But then again, she thought, it might be useful to have the clever witch present. Steeling herself, she knocked once on the door before pushing it open.

The door made a familiar creak. From inside, she could hear a murmur of female voices.

"Mum," Ginny called. "Hermione?"

Her mother's loving, flushed face came into view as she wiped her small capable hands on her floral apron. They appeared to be covered in baking flour.

"My love," Molly exclaimed, enveloping her in a hug. Ginny stood there stiffly. "Hermione is here— I've decided to teach her how to make the Yorkshire Pudding that Ron and the children like so much."

"Lucky Hermione," she replied, without enthusiasm. She pulled off her jumper and smoothed down the T-shirt below it. Now that she wasn't flying, she was quickly overheating in the stuffy house. "Can I have a glass of water?"

"Of course!" Her mother ushered her into the kitchen, where she found Hermione frowning at some dough she was inexpertly kneading. She was even more dusted in flour than Molly was.

"Looks like it's going well," said Ginny mildly, coming up behind her.

"I can't be brilliant at everything right away," Hermione sniffed haughtily.

Ginny feigned shock. "No. I don't believe it!"

"Oh shut it," the brunette snapped, but still turned to smile at her. "Nice to see you Gin. Surprise visit to see your mum?"

"Er, sure," Ginny paused before she leant in close to whisper conspiratorially: "Hermione. This next bit might be unpleasant. I'm sorry."

Hermione's eyes widened in confusion as Molly came closer carrying a glass of water.

"Ginny my love here's your water, can I make you a ham sand—"

"Mum," Ginny started, crossing her arms and looking straight into Molly's eyes. "Did you obliviate my memories of the Beltane bonfire ten years ago?"

The small glass of water Molly was carrying fell out of her hand and immediately shattered into a hundred small pieces. Her face was completely white, and her mouth went slack. She looked like she was about to faint.

Hermione gasped and pulled out her wand, casting a fast, silent spell that banished the shards into a nearby bin.

"Ginny," Hermione hissed, walking over to Molly and curling an arm around her shoulder. "That's a very dangerous accusation. What are you—"

Molly shrugged Hermione's arm off like it burned her. "Why are you asking me this?" she whispered, her eyes immediately welling with tears that threatened to spill onto her red cheeks. Ginny, who hated more than anything in this world to see her mother cry, braced herself.

"Answer the question mother," she said coldly.

"Ginny—" Hermione tried to interrupt, coming forward.

"Shouldn't we talk about this privately?" Molly whispered. She was now clutching her apron and wringing it in her hands like it was life support. It genuinely made Ginny's heart hurt to see her mother so upset, but she felt the need to push through, like biting down on a broken tooth.

"Hermione is family," Ginny said flatly. "She'll stay here."

"Ginny—" Hermione said again. But the redhead glared at her so coldly that the words clearly died on her lips. She moved to stand a little behind Molly and was looking between the mother and daughter in clear confusion.

Molly let out a gasp, somewhere between a sigh and a sob, and sat heavily on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. She buried her head in her hands and began to howl with misery.

"Mother," Ginny said tightly, pulling out the chair beside Molly and laying her hands on her forearms. She was hot to the touch. "Mother, pull yourself together and tell me what happened."

Molly eventually raised her head and looked at her daughter blearily. Her face was a mess. "How did you know?" she croaked.

From somewhere behind them, she heard Hermione draw a sharp breath.

Ginny felt, despite her anger, a huge sensation of relief flood over her like a wave breaking on the shore. She felt hot tears prickle the corner of her eyes. So she hadn't lost her mind—she was sane. She sat back in her chair and exhaled, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyelids.

After a few minutes, she looked at Hermione, who was staring at them with a mixture of horror and sadness. "What happened," she mouthed silently, over Molly's head.

Molly had returned to sobbing with her head in her hands.

"Ten years ago, my mother and I were at the Beltane bonfire," Ginny began, her voice sounding flat and low, even to her own ears. "It was right after Harry and I broke up. The old crone that leads the ceremonial rites chose me and a random boy as the May King and Queen that evening."

Molly, if possible, began to wail even louder.

"And...?" Hermione asked, bewildered, clearly unable to see where the narrative was going.

"And I suspect that my mother assumed that something terribly shameful happened that night because—"

But Ginny was interrupted by the sudden screech of Molly pushing her chair back with great force; she had raised her head and was glaring at Ginny with a rage she had never before directed at her only daughter. "Enough," she snarled. "Any mother would have done what I did—any mother!"

"Obliviate me?" Ginny hissed, narrowing her eyes. "Why on earth would you possibly do such a—"

"You should have seen yourself!" Her mother was shouting now, her expression tortured. "You disappeared for almost an hour; came back completely disheveled, pale as a sheet, tears in your eyes—"

An image suddenly appeared in her mind like a burst of sunlight leaving a dark tunnel.

Ginny sitting forlorn, in the carriage with her mother and her aunt, fighting tears back, the sting of rejection burning at her heart. Her mother reaching out to touch her knee, her lower lip trembling, Ginny flinching away from her comforting touch.

"No," she whispered, now, in the kitchen. "You thought he...you thought that I was—"

"Weren't you?!" her mother cried, reaching out for her, her eyes anguished. "I couldn't bear to know that you were suffering, I wanted to find him and kill him, to avenge your—"

"Ginny, were you raped?" Hermione finally spoke, coming to stand beside Ginny and looking into her eyes with great sadness.

"Good Goddess, both of you!" Ginny shouted, standing up from her chair. "I wasn't raped or forced or anything of the sort!"

Molly stopped wailing. "W-what?" She sniffled, turning confused eyes on Ginny. "You were crying, you looked like you had been through a war, you wouldn't talk to your aunt or me—"

"I was upset," Ginny ground out from between clenched teeth, "because he rejected me."

The room was as silent as the aftermath of a bomb. "What," breathed Molly. "But you looked like—"

"We just snogged," Ginny lied, not feeling like she particularly wanted to tell her mother the explicit, steamy details of their interlude. "I wanted to go further than that, but he left when I told him I was a virgin."

Amazingly, Molly's face broke into a smile as radiant as the sun rising. She jumped out of her chair and pulled Ginny into a crushing hug, half-laughing, half-crying into her shoulder.

"Oh my girl, oh my love," she whispered. "I'm so happy, I'm so happy."

"What, exactly," she gently pushed her mother off her and snapped, "is there to be happy about? Mum! You stole my memories!"

"I thought you had been abused," Molly replied, still wiping tears of joy from her face. "I wanted to take away your suffering. Any mother would have done the same." She seemed keen to repeat that sentiment. "Oh, thank the goddess—a huge weight has been lifted from my heart!"

"No," Ginny began, her temper flaring, "no—"

"Ginny," Hermione interrupted, clearing trying to diffuse the situation. "How did you figure out your mother had used Obliviate on you?"

Ginny kept glaring at her mother but answered Hermione. "The memories came back last night in a dream. I woke up with a headache that felt like it was about to kill me in my bed. I threw up."

"That's impossible," Hermione murmured in reply, shaking her head. "You can't reverse Obliviate without the caster present, and even then, you need very powerful magic—"

"I didn't use Obliviate," Molly said in a small voice.

"What?" Hermione and Ginny asked in unison, both their heads turning to look at the Weasley matriarch.

"Your aunt," she continued, for the first time sounding slightly embarrassed now, "brewed a potion that I put in the tea I made you when we came home— if you drink it right before you sleep it wipes the last half-day of your waking life from your memory. I forget the name now—"

"Abduco Potente," Hermione gasped. "A powerful withdrawal of waking life." She looked at her mother-in-law in amazement. "Molly, that potion is—"

"Illegal?" Ginny seethed, crossing her arms and shaking her head at her mother.

"—especially difficult to make. Where she would have even gotten the ingredients..."

"Hermione!"

"Sorry, sorry," she replied sheepishly, raising her hands in defense at Ginny. "I'm just shocked. It's such old, old magic."

"Yes, well, Margaret was very well learned in the Old Ways," Molly replied miserably. "Anyway, she did tell me there was a chance that Ginny might remember one day, but that it would be easy to chalk it up as a nightmare because it would resurface as a dream."

Molly looked up at her daughter who was looking down at her like she was a criminal on trial.

"My love, my daughter," she said quietly. "I thought that he had forced himself on you and caused you great pain. The thought of you carrying that trauma around for the rest of your life made me want to stop living. Can you forgive me for what I did? I acted only out of love. Only to protect you." Molly began to weep again, her lower lip quivering as she looked imploringly up at her youngest child.

Amazingly, Ginny felt her empathy and her love for her mother bubble up in her chest. She fought the wave of empathetic tears that threatened to overwhelm her and swallowed the lump in her throat. She knelt in front of Molly and rested her forehead on her knees.

"I forgive you, mama," Ginny whispered. "I don't think it was the right decision, but I understand why you did what you did. I forgive you."

They sat like that for a long time, her mother running her hands soothingly over her head. She breathed slowly and deeply, thinking about what it must have been like for her mother to have lived the last ten years with the assumption that her daughter had been sexually assaulted. Molly, in so many ways, was always surprising Ginny with how brave and stoic she could be.

When her legs began to cramp underneath of her, she rose shakily to her feet. She felt a jolt of surprise to see Hermione come around the corner from the living room, her eyes over-bright; Ginny had almost forgotten she was there. She had clearly left the room to give them some privacy.

"Alright Hermione?" she asked, rubbing her sore knees and smiling softly.


In hushed whispers in the kitchen, Hermione had insisted they go somewhere private so she could ask Ginny some questions about the memory resurgence. They left the burrow together—after making sure to spend enough time with a sniffling and glassy-eyed Molly Weasley— and agreed to apparate to a cafe in a small town outside of Ottery St. Catchpole.

It happened to be a lovely enough day to sit on the secluded back patio of the coffee shop, so they ordered their coffees and sandwiches with the sun warming their skin. Ginny watched as Hermione very neatly drank her coffee with only a drop of milk; by comparison, the redhead had an Americano that was almost one-third coffee cream.

"So," her sister-in-law began, putting her cup down carefully onto the saucer and looking at Ginny with her clever brown eyes. "Why don't you tell me what really happened that night at the Beltane fire?"

"What makes you think," Ginny replied, failing miserably at hiding her small smile, "that there's any more to the story?"

"Please," Hermione scoffed. "Gone for an hour? Looking like you fought a war? Back in tears? You can't expect me to believe you just 'kissed a bit'".

Ginny titled her head up to the sun and closed her eyes. The rays burned her thin eyelids. She cast her mind back, accessing her memories readily now, to try to remember why she had been crying.

After her May King had left the clearing, she stood there for a long time. The more she thought about what had happened, the more embarrassed she became. He had wanted her so badly, this sinewy, lithe young man with his broad shoulders and playful, secret eyes. But then he had been turned off by her lack of experience— her virginity made her too high risk— she would become emotional, clingy, would want more from him. And when she thought of how he had served her body— of the ease and confidence in which he brought her the most heart-stopping ecstasy— she felt desolate and empty to have lost him. She felt the tears come. I'll never know who he is, she mourned. I'll never meet another man like that again.

She opened her eyes from her reverie to find Hermione staring at her with concern.

"Are you ok?" she asked gently, reaching across the table to squeeze Ginny's forearm.

Ginny took a deep breath. Sparing Hermione the more scandalous language she would have otherwise used to describe the evening, she began to tell the older girl the full story.

It felt deeply surreal to be speaking the memory out loud for the first time. It had only existed in her head for less than 48 hours, and yet she could repeat the details of that Beltane night ten years ago like it had happened only yesterday.

She watched Hermione's quick expressions as she spoke. The blushing and fidgeting that came across her face when she described the young stranger; the slightly incredulous look she failed to hide when Ginny spoke of the crone who crowned them; her eyebrows climbing her forehead and the corner of her mouth twitching when Ginny described her steamy encounter in the woods.

When she concluded her story, explaining to Hermione as sparsely as she could why she would have been crying when Molly saw her, she sat back and took the first bite of her sandwich.

The brunette looked down thoughtfully at her long-empty plate.

"I don't think Ron has ever been able to give me an orgasm without explicit directions from me," she said casually.

Ginny choked on her sandwich with such seriousness that the other tables around them turned to glare at her coughing. (Some of them continued to look on curiously when they realized who she was.)

"I could have gone my literal whole life without knowing that, Hermione," she said hoarsely with teary eyes. After several gulps of air, she added: "but funny enough, I was in the exact same boat until this memory came to me." She gingerly took a bite of her sandwich again. "I think it's a real skill most men haven't mastered."

Hermione rested her chin on the heel of her hand and looked at Ginny with a neutral expression. "I don't know whether I should be horrified that you let it go that far with a total stranger when you were barely of age, or be totally envious of you and your sexy pagan exploits."

Ginny grinned. "If I have any say then I choose the latter."

"And you saw nothing of his face? Only light blue eyes? Anything else noteworthy?"

"Not really. He was tall, but I already said that. I suppose how pale he was is noteworthy. He wore a necklace, I remember, and a serpent belt buckle. And I would say his eyes were more grey than blue."

Hermione laughed. "It sounds like you're describing Malfoy!"

Ginny snorted. "Please, Malfoy would never have attended a Beltane fire. I'm sure he would see that sort of revelry and base merriment as well-beneath his status in society."

Hermione tapped her finger to her lip, frowning slightly as she did when she was about to get specific. "Not necessarily— old aristocratic families like the Malfoys would certainly observe the High pagan Holidays— though maybe not in such a..."

"Plebeian way?" Ginny grinned.

"I was going to say 'wholesome'," the older witch laughed.

Ginny giggled and the two witches fell into comfortable silence. As she watched Hermione look around the cafe at the patrons, she thought more about her mystery suitor. His arrogant confidence, his almost swagger as he walked towards her— the boy certainly did exude Malfoy-like traits.

"There was one more thing," Ginny said suddenly, surprised to hear herself speak. "His forearm was bandaged. It looked like it had been a nasty cut, or accident. It was almost soaked through with dried blood."

Hermione turned her head sharply to look at her, her eyes narrowing. She stared at her pensively for a few moments.

"Which arm?"

"I don't remember," said Ginny, shaking her head. "But most of the blood was on the underside."

"And you said— you said he knew your name."

"He did." She had almost forgotten about that part.

"Okay," Hermione began, rubbing her forehead like she was getting a headache. "I was half-joking when I said that it sounds like your mystery man was Malfoy—but now I'm starting to think that it actually was."

Ginny felt her heart skip a beat when she saw the seriousness on Hermione's face. She couldn't even begin to start processing what it would mean to her if what her sister-in-law was saying was in fact true.

"Why do you say that?" she pressed.

"Because," Hermione said with a newly lowered voice, "the year that you would have turned seventeen—yes, yes, the year you and Harry called it off—that was the year that Draco testified against his father—that spring. Harry was at the trial. And when I saw him afterwards, he told me that Draco had tried to cut the dark mark out of his forearm with a knife."

Ginny suddenly felt violently sick to her stomach, imagining a teenage Draco taking a blade to his skin. The physical pain, the mess he would have made of himself; the emotional state he must have been in to do such a thing. The thought brought her to the verge of tears as she stared at the woman across from her.

She heard Blaise's voice in her head. The man has lived a dark, hard life; you know so, so little about him.

And then another thought; if he had indeed been her May King—an idea she was actively trying to squash for fear of being completely overwhelmed by it—then he would have been at the height of his angst and turmoil when they had met in the woods that night.

"What are you thinking?" Hermione's question cut into her thoughts.

Ginny worried at her bottom lip with her fingernails. "It's just—let's say it was Malfoy that night—" she said in a low voice, "—then why on earth hasn't he mentioned it to me before? Not even a passing comment? Surely he would have made some sort of snide remark about having gotten with me when I was a teenager?"

"Are you sure he hasn't?" Hermione asked, arching her eyebrow. "I mean, for the last ten years, this memory never existed for you. If Draco had made some sort of innuendo about the night you shared, trying to reveal that it was him all those years ago, would it have even meant anything to you?"

Ginny paused. She hadn't even considered that scenario; it seemed too unlikely. She was about to tell Hermione so, when suddenly a memory came speeding towards her like a train. A night, several years ago, when Draco had approached her at the bar at Oliver Wood's party and criticized her performance.

"Weasley," a voice drawled from behind her.

She turned around, and her heart sank to see the unwelcome familiarity of the blonde man in front of her. He had only been playing for the French National team for two years, but he was already their star player. After the Harpies disappointing loss this evening, he was the very last person she wanted to see.

"Malfoy," she said indifferently, raising a glass of wine to her lips. It was her third, no—Merlin was it her fourth?

Draco moved to sit at the barstool next to her casually. He was wearing a crisp white oxford shirt and a pair of grey slacks; she had seen him earlier and noticed that now he was missing the suit jacket and tie he had started the party with. She had been surprised to see that Oliver invited him.

"Long time no see," he murmured, long grey eyes searching her face. If Ginny hadn't been so deeply miserable from her performance earlier, she might have taken better note of the handsome, polarizing man trying to engage her in conversation.

"I hadn't noticed," she scoffed, and turned back to the bar, staring stonily down at her drink.

"Ouch," he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I take it you haven't been thinking of me much then?"

She turned to face him, her brow furrowed and her patience thinning. "Excuse me? Why would I ever think of you?"

Draco, who looked like maybe he was on his third or fourth drink as well, smirked at her and raised his hand to reach for the green velvet ribbon she had tied around her throat. He flicked it lazily with a long finger.

"Where'd you get this, then?"

"What?" she spat, batting his hand away. "Stop it. None of your business. Why are you even talking to me?"

"You're very hostile tonight," he said coldly, taking a sip of his drink. "Feeling down about your rotten game earlier?"

"Oh goddess," she gasped, covering her mouth with both of her hands. "Hermione, I think you're right."

"I mean I usually am, yes," she said impatiently. "But what do you remember?"

Ginny put her head in her hands. She felt like she had been doused in ice water—and a pressing, urgent need to be alone.

"Hermione," she began, reaching for her coin purse to pull out her money. "Thank you so much for talking me through everything and for helping me sort this mess. Sincerely. I love you. Lunch on me." She gestured for the bill from a waiter passing by. "But right now, I want to go home and lie down."

Hermione frowned. "I understand Gin," she said gently. "But are you ok?"

"I will be," she replied, not waiting to see the bill that the waiter brought and handing him more than enough to cover it. "I just need to be alone to sort out the thoughts flying around my head."

"You sound like me," Hermione laughed.

"No, no," Ginny said, quickly. "You use your brainpower to save the wizarding world. I just need to lie down and think about my love life."


When she finally entered her flat, she saw that the late afternoon sun had cast a stunning orange glow across her entire apartment. Everything was bathed in gold. But starkly, like someone had imposed one photograph onto another, the flowers that Draco had sent were the same electric blue they always were, unaffected by the subdued, moody light.

She plopped down on a kitchen chair in front of the still-fresh arrangement and released a heavy, loud sigh. Everything was in that exhaled breath—all the weight she had carried for the last two days—the arrival of this bouquet and the nagging doubt regarding their meaning; the heaviness and intensity of a long-forgotten memory nearly splitting her skull open and flooding her with a million new feelings; the pain, still unprocessed, of what her mother had done and everything she had been hiding; and more than anything, the nonstop thrumming in her veins that was connecting Draco to the boy in the woods like a live wire of electricity.

If it had been Draco, and she was sure it had been, now, then what did it mean about his connection to her? A decade later, all this time he had been carrying with him this secret of his knowing her so intimately. Had he been electrified by her in the moment, the way she had been with him? Or did he see her as some wanton, foolish girl giving herself to a stranger in the woods?

And what of the flowers? Was there a chance that he really was trying to deliver a message in an elaborate, dead language? If it was intentional—and Ginny again marveled at Hermione's deductive reasoning—what was he trying to tell her? Was it an apology? Did he feel like a prisoner to his promise to Voldemort? She couldn't imagine that he didn't feel that way.

Should she send a thank-you note? She knew that he would have been automatically notified by the flower shop that the arrangement was received in-person by the recipient—and ordinarily, she would never hesitate to send a letter in a situation like this—but something was nagging at her.

Simply put, he was being deeply unfair to her. To Ginny, it felt like every time there was enough distance and silence from him to possibly initiate the moving-on process, he did something to draw her back into his vortex.

She supposed that they had agreed to try to be friends, but the floral gesture delivered to her door seemed a little more than platonic; especially bolstered by Hermione's claim that it was not in Draco's nature to do such things.

She glared at the flowers. She did not want to be one of those women who paced around their home wondering endlessly about a man's intentions. What occupied her thoughts before Draco came into her life? Before he started to put her through all these mental acrobatics?

She changed into her sweatpants, picked up her book, and made a beeline for her bed. She was determined to put Draco out of her mind.

But after ten minutes of reading the same sentence over again, she let out a growl of frustration and threw her covers off. Deciding it would be best to occupy her time by cleaning, she set out to clean her entire apartment—the muggle way. She turned on the wireless and got to work.

Four hours later, with the city outside her window awash in twilight, she surveyed her flat with approval. It was sparkling clean: all the surfaces gleaming, dishes put away, garbage taken out, every corner dusted and swept and mopped within an inch of its life. She was Molly Weasley's daughter, after all.

Satisfied with herself, she decided to finish the half a bottle of wine that she knew was waiting in her fridge. She hated re-corking an unfinished bottle because it was never as delicious the second time around, but she had no one to impress this night. (She tried to ignore the little pang of loneliness she felt at that thought).

She curled up on her couch and turned up the radio, determined to drown out her thoughts. After a few large sips from her glass, she felt her shoulders loosen and her muscles unclench. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

It feels like I'll die if I don't fuck you.

The roughness of his voice and the red-hot energy of the memory burst into her mind, unbridled. Her eyes shot open and fluttered closed again. She let the images wash over her.

She could see both their figures, from a distance, like an out-of-body experience. Two teenagers in the bloom of their beauty, completely lost to the heat that consumed them. She saw her long, heavy red waves tumbling over her naked, freckled shoulders and breasts; she saw the taut muscles of his back shifting under his skin, the long lines of his torso and the sheen of sweat that covered it. His eyes, almost black with desire behind his mask. She imagined what his entire face might have looked like, then, if he hadn't been hiding it.

Ginny squirmed uncomfortably on the couch. If he was that talented when he was barely on the cusp of manhood, what would it be like to be with him now, both with years of experience under their belts? Her heart was racing in her chest and her stomach was doing funny little flips. She realized that at some point, she had finished the glass of wine she had poured herself.

I have an early practice tomorrow, she thought. How am I ever going to sleep tonight?

She wondered what Draco was doing at that very moment. She closed her eyes and imagined him in his flat in Paris; she pictured it to be ornately luxurious and elaborately sprawling. She wondered if that beautiful brunette, Mathilde, was padding naked across the marbled floors right now.

She was horrified to feel an ugly twist of real jealousy in her chest.

She flung herself from the couch and upturned the remainder of the wine into her glass. A dangerous, nagging urge started to creep down her spine, her foot beginning to tap impatiently. She knew this feeling and she didn't like it; she was about to do something very rash and impulsive. Where was the cool head of her sister-in-law when she needed it?

She took herself and her wine glass into the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She reached for her mascara and applied some gingerly to her eyelashes and tapped some crimson lip-stain to her lips and cheeks.

When she arrived in front of the fireplace, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She reached for the fire-call floo powder.


"Weasley," his cool, low voice reached her ears before she saw him.

"Hello," she replied, trying to keep her voice even. "Sorry for flooing out of the blue at this hour. Am I catching you at a bad time?"

Long legs came into her line of vision and suddenly he was crouched in the floo in front of her.

How strange, she thought; usually he was so tall and imposing, but now, seeing him squatting in the square of the mantle, hands lazily laced between his knees, he looked almost ordinary.

He tossed a piece of bright blonde hair out of his eyes and looked at her wearily; surprise and something like uncertainty tinged his face. He was wearing sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. She had never seen him look so…pedestrian. It was attractive, in a wholly different way.

"Not a bad time if you're a night owl," he said. "Which luckily for you I am. Is everything ok?"

"Yes, everything is fine," she sniffed, waving her wine glass airily. "Does something need to be wrong for a friend to call a friend?"

He smirked now, eyes alight with amusement. His face relaxed with the confidence of someone who had just answered a maths problem correctly.

"Ah. You've been drinking," he said, standing up and showing her the worn knees of his sweatpants. "One moment, I'll join you for a glass."

She took the time to investigate his apartment; that is, what she could see from the floo. It was surprisingly spartan. The flat itself was clearly a luxury space, with long, antique hardwood floors, large French doors, marble walls reaching for soaring ceilings, and what looked like an exit to a huge balcony in the distance.

But there was only a long, slim couch, a coffee table, and a chaise lounge in the room that she could see. A few books were piled on the table; a drained espresso cup; and a lacy, white silk robe flung over the back of the couch…

"Here we are," his voice interrupted her racing thoughts. "One of Damian's newest creations. He dropped off a box last week."

"Oh?" Ginny said, feigning evenness, trying to put the garment that obviously belonged to a woman out of her mind. "Lucky you. Have you seen him much since the season started?"

"Not really," Draco said, clearly uninterested in discussing his cousin further. He took a sip of wine from a long-stemmed glass; he was sitting on the floor in front of her now, leaning back on one toned arm with his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

"Oh," she said, taking a sip herself. She swallowed hard and stared at the space over his shoulder, miserably wishing she had planned out what she would even say if he answered his floo. "How's the season going?"

"Weasley," he scoffed.

She looked at him furtively. "What?"

"What did you actually want to talk about?"

She bit her lip. She knew what she wanted to talk about, but the thought of broaching the subject made her nauseous.

"I wanted to thank you for my flowers," she murmured. "They're really…something else."

"You didn't like them," he replied, arching one eyebrow.

"No—" she said quickly, sitting forward and waving her hand, attempting a smile. "I love them. I've never seen anything like them."

"I thought they would suit your apartment," he said casually. "I'm glad you liked them."

There was a moment of silence, in which they took thoughtful sips of their drinks. She tried not to be obvious when she stole glances at him, but looking at the Malfoy heir now felt like drinking water after being stranded in the desert. He had been plaguing her thoughts for weeks.

"Right," he drawled, "you could have just thanked me in a letter."

She blushed. "Fine. It's not all I wanted to talk to you about." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you alone?"

Draco looked suddenly acutely uncomfortable; his neck and shoulders tensed.

"Mathilde is taking a bath right now," he said, without emotion. His eyes were focused and intent on hers. "But she won't bother us."

Ginny tried to squash the fireworks of rage exploding in her chest. Be cool be cool be cool.

"That's fine," she said quickly. "Now's not a good time then. I'll just write you what I wanted to ask."

"Don't be daft Weasley," he snapped, looking impatient. "I don't care what she overhears."

"I strongly suspect you don't want her hearing what I'm about to ask you," she whispered, glaring at him and leaning closer to the floo. "Let's just talk another time."

"Merlin's tits," he snarled. He sat forward suddenly, his long arm darting through the translucent flames that separated them and grabbing her wrist. Ginny gasped and wine sloshed onto the thigh of her pants.

"Malfoy!" she cried. "You scared the fuck—"

"Woman, spit it out. What's on your mind?" He squeezed her wrist for emphasis before withdrawing his hand back towards him.

She sighed and chewed on her lip, rubbing at the dampness on her knee absentmindedly.

"Draco, did you—have you ever—"

"Probably," he drawled with amusement.

"Shut up," she half laughed. "This is really hard to ask because if it turns out that you don't know what I'm talking about I'm going to look really, really crazy—or worse."

"Worse than crazy?"

She took a deep breath and looked at him earnestly. When she spoke, her voice wavered pitifully.

"Did you attend a Beltane bonfire night in the forest near Ullapool ten years ago?"

He froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He blinked at her several times before he looked over his shoulder.

"I can see why you wanted to be alone for this conversation," he said quietly, having set his glass down. He ran his large hand over his face. He suddenly looked very tired.

"So, it was you," she whispered. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribcage she worried he would hear it.

"When did you realize?" he asked, bringing his knee up and resting his forearm on it. He wore an expression she could not read on his face; she realized that she saw that blank facade more often than not.

"Several days ago," she lied.

He stared at her thoughtfully. "Ginny—" she suppressed a shiver at the use of her name. "I don't know where to begin talking about this."

"I don't either," she mumbled, draining her wine glass.

He reached for something out of sight; a second later, he was lighting a cigarette.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, exhaling through his nose.

"I don't think so," she replied after a minute. "Maybe I should be."

"I was so—" his voice took on some emotion, though she couldn't pinpoint it. Frustration? "I was so fucked up Ginny," he finished. "I was so fucked up. It's not an excuse. I should have taken off my mask. I should have revealed who I was. I shouldn't have just abandoned you in the forest like that. I should have explained."

He took a deep breath and stared at her with that blank expression again. "There are so many things I regret about that night."

Ginny didn't speak. She hoped he would continue, and he did, taking another long drag from his cigarette. Now he stared at the space above her head and spoke in a hollow voice.

"My father had just been imprisoned, on my condemnation, and the aurors had seized the Manor. I was staying with my uncle in Edinburgh. I was filled with rage and self-loathing. I had no idea who I was or what it meant to be a Malfoy; I hated my father and I deeply missed him at the same time. I felt shameful and humiliated but also awash in freedom and power. There were nights where I drank so much I was sure I wouldn't be around the next morning. And then my cousin—not Damian," he added, finally looking at her again. "My cousin Magnus, who lives in Aberdeen, insisted I go with him and his friends to the Beltane bonfire on the west coast. So I went."

Ginny finally spoke. "And there I was."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And there you were."

She stared at him. "I'm so sorry Draco. I can't even begin to imagine how much you were suffering then."

He studied her for a few long moments, incredulity painting his face. "You're apologizing to me? Please," he sneered. "I don't deserve any sympathy."

"But you do—"

"I don't," he almost shouted. Then he quickly looked over his shoulder, obviously to see if Mathilde had heard. "Ginny, I saw you the moment I arrived to the party. I remember I hadn't seen you for some time. And the last time I knew you, you were perfect Potter's pretty little girlfriend." He almost spat on Harry's name. "But that night, you looked like a completely different woman."

"Did I?" she asked in a small voice. "How so?"

He leaned forward, and Ginny could see his mercurial eyes alight. She felt a small, treacherous flame ignite in her belly.

"I can't say with clarity," he whispered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "But maybe you looked older, more guarded, wilder somehow. And you were wearing this white dress—"

Ginny laughed. "I don't remember it."

"Oh, I do," he smirked. "I remember it very well. Burned into my retinas."

His eyes were boring into hers and radiated so much knowing heat that Ginny thought she might pass out from the intensity of his gaze and his meaning.

"When I saw you, I didn't think twice about who I would give my favour to that night. You were a Weasley and at that point I still blindly loathed your family, all the altruism and righteousness they stood for—" Ginny flinched at that part, but he continued, "—and despite this, I wanted nothing more than to mark you for my own."

Ginny had to tear her eyes away from his because she feared she might implode on the spot. She stood up quickly and started to pace. She realized Draco would likely not be able to see her face from this angle, but she had to get up and break the spell he was putting on her.

"But why," she asked, harshly. "Why me? Only because I was pretty? Or because you thought you could hurt Harry through me?"

There wasn't a response from the Floo for a long time, so Ginny crouched in front of it to make sure he was still there. He hadn't moved, but was looking down at the floor pensively. He had started another cigarette.

"Yes to both those things," he admitted. "But there was more to it than that, too."

"What then?"

"Ginny, I don't know," he spat, agitated. "It was inexplicable. It was like an invisible string drawing me to you. You heard that old bat. She crowned us the May King and Queen for a reason. She would probably understand it better than I could."

"Give me a cigarette," she snapped.

He managed to smirk and handed her the one he had just started. "Take it, it's yours."

Their fingers brushed as she reached for it. "I have something else to ask you."

"Of course you do," he said.

"Why did you bug out and run away when I told you I was a virgin?"

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. He looked over his shoulder for a third time.

"Maybe we should have this conversation later," he sighed.

"No," Ginny snapped, pointing accusingly at him. "You had your chance to postpone it. Now talk."

"Ginny—" he murmured, sliding closer to the fire and bringing his voice to an urgent whisper. "Even in my very selfish, very manic state—even as a careless, self-destructive teenager—I understood how vicious it would have been to take your virginity when you didn't even know who I was. When you probably would have recoiled and ran away if you knew it was your childhood tormentor who was groping at you. Would you have let it happen if I unmasked myself?"

She stared at him. "I don't know," she whispered. But in her head, she answered yes.

"I saved you the turmoil then," he said. He rolled his head a few times, clearly cramping from his position on the floor.

"Doesn't mean I didn't really, really want to," he added, under his voice.

"Didn't seem like it," she pouted, unconsciously, remembering how rejected she felt that night.

He laughed cruelly. "Don't be so fucking coy. You were there and you know very well that it wasn't easy for me to restrain myself. I was just trying to be a gentleman."

Ginny snorted, thinking of the dirty things he had said to her while he had her pressed and writhing against the tree. She felt her cheeks heat.

"If that's you being a gentleman—"

"Oh please, Weasley," he drawled, leaning back on his hands. "Clearly Potter wasn't—"

"Don't," she snapped, loudly, bristling at Harry's name. "Don't bring Harry into this."

"Oh I'm sorry, is this nineteen ninety-three again?" he sneered, cocking his head at her and glaring. "I forgot, everything is always about precious Potter. Are you still—"

"I'm still nothing, Draco," she seethed. "But I would rather you didn't refer to my sex life with Harry under any circumstances."

"Or lack thereof," he smirked.

"Shut it," she barked.

Rolling his eyes, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. Whatever." They sat in stony silence for several seconds.

"So how did you figure it out?" he asked with feigned disinterest, interrupting her swirling thoughts.

"What?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Oh," she said. She decided that she wanted, for the time being, to omit the part about her mother drugging her and erasing her memories. She didn't want the hassle of explaining to Draco that this memory had simply never existed for the last ten years. "I was retelling the story to Hermione and she was the one who sussed it out."

"Oh bleeding fucking hell, Weasley," Draco groaned. "You know Granger is going to tell Potter and your brother and they're going to hunt me with pitchforks in the streets of Paris, right?"

Ginny genuinely laughed. "Hermione knows better than to breathe a word of it to either of them. She's clever, you know."

"Your brother would remove my toenails one by one and smile while he did it," Draco continued, smirking. "But through my screaming I would make sure to tell him that I had his sister screaming—"

Ginny gasped, then lunged toward the fire to slap him. He ducked out of the way, laughing. She was arrested by how wholesome and accessible he looked with a natural, relaxed smile on his face. Her heart ached.

She sat back on her heels and stared at her hands, her laughter subsiding before she felt, suddenly, a small frown on her face.

"Well," she said quietly. "I'm glad we talked about it."

She could feel his eyes intently on her, even though she wasn't looking at him.

"Are you?" he asked, carefully, twirling his lighter between his fingers. "Forgive me, but that isn't exactly the face of happiness."

"Sorry," she grumbled. "I guess I just find myself wondering what all of this means."

"Don't," he said sharply, sitting forward and looking at her with a sudden sort of desperation in his eyes. "I've told you this before Ginny. Don't read into anything I do or say." He ran his hands over his eyes and when he opened them again, they were completely void of emotion. "You know very well my situation."

"Then why did you send me flowers?" she demanded, without missing a beat.

He looked like he almost smiled. "Because I wanted to."

"That's a lazy answer," she huffed, crossing her arms. "You don't know what you want."

Any trace of amusement left his face. "Actually," he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. "I know exactly what I want. It's just not what you want. And you're trying to turn me into something I can't be for you."

Ginny fell into stunned silence, staring at him. A knot of feelings swelled in her chest, but primarily, anger and embarrassment. She felt her cheeks grow hot and tears well up in her eyes. His face was impassive as he looked at her, expression flickering with what might have been pity. She didn't want to look at it for a second longer.

"Fine," she whispered, tearing her eyes away from his stony ones. "Fine." She set her expression to as much neutral indifference as she could muster. "Well it's late, I should get to bed," she stated briskly.

"Weasley," he started, sighing. "Don't—"

"Goodnight Malfoy," she said quickly, standing up and pulling out her wand with the intention of ending the floo-call. "Happy Beltane to you."

"Wait," he barked. "Ginny, wait."

She hesitated. Slowly she knelt in front of the fire again and smiled tightly. "Yes?"

He had risen so that he was leaning on one knee, knuckles white on his thigh. "Are you going to the Beltane Fire again this year?"

She looked at him with what she knew was deep mistrust in her eyes. "I was planning to. Why?"

"Let's go together," he said, carefully. "As friends. No funny business—I promise."

"That seems like a bad idea," she replied without hesitation. "Just such a bad, dumb idea."

He laughed, and she noticed his hand on his leg relax. "It won't be just the two of us. I'll invite Blaise, and my cousin Magnus. You bring Granger or Lovegood or whoever you want. We'll have a nice, friendly, platonic time."

Ginny continued to stare at him. "And what, exactly," she asked dubiously, "would be the point of this little exercise?"

He scratched at his faintly stubbled jaw line as he regarded her. "It seems to me that we either become genuinely comfortable as friends, or we can't be in each other's lives at all. I would like to give friendship an honest, fighting chance."

"Why?" she asked, noting the hard edge of her voice.

"Merlin you ask a lot of fucking questions," he snapped.

"And you don't ask enough," she retorted.

He glared at her, though there did not seem to be real anger in his stare. When he spoke, his voice was flat but unwaveringly earnest.

"Because even though I can't feel for you in the way that I suspect you want me to, it would be a lie to say I didn't care whether you were in my life or not."

She felt a deep blush creeping up her neck, both from embarrassment and from pleasure.

Out loud, she said witheringly: "It's quite arrogant to assume you know what I want, Malfoy."

But to herself, she thought, Take note Ginny. This might be the closest thing to a declaration of affection you'll ever get from him.

A small smile was pulling at the corner of his lips. "Of course," he whispered, eyes playful. "How rude of me to assume anything."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments longer before Ginny finally said, "You and Blaise can meet me at the Bonfire. I'll probably be with Luna."

He nodded. "Great."

"Grand."

A noise from behind him like a door opening made them both jump. He cleared his throat and said quickly, "Well, I'll see you in a week then, Weasley."

"Guess so," she smiled tightly. "See you then. Bye."

When the call finished with a lazy wave of his hand, she stood up shakily and walked over to the window. The city lights of London flickered like a tapestry of stars below her. She looked out, unseeing, a hollow, lead-like feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She didn't know what to think, or how to feel. She was almost immediately filled with instant regret the second she agreed to let him join her at the fire.

If he's not going to love me the way I deserve to be loved, he shouldn't be allowed to access me at all, she thought bitterly.

Another, gentler voice in her head: That's so unfair. You know he doesn't have a choice. He cares for you as much as a man so devoid of the capacity to love can care.

But he's leading me on, she thought again.

He's as confused as you are, was the rebuttal.

She walked past the now-cold fireplace where he sat only moments ago and into her bathroom to brush her teeth. As she rummaged through her drawer to tie up her hair, her fingers brushed the green velvet ribbon.

She picked it up and ran her thumb along the rich, luxurious texture of it. A decade had passed and it had retained its quality and colour as if he had given it to her only yesterday.

It seemed to Ginny as though the universe had been, unbeknownst to her, edging them closer and closer together for their entire lives— and despite his urging not to read too much into his perplexing behaviour, she couldn't help but feel that there was a greater purpose to everything that was happening.

Maybe it's ok that I don't have any answers right now, she thought, placing the ribbon back into the drawer and looking at her tired, sad face in the mirror. As she contemplated this downtrodden, miserable whisper of a woman in the mirror, she heard Blaise's words in her head, suddenly: "You're the one who'll burn him up. You're the dancing flame."

She squared her shoulders and glared at herself, then bent down to vigorously wash her face.

When she got into bed and closed her eyes, images bloomed behind her eyelids like a muggle cinema. Draco's engulfing presence when he first draped his jacket over her at the party; his white teeth in the darkness, smiling over his shoulder as they hung in the air on his broom; his worn, soft t-shirt against her cheek when she hugged him in her bedroom, the feeling of his solid chest beneath it. And tonight, the ease and charm of his quick wit; the intensity of his gaze when he reminisced on their teenage escapades.

For the first time, Ginny did not stop her fingers from wandering down her body as she thought of him. She saw his eyes, his arrogant smile, his broad shoulders as she brought herself to a climax, arching her back and moaning his name over and over again into the darkness of the room.

With a shudder, she fell back onto her pillow, panting hard. As her breathing slowed, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes.

Despite all her trepidation towards their meeting in a week, despite the fact that she knew that her ever-intensifying feelings could never be reciprocated by this broken man—she felt like Beltane night could not come soon enough.

Not everything has to make sense, she thought, just before the oblivion of sleep claimed her.


A/N: Stay tuned for the next chapter, which will hopefully be sooner than later loves, and definitely will be significantly lighter-hearted than this one! Featuring drunk!Hermione, jealous!Draco, and sassy!Blaise. Stay safe everyone xo.