A/N: Sincerest apologies for the almost 9-month delay in posting an update. I have not, in fact, abandoned the story as some reviews were suggesting—fear not! I especially, especially appreciate some of the most recent reviews encouraging me to keep going and not give up—you really put a fire under my arse to get me going again! I won't lie—I'm not super happy with this chapter, but I had to push through it to get to the chapter I was most excited to write: the next one! Haha. Just had to set up a few things. Anyway, please, please, as usual, don't forget to reviews—reviews definitely encourage me to write. Thank you everyone for reading along this far! Hopefully the wait won't be as long for the next chapter.
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 VI – Part I
Ginny awoke on the eve of Beltane to the fading, wispy sunlight filtering through dusty muslin curtains. In Scotland, it seemed the sun took on an ethereal quality, half sunshine, half moonlight. There was something fey about the late afternoon in the highlands; the way the clouds cast their shadows on the imposing mountains and moved powerfully across the glens—the constant smell of petrichor and peat—the smokiness of the mist rising and scrolling off the dark lochs.
She threw the covers off and sat up, swinging her legs off the bed, her toes recoiling at the icy stone floors. A most perplexing feeling was twisting like a wrung towel in her belly—an electrifying anticipation of the night ahead, perhaps.
She felt her heart swell with joy as she studied the view of Ullapool outside her window, a sight she had grown very fond of over the last several years. Ever since she started coming to the Beltane celebrations as an adult, she stayed at the Storr Arms, a magical hotel tucked into the side of the Stac Pollaidh. Ginny had always been drawn to Scotland like a moth to a flame: the Prewett Clan roots ran deep into the magical history of the Highlands, and she visited whenever she could. She thought of the flight she had completed before she checked-in earlier today, of the way her soul felt overrun with profound nostalgia for the dramatic landscape of this most mystical country—the winding black rivers and the yellow heather and the magnificent shadow of Ben Nevis.
She stretched and began to rummage through her toiletries to freshen up. She had made sure to sleep through the afternoon so that she could stay awake as late as possible for the night's festivities, which always lasted until the dawn—some years, her and Luna had fallen asleep on the forest floor, curled next to each other on a soft mound of moss. Many revelers ended the night this way.
But Luna isn't here, she thought with some disappointment.
Ginny had tried to convince her to join her in Scotland this year, but Luna was mysteriously unyielding and insisted she couldn't come. In the end, the redhead stopped asking and wondered if she should invite Hermione instead. However just the image of Hermione's incredulous face as she watched the revelry, as though it was some anthropological project, bothered Ginny. She didn't want to feel self-conscious at a Beltane celebration; least of all this particular year when she already was overrun with self-consciousness at the thought of seeing one platinum-haired Malfoy heir.
She was undoubtedly nervous at the idea of having shown up solo—she didn't want Malfoy to assume she didn't have any friends. She began to grow so concerned with what he would think of her if she showed up alone (which she had, more than once, done at a Beltane celebration), that she almost cancelled her trip. But when she realized how much she was letting him influence her thoughts and actions, she knew that she had to go now, to prove a point to herself, if not to him.
She stared at her outfit for the evening as she brushed her teeth. It was traditional for any unmarried women present at the Beltane fires to wear white; in ancient times, it had symbolized their virginity and purity as maidens. Today, it was only a nod to tradition, and certainly not an accurate measure of a lady's chasteness.
That ship sailed long ago, Ginny thought wryly, smiling to herself.
The dress she bought for the occasion was a simple affair; a linen, off-white tunic dress that fell to the middle of her thighs. It was flowy and loose, not at all curve-hugging or revealing, but it did show off her freckled, slim legs; the airiness of the dress was ideal for a night of dancing and drinking, and not so precious that she would be devastated if she spilled wine on it.
The crown of hawthorn flowers that she had braided several weeks ago—the same day she received the cornflower bouquet from Draco—sat prettily on the small vanity table in her sparse hotel room. She had enchanted it to stay fresh and vibrant all these weeks, and it bloomed with a gentle shimmer, seemingly aglow in its own light.
She got to work braiding her long copper hair and piling it into a messy bun atop her head. As she arranged the fiery tendrils around her face, studying her serious-looking reflection in the mirror, she thought of her last conversation with Draco.
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 had turned those words over in her head at least a hundred times.
What, she wondered, what is his capacity for friendship, for affection? Why me? Is this an elaborate ruse just to get me to sleep with him, to finish the business he started on Beltane ten years ago?
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks at the thought of the last time she had attended Beltane with Draco Malfoy.
Looking at her hair from all angles in the mirror, she nodded at her reflection with satisfaction. It didn't look like she had put in that much effort (she hadn't), but she did look playful and pagan, which was all she needed for this occasion. As she reached for her pouch of muggle makeup to apply some mascara and a crimson stain to her lips, her fingers brushed a soft, familiar piece of velvet. She pulled it out and frowned at it.
What would he think if I wore this tonight? She ran the ribbon across the fullness of her lips, lost in thought. Would he understand that I still consider myself marked by him?
All the instances Draco saw her wearing this ribbon—at Wood's party all those years ago, when he had coyly asked her about it, and more recently, at the Quidditch afterparty where they were reunited—he clearly knew that she hadn't yet realized he had been her May King. But now that he knew she did know—for her to put it around her neck would be a clear message as to her desire for him.
She tucked it back into her pouch, with some sadness. It was not the message she wanted to send. They were going to try, after all, to be friends.
She finished applying her makeup and dabbed her favourite perfume behind her ears and at her wrists. She slipped on the only ring she ever wore, and wore only on Beltane: her grandmother Prewett's Emerald ring. It was a ring of simple construction but devastating impact. A dainty, buttery gold band supporting a huge, natural, emerald-cut Emerald in an antique bezel setting. The colour of the emerald was mesmerizing: a lush, verdant green with the most mysterious inclusions—it seemingly glowed from the inside. Her mother had given it to her for her twenty-fifth birthday and told her that her grandmother had worn it every Beltane—that it had been a magical artifact passed down between Prewett women for generations. The large stone dwarfed her finger. Jewellery of this calibre was usually not at all Ginny's taste; but the exquisiteness of the gem and its role in her family's Beltane celebrations was a siren song to her. It sat against on her finger with the most powerful weight.
She held up her hand and admired it from a distance, where it sat on her right-hand ring finger. She had always liked her hands—she had her grandmother's hands. Small and pale, but with long, slim fingers and a dusting of freckles along her knuckles. The rich green of the emerald radiated against her pallor.
Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she tucked her wand into a sheath that was built into the arm of her dress and grabbed her broom. The sun was set and the giant moon, like a piece of fruit, was hanging enticingly in the sky.
It was Beltane night.
When she arrived, there was were at least one hundred people in attendance already. In the clearing of the dark forest at the foot of the mountain, a huge bonfire was crackling merrily, and many joyful shouts of greetings and revelry rose around her, the sound of musicians tuning their instruments rising above the din. Witches and wizards, young and old, little girls and old crones alike milled about and hugged, echoes of blessed Beltane to you! meeting her ears.
The gathering smelled as it always did: of peat smoke, fire, whisky, and flowery perfume. She scanned the crowd, hesitantly, still unusually self-conscious of how singular she was, arriving on her own. She saw no trace of Draco, but her eyes did land on a group of witches that she was well-acquainted with. They were women around her own age that she had come to know and like after several years of meetings in this forest.
She approached them with a smile and Sophie, the black-skinned witch that Ginny was probably closest to in the trio, squealed her delight at seeing her. Sophie worked as a healer at St. Mungo's in the Poisons & Potions Ward and was exceptionally smart and beautiful. She thought her and Hermione would probably get on like a broom on fire.
Ginny sat with the women, all beautifully dressed in flowing, summery dresses, mayflowers braided into their hair, and accepted a glass of cloudy-looking wine. Druid wine, she knew, and braced herself. She settled into comfortable banter (Ginny! I read about your retirement! Darling congratulations!) and let the drink work its special magic.
Almost two hours and several drams of Druid wine later, the ladies she had joined were howling with laughter.
The night was in full swing now—the musicians were playing in earnest and the wine, mead and whisky had filled everyone's cups. The smell of burning Gillyweed rose in a cloud above some teenagers sitting in a circle nearby. Many couples had started to dance the traditional circular dance.
"He was seventeen—seventeen," Sophie cackled. "I said, 'Lad, I'm thirty-one—I don't want to relive what it's like to be with boys your age—is your father single by any chance?'"
Ginny was wiping tears out of her eyes, head thrown back in mirth, when she finally saw him.
She saw Blaise first: his long black hair flowing generously over his shoulders, a rope of gold flashing across his bare chest, which was covered in runic tattoos. He wore an open linen jacket, and dark linen pants. He smiled easily and seductively at the men and women who turned to stare at him; his walk and countenance had always been decidedly sensual and feline in nature.
Behind him, two men—one, who might have been related to Draco, but was significantly stockier and more conventionally masculine. He looked like he could easily win the Caber Toss at the muggle Highland Games. He was even wearing a kilt—though many men at the Beltane Fire often wore kilts—a tartan of green, black, and blue, with small lines of red shot through. The Malfoy Tartan? She couldn't imagine the Malfoys had a tartan, as the family lineage was French.
Her eyes came to rest on Draco himself and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
He cut, as always, an intimidatingly fine figure. He was walking casually and confidently alongside the man who Ginny had now decided was Magnus, the Scottish cousin from Aberdeen. Draco was tall and imposing as he moved easily through the crowd, nodding with purpose as men shouted their greetings, and barely hiding his smirk as more than one woman turned her head to watch him pass. Ginny rolled her eyes.
His hair was mussed—likely from flying his broom all the way from Aberdeen—and he wore simple muggle jeans and a white t-shirt. A jacket, made of what appeared to be light Hebridean wool in various shades of grey, was folded under one arm.
Merlin, he's handsome, an annoyed voice echoed in Ginny's head.
She was surprised to see a wizened old wizard that had looked ancient even when Ginny was a little girl, hobble over to Draco with his hand outstretched, his other hand tightly gripping his cane. Draco immediately cut off whatever his cousin had been saying to him to reach for the man's hand and bow his head. He covered their handshake with his other hand and smiled what seemed to her an impossible smile: one of respect and reverence. He immediately began a low conversation with the man. She would have been lying to say she wasn't intrigued.
But while she had been watching Draco, she hadn't noticed Blaise approaching her.
"You absolute creampuff," he cooed, breaking her out of her trance and dropping into a squat in directly in her line of vision. "Draco told me you might be here! You look adorable!"
"Oh, Blaise," Ginny laughed, shaking her head. "I didn't see you there. Please, this is my friend Sophie, and Rose, and this is Poppy—"
She introduced Blaise to the group and passed him her full glass of Druid wine, which had mysteriously refilled itself even though she was sure it was empty a moment ago. "Please, take my drink. I think I've had enough," she insisted.
I need my wits about me, she thought, trying not to look over Blaise's shoulder at Draco.
"If you insist," he trilled, taking a healthy swig from her glass. "I'm so happy I let Draco drag me all the way to Scotland—this party is fabulous! I love the energy! It's my first Beltane you know," he said matter-of-factly, draining the glass as though the contents were water.
"Blessed Beltane to you, Blaise," Sophie said with a smile, filling his cup again. Her long braids, fashioned with many gold beads, clicked together musically. "We're happy to have you."
Blaise made himself comfortable, quickly becoming the centre of attention in their little circle, keeping his audience enraptured with his charm and humour. Ginny was straining herself to keep her eyes on Blaise's face and not cast her glance elsewhere, lest it fall on Draco. She had almost, almost forgotten Draco was milling about when a long shadow fell on the group.
"Weasley," his smooth voice reached her ears. She looked up as though she had no idea he was there.
"Malfoy," she smiled calmly, feigning an evenness she did not at all feel. "You made it."
"It appears I did," he drawled, his eyes searching her face. A small smile teased the corner of his lips as he looked at her. Then he looked down at the ground to where Blaise sat, slumped against Ginny's bare knees, gesticulating with the hand that held the glass of wine.
"Draco," Blaise barked. "Where have you been? I need a dance partner. And a drinking partner. These women drink so primly I feel like a savage."
"Hey," Sophie interrupted. She too had been staring at Draco. "If you want a drinking partner, let's drink. I brought firewhisky."
Blaise whipped around to look at her, scandalized, his hand on his chest. "Darling. Why didn't you say so?"
The group laughed and Ginny looked up at Draco again. She was taken aback to see that he was still staring at her, as though his eyes hadn't left her face.
"Nice crown," he said simply. "You look like a faerie."
"Is that a compliment?" Ginny asked dubiously.
"You decide," he replied easily, finally breaking eye contact. He looked down at Blaise and prodded him with his boot.
"The night is young Blaise," he drawled. "You really must pace yourself."
Blaise made a disgruntled sort of noise and sat up straighter. "But there's firewhisky to be had."
"We can drink with these ladies later," he replied, an edge of impatience to his voice. "We need to—"
"Oh?" Sophie interrupted coyly, clearly intrigued by the celebrity Quidditch player who had shown up unexpectedly. "Who says we'll even want to drink with you later?" She sat back, satisfied with her quip.
Draco narrowed his eyes at her, but there was no malice in it. "Sophie Lawrence. Slytherin. You were in your fourth year when I was in my first at Hogwarts. I remember you. You gave my friend some of your sobriety potion when his parents unexpectedly showed up over Christmas hols."
Ginny felt her eyebrows fly up as she turned to look at Sophie. "You were in Slytherin?" she asked incredulously.
"So?" Draco, Sophie and Blaise asked all at once, like they had practiced it.
"Nothing, nothing," Ginny mumbled, raising her hands defensively. "You're just very—nice, is all." She gave Sophie a weak smile, who grinned back.
"I'm not always," she replied mysteriously. Then she turned back to Draco. "I remember giving that boy the potion—he looked so pathetic—was on the verge of retching, he was. I had to."
"I think you might have saved him from a severe beating," Draco said casually.
"Draco," Blaise whined from his perch on the leafy forest floor, still leaning against Ginny's legs. "Come join us, it's a Slytherin reunion plus Weasley." He raised his empty glass and whapped it against Draco's thigh.
Draco looked unmoved. "We will, but right now I need you to join me with the musicians. I just promised Lord MacLeod I'd play a bit before he leaves. And gauging by the fact that he appears to be exactly one fucking thousand years old, I imagine he's ready for bed soon."
"No," Blaise mumbled. "m' drunk."
Ginny was gaping at Draco. "Promised you'd play? I didn't know you played an instrument. What do you play?" She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks and knew she was in trouble. She had always been susceptible to a man playing an instrument.
Draco smirked at her. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Weasley."
"Enough," Blaise barked suddenly, standing on wobbly feet. Ginny wasn't sure how he managed to get so tipsy in such a short period of time. Her unasked question was answered when he said, "fine. I'll play alongside you. But I need to eat something, I've been drinking on an empty stomach."
"Yes, fine, whatever," Draco drawled, steadying him with a hand. "I'll find us fiddles."
"Fiddles?" Ginny echoed. "You play the fiddle?"
"I'm not all looks and money and quidditch skills," he grinned. "I do have other—talents." His voice deepened an octave on the word "talents", a playful light in his eyes. She dropped her gaze and immediately turned to Sophie, smiling nervously.
"So you were in Slytherin? Tell me more."
Ginny tried very hard to be uninterested in what the musicians were now doing, but the task proved impossible. Excusing herself from the group of women she was sitting with, she casually walked through the merriment to follow the sound of the music. She passed by the main bonfire which was casting looming, dramatic shadows on the forest surrounding them as though the woods themselves were alive with magic—and she knew they were. A queue of young men, younger than her, were speaking excitedly amongst each other, drinking mead and nervously waiting their turn for their jump the fire. She tried not to think about her own memories of the fire jumper from ten years ago—she failed.
Dozens of circles of people—groups of children weaving hawthorn crowns, the elders speaking quietly to one another, eyes sharp; even some small groups of teenagers and young adults locked in passionate embraces, rolling around in the grass, clinging to each other—were everywhere. The sound of the music now loud in her ears as she approached the largest crowd, which was gathered to watch the performers. She gently pushed her way through the bodies to the front of the audience.
And could not believe the sight that met her eyes.
The music was beautiful; a jaunty Celtic folk tune, fast-paced and exploding with rhythm, kept gorgeously in place by the steady beat of the hand drums in the circle of musicians. She saw an accordion player, a flute player, a few guitar players—and there, in the middle of the musical melee, the two figures that no one, not even the other musicians, could tear their eyes away from.
Blaise and Draco, both on fiddles, playing rapidly in perfect unison and with shocking skill. They looked like photo negatives of each other—one with long night-black hair that twisted down his chest like serpents, the other with moonlight-coloured short hair that was now matted to his forehead with sweat. (As was his t-shirt to his firm body, but Ginny tried very hard not to look at that.)
She caught herself goggling and closed her mouth. The two fiddlers looked like they grew up playing together, their hands, fingers, and tapping heels moving not a beat out of sync. She suddenly understood why Lord MacLeod (the old man who approached Draco when he arrived, she realized) had insisted they play before he left: Ginny had never seen such incredible virtuosity. Her mind was reeling: was the little jerk who tormented her in school learning to play the violin like this every summer when he went home from Hogwarts? Did he and Blaise have the same teacher? She had so many questions. The rest of the audience was held in rapt attention, clapping and dancing on the spot as they watched.
The music reached a crescendo and ended, and the entire crowd burst into massive applause and hollers of approval. Ginny, clapping distractedly, watched as Draco and Blaise accepted a shot of a steaming, clear golden liquor. She watched Draco bow his head in thanks, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm, and tilt his head back to throw the liquid down his throat. The light from the fire illuminated the long line of his arched neck. Ginny squirmed and looked over at Blaise, who was fanning his face with his hand—they were so close to the fire. He turned to look at Draco inquisitively, who after a moment nodded, an unspoken conversation clearly having taken place. They mouthed something under their breath in unison, tapped their feet in sync, and struck up another tune to great appreciation from the crowd.
Ginny immediately recognized this particular music and couldn't help the tapping movement that took over her own foot—she used to love dancing to this tune—her mother had taught her the very specific Beltane dance to this song. As the accordion and drums worked faster within the music and the fiddle players wound the crowd into a jubilant frenzy, it felt as though an invisible hand nudged her forward to join two young women who had begun the ancient dance she knew so well.
Her body immediately fell into in sync with the two girls who smiled brightly at her as she entered their space, their cheeks awash in firelight and red from drink. If a muggle were passing by, they would have likely thought that the women were performing a loose, heathen interpretation of the Irish Washerwoman's Jig—very similar movements, but less structured and more sensual.
Ginny was now completely at the mercy of the music, moving in perfect unison within the group, feeling weightless as a cloud; she felt her light dress move around her thighs and long tendrils of hair fall out of the messy braided pile on top of her head. She knew she had started to sweat as she felt her hair begin to cling to her neck. She had her eyes closed as she spun and jumped and moved her feet in in the specific and particular steps—the light from the fire was coming through her closed eyelids.
The music slowed very briefly, as was expected with this tune, and gave way to the solo beating of the hand drums, which was her favourite part of this dance. With her eyes closed, she began to spin, her hair truly loosening from its arrangement now, and she felt the wind grow strong as the women beside her spun at her speed as well. If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen the onlookers gazing in amazement at this hurricane of women, spinning faster and faster as the singular sound of the drum beat harder and harder.
Colours blossomed against the backs of her eyelids—she saw an emerald-green glen, and a man, a man who looked like Draco but wasn't at all Draco, walking towards her with a smile on his face.
She opened her mouth to gasp, to say something to him, but before she could, the drums suddenly stopped, and she immediately ceased spinning. When she finally opened her eyes, shaking the strange imagery out of her head, her gaze locked on Draco's and she felt her breath hitch.
He had the fiddle poised under his neck, bow at the ready—but the intensity of his blazing stare, heavy-lidded from alcohol and maybe something else, was aimed squarely at her. Suddenly, he smirked at her as he and Blaise began playing again.
Before Ginny had time to process that smirk, she was swept into the movement of the dancers while they completed their ritual to cheers from the crowd. This time, Ginny did not close her eyes—though she soon began to wish she had.
Draco played as skillfully as he had been all night, with long legs tapping to the fast music, but Ginny saw that he did not take his eyes off her once. The faster his strong fingers moved across the frets of the fiddle, the more serious his face and eyes became, and the faster Ginny danced.
It was clear the crowd did not know whether to look at Ginny or at Draco—they were both at the centre of their own universe as it became more evident that Draco was now playing for Ginny and Ginny was now dancing for his fiddle alone. She didn't at all blush or break his gaze when she saw how his eyes were now sweeping her body—from her bare feet on the leafy, damp forest floor, now blackened with dirt—up her legs, dappled with warm firelight like two wands of gold—to the sweat drenching the wide scoop neck of her tunic, where she felt beads of sweat running between her breasts—her bright hair, brighter now before the fire, wildly escaping its confines.
His eyes finally rested on her face again, his bow still moving like rapid fire against his fiddle, and she felt a white-hot heat curl in her stomach and move lower between her legs. She saw the deftness of his fingers and drew in a breath, remembering how he had used his skilled hands to play her body before. Soundlessly, wordlessly, Ginny knew he too was thinking of their last interaction in this forest.
The intensity of desire in his eyes was undeniable as he stared at her, his eyes dark and cheeks flushed. A bead of sweat ran down his nose as he continued to furiously play, urging her body to move faster. Without a word between them, she knew with certainty that if she stopped dancing right now and walked towards him, he would throw his instrument to the ground and sweep her into the dark woods to finish the business they had started ten years ago.
Goddess, she thought, as the music ended and her feet finally stopped moving, panting heavily and tearing her eyes away from Draco, who had lowered the fiddle to his side and wordlessly accepted a drink from the drummer beside him. This was such a bad idea.
The audience around them was erupting in applause and hollers of appreciation; two little girls ran up to Ginny and asked her if she could teach them "the beautiful dance". She smiled as she fanned her face and promised she would at some point, after she had rested. She gratefully accepted the glass of wine that was handed to her by one of the other women, and took a longer-than-usual sip from it. She dragged the sleeve of her dress across her forehead to wipe the sweat that had gathered there.
Still shaken from the heat of the unspoken understanding that transpired between her and Draco (and still trying to hold onto the vision that came unbidden into her mind as she danced), she tentatively looked away from a woman who was trying to engage her in conversation.
She saw that he was now speaking again to Lord MacLeod who had approached him, smiling approvingly, and Draco had his head lowered to hear the old wizard. Ginny bit her lip in disappointment and turned her attention to the woman, promising to converse with her later—right now, she needed to find some water.
As Ginny made her way back to the log where she knew her friends were waiting, her heart still racing, a broad, familiar figure blocked her way.
"Seamus!" Ginny cried, letting herself be swept into a hug. "Merlin, it's been ages," she laughed.
As his large form enveloped her and pulled her close, she felt him smile against her hair. He pulled away with his huge hands on her shoulders and beamed at her, his freckled face splitting into a grin and lighting up his bright blue eyes. His sandy blonde curls were wet, for some reason she couldn't fathom.
"Ginny," he said in his rich Irish accent, which she had somehow always been charmed by. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you. What's the craic? I hear you're retired now—that's grand, that's grand."
"Thank you Seamus," she laughed, immediately at ease with this figure from her childhood. He reminded her of her time at Hogwarts, of Ron and Harry, of days spent in the Gryffindor common room eating chocolate frogs and pining to make the Quidditch team. "How're you? How're the kids? How's Lavender?"
"Oh," Seamus said sheepishly. "Kids are alright, yeah, with my parents in Cork at the moment." He rubbed the back of his head, smiling awkwardly. "Lavender and I split though."
Ginny raised her eyebrows—Seamus and Lavender had gotten married quickly out of Hogwarts. The girls in her year had often lamented that he was never up for grabs and resented Lavender for having locked him down so early. By his seventh year, the goofy, gangly little Irish boy had become a tall, muscular, goofy young man that frequently caught the attention of the female population at Hogwarts—especially when he ran the track around the lake shirtless. Ginny blushed at the memory and focused on the man in front of her, ten years grown from the handsome boy at Hogwarts.
"Oh, gosh," she said, feeling her face move in concern. "I'm so sorry to hear that Seamus—I had no idea or I wouldn't have—"
"Nah, you're fine love," he interrupted warmly. "It happened a while ago and it was for the best. I think we're both a lot happier."
Ginny sincerely doubted that Lavender felt happier, but it was none of her business.
"I'm happy to hear it. How's everything at the Prophet? I read your Quidditch column whenever I get the newspaper." Which was incredibly infrequently, she added to herself.
He laughed and Ginny noticed at that moment that he was carrying a cask of mead. "Glad you enjoy it Gin," he said; she was surprised at the use of her childhood nickname. "Yeah, everything is fine work-wise. We really do have a lot to catch up on though," he paused, running his free hand through his hair. "I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to take a walk down to the river with me just now so we could chat without all this—"
"Finnegan," a bored-sounding voice drawled from behind her. She turned around to see Draco walking slowly and arrogantly towards them, clearly within earshot of their conversation. One hand was casually in his pocket and the other was curled around the neck of an open bottle of whisky. He looked like he had certainly had more to drink since she departed the musicians circle a few moments ago; despite this, he looked disconcertingly calculating. "What a—thrill—to see you here."
Seamus' energy immediately shifted, so much so that Ginny almost flinched.
"Malfoy," he responded coldly. "I can't say I'm not shocked to see you. Shouldn't you be in France eating caviar and being overpaid to do it?" Seamus took a long swig from his drink. "I can't imagine this celebration is for your aristocratic sort."
Draco threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter, but there was no mirth in it. When he looked at Seamus again, his eyes were heartless. Ginny winced.
"My grandmother's family were the stewards of these highlands long before the first of your potato-eating, speckled brood was even conceived, Finnegan," he said quietly and without hesitation. "And I'm fine with being an overpaid Quidditch player—should I be more like you, getting paid a pittance to write my uninformed opinion on a game I was never good enough to play professionally?"
Ginny goggled. "Malfoy," she hissed, turning to fully face him now and glaring at him. "What is wrong with you? How rude—"
"Leave it Gin," Seamus snarled, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Malfoy is just sore that my column gets a lot of attention and I've never deigned to write about him."
Draco laughed dangerously, low on his breath, and Ginny tensed. His eyes were moving between Seamus' hand on her shoulder, back to Seamus, and back to his hand. At this point, Blaise had come up behind Draco, eyes glazed from whisky but clearly still shrewd. He appeared to be watching the scene unfold with delighted curiosity.
"Gin?" Draco sneered. "That's cute. Like she's a little girl. Maybe before you absolutely bore her to death talking about corn or shamrocks or whatever the fuck it is you think makes for interesting conversation—"
Seamus moved past Ginny as though he was going to throw a punch at Draco, but she quickly whipped around to steady him with a hand on his chest. Blaise had his eyebrows raised in a look that betrayed his deep amusement.
"Seamus, don't," she implored. "Don't worry, I'll catch up with you later. I had promised Draco and Blaise that we'd have a drink with my friends earlier. But I'll find you tonight before I leave and we can arrange catch-up over coffee sometime? Yeah?"
She heard Draco scoff behind her. Seamus turned confused eyes on Ginny.
"Did you call him Draco?" he asked incredulously. "Since when were you on such close terms with—"
"Since none of your fucking business, Finnegan," Draco hissed, clearly done with waiting for Ginny to soothe her fellow Gryffindor. He grabbed her wrist, not roughly, but Ginny let him pull her away, casting an apologetic look at Seamus.
When they were several steps removed from her shocked Irish friend, Ginny ripped her wrist out of Draco's grip. Blaise was gleefully running up beside them.
"Malfoy, what the fuck," she growled, rubbing her wrists and glaring at him with real rage, "did you think you were doing?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he snapped sarcastically, gesturing widely with the arm that was holding the bottle of whisky. "Did I interrupt your little flirtation with the newly-single, ever-boring Finnegan? Were you challenging yourself to find the most dim-witted, brawny neanderthal to take back to your room?"
As he finished his rant, breathing hard, Ginny's mouth dropped open. She looked at Blaise who was standing a little ways behind Draco; his eyes were wide and he held up his fingers to the shocked 'o' of his mouth.
In the whirlwind of the confrontation, she hadn't been able to see what was clearly transpiring between the two men in front of her eyes. Laughter bubbled up inside of her.
"Malfoy," she said, trying very hard to keep her voice even despite the cackle that was threatening to come out. "Are you upset that Seamus was trying to pull me?"
Draco just raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swig. He held up a finger and waved it.
"Not upset," he said roughly, his throat evidently burning from the whisky. "Just looking out for you."
Ginny felt her laughter subside, and a new wave of rage took over. She stalked closer to him and poked her finger hard into his chest.
"Ow," he said petulantly.
"Listen to me, you hypocrite," she seethed. His eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he looked down at her. "You were the one who suggested coming here together as an attempt to be friends. You were the one who told me nothing could ever happen between us. You are the one in a relationship, yet inexplicably running around and sabotaging my attempts to enjoy myself at this party, so don't," she poked another finger even harder into his chest, and he stepped back, looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. "—don't you dare try and pull this possessive shit on me. You don't get to be jealous."
She glared at him one last time, only barely noting the surprise in his eyes, before she turned her back and stalked away.
Ginny was going to head straight to the apparition spot (she was too drunk to fly) when she heard Sophie calling her name. The ladies had migrated to a grassy knoll some ways away from the party and started their own little fire that was merrily crackling away. Sophie waved her over and Ginny felt her feet carrying her towards the girls.
She plopped down beside them and buried her head in her hands. She didn't cry, but she felt very, very tired.
"Petal, what happened," Sophie asked with concern, resting a hand on her arm. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," Ginny sighed, raising her head and smiling thinly at the women who were looking at her questioningly. "Just—boy troubles," she finished lamely.
"Ah," said Sophie said knowingly, sitting back on her hands. "Malfoy, hmm?"
"What, er, no—" Ginny started, eyebrows knitting together. "Why would you—"
"Because he was staring at you the entire time he came over to talk to us, obviously," sniffed Poppy, a very attractive, buxom blonde witch who was probably not used to having anyone else stared at while she was around. "He didn't even glance at the rest of us."
"It's a long story," Ginny mumbled. "Can we please talk about anything else?"
Sophie laughed. "Fine. I have a question: at what age does one become considered a crone?" she asked, eyeing the group of impossibly old witches sitting around their own fire nearby. They were speaking in hushed voices and drinking a smoking liquid that looked like it might kill them on the spot.
The girls all laughed. "Goddess. I don't know. If anyone refers to me as a crone before I turn one-hundred and twenty, I'll hex them," Poppy said with certainty, taking her wand and lighting up what looked like a cigarette. Ginny caught a whiff and realized it was Gillyweed. Poppy held it out to her.
"Sure," Ginny said, thankful that the Quidditch association stopped randomly testing for substances over a decade ago. "It's been a while."
The girls talked for what felt like at least an hour, laughing softly and imagining the lives that the other witches and wizards around them were leading. They invited an old crone to sit with them after she had passed by and mistily remarked on the beauty of their youth. The elder witch had also taken a drag of the Gillyweed that was being passed around—in short, it was that sort of night. Ginny felt her muscles loosening and her jaw unclenching as she sat with these women. The rage and confusion from her encounter with Draco earlier were replaced with a numbing, pleasant buzz.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over her. She looked up.
"Seamus," she said, surprised, and sat up a little straighter. "I'm sorry I—"
"Don't apologize Gin," he smiled kindly. "After I talked to Draco, he pointed me in this direction—"
"Wait, what," she asked, feeling confusion colour her face.
"Draco found me a little while ago and apologized to me for the scene he made earlier," Seamus explained, shrugging his shoulders. "He seemed sincere. Gave me a bottle of firewhisky. Said you were looking for me."
"He what," Ginny said dully, not believing what she was hearing. "He sent you to me?"
"I—yes," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is that not true?"
Ginny paused. Clearly, this was Draco's idea of a solution to the problem he created. No sense punishing Seamus for that. Despite realizing she really didn't want to hang out with Seamus right now, she invited him to sit down anyway.
"I actually can't," he admitted, crouching so he was on eye level with her. "The kids won't fall asleep til they see me, and I have an early morning tomorrow." He looked regretful. "But here—" he pulled a folded-up piece of parchment. "Owl me when you have a chance. I would love to take you up on that coffee." He smiled warmly at her and she did her best to match his warmth. "Oh, and keep the firewhisky," he said, thrusting it under her nose. "I don't really have much time to drink these days."
She laughed and accepted both his address and the bottle. "You lead a very responsible life, Seamus," she said, with some sadness in her voice. "Far different from my life."
He studied her for a moment. "Indeed," he replied quietly. "I'm sure we have more in common than we think though." His last statement sounded hopeful.
"I'll write to you," she lied. "Promise."
He nodded and squeezed her shoulder. She watched him leave until he disappeared into the woods where the apparition spot was.
She could sense that the women around her wanted some clarity, but she was lost in her thoughts.
What's wrong with me? Why did it take the wind out of my sails when Seamus told me that Draco sent him in my direction? Did that mean that Draco really wasn't jealous at all? Was he actually just trying to be protective? And then she thought, Seamus is a handsome, accomplished man. Why am I so sure I want nothing to do with him, when he's clearly interested in getting to know me more?
Amazingly, she heard Hermione's voice in her head: You loved Jared but you weren't in love with him. He didn't ignite anything in you, there was no spark. And you're punishing yourself for feeling like you hurt a good man because he wasn't enough for you. But you know what Ginny? Life is hard. And sometimes being with a 'nice' guy doesn't cut it.
She shivered. Was that it then? Was she destined to push away all the nice men who wanted to date her in earnest because she was addicted to the chemistry she felt with Draco?
A voice cut through her thoughts.
"I see Finnegan didn't like my gift," Draco said, coming up to their group. Leaves crunched under his boots. Ginny looked up at him from where she sat cross-legged on the ground. He didn't immediately meet her eyes, but when he finally did, she saw the question in them. He looked sheepish.
Ginny smiled blandly. "He's a single father of three, Malfoy—he doesn't have much time for that sort of thing."
Malfoy muttered something under his breath that Ginny didn't quite catch, but she was sure she heard the word "boring." She decided to ignore it.
"Well, we'll put it to good use, won't we ladies?" Blaise said, in more of a statement than a question. Sophie and Poppy eagerly held out their glasses as he filled them.
"Can I talk to you?" Draco asked Ginny quietly. His energy was tense.
She glanced up at him and was about to respond coldly when Blaise interrupted.
"But Draco I've been waiting to sit and drink with these girls!" He huffed. "Must you make everything so serious?"
"I just wanted to apologize to Weasley in the hopes that we could enjoy our evening."
Ginny turned to look at him again and nodded tentatively. She ignored Draco's out-stretched hand and got up on her own, dusting the moist dirt off her once-white dress. "I'm sure we'll only be a second Blaise," Ginny said softly. Blaise looked dubious.
Draco walked them closer to the edge of the woods, looking like he was going to lead her inside of them.
"Enough," Ginny called quietly to his back. "This is far enough. I'm not going into the woods with you."
He looked sullen. "I'm not going to hurt you, Weasley," he said coldly. "I just wanted to—"
"You've already hurt me," she said honestly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just say what you want to say."
He fully turned to look at her then, standing very still, his face an impassive mask. "I'm sorry."
"You don't even know what you're sorry for," she said flatly. "You're only saying sorry because you don't want me to be mad at you anymore, but it's not that easy—"
"Ginny," he said, taking a few steps closer to her. She shivered, never quite used to her given name on his lips. The breeze picked up and she could smell his cologne drift toward her. "Do you remember what I said to you the other night? I said don't read into anything I do or say. You have to remember—"
"What am I supposed to think then?" she countered, fighting the urge to shriek those words. She knew how she must look. Hair mussed beyond repair around her face, her eyes wild with intensity, her small fists balled in frustration. Disheveled dress, dirt smeared on her hands and legs. But she didn't care. She felt like she was beyond caring. "How am I supposed to interpret your little scene earlier, much less all of the things you've said and done over these last few months? The flowers, the way you stare at me—"
Draco covered his face in his hands in what appeared to be a gesture of frustration, and she fell silent. She saw him take a deep breath, his broad shoulders widening under his thin t-shirt. When he lowered his hands, she saw that the cold mask was yet again draped over his features, like a curtain. She would have laughed if she didn't feel like crying.
"Ok Weasley. You clearly don't get it, and I've tried to be tactful, so I'm going to spell it out and I'm not going to spare you." He rummaged through the pocket of his jeans the way someone might rummage frantically through their purse for a lost set of keys. She saw him take out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He glanced at her with a furious gaze as he lit one with his muggle lighter. Exhaling, his eyes blazing with intensity, he asked, "Are you ready for this?"
When she didn't respond, frozen into immobility by the manic energy radiating off him, he continued anyway.
"I don't have the capacity to love," he spat. "It was removed from my roster of human emotion. It doesn't exist. So no matter how much you make me laugh, how much I find your company entertaining, how inspiring or sweet or smart I find you—because I think all these things of you Ginny, and more—I will never, ever feel love for you." He took another step forward, inhaling another long drag of his cigarette. Ginny was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from his face. His last words seared her heart, but she didn't ask him to stop talking.
"You know what I can, and do feel for you though? I want to fuck you, Weasley. I want to fuck you more than I've ever wanted to fuck any woman in my life." He raised both his hands like he wanted to grip her face, but he didn't. He just continued to look at her with a crazed gleam in his eye. "Do you know what happens after I fuck a woman, Ginny? After a night of torrid passion into the wee hours of the morning? Hmm?" He reached out now to gently grab a fistful of her hair and run his thumb over the tendrils, as though he were feeling a priceless fabric. She tensed but didn't lower her gaze.
"The second I come," he breathed, his silvery gaze sweeping her entire face like a caress from the edge of a blade. Their faces were only inches away. "The second I feel release—I immediately want nothing to do with her. Days, weeks, months of pursuit—gone. The jig is up. And no amount of tears, playing hard to get, manipulation, nothing, will ever make me think of her again."
He released her hair from his gentle grip and stepped back. She felt herself shiver, as though his proximity was the only thing blocking the cold breeze that she now felt. She let his words sink in, quietly, studying the forest behind him. They were far enough away from the festivities that the revelry was only a distant din, but for some reason, the silence of the forest seemed even louder.
She finally dragged her gaze back to him, which he met with trepidation.
"You're pursuing me because you want to have sex with me," she said hollowly, slowly, feeling like she had the right puzzle piece in her hand but it wasn't quite fitting the jig saw. "But for some reason you've decided that you care for me as a friend, so you don't want to hurt me." She blinked at him, still working out her thoughts out loud. "So by this logic—I'm just supposed to try to be your friend while actively throwing up roadblocks towards your advances, to make sure I don't let my guard down and fall into bed with you—because if I do I'll never see you again?" She paused, cocking her head at him. "And all the while you're being sweet to me and wooing me I'm not supposed to fall in love with you or expect anything more than friendship while I watch you date other women? Is that what you want?"
There were a few moments of silence as she studied his face. Gauging by the mild shame that was darkening his eyes and by the way he was looking intensely at the ground, she realized that that was exactly what he was expecting of her.
"You're insane," she laughed hollowly. "This is insane."
"This is—" he said suddenly, looking at her with something akin to rage and tossing the cigarette that had burned away between his fingers. "—my curse, Ginny. I don't want to be like this. I want to be like every other man. I want to meet a woman who makes me want to commit, who makes me want to settle down and start a family—I didn't choose—"
"But you did choose," Ginny cried, half laughing, half choking, throwing her hands up in the air. "You did choose," she said again quietly. "And I'd be foolish to expect a shred of self-control from you then?" she asked, glaring at him. "If we see each other at a party and I'm flirting with another man, I just have to accept that you'll do everything in your power to scare him away? Draco, how is this fair—"
"I said I was sorry about Finnegan," he began, quietly. "You brought me to my senses, I found him and sent him to you—"
"Argh," she yelled, grasping at the front of his shirt without thinking and looking imploringly into his face. "I don't want Seamus, I want you-"
"Don't," he hissed, grabbing her fist where it was balled in the fabric of his t-shirt, and looking at her in the closest thing she'd seen to agony on his face. "Don't say that Ginny, you don't want—"
A twig cracked like a plate shattering.
"You two remind me so much of a pair I once knew," a low, harrowing voice rasped behind them. Ginny felt like she had been doused in cold water. In unison, they both turned to look at the interloper.
Ginny immediately recognized her; she was sure Draco did as well. Undoubtedly, this was the ancient old witch who had approached them exactly ten years ago when she declared them the May King and Queen. She had seemingly not aged from the hundred-or-so years old she had appeared to be a decade ago. Watery, small beady eyes— one was almost completely white— she was going blind. A shining centre point amidst the hooded, black-cloaked figure she cut was the same large, shining glass orb that hung heavily around her neck. Ginny could see shadows moving in it; she didn't remember that from her memory. She repressed a shudder and opened her mouth to speak, but she heard Draco's low voice first.
"Marquess Agnew," he said quietly, bowing his head slightly. He looked suddenly vigilant. "I trust we didn't disturb you."
The old crone, miraculously, moved her mouth in something of a smile. "No, Draco of Donnachaidh," she whispered. "No one has referred to me as such for years. It is good to see you both."
Ginny turned to look at Draco, blinking. A muscle at his sharp jawline was twitching furiously. Donnachaidh? She had heard this surname mentioned more than once, murmured quietly by her mother, her aunt, her grandmother. She was grasping at memories, trying to attach significance to the name. Then she remembered what Draco had snarled at Seamus:
My grandmother's family were the stewards of these highlands-
The witch turned her shrewd gaze on Ginny. "And you, Virginia Prewett— you look so much like Elaine."
Ginny was dumbfounded. "Elaine…?"
"Your great-great-aunt," the witch said quickly, almost snapping at her. "Don't tell me you've never heard of her."
"My great-great-aunt," Ginny repeated hollowly. "I— I'm sorry— I wasn't exactly thoroughly educated on my mother's—"
"Yes, I imagine you weren't," this Marquess said rather coldly, clutching her orb to her chest. "Far be it from the likes of Arthur Weasley to instil pride of bloodlines in his children."
Ginny felt her hackles rise, more so when she saw Draco almost smirk out of the corner of her eye.
"I would appreciate if—" Ginny began hotly, feeling defensive of her father, but the witch spoke over her.
"You should have been taught, child," the witch hissed, taking a step closer. "You should know the greatness that runs in your veins— the legacy of the powerful witches who roamed this land—"
Ginny felt her mouth fall open slightly, speechless. She said nothing— she could only stare at the crone. She felt a heavy, warm weight on her shoulder and looked over to see Draco's elegant fingers resting there. His face was impassive as his looked at the witch, half in shadow. She was trying to fathom the shift in energy she was suddenly feeling.
"With all due respect, Marquess," he drawled. "I suspect this might not be the best moment to burden yourself with educating Virginia. If you'll allow it, perhaps you'll let me enlighten her at a different time."
Ginny was reeling. What did Draco seem to know about her ancestors, that she very clearly didn't? As politely as possible to not seem emotional, she shrugged Draco's hand off her shoulder. She felt his gaze on her face.
The crone paused, eyes darting between them with an odd light. "Yes," she rasped. Then she smiled that harrowing smile again. "Yes, perhaps that would be best."
Ginny nodded tightly and began to turn away when the old voice stopped her again; this time the tone the witch spoke in chilled her to her very bones.
"You know girl," she whispered. "The impossible would stand in awe of what you might accomplish—" the witch hobbled so close to Ginny that she could smell the intense aroma of cloves and incense that rolled off of her, "— if you might only rely on your intuition. There's real magic there."
The century-old woman pulled back, her face twisted in something that could be a smile or a sneer. Ginny goggled, trying to hold onto the words she had just heard.
"Goodbye, children of the glen. To the May King and his Queen," she rasped, before she clutched her orb and disappeared into thin air.
The forest was eerily quiet now; the wind had picked up and it blew with intent through the trees, creating a sound that was both comforting and haunting. The air was heavy, and Ginny pulled her arms around herself.
The sudden appearance of the crone had taken the intensity and fire out of her, out of her desire to battle with Malfoy; she felt mute, embarrassed. Tired. She looked up at him, wondering if he felt the same.
"I think it's going to rain," Draco murmured, looking down at her. His eyes were uncharacteristically gentle. "We should head back to the fire."
"What did she mean, Malfoy?" Ginny asked firmly, crossing her arms under her breasts and pinning him with her gaze. "Why do I get the feeling that you know something about my mother's family that I don't?"
He smirked at her then. "Because clearly, I do."
He was infuriating; his silvery hair mussed from the wind, colour high in his cheeks from the cold, and probably alcohol. His eyes betrayed a playful sort of challenge.
"I want you to tell me everything you know," she snapped. "I'm still furious with you— but I want to know everything."
"Fine," he said, breaking their eye contact and fishing around in his pocket. "But it's a story best explained back at my apartment."
Ginny felt her heart skip a beat at his words, and again when he held up what was clearly a wine cork— a portkey. She eyed him mistrustfully, though her legs felt a bit weak at his proposal.
"Why can't you just tell me here?"
"Well, for starters it'll all make a lot more sense when I show you something, which is at the apartment," he drawled. His cool, intense grey eyes swept down her body to glance quickly at her bosom. "And second, I can only imagine you're very cold, as I can clearly see your nipples poking through your dress."
Ginny gasped and spun away from him, covering her breasts with her arms.
"God, you're such a fucking jerk," she hissed, willing her face to cool from the tomato red she could feel it turning. She had been, in fact, getting very cold.
"No one ever said I was a gentleman," he said, turning the cork over in one hand, looking at her with boredom. "Are we going or not?"
"What about Blaise?" she asked, still covering her chest. "Won't he be upset if you don't say goodbye?"
Draco actually laughed. "If I had a Knut for every time Blaise vanished into thin air at a party, I would be—" he paused, his brow furrowing. "—even richer."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Fine—but just for a little while. All my stuff is back in my hotel room."
"That's fine," he said, eyes glittering with humour. "No one said anything about an overnight visit."
"I hate you," she spat.
"No, you don't," he drawled, smirking, and came forward suddenly to grab her arm and pull her flush against him.
She only had a moment to register the sudden electric warmth of his body and the scent of his spicy cologne— before her world turned upside down.
A/N: Part two of Chapter 6 coming as fast as I can churn it out my loves! Thanks again for reading—all the hugs to you! xo
