That morning, Ginevra Potter spent an undetermined amount of time getting ready for the day. She was nervous, and nervousness made her sloppy, and she had barely enough brainpower left after taking care of the house and James Sirius and calling the – it seemed like thousands – of friends, family and neighbors who had at some point dropped by or left a beautifully written note or a batch of homemade muffins by the door in honor of her son's existence. It had been not-quite six months and she was still buried under a mountain of borrowed gratitude. And then there was that thing at the coffee shop.
Ginevra Potter did not stand people up. She knew what it felt like to be constantly forgotten, left behind. So – and this is the official reason why she went, it was a matter of honor, of responsibility to her ideals of self – she called her mother, dropped off her infant son, and took a raincheck from her life to meet Draco Malfoy.
When she looked back on that moment, there were many things she could not remember. Whether she walked or took a muggle cab, whether she nibbled a croissant or English muffin while waiting in her favorite seat with the view of the front door. Whether she wore clogs or heeled boots, whether or not she had said, "I love you" to James Sirius before leaving him with her mother. And then there were some things she could picture down to the very last detail in her mind, see them play out like photographs in the Daily Prophet while she listened to Harry talk about his job, feel their invisible hands while she stirred the dinner stew, hear their lascivious whispers oh-so-close to her earlobes as she dressed in her dreary woolen winter robes. There were some things Ginevra Potter would never forget.
She wasn't sure where she was when he caught her: halfway standing up, reluctant to give up on his arrival? Was she at the door, her eyes crumpling with lost hope? Perhaps walking to the corner, almost speaking the words that would summon the Knight Bus. It didn't matter. He was there, touching her shoulder, long fingers insistent through black leather gloves, tendrils of not-quite-warmth expanding under the sudden contact. She wasn't sure what she said to him - probably something mouse-brained - but looking back, she realized that there needn't have been words at all.
At some time she began to repress the memory of the moment afterward, when she felt the sharp not-pain when he touched her mind, when her hastily-built, seldom-practiced Occlumency barriers crumbled, leaving her feelings, her dreams, her pent-up desires bare to his gaze. She would, depending on her mood, let the memory of his mouth flicker between desperate, empathetic hunger and triumph. Then his hand closed around the nape of her neck and pressed her close and the world disappeared.
For a moment – this was when the memory truly began, - he held her close, his breath sighing into her hair, his chest pushing in and out against hers. His fingers cupped her face, gray eyes locking with hers for a second, before his lips pressed against her forehead and he whispered, Please. There was the briefest moment when he was completely vulnerable. A sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, escaped her lungs, her lips, pressing against his collarbone and he did not bother to ask her permission again.
"Draco," we shouldn't do this. Her body, that traitor, pressing closer.
"Ginny." I know you want me. His eyes, ambivalent, sorrowful, desiring.
"I…" have a family, a son, waiting for me. Her mind, flooding with emotion, the last excuses fleeing to higher ground.
"You." Smell like home. His teeth, like perfect white tombstones, his tongue darting between them. He was so perfect, so unlike Harry. His white-blond hair cut shorter than she'd ever seen it before, his gray eyes solemn under wispy-pale lashes that she'd never been close enough to notice, the small wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes from smiles she could never imagine his face making until now.
She tilted her head back and the remnants of her self control evaporated into the wind.
Then he kissed her.
Harry Potter sat at his desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, bags under his green eyes. He barely registered the enchanted ceiling growing dimmer, the wall-lamps flickering on in response. His office hadn't started out as the nicest in the DMLE, but it was headed that way, what with all the gifts. Most of it ended up in storage; apart from various files and paperwork, the only object on his desk was a small metal device that whizzed every so often. Harry glanced at the memento and walked out the door the moment before the young bearded man turned the corner. The man stopped, startled, then gave a quick bow of acknowledgement.
"You've checked ahead?" Harry asked. Between his fingers he rubbed a piece of glass, the edges worn down by time and use.
"Of course." The bearded man replied. "We've got an hour, Mr. Perevell."
Harry nodded. "That will do."
Together, the two continued down the corridor and down the stairs.