Relief maybe?

"This, this was love. This was the real thing." ~ Laurence Olivier upon watching a film of his late former wife Vivien Leigh, shortly before his own death in 1989. Vivien had been dead since 1967.

The lines quoted by Ginny are from Elizabeth Siddal's "Dead Love."

She slept there all night, the first real possibility of sleep for almost a week. Pepper-up potions could only do so much. Draco's head rested on her breast, ear pressed against her heart. She loved the weight of him when she breathed. She loved, too, that he clutched her hip tighter at different times, and wondered of what he dreamt. She could not help obsessing over his missing days, how many days he had been lying on the forest floor. No one to help him, exposed to any of the nefarious creatures inhabiting the forest.

Instinctively, she pressed her fingertips into the warmth of his upper arm, because she could and he was there. He was there. Her fingers ached wherever she touched, as though his pain had somehow seeped through the warmth. She kissed his too-bright hair, then, breathed his scent. He still smelled a little smoky, another sometime aftereffect of the Cruciatus, which lingered for weeks or months, depending on the strength of the curse. Sometimes, she bit back heavy sobs. She almost lost him; she might still lose him.

She only lightly slept. Despite the fatigue nipping at her bones, she was far too aware of Draco to fall into true sleep.

But that was okay, because she could feel his breath against her breast.

She might have dreamt of them in that way too, because she was surprised when his rustling woke her. He lightly kissed the exposed flesh above her heart, and the junction of her shoulder. She threaded her fingers through his hair with a sigh and met his sleepy smile, so pleased to see her that she thought her heart might crack under the pressure. He almost looked innocent when sleepy.

"Morning, Draco," she murmured.

He could not answer. Instead, he shifted and pulled her to his lips, briefly, and when he let her go, she pulled him back – because she could, because they had time now. She had dreamed of having him with her at Grimmauld, to see and touch whenever she wanted. But it had seemed as ephemeral a dream as wishing Dumbledore and Colin alive again. Simply impossible, and this might still be a dream. She might wake to find him gone, slipped beneath the veil through which Sirius has fallen so long ago.

So, she did – roam her hands over his back, taking care to avoid his bandages, but her need to feel his muscles move beneath her hand startled her in its strength. Draco deepened the kiss, more strongly than she would have thought him capable just then. He seemed just as greedy as Ginny, and his touch was just as gentle as he slid one hand beneath her shirt. She shivered as his fingertips danced along her ribcage. When he pulled away again she worried that it had been too much, that she had hurt him. Before she could ask, he captured her lips again, maneuvering them so that when his hand slid beneath her shirt again, he was able to cup one breast.

Thank Merlin I never wear a bra to bed, she thought. Shuddering, because though she'd had sex with him, they had never had the opportunity to just touch. This intimacy, limbs entwined in a rumpled bed, gentleness – it was a luxury they had never been able to afford. It was the closest they'd ever been to really making love and if Ginny were not so dizzy from his nearness, she would cry.

Ginny broke away to gasp when his thumb rubbed over her nipple. His smirk was the naughtiest and most Draco-like expression she had witnessed since his rescue. It made her grin, a genuine happiness she had been almost too afraid to indulge until now.

But Draco was still weak and his moan was not one entirely of pleasure. He may still be smirking, but the tightness about his eyes betrayed his pain. "We can't do this now," she breathed against his lips, placing her own hand upon the one still caressing her breast.

He nodded, slowly, and pulled his hand away, though he still kissed her.

When the Mediwitch entered with Draco's breakfast tray of weak broth and tea a moment later, his mother trailing behind, Ginny blushed a little to be caught embracing. She turned away from Narcissa's amused smile with a promise to return. As she closed the door, she caught sight of covers drawn back and dark, blood-stained bandages being checked and instantly felt guilty. She should have checked. She should have.

After grabbing tea and a bit of toast from the thankfully deserted kitchen, Ginny slipped out to Grimmauld's overgrown flower gardens. She needed a bit of peace. She did not want questions yet.

Her mother had restored a small path and swing bench in an attempt to make Grimmauld seem more like a home, and it was to this place that Ginny often sought for moments of peace. The lavender and heather still reached over the stone walkway and tickled the swing, inviting bees and other insects. Ginny loved the scents of lavender, honeysuckle, and the few surviving roses. They were heady and comforting, especially after the smells of the sickroom. Later, she would bring a basket and shears and make a medicinal bouquet for Draco's pillow. Maybe some honeysuckle tea for his throat.

She sipped her own Chamomile and finished the toast, tossing the crust to a nightingale that snatched the crumb. She watched the small bird lift above the large birch tree at the garden's centre, and fly away just as her mother approached.

She never minded her mother's company here, for she was quieter without the twins or the Golden Trio to scold. She also knew that her mother valued the peace as she did; it was their safe haven. Only rarely did anyone else venture into the gardens. Most of the others were indifferent, and Ron too frightened by the possibilities of spiders. Though she may have been immensely curious, Ginny also knew that Molly would refrain from outright questions into her relationship with Draco. She knew that such questions would put Ginny too much on her guard, and she had early learned that lesson in Ginny's relationships with Dean and Harry.

Molly sat beside her daughter, sipping her own tea for a moment and gently rocking the swing back and forth. They once had such a swing at the Burrow and Ginny had loved the rocking motions as an infant. But, as with most things, the swing had been destroyed by her raucous boys – most expressly by one of the twins' experiments gone awry. She had picked splinters from the flowers for weeks afterward.

"How is he?" her mother ventured. She had been horrified to see the young Malfoy boy so bloodied and bruised.

"Improving, though he still has no voice. The Mediwitch and Mrs. Malfoy are with Draco now."

"Tonks asked after him earlier."

Ginny nodded. "When I know more, I'll speak with her, or maybe Mrs. Malfoy will. They did not seem so hostile towards one another last night." She paused. "It will be sometime before Draco is well again."

Molly turned to face her daughter, recognising the purple rings beneath her eyes, her paleness which seemed to throw her freckles into harsh relief beneath the morning sun. Such sights were all too common at Grimmauld these days. She had been especially concerned about Ginny's frenetic energy when the Malfoy boy had been missing. How she had raved. "What happened exactly?"

Ginny sipped her tea once again, and sighed. "I don't know yet, and Draco doesn't remember much. The old scars from Harry's Sectumsempra were opened and he lost a lot of blood. The Mediwitch seems to believe that it was due to repeated Crucios and another Sectumsempra, which makes it especially difficult to close."

Molly gasped. "Who would do such a thing?"

Ginny paused for a very long moment, her hands slightly trembling around the porcelain cup and sloshing a dribble of tea over the side and down her fingers. Molly offered her a bit of long dishtowel she had tied to her apron; she had long made this practice a habit in the chaotic Burrow.

"The last time I had met with him, Draco was worried because Bellatrix had shown up at the Death Eater camp and she had been watching him closely. Mrs. Malfoy blames her. But, how can we know for certain?"

"That woman is capably of anything."

Ginny nodded. Truer words were never spoken. "The wounds are mending now at least –" she swallowed back a sob, Draco's torn and mangled chest behind her lids. "We have to keep his chest wrapped, so that the wounds won't split open again."

"Yet, he is improving, Ginny. Concentrate on that."

"He is – he is – I know that. But his organs were so damaged by the Crucios and it's too dangerous to take him to St. Mungos, and he almost died. I can't bear it."

"You will though." Molly watched her sympathetically. "He's been so strong for you, Ginny, and he is here now – away from the Death Eaters. And he never has to go back again."

"I know that, I just –" How could she tell her mother how she had thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom and how they were never right again? How she had wondered who he would be when he woke, and would he know anyone or even his own name? How he had been so certain of her when they found him and how his strength and faith in her scared her too? She paused and looked down at her feet, noting a small black ant attempting to carry a bread crumb over the cobble stones, and took a deep breath. "If the merest dream of love were true / Then, sweet, we should be in heaven."

"What?" Molly asked, puzzled.

"It's from a poem that Grandma Weasley loved. Do you remember? Remember when she'd take me into her garden very much like this one? She'd recite poetry like they were songs as we walked."

"Yes, I remember how she loved songs."

"But sad – she loved sad poetry, said it made her feel stronger." Ginny paused. "I watched Draco sleep for most of the night with those lines running through my head." She continued, "Do you believe it's true, Mum? That true love is only given in heaven?" She looked up at her mother again, as though willing her optimism.

"No, I don't," she answered firmly, "for what else would we fight?"

After a moment's silence, Molly said, "You were certainly her favourite grandchild – she loved a girl to spoil. First Weasley girl in generations. You were special to her."

"She was special to me." Ginny paused, "Mum, do you think Nan would have liked Draco?"

"I think," Molly considered her reply, "that if you loved him and he treated you well, then yes, your grandmother would have liked him. She was very like her son in that respect." She gave Ginny a pointed look, but it was not her father's reaction that worried her so much. Arthur had a huge heart and he always had a soft spot for those close to his children. He'd practically adopted Harry and Hermione, after all.

Ginny had grown silent again, her brow crinkled in worry. She looked too old for eighteen that morning and it broke Molly's heart. "You love the Malfoy boy, right? Then, he will be fine." She frowned at the fly landing in her tea and tossed the rest to the side. "Just remember: three days he survived the Forbidden Forrest – for you and for his Mum. If that is not true love, then I am Bathilda Bagshot."

Ginny nodded. "Thanks Mum." Sometimes it was nice to give into her mother's faith. If only for a little while. "Your blessing then?"

Molly padded her daughter's shoulder, smiling at the small tone creeping into Ginny's voice – still a child in some ways. "I don't know him very well, which is something I mean to rectify, even enduring Narcissa Malfoy's company. But, I can see that he means something very different to you."

Ginny sighed. "With Draco it is different, Mum – more different than I can even describe. And I hate being saccharine. But I can feel it in my soul."

"Oh dear, that is saccharine," she teased, but evidently pleased that her daughter confided in her. "And does he feel the same?" she prodded, even though she felt that Ginny would not like the push.

She did not, but her mother's easy acceptance allowed her to be more open than she might otherwise have been. She pinked, remembered his breathless 'I love you,' several days prior and their kiss the night before, and this morning, his weirdly strong faith in her. "I believe he does."

Molly smiled wistfully, her own thoughts turning to the earnest young man Arthur had been so long ago (and still was), and how he had turned her world upside down, but she had picked him even though her father had railed against Weasley poverty. It had been different than anything before, like she could almost feel her soul beating where her heart had been. "Well, my dear, a Weasley and a Malfoy? A little stranger than a Weasley and a Prewett, but not so much."

Ginny knew, then, on some level they must have her mother's blessing. Even though she thought that such talk may be a bit precipitous, she could not feel it so.

After a moment, Molly said, "Ron will be here tomorrow. Harry has filled him in and he has promised not to tease you now."

"Tease? That is a mild word."

"Your brother can be very supportive when he puts his mind to it," she asserted.

"Ever the eternal optimist, Mum," Ginny laughed. "At least Draco's voice hasn't yet returned. There will be less provoking."

Molly agreed, laughing. She tugged at the wild stem of lavender poking into her sweater. "I was surprised by you and the Malfoy boy. You'd never mentioned a word."

"I didn't know how," Ginny admitted.

"I suppose that makes sense. But, you can tell me things, and I won't judge."

Ginny looked at her.

"Well, I'll try not to judge – which is almost the same."

"You could call him Draco, you know," she suggested.

"Duly noted. I know that I'm not Luna or Hermione, but I'll try."

Ginny laughed. "One Luna or Hermione each is more than enough, thank you."

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