Chapter 3: One Morning

Author's note: I do not own Draco Malfoy or Ginny Weasley, sadly. A warning for the extreme fluff following.

Set about a week after Draco's rescue.

Morning, his place
Burnt toast, Sunday
You keep his shirt
He keeps his word
And for once you let go
Of your fears and your ghosts
One step, not much, but it said enough
You kissed on sidewalks
You fight and you talk
One night he wakes, strange look on his face
Pauses, then says, you're my best friend
And you knew what it was, he is in love
~ "You're In Love," Taylor Swift

A few days later, Draco's voice began to return. Raspy and a little broken. The Mediwitch told them that his voice may never fully recover, that his vocal chords had been severely damaged by the curse aimed at his throat. He still had that upper-crust lilt, which, it seemed, could not even be eradicated by Bellatrix Lestrange. The combination was the sexiest thing Ginny had ever heard and she shivered with his throaty "Ginevra."

Draco had not failed to note the effect of his rasp, as easily and as quickly as he noted other changes in her appearance or demeanour ever since that day he had been surprised to find her his contact in the Order. At first, it was for the suspicion that naturally arose in him towards Gryffindors or Order members in general, and then, as the weeks and months passed by, for the unlikely fascination that had taken hold in him. Long before he had been able to name the pull towards her as anything other than suspicion or the mere physical presence of a pretty girl in the midst of war, he had watched and noted everything about her.

And now it was the shiver, especially when he murmured her full name. Not Ginny. Ginevra. He had taken to calling her name unnecessarily and sometimes in the company of others to see her flush. And the look of her eyes, wide with arousal. Like she could devour him. He could not resist. The outcome of which had often been drugging kisses and gropings until his chest ached in all the wrong ways. It was a little masochistic on his part as he had not been cleared for any strenuous activity, but Merlin above, it was worth it.

Except Ginny never let him push it too far and she was too much wracked with guilt. He was not going to break, despite what she seemed to think. Or his appearance seemed to suggest.

At the present moment, he stood in front of the small Muggle mirror, which hung over the dresser in his room at Grimmauld. He had been disconcerted by its silence and even now felt disturbed when it did not shimmer and reply. He prodded the forming scar over his right eyebrow; it was still pinkish and would soon fade to a white that he hoped his pale complexion would somewhat disguise. The other small, spidery scars would fade to nothingness soon enough. Those slashing across his chest would never – though they were only barely closed now and held together by sutures and bandages wrapped around his torso. He wondered again what kind of modified Sectumsempra his aunt had invented.

But, it was easier to focus on his physical appearance. He did not want to think about the recurring nightmares of hexes and curses and his aunt's maniacal laughter. Neither could he dwell for very long on his father and Snape who were still missing. His own defection must now be common knowledge and hence especially dangerous to them. If they were even still living, Draco was certain that they suffered worse torture than he had endured. Bella, no doubt, took especial glee in telling them of her confrontation with Draco, that she had Crucio'd him to the brink of insanity, and sliced him to near death, and left him to die by blood loss, exposure, or to be prey for the creatures living in the forest.

He could not think about this right now, when he was fucking helpless at Grimmauld.

Ginny stirred behind him on the bed, brushing the hair from her eyes, and frowning when her hand met his empty space. Mrs. Weasley had frowned and sent stern, reproving looks their way when she had discovered Ginny sleeping in his bed, but she'd said not a word. At least to him. Not that any scolding would do any good for either him or Ginny. Draco would do as he pleased, as he always had – at least before the war. Ginny – she was the most stubborn witch he had ever known. Wild horses could not drag her from him now. She told him plainly.

Anyway, if she had been forced back into her own bed, he'd just follow.

"Morning," he rasped. He found that even though they had spent the majority of the last several days together, she liked to be reminded that he was still here. She especially liked to hear his voice now. She always smiled a little sweetly. Even in others' company, some movement or tone of his voice would draw her attention intensely, as though she could not quite believe in his presence. It startled her.

"What time is it?" She padded over to him, wearing an old orange Chuddley Cannons t-shirt that clashed horribly with her hair. Suddenly and with the clarity of true foresight, Draco knew that he was going to marry this girl one day. So, he turned around and kissed her. Deeply and rather longer than he intended, disregarding her morning breath and the dull ache in his chest which flared at any excitement.

"What," she gasped, "was that for?"

He chose to answer her first question, because he did not know how to answer the second. "Seven."

"What?" Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"It's seven o'clock."

He was staring at her intently again, as he had done every day since his rescue, like she was his own personal mystery, though his expression this morning was lighter and different. He made her want to curl herself around him, to place her face against his chest to hear his heart beat. She draped her arms lightly around his waist and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. All bruised and bandaged – his skin would never be flawless again, nor his voice quite so silky, but he was still achingly beautiful all the same. And he was hers.

Ginny was still amazed that she could touch him, that she was allowed to brush her fingers across his cheek, and kiss his shoulder and lips – whenever she wanted. She murmured thus as she grazed her lips across his neck. She could make him shiver too.

He'd gone back to examining the long mark slashing across his brow, frowning again. She could not help the laugh that escaped as she hid her face in his back.

"Ginny," he whinged. She'd been teasing him for his vanity for the past several days.

"I'm sorry," though she sounded not sorry at all. "I just keep thinking that you'll never be able to call Harry Scarhead again." She laughed again, louder at the stunned expression on his face. He allowed her to laugh at him for the moment – she was the only person allowed to laugh at him – before he spun her around and tackled her to the bed, reveling in her shrieks and ignoring the residual stings in his chest.

Some things were worth the pain, he thought, smiling down at her. He might pay for it later, when his aches and her over-protectiveness overcame them both, but, for now, she was in his arms and willing. She pulled him down, the better to kiss him, requesting against his lips, "Say my name again."

Draco laughed. "Ginny," he said and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

"You missed," she said with mocking pout. "Try again."

"Gin," he kissed her forehead.

"Again."

He kissed her other cheek, murmuring "Ginny," again, before he caught her lips, kissing her long and deeply until they had to break for breath. Her eyes were hooded, like she had been drugged, her features all flushed.

"Again," she rasped and he understood why his voice affected her so. He loved the rough tone caused by his caresses.

"Ginevra," he replied and watched her eyes gleam.

Yes, he was definitely going to have to marry this witch one day.

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