Narcissa swept into the Manor library and was instantly horrified at the sight that met her. "Ginevra! That is not how a young woman sits in a chair!"
Ginny had dozed off leaning over the side of the stately wingback and she snapped to attention with a jolt. Draco, who was poring over more Rune-work, glanced up with a teasing grin on his face.
"Please forgive me, Mrs. Malfoy," she said groggily, avoiding Draco's amused gaze.
"Yes, well," Narcissa said imperiously, lifting her brow as Ginny tried to regain some semblance of good posture. "Draco, your father wants you and Ginevra out of the country and on a proper honeymoon. Tonight."
Ginny blanched, but she caught the way Draco's jaw tightened before he drawled, "But of course he does." She noted the way Narcissa's perfect eyebrow flicked upward, and while considering Draco's sudden need to smooth out the crinkled parchment in front of him, she absently licked her lips.
"Miss Weasley! Did I just see you—" Narcissa began, but then cut herself off with a patronizing smirk. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Malfoy, but I would remind you that a lady's tongue belongs in her mouth."
"Not all the time," Draco murmured under his breath.
Narcissa gave him a look that was so cold that the temperature in the room lowered considerably. Ginny nestled further into the chair, trying to blend into the sumptuous leather.
"The house elves will have you both packed by this afternoon. Decide where you're going or I'll decide for you—either way, you leave before dinner," she said crisply. "Your father has a guest."
Ginny, still trying to be invisible until the air between the mother and son stopped crackling, didn't dare to look at either face. Silence reigned for a long moment before Draco conceded, "Of course, mother. I'll arrange for the Portkey."
Narcissa exhaled smugly and smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her silk blouse, then selected a book and handed it to Ginny. "A bit of light reading while you're away, my dear. I expect to find your ability to sit in a chair much improved when you return."
Draco choked on something between a snigger and a cough as Ginny murmured a subdued thanks. Ignoring her son, Narcissa swept out of the room. Ginny decided that if she had to spend the next several days honeymooning with Draco and learning to sit properly in chairs, she'd ignore him too.
She flipped open the book and read quietly, "For indeed, a lady of breeding and character must never sit to the left of a gentleman when traveling by coach or carriage."
She couldn't help but roll her eyes.
"It's that fascinating, is it?" Draco said, interrupting her disgust.
Ginny shut the book. "I'm not allowed to sit on your left side when we're in a carriage. Though who owns a carriage anymore, I have no idea."
Draco smirked. "I have two. And don't worry, darling. I'll always seat you to my right. Don't want anyone mistaking my princess for a common whore," he said sarcastically.
Ginny blushed crimson and stood up. "I'm going to choose a different book, I think," she declared, running a hand through her loose curls.
"Sit," Draco commanded smoothly. "You'll read that or you'll help me copy runes."
Ginny turned away anyway and stepped to the nearest bookshelf, which was filled with titles regarding Arithmancy. Frowning, she moved a bit farther down the wall, hoping to find something remotely fanciful, when a strong arm snaked around her waist.
"You do realize," Draco whispered slowly, "that in under six hours I'm going to take you out of the country to an isolated, faraway place, and keep you there for a few weeks?" He flipped her around, pushing her back into the bookshelf and wedging his knee in-between her legs. "You ought to think twice about your little displays of independence," he hissed, tipping her chin up and forcing her eyes toward his.
To her horror, she realized that she was a bit frozen with shock. Her eyes darted to meet his, and she watched as his glare faded into a confident smirk. He slipped his thumb up from her chin and ran the tip of it slowly along her lower lip, gently forcing her mouth open.
With the utmost leisure, he bent his head down, still pressing his thumb against her lip until the moment his mouth met hers, and he slowly, firmly began to kiss her. He gently forced her back into the wall of shelves, pressing his weight against her. She could feel him breathe—and she could hear her own heart beat.
Feelings from the night before began to rise and fall in her mind. She was frightened by the way he had her trapped, then comforted by his closeness; she was melting over the way he kissed her so carefully, then was angry over how cavalierly he took advantage of her; she remembered how wonderful it had felt to be so close, and then—shame.
When she realized that she was kissing him back, she pulled away hastily, looking up at him, wide-eyed and silent as a few volumes written in Elvish fell off the shelf and landed with an echoing thud. Draco cocked his head and brushed a few unruly waves of hair behind her ear. His touch was electric against her skin, and Ginny bit her lip involuntarily.
"Come now," Draco said quietly, letting his hand play down her arm to grasp her own. "Do as I say and sit."
He led her by the hand back over to her chair, and to her chagrin she sat without a word.
He picked up his pen and bowed his head over the Runes he had been diligently copying onto parchment all morning. She watched, silent, as his quill scratched over the paper for a few moments before he looked up and smiled knowingly.
"Do you prefer private villas or private islands?"
Hermione winced as the sun's late morning light forced her out of her sleep. Her old cell hadn't had any windows to remind her that anything like the sun still existed. It was less painful when one could forget that things like light and time survived.
She swallowed, wincing again as her raw throat tried to close, and she made an attempt to roll over, hoping to get her face out of the sun's way but still position her body in its warmth, a move that was, by now, routine.
She wasn't quite sure how long it had been since she'd been moved here, but she guessed it to be between several weeks and a few months. Every day, around mid-morning, the sun would peek in through a high window, journey across the dank, gritty floor, and pass out of view. Daily, Hermione would make the same journey across the floor – and at night, she'd crawl back to the beginning, placing her head in the same spot that had cradled it the previous morning, so she'd be sure to wake.
Today, though, she wished her cruel taskmaster would set and never rise to torment her again.
Mustering up a few extra scraps of energy, she pulled up her arm to smooth over her t-shirt, which resembled an old kitchen rag more than a pajama top a little more every day. Pain coursed down her arm and into her shoulder with a sickening sting, and though she opened her mouth to cry out, she shut it just as quickly.
Opening her mouth, like licking her lips, or sweating, or crying, only meant pain. They were only bringing her water every few days, and she was always unbearably thirsty.
But now there was something wrong with her arm.
She craned her neck to look at it, but it didn't look hurt. Just dirty and bruised. And skinny. Every vein stood dark on her otherwise pale.
She flexed her hand again, carefully, and was rewarded with another shock of pain. It was most certainly hurt.
The sound of footsteps made her grimace. The crawl over to the door to drink the water her captor would thrust in through a cracked door wasn't easy, and she reasoned a little more easily each time that the pursuit was simply not worth it.
This time, though, the door swung all the way open.
"Good morning, Granger," said the Death Eater. He was unmasked, and she recognized him from school. A Slytherin, of course. She knitted her eyebrows together, trying to remember a name.
He smiled. "Merlin, you can't will me dead with a glare."
She frowned. She hadn't been glaring.
The door shut with a quiet thud, and he crossed the distance that took her a full five minutes to traverse in a few easy strides. He knelt next to her and ran a hand through her hair, tsking over how matted the bushy curls had grown.
She briefly calculated the worth of trying to fight him and decided it would be better to let him have his way and then get back to her daily sunlit journey. He probably wouldn't hurt her any more than the others, anyway.
Instead, she concentrated on the patch of sunlight on the floor next to her, letting all of her other senses grow distant and echo-y in favor of experiencing naught but a yellow patch of warmth gracing the gravely floor.
So when her keeper lifted her into a sitting position, she barely noticed. When he murmured a few spells, the feeling of the magic under her skin was a faraway sensation. But when he took her left hand, the pain came flooding back into her being, throwing her back into the present.
"Don't!" she sobbed, clutching her arm to her chest. Startled, the man pulled back, then leaned in and cradled her, gently prying the limb from her grasp.
"There doesn't seem to be any injury—" he tried, but she stopped him, pulling it back.
"Please," she begged. "Please don't."
He tilted her head toward his. "I know you understand me quite well, for all your listlessness. Tell me, Granger. Where does it hurt?"
She hiccupped and gestured to her wrist.
"Magical or physical?"
She shook her head, and he sighed. "Either way, I'm not the best Healer." He paused, thinking. "I'll be back in a second. Here, take some water."
He pulled a cup from his cloak and whispered Aguamenti, and the glass filled with cool, clear water. He handed it to Hermione and stood, exiting the room while she tried not to gulp greedily.
He was back in a moment with a witch at his heels. The woman took the cup from Hermione and handed it to the man.
"Show me your arm, then," she said brusquely.
Hermione held out her arm and blinked. "Parkinson?" she breathed.
The witch rolled her eyes. "Yes, Granger. I'm going to fix your arm, because for some reason our darling Blaise thinks it's 'important enough' that he's not willing to risk doing it himself." She shook her head.
Hermione let Pansy uncurl her arm from her chest, watching carefully. The sharp tongued witch ran the cool wooden stick down Hermione's arm, tracing the veins that Hermione had seen earlier as though they were a road map to a destination.
"Salazar's arse, Blaise, could you keep the girl a little more emaciated?" she sneered, finally centering her wand on Hermione's wrist.
Hermione felt Blaise sit behind her, watching Parkinson's work closely. She felt vaguely grateful that she finally knew his name.
"Ah, I see. You broke a bone somewhere along the line, probably a very slight break – hairline – but it isn't healing properly." She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around Hermione's wrist and dangled it up so Blaise could see, dryly adding, "I wonder why?" as Hermione winced.
Blaise sighed. "So it's not magical?" he asked.
Pansy sneered. "Hardly. There are probably other things gone wrong since it hasn't healed, but really, you could have done it yourself. I don't care how rotten you are at healings. She's just a Mudblood."
"So you don't want the eight very easy Galleons I'll give you if you just shut up and do it, then?" he said with a low chuckle. Hermione couldn't see what he found funny about that, and the way Pansy was holding her arm was getting more painful by the second.
Pansy rolled her eyes again and brought her wand back to Hermione's wrist, uttering a few spells, and Hermione was relieved that she recognized each – one to heal the fracture, two for the tissue damage, another for the bruising, and a final one to relieve the pain.
Standing, Pansy slipped her wand back into her cloak. "There, all done. So, my eight Galleons – or if you'd rather, I'd settle for knowing why you called me and not Draco. He's a far better Healer than I pretend to be."
Blaise stood too, and Hermione felt very small, crouched on the floor between their long black cloaks. She wondered if this was how small children felt all the time. Or pets.
"If I know Draco, he's on a beach somewhere honeymooning and enjoying his blushing bride. That's why I called you. But here, take the money," he said, pulling a small drawstring bag from his pocket.
Pansy accepted it distractedly. "If I know Draco – and I think you know what I mean by that – he'll never actually enjoy that blood-betraying little redhead."
Blaise coughed, and both witch and wizard looked down at Hermione, who stared up at Pansy openly. She couldn't mean…Ginny?
"Well," Pansy said slowly, "I suppose I ought to be going." She turned and left the room, and Hermione caught the light pop of Apparition from the hall.
Blaise, meanwhile, bent down and scooped her up in his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he carried her from the room, down a long corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor.
He paused in front of a wooden door and quietly said, "Do you remember, Granger, when I told you that I needed you to care?" She thought back, far, far back, and vaguely recalled a conversation from long ago. "It's time to start caring," he breathed, setting her down. She wavered, and he wrapped an arm around her waist before turning the handle and pushing open the door.
The room was larger, and though it was bare, it was actually a room and not a cell. Lying on a bed on the far side of the space was a figure with fire-red hair.
"Ron?" she breathed.
"'Fraid not, love," whispered Blaise, pushing her into the room. "This is his brother—Charlie.
Draco whipped a smooth flat stone over the calm pool and watched as the manor's reflection dissolved into a series of tiny ripples. He folded his arms stoically as the mid-afternoon light glittered across the surface of the water.
"I expected you to be engaged packing for your trip."
Draco picked up another rock and ran his thumb across the smooth surface. "The elves are taking care of it," he murmured.
Lucius nodded, stepping up to the edge of pool. The father and sun stared out over the water as the late-summer wind played out against their almost identical features, silently taking advantage of the silky blond hair of which both were so vain.
"In order for the next phase to work, you'll need some distance," Lucius said slowly, inclining his head to watch his son's hands fiddle with the smooth stone in his hand. "I've set up a household in London that should suffice."
"Oh, of course," Draco said. "The media will—"
"Yes. It'll be properly covered, as your honeymoon will be."
Draco closed his eyes, and a frail scowl flitted across his features.
"Complain, and I'll make it worse," Lucius admonished.
Draco opened his eyes and set his gaze fixedly on the water. "I better make sure that Ginevra is ready," he said slowly, and turned away.
Lucius cleared his throat. "Draco," he said warningly. He didn't turn to make sure that his son had stopped. He didn't need to.
"Yes, Father?" Draco responded from behind him, his voice chilly.
Lucius carefully measured a smile. "I would appreciate an update." He turned to Draco, whose knuckles were clenched around the rock he held. "Now."
"My father would like to know if I had an enjoyable wedding night?" Draco bit out.
"Not in the slightest." He smirked. "But your mother tells me you spent this morning in the library, which was…concerning."
Draco sighed. "Everything is fine. The initial tests were successful. But I had trouble discerning the immediate effects, so I thought that another look through the runes would be helpful."
"And you didn't come to me because…?" Lucius queried.
It appeared that Draco was trying to crush the rock in his fist. "I have it under control."
"I'll give you two weeks," Lucius said, equaling the ice in his son's tone, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. With that, he turned on his heel and returned to the house.
Draco stared at his father's retreating figure in the reflection of the pool. Without the pretense of even trying to skim it, he threw the stone into the water as hard as he could, and stalked off as the tiny waves broke on the flagstones.
Milly the house elf held up a satin black negligee in one hand and a sheer, pink baby doll in the other.
"Which garment would Madam prefer?" she asked in a high voice.
Ginny blanched. "Er, are you sure there is room? The trunk is awfully full," she reasoned.
The elf, quite detached from Ginny's discomfort, waved both the pink and the black above its head. "Which garment would Madam prefer?"
Ginny blushed, grabbed the pink organza from the creature, and threw it in the trunk. "There. Nothing else can fit. We are done."
The elf huffed indignantly. "Milly was instructed to prepare young Mrs. Malfoy for a honeymoon. Mrs. Malfoy has not packed swimwear." With that, it—she—stomped off toward Ginny's monstrous closet.
Ginny crumpled onto the bed and put her face in her hands. She didn't know if she even had swimwear, and based on the kinds of clothes Milly had packed for every other occasion, they weren't going to be the kind of bathing suits that her mum would approve of.
The fact that her mother-in-law had personally approved every item in the trunk, including the delicate organza lingerie, was not lost on her. She shivered despite the warm sun.
Sure enough, Milly returned with three scraps of fabric that looked more like headscarves then clothing. She asked archly, "Does Mistress have a color preference?" Ginny didn't respond, and the elf simply stuffed all three into the trunk.
"There. Mistress is packed."
"Ah, excellent, Milly. You're dismissed." Draco's voice came from the doorway, and Ginny looked up to find him leaning lazily against the frame.
Milly vanished with a loud pop, and Ginny winced.
"I think your elf hates me."
Draco lifted his eyebrows. "Well, you did grab her by the ears and hitch a ride not long ago."
"Oh, right," Ginny said quietly, closing the trunk. The lid banged down with an eager thud, and she ran her hand across the shiny brown leather then clicked the brass latch shut. "This is ready to go."
Draco performed a neat swish-and-flick, shrinking the trunk down to the size of a hatbox. He lifted it and handed it to her, then stood awkwardly for a moment, watching her trying balance the parcel against her hip.
"Don't you have, er, a bag or purse or something?"
Ginny looked at him quizzically. "No, I didn't know that I needed anything like that. Should I—"
"No, no," he cut her off, his eyes still on her hands. "I just—never mind. Let's be off. My trunk is in the hall, and we can just Apparate from the foyer," he said. "No need to tell anyone good-bye," he added, a bit sullenly.
Ginny, however, barely noticed his strange mood. The fact that there were, well, intimate items in the parcel she carried hadn't been lost on her, and her stomach was bursting with obnoxious little butterflies that wouldn't seem to settle. She desperately didn't want to repeat the previous night, but she didn't know where to begin finding a way out of it. The vague notion that Draco seemed to be quite upset about something only made the anxious quaver worse. Butterflies seemed almost too pleasant a term. They were gnats, Ginny decided. Nervous, awful, buzzing gnats.
She followed him through the corridor anxiously, forgetting to marvel that her husband could find his way through this monstrosity of a house without having to stop and check his bearings periodically. But Draco found the foyer easily enough, and he stopped just inside the door to pull out his wand.
"Ready, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked, smiling cheekily. He grabbed her suddenly about the waist and pulled her very close. Ginny gasped and very nearly dropped her trunk; in order to right herself, she had to grab onto his shirt.
"My, my, darling. Don't you think you should wait until we're on the trip to rip my clothes off?"
Ginny blushed and decided she liked him better when he was sullen and silent. She took a deep breath and let go of his clothing.
"I don't see why you have to hold me so tightly," she said, glowering.
He smirked. "Can't have you getting away from me again," he said quietly, his eyes glinting with grey sparks. "Which reminds me…"
He grasped her hand and flipped it over, then whispered, "Invenio Necto," as he drew the end of his wand around the cluster of thin blue veins at the center of her wrist. To Ginny's horror, the skin turned white-hot, and the Malfoy crest again shone out from her skin. She couldn't help but cry out as the searing hot magic crept up her arm, wrapping itself through muscle and sinew with excruciating pain. She felt as if she might faint—and remembering the last time, she knew it was a definite possibility.
When the last of the spell fizzled away, she realized that she was once again clinging to Draco's shirt. He was holding her up; both of his arms were wrapped around her waist.
"I hope you've learned that particular lesson, darling," he whispered slowly. "Because for all that has come to pass in the last few months, you are very much at my complete mercy. If you attempt to take advantage of my goodwill while you are outside of the confines of the manor, you will regret your actions for a long, long time. Do I make myself clear?"
Ginny's arm still ached, but she managed to meet his eyes and bite out a fierce "yes," which seemed to placate him. He shifted one arm free, though he kept his body pressed against hers.
"Then off we go," he said, and they Apparated with a pop.
Ginny had never Apparated across a great distance, and she decided that Portkey was far better for international travel. She was squeezed so tightly that she thought she would burst, and her fingers and nose felt so pinched that she was sure they would pop off and be splinched.
It was, therefore, with a gasping sob of a sigh that she landed on her bottom with a thump on an expanse of white sand.
Draco shook his head. "I think my mother is right. Your mastery of propriety is a lost cause."
Ginny glared up at him, which wasn't easy because the sky was an inky black, and the moon was low in the sky. She dusted the fine powdery sand from her hands and stood up, then hefted her miniaturized trunk. "Well?" she asked. "Where the dickens are we?"
Draco smirked knowingly. "A private island. Come." He turned and walked across the sand, and Ginny realized that he was dressed for tropical weather. She, on the other hand, was still in her berry-red dress—and heels. She had to jog to keep up with his long strides, and the sand murdered her already fragile ability to walk in the ridiculous shoes that Narcissa had assured her were of the highest taste.
The place, as far as Ginny could tell, was far, far away from Wiltshire. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the sea against the beach, somewhere behind her, and the air smelled sweet and tangy, and it was so thick with humidity that it felt weighty as she trudged through it. The island was also hot, despite the fact that it was clearly late at night. A breeze vaguely taunted the seashore, but for the most part, the heat beat through the humid air, unhampered.
In the time it took to walk from the beach to a quiet, lantern-lined path, Ginny's curls stuck to her forehead, and her dress grew damp with sweat. Draco, however, seemed unfazed. Of course, Ginny noted cynically, he wasn't running in heels.
A bend in the path revealed a large, lit-up wooden house with, of all things, a thatched roof. The place was enormous; Ginny counted at least three balconies from her vantage point. The windows, of which there were dozens, glittered in the light of hundreds of smaller lanterns, reflecting the tall tops of the thickly leafed tropical trees that surrounded the home.
Draco reached the portico first and paused at the doors while Ginny caught up. "My, you're going to need to change into something cooler, aren't you?" he said wickedly. But before he could finish suggesting that different form of attire, a small brown house elf pushed open the door, and Ginny sighed as the cool air from inside the house wafted out over her.
"Sawasdee-ka, Khun Malfoy," said the elf, pressing its palms together as it ducked its head reverently.
"Sawasdee," Draco replied, pulling the door open and handing the elf his trunk. "Noi will take your luggage, Ginny."
Ginny gratefully handed the trunk to the small creature. It wasn't that heavy, but it was a little unwieldy, and the heat made carrying anything at all a rather miserable venture. "Thank you," she breathed, eager to step into the cool air.
"Mai bpen rai," responded the elf. Ginny looked to Draco, confused. He merely shot her another secretive smirk and held open the door, forcing her to brush past him in order to make it into the cool air inside the house.
She couldn't help but catch her breath—the place was beautiful. The roof was indeed thatched, but magnificently so; exposed rafters rose above her head, shining almost red against the high, golden open ceiling. The room was great and spacious, and Ginny was slightly relieved that there were no long corridors to lose oneself in here. The furniture was opulent but comfortable; Asian motifs graced the patterned rugs that decorated the dark wood floor and sheer silky curtains floated easily, filtering the gentle moonlight into a soft glow.
Draco had made a beeline for the bar and was pouring rum into a glass by the time she stopped staring.
"Draco," she said slowly, "Where are we?"
He shrugged and downed the entire drink. "Private villa." Setting down the glass, he smirked again. "It's not fun to be in the dark, is it?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. Ginny set her teeth. His mood was a strange one today, and that did not bode well. His warning from earlier in the library was still a very conscious threat, and if she really was going to be at his mercy for the next several days—or weeks—she didn't want to play at guessing games.
"No, it isn't fun at all," she decided aloud.
"You really had better get changed." Draco said after a moment. "You're drenched."
She followed him to a large bedroom, musing that if she was going to spend the rest of her honeymoon following him around corridors and libraries and private beaches, she should probably just kill herself now and be done with it.
The bedroom mirrored the other room in décor, and even though the soft white fabric was inviting, Ginny tried to ignore the gigantic curtained bed that occupied the center of the room. Noi had returned both trunks to their normal size and was in the process of sorting the various items of clothing into drawers and closets. Draco walked over to a chest of drawers and selected something, which he tossed to Ginny.
"I'm not going to pick out your outfits like my mum, but I rather like you in green," he drawled as she unfurled an emerald green slip of a nightdress.
Ginny glared at him, but he ignored her, slipping off his shirt. He glanced at her with a small grin, which faded when her glare failed to dissipate.
He was inches away from her in just a few strides, and he grabbed her chin and tilted her face up to his so roughly that she couldn't hide the flinch.
"We can do this two ways, love. I'm keen on giving you a break and letting you go right to sleep tonight. Lord knows we've been through enough already. But push me, and so help me I'll undress you here and now—and then we'll think about whether you get to wear the pajamas."
Ginny angrily blinked back the tears that had sprung to her eyes. "Can I change in the bathroom, then?" she asked, hating the tremor that she heard in her own voice.
Draco considered this for a moment. "No. Not if it'll teach you something to do it here," he said, his voice chilly. He still held her chin under his thumb and forefinger, and he brushed his other fingers across her cheek. His chest was bare, and Ginny could smell his subtle fragrance of vanilla and cologne.
"I don't think—" she began, but he merely arched an eyebrow and her courage evaporated.
"Now, Ginevra," he commanded in a low tone, his expression unreadable.
She closed her eyes and reached down to untie the wraparound dress.
"Ah," he said, cupping her cheek. "You don't get to close your eyes, either."
Ginny allowed herself the tiniest of sighs. She did not intend to crumble in front of this impossible man two nights in a row. She would dress for bed and maintain her dignity.
She opened her eyes and slipped the knot free, then quickly unwrapped the sash from around her waist. The deep red material came away easily, piling on the floor behind her. She stood in front of him in nothing but a matching red lace bra and knickers, and tried very, very hard not to feel humiliated.
He had, after all, seen more last night, she reminded herself. She stood there for a moment and swallowed.
He watched her coolly, as if the sight of her in her rather revealing undergarments didn't faze him in the slightest. "Well?" he asked after a moment.
Ginny blushed and reached for the nightie, which she had dropped onto the floor when Draco had grabbed her. Conscious of the vantage point this gave Draco—especially since she still hadn't unstrapped her high shoes—she hurriedly righted herself, teetering precariously.
"Shoes off," he ordered quietly.
Biting her lip, Ginny sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the thin straps through the tiny buckles, then kicked the expensive shoes to the floor. She felt strangely like crying, as though he was asking her to do far more than just get dressed for bed. She wished he would leave her alone, or at least get undressed himself. It seemed like he was intent on causing her as much discomfort as possible—which, she realized, he probably was.
She made to pull the satin slip of a gown over her head when he stopped her, wrapping his cool fingers around her wrist.
"Do you always sleep in that?" he asked softly, gesturing to her bra and knickers.
Ginny couldn't help it. She blushed crimson and opened and closed her mouth, then settled on biting her lip again.
"Turn," he ordered, and since she was too flustered to do otherwise, she obeyed. She felt his hands at her back, gently skimming her skin. He made light work of her bra clasp, then slowly drew the straps from her shoulders. She could feel his breath at her ear as he let the material fall away, exposing her chest to the cold air. She let out a shiver that was very nearly a whimper.
Still behind her, he pried the gown from her tight grasp and lifted it over her head. She slipped her arms through the soft material and cursed herself for enabling him to manipulate her so very easily.
He turned her around again, his face still unreadable.
"I trust you'll watch the way you look at me," he said. "If you wish to do anything else, the bathroom is through that door."
Still scarlet with humiliation, Ginny couldn't make her way there fast enough.
By the time she had washed her face and completed her other nighttime rituals, Draco was lounging on the bed, wearing a pair of black pajama bottoms. He was again reading through the Runes he'd spent the morning copying, his head bowed over the small characters. His hair fell in front of his face, and he pushed it away impatiently before dropped the sheaf of parchment to the bed.
"I thought you had it all translated," Ginny said from the doorway.
He looked up, half-scowling. "I do. But something isn't right." He sighed. "Get into bed. I know it's only seven in the evening at home, but here it's nearly two in the morning, and I can't have you exhausted tomorrow."
"Perhaps there's a portion of the spell missing," Ginny thought aloud, climbing into the giant bed. It could have easily slept her entire family, Percy included.
Draco lay back, resting his arm behind his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he agreed.
Ginny copied him, then thought for a moment. "Draco?"
"Hm?"
"If we're on a honeymoon, in a private villa on a private island, why does it matter if I'm tired tomorrow?"
Draco rolled over and rested his chin on his hand, looking down at her. "Because," he drawled, "the paparazzi are going to expect a proper show from Wizarding England's happiest, most in-love newlyweds."
He dropped his head to his pillow with a wicked smirk. "And I'd hate for you to disappoint them."
A/N: I think I downright love this chapter. I hope you did too. I'll downright love you if you take a moment to review and tell me why.
Oh, I'm also planning to give drabbles away to reviewers who guess the location of Draco's island, but you're on your honor not to cheat and search it. ;) If you're right, I'll let you know in my review reply -- and I'll ask you for a drabble prompt then.
Also, if you have strong feelings about the Hermione situation, do share. I'm...undecided.