A/N: I know. I'm alive and well, though chagrined that it's taken me this long to manage to write this. If you need to re-read the last few chapters, I certainly won't judge. (I re-read the whole thing. Multiple times).
This chapter is a birthday present for the lovely Lunar Fire, whose birthday was roughly eight months ago. Dash it all, it's been a wild eight months. I suppose we could say that this is just four months early for her next one. Either way, she's wonderful, and I hope that someday she'll forgive me. ;)
Ginny woke just as the faint light of the early sun began to creep over the calm ocean. With a small sigh, she rolled onto her side to gaze out of the window, which was situated elegantly among the leafy branches of the jungle trees, offering a clear, picturesque view of the sandy shore.
Her heart twisted at the lovely sight. She cast a glance at Draco, who was sprawled almost sideways across the bed and, seeing that he was sound asleep, she slipped the cool sheet off and gently set her feet on the floor.
Opening the wardrobe, she found a light, summery dress in the closet and pulled it over her head. She glanced in the mirror out of habit and chose to ignore the mad mess of red waves that fell around her face, determined that Narcissa's insistence on a perfect coif would not extend to—wherever they were. It suddenly occurred to her that Draco had never told her where he'd taken her.
Still barefoot—she couldn't find a decent, heel-less pair of shoes anywhere—she padded across the teak floor and slipped out of the first door she found. The island's air had cooled during the night, but it was still thick with humidity. Ginny carefully shut the door and peered around, but the island seemed void of any signs of life beyond the cheerful early morning birdsong, which sounded foreign and exotic as it echoed through the damp air.
A sandy path led from the back of the house to a winding trail through the jungle, which Ginny quickly realized was too manicured to resemble an actual rainforest. Neatly trimmed palm trees spread their long arms neatly over the trail, and bright orange and purple Bird of Paradise flowers popped out from among the verdant undergrowth. Just where the path met the sprawling white of the sandy beach, a sprawling bougainvillea bush cascaded magenta blossoms into the sand.
Ginny sighed deeply. Despite the circumstances that had brought her here, she couldn't deny the island's inherent beauty. She dug her feet into the sand and let the dewy morning breeze toy with her unkempt hair as she gazed out over the calm aquamarine sea. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, and Ginny couldn't deny herself a good old-fashioned wade. She walked into the surf up to her knees, soaking the hem of her sundress in the cool salt water. She grazed her fingertips along the gently undulating surface of the water and inhaled.
How could there be evil in such a world as this?
She bit her lip absentmindedly, wondering if Draco would be upset to find her out here, and mused that he'd probably be more upset upon waking up alone. That probably would mean he'd come looking for her, and Ginny didn't feel like a confrontation this morning. After encountering the beautiful ocean—and after that awful incident last night—the idea sent something sharp through her heart.
Mournfully, she walked out of the ocean and up to the path. Sand clung to her calves and the once-light summery dress hung limply around her knees, sodden three inches above the hem. Her hair, well-whipped by the wind, framed her face in long, hanging tendrils that matched the vines along the path. Ginny idly brushed the locks aside as slipped back to the villa, blissfully unaware of her entirely disheveled state.
Quietly, she slipped off the wet dress and used it to dust the sand from her legs before tugging the loathed green nightdress back over her head and crawling back in-between the white sheets. Draco groaned in his sleep, and Ginny forced herself to inch down slowly to rest her head on the pillow, curling onto her side, away from him. The knowledge that he was sharing her bed, sprawled out just within arm's reach and breathing quietly, was hard to comprehend. She turned her attention inward instead and focused on her own breathing, closing her eyes and wondering if this was what her former teacher, Professor Trelawney, had meant by meditation.
When she next opened her eyes, the sunlight had shifted across the room, resting in rectangles of gold on the far wall.
"Good morning, darling," Draco murmured. His voice was thick with sleep and a bit of sarcasm, but he'd propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over her. With his free hand, he tugged on her shoulder so that she rolled toward him, lying on her back. He smirked down at her. "Sleep well?" he inquired, as if amused by the pleasantry.
Ginny groaned and rubbed her cheek, feeling the delicate groove left by the seam of her pillowcase. "I feel like I've been too close to the Whomping Willow," she said grouchily.
He lowered his eyebrows. "That's the time difference. You've never traveled this far, I daresay?" Ginny shook her head. "Noi will have a draught for that," he said, and snapped his fingers elegantly.
The small house elf appeared in the doorframe with a pop and saluted them with a small bow, palms pressed together at her chin.
"A Time Lag potion for Miss—Mrs. Malfoy, Noi. And breakfast in half an hour."
The elf bowed in the same manner and disappeared.
"Ohhh," Ginny groaned, rolling over. She hadn't felt like this when she'd woken at dawn. "What time is it?"
"Nearly ten. I'm amazed that you slept this long," Draco drawled as he slid off the bed and padded over to the wardrobe. He opened it and pulled out a shirt of white linen. "It should be quite warm today," he commented. "Winky should have packed accordingly, but if you need anything, just ask."
Ginny sat up and drew the soft sheets up over her knees. "Oh. Er, should I dress for anything special?"
He was flipping through a stack of trousers and didn't look up. "We'll spend the day on the beach. In the water if you'd like."
Ginny nodded and tried to stifle the need to say something else. The silence felt awkward and pressing, and it was a strange realization that she had nothing really to say to Draco. She let her hands toy with the sheet in her lap as she silently watched him select a pair of tan trousers. He laid these on the edge of the bed and folded his arms, observing her. She fought the temptation to draw her knees into her chest.
"I'm going to take a quick shower. If you need anything, Noi will help you."
She let her hands fall idly to her lap when the door to the bath closed. Slowly, she scooched out of the cool covers and felt the warm, late-morning light envelope her skin. Even with the cooling charms, the air felt thick with heat.
Ginny lingered for a moment in the sunlight before she crossed the room to open the closet, sliding her hands against the array of colors and fabrics inside. So far she'd had her clothing laid out every morning—a thought that reminded her of the berry-red wrap dress that Draco's hands had untied the previous night. She glanced compulsively at the floor, but the garment was gone. Noi was a thorough creature.
A simple white and green sundress caught her eye, and she threw it on the bed, where it landed next to Draco's clothes. A funny laugh bubbled up in Ginny's stomach. The clothes spread across the bed looked so normal, like she and Draco were a real couple, choosing outfits for their first day on a paradisiacal honeymoon.
The laugh died away as Ginny fingered the satin of her nightie and stretched it up over her head. She found new undergarments and put them on hurriedly, realizing that the steady stream of water in the next room wouldn't continue forever. She didn't feel like having Draco find her mid-change.
The sundress was light and airy, not unlike the one she'd slipped on at dawn. She tugged the straps to rest across the freckles on her shoulders just as Noi entered, bearing a small vial on a polished hardwood salver.
The elf bowed. "A time lag draught for Mrs. Malfoy," she said in a soft voice.
"Oh," Ginny said, mildly startled. "Yes, um. Do I just—do I just drink it?"
The elf looked up. "If Mistress wishes, Noi shall bring the Mistress some tea with which to mix the draught."
"Does Draco—Mr. Malfoy—mix his with tea?" Ginny inquired, lifting the potion and studying it. It was a cerulean blue, but she remembered from Potions that the faint tones of purple in the meniscus meant that the concoction would have a strong, bitter taste.
The elf bowed again. "No, the Master has never requested tea."
Ginny raised her eyebrows, popped off the lip of the small vial and tipped the contents into her mouth, downing them in one horribly bitter gulp. She choked slightly at the harsh aftertaste, which reminded her of the bottom of a strong cup of coffee.
"Tea now, Mistress?" Noi asked brightly.
Ginny coughed. "Yes, tea. Or better yet, breakfast."
"Mistress will want to prepare her face and hair first?" queried the elf.
Ginny glanced in the mirror. Her hair, which had been a snarled mess before she'd subjected it to the humid dawn and then slept on it for several more hours, was a wreck. She sighed miserably. Without magic, it would take ages to repair.
"I don't suppose you're able to fix them for me?" she asked glumly.
Noi pointed at the teak vanity and Ginny obliged, sitting in front of the mirror. The elf knew her craft well, and in a matter of moments Ginny's hair fell in loose waves. She glanced up at her reflection and was startled to realize that she was vaguely pleased with her appearance.
The water in the bathroom finally ceased its steady thrumming against the tiles—it was no surprise that Draco took ridiculously long showers, but Ginny had no desire to remain in the room long enough to see him clad in a robe. Or a towel. Or … she cut her imagination off sharply and swallowed nervously.
"I'd like my breakfast now," Ginny said, throwing a glance at the closed door.
She followed the elf down the shiny, dark wood of the short corridor into a cozy little breakfast room. The walls were paneled with a light, cheery wood, and floor length windows breathed in and out, drawing the sheer white curtains in sweeping paths as the late morning sunlight floated in.
Noi lifted the covers from the table to reveal an array of breakfast foods, from muffins and soft-boiled eggs to a plate of pineapple and a bowl of what looked like rice porridge.
"Er, what is that?" Ginny asked.
Noi glanced at the table. "Kao tom, Mistress. Rice soup."
Ginny swallowed and helped herself to a muffin, pleased to find it studded with blueberries. She had enough adventure in her life without "kao tom" for breakfast.
"You said you slept well?" drawled a cool voice. Draco walked into the breakfast room and sat down across from her. He smoothly selected a croissant and began to butter it, then looked up at her expectantly. "That wasn't rhetorical, darling."
She hated the way he dragged out the word darling. As if it was an insult, and as if he enjoyed it. She set down her muffin and speared a slice of pineapple with her fork.
"I took the draught and I feel much better," she said. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and she floundered for a moment. "I slept perfectly," she lied, biting into the yellow fruit. It was unbelievably sweet and perfectly tangy.
"That's unusual," Draco remarked, brushing some invisible crumbs from his jacket. "Normally, due to the time difference, travelers sleep fitfully. And they wake up at odd times."
Ginny decided to butter her muffin, carefully avoiding his eyes while she considered this. It was possible that he had woken up while she was at the beach and missed her, but he would have come to find her, or maybe waited up for her to return.
"Did you not sleep well?" she asked. Maybe firing questions back would be the best defense. It had worked with Hermione, who also liked to pry.
Draco smiled slowly. "I'm quite used to handling the lag. It's never easy, but, yes, I slept well."
"That's good," Ginny said affably, biting into her breakfast. Draco pulled out a thin magazine—a Witch Weekly update—and slid it across the table. He folded his arms and smirked as Ginny choked on her muffin.
The witch on the cover was her.
Draco leaned forward, still smiling, but his eyes were deadly. "Did you, or did you not, learn a lesson about telling me lies?"
"W-Why am I on the cover of that—that rag?" Ginny spluttered.
Draco snapped the shiny pages off the table before she could reach them and read aloud, "The new Mrs. Malfoy appeared alone on the beaches of Koh Nam Wan this morning, and she looks quite comfortable in a simple cotton dress as she wades in the ocean just after dawn. After over two weeks of silence from Wizardkind's happiest young couple, it's no wonder her hair looks like she's been abed for ages!"
Ginny blanched. "That's ridiculous," she said quietly. "No one is going to believe that garbage."
Draco snapped the pages shut and glared at her. "Oh, they will. People will believe all the crap my father feeds them through these silly publications. And we'll give them plenty. They'll be lapping it up like dogs."
"I'm not giving anyone anything," Ginny said darkly. "Your father can give them whatever he likes, but if that means I can't go outside, I'll spend the whole time hidden in here!" She stood, nearly knocking over her goblet of orange juice.
Draco was on his feet just as quickly, and his hands found her shoulders and jerked them tightly toward him, impeding her flight from the room.
"Now, now, little Ginny," he said, using her pet name in a way that gave her chills, "I think I'm in the mood for a swim."
Hermione Granger woke up to the sound of a heavy snore.
"Ronald," she groaned sleepily. "Be quiet."
Lucid thoughts filled her mind. With a flash of comprehension and sorrow, she realized that Ron was probably dead if Ginny was with Malfoy. Harry – it hurt just to think about them. It was far, far easier to stay asleep.
But the snoring was real, and so was the head of bright hair, resting on a pillow on the mattress next to hers. Charlie.
Hermione idly clutched her newly-healed wrist. Zabini had locked her in this room with the unconscious man yesterday—she was pretty sure it was yesterday—and though the light fare she'd been given made rational thought a possibility for the first time in weeks, the silence interrupted by the loud Weasley snore was maddening in its own right.
After eating the meal last night, she'd worked up the nerve to poke her companion. He hadn't responded when she touched him, and he remained still when she traced the jagged scars and newly-healed burns on his bare forearms with a light finger.
Sunlight stole across the room now. Morning light, full of gold. It was amazing how one meal made the world so much sharper. Hermione clutched her knees to her chest and nestled into the mattress, which smelled slightly of old clothes and wet dog, but was comfortable beyond imagination after months of stone floor.
A snore cut into these oddly reassuring observations.
"Charlie," she whispered. "Please, stop."
Her voice rasped and felt odd in her mouth. She licked her lips and repeated herself. "Charlie, please."
As if by magic, he rolled over, and was quiet.
She sighed with relief and dozed, staring at the way his shoulder moved gently with the rise and fall of his breath, and thought about what Pansy had let slip: "he'll never actually enjoy that blood-betraying little redhead."
Pansy must have meant Ginny. There were no other red-haired female members of the Order, unless he meant Molly, which was ridiculous. As for other possible witches – Hermione's mind flicked rapidly through her memory, but there was no one else it could be. But if Ginny was married to Malfoy—she couldn't finish the thought. Hermione turned and pressed her face into the mattress, as if burying it would undo the logic that turned her blood so cold. Perhaps being starved into delirium was a better fate.
The bolt of the door clicked open, but Hermione didn't move. She kept her nose pressed into the squashy mattress and her eyes screwed tightly shut. She didn't need to see. Didn't need to know. It was better if she couldn't understand, couldn't reason, couldn't think.
"Hermione." Zabini's voice was soft and gentle, as if he was speaking to a frightened child. He came close, and crouched between the two low beds. "Hermione, I need you to respond."
She didn't move.
"Do you care about Charlie?" he asked quietly.
He wasn't there. He wasn't there. He wasn't there.
"Hermione," he said again, still gentle, but not quite as softly. "I don't want to have to hurt him any more than I need to."
The only thing that existed in the world was the mattress.
"Secto," he whispered. Her heart pounded in her ears. She knew what that harsh, short word meant, and she recoiled from the mattress in time to see a slow trail of blood ooze from the forearm she'd traced earlier. With a wave of nausea, she recognized that not all those scars came from dragons.
"Good," said Zabini, his voice mild. "You care."
She stared at him, unwilling to let that strange voice out of her head. His dark eyes flicked over her face, questioning, as he drew two more bloody gashes in Charlie's skin.
"One for every time I called your name," he said, shaking his head as he stood. He pulled a roll of white fabric and a small jar from the inner pocket of his robes and held them out to her. She reached up tentatively, feeling the cool weight of the thick, smooth glass.
"There, now. Take good care of him for me," he said with a smile, and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Hermione turned the jar in her hands. It was unlabeled, but she opened it and knew instantly that it was a basic salve, good for speeding the healing process and relieving pain. The cloth, she realized more slowly, was a bandage.
She swallowed and looked at Charlie's arm, feeling sick over far more than the blood that oozed in three even rivulets down to his wrist.
Ginny sat sullenly on the silk-covered chaise in the corner of the bedroom, willing her shoulders to forget the feeling of Draco's tight hold. He'd dragged her from the breakfast room back in here with such a dangerous expression that she hadn't even tried to fight, but after a full quarter hour of silence from his half of the room, her fear had morphed into an angry, sulky resentment.
"I didn't finish my breakfast," she said, well aware that she sounded like a child.
Draco continued shifting through the mahogany wardrobe. "You'll live."
"Unfortunately," she snapped.
That earned her a sharp glance. Rebellion swelled in her chest. She stood up and walked toward the door.
"You will not leave the room," he said calmly, his back toward her.
"I'm hungry, and I'm going to get more pineapple." She tried to keep her voice cold and sharp, but it didn't seem to have an effect on him. He was still hunting through the wardrobe.
"Do we need to review the rules about obedience?" he said to the racks of clothes. Ginny gaped openly as the torrential flood of emotions that had been building steadily finally boiled over.
"Enough! Enough with the rules, and the lessons, and the 'little Ginny.' I'm not your toy, or your slave, or even your wife—not really. You're doing nothing more than holding me against my will—and—and—I'm not your wife. I'm your enemy!" She paused and inhaled deeply, trying to bring some sense back into her flushed head before he turned around to face her.
He didn't move. "The two are not mutually exclusive," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Go sit down."
She gaped for a moment, then turning on her heel, she stormed out of the room. The adrenaline was exhilarating for the full five steps she took past the doorway, until the sharp "immobulus" jetted down the hall and into her back, freezing her where she stood.
She waited for the tight grasp of his hands, the menacing drawl, the "how dare you defy me" speech, but there was none. He left her there, frozen in the sunny corridor, for what felt like an age.
Her emotions cycled between rage, fear, hurt, and then back to rage. The impetuous anger she'd felt earlier settled into a neater sort of hatred and, as the sense of powerlessness washed over her once more, she felt cool tears prickle in her eyes.
He finally came to stand in front of her and regarded her passively. His hair was tousled, but nothing else hinted at what he'd been doing in the bedroom. He unfolded his arms and sighed, releasing her from the jinx.
"May I trust there will be no more outbursts today?" His voice reminded her of an irritated parent. But now that she was able to wipe those traitorous tears from her cheeks, she couldn't argue. She merely swallowed and looked at him, unwilling to speak, but not allowing herself to nod.
He seemed satisfied and pointed back toward the bedroom, and she followed him. He handed her a few scraps of green fabric.
"We're going to the beach," he said coolly. "I'll leave so you can put that on."
He closed the door with a quiet click. Ginny let the tiny bikini fall from her hands onto the bed as strangled tears threatened the emotions that were barely registering in her brain, like iridescent oil on top of water. With fumbling fingers, she pulled the dress off her body and tied on the swimsuit.
It covered more than she'd imagined it would, but she still hurriedly tugged on the beach wrap she'd found on the edge of the bed. She felt humiliated enough without having to display her freckled skin for the world to see.
A knock at the door was followed by, "Ginevra? Are you quite finished?"
She opened it, carefully masking her features to hide the varied shame, embarrassment, and anger from him. "I can't find any shoes."
He looked at her feet. "That didn't seem to matter to you this morning," he said, turning to leave.
She padded after him, and he led her out of the villa into the bright sunlight. Now that it was about noon, the heat was stifling. The wrap, which had felt nice and airy indoors, was instantly clingy. The sunlight beat down oppressively, as if it was trying to smash the two of them into the ground. In the tree-lined walkway, the shade offered no respite; the humidity was unbearable, and Ginny could feel her hair beginning to stick to her temples.
They took a different fork in the path than she'd traveled earlier and Draco startled her by suddenly reaching out and wrapping an arm protectively around her waist. She moved to pull away, but his fingertips bit into the soft skin of her stomach fiercely.
"I will place you under the Imperius curse again. Don't test me," he whispered harshly, and she forced herself to relax into his "embrace."
They came out of the pseudo-jungle onto another smooth expanse of beach. The ocean sparkled brilliantly in the cloudless sky, and the sand multiplied the brightness to an almost blinding degree. A thatched bamboo structure protected two comfortable lounge chairs from the sun, and a bar stood prepared with towels and drinks.
As soon as they entered the shade, both exhaled. A mild cooling charm kept out the worst of the heat, but Ginny still greedily accepted the cold glass Draco handed her. It was sweet, like the pineapple she'd tasted at breakfast, and she realized suddenly that it contained more than juice. She hastily set the beverage down on the arm of a chair; the day was complicated enough without alcohol.
Draco leaned back on one of the lounge chairs and patted the space next to him. "Sit," he said tiredly.
"There are two chairs," she said stupidly.
He raised an eyebrow. "And there are two photographers. Sit."
She whipped her head around to peer into the jungle, but saw nothing but broad leaves hanging limply in the humid air. Still, the Witch Weekly update this morning proved that he wasn't lying. She licked her lips and sat down next to him, and didn't resist when he pulled her down to lie alongside him so that her head rested on his shoulder. He stroked her hair absently and sighed.
"So we just … sit here? And have our picture taken by invisible paparazzi?"
She felt him nod.
"And this charade is your father's idea?"
He stiffened slightly and her heart jumped with realization. "You're only doing any of this because he's making you," she accused quietly.
His hand caught painfully in her hair. "I'm doing this because the media coverage of the Weasley daughter cuddling up to me on a tropical honeymoon is going to further my popularity."
But she was too elated with her new-found knowledge to heed the warning. "Because your daddy wants you to be popular, right?" she said giddily.
She felt his control snap as his muscles tightened, and suddenly he was above her instead of beneath her, pushing her back into the soft cotton of the lounge chair. She struggled under him for half a second, suddenly too warm despite the charm, before his hands caught her wrists.
"You're lucky there are cameras," he snarled, and before she could protest, he covered her mouth with a rough kiss. She didn't return it, but he didn't seem to mind. He raised a hand to her jaw and lifted her face toward his, taking his time. He didn't let up until she stopped fighting and allowed him to tilt her chin. He ended the kiss slowly, opposite how he'd begun it, but the look in his eyes chilled her blood. He was furious.
He stroked her hair gently, smiling affectionately. "I don't like it when you speak ill of my father, darling," he drawled. "Do it again, and I'll place you under a nice little curse that will lend an entirely new meaning to humiliation. Now, be a good girl and kiss me."
She felt hot all over, but she reached up tentatively and placed her hand on the back of his neck, lifting her lips to brush his in a gentle kiss.
He returned it, then pulled away to sit up on the edge of the lounge. "I need a drink," he muttered, standing. Ginny watched him walk to the bar, but she wrenched her eyes away to look out over the sparkling water. She felt overwhelmingly confused.
"I believe I was in the mood for a swim earlier," he drawled from behind her.
"I'm enjoying the view," she said in a tight voice, glancing back at him. He shook his head and began to unbutton his shirt. She looked away, staring into the sunshine as he stripped down to his swim shorts. Very studiously, she tried to ignore the fact that he was taking off his clothes until he stood in front of her, half-naked. She swallowed.
"I'd like to not win the Dullest Honeymoon of the Year contest," he said sarcastically.
"Is there such a thing?" Ginny said, craning her neck to look at the jungle to her left.
He shrugged. "It's all about the envy of the masses. You're well on your way to being the most envied witch in England," he said, glancing down at his own bare chest. "And I will be equally envied. Off with that," he ordered, gesturing at her wrap.
She clutched it unconsciously. "I'm no mindless trophy wife, Draco," she hissed angrily.
He drew out his wand and smiled. "Want to become one?"
"So quick to threaten, and yet—"
"Imperio."
Ginny fought him for all the time it took to turn her head back toward his. She felt the same vague feeling that she remembered from the engagement sink through her, as her will receded and his rose. She felt her mouth spread in a slow grin as her knees pulled up on the lounge, allowing him space to sit down. She felt strangely carefree as all the confusion of the previous hour—no, months—faded into oblivion.
Draco laid a hand on her thigh and drew her close for another kiss. A small voice informed her that she should be resisting this onslaught against her will, but he brushed away the voice as easily as he brushed aside her hair. His hands drifted down to the tightly tied halter at her neck, and he kissed her again as his fingers loosened the knot.
The light cotton material fell away from her skin, and Draco paused. Ginny continued to smile, unfazed by the breeze caressing her bare stomach. He leaned in again and brushed his lips against hers very, very softly, and then stood, offering her a hand. She took it without hesitating, allowing him to pull her into a romantic embrace.
"Is this easier, Gin?" he whispered, and she was torn. It was, and yet—
Draco interrupted the small rebel in her brain. "I'm not doing this," he said, taking her chin roughly and tilting her face up toward his. "There's a reason this spell is—I'm not going to do this. But I need you to stop fighting me."
His words barely registered. The more tightly he held her, the more airy she felt, until, cursing under his breath, he released her from the spell. She collapsed against him, then was suddenly aware of how much of her skin was in contact with his. She attempted to pull away, but he wouldn't allow her to move.
"I don't want to do that again," he said into her ear, and she could tell that he was keeping her in a photo-friendly pose. "I need you to stop fighting me. Especially while we're out here."
She inhaled slowly, smelling him along with the salty, tangy island air. "Why?" she breathed, experimenting.
He was silent for a long moment. "Because we have enough to worry about as is," he said finally.
Ginny felt like she was walking over thin ice, trying to get as far as she could before it cracked. "Like what?"
"Don't test me," he said sharply. "Learn not to do that, and someday, I might tell you."
With that, he pulled away and looked her over. She fought the temptation to grab the wrap off the chaise, trying to reason with her self that the bikini was okay, and that he'd seen it all already, but still her cheeks flamed, over-warm in the hot day.
He reached for her hand and they crossed the sand down to the shore, just to where the waves lapped gently across their ankles and filled up their wet footprints with whorls of foamy water. They walked along the surf, hand in hand, in utter silence.
Though often silent by choice, Narcissa Malfoy was rarely speechless. However, the sight of her husband smiling while scanning the glossy pages of Witch Weekly was enough to discomfit the society woman.
"Have you seen these, Narcissa?" he asked with the hint of a chuckle.
She crinkled her nose. "I only touch them if it becomes apparent that I need to contact our attorney about a potential libel suit. The society pages in The Prophet are a much better representation of—"
She stopped cold. Lucius had opened the magazine to a two-page spread of photos and held it up to her face. The idyllic scene showed a lush tropical beach with calm aquamarine waters lapping at the white sand that spread along the edge of the island until it curved out of sight. The jungle rose up on hills in the background, but Narcissa's eye went straight toward the sole occupants of the scene: a blond and a redhead, standing in the surf and kissing passionately.
Narcissa pursed her lips. "So he's taken her to Thailand. I would have chosen the Italian villa, if I were him."
Lucius smirked. "No, the island is much more amenable to this kind of thing," he said, gesturing at the photo spread. "Which is precisely why I suggested it."
She shook her head. "It seems so … so base."
Lucius flipped the page. "Of course it's base," he murmured quietly, taking in the pictures of his son and his bride. "That's the entire point."
Narcissa frowned, but sat down gracefully. "I suppose I'll have to explain things all over again to Mrs. Greengrass."
Lucius nodded. "And issue a statement decrying the publication of such intimate moments. This sort of thing is shameful and invasive of our privacy. Or however you'd like to word it."
"What of your concerns about—about the spell?"
"Draco has two weeks. If he can't determine the lasting effects of the Sang Primoris by then, I'll take the girl's situation into my own hands."
Narcissa stood and smoothed the folds of her gown as she approached him. "Won't that complicate the next phase of the plan?" she inquired.
"Infinitely. But complications are better than the alternative." Lucius said, grasping her hand and kissing the fingertips. "I'll send him an owl, just to be doubly sure."
She smiled and turned toward the door, then paused. "Lucius, what about Shacklebolt?"
Lucius waved vaguely. "Nothing to fret about. Draco's young friend will ensure that Kingsley Shacklebolt is well out of our way, and I trust he'll do it with plenty of time to spare."
He glanced down as she left the room, smiling over the headline that danced in dazzling letters above the embracing lovers on the private beach: From Rivalry to Romance – Exclusive Pictures of the Passionate Honeymoon!
Yes, Lucius thought. Shacklebolt was nothing to worry about.
A/N: When I started this story, I was between jobs and thought nothing of spending hours writing. Now, over two years later, I have three jobs and hardly any stretches of writing time. It's incredibly lame.
That's not an excuse, but rather an explanation for my incredible gratitude to you, my readers and reviewers. I write to become a better writer, but you guys are the reason I keep plugging away. It's fluffy but true: without the encouragement and feedback from ALL of you, I would have definitely reneged on my word and abandoned this story a long time ago. But I won't, because you're amazing.
And you're going to continue to send me lovely reviews to encourage/advise/thank/threaten me, right? ^_~ You have my undying love. Thank you.