Slow Burn by sillysun

Rating: R
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 02/04/2005
Last Updated: 12/05/2005
Status: In Progress

Ginny can't forget what they had, and before she moves on, she has to know if he
remembers.




1. Sparks and Embers
--------------------



**Author's Note:** This is the first story I've uploaded at Portkey. I hope you
enjoy, and any H/Hr shippers that might be reading, please be warned: this story starts out as H/G,
but the primary pairing is D/G - I hope you'll bear with me. Thanks for reading!

***

She wanted to call the owl back as soon as it fluttered away, was reaching for the parchment
tied to its leg even as it left her windowsill. As it disappeared over the trees, she was
considering whether she could catch it on her broom and how many owl treats would be involved in
bribing it to return the letter.

Six days, 17 bottles of silver ink, and four quills had been sacrificed for that letter. She'd
slept with it under her pillow, hoping she could dream the right words, since she certainly
hadn't found them during her waking hours. She'd turned over possible phrases in her head
as she washed her hair and then promptly forgot them as she reached for her towel.

She'd nearly driven herself crazy writing this letter. It was something she'd felt
compelled to do, and finally, finally, she thought it was perfect, that she had said everything she
needed to say. She signed her name with a flourish, proud that the letters were smooth and did not
reveal the tremor in her hand.

But now the owl was bearing her letter toward its intended recipient, and now she was panicked. Two
years without any contact. He might have forgotten her entirely, might *laugh* when he read
her letter. Twisting the band of the sparkling ring on her left hand, Ginny Weasley accepted that
possibility as she sank into a chair. The only thought that kept her from chasing after the owl was
that he might not laugh. He might not have forgotten.

***

It had been three years, six months, and 12 days since the first time he'd set her on fire. Her
hair like living flame against his skin. Moving as one, as if it had always been this way. Gasping,
writhing, shuddering, then holding each other. He wrapped her in his arms and held her through the
night, held her as if she was precious to him and he was afraid to let go.

She craved his touch after that, woke up sweating in the nights he wasn't with her, imagining
phantom caresses traveling up and down her body. She swore she could feel him. She walked through
Diagon Alley, weaving through a crowd of people, and stumbled as someone grabbed her hand, tugging
her into a shadowy corner.

She knew it was him, would know that touch whether sleeping or awake, and her skin began to tingle
as soon as he leaned her back against the brick wall. So hungry, so hot - he was tugging at her
cloak, she was fumbling at his trousers, and they were lost. She would have shed her robes, shed
any remnants of a moral code that might have deterred her from following through, but it was him
who stopped.

With effort, he pulled away, his lips lingering on hers. “Not here,” he murmured, throaty voice
making her quiver with need. “Come with me.”

They were laughing as they hurried together down the alley and into a building she had never
noticed. A nondescript inn, a dark and creaky staircase, a small room. She used to dream of roses
and romantic dinners, but their reality was made up of sex and secrets. Now her dreams were of him
and him only, and he was enough.

She slipped her robes off her shoulders, and they puddled on the dusty floor next to her cloak. He
had climbed into the bed, scooting backward until his back was flush with the headboard, and his
eyes never left her as she was revealed to him, inch by inch.

When her body was bare before him, he reached out a hand, and she walked forward to take it. As she
slid onto the bed, she leaned down to kiss him, fisting her hands in his hair to find some balance.
A small sigh escaped her as their lips met and his arms wrapped around her, his fingers making her
shiver as they followed an invisible trail up and down her back.

His lips were already curving into a smile as they parted, and she knew what should happen next,
what he wanted. There were few things she would be unwilling to give him, and this unspoken request
was perhaps the simplest of all to fulfill. She sat up, positioning herself carefully, and
slithered down until she had him fully sheathed inside her. He groaned with pleasure, and his hands
quickly moved to her hips. His touch was light, though - he was content to let her move, the change
in his breathing the only guidance he offered. His eyes never left hers as she rode him, lifting
herself up until their contact was almost broken and then lowering herself back down, taking him in
with a slow, steady rhythm. He growled, and she thought she caught the word “torture,” but he let
her lead.

It was a position designed for female dominance, and she did feel powerful, knowing that swiveling
her hips a certain way could turn the man beneath her into smoldering ash. His fingers were digging
into her hips with bruising strength as his breathing quickened. She moved faster, and he grasped
her hands, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

It was the most innocent of touches, but he combined it with a swift, powerful upward thrust, and
it sent her flying. She gasped, abandoning herself to the delicious sensation of letting go
completely, and clenched around him as her orgasm washed over her.

She barely heard him grit out her name as he bucked his hips one final time and spilled into her.
He was still shuddering through the aftershock when his arms went around her again and he tugged
her head down to his chest. She settled into his arms, and they were still locked together when
they drifted off to sleep. From frenzied passion to peaceful repose, there were no awkward moments.
Everything was right, closer to perfect than she dared believe, and she had been just naïve enough
to think they could hold onto it.

***

Miles away from where Ginny sat remembering, a meeting was interrupted by a frantic tapping on the
window. A lackey scuttled over to open it, and the owl that flew in went directly to the head of
the table, scattering papers with the rush of air its wings created. There was no name written on
the parchment the owl carried, which brought a frown to the serious face of the man to whom the
creature was presenting its leg.

He untied the letter with a deft motion and began to unroll it. As the first lines revealed a
familiar script, his face blanked and he ordered everyone out of his office. They obeyed instantly.
Once alone, the man set the parchment down on his desk and walked to the window. The owl was
twittering by his head, hoping for a treat, but he shook his head and it flew away.

He watched it disappear around a corner, thought briefly of following it, and turned back to his
desk, where the letter waited. Sinking back down into his chair, he spread it out before him and
began to read the only communication she'd made in two years. There was no salutation, no
preamble - just her words.

*First I wondered how to start, and then I wondered if you'd even read this. When I was done
wondering, all that was left was what I want to say. What I need to say to you.*

*I can't forget you. Merlin, I've tried, and I even do a passable job of it during the
day. I get up, I go to work, and I don't think of you. I don't think of you while I'm
eating my lunch, and I don't think of you when I'm Flooing home. It's when I climb into
bed at night that you come to me. Every night. Whether I'm awake or whether I'm dreaming,
you're there with me.*

*Gods, do I ache for you in those moments. And if that were the worst of it, if that was my only
shameful secret, I wouldn't have to tell you. I could go on like that, I think, if it ended
there. But it doesn't.*

*Maybe you've heard that I'm getting married.*

-->



2. Flickering Flame
-------------------



**Author's Note:** Thanks to those of you who've reviewed so far. Several chapters of
this story are already written, so I'll try to be reasonably quick about updating.

***

He was annoyed at the unsteady heartbeat that the first few lines of her letter caused. She
couldn't forget? Good - he certainly hadn't been able to. She was burned into his memory, a
brand he would never escape. When he closed his eyes, it was as if her face was imprinted on his
very eyelids. Every lovely feature, surrounded by masses of swirling red.

After six weeks without her, six whole weeks in which he could not remember sleeping, he had
mixed a dreamless sleep potion, stirring lacewing flies and moonstone counterclockwise 72 times in
hopes of finding peace without the danger of finding her in his dreams. He remembered raising the
glass of milky liquid to his lips and hurling it across the room at the last second. His mirror had
screamed as it shattered, and house elves had scurried to see if Master was all right.

Master was not all right.

Nothing had been right since she'd gone. He couldn't bear thinking of her, but it seemed
he couldn't bear not to, either.

And now she had written him a letter. Now she was getting *married.* He buried his face in
his hands, feeling himself start to slide back down that slippery slope of blame, the one that
reminded him that things could have been different.

***

He could not have imagined when he first met her that they would end up entangled as they were,
limbs and lives blurring into one when they were together. But brave, beautiful Ginny Weasley had
set his senses spinning, to the point where every flash of red was a distraction and every throaty,
knowing laugh made his head snap around. She was always with him, even when they were apart.

And because of her, he understood what it was to be happy. When she came to him, he forgot that
they were supposed to hate each other.

***

*He takes care of me, protects me. He loves me, even. I know he loves me, because he shows me.
I feel it in everything he does. For the longest time, I thought it would be enough. I really
thought that being loved by someone who would give himself to me without reservation was what I
wanted.*

*After all, that's where* we *went wrong, isn't it?*

*He makes love to me so tenderly, as if I might break into pieces. He is slow, and he is
gentle. He's a wonderful lover and he knows all the right places to touch me.*

*But when he touches me, I don't feel anything. His hands go right through me. It's
the oddest feeling, really - his hands run all over my body and you're still the one running
through my heart.*

*I've ripped this letter into shreds time and again, but something makes me start over
each time. It has to be said, even if you've moved on. Even if what we had is the most distant
of memories for you, even if you barely remember my name …*

*I have to try.*

*****

He set the letter down, breathing heavily, and noticed that his fingers had started to crumple
the parchment as he read. Was she daft? Two years or two lifetimes, his memories of her were
anything but distant. She hummed through every cell in his body, had seeped into his very
pores.

And yes, he remembered her name, remembered whispering it in her ear as he held her and gasping
it out as he loved her. Those familiar, beloved syllables that rolled off his tongue so easily.

He remembered every moment they'd shared, even the one he regretted most. Smoothing the
creases out of her letter, he tried to block that memory. Time had not soothed the self-inflicted
wounds of that day, especially when he could have gone to her and made it right. Stubborn pride had
kept him from doing it, thinking she would come back because she loved him.

He realized now that she'd stayed away because she loved him - because she was too strong to
settle for less than everything.

***

The flat was cleaner than it had been since she'd moved in. With her wand tucked away in a
drawer, Ginny had moved through each room, scrubbing and polishing and dusting. When her pale face
stared back at her from surfaces never meant to reflect it, she moved on to a new task. Without a
task, she would run mad.

Maybe she was mad already. Surely something had to be very wrong inside her head for her to have
sent the letter. Gods, the letter. He might have it now. Where had her owl found him? In his
office? At home, in bed? Alone? Not alone?

She had to stop thinking about it. She had done what she'd thought right, and that was that.
Unless … unless it *wasn't*.

Ginny was spared further contemplation by the pop of someone Apparating into the living room.
She froze, reaching out a shaking hand to grasp the wall for support. She sucked in a deep breath
and tried to steady herself, but the smile she pasted onto her face was wobbly.

“Ginny?”

At the sound of the familiar female voice, Ginny's legs nearly gave out. She gasped in
relief, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Hermione,” she breathed, then repeated it more loudly. “Hermione! I'm in the bedroom.”

Hermione appeared in the doorway and arched an eyebrow when she saw the expression on
Ginny's face, a mixture of bald relief and something else she could not define.

“Are you all right?” she asked curiously. “You look so … odd, Ginny.”

Ginny supposed she did look odd. Her heart had nearly stopped beating at the thought of who her
visitor might have been. Her wards were set to allow very few people in - her family, Hermione, and
her fiancé, of course. But without telling Bill, who had helped her construct these defenses, Ginny
had added someone else. The person who had torn through her carefully warded heart would find no
barriers, magical or otherwise, if he ever decided to visit.

“I'm fine, Hermione,” she said, forcing some brightness into her voice. It sounded glaringly
false to her ears, but Hermione simply smiled, nodded, and went on.

Part of Ginny wished she could do the same.

-->



3. Ashes
--------



**Author's Note:** Thanks to **where_is_truth** and **sugarbear_1269** for the
on-the-fly beta.

***

There was more to her letter - her elegant script continued for at least another foot of
parchment - but the words were incomprehensible to him at this point. The letters had blurred into
each other, and his fingers traced the last words he'd read, as if that might help him
understand.

She wanted to try, to know if he thought of her. Now, after so long, when she was engaged to
another man. One who didn't satisfy her. He snorted in derision, feeling a flash of masculine
pride. She thought of *his* hands on her body.

But she was still getting married. He must not forget that. He shouldn't even be surprised,
as it was what she wanted - a husband, a complete commitment. He knew that too well, because as
much he had loved her - as much as he loved her still - that was what he had been unable to give
her.

***

It had started like any of their other nights together. They had come to his flat. He had gone
to the kitchen to open a bottle of her favorite red wine while she moved around the living room,
lighting candles.

A whispered `Lumos' could have done it, but she refused. He stopped minding after she
explained that he was well worth the extra effort. There were several things he no longer minded,
not after she explained them to him between kisses.

He moved into the living room, wine glasses in one hand, bottle in the other. Her back was to
him, and she seemed not to have heard his approach, so he stood and watched her.

She moved so gracefully, bending to light the tiny flames that would fill the room with light
and the subtle scent of vanilla. He had purchased several of the candles shortly after he'd
started seeing her, with no explanation for his choice. It was weekly later when he admitted to
himself that vanilla was what he smelled when he held her. Even at that early stage, he missed her
desperately when she was gone.

They'd eaten dinner in a quiet, little-known restaurant, talking and kissing in the corner
booth. The waiter had offered the dessert menu, and he had automatically declined.

He always took her home for dessert. Some sweets were best enjoyed in private.

And she certainly looked edible in that dress, the same rich chocolate color as her eyes. Its
tiny spaghetti straps trailed invitingly to a deep V-neck, and the fabric molded itself to her
lithe frame, hugging her body until it flared midway down her thigh. The jagged hem stopped just
past her knees, and his eyes rested approvingly on her calves for a moment.

He took three long steps, quickly set the wine and the glasses on an end table, and wrapped his
arms around her from behind, dropping a quick kiss on her neck. She leaned into him and turned her
head to meet his lips.

A long, lingering kiss later, he was leading her to the couch. Her russet hair looked like
flickering flames spread out against his white sofa, and he ruffled it with affection as he
retrieved the wine. Then he noticed she was still wearing her strappy heels, and he knelt before
her.

“I don't think you'll be needing these,” he murmured, his fingers working quickly to
undo the straps. He slipped them off her feet slowly and set them aside, then settled beside
her.

They shared the bottle of wine in comfortable silence, Ginny snuggled up to his side. Perfect,
perfect happiness, he thought, and then Ginny spoke.

Her words came out in a drowsy hum, and he turned to her, giving her his full attention.

“What, love?”

“I said I don't want to leave.” She was still whispering, but it was deliberate. He thought
her voice might even have trembled, but there was no reason for her to be nervous.

“So don't leave,” he said easily, tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his eyes.
“It's not as if I mind your staying, silly girl.”

He was not imagining it - her full, rosy lips were wobbling and he could see a suspiciously
glossy sheen in her eyes.

“Gin?” he asked, letting his hand drop from her face.

“I …” she paused and took in a deep breath. “I don't just mean tonight.”

Thick would normally be one of the last words he'd use to describe himself, but it seemed
appropriate now, as he certainly hadn't seen this coming. Now he was the one sucking in a deep
breath, but Ginny was rushing on.

“I love you,” she was saying. “I'm in love with you. I miss you whenever we're not
together, horribly so. I just think …” she paused to search his face. “I think we should be
together. Always.”

Her eyes were intent on his, looking for clues. He hadn't yet managed to speak, though his
mind was racing through possible answers.

He knew one thing already: This could not end well.

***

Reliving that night had to be worse than anything she could say to him now. He picked up the
letter again, and as he tried to make his eyes focus on the letters, he caught a faint whiff of
vanilla. A tiny groan escaped him. She had as much power over him as she ever had, without even
trying.

*I'm not sure which outcome I should hope for. Reason tells me to assume your silence will
be the only reply I'll receive to this letter, and so I try to be reasonable.*

*It might not be so bad, marrying a man who loves me and prizes my happiness above even his
own. I convince myself that I'll be all right with that.*

*Then I think of the other ending, the one I barely dare to dream. The one where you come to
me. And then I'm so happy I can barely breathe. But reason tells me that after so long,
it's a silly schoolgirl's dream that I shouldn't hang on to. I do try to be
reasonable.*

*If it wasn't for you, I might even succeed.*

***

Ginny tried to focus on Hermione's cheerful prattle and find an interest in the work her
friend was doing with cauldron bottoms - picking up where Percy had left off. But after she spilled
her tea and then cast an Engorgment charm instead of the Scourgify she'd intended, her eyes
filled with helpless tears.

Quietly, Hermione murmured the proper charm and put a hand on Ginny's arm.

“You're not fine,” she said. “You're not even close to fine. Ginny, what's
wrong?”

The solicitous entreaty was more than Ginny could bear, and when she opened her mouth to answer
her friend, she was horrified that her response was a noisy sob.

Hermione, having always been more adept at dealing with practical problems than emotional ones,
patted her back dumbly and whispered meant-to-be-soothing nonsense as Ginny wept stormily.

At length, she wiped her puffy eyes and apologized.

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” she whispered. “I'm just … it's only that … well, there's
something …”

She trailed off, trying to make a hasty decision. She had trusted no one with this secret - not
the letter, and not the lover it was sent to. Maybe she could finally bare her soul. Maybe that
would give her some peace.

“I know I shouldn't keep secrets,” she started, and Hermione nodded, scooting closer. She
could sense that Ginny's revelation was important - after all, it was rare for Ginny to cry,
and even rarer for her to share her problems.

“I should have told someone, but I couldn't.” At this Ginny trailed off, and Hermione
reached out to her again.

“You can tell me, Ginny,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “Please … you can
tell me.”

Ginny met her eyes and seemed to find something necessary there. She nodded in
acknowledgment.

Hermione was sure that Ginny might have shared some deep, dark confidence, but instead her
friend's head jerked up sharply, startled for the second time that day by the pop of
Apparition.

This time, the voice that called out for Ginny was not female, though it was still familiar.
Both of the women looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Hermione,” the man greeted. “I didn't know you'd be here.” He gave her cheek a quick
kiss and turned to Ginny.

“Hello, love,” he said, bending to kiss her lips. When he straightened, he arched an eyebrow at
the utter silence in the room.

“Someone cast a Silencing spell that I need to remove?” he joked, taking in Ginny's pale
face and Hermione's anxious expression. Ginny's mouth opened and closed, and Hermione
hurried to fill the silence.

“No, no,” she said, forcing a laugh. “We're just fine, Harry.”

-->



4. Hope Extinguished
--------------------



**Author's Note: I'm really, really sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter
posted. I kept forgetting the right file, since this chapter is a special Portkey-friendly version,
edited down for the H/G action. Yes, you read that right - there's a teeny bit of H/G action in
this chapter. It doesn't last long, and it doesn't happen again. Give peace a chance, huh?
I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

*******

Hermione's voice was too bright, Ginny knew. Surely Harry would not believe … but he did.
Perhaps his greatest fault was that he always believed. There was no suspicion lurking in his green
eyes as he pulled up a chair next to Ginny's and covered her still-trembling hands with
his.

He did not notice.

Ginny yanked her hands back and stood up quickly. Harry blinked.

“Tea,” Ginny blurted, moving to the counter so her back was to the table. “Don't you want
tea, Harry?”

“Sure, Gin,” Harry murmured confusedly. “But …”

“More tea, Hermione?” Ginny said as she placed Harry's cup in front of him.

Hermione looked up and saw the plea in Ginny's eyes. She hesitated for a second, then held
out her cup.

“I'd love some.”

Ginny's answering smile was grateful, and Hermione watched as she moved around the kitchen.
Though she was graceful as always, she was obviously tense, and just as obviously not ready to be
alone with Harry.

So Hermione stayed, fumbling through Quidditch talk with Harry while Ginny tried to find her
smile. There was a hint of it when Hermione complimented Harry's “Wonky Feint” in his recent
match with Puddlemere United, and it flashed briefly when Harry inquired about the fascinating
world of cauldron bottoms, but she stayed quiet.

Hermione stayed until the third time she yawned, when Harry poked her arm affectionately.

“If you don't go home soon, you'll splinch yourself,” he teased. “I think we can manage
here,” he added, wrapping an arm around Ginny.

Ginny's smile was strained, but she nodded slightly in response to Hermione's silent
question.

“Good night, Hermione,” she said softly. “I'll talk to you soon.” Hermione studied her face
while Harry hugged her goodbye, and when she Disapparated, she did not look entirely satisfied.

Harry reached out a hand to Ginny, and she took it automatically, returning his smile as he led
her into the living room.

He was turning to her, holding her, nuzzling her neck as soon as they sank onto the sofa. Ginny
put her arms around his neck and tried to hold on.

“Love you,” he whispered into her neck, and she pulled back to look at him. He was entirely
hers, she knew. She felt a sudden stab of guilt. He was a good man, and he loved her. Enough to
marry her.

*Those* thoughts were best held at bay, Ginny knew, and she tried to close her mind and
focus on Harry as he bent his head to kiss her. She forced her lips to part under his and willed
herself to think of only him.

The first time Harry had kissed her after proposing - was it only six weeks ago? Days, weeks,
months all blurred together - Ginny thought she could really be his. His mouth covered hers, and
for a second she was lost in him. She had learned that night that it was dangerous to get lost,
because when she closed her eyes, it wasn't Harry kissing her.

As soon as she pictured *his* face, she felt her breathing start to hitch and the kiss
turned urgent as she struggled to give into the sensations washing over her, and when they broke
apart to catch their breath, his name was on her lips.

Since then, she promised herself every time that she would get a handle on this, that the hands
touching her would be the hands she thought of.

She hadn't managed to keep that promise yet, but she continued to renew it.

And now she was fighting the same battle she lost each night. Harry made a small, contented
noise and pulled her closer to him. Ginny's sigh when he did *could* have been one of
pleasure. Harry took it for that, rather than what it really was: Another defeat.

When Ginny's eyes slipped shut, for the first time the scene in her head wasn't a love
story - just the end of one.

***

She hadn't meant to say it. She'd meant it, certainly, but this conversation required
nerve and focus - half a bottle of wine had dulled the latter, and she wasn't entirely sure
she'd mustered the former. Even if she had, it wasn't a discussion that should have been
started by accident.

They would have gotten to this point eventually, Ginny knew. But instead of tiptoeing toward
that dangerous precipice, her direct question had shoved them to the edge of it. And there was no
way to go back, she thought as she watched him. He had gone entirely still, and his beautiful grey
eyes were pained.

He shifted on the couch so he was facing her and took her hands in his, running his thumbs over
the soft skin he knew so well. He was stalling, and they both knew it.

Finally, he decided it might be best to start with the simple truth.

“I love you,” he said, echoing her words. “I'm in love with you.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, and his heart ached. Damn it. He would have liked nothing better
than to have stopped there and taken her in his arms, but he had more to say. Even if he didn't
want to say it, and even if he didn't know how.

He glanced at his empty wine glass and briefly wished he hadn't drained it so quickly,
though he knew the courage to have this conversation wouldn't be found in a bottle. He
wasn't sure it could be found in him, either.

She was waiting patiently for him to speak, but he could feel the tension in her hands, just as
he could see it in her eyes. Gods, he'd do anything to avoid hurting her - with the exception
of lying to her. Which left him with no good option. Hurt Ginny or lie to her. Cut off his left arm
or his right. Impossible choices.

“The last thing I want,” he said slowly, “is for you to leave.” The last thing he wanted, and
the thing he feared most. He tightened his grip on her hands and willed her to understand.

“I won't let you be hurt.”

At that, Ginny opened her mouth to protest, and he shook his head. “My father …”

“I don't give a damn about your father!” she said hotly. “Draco, don't you see? I'm
not afraid of him.”

He gritted his teeth and tried to answer her calmly. “You don't understand,” he started to
say.

Her voice was equally calm, but the layer of ice in it cast a chill over the room. “I understand
perfectly. To you, your father, his involvement with the Death Eaters - they're reasons for us
to hide. To me, they're excuses. You're not willing to risk it.”

“Damn it, Ginny! I'm not willing to risk *you*.”

She was shaking her head, and he watched the candlelight dance across her hair as he struggled
to compose himself. It was falling apart too quickly - he could feel the seams ripping. It made him
desperate, and it made him furious.

“You know what you are to me,” he rasped. “You're everything. You're the light in my
fucking darkness. Gods, Ginny, you *know* that. If you know anything about me for sure,
it's how I feel about you.”

She pulled her hands from his and stood abruptly. He wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to
understand, if that was what it would take, but he was still a Malfoy, and there was still the
matter of his pride. It was warring with his love, and the battle was fierce.

Ginny watched the emotions play on his face and choked down a sob. She was on the edge of
falling into his arms and taking it all back. They could Obliviate the memory and pretend
everything was all right. But pretending would not make it so.

His breath was coming in heavy pants as he fought for control, and those storm-grey eyes watched
her, waiting for her response.

“You love me,” she repeated. “I do know that. But not enough. I would risk everything, Draco, to
be with you, be your wife. You don't know how it hurts …” she broke off, and he watched her
expression harden. If she could have performed a similar action for her heart, it might have been
easier.

“I never thought you were a coward,” she whispered bitterly.

He leapt up then, eyes blazing, and took a step toward her, reaching out. She moved backward,
the pain evident on her face.

“All or nothing,” she said brokenly, and he sucked in a breath, feeling the weight of her words
like a physical blow.

She saw him stop, saw the change in his face as he evaluated her words. She saw the decision he
made reflected in his eyes and wondered how he could break her heart without saying a word.

She turned blindly, looking for escape, and stumbled toward the door. She could not Apparate,
didn't trust herself to Floo … but she had to go. It was impossible to stay in the room with
him. Her shoes were forgotten, tucked beside the sofa, and she tried to concentrate on how the
carpet felt beneath her feet. Anything to postpone thinking of what she had lost.

Her trembling hand was on the doorknob before he called out to her.

“Ginny, *wait*,” he said desperately. She stopped there, standing at the door. Her
shoulders stiffened when he spoke, but she didn't turn around.

“I don't want you to go.” With her back to Draco, Ginny let the first tear fall, and then
she turned to him. His eyes fixed on the tear trailing down her smooth cheek before he lifted his
gaze to her eyes.

Her small smile was regretful. “I know that. I know you don't want me to go.” She paused and
let her eyes wander over ever well-loved inch, wondering if she was doing it for the last time.

“But you don't need me to stay.”

She pulled the door open and ran into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind her. It was several
minutes before it shut quietly, and Draco leaned against it with the last of his strength.

He'd had to shut the door, for he knew she wasn't coming back.

***

-->



5. Kindling
-----------

**Author’s Note: Thanks to the people who are *reading* this story and leaving thoughtful
reviews. (Emphasis on reading fully intended, and if you’re wondering what I mean by that, I’m
probably talking about you.) And thanks to the wonderful where_is_truth, for all her toil and
trouble as my beta. Four more completed chapters are waiting in the wings – how quickly they’re
posted depends on y’all. Hope you enjoy the chapter.**

*******

It was like being released from a cage, Draco thought. Having held onto his memories of her so
tightly, for so long, he was now flooded with the very emotions he’d tried to repress. Love. Loss.
Longing. He was feeling them all, and he was barely able to think.

His secretary, too, thought him similar to a caged animal when she walked into his office to
inform him he’d missed an appointment. A panther, perhaps – stalking around the desk with lethal
grace and snarling with barely leashed fury at the interruption.

After she tripped over her feet in her rush to leave, he realized he wasn’t in a state to deal
with other people. A witch was commanding his full attention, but he wasn’t ready to deal with her,
either. He had to think, and he couldn’t do that here.

He grabbed his wand to Apparate, but before he flicked his wrist, he snatched her letter from
his desk and tucked it carefully inside his robes, planning to finish reading it at home. It would
be better read in a place where her memory already taunted him. He might still escape her here. He
laughed bitterly at the thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d lied to himself.

In his living room, Draco glanced around with hooded eyes. He thought of her there often enough,
but with her letter folded over his heart, he could almost feel her. It was like taking a blow to
the stomach while simultaneously having his cheek caressed, and the sweet pleasure-pain was
overwhelming.

He felt himself sinking into memories and struggled to focus. He had to finish the letter.

*I do know you loved me, then. I knew it when I walked out, and I’ve known it every day since.
I thought I couldn’t be completely happy without your ring on my finger, but I should’ve known
better, shouldn’t I? I learned a long time ago that happiness is independent of material things, no
matter what they symbolize.*

*I thought I knew what I wanted, what I needed from you. So much time has gone by, and now
there’s a ring on my finger. Seems silly that it took so long for me to understand what you were
trying to tell me that night.*

*All I need is you.*

Her familiar signature was scrawled below those last words, and it took several minutes before
he could tear his eyes from the page.

“Ginny,” he murmured aloud. This was the opportunity he’d hoped for without expecting it would
come. She was inviting him back into her life, intimating that there was room for him in her heart.
But was it that easy? Could it possibly be as simple as it seemed?

He knew the answer to that question. If not for his pride, he’d have gone to her long before
this, even without knowing her feelings. But he’d tripped over his pride enough times to know it
was fully capable of causing him to fall flat on his face.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, even as he felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought of another
chance. There might be more room if not for her fiancé. Damn him … whoever he was.

Anyone who knew him – or his reputation – would have thought it odd to find Draco Malfoy lacking
any information he wanted. But his first order of business in the office after he’d lost Ginny had
been to order all information on the Weasleys kept from him. He didn’t want to see headlines in the
Daily Prophet. He didn’t want to hear any office gossip about her. As far as he was concerned, she
had ceased to exist that night.

Except in his memory.

Now it was time to prepare his offense. Ginny had provided an opening, but he’d be a fool if he
went to her without a plan. It already seemed that she wouldn’t refuse him when he came to her, and
that was good, but it wasn’t good enough. He was going to make it impossible.

If Draco’s longtime secretary, Twyla Waverly, was surprised to see his face appear in her
fireplace at 11 p.m., she managed not to show it. She schooled her expression to remain neutral as
he demanded all back issues of the Daily Prophet that made mention of a Ginevra Weasley, and she
did not flinch when he ordered them on his desk by 8 a.m.

One grew accustomed to such things when working for Draco Malfoy. Only when his face retreated
from the flames did Twyla allow herself to smile. Clearly, this explained the mystery of the letter
he’d received. She busied herself with gathering the requested items then – he’d said 8 a.m., but
patience was a virtue he’d never learned and one he certainly hadn’t been born with.

Displaying the efficiency that had gotten her – and let her keep – her job, Twyla took less than
two hours to complete her task. Carefully shrinking the bundle of newspapers, she tucked it into
her pocket and Apparated to the office. She knew his habits and his expectations, and she thought
she’d guessed at the motivations behind this request, but even so, she was surprised when she
walked into his office and found him sitting behind his desk.

“Mr. Malfoy! I …” She hated stuttering in front of him, showing any form of weakness that might
cause one of those pale eyebrows to arch in amusement at her expense, but she truly hadn’t expected
him to be here, sitting in the dark.

“You said eight o’clock,” she accused weakly, sure he could see the rapid pulse fluttering in
her throat. She dared a glance at him, waiting for the sharp words or the look that signaled his
annoyance.

Neither came. He didn’t look up, didn’t appear to register her presence in the room. His head
was in his hands, which were rubbing his temples slowly, as if it ached. Twyla was sufficiently
startled at the vulnerability he was displaying to comment on it.

“Are you all right, sir? You look … sir, you don’t look well. Is there anything –”

His head jerked up then, and Twyla had to bite her tongue to stifle a gasp. His eyes were
red-rimmed and dull with pain, but he still managed to level a fierce glare in her direction.

He didn’t speak, but Twyla understood the message clearly enough. *Shut up and go. Leave
me.*

She hurried to retrieve the bundle of shrunken papers from her robes and fumbled to return it to
its original size. Her wand was shaking so badly in her trembling hand that it took three tries
before she managed to perform the simple swish-and-flick action and deposit her findings on her
desk.

She might have tried to stammer an apology if she hadn’t been quite so shaken, but instead she
Disapparated instantly and hoped she’d make it home intact.

Draco stayed in the dark for several minutes before he picked up the first newspaper. Twyla had
made it easy for him, inserting tabs on the pages where Ginny was mentioned, knowing he wouldn’t
want to bother hunting for the information he wanted.

He’d have done it, though – Ginny was worth everything to him. Thumbing through pages was a
simple task if it brought him the smallest step closer to her. Anything would be simple to do if it
brought him closer to her.

He read quickly, following her promotions through the Ministry with little interest. He cared
about what she’d been up to, certainly, but there was one bit of information he was particularly
eager to get to, and it had nothing to do with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A small
notice in one of the more recent issues let him know that she’d resigned suddenly from her job six
weeks ago, and his brow furrowed. Why had she left? All the articles he’d skimmed seemed to praise
her work, which explained how she’d risen through the ranks so swiftly.

He found his answer on the following day’s front page, in the form of an obnoxiously large
headline announcing her engagement. There was a picture there, too, but Draco scarcely noticed
Ginny’s face. All his attention, his fury, his pain – they were focused on the smiling face of the
wizard holding her hand.

*Potter.* He might have guessed, if he’d allowed himself to think of it. But his
self-imposed isolation from any outlet that might mention her had kept that news from reaching him.
Not that it mattered. In this area, his pride served him well. He *knew* no other wizard could
touch Ginny’s body and reach her soul. But to think of that great ponce Harry Potter touching his
Ginny … the thought roused every primitive male instinct he had.

The thought of his Ginny with Potter was almost laughable, but there was no amusement to be seen
on Draco's face. There was grim determination, though - he knew his rival's name now. And
finally, a smile curved his lips as he realized he knew exactly how to proceed.



6. Where There's Smoke
----------------------



Harry had left early that morning for Quidditch practice, and Ginny'd been grateful for the
opportunity to feign sleep when he kissed her goodbye. Pretending to sleep was as close as she
could come, though, as she'd spent the entire night listening to Harry snore softly and
thinking of Draco.

She sighed and pushed the quilt back. She'd only sent the letter yesterday. Had she really
thought he'd come so soon? Did she really think he'd come at all?

She was really going mad.

And now there was nothing to distract her, since Harry Potter's fiancée had stupidly agreed
to give up her job. She didn't need to work so hard, Harry had urged, and from what he'd
heard, planning a wedding took lots of time. Ginny had agreed before she quite understood what she
was doing, and then it had been too late.

She'd kept herself busy enough the last few weeks, but today the peaceful quiet of the flat
was oppressive. Either she could pace in circles and organize her sock drawer for the second time
in two days, or she could invent an excuse to go out.

Her mind raced through the possibilities and a real smile appeared on her face when she decided
on a diversion. Lunch with Hermione would get her out of the flat, and it would let them continue
the conversation Harry had interrupted. The thought of spilling the secret she had guarded so
closely for so long made her uneasy, but it was time.

Telling the story could only help. It might help Ginny prepare for Draco's reappearance in
her life, or it might help her begin to let go because he wouldn't be coming back. There was no
way to know, Ginny mused as she pulled on a blue jumper, but either way, it was somewhere to start.
She'd just have to ignore the full body blush and racing heartbeat that remembering him caused
and focus on the facts.

Hermione would understand the facts.

An hour later, Ginny was finding it easy to concentrate on simple facts as Hermione munched on a
crumpet and waited for her to speak. The difficulty was choosing facts that were relevant. It might
not matter to Hermione that Draco's skin was softer and smoother than any man's had a right
to be, and Ginny seriously doubted her lunch companion was interested in knowing that he insisted
on holding her after they made love.

Facts. Stick to the facts.

She decided to start with something simple and as she started to speak, her eyes fixed on the
smear of jam on Hermione's cheek. She tried desperately not to laugh - she had to be serious
about this - and in her haste to say *something*, quickly blurted out the name that was never
far from her mind.

“Draco Malfoy.”

The crumpet dropped from Hermione's hand, and she blinked at Ginny several times, completely
baffled. “What? What about him?”

Ginny took a long, shuddering breath. Not the way she'd meant to start this revelation, but
then nothing in recent memory had started - or ended - as she'd planned. Why should this be
different? She closed her eyes against a sudden vision of him smiling at her and soldiered on.

“We were in love,” she said simply. There. All the details were still missing, when and why and
how Ginny Weasley could have loved Draco Malfoy, but she had managed to impart the most important
facts.

Once upon a time, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy loved each other.

If Hermione was making any sort of attempt to hide her shock, it was failing. Her mouth was
hanging open, and her elbow had landed in her teacup when she'd started at Ginny's
words.

“Close your mouth, Hermione,” Ginny instructed gently, offering her napkin. Hermione glanced
down at her sleeve, now dripping with tea, and flushed.

“Maybe we should have the waiter take the plates away before I tell you the rest,” Ginny
suggested with a faint trace of humor in her tone.

“Ginny,” Hermione began, her thoughts whirling madly. “Are you … I mean, did you …” She
stuttered out some more inanities and finally croaked out, “Really?”

Ginny didn't answer, but Hermione saw the truth of her admission in the sad smile that
crossed her face.

She could barely believe it, let alone make *sense* of it.

“When?”

The date Ginny named was more than three years ago. Now Hermione's brain was able to start
processing information, make connections, begin attempting to solve this unexpected mystery.

She started piecing snippets of memory together, trying to recall what she'd known of
Ginny's actions three years ago. Hardly anything, she realized - Ginny had put in long hours
helping Fred and George at their shop, and for several months, that was the only place Hermione
could remember seeing her. Not at the Burrow, not for an occasional lunch, and not by way of an
accidental encounter.

She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but these oddities seemed perfectly
reasonable now that she knew Ginny had been hiding a secret. A lover. A relationship with Draco
Malfoy. Her lips pursed at that last thought, but she carefully wiped her expression blank when she
saw Ginny had noticed.

“He's different than you think,” Ginny murmured, meeting her gaze. “At least he was with me.
He's a good man, Hermione. He took care of me. We were happy.”

It hurt to say that, to use the past tense to describe something that had meant so much. It
still meant just as much, but as they were dealing in facts, Ginny was trying to come to grips with
the fact that a history with Draco might be all she had.

It was enough of a struggle for Hermione to think of Ginny having loved Draco Malfoy. But then
her logical mind made another connection, and she gasped in sudden realization. Ginny was still
watching her, and she sighed, seeing the knowledge flash in Hermione's wide brown eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered, hating the guiltiness that was threatening to overwhelm her. “Yes,
that's why I was upset yesterday.”

There was compassion in the look Hermione gave Ginny, but it quickly slipped into an odd mix of
fear and wariness. Hermione was sure she did not want to know the answers to any of the questions
that statement produced, but there was one she could not keep from asking.

“But, Ginny,” she said carefully, striving to keep her tone even, “what about Harry?”

Tears sprang into Ginny's eyes instantly, but she answered immediately.

“I can't marry him.”

Any sympathy Hermione might have felt vanished, and her eyes hardened. “You can't. Because
of Draco Malfoy.” Her neutrality was gone, too, as she practically hissed the Slytherin's name
and glared at Ginny.

“No,” Ginny murmured. “Not because of Draco. Because of me. Because it wouldn't be
fair.”

“You still love him.” It might have been a question. It was certainly an accusation, but Ginny
met it head on.

“Draco? I do.” Ginny shrugged her shoulders. “I tried to forget him. I thought I'd managed
it, even, but …” She looked up and saw the unfriendly stare Hermione was leveling at her.

“I was wrong. About lots of things. I thought I could marry Harry. I thought I could be happy
without Draco. And I even thought you might be able to understand, that I could finally talk about
this.

“There's a reason I learned to keep secrets, Hermione,” she finished, fighting hard to not
let Harry's best friend see how much this was hurting her. “No one ever understands the truth,
even if they think they want to know it. Lies are lies, but they're easier.”

She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Trembling fingers plucked some Galleons out
of her purse, and she turned to leave before remembering one last thing.

“Just so we're clear,” she said softly, waiting for Hermione to look up and confirm that she
was listening. “Quite obviously it was a mistake to trust you with this. Don't compound it by
going to Harry. I know where your loyalties lie, but Harry needs to hear this from me. And he will
- soon,” she added, when Hermione's mouth opened to disagree.

“Do that much for me,” Ginny continued haltingly, but the words stuck in her throat at the
baleful glare Hermione responded with. She would not cry. She'd made herself vulnerable enough
for one day. “Do it for Harry, then,” she said wearily. “Think of Harry, like you always have, and
you'll know I should be the one to tell him.”

A short, sharp nod was the only indication that Hermione had even heard her. It would do. Ginny
squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and Apparated home. Tears were already spilling down her
cheeks as she appeared in the living room, and she sank onto the couch, groping for a pillow to
bury her face in.

She cried for a long time. She wept for the pain she'd be causing Harry and at the thought
that hurting him didn't necessarily mean having Draco, and she sobbed for the loss of Hermione
as a confidante, because it meant she truly had no one. She had to bear this by herself.

When she regained a little bit of her composure, she sat up, hugging the soggy pillow to her
chest. Then her tear-bright eyes focused on a strange object sitting on the coffee table, one that
hadn't been there when she'd left. A medium-sized box with a card on top. It was addressed
to her.

She let go of the pillow and leaned forward curiously. Her name was written in calligraphy, in
plain black ink - no clues there. Ginny refused to let herself speculate on who might have left it,
even though her heart had begun to thump faster. She didn't realize she'd been holding her
breath until she slid the card out of its envelope and read the short message and huffed in
disbelief. Surely there was more to the card. She turned it over, then back again. No, she
hadn't missed anything. There were just four cryptic words that gave no clue as to the
box's contents.

*You'll be needing these.*

Her brow furrowed even as she lifted the lid off the box and impatiently brushed aside several
layers of tissue paper. Her gasp shattered the silence in the room and she could barely comprehend
what she was seeing.

Finally, Ginny reached out tentatively and touched them, then curled her fingers around the
straps to pull a pair of shoes out of the box. Her favorite shoes, a pair of strappy, high-heeled
sandals in rich brown leather.

The last time she'd seen them, they'd been sitting beside Draco's sofa. Had he
really kept them all this time? That he'd kept them at all, considering how they'd parted,
was something. But all this time? Maybe she wasn't the only one who had held on to memories.
Maybe she wasn't the only one who had hoped.

She'd thought the shoes were lost to her forever. Of course, she'd thought the same
about Draco.

-->



7. Burgeoning Blaze
-------------------

**Author’s Note: Thanks for the kind reviews. After this chapter, two more are already written
– hopefully by the time those are posted, Chapter 10 will be done. (Keep your fingers crossed; it’s
been a long time coming.) Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

*******

The late autumn sun felt good on his face, and Draco thought the air smelled a little sweeter
than it had the day before. He wasn’t ready to admit to enjoying the sound of birds chirping, and
he hadn’t helped any elderly witches cross the street, but altogether, things were looking up a
little.

He wondered how long it had taken Ginny to find the shoes. His expression turned smug as he
remembered delivering the box. It was a risky decision to Apparate to her flat. He’d checked to
make sure she still lived there, of course, but he’d had no way of knowing whether her wards were
set to allow him entrance.

But they were. Of course they were.

He’d meant to leave the box and go, but standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by
her things, he felt close to her. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, or to care whether she might
find him there. She would know, soon enough, that he had come.

He let his eyes wander around the room, taking in familiar details and cataloguing changes. He
stepped over to the mantel and examined the pictures she had on display. A group shot showed her
with her family, but hers was the only face he could fix on. There was one of her with Granger and
Potter, an arm around each of them, her smile brighter than sunlight. It nearly hurt to look at
her, she was so lovely.

There were no pictures of her with Potter alone. He might have guessed as much after reading her
letter, but it was something different to see it for himself. He was in her home, and there was no
visible evidence of Potter. Ticking off the points in his head, Draco thought he could be satisfied
with what he knew to be truth: Potter’s real place in Ginny’s life was that of a friend, rather
than a lover.

Draco let a real smile briefly transform his face before he Apparated away. He would continue
the plan, continue to draw Ginny back to him. She’d been the one to leave, and it was fitting that
she be the one to come back. It would be a symbolic victory, and his male ego could appreciate
that, but what really mattered was being sure this was what she wanted. That he was what she
wanted.

He’d barely handled losing her the first time, and he knew he couldn’t go through that again.
But if things worked out the way he thought they would, he wouldn’t have to.

***

Ginny didn’t know, as she sat on the floor holding the shoes he’d returned to her, that it had
only been minutes since he’d left. He’d Apparated out and she’d Apparated in. Had she known, she
might have wished briefly that she’d caught him there. Then rational thought would have taken over
and she’d have realized she wasn’t ready to see him, as much as she wanted to see him.

There was time for this to unfold as it was meant to. After two years, it could hardly hurt to
wait two more days. Especially since she still had to tell Harry.

Ginny grimaced as she stood, carefully replacing the shoes in their box and walking to the
bedroom. She set the shoebox in the closet with its counterparts and wondered how it could blend in
so easily, how it could look so innocuous when it held such hidden meaning. Those shoes were the
end and the beginning, wrapped in tissue paper.

She had found the words to tell Draco she still wanted him, but it had taken days to get them
right. Now she had to sort out the kindest way of telling Harry she didn’t want him, couldn’t marry
him … that it was Draco Malfoy who held her heart. And she had to do it sooner rather than later,
because Hermione’s dogged sense of loyalty would only give her a small grace period, if any. Not
much time to undo what had been so awkwardly done in the first place.

Harry’s proposal had been so clumsy – a right mess, Ginny had admitted to Hermione after the
other girl’s breathy squeals had finally stopped. He’d stammered and stared, emerald eyes
beseeching her to understand, and finally he’d just held out the ring to her. She’d answered as
he’d asked: Silently. A long moment, an indrawn breath, and she held out her hand to him. She
couldn’t have found the words any more than Harry could have, though they were tongue-tied for
vastly different reasons.

Ginny hadn’t just accepted Harry’s offer of marriage in that quiet moment. She’d held out her
hand and reached for a life without Draco in it, trembling fingers grasping a chance to be happy
with someone else.

“Worth a try,” she murmured out loud.

***

He hadn’t been to Hogsmeade in months, partly to steer clear of the boisterous, bustling crowds
and partly to avoid the memories of a stolen weekend he’d spent there with Ginny. Draco was mildly
surprised to find that neither excuse really applied today as he walked down the main street,
barely noticing the witches and wizards he passed. No, the memories weren’t terrible at all, since
he could imagine making new ones.

Those thoughts consumed him so entirely that he walked two blocks past Gladrags before he
realized it. More bemused than annoyed, Draco turned around and headed back to his destination. He
had some shopping to do.

***

The saleswitch nearest the door recognized him immediately, and her bright blue eyes widened
before she let out a squeak and hurried toward the back of the store. “It’s Draco Malfoy,” he heard
her hiss.

“Well spotted,” Draco drawled, following in her frenzied wake. He let his fingers trail over the
silky material of the robes and gowns he passed, thinking that nothing could be as soft as Ginny’s
skin. He’d tried for so long not to think of her, and now he could think only of her. Either way
led to madness, but he much preferred the road he was traveling – it led to Ginny, after all.

The owner, Madam Vanora, was waiting at the back of the store, quietly chiding the saleswitch
for her ridiculous behavior. “… hardly going to hex you on sight, Stella,” she sighed, shaking her
head. “Mr. Malfoy!” The proprietress turned the full force of her fuchsia-lipped smile on him, and
he inclined his head to acknowledge her.

Stella let out another squeak and scampered into a nearby dressing room. Madam Vanora rolled her
eyes, shrugging at Draco. “I’ve seen billywigs braver than her,” she confided. “But she’s quite a
seamstress.”

Draco exhaled a little too loudly, and she rushed on. “Now what can I help you with today? New
dress robes?” she asked, looking him over speculatively. “No … that can’t be it, you’re …
impeccable.”

At the sound of Draco clearing his throat, she dragged her eyes up until she met his gaze, and
he tried to ignore the fact that she might have lingered somewhere in the middle.

“A dress,” he said firmly. “I need a dress.”

***

It took less time than Draco had anticipated to find what he was looking for, so he was doubly
satisfied as he left the shop with a package tucked under his arm. He’d planned to send it from
home, but he was pleased with his purchase and eager to continue moving closer to Ginny. He wasn’t
about to bother being patient.

The Hogsmeade post office loomed on his left, and he swallowed his distaste for the public owl
post system. For Ginny, he reminded himself, pushing open the door. He was greeting by a cacophony
of sound, hoots and tweets and fluttering wings. He gritted his teeth and crooked his finger at a
Great Gray on the top shelf. It obligingly swooped down and perched on the counter, awaiting
further instructions.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked the clerk.

“I’m sending an express. I need this,” Draco placed the package on the counter, smoothing it
with his hand, “delivered to Ginevra Weasley. 13 Vauxhall Bridge Road. It’s to be delivered within
the hour.”

He would not give her an opportunity to close the door she had opened. Even if she had wanted to
– he found himself smirking at that ridiculous thought – she had set things in motion and Draco
would only let them go forward from here. There would be no pause for careful reflection, no time
to think things through in a rational manner. He would assault her senses and remind her how much
he wanted her. She didn’t think of him while she was eating her lunch? That would change. Until
they saw each other again, Draco intended to make sure Ginny’s every thought was of him.

He couldn’t have known (though pride might have let him guess), but that goal had already been
achieved.



8. Combustion
-------------

**Author’s Note: As always, where_is_truth deserves a double dose of thanks for her work as
beta. And, of course, thanks to those of you who are reading and reviewing. Hope you enjoy the
update.**

***

Ginny had inherited the flaming red hair that readily identified her as a Weasley, and she was
similarly pale and freckled to the other members of her family, as well. But the all-important
cooking gene, which by all rights should have been hers, had magically – maddeningly – found its
way to Charlie.

“At least the dragons will eat well,” Ginny grumbled as she flipped the dog-eared pages of her
mother’s favorite cookbook, Incredible Edibles: A Witch’s Guide. She’d been given all the family
recipes, and Molly Weasley had seen to it that her only daughter’s kitchen was equipped with
everything she might need to put together a four-course feast. Now the only thing lacked, as Ginny
surveyed the array of never-used kitchen tools she’d placed on the countertop, was the ability to
follow a recipe.

She was beginning to seriously question the decision she’d made to explain things to Harry over
dinner – the part of the plan where she cooked the dinner, anyway. But she couldn’t stomach the
idea of telling him in public, breaking off their engagement just as a Daily Prophet reporter
snapped a picture or a Quidditch groupie stopped to beg for an autograph.

The thought of it was as distasteful to her as the concoction she was gingerly prodding promised
to be. It was meant to have been meatloaf, but it looked like … a mess. She frowned and bent
closer, trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong. Certainly something had, as the meatloaf appeared
to have collapsed inward, exposing a raw center. That was fitting, Ginny thought. She was about to
break Harry’s heart over a plate of misshapen mush.

There was still wine, though, and she hadn’t managed to ruin the salad. It would be liquor and
lettuce, then. Ginny reached for the bottle of white wine she’d chilled – she’d lost her taste for
red approximately twenty-four months ago – forgetting she’d poked her fingers into the meatloaf.
The bottle slipped and slid silently out of her greasy grasp, and there was no Cushioning Charm
waiting to soften its impact on Ginny’s linoleum.

It shattered, contents splashing up onto the skirt of Ginny’s carefully chosen dress. Shards of
glass skittered across the floor as Ginny froze in place. She wouldn’t have guessed, couldn’t have
dreamed things might go so wrong, but the evidence – well, the evidence was all over her
kitchen.

She’d made a mess of things.

Ginny groped for her wand, fingers wrapping around the slim rosewood stick and holding tightly
as she gasped out, “Reparo!” The bottle resumed its original shape and Ginny waved away the mess on
the floor, feeling her head start to pound. What else could possibly –

A familiar tapping noise in the living room derailed that thought, and Ginny held her damp skirt
away from her legs as she hurried to the window. The enormous owl hovering there flew in as soon as
it could fit, perching on the mantel and offering its leg.

Ginny quickly untied the package and stood staring at it while the owl flew away. The evening
air left goose bumps along her skin, and she shivered as she turned the soft bundle over. Her name,
written in the same anonymous calligraphy as the card that had accompanied the shoes. Her fingers
were nimble in spite of the residual stickiness, and she opened the flap of the envelope with
ease.

Her headache was gone – now it was her pulse pounding as she slipped the message out and
prepared to read.

“What’ve you got there, Gin?”

Ginny whirled to face Harry, thinking that he was far too
good at Apparating quietly as she felt a guilty flush creep up her neck. The card fluttered out of
her fingers, coasting gently downward as the slight breeze from the window encouraged its flight.
Ginny snatched at it and came up empty, and Harry eyed her curiously as he stretched out his arm
and plucked it effortlessly out of the air.

“Seeker’s reflexes,” Ginny murmured, feeling numb.

The entire world, as far as Ginny Weasley was concerned, rested casually between Harry Potter’s
thumb and forefinger. She wanted to laugh, and she needed to cry. So this was how it was to
happen.

Harry was trying to read her face as he rolled the card between his fingers. Ginny decided that
the message itself would be less damning than the naked emotions she couldn’t begin to hide, and
her slight laugh was harsh.

“Just read it.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he frowned at her, shaking his head. He thrust the card toward
her and her hand shot out to stop him. She pushed his hand away a little too roughly, and she
closed her eyes against the confusion in his.

“Read it,” she repeated, bowing her head.

She knew when he’d finished because of the soft exhalation he made. Ginny opened her eyes. The
card was still in Harry’s hand, but his grip had tightened, and the edges were crumpling under the
pressure.

“Who wrote this?” he asked, and Ginny was glad to hear the sharp edge in his voice. It would be
better for both them if he was angry – easier for her; less painful for him. She sucked in a breath
and pushed out the last four syllables Harry would have expected.

“Draco Malfoy,” she answered, pausing for a heartbeat, watching his nostrils flare and fury
transform his face. “What does it say?”

Harry glanced down, bringing his free hand up so that he clutched the card between both hands.
His fingers flexed and Ginny panicked, sure he would rip the card in half and deny her the
knowledge of what Draco had said.

“No!” she whispered, reaching instinctively for it.

“What does it say?” Harry asked, his tone incredulous. “I find out you’re hiding things from me,
that you’re getting secret messages from Draco Malfoy, and all you can do is ask what it says?
Ginny, that’s … you’re unbelievable.”

The card fell to the ground then as Harry’s furious gaze focused on something behind Ginny’s
shoulder. He reached around her and she heard a rustling noise that seemed oddly out of place
before his hand darted back and she saw what he held.

She’d nearly forgotten the package.

He was ripping it open, digging his nails into the thin paper and tearing at it furiously before
she could find her voice to object. When the paper fell away under his onslaught, Ginny could only
stare.

The dress in Harry’s hands was the same green as his eyes – a brilliant, beautiful emerald. It
looked as though it would cling to her waist, flare gently over her hips and fall to just above her
knees. Tiny straps would tie at the back of her neck and trail around to disappear into the center
of the bodice. The material gathered itself down the center in tiny, casual pleats from breast to
navel and continued down in an elegant fall of green.

“Oh,” Ginny breathed, brushing the whisper-soft material with her fingertips, forgetting Harry
for a moment, lost in the wonder of the dress Draco had sent.

Harry made a choked noise and thrust the dress into her arms. She accepted it automatically,
hugging it to her, but her eyes were sad with sudden realization as she looked up at Harry.

“Harry, let me …” She sighed and soldiered on. She owed him this much – she owed him more – but
she certainly had to explain. Or at least she had to try. “I don’t know if there’s any way to tell
you this so you’ll really understand, but I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Want to know?” Harry burst out. “Want to know, Ginny? What I want to know is that this is a
mistake. A horrible joke Fred and George thought up, a prank gone bad. Something – anything – like
that. What I want to know is that this isn’t really happening, that you’re not about to tell me
you’re in love with Draco Malfoy.”

The name came out as half-sob, half-shout, and his eyes were pleading with her as they stood in
silence. Tell me what I want to know. Tell me it isn’t true.

And she couldn’t. Tears were sliding down her cheeks in a steady, salty stream, and she reached
out for Harry, offering to ease the pain she was causing. When he jerked away, his eyes were dark
with hurt, but his jaw was set. In the next second, Ginny felt him take her hand and she nearly
threw her arms around him, but then he spoke in a cold voice she’d never heard.

“Guess you won’t be needing this.”

She didn’t need to ask what he meant, because he punctuated the sentence by roughly slipping off
her engagement ring. As he stalked over to the window, Ginny glanced down at her bare finger. The
ring hadn’t even left a mark.

She turned back to Harry when he spoke again.

“I won’t be needing this, either,” he spat, drawing his arm back, and Ginny’s eyes followed the
symbol of Harry’s love and devotion as he whipped his arm forward and hurled the ring out the open
window.

Ginny’s tears caught in her throat when he turned around, seeming to look through her. She
blinked once, trying to push the tears aside, and that was all the time it took for Harry to cross
the room, throw the door open and slam it behind him.

She was alone again, and she felt it keenly.

Alone for now, at least, she thought, dropping to her knees to retrieve the card.

You’ll be needing this, too, it read, but not as much as I still need you. Soon.

“Soon,” Ginny whispered, and the word slipped out the window into the night.



9. Forest Fire
--------------



When a determined ray of sunshine finally teased her into waking, Ginny tried to convince
herself she was ready to face the day. It couldn't be any worse than the night she'd just
endured, full of guilt over Harry and guilt over her relief that he knew, no matter how much it had
hurt him. No matter how awful and alien his face had looked as he left. At least he *knew*,
and that alone meant today would be better.

Her resolve lasted through her shower, as she tried to scrub away her worry and send it
spiraling down the drain, and she stayed steady through a hurried cup of coffee. Why she was
rushing, she didn't know - there was no job awaiting her, and certainly no friends expecting
her somewhere. The automatic twinge she felt when Hermione flitted into her thoughts was shoved
aside after a moment, and she mentally straightened her shoulders. It would be better, this day.
The worst was over.

She believed that until her mother's face appeared in the fireplace. Even the green flicker
of flame couldn't hide the angry flush staining Molly Weasley's cheeks, and the determined
set of her jaw alerted Ginny instantly. She knew.

“Damn,” Ginny muttered, darting a quick look as she peeked out of the kitchen. The glower
hadn't increased in intensity; Molly hadn't heard. It was the tiniest of reprieves, but she
knew she'd be grateful later. She glanced down at her clothes - a faded, favorite jumper and
old, comfortable jeans - and pushed her hair behind her ears. If only she had some battle armor
handy.

She walked into the room, wondering who could have been so indiscreet, so fast, and Molly's
eyes narrowed at the sight of her daughter.

“I've just been talking to Ron,” came the opening volley, brimming with indignance, and
Ginny had her answer. No enormous surprise there - once a bigmouth, always a bigmouth. She wondered
briefly if she knew anyone who felt any sort of real loyalty to her, and when a name streaked
across her mind in response, she smiled.

Molly did not. The sight of Ginny's lips curving upward launched a rapid-fire, high-pitched
monologue that Ginny only caught bits and pieces of.

“ … broken Harry's heart … Ron found him at Hermione's … almost in tears … don't
understand you … practically part of the family … hurt him so …”

Ginny seized her opportunity when Molly paused to take a huffy breath, but her soft “Mum” went
unheard. She shook her head and reminded herself that she was used to having to make herself heard,
that growing up Weasley had prepared her for such situations. But when she snapped her fingers and
Molly's head jerked up at the unfamiliar, imperious gesture, she realized that someone else had
also taught her how to demand others' attention.

“Mum, listen to me,” she said, willing some forcefulness into the words. “Whatever you've
heard, it isn't the whole story. Ron doesn't know the whole story, even if Harry told him
everything. Not even Harry knows …” she trailed off. A fragmented thought nudged at her - something
Molly had said, in the midst of the ranting and raving, was important - but she couldn't force
the halves together.

“You don't know,” she told her mother firmly, watching as Molly's brow furrowed. Ginny
could almost hear her thoughts. *Don't know? Of course I know. You're my daughter,
Ginevra Molly Weasley, and I know everything about you.* She saw the words forming on her
mother's lips and sighed, beginning to craft a defense to the expected barrage. When Molly
spoke, her words were soft and sad, and Ginny's walls fell.

“If I don't know, Ginny, then tell me. Help me understand.”

“I will, Mum,” Ginny replied. “Once I understand, and once I know the whole story.” She saw
Molly's hesitancy, knew she wanted to ask when, and gave the answer she hoped was true.
“Soon.”

***

Normally the excited squeaking of house elves would send Draco scrambling for a headache potion
and fleeing to his office - anywhere where he couldn't hear them, didn't have to answer
questions about what Master wanted. Now he barely noticed the more irritating aspects of their
presence, so intent was he on monitoring their progress. He might have found time to smile, had he
seen Ginny mimicking the snap she'd seen him use so often, but he was entirely focused on
making sure everything was perfect.

Making sure everything was ready for her.

Things would be the same, as much as it was possible - the vanilla candles were already
scattered around the room, and the scent was so achingly familiar that he had to remind himself she
wasn't there. Yet. Their favorite wine was waiting on the counter. He hadn't had a drop of
it since the last bottle they'd shared, and he was looking forward to the taste. The little
things would be as she remembered them.

But he was determined that the important things would be different. The ending would be right -
no. There would *be* no ending. And now the only thing lacking in his glittering, polished
domain wasn't a thing at all. He needed her, and it was time to be done with waiting.

He strode to the desk and opened the drawer, removing a quill and a card and quickly penning a
short note in bold, black strokes. He would send no more messages after this. There would be no
need. She would come.

***

Half-expecting another message, Ginny found herself staring out the window after Molly had gone.
She'd disconnected the Floo - no telling who might want to berate or console her, and her own
thoughts were troubling enough without adding the weight of others' opinions. After an hour,
she decided it was silly to frown at the sky just because there were no owls winging their way to
her sill.

All the clouds looked like sleeping dragons, and she had the ridiculous urge to throw something,
prod them into action. But then she remembered that Draco had waited for two years. Whatever “soon”
was to him, it would have to be soon enough. He had waited, and so could she.

This time, her resolve needed only to last as long as it took her to rise from her place at the
window. Her attention was momentarily diverted; her back ever so briefly turned. *Tap tap
tap.* Ginny wondered if the owl had waited for a sign of her patience, and as she drew up the
sash, she whispered a message of her own that was lost in a flurry of wings.

“I would have waited.”

Though she was glad there was no need to. Eager fingers untied the message, and a sharp
fingernail had slit the envelope open before the owl had a chance to hoot softly in
acknowledgment.

*We've waited long enough. Seven o'clock.*

Ginny smiled - it seemed he still knew what she was thinking. Only hours now to wait. She closed
her eyes and let the anticipation sweep over her, and then her eyes flew open. Only hours? She had
to get *ready*. At least the question of what to wear was easily decided.

She hurried into the bedroom, hair streaming out behind her as she grabbed the green dress from
the closet and made for the bathroom. She disrobed quickly, tossing her jeans and jumper aside.
When she slipped the dress over her head, she knew it was a perfect fit before she checked her
reflection. No surprise, considering how intimately Draco had known her body. When she smoothed the
material over her hips, she could imagine his hands roving over her curves, the dark silver of his
eyes that signaled his want. Merlin, he still wanted her …

She was ready far too early, despite the distraction of her anticipation, and had to resort to
pacing back and forth in her bare feet. The feel of the cool, hard floor under her toes was a
necessity, keeping her grounded, lest she float away on the force of her desire. It was some
special brand of madness, how easy it was for her to be consumed by him. There was nothing like
this feeling, not in this world or in any other, and as she trod invisible paths in the
floorboards, Ginny wondered how she had managed to do without him for so long.

That thought was easily pushed away, and a real smile broke over her face. *It doesn't
matter now,* Ginny told herself. *Whatever we've done, however we've wronged each
other, there is still a chance.*

And then it was time.

***

Everything was perfect. All the preparations stood up under the critical eye he turned on them,
and at ten `til seven, Draco found himself adding the final touches. He'd never lit a match
before, had never sparked a flame without magic, but he'd watched Ginny enough times to know
how it was done, and he carried his tiny torch through the living room, lighting her candles. A
hint of vanilla began to fill the air, and he inhaled deeply, trying to take in as much as he
could.

He blew out the flame before it could lick at his fingers and vanished the match. He was
concentrating too hard on watching the seconds tick by on the clock, and when Ginny quietly
Apparated into the living room, he did not hear the faint pop that accompanied her.

When he turned around, she was there, and for a second, he thought he might have conjured her,
that she was only the loveliest of memories. He'd had enough practice imagining her nearby - it
was impossibly easy to believe her an apparition instead of flesh and blood. When he took a step
toward her and stretched out his hand, he truly expected his fingers to pass through air.

But Ginny did not waver and disappear. She met his reaching fingers with her own, and

*a shiver of heat raced through him at her touch. He had been mad to stay away from her, no
matter what had happened. For two years, he'd burned for her, and now she was here, and he was
touching her. It was too much, and it would never be enough. Her fingers were hot on his skin, and
his breath had never sounded so loud as it did in the deafening silence between them.*

*He was fully awake for the first time since she'd left.*

-->



10. Burning
-----------



Author's Note: Well, this is the last chapter already written, so from now on, updates will
be at the same time here as at other archives. Thanks to all who've read and reviewed, and
thanks to where_is_truth for the encouragement to keep going when writing this story feels like
trying to run through peanut butter. Um, anyway, enjoy the chapter.

***

He was as beautiful as ever - that was the first thought Ginny could form. He hadn't heard
her arrival, so she had a few seconds to try, fail, and try again to gain a measure of composure.
It was laughable to try; she would fail forever. There were no defenses she could build that he
couldn't break, whether with a word, or a glance, or a single breath.

As he turned around and found her there, she was thinking how pointless it was, the idea of
walls. She'd constructed them, hidden behind them, and it hadn't helped. She hadn't
been able to forget, and when his grey eyes locked on hers, she couldn't remember why she'd
even tried.

He stretched out a hand, and if Ginny had had any remaining reservations, the look of tentative
disbelief in his eyes would have shattered them. Her hand reached for his, and then they were
touching. *Touching*, her mind caroled, glorying in the sensation. *Touching*. His
fingers curled around hers tightly, as if he needed to prove she was real.

"Hi," she murmured softly. It seemed inadequate as a greeting, and it was, but there
was so much to say and she was spinning too quickly to think of a better start.

His gaze was still fixed on her face, pinning her to the spot where she stood as surely as if
he'd cast *Petrificus Totalus*. She couldn't move, could barely breathe, while she
waited to see what he would do.

He paused a beat, arching one of those pale gold eyebrows at her, before the corners of his
mouth tilted up. The doubt and the tension fell away from his face, and he looked so relaxed - so
*happy* - that Ginny was sure no one but her would have recognized him in that moment. She
felt a slight tug and realized he was pulling her hand toward him, and his lips had already brushed
her knuckles before she'd guessed what was happening.



And then he leaned down so that his mouth was nearly touching her ear, and she heard his voice
for the first time in two years.

"Hi."

***

He kept holding her hand after he'd kissed it. Her left hand firmly clasped in his right
formed a vital connection he wasn't willing to break. It was only after his fingertips had
traced every inch of her palm that he realized something was missing. He looked down at the slim
white fingers, and noticed a distinct lack of ornamentation.

"Where's your ring?" Surely Potter had to have given her a ring. Had she taken it
off before coming? Was it at her flat, tucked into a drawer or hidden under a pillow? Before he
could worry about where he stood with the woman he loved, he had to know.

Ginny started, dragging her eyes from his face down to her own hand. "I don't
know," she said honestly, shrugging. "Last time I saw it, it was sailing out my living
room window."

This time both of Draco's eyebrows shot upward, but he simply nodded. "Lovers'
quarrel?" he asked, trying to sound mild.

Ginny eyed him carefully, considering her response. "He found me opening your card. With
the dress," she clarified, gesturing at herself. Draco followed the motion and swept his gaze
over her, taking in the full effect of his gift for the first time.

He'd known he'd chosen well, but the dress looked far different now that it was draped
over his favorite curves. It had pleased him to select the dress, knowing that it suggested enough
that other men would go mad wondering what was underneath. He already knew.

She was so fair he wondered if his touch would leave fingerprints on her skin. Tempting thought,
to leave his mark everywhere he touched her - but unnecessary, really, since he planned to touch
everywhere.

When he looked up, she was watching him, a smile playing over her lips. With anyone else, he
might have - would have - minded his intentions being so transparent, but he'd stopped trying
to hide from Ginny

***

For her part, Ginny was comforted, in some small way, that she could still tell what he was
thinking. But though she was glad to see the heat in his eyes, it unsettled her ever so slightly.
Two years. It was a long time, and she wanted to fall straight into his arms and never leave, but
she thought a bit of restraint might be in order.

Just a bit, though.

Maybe a little light conversation would do the trick. She was nervous and not thinking clearly,
because rational thought would not have led her to ask Draco, in a light, breezy tone, "So,
how've you been?"

It was worse than inane - it was thoughtless. Easily the stupidest thing she'd ever said,
and possibly the stupidest thing anyone had ever said. But once again, she couldn't take back
the words.

Draco let the silence hang in the air for a moment, and then he turned silently and walked out
of the room.

Ginny gaped after him. Not possible. Not possible that she'd already messed this up, had
already ruined the second chance he was giving her. She wanted to cry, or scream, or run after him
and fall at his feet ... anything that might undo the damage of her words.

By the time she'd decided on running after him, he was striding back into the room with a
bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Ginny stared at him, not comprehending,
and he raised an eyebrow.

"If I'm going to tell you how I've been," he said wryly, filling a glass and
handing it to her, "then we definitely need wine."

Draco filled his own glass and took an inelegant gulp, draining half its contents. When he set
it down on the coffee table, Ginny noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in his hand. He saw her
notice and shrugged.

"Comes and goes," he said casually, and Ginny flinched, wondering if it was her fault,
wondering what other pain she'd caused him. "Stop that," he added sharply, glaring at
her. "Don't feel sorry for me. You asked me a question, and I'm going to answer it.
You're going to listen, and when I'm done, it's your turn to answer."

She nodded mutely, settling her hands in her lap and lacing her fingers together. She thought
she saw a flicker of amusement in Draco's eyes at her proper posture, but she ignored it and
waited for him to speak.

When he did, she wished once again that she hadn't asked the question.

***

He wasn't sure he could do this, but he was sure he didn't want to. He didn't want
her pity or need her apologies, and he knew it would shatter him to see those big brown eyes well
up with tears while he was talking. He needed Ginny to be strong for a little longer, and then they
could be each other's strength. But for now, he had a question to answer.

*“I've been fine,” Draco offered as a starting point, watching as Ginny's eyes
narrowed and her mouth opened to contradict him. He held up a* *hand, gently waving her
silent, and went on.*

“I've been fine, if fine means I haven't slept an entire night through in two years. If
it means that I haven't been whole, maybe not even half, and that even when I'm awake,
I'm half asleep. I don't know what I've been, really. I know I'm missing pieces,
important ones, and I've tried to find them, fit them back into place.

“It didn't work,” he told her seriously, somewhat amazed to be making these confessions so
baldly. But pride had no place here - it would only push her away. And all he wanted to do was pull
her closer. “It was never going to work without you. Either I didn't know how to let go, or I
just didn't want to.”

Ginny was staring at him, wide-eyed, with her mouth agape. He tried to curve his lips into a
smirk, but the result was a disarming, lopsided smile.

“Like I said,” he finished, taking a deep breath and letting the scent of the candles - her
scent - calm him, “I've been fine.”

*****

Crying would be the wrong thing to do. He would hate that - might hate her for that. So Ginny
bit her lower lip very firmly and listened. Before he was finished, she had to resort to digging
her nails into her sides, and she could taste a trace of blood on her lip, but her eyes were
dry.

“Your turn,” he said. “Same question.”

She nodded slowly, taking a moment to decide where to start before she thought to mimic
Draco.

“I've been fine,” she said, the words coming out in a soft whisper. “If fine means
pretending to be sick those first few weeks, because I couldn't stand to see anyone. And if
people who are fine dream of the lover they left, dream of him each and every night for two years,
then I've never been better.”

She broke off, struggling to stay in control, but no amount of physical pain would have
prevented these tears from falling.

“I was wrong, Draco,” Ginny whispered brokenly. “I shouldn't have … I'm sorry. I'm
so, so sorry. I don't even know how you can look at me, after what I've put you
through.”

Her hands flew up to cover her face, and she began to sob, consumed with guilt and loss, even
though the man she loved was a mere arm's length away. Even if they managed to work this out,
it would be hard to think of the time she had cost them without enormous regret. So much pain … all
her fault.

She felt him settle next to her on the couch, and his hands quickly pried her fingers away from
her face. “Stop that,” he told her again, sounding pained. “Ginny, stop. Look at me.”

She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might see in his eyes, but something in his voice …
She took a long, shuddering breath and looked up.

So much raw emotion was contained in his gaze, but what overwhelmed her was the love she saw
there - love, and a total lack of recrimination. Draco was looking at her as if she was the only
person who had ever mattered to him, as if she was the only one who ever would. When she looked
back at him, she could believe her mistakes didn't matter here. She needed to believe that, and
those silver-grey eyes were flooding her with hope.

“How can you?” she choked out. “How can you still …” Draco cut her off, placing a finger on her
lips, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart.

“Because I love you,” he murmured. “Isn't that reason enough?” He folded her into his arms,
holding her tightly, and she nodded against his cheek in reply. He was right. It was enough.

-->



