**Author's note: This is a sequel to the story "Come to Me." If you haven't read it, I suggest you do so you'll be all caught up. The song lyrics that will be interspersed through the song are not mine; they belong to Prince (though I have taken out his infamous abbreviations.) The song is "When Doves Cry." Also, characters aren't mine. You all knew that. Happy reading!**
Two months went by as though there had been no passage of time at all, and Virginia Weasley could almost swear she'd forgotten what it was like to live simply. She could almost say she had forgotten what it was like to live without lavishness, without money, without a man who worshipped-and watched-her every move.
Almost.
It had taken this long for doubts to arise. The novelty hadn't even worn off yet; being with a man like Draco Malfoy guaranteed that novelty was a daily occurrence and monotony wasn't an option. Feelings ranged from contentment to anger, sometimes within the span of seconds, and their lovemaking ran the gamut from worshipful to wild and back again.
But there were doubts.
She'd learned more about him than she'd dared herself to think of-before, he'd been cold, distant, untouchable. Even when she'd first traversed to Boston, she'd seen him as an enigma.
He was many things. He was clever, yes, there had never been doubt of that, and he was still cruel in his own way. But he was also troubled by many things, by his past, by his heritage, by his mother back in London. His mother who recognized no one and had, before he had fled, called her son by his father's name.
He was troubled, and from his troubles, her doubts arose.
Dig if you will the picture
Of you and I engaged in a kiss
The sweat of your body covers me
Can you my darling
Can you picture this?
"What is it?"
He poised above her, perfect as always, cold eyes in a warm body. His long, strong arms held his hands on either side of her head, his platinum hair falling into his eyes, his lips hovering over hers. He'd been about to kiss her, dipping so close that their labored breaths were mingled, and then he'd stopped and asked her the question.
"What is what?" she asked back, keeping her voice more sassy than sad. But sad was how it felt, and she couldn't shake it off as she searched his eyes with hers. She'd learned quickly how fragile he was, how quick to spot trouble, and how quick to assume it was his fault.
It wasn't at all unusual for him to engage her in conversation, in discussion even, when they were in the middle of lovemaking, but his eyes were intense with something other than passion, and his mind wasn't on his rhythm, on the friction of their bodies rubbing together.
She bit her lip, hitching her lips a little as he paused and lowered his head to hers, the perspiration of their exertions mingling together.
"I'm not a fool," he bit out, never blinking, never taking those eyes off hers. "You have that look." Before she could ask what he meant, he shook his head. "That worried look. That look that says Mama Weasley's coddling over something." His tone grew snide, as it always did when he spoke of things more emotional-weaker-than he was accustomed to seeing or feeling.
"I'm not coddling," she insisted, feeling the lie wedge between them. To dispel it, to forget about it, she used the strength in her legs to flip them over, placing her hands on his defined stomach and squeezing her knees into his sides as she rocked him deeper inside her, making them both short of breath.
And because he was short of breath, because the damned witch had always been able to do that to him, even when she was shooting him daggers and wishing him death, Draco let the subject pass.
He came first, his hips jerking up and his head bearing back as he released himself inside her, hot jets of himself, the only temperate part of himself he could allow her.
And when she tottered over the edge, squeezing him inside her as she bent her arms and brushed her lips over his, he never felt her tears mix with the sweat on his face.
~~~
It was when he slept that she worried most, that the sadness overwhelmed her. In his sleep, the Young Master was more like a child, the scowl softening into something very close to a pout, the insecurities that hid themselves during the day showed themselves in occasional murmurs and fitful dreams.
In his dreams, he called out for his mother.
This night, his pleas were wordless, and those reached into her heart the most firmly, for she could have no idea what he needed or wanted.
She slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, sliding into the black satin robe she'd never quite been able to give back to him after her first night there. Moonlight shone cool and silvery through the large window, and she hugged her arms to herself and felt the measure of self-loathing she'd built up grow a little stronger.
She was allowing him to use her, and in doing so, was using him.
He needed help, and what he had was someone who only aided in his hiding, aided in the delusions he'd built around his own life.
With her back to the bed, to him, she never heard him stir, jerked alert by the darkness of his own dreams, shaken awake by the fierceness of his need. His eyes reflected the moonlight as he stared at her, watched her shoulders rise and fall with the hitching breaths he knew accompanied tears.
"Liar," he said tersely, propping himself up on one elbow and watching as her back stiffened. He'd known her mind was elsewhere, known she was distracted. And now she sat at the God damned window, crying without telling him, without waking him.
Crying just like his mother always had.
She made sure to compose herself before turning to him. What fool faced a Malfoy with their weak side showing? Even as she thought it, though, guilt streaked through her.
What fool insisted on seeing him as the one thing that troubled him most?
She started to speak but found herself speechless. And would he always do that to her? The sight of him in moonlight, shocks of pale hair in his eyes, his carelessly glaring eyes, his skin pale and smooth, made her ache even more for what she knew she had to do. "That's certainly the pot calling the kettle, isn't it?"
He got out of the bed in one smooth motion, his long body well-muscled but sorely in need of a game, one good game of Quidditch.
"What is it, crown jewel, missing home? Missing the Burrow already, and all of your wonderful, weasely Weasleys?" He put his hands to her shoulders, his eyes hot on hers, desperate to find what was making her cry.
Why couldn't she just be satisfied with him?
She was calm in the face of his insults, however. Nary a week didn't go by without fights, huge ones between the two of them. What was great passion without great anger? And so she shrugged his hands from her and shook her head, the pain in her welling by the second.
Mother… his voice whispered painfully in her head, the voice of many nights' tortured sleep.
"What's it to you if I am, Draco? Haven't we been over this before? If I say I'm homesick, you torture me mercilessly about it and poke fun at me, and if I say I'm not, you accuse me of lying."
"You're not happy here with me," he accused, then scoffed. "Isn't that rich? All the things in the world, and the Weasley still wants to go home."
All the things in the world and me, and Ginny still can't bear to stay.
And then he said the same words he always said, the ones she'd been waiting to hear, the ones she'd been dreading.
"It isn't as though I'm keeping you prisoner," he said, feeling suddenly as though he'd been
trapped into saying it, maneuvered neatly into his part.
"I'm going for a walk," Ginny responded woodenly, wondering why she couldn't just reach out and touch
him.
Because he only touches you when he wants you, Ginny. Because when he truly needs, he cries out and stays alone, but when he wants you he'll touch you.
And because he needed something she couldn't give him, Ginny walked out the doors of his big Boston home as she had a thousand times before.
Only this time, in mid-stride, the Young Mistress disappeared.