My Day With You

Ginnysdarkside

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 21/01/2004
Last Updated: 21/01/2004
Status: in_progress

Can two encounters change your life forever? Can the memories of a single dance and a single kiss blossom into deep undying love? Amidst the wreckage of war, will a poem and a photograph bring Ginny and Draco together, or will it be too late?

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

My Day With You

By Ginnysdarkside

Ginny wearily sipped her coffee and looked around her in silent contemplation. The morning was crisp and new, the sunlight just touching its first pale threads onto the cobbled streets. The sound of a dog barking disrupted the quiet then was silenced. She took another sip and looked at the well worn scrap of paper once again. As always, the words filled her with a deep, regretful sadness.

Attached to the poem was a tiny map of Portugal with the small southern town of Evora circled in red. Below that, written in a scrawling script, was a brief notation. “Meet me here when this is over.”

Both papers were charred around the edges and flecked with little drops of blood. They had traveled for weeks in Neville Longbottom's back pocket until he'd been able to give them to her. Neville never asked Ginny why Draco Malfoy was sending her a note. That was a good thing, because she wouldn't have known how to answer the question.

There had been a single dance at Yule and one conversation in the quiet garden at Hogwarts. Sometimes it seemed so long ago that it was part of a different life. How could two encounters change you forever? That night in the garden had been the last one before they had left for the front. Ginny had left the common room, where the seventh years were saying their goodbyes, and wandered outside into the late spring twilight. She wanted to forget that her brother, as well as Hermione and Harry, would be leaving. Hogwarts would be emptying out, like a slowly sinking vessel, hemorrhaging the blood and life of its students to stem the tide of Voldemort's attacks. The war had spread onto the continent, and at Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well, students were taking up their wands to join the fight.

The garden was empty, and she'd dropped down onto a stone bench and stared unseeingly at the roses as the tears began to fall. So many leaving, so many already lost, Charlie, beloved, carefree Charlie, and teasing, laughing Fred, dead shortly after. Her shoulders shook, and suddenly she felt strong arms around her, holding her steady. She rested her head against his chest and inhaled a sharp, spicy, boy scent that was unfamiliar. Her eyes flickered upwards, and she stiffened a little.

“Malfoy,” she whispered. He was the last person she had expected to see. He wiped her tears away with his fingers.

“Don't cry,” he said. “This will be over soon enough. This time next year we'll all be home.”

“You're going with them,” she said simply.

He nodded and arched an eyebrow. “Surprised?”

“A little …” she hesitated. “Can I ask why?”

“Because I'm tired,” he said. He pulled his arm away from her and scowled. “I'm tired of all of this. Now don't think I'm having any foolish, noble sentiments,” he cautioned with an irritable wave of his hand. “It's strictly self preservation. After seeing my father die in prison, I decided if I wanted to make it through this intact I'd have to choose. I don't believe in your cause, but I can't sell my soul to a madman. If I have to choose sides, I'll choose the sane.”

Ginny nodded thoughtfully and wiped away the last traces of her tears. They were quiet for a while, staring up at the first stars which were appearing in the darkening sky. It felt oddly comfortable, she thought, sitting here with him, companionably, not expecting anything from each other.

“It must be nice,” Draco said finally. “To have someone care for you.” He sounded almost wistful.

Ginny turned and looked at him; his face was half in shadow, half in light. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …” He looked away as if uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “You love your brothers very much, don't you?” She nodded, and he stood up, looking at her with a strange expression. If it had been anyone else, Ginny would have thought they were about to cry. “In case I never get the chance,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that I think you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.” He nodded once and smiled. A mere twisting of the corners of the mouth, as if the gesture was difficult for him. He turned and walked away, his feet making soft crunching noises on the raked gravel path.

He looked so lost and alone that Ginny's heart went out to him. She put all past slights and insults out of mind in that one instant. Even Malfoy didn't deserve to go away to war looking like that. She stood up and ran after him, her sandals slipping a little on the loose stones.

“Wait!”

He froze in place but didn't turn around. She caught up to him and hesitantly touched his arm then stepped in front of him to block his path. Before she could stop herself, she stood up on her tip toes and brought her mouth to his. His lips were soft and tasted of plums and brandy. He hesitated only a moment and then wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him, his fingers tangled in her hair as his palms rested gently against the sensitive back of her neck. Their mouths were eager, longing, as if trying to fit all the words in the English language into that one kiss.

They pulled away breathless and confused. Ginny smiled at him, a gentle, kind smile, and Draco reached out and brushed his fingertips against the corner of her mouth. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at her hard then walked away.

That had been the last time she had seen or heard from him. The war raged on, long past the month the ministry had bragged about at the beginning, into Ginny's seventh year and the summer after. So many fell, but Draco Malfoy's name was never on the list of casualties. Hogsmeade was burned to the ground, as was Le Brillion in France, its centuries old Cathedral nothing but a skeleton, the charred beams reaching like black arms into the night.

Through it all, Ginny studied or wrote to her brothers and chafed at the confines of the Burrow, aggravated that her parents wouldn't let her join the war. Her planned career in Charms was on permanent hiatus. She had wanted to work abroad like her brother Bill. Dear, clever Bill, now slowly recuperating at home, learning how to walk again, his handsome face forever scarred by blasting hexes.

One day in the Daily Prophet there had been a picture of some wizards on the front. She had examined it eagerly, recognizing Ernie MacMillan and Terry Boot. They were eating beans out of a cauldron with varying expressions of distaste. What held her attention, however, was the man in the background. That almost looked like … Yes, it was, it was Draco Malfoy. He was alive still, sitting silently, looking at something in his hand while Blaise Zambini played a violin beside him. Ginny had smiled and cropped the picture, so the portion with Blaise and Draco was enlarged. She kept it in her bedside table and took it out to look at before bed every single night. She wasn't sure why she did that, but the thought that Draco had no one at home to miss him or wish for his safe return might have been the reason. It also might have been the memory of the one kiss they'd shared, which she could still feel if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough. He had kissed her as if he thought he would never kiss anyone again. As if he wanted to remember it always.

The next month, Neville came home on leave from the front in Spain and gave her the poem and the map. The poem was written on the back of a receipt for a jumper and a pair of boots and was dated the previous December. The quill which had written it had been poorly cut, and the words were ragged and uneven. She had taken it from Neville without a word and listened to him tell her that Draco had requested that if anything happen to him that this should go to her. He had kept it with a book of sonnets and, despite some good natured teasing, had made sure the whole company knew where to find it. He had disappeared one day, feared killed or worse by the Death Eaters who had staged an early morning attack on the sleeping camp.

She had thanked Neville and taken the poem outside to read it, opening it with trembling hands. She had never seen Draco's writing before, but just looking at the sharp letters with the little emphatic spikes at the peaks and valleys that, despite a shabby quill, were carefully, efficiently formed, she would have known it to be his.

For the Girl with the Beautiful Eyes

Do you believe a person can live a whole life in a day?

It's possible if the heart is true and kind.

And despite the endless ages, if I can have my say,

That is how I'll live with you in mind.

So when that final night casts its shadows all around me,

I will look back on my day with you, replete.

Having lived it for eternity, as if it were the only,

I'll close my eyes and dream of you, my sweet.

The words hit her with the force of falling rocks, and she sobbed out loud, burying her head in her arms. The garden gnomes gathered around her, silent for once, with concerned worried faces, as the soft sound of her cries echoed like gently falling rain. She cried for him, cried for what could have been, but now would never be. She cried for a boy who had no one else to love him, no one else to weep.

That day changed Ginny. She went about her tasks for the next few months with a heavy heart, feeling as if some last glimmer of light inside her had been extinguished, doing household chores as if by rote, her unfeeling fingers washing dishes or sweeping, unseeing eyes reading the Charms books which had once held for her the keenest interest.

Finally, one bright October day, Voldemort had met his end. When it happened, dark ominous clouds had blotted out the sunlight, and a violent thunderstorm had flattened the countryside around the battlefield. When the sun came out, all was quiet, and Harry had emerged with Hermione at his side, the two of them matching step for step, supporting between them the cold limp body of her brother Ron.

Ginny had attended the funeral dry eyed, her heart in the grave with her brother. Three brothers dead, so many friends lost, and for what? Certainly Voldemort was vanquished, but why even bother if there was nothing left to live for. She flew into a screaming rage that night, throwing china and anything else that came to hand. Finally she fell into her mother's arms, and they wept together until her Father, Bill, and George had helped them up to bed, where Ginny had fallen asleep curled up next to her mother like when she was a little girl.

The next few days had been a disjointed, half remembered blur, but one night, while sitting awake in her bed as she listened to the clock count off the hours, her eyes fell on the drawer. She opened it and lifted out the picture and the poem to examine them again. The words brought tears to her eyes, and she put them aside and turned to the photograph. Draco looked so much older in this picture then she had remembered. She could barely recall what he had looked like that evening in the garden, the day before their lives had changed forever.

“You left me, you all left me,” she whispered.

She lifted the photo again, and this time something about it caught her eye. With a flick of her wand, she cast an enlarging spell so she could see what Draco was looking at. It was a picture of her. It was an old one of her in her dress robes, at the Yule Ball the night she had asked him to dance on a dare. She was laughing and smoothing the skirts of her dress while looking shyly at the camera. She had no idea where he had gotten the photograph, but it was worn around the edges. As she watched, the photographic Draco looked up at her, as if he knew she was watching him, and she felt her heart jump into her throat. For at that moment, he pressed the picture against his chest as if it was precious to him.

Ginny shook her head and choked back unshed tears. Right then, she knew she loved him. It was madness. They barely knew each other after all, and she knew he probably was long since dead, but somehow, she found her fingers digging in the drawer for the map.

The next morning, she was on the ship. Soon thereafter, she found herself in Evora, an ancient walled town from Roman times, steeped in history and magic. She stopped at a café for coffee on her arrival and then began to wander the narrow, winding streets. Flower boxes full of late fall blooms were everywhere, and the whitewashed houses with clay tiled roofs glowed in the sunlight as if they were enchanted. Her heart told her that if there was anywhere for a miracle to happen, this would be the place. In the wizarding district, she stopped everyone she saw and showed them the picture, asking if they'd seen him.

Finally one bent old witch had shaken her head and said in heavily accented English. “I'm sorry. I do know this man. He has been ill for months and died not two days ago.”

Ginny's heart stopped beating for a moment, if she hadn't waited, if she had only come sooner. He had been waiting for her, and now she could never tell him she'd been waiting for him too.

She lifted her hand to her eyes. Her face twisted in grief, and she started to walk away, but the old woman stopped her. “Wait …” She indicated the picture. “His friend, the blonde one in the picture is still here. Perhaps you'd like to talk to him. He's at the Cartuxa just down the street.”

Ginny stared at the woman. “The blonde one …?” Joyful hope blossomed in her, and she grabbed the woman's face with her hands and kissed her on both cheeks then turned and ran as fast as she could.

The cobblestones echoed under her boot heels, and the passersby stared at her with amused, delighted expressions. She burst into the hotel lobby. The clerk looked up from his post at the desk, but before he could speak, she saw him out in the courtyard, his hair shining in the sunlight.

She stepped out into the verdant, brick paved space and tried to speak, but her mouth couldn't form the words. He must have sensed something, however, because he turned around. When he saw her, his mouth dropped open, then in two steps he was at her side, his arms cradling her to his chest.

“You came.” His voice, a hoarse, ragged croak, was reverent, and he seemed to have difficulty speaking.

Ginny pulled back and looked at him, her eyes frantic for the sight. His neck was marred by a tremendous half healed scar across the front, as if someone had tried to slit his throat.

“You're hurt…” She put her hand tentatively on his chest. “I thought you were dead.”

He stared at her, his grey eyes wide. “You thought I was dead, yet you still came?”

Ginny laughed and nodded her head, then kissed him, her lips desperate to relive the memory that had kept her going for so long and that she thought she'd never have again. It was a long, slow kiss that made them both weak, as if they wanted it to last forever.

Finally, he pulled back and ran his fingers through her hair with shaking hands. “Why?” he asked.

Ginny smiled at him. “Because I cried for you.”