It Is Not Lost That Comes at Last

_elsila

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 23/01/2004
Last Updated: 23/01/2004
Status: in_progress

After fleeing the aftermath of the Second War, Ginny finds herself in a Romanian dragon camp, searching for a cure to the mysterious disease afflicting all the dragons. Draco is not far behind, but Ginny may not be happy to see him...A one-shot from the D/G epic in my head, hopefully to see daylight soon.

Chapters

1. It Is Not Lost That Comes at Last

1. It Is Not Lost That Comes at Last

A shivering stream of wind whistled down a shaft of newly risen moonlight and wound its way over the craggy peaks of the Carpathians, traveling down their broken line into the valleys below. Rushing swiftly down from the heights, it bent to turn the heads of tiny snowdrop flowers opening to the new spring air, grateful that winter was nearing its end. Continuing its descent, the little wind picked up speed and plunged into the rolling hills below, snaking its way into a forest, silent and shadowed, and adding its voice to the whispers alive within. Running lightly over root and rock, the wind wound its way out and down a path, finding the way to the light of a camp. If a breath of wind could speak above a whisper, its story would be one of endless searching. Who knows what drives the wind to move forever on, winding into every cranny and secret place of the mountains. Who knows what keeps the wind from stopping its endless search.

If a breath of wind could speak above a whisper, it might say that it had found a kindred spirit in the woman it found walking with more haste than even the wind had need of, as it rushed up and off the forest path and found a way into auburn hair and playfully lifted the end of a dark Romanian scarf. It tried to whisper in her ear the secrets of its wanderings, it tried tell her that she wouldn't find what she was looking for, but all that she heard was a sigh in the wind.

Ginny sighed into the dark and turned her back to the laughing crowd, wishing she could feel the earth beneath her bare feet as she set off down the field, but the world seemed to think it was winter yet. She contented herself by concentrating on the slight feel of the grass as it yielded beneath her soft shoes, mere slippers really, and decided there was an advantage to taking off her dragon hide boots every now and again. It was a comfort to walk through the field back to her tent, away from the noise and light of the rest of the camp. Perhaps positioning her tent so far from the others had been a mistake, but she had wanted it, needed it there, away from the rest. Her need for absorption was why she had returned to Romania in the first place, to be back with the dragons, and near Charlie, one of her few vestiges of family and normalcy left in an increasingly mad world. She needed to lose herself in something and not be found.

The forest seemed to close in around her tent a little way down the field. Sometimes I think they must creep closer in the night, she thought, and shivered despite the warm breeze that licked at her face and tickled her ear. The thick and ancient copse was old and held many legends, as would any proper forest in a place like Romania. A few steps inside and the trees closed in overhead, giving the impression of twilight even at midday—a few steps more, and the entrance was lost from sight. The forest liked young women. It remembered days gone by, when men had been more willing to sacrifice a young maiden or two to keep a hungry forest at bay. The darkest circles of trees remembered when spirits had walked freely in their midst, and the branches of ancient trees had closed overhead to shut out the sun forever.

No reasonable witch would dream of entering at night, yet Ginny found herself nearing its edge before she even realized she had gone off the path. Ginny shook her head and turned her heels firmly away from the forest. Breathing in the sharp, clear air she sighed and thought longingly of her bed. Suddenly, she felt the cold earth reverberate with the soft thuds of hurrying footfalls behind her and turned to see an elder from the camp hastening towards her.

“Fiicã!” the old woman called up the path.

Oh, what now. I've only just managed to break away, she thought, even as she schooled her features into politeness and turned to face the woman. Emilia, I think she's called.

“So fast, fiicã, you are in a hurry to get away from the others, da?” the old woman panted, one weathered hand holding her scarf in the wind.

“I—what? No, I was just tired. It—it's been a hard day.”

“Hard, yes, I understand. It is hard on all of us, child.”

Ginny felt her throat tighten and focused instead on the old woman's wizened arm to suppress her sudden tears. Her eyes brushed over the worn skin of the other woman, marred with the lines of age and burns and strange tattoos.

“If I only knew what was wrong with them. I feel so helpless, I can't bear it.”

“Yes, little one. We are all worried. But there is something…more, da? Something you do not speak of, but it weighs on you heavily, yes?”

“I don't know what you mean. I--"

“You have fled long enough, child. Cui plac eu nu-mi place mie.”

“What? I don't understand. What does that mean?”

“You have done all you can, little one. The rest will come in time. The worst is not over yet,” the old woman sighed, and Ginny had the impression that Emilia was talking to herself.

She blinked stupidly and realized her eyes were filling with tears. She was so tired. All she wanted was some hope, some comfort, some release. If only he were here. If only things could be as they once were. But that's not possible now, Ginny thought bitterly. My one chance of happiness was lost long ago. I lost everything in Potter's sodding war.

Emilia's eyes were fixed on her, almost as though she could hear her thoughts. “Tot vine si cel ce întârzie, fiicã.”

Ginny didn't bother to ask what this meant. She nodded her head politely to the older woman and turned back up the path to her tent, eyes fixed on the glow of a single candle lit inside. Pausing at the opening, Ginny made certain all the proper wards were in place before pushing her way inside. The dragon camp had chosen to settle under the shadow of the Carpathians, and though vampires rarely came down from their dwellings in the mountains these days, it was better to be careful.

Once inside, she went straight to the ornate table that doubled as a work desk and tossed a glittering object down onto a scrap of paper lying on the desk. In earlier times, she would have paused to admire her table yet again, with its delicate lattice work that was impressive even by Romanian standards, but that joy was for days when her heart was lighter. Before the dragons got sick.

Ginny leaned her head on the cool fabric of the tent and listened to the sounds of the dragon camp. Normally her ears would have been greeted with the sounds of well-fed dragons sleeping, their snoring still thunderous in tents as far removed as Ginny's. Now all that floated up the path were a few snatches of a doinya sung back at the fires caught on the wind.

She wanted to smile at the others' high spirits. The others in the camp believed they had made some headway today with the mysterious illness that had befallen the dragons two months ago. It seemed as if they might finally be improving. I don't care if they all die, so long as Damian lives, she thought, and bit back angry tears as she reproached her own selfishness. But it was true. They had raised Damian together. He was supposed to be a symbol of a new beginning together, but now he was gone and only Damian remained, and now he, too, was fading.

A breeze blew through the back flap of the tent, bringing a faint scent of musk and something else…lemons, which were definitely not in season in Romania. A shiver ran up Ginny's spine to the top of her head, along with a wave of panic so powerful she thought her knees might give. She wanted to pretend she didn't know, that she had merely forgotten something back at the camp and could make her escape, but she had already given herself away, and she knew it. Willing herself to turn around, she scanned the shadowy tent, seeking her visitor in the darkness. She felt, rather than saw, him in the corner.

Draco paused at the entrance to the diminutive tent. A soft, herbal scent had greeted him—her scent—and for a moment, his longing was overwhelming. He hesitated. Once inside, there was no turning back. He didn't know what she would do. She would be surprised, yes— would she be angry? Would she look coldly on him and tell him to get out, or would she cry until he felt what little resolve he still held run dry with her tears?

But she needs this, she'll forgive me. She has to.

Draco had spent many nights deliberating his appearance in Ginny's tent. He had found a cure for the strange disease afflicting the dragons—at least, he hoped he had. Since his presence in the camp the dragons had seen a marked improvement, but he had been careful not to let Ginny know he was there. He had told himself he came for Damian, but he knew on some level he could not ignore that he had come for her. Everything was for her. He would have done anything, had done anything, for her. And when she'd told him he had to go, that she couldn't bear to see him anywhere, he had gone. But this is different. She needs me. I can help... she'd want me to help.

Draco gathered his resolve and stepped inside. The tent was small on the outside, draped in many deep reds and greens. On the inside it was much the same, though spacious in a way only a wizarding tent can be. Draco let the warmth settle in his bones for a moment before he looked around. The floor had been covered in thick rugs to seal in heat, there was an unlit fireplace in the corner, and many hangings draped from the vaulted tent's ceiling. He paused at the rather complicated looking table near the bed. Heaps of parchment lay scattered on its surface, along with an assortment of half-broken quills and various instruments. His eyes followed the line of the table's edge to regard the bed. So many memories in this little room…in that bed. He let a small smile play on his lips before schooling his face back into sobriety. What was can never be again. Not anymore. You have to let her live her life.

“What am I doing here?” he said, startling himself as he spoke out loud. “I'll only cause her more pain, I was a fool to come here.” He pulled a delicate parchment from the bag slung over his shoulder. I can lay it on the desk. She'll find it when she returns, she'll never have to know I was even here.

Draco felt the muscles of his back tense as voices drifted up from the path. Ginny. Torn between staying to listen and running, Draco paused in the center of the room and listened. Cui plac eu nu-mi place mie. “Flee love and it will follow you,” he whispered. Only Emilia could espouse such nonsense. But then, he had followed her, hadn't he? Perhaps he would never be free of her. His ears strained for more. She sounds tired. I should go. This was not a good idea. He caught the last words of the conversation and smiled, the old woman's words a strange comfort to him. Comfort was swiftly replaced by panic as he realized Ginny had already started back up the path—in fact, she was already at the door.

No choice now. I'll be as gentle as I can. She'll forgive me.

Whispering a spell to draw the darkness around him like a cloak, he darted quickly to a chair in the corner, hoping one last time to find some chance of escape, realizing too late he had already left the note on the table.

He watched her enter. He'd been this close to her before now, back at the camp, but it felt different somehow. Perhaps because he was in her tent, watching her when she thought she was alone. He could see Ginny as no one else did, the Ginny that only existed when no one was around, the Ginny that had existed for him once. His breath caught in his throat as he saw her throw down a dragon scale—because he recognized the pale green shine of Damian's scale, and because the pain was etched so clearly on her face.

Ginny wasn't the type to let others see her break. She kept her own perceived weaknesses to herself, she didn't want to appear fragile now that what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets was common knowledge. Draco knew, at least, he knew most of what had happened in the Chamber, though there were things about Tom that Ginny had kept to herself, and Draco knew better than to press.

He watched her turn to listen to the doinya drifting up from the camp, and struggled to keep his seat as he watched her shoulders droop in grief. I can end that. I can help Damian and the others. I could help her too, but she would never let me.

Draco was caught off guard as he suddenly felt her eyes on him.

Here we go.

Ginny stared in disbelief. The air was strangely dark about him, but it was definitely Draco sitting in her chair. He whispered something and she saw the shadows around him dissipate as if in a sudden breeze, and she saw moonlight glinting off platinum Malfoy hair for the first time in many months.

The sight almost brought her to her knees.

He was at her side in a flash, but just as quickly she was pushing his hands away.

“Get back.”

Draco let his hands swiftly drop, and he took a step back, eyes intent on her face. “Ginny.”

“Don't. Just…don't. What are you doing here?”

I should just give her the paper with the cure. I can give it to her and leave and never have to come back.

But he couldn't. Not now that she had her eyes locked on his with that look on her face, that horrible mix of pain and anger. He found himself suddenly incapable of meeting her gaze. He was suddenly, strangely aware of her, what she'd been through. She had lines around her eyes he'd never seen before. Her thick Romanian skirt needed hemming, there were places near the ankles that looked almost scorched through. She raised a shaking hand to her eyes and he saw the ink smudges there, and the little freckles than ran all the way from wrist to elbow. He had memorized those freckles so thoroughly he could still trace their pattern from memory if he closed his eyes.

She seemed to be making some effort to remain calm. He reached one hand slowly out, brushing his fingertips down the length of her burgundy hair, fingertips feeling the transition from unruly hair to soft cotton scarf under his touch.

She batted his hand violently away.

“Please don't touch me. Your hands…I can't even look at you.”

She felt a pang of guilt even as the words left her mouth.

It's not his fault.

Taking a quick step back, she regarded him. He was dressed in attire customary to Romanian dragon keeping. Curious. His hair was a little less neat than usual, his eyes a little less bright. His hands…they were the same. His father's hands. She shuddered.

He reached rose again to caress her hair and again she thrust it violently away.

“Every time you touch me, every time I look down at your hands all I can see are his. You know I can't do that, Draco.”

“I know, love.”

“Don't call me that!” she spat, her heavy skirt swirling as she rounded to put more distance between them. She was quickly running out of space to run to.

Words tumbled out of his mouth in an attempt to stay her. “Ginny, I think I found a cure. For the dragons. Please believe me, I never would have come otherwise.”

He took another step forward, bending low to look earnestly into her eyes, searching for some answer.

She answered his step with another step back, and then another, until she felt herself pressed against her wardrobe. The trapped feeling made her suddenly furious.

He seemed to sense this and moved away, the struggle obvious on his face as he fought to keep control himself.

“Ginny, I—”

She felt the crack of pain in his voice reverberate through her entire body, unraveling the last of her self-control. She suddenly wanted more than anything to touch him again, and have his hands on her, without that sickly, cold feeling of nausea racking her body. All the wretchedness of the past year. All the numbness wrapped like steel around her that allowed her to get through each day. She looked across the space between him into his eyes and felt something slide into the hollowness inside her. Something mixed with rage and hurt and…something she hadn't felt in a long time.

She crossed the distance in two steps and grabbed him by the sleeves of his robes, pulling his body hard and fast against hers.

“Don't talk to me about dragons. Don't talk to me about your fucking father. Just…don't talk to me at all.” And with that, she gathered the fabric of his cloak around his neck and flung him bodily into the heavy wardrobe. His eyes popped as his head made contact with the solid wood, and the surprise on his face would have been enough to make Ginny laugh, had she not been so intent on crushing his mouth with hers until she was sure the corners of his pale mouth would bruise purple.

He made a sound that was either a sob or a whimper, not that Ginny cared. Anger fell like a cloud over her vision and settled in her ears. She wanted to hurt something, to make someone else shoulder her burden for a while. Raking one hand across his chest, she reached up and tore a rent in his shirt, her other hand clenching and hitting him over and over, pummeling any part of him she could get her hands on.

He didn't try to stop her. Aching pain radiated from his ribs, but he set his back and shielded her fists from the wardrobe with his body. She'll tire out soon enough.

She did. Clutching onto the torn fabric of his cloak she hung on to him, and he watched the dizziness and confusion and subsiding waves of anger roll in her eyes. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he turned her to lean against the coolness of the wardrobe. Her hair was disheveled and hanging down to graze her face, her scarf had slid down to hang pitifully from her hair. She turned her head weakly to the side, as if not wanting him to see her cry.

Draco's breath hitched as he watched a tear spill over her cheek. Ginny's face was only open when she was truly happy about something, and when she was terribly sad. He watched her chin tremble as she turned back to him, her whole face crumpling and he nearly gasped to see the naked pain there. He drew her forward to rest her head against his chest, not knowing if she would let him, but she did. He thought she would cry there, but she just stood, straight as steel for a while, but slowly sagging more and more against him.

He stroked her hair a while, whispering old Romanian poems, forgetting half the words but wanting to fill the silence that seemed to be crushing her. Tentatively, he moved an arm around her and lifted her chin. Her head rolled back heavily in his hand, letting him support it. Her face was pale but she seemed to be weighing something behind her eyes. Draco watched the emotions flicker across her face until it settled into something like resignation.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said simply.

Draco was so surprised he nearly dropped her in a heap on the tent floor. Of all the statements in the world he had imagined coming out of her mouth, that had not been one of them. Stop touching me, take your sodding hands off me, get out of here before I beat you to death with a dirty great stick, you wanker, yes, but “I'm glad you're here?” He fought the urge to giggle hysterically.

“Yes, well, I—you what?” he gibbered.

“Oh, how you will prattle on. Now listen to me carefully, Draco. I want you to kiss me. Now.”

He stared at her for a long moment. She held his gaze steadily and removed the scarf from her hair, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Gin, I don't know…shouldn't we, well, talk first?”

“No.”

“Just…no?”

“Kiss me,” she repeated. “Put your fucking hands in my hair and up my skirt and kiss me you right sodding wanker.”

Still unsure, Draco leaned in and dropped a soft kiss on her lips, watching her eyes flutter closed through his own lashes. She seemed to mean it. Bewilderment, loneliness, and a sudden rising passion fought for control of his senses. I don't know if this is right, he thought, but I don't know what else to do.

Ginny's brain was a mass of swirling thoughts and colors. Draco was here—in her tent— kissing her. She wanted to pretend that it felt like the time they'd had before the war, but she could still feel the truth like a wall of pain between them, raw wounds and agonized looks and horrible memories sullying their embrace. I am sick to death of this feeling. I lost everything in the War. It's time I took something back.

She moved to cup his face in her hands.

“Look at me, love.” she said. “It's okay.” Her voice was different somehow, suddenly raw and unguarded. It felt like the first truly honest thing she'd said in months.

His eyes were full of questions yet. She moved her lips lightly over each temple and on his forehead, smoothing his furrowed brow with her kisses.

She watched his face shift in her hands, wanting to pull away. “Draco. It's okay.”

He nodded finally, but he seemed frozen to the spot, afraid to touch her lest she go spare on him again. Laughing softly, she pulled him to her once again, marveling at how strangely light she felt, and wanting him to feel it too. “Put your hands on me.”

Looking up at him, she saw something slide into place behind his eyes. He nodded again. Moving quickly, he backed her up against the wardrobe once more. For a long while, he merely looked down at her, as if to assure himself she was really there, and that he was really touching her again.

He moved a stray piece of hair out of her eyes and she shivered at the feeling that spread as his fingers grazed her skin. Moonlight drifted in through the tent flap and caressed their faces, carving their still figures in pale marble. He looked down at her like a statue, and she wondered if he would move to touch her again.

She was suddenly acutely aware of his hand moving slowly at the outer layers of her skirt. Sucking in her breath until she thought her lungs might burst, she struggled not to move, lest she scare him away. Fighting for control, she felt herself go rigid as the last inner layers of her skirt parted and she felt his fingers lightly grazing up her thigh. Heat rose from his touch like a wave of fire. Drawing shaking breaths, she arched her body slowly into his, drawing his hand in where she wanted it. Had the clouds parted again, the little shaft of moonlight would not have found space to shine between their bodies.

Lowering his mouth finally to hers, he kissed her, lightly, softly as morning sun on a still-budded flower, and Ginny let images drift lazily through her head as the kiss deepened. She felt his hands moving more quickly now, drawing slow circles on her body, grazing over the swell of her hips, the flat of her stomach, the curve of her breasts. Light as a feather, one hand drifted up to trace a line from her collarbone to her ear, reaching behind to cup the back of her head and run lightly in her hair. Pausing, Draco opened his eyes as if to ask one final permission. Satisfied with the look in her hooded eyes, he smiled, and Ginny smiled back, watching the hope bloom behind his eyes even as it swelled almost painfully sharp inside of her. Pain and loneliness dropped from her like dull gray scales, and she would have felt dizzy at the heady rush of freedom had not a heavy longing anchored her down. Looking up at Draco, she knew he felt it too.

Grinning wider, Draco began slowly slipping the buttons of her shirt out of their hooks, eyes never leaving her face. She felt the familiar anticipation that had flared a thousand times before, a feeling of the sort she kept hidden away for only Draco to unlock. The chill Romanian air bit her rapidly, baring skin like tiny needles. A sudden urgency saw her fingers struggling with the clasp of his cloak, and she shuddered with impatience. Snaking her arms around his back she pulled hard on his shirt, giggling at Draco's scandalized face as it fluttered down in several pieces. Matching her wicked grin with one of his own, Draco joined her in rapidly undressing, and several more garments met an untimely end.

Slowing their mad scramble to disrobe, they stopped to look at one another. Ginny let her eyes trace the familiar outline of pale flesh standing before her. The tiny scar below his left eye from a 6th year Quidditch match. The thin pink line that marked the spot he'd been cursed in battle. The shiny burn below his elbow from an attempt to bottlefeed Damian. She sighed and drank in the sight. He looks like home.

Grinning, she threw her body against his once more, and had Draco any reservation left in his body, it would have flown instantly as she moved her naked flesh against his.

His skin felt soft and warm in the night air, and she her breath caught to feel his arms slip around her. Bending slightly to reach the backs of her thighs, he brought his hands swiftly up to grasp her backside. The feel of his hands on her sent a shockwave coursing through her body as he kneaded her softly at first, then harder. Her hands traveled immediately to his hair, lacing his impossibly pale blond hair through her fingers and pulling him closer. She rocked her hips against him and he growled low in his throat. Now that he was here, she didn't think she could possibly get enough of him, the feel of his body on hers. She shrieked in delight as he bent to scoop her up and tossed her on the bed, climbing on top of her before she could protest. Ginny could have wept as his familiar weight rested on her.

Without a word, Draco swept his tongue over her lips and down to her throat, tracing a line of slow-burning heat to the sensitive spot below her ear. She struggled up to reach his own throat but he pressed her down into the sheets and began a leisurely journey down her body, mapping her body with his mouth. Ginny let herself revel in every moment, feeling as if she'd been set on fire and drenched in ice all at once. She wanted to twist and writhe as his mouth found the sensitive spot, but he held her down with gentle hands at her hips. Snaking his way back up to kiss her, she tasted herself on his tongue and smiled against his lips. Pausing, he looked down at her through flaxen strands of disheveled hair and smiled softly. He didn't need her nod to know she was ready for him.

…

A good deal later, Ginny felt the heady feeling lift as she came back to her senses. Draco lay against her, and she was stroking his hair and moving soothing hands over his back. She realized that he was crying.

“Here, here, love, it's okay now,” she said, though she felt tears of her own pooling behind her lids.

“Ginny, I—there hasn't been a single day…” he said, voice faltering.

“Hush now, I know.”

“So many times…so many times I wanted to come to you. Knowing I couldn't…it was like being locked in an empty room with no windows. It was like death, without the peace of knowing I was done.”

“Draco…” She tightened her arms around him, feeling him bury his face in her neck. “It was my fault. After my father died, after seeing him lying there, I—” Her voice broke, and he clutched her tighter. “But you were never to blame. I just couldn't look at you, so much your father's son…I just couldn't.”

“I know. I always knew the reason, not that that took away the edge of knowing I couldn't have you. I never held it against you, Ginny.”

“Oh Draco, can you forgive a fool?”

He smiled. “Can you forgive a player?”

Ginny looked up at him, and he saw the answer in the tear that slid down her cheek into the curve of a smile.

Hours later, dawn broke over the dragon camp. A soft morning wind blew open the flap of a tent, revealing two bodies locked together in a gentle embrace. Lingering only to stir the tiny hairs of their flesh with a morning kiss, the wind moved on, dancing through the ashes of last night's fire and whistling through the dragons' field. Moving in eddies around their vast, sleeping forms, the wind picked up and began its journey to the mountains, carrying with it the faint melody of an old woman's song sung to the morning. Tot vine si cel ce întârzie. It is not lost that comes at last.