Author's Note: I know it has taken me umpteen weeks to update this, let alone anything else I have out. I also am aware of the rating placed on this story. Due to its nature, it's not something I can rush into, but I think this chapter gets me right where I want to be. Remember, NONE of my stories are done until the little indicator says it is done.
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Several hours later, in the darkest recesses of the night, Ginny lay awake, blankets wrapped around her prone form. If she'd been able to stand it, she would have covered her face too, but putting cloth over her face made her feel smothered.
Instead she passed the time trying not to think about her not-quite-warm body and about Draco and how to heal him. In truth there was not much more she could do for him, and without knowing how fast or well his broken bones would mend, there was not a reliable way for her to determine when she could help him gain mobility again in the useless foot and ankle.
And on top of it all, she was shuffled out of her own room for honor. What a joke. She knew in her heart her father meant well, but to even think that Draco Malfoy would be caught dead consorting with a Weasley was laughable. It had been obvious that morning he was simply using her as a warmer, and if she thought hard enough about it, she really hadn't minded. The extra, shared heat was welcome, and she had slept better than in previous nights.
Bunking with her brothers was out of the question. They were too annoying, and too used to her. They would think nothing of belching, farting, and rolling over on her like a lumpy pillow. She loved them dearly, but she knew as well as the sun would rise in the east that Draco Malfoy would rather slit his throat than have a public bodily function.
With this distinctly humorous image in her mind, she laughed a bit in the silence and clutched her blankets closer to her body. Snuggling in, she tried to sleep.
***
Draco was easily bored. He had no interest in the books available in the small Grimmauld Place library, though he liked to read, and had no one who would honestly hold a conversation with him, though he had things to say. The eldest Weasley brothers were somewhat attractive as an option, but they tended to dismiss him altogether as one of the Trio's ilk. Charlie did once speak with him briefly about his love of tending dragons in Romania, but other than that his only other choices were Professor Snape and Ginny.
The professor was often out and about on business, and was more frequently called away to Voldemort's side. And when he returned to the tiny bastion of safety, he was too tired and preoccupied for Draco to rationalize bothering him. He had too much respect for the man he considered an uncle to try and catch him in trivial conversation.
"What do you do here, Weasley?" he asked her one day as she prepared to leave and visit some ill children in the area.
"I thought it was pretty obvious by now. I pretend to be a Healer, and everyone else goes out and gets hurt."
Her flippant answer stung him more than he realized it would. He tried again.
"I mean, when you're here. Bored. Alone."
She had been tying her battered oxfords, and lifted her chin to regard him, red hair streaming around her face. An eyebrow raised.
"As in, for fun?" she asked slowly, as if she could not comprehend his words.
"Yes, for fun," he said agitatedly, running a hand through his loose hair and frowning. She stared at him for a few moments longer, and then her wide mouth broke into a smile.
"Draco," she said gently, "there's not much fun. We didn't just suddenly stop playing our nightly game of charades because you showed up."
"Oh, piss off!" he said vehemently. "Even when I was pretending to be friends with Crabbe and Goyle, we did something to pass the time. Exploding Snap, Gobstones…hell, at least those two would talk to me."
She studied him for a moment as he half-turned away from her, as if he could not bear to look her in the face as he admitted his ennui.
"When you are better, I will take you with me on short trips," she pledged, hoping that she could actually deliver on this. Even if it was just to the Muggle market, it would be somewhere that wasn't here.
"Do you promise?" he asked mournfully, stressing the word. An image of a young, petulant Draco suddenly permeated her mind.
"Yes," she stated resolutely. "Besides, you're going to have to walk on that foot at some point, and not just around here. In a week or two I'll take you with me to get fruit at the little stand round the corner."
His lip curled. "Muggle fruit stand. Quaint."
She shrugged, knowing his attitude would change soon after he continued to be cooped up.
"Fine. Stay here. Die of scurvy. I don't care."
She swept out the door to his faint, questioning "Scurvy?"
***
When she returned that day she had a pack of Muggle playing cards and a sort of game in which one used wooden pegs to jump over one another, the idea to leave as few pegs as possible. It wasn't much, but at least Draco could have something to occupy him when everyone in the house essentially ignored him.
She waited until after dinner to give him the little gifts she'd picked up for him, paid for with her own scarce pocket money. They'd retreated to his (her?) room and she checked the swelling in his lower extremity.
He sat on the bed and she removed the splint, pleased that the swelling seemed to be going down. She was loath to move the joints too much lest they only be tenuously healed, but Draco pointed out at least he could wiggle his toes, and demonstrated such.
"I've something to give you," she said, her voice attaining a warning note, "but I want to know why you've been such an absolute git to everyone these past few days."
Obstinately he glared at her, and opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off.
"If you even so much as insinuate that you were bored, I will cut this foot off with a dull knife."
Rolling his slate-gray eyes, he finally harrumphed, crossing his arms over his chest.
"If you must know, it's because I cannot sleep," he huffed childishly. "I can't seem to get myself warm, and I've always been thin-blooded. I had warming charms down pat in my first month in Slytherin, it was so cold in that wretched dungeon."
At this, he moved his hands rapidly up and down his forearms, which were covered in a long-sleeved tee shirt provided by the twins that proclaimed the Cannons to be the best team in the league.
"The cold here just seeps into you, you know? I ache so much from the chill that I can't sleep." This last bit was said with finality and he faced her again. "There, you bloody harpy. Happy now?"
"Don't you have anything you can think about to take your mind off of it?" she asked, regretting the words instantly. Of course she knew he didn't; none of them did. Cringing in anticipation of his sarcastic reply, she waited for the barrage to come. It did not.
"I try, sometimes. I think about my mum, of course. I remember mentally torturing your brother, and that makes me warm inside." The edge of his mouth quirked, and she was grateful. "About that gift, now."
"Oh!" she said, rummaging in the deep pockets of her robe, trying not to look at the bright, pitiful look in his eyes. Suddenly ashamed of the trinkets she carried, she pulled them out and thrust them at him. "It's not much."
"Thank you, I think," he said. Examining them and coming up short, he asked, "What is this stuff?"
She patiently explained the solitary games, and he seemed amused enough, if not by the games than at least their Muggle novelty.
He began to play the peg game, peering curiously at the instructions printed on the block of wood. Methodically, he jumped peg after peg, looking first puzzled and then annoyed.
"I am not an ignoramus!"
His proclamation broke the silence and she laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days. He tried to valiantly hold on to a scowl, but found he couldn't in the face of her bright smile.
"I'm exhausted," she finally said, stretching her arms above her head and yawning widely. "I'm going to bed. You should too. Think warm thoughts, okay?"
She'd cleared the door by scant inches when she heard his dark reply.
"Oh, you mean of you?"
***
Ginny lay perfectly still, counting minutes, seconds and sheep. Sleep eluded her, danced in and out of her grasp, teasing her with healing slumber. After not sleeping for one hundred sixty-one minutes, she threw off her bedclothes and hurled herself out of bed. Wadding up her thickest blanket under her arm, she let herself out of the cupboard bedroom and ascended the stairs.
She opened her bedroom door, and Draco shot up from the bed, wand in hand and ready to blast her to kingdom come. Wild eyes appraised her then relaxed.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled, replacing his wand on the side table. "I could have hexed you silly."
She merely ignored him and approached the bed.
"Budge over," she commanded. He stared at her dumbly, uncomprehendingly until she sighed heavily.
"I said, move over," she reiterated. When his eyebrows shot sky-high, she groaned and shoved him to the side of the small bed. Her deft fingers smoothed the rumpled sheets around him.
"What are you doing?" he asked slowly.
"What does it look like?" she said tiredly, flicking the blanket out so it would cover both of them. "There, blankets between us. You won't get Weasley germs. It's obvious neither of us can sleep because we're too cold. At least we'll be warm. Shut up and sleep."
***
Too few hours later, they were both waking. Ginny's internal alarm clock told her she'd better get back to her own room, and Draco just seemed to be awake. Both lay rigid on their backs, Draco literally bound in place by blankets.
"You mind getting off me?" he mumbled in her ear, breathing in the sleep-scent of her skin. "I've got a feeling you wouldn't take too kindly to me pissing all over you."
"Thanks for the consideration," she yawned agreeably, rolling off her tiny slice of the mattress and taking her blanket. "And I wasn't on you, Malfoy. Keep dreaming."
He snorted inelegantly as he peeled off the covers and headed toward the door.
"I'm going out today," she said to his retreating figure. "Amuse yourself. Or try being nice to someone. They might just talk to you."
Later he trailed her to the front door before she left, and she was convinced it was because he wanted to be sure there still was an outdoors, that there was still something normal out there.
"Don't get caught out there," he said suddenly as her hand closed on the doorknob.
"Right," she said slowly. "I'll be back."
***
Life progressed uneventfully at 12 Grimmauld Place. There were no planned raids, but the Order diligently scoured for the tiniest shred of information that might lead to Voldemort or now Narcissa Malfoy.
Professor Snape had called Draco into his private room several times to discuss her possible whereabouts. The problem was, as Draco frankly told her later, was that Death Eaters were notoriously wealthy. Even the lowliest of minions had two or three dwellings, sometimes more. Ancestral homes and other outbuildings posed their own problem, as many were uninhabited and Unplottable to anyone but the family. There were literally dozens of locations in which she could have been stashed in the whole of Europe, and the resources needed to for such an undertaking weren't exactly coming out of the woodwork.
"Snape is the only one who cares," Draco had said bitterly to her that night as they lay together, trying not to shiver. "It's obvious he cares more than my father. I just hope that fucking bastard hasn't killed her by now."
He had choked back a sob and Ginny found herself desperately wishing for the cold, arrogant Draco Malfoy she knew so well. It killed her to see him flayed to the bone like this, so laid-open and bare. Stripped of his haughty veneer, he was surprisingly interesting to talk to, but like this…his vulnerability was devastating.
***
He'd been living with them for a fortnight now, and had settled into an uneasy truce with the household. He often brought his solitaire deck into the lounge, where most everyone gathered to share body heat. Ginny found herself observing that he looked regal while hunched over his card game, while everyone else appeared to be miserable.
"Draco," Molly said, bustling into the room, drawing everyone's attention. "I have your robe to give back to you."
She held the thick, lustrous robe in a neat folded square, secure in her sturdy hands. But her voice quavered just a bit and her hands visibly trembled when she handed the repaired robe to the young man who could have been her son. As if waiting for him to verbally strike, she backed up slightly and spoke.
"They were damaged a bit, you see," she said quickly, and the room wondered when Molly Weasley's backbone had broken. "There were some holes, and I…I mended them by hand, so I could be more precise, you know."
Draco accepted his clothing casually.
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."
She gave him a tentative smile, and began to retreat. The room at large returned to their occupations for a split second before Draco's drawl rent the air.
"I think the whole lot of us would be in rags if it wasn't for you, Mrs. Weasley," Draco said, looking at the assembly meaningfully, finding their eyes carefully and looking at every one of them.
"He's right," Ron said slowly. "Thank you, Mum."
Agreeing voices quietly chorused in the wake of Draco's proclamation. Ginny thought her heart would burst. She felt tears sting her eyes, blinking furiously to will them away. Draco had already turned back to his game, but she knew it was studiously staged to make the rest of the group feel rotten that they'd not mentioned Molly's obvious contributions before. Sneaky Slytherin.
He must have felt her gaze on him, because he looked back up then, brushing his shoulder-length platinum strands away from his eyes with a long finger. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a smirk and she worked hard to hold back a smile.
He couldn't have made her mum any happier than if he'd brought her Christmas on a plate.
***
It was still early in the evening when Ginny feigned sleep-deprivation and begged off from the lounge. A litany of good-nights had been said, but she couldn't really focus on them, just nodded and bounded off to her cupboard bedchamber. While thus ensconced, she listened as various other voices and feet ascended the stairs, but she had ears only for a distinct, heavy step that signaled Draco was on his way to bed.
After waiting what she believed to be a prudent amount of time, she plucked her blanket from the disused bed and stole upstairs.
She'd learned how to noiselessly slip in and out of the room, how to open and close the door without rousing suspicion. This night was no different. He was already abed, turned on his side and propped on one elbow.
"Took you long enough," he said petulantly, but she knew it was false. He obediently moved to allow her more space, and she settled next to him, also turning on her side and facing him, noses scant inches away.
It took a bit of wriggling for both of them to get comfortable; finally, each was settled in for their now-customary conversation before falling asleep. The guttering candle he'd lit sputtered light over them, rendering them in soft shadows. Ginny had never been so glad for the candle as she was now.
Without sufficient light, he couldn't see her blush.
"Draco," she said eventually, after they had pondered the merits of gnomes, the ancient and undetectable glamours on Grimmauld Place and more.
"Hmm?" he asked, eyelids drooping slightly, not even taking the time to articulate the sound with his lips.
"Thank you," she whispered softly.
"F'what?" he replied, yawning.
"For what you said to my mum. For complimenting her on the one thing your family always despised her for. You single-handedly made her day and showed up everyone else, in one choice sentence."
He roused slightly.
"I did, didn't I?" he said craftily, and she grinned at his tone.
"Yes, you did, and you know it."
"I did not," he protested. "Far be it from me to contrive a compliment." He sobered for a moment, then yawned, moving back into the grips of slumber once more.
When his respirations slowed, she took stock of his closed eyes, relaxed mouth, smoothed frown lines.
"Thank you," she whispered again, leaning forward and softly pecking him on the lips. Taking care not to jostle him, she moved carefully to her back.
"Ginny."
Mortified, she felt all the blood drain from her face.
"Ginny."
She turned her head and found herself staring into fog-clouded eyes that mirrored her own fear. Beginning to apologize for her ill-conceived kiss, she found her lips desperately covered with his trembling mouth.
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