CHAPTER TWO - The Messenger and the Prodigal Son
"Just for the record, I think the twins should do it." Molly Weasley's statement sounded less like an opinion than a command, but Albus Dumbledore looked at the small hourglass in his hand, then over his glasses at the young woman before him, heedless of her mother's opining. She'd grown up more than a little since her sixth year at Hogwarts, her hair darkening a bit, her eyes showing much more maturity and experience than her years should have allowed.
Ginny shifted her weight from foot to foot, running through the route in her mind. Now, at this moment, it didn't matter that her mother repeatedly protested her wishes to participate in the Order; it didn't matter that her love had no clue where she was right now, or that she and her family were fighting against him and his.
What mattered was that there was a war on, and while she might not have been front line or cavalry material, Ginny Weasley knew she could fulfill this particular need. All good forces needed a messenger. Smart, secretive, swift and certain. The twins had already run the assigned route, and mix and maze of alleys, shops, and some Muggle locations where magic had to be limited.
The one thing she'd found most helpful-and the one thing she never talked about-was the slight, niggling feeling of precognition she sometimes got just before Apparating, the skill most helpful when she was in a hurry. She figured that particular mental glitch was going to shave a few minutes off the twins' time and help her avoid plenty of bumps and bruises. She balanced on her toes, waiting for the word.
"Go, then," Dumbledore said conversationally, and she was darting down the front walk even has he turned the glass over. When she hit the end of the walk, she Disapparated, air rushing in to fill her void with a snap.
Molly sighed and stomped into the house, knowing she'd be defeated. Arthur refused to disagree with Albus, and her daughter was just as stubborn as she.
Molly wondered if they'd given her too much freedom, too much lead of her own. They should have put their foot down when she'd come to the Burrow announcing her love for that odious Malfoy. But she'd made a good case, pleading house unity, his distaste for his father, and most of all, her love for him.
It was a far cry from the union with Harry Molly had once imagined for her daughter.
They'd seen it as a phase, Molly thought, listening with only half an ear to the twins squabbling and hashing over what had slowed them down. They all-including Gin's brothers-had thought her so-called 'relationship' with Draco would pass.
But two years had gone by, and Molly knew her daughter's flat in Diagon Alley stood empty most nights, and when it didn't, there were two people occupying it.
Not a phase, but it was too late to stop.
In the end that year, the year of Ron's graduation, Gin's sixth year, it hadn't been any of Ginny's pleadings that had allowed her to be with the Slytherin she claimed to care for. No, it hadn't been her words which had finally convinced the Weasley family to sheath their wands and their legendary tempers.
It had been the quiet voices of reason in Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. They had made their points quietly, inarguably. Lucius Malfoy hardly saw his son as more than an ignorant boy, and thus Draco had no involvement with the Death Eaters. Lucius barely trusted his own wife, so it was unlikely he would turn to his son. And Severus's final words that heated evening at Grimmauld Place-"If you trust one such as me, surely you can find it in you to trust a mere boy."
Years had passed, and passed again, Molly thought.
And so Draco Malfoy was no longer a boy, and if her daughter was engaging in the war on her end, what was he doing on his?
Shouts of disbelief and mirth rang up from the porch, and Molly heard her daughter laughing breathlessly as she handed a message to Albus, obtained from the end of her route and returned with urgency.
Molly had lost the argument.
~~~
"Your mother tells me you've been very busy at the Ministry." Lucius Malfoy looked down his nose at the cup of tea in front of him and felt his stomach turn over. He didn't feel like eating or drinking, hadn't for several days. There were too many things on his mind, weighty things. To console himself, he mindlessly stroked his arm through his robes, feeling a pleasant little shiver each time his fingers passed over the Dark Mark.
Draco considered a lump of sugar for a moment, shrugged, and popped it into his mouth. Ginny's baking-one of the things he was glad she'd inherited from her mum, unlike her temper-had given him a wicked sweet tooth.
"Long hours," he finally said, noting his father's ridiculously obvious behavior. It wasn't embarrassing enough, Draco supposed, that Lucius had been imprisoned, but upon his release, he had to be absolutely blatant about his loyalties, such as they were. Draco had his doubts his father held any loyalty to anyone but himself, but a good leader, a smart one, should never make his alliances so transparent. "It isn't as though they would give me a post and let me remain idle."
Lucius said nothing, and Draco suspected he could have announced to his father that he'd gone to work nude the previous week without garnering any remark.
"If you're busy, Father, don't waste time on my account." Please don't, he added mentally.
Lucius looked at his son and narrowed his eyes. The weekly teas together hadn't been for bonding purposes, obviously-Malfoy men didn't bond-but Narcissa had insisted, and eventually Lucius had started using the time as an opportunity to feel his son out for information. Today, however, his son could tell him nothing he cared to know.
Weighty things afoot. Weighty things, indeed.
"It does happen there are things I'm pressed to finish," Lucius said at length, standing up. "Give my best to the Minister." With no more farewell than that, Lucius got up and left the room.
"Is there anything I can be getting for young master?" A house elf appeared at his elbow, and though Draco contemplated telling it to bugger right the fuck off, he didn't. the last time he'd acted as such-at his own flat, no less-Gin had boxed his ears.
"No," he said, then swiftly changed his mind as the elf started to trundle off. "Wait. Is my mother home?"
"Madame isn't being here," the verdict came, then the squeaky voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Madame is not being here much of late."
Good, Draco thought. It was very good.
He smelled madness in his father's wake.
~~~
Severus Snape was not often surprised.
This particular gathering of Death Eaters, however, surprised him. It was rare for the group to admit any sort of weakness, so this was particularly delicious, in a peculiar sort of way.
For one of their ranks was dead. Poisoned, as near as they could tell.
He felt the eyes on him beneath masks; despite his own cover, his face was impassive. The Potions professor was used to suspicion. Let them heap it on. If anything, he thought more clearly under pressure.
But the Dark Lord apparently had no qualms, no outward suspicions, at least, for he addressed Severus casually. "You will try to determine what did this, yes? What poison, and how difficult it would be to concoct?"
It wasn't as though he thought lives were precious, but he needed numbers. He needed lives. If anyone was going to take them, it was Lord Voldemort.
"Yes, my lord," Severus said, and allowed himself a smirk.
Even the most faithless could be believed in within this twisted and trustless realm.
~~~
He Apparated to his own flat first for several reasons: to see if Ginny was there, and to complicate anyone who was trying to track or follow him.
The last thing Draco Malfoy wanted was to be predictable.
When he saw she wasn't there, he sneaked one of the shortbread biscuits she'd made out of its tin, eating it quickly before flooing to her flat. It may have been a dirtier mode of transportation than he preferred, but he wasn't taking any chances these days. Not after things he'd heard, rumors and whispers not only from his father, but from inside the Ministry, as well.
Her flat was quiet when he got there, and he wondered for a moment where she was. But they didn't ask those things these days, preferring not to know.
For his part, Draco thought it would be much easier not to know her every move, for if something went wrong, he wouldn't immediately know, wouldn't immediately come apart.
But in his heart, he thought he would.
He would feel it, if anything happened.
He sat down on the threadbare, overstuffed divan for which she'd fashioned a slipcover, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling. Time with his family had started to exhaust him, and he'd found himself thinking of that other world more than once when he sat down with his father.
Draco truly feared what would happen if Lucius found out about Ginny. He could make excuses, certainly, but for how long? And with how much conviction?
It was foolish to continue the risky relationship, but he wasn't about to stop it.
He loved her, in as much as he knew what love actually was, and he wasn't going to toss that away, send her into a world where some man not half good enough for her would snatch her up and leave her loveless.
He'd seen what happened to an unloved woman in a cold marriage.
Draco let his eyes drift shut, smelling the lingering remnants of Ginny's perfume in the flat. He'd rouse when she Apparated, he told himself. He just needed a few moments…
Ginny let herself in the front door, rolling her neck as she closed the door behind her, charmed by the feel of doing something by hand when she could use magic just as easily. She'd rushed so much in the time trials that she'd needed to take her time getting home, and she never really looked forward to an empty flat, anyway. Saturday afternoons meant no Draco, at least not for another half an hour or so, and she simply didn't want to sit around, wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was with.
She trusted him. She just didn't trust those he'd once called housemates, those he still called family.
Ginny shut the door, letting her heavy robe slide to the floor beside the door-I'll pick that up later, I swear, she thought defensively, knowing Draco would chastise her for it later-and she stepped farther into the flat, feeling the weight of the day's actions settling on her shoulders.
She'd volunteered. She'd needed to. She was a Weasley, after all, there had never been any questions as to what she would do when the time came, what side she would be on, whether or not she'd fight.
But it added a whole new dimension of omission to the one relationship she held closest to her heart.
A soft exhalation, the name of another carried on a whisper, had her jerking to a halt on her toes.
Damn him.
She couldn't be mad at him when he whispered her name.
Gen wasn't all that far off from Ginny, anyway, she thought with a soft smile. And the intent was the same.
Wanting a distraction, needing one, and sensing he did, as well, she crossed the room on silent feet, marveling at his continued sleep. He was a light sleeper, catlike, and rarely ever was she able to surprise him. But he dozed on, his fair hair falling across his eyes, calling to mind a disheveled boy with a penchant for messy clothes and cigarettes.
She hiked up the knee-length flowered skirt she wore and placed a knee on either side of his, startled to the point of concern when he didn't open those smoky eyes of his. But he moved a bit, sinking farther back to accommodate her, the hands he'd had at his sides now settling on her upper thighs.
Enjoying the moment, fiercely grateful for the lightheartedness of it, she whispered his name and caught his bottom lip between her teeth, tickled when his eyes shot open and all he could manage was a muffled yelp.
She soothed the spot she'd nipped with her tongue, lapping at his lips and feeling the tension of only moments before ebb away. "Do I need to wear bells next time?" she asked, resting her elbows on his shoulders and teasing his hair with her fingers.
How had they come to this point, she wondered. It seemed it hadn't been so long before they'd only been able to come together in anger, in spite.
How had they fallen in love, exactly?
House unity, fate, family troubles. Ultimately, it had come down to decisions-mostly his.
And he'd chosen her.
She felt she had the right to be tender with him, no matter how tough he wanted to appear.
"You were calling out for her again," she said, trying to make the pout convincing, to sound angry.
She was playing with him like a damned cat with a mouse, and damned if he wasn't liking it. Draco shifted under her a bit, tugging so her knees pressed solidly against the back of the sofa, and he tried to clear his mind. There was something a bit unnerving-if wholly pleasant-about waking up with a woman atop you.
Especially when you knew precisely what she was capable of.
"I just liked her uniform, I swear," he said sleepily, sliding his hands up the backs of her thighs, his fingers sneaking under her knickers to knead the flesh of her buttocks. "Can't control my dreams, you know."
And he had been dreaming of her in that uniform, of the too-short skirt and the long, long legs, the coy glances she'd sent over her shoulder without an inkling of how much damage looks like that could do.
Now she knew damned good and well what those looks did, because he'd taught her.
Ordinarily, there would be words here, explanations, whispered queries and responses regarding the day's activities, but this couple kept their secrets and allowed one another's secrets to be kept.
Draco arched up under her, the buckle of his belt catching in the folds of her skirt, pulling the material tight against her bottom for a moment, and then the folds were pulled free and he pressed to her, enjoying as he always did the knowledge he saw in her eyes as she felt his arousal.
The words they would usually say turned into wordless whispers, nearly inaudible moans-
I missed you-
And he moved his lips under her chin, lapping at the soft skin there as she tilted her head back and moved into him, bringing them both to a fevered pitch with minimal movement.
Unwilling to lay her back, to move apart, to lose her heat even for a moment, Draco moved one hand between them. Her skirt was now completely up, her dark pink underwear made even darker by the dampness working its way through the cloth. She leaned back, her lips brushing over his forehead as she looked down to watch what he was doing, to add her own hands to the mix, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants.
I dreamed of this-
He moved his hands to her waistband and she shoved them away, putting one hand to the back of his neck for leverage and using her other hand to move the soaked satin of her knickers aside, red under pink, ginger under the slick mauve fabric, and they both watched as her fingers danced over tight curls and slick flesh.
A breath, indrawn, sharp, from one of them, both of them, and she pulled, her slim fingers pressing tight into the back of his neck. He put one hand to her hip and with the other cradled the back of her head, letting her neck fall back along his arm as he buried himself in her, his hips rolling slightly even as she rolled her own, setting a give-and-take rhythm.
His eyes locked to hers the moment he was fully seated inside her, and even as her lashes started to flutter, he did not break his gaze. He loved watching her, watching the honey highlights in her eyes darken, her red-gold eyelashes flying wide just before she came. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, a restless tug, a long pull, a hold as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that made her see stars, and she knew her lip would be swollen tomorrow.
His lips were parted, one corner half-lifted in a smile as she bent her elbow, leaned in toward him, pressed her breasts against him through her shirt and his as she tried to get that angle that would rub him against the bundle of nerves just above her opening, not bothering to be secretive about it, desperation coming and going in her eyes in the same rhyth he'd adapted, and he let her try, didn't help her.
He loved watching her get desperate just as much as he loved being desperate within her.
Ginny drew back, moaning in disappointment even as she guided him out of her, and wrapping her fingers around him, she teased the head of his erection over the most sensitive part of her, a thin imitation of a scream escaping her lips as she tortured herself and him.
No words still, though the ones Draco wanted to use were impolite, indeed, as he felt the hard little nub chafe against him, her five fingers sliding in their combined wetness, pleasure almost painful as she held too tightly to try and satisfy herself.
With the last of his strenght, rationale, and control, Draco thrust his hips up sharply, filling her completely just as she reached her climax, sending him toppling right after her, kissing her softly and tasting her sweat.
And just as though she'd never been gone, it didn't matter where either of them had been.