CHAPTER NINE - A Day Away
"Closing the Ministry is simply giving in to what Voldemort wants," Ginny insisted, pushing her hands through her hair and pacing from one of the room to the other. "It's as though he's simply pulling the strings as he wishes!"
It had been closed for two days, and with each passing hour, Ginny's lament grew. She needed to work, needed to keep herself busy. She also knew all too well a good portion of her agitation stemmed from her inability to see Draco. She regretted ever thinking just seeing him wasn't enough, because now that she couldn't, she would have given anything for just a glimpse.
Perversely, she'd even hoped for skirmishes to break out on the infinitesimal chance she'd run into him.
And then there was the issue of control. She'd not let Tom-Voldemort-have control, if there was anything she could do about it. These people, these gathered witches and wizards who meant well, didn't know how much control had already been given, and how much she herself had given over to him.
Enough to destroy lives, she warranted. And now, with her brothers, her best friends, and her parents fighting, and her lover-
Well, she thought the least that could be done was the Ministry remaining open so they didn't look like a bunch of spineless cowards.
"It's only for a few days," Arthur said, smoothing a hand over his hopelessly mussed hair. He'd told her this a half dozen times already, but he would tell her another half dozen, if need be. "The Ministry itself has sustained some minor damages, and the assembly they are holding is necessary, Ginevra. A meeting of minds on what to do."
"They should have decided what to do months ago," she snapped. "Years, even."
"A contingency plan would have been a good idea," Hermione piped up shyly. She so rarely felt as though she were of any worth these days. No, she was simply the mother of Harry's child, more often than not. She knew it was irrational to feel that way, and being Harmony's mother was, in Hermione's opinion, her biggest accomplishment. But…
Arthur nodded and held up a hand. "Hindsight," he said tersely. When had these girls become women? When had little, bookish Hermione became capable of motherhood? And when had tomboyish Ginevra, his baby, his little girl who had stood on his toes and held her hands up to his for dances once upon a time, become a warrior?
When had she started to get that look in her eyes, that look that spoke of recklessness and bravery and passions?
When had something in her changed enough to fall in love with a Death Eater?
"It's only today," he said softly. "Then we will have the weekend to recoup. For now, it's best you go home. We must maintain-"
"Our daily lives," Ginny snapped, feeling her patience worn all the way through in a few spots. "Fat chance of that for me, eh? I can't maintain my daily life because a huge bloody part of it is held apart from me." And held against me, she thought, her eyes going from the weary ones of her father to the guarded ones of her mother to the faintly angry, disappointed ones of Harry, and finally to Hermione's pitying gaze.
"It's not easy for any of us, love," Molly said quietly, but her daughter would have none of it.
At that age, Molly thought, she herself wouldn't have, either.
"I'm going home," Ginny announced. "Perhaps I'll take a nap and pretend there aren't people out there right now planning how to kill us, because that's the normal thing for me to do, right?"
She was tired of feeling angry, so angry and helpless. She was also tired of crying herself to sleep, feeling as though she were dying of the need to have him with her, wasting away at the dearth of his touch, consumed by worry and destroyed by want.
It was stealing her days now, as well as her nights, and turning her against her own family.
Wasn't that what they'd been afraid of? That her love for a Malfoy, for an enemy, would turn her against them?
She let herself into her flat, feeling as though she were warring with herself now, as well, because there simply weren't enough battles going on, she needed to spark one in herself, as well. Battles, battles, everywhere and not a chance to think, Ginny thought with a smirk, twisting around the poem they'd studied in Muggle Studies.
Of course, the man in that poem had carried his burdens, as well.
She laid down on the sofa, her eyes focused on the fireplace, and tried to see within the low flames how long this could all go on, how long she would have to wait to get what she wanted.
And as she stared, the precise thing she wanted popped his head through the fire.
Ginny sat up with a scream, one hand pressed to her mouth. Immediately, she got on her hands and knees to look into the fire, to be closer to him.
"You're going to light yourself on fire," Draco said flatly, but he wanted to touch her, wanted to go all the way through the Floo and step into the room with her, put his arms around her.
"I don't care," Ginny said, raising a hand as though to touch his face. "Why are you-you shouldn't-"
"I've a holiday today, as do you," he said, and he looked back as though looking over his shoulder. "Pay attention, all right? It's going to be quiet tonight, and there's somewhere I want you to go."
She listened carefully, never taking her eyes from his.
~~~
It was utter chaos, the cacophony of sounds barely classifiable as music because of the sheer volume of it. The lights made her squint, all violent purples and screaming magentas and acid greens, swinging around the room in arcs, occasionally bursting into a strobe-pattern, sometimes focusing on dancers here and there.
Another Muggle club, she thought with a small smile. It seemed appropriate, somehow.
And it was a good hiding place.
Her fingers toyed with the hem of the black dress she wore. It was perhaps not as trendy as the clothes he'd once given her, but she'd taken pains with how she looked, leaving her hair long and straight over her shoulders, eager to make a good impression when she found him. It was almost like meeting for the first time all over again.
The bare skin on her legs chilled as the song pounded straight into her bones, and she couldn't keep her fingers from tapping time against her thighs, heating with the motion and with the music.
This felt good.
A hand rested on her hip, and she started to turn, only to be stopped by the feeling of lips-his lips, they could be no one else's, no one else knew just that spot-on her neck.
"Hello, Drake," she said, her voice low and thick, and she put one hand to the back of his head, letting her fingers slide through the silky strands. It was longer than it had been when he'd been Drake, when he'd been under the rules of his father and the rules-well, at least somewhat-of his school. Those lips, that mouth, that tongue, had grown a bit more talented, but the technique was the same.
Burn to the ground, she thought, letting out a shaky sigh. His technique could do that.
"Genevieve," he said in a growl, and something about calling her by that other name, answering to his other name, always made him feel heady, excitable.
It was like living another life, only this one didn't come with dangers attached. Foolish Muggles with their complete ignorance of the risks around them.
It felt good to be one.
She felt years away from the woman who had calmly stated her intent to kill if any harm befell her man, years away from it as he turned her in his arms and propelled her into a dance.
This time, they could touch, and they did. He had his hands on her hips, sliding over her back. Knowing words could only bring knowledge, and with knowledge, grief, Ginny stroked her fingers over the planes of his face, over his arched, pale brows, fingertips flicking at the length of pale eyelashes, one fingernail skidding down the straight bridge of his nose. She laid three fingertips of one hand to his lips, feeling his breath ghost out over them, and when his mouth formed into a kiss, she did not move.
Draco kissed her fingertips lightly, his eyes pinned on hers, hot and unguarded as her hips moved sinuously beneath his hands. It was like this, in a situation like this, where she'd captured his imagination, garnered his want in a way no one else could have, and she still had it, had all the want he had to give.
One knee slid between his and he parted his lips, catching one finger between his teeth and attempting to trace every line, every dip of her fingerprint, uniquely her, just like her taste.
She brought her lips to his ear so he could hear her shaky exhale, feel the shuddering breath even as he heard it, her lips trembling on his sensitized earlobe. "My knees," she said, breathless and half-laughing.
He insinuated his thigh a little higher between her legs and bit her fingertip, feeling her pulse throb in the end of it. Finally, he released her, momentarily satisfied that she was still his, and he stooped, cupped her knees in his palms before straightening, his hands trailing along her thighs and rucking the skirt of her dress up a bit. "What about them?" he asked, grinning fiendishly, and she demonstrated for him by letting them unlock, her weight sagging in his arms.
"Plenty of places to sit," he said by way of answer, and he supposed that was best.
His knees were feeling a bit weak, as well.