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Henri Potère, Saviour of New France by Anne-Marie
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Henri Potère, Saviour of New France

Anne-Marie

Chapter Five: Le commencement d'une seduction (The start of a seduction)

Three days ago, if anyone had told Ginevre she would soon be spooning broth down Malfoy's throat, she would have called them an idiot. Of course, that's exactly what Malfoy was calling her now.

"I can use a spoon myself, you idiot," he protested. "I've got over that fever."

"No you haven't," she replied calmly. "Lie still, and let me take care of you. I know a lot more about these things than you do."

Malfoy scowled, but allowed her to finish feeding him. He was making an amazing recovery, given he'd been on the verge of death when she'd found him. Currently, she was hiding him in a small cave, known only to her and Ronald, who was far away and no danger.

When she had finished feeding him his broth, he utterly astonished her by saying, "You're a good cook, Ginevre. Merci."

"You're welcome." She was curious. "How were you surviving till I found you?"

"Not well."

"Why did Snape leave you?"

"Because he is an Englishman, and faithless, as they all are."

There was a rich irony in Malfoy, whose name meant ill faith, lecturing on that point. Ginevre told him so. Malfoy shook his head.

"I've always kept faith, Ginevre. With my family. You may think what you like of my father, but he is my father, and I owe my loyalty to him."

Ginevre frowned. "No, Malfoy. You owe your loyalty first to the king and the king's officials who enforce his laws."

"Fah. You're a Vèslèe. I know full well you'd oppose any royal official who thwarted your ambitions. That's why your brother Percivale's disowned your family. He is a loyalist. You're only loyal when it suits you. You obeyed M. Dumbledore, but you pay no attention to the orders of Governor de Scrimmejeur." Malfoy broke into laughter.

"De Scrimmejeur, Malfoy, commands the military. I am not a soldier."

He stopped laughing suddenly. "I am sorry to hear that. You may need to defend yourself before the end. Can you fire a gun, Ginevre?"

"Of course. One never knows when one a gun may come in handy."

"A true daughter of New France. The women of this region are scandalously hardy and unrefined," he said, smirking.

"Malfoy! I am saving your life! Show a little gratitude for once!"

"I believe you are only delaying my death. But I am grateful, Ginevre. I'll take my last desperate chances wherever I can get them."

"I'm not letting you escape!" Ginevre snarled. "You killed Dumbledore!"

Malfoy's composure crumbled. "I did not!" he retorted.

"You were going to," said Ginevre.

"But I didn't."

"You were afraid of blood. Snape had to finish the job for you. Is that why he left you here to die, you worthless…"

"Shut up, Vèslèe. Just shut up!"

It really seemed to upset him. She was amazed. Somehow, Ginevre had imagined him and Snape sitting around a fire chuckling about how they had killed the Intendant. And now, here Malfoy was, his face pale at the mention of Dumbledore's name.

"It's easy for you, Ginevre," Malfoy continued, hissing through clenched teeth. "You've never had to choose between your parents and your country. You have no idea what I've been through."

"You had a chance, Malfoy. Henri told me. Dumbledore offered you and your parents protection if you'd leave le Sieur sans un nom."

"I'm not naïve. There is no safety from him. Only those who join with him will survive the war."

"No. You're the one who's naïve. Don't you see that his followers are the first to be destroyed? What about Bartholomé de la Croix? Was he rewarded for his loyal service to Vol de Mort? No. What of Professeur Quirelle? What of your father? Do you call waiting in prison for execution a fitting reward for the faithful? Is that what you wish to happen to you?"

"I thought you had already decided it would, Ginevre."

Ginevre gasped. He was right, the beast. There was no point in lecturing him about his future actions. He was going to die. No matter if he repented, his young life was over.

"I wish I knew why Dumbledore wanted to save you," she muttered, almost to herself.

"Perhaps the Intendant believed in second chances."

"I don't believe you've changed, Malfoy," said Ginevre bitterly.

"I haven't tried to persuade you that I have. It would be quite useless. You are quite certain that there is no villainy on earth of which I am not capable. May I beg a favour of you, though? Have you heard any news of my mother?"

Ginevre nodded. "They say she is ill, and stays in her own house, not even going to the church on Sundays."

"Ahh." Malfoy's face stiffened, as though he was seeking to hide his feelings. "And have you heard of my betrothed?"

Ginevre snorted. "Have you not heard? It's the talk of the colony!"

"No, I have not heard! Has anything happened to Pensée?"

"Your beautiful and accomplished Marie-Pensée Parqueson eloped to New York with that Italian scoundrel, Blaise Zabini. Apparently, she saw no future with a fugitive traitor."

A long silence followed. "I suppose it is for the best," said Malfoy at last. "I am not in a fit state to marry."

"Did you love her?" demanded Ginevre.

"She was very pleasing. I would have made her an affectionate husband enough." He gave her a sharp look. "On that score, are you still to marry Potère?"

"Of course, Malfoy. As soon as he is back from his latest journey. I've loved him as long as I've known him. We'll live a happy life together." She took pleasure in rubbing in her and Henri's happiness.

"But does he love you?"

"He is very fond of me. I know I'm not his grand passion, but he's attracted to me. And time will only increase his love."

"Or wear it away. Take care, Ginevre. A marriage of convenience might suit Potère. He can keep you pregnant with his heirs and take his real pleasure outside your bed. But such a marriage would be a living hell for you."

"How dare you suggest Henri would…" Ginevre was exasperated with the man before her, in no small part because his words had the ring of truth. Henri didn't love her as she loved him. She accepted that. Or she had till now. "Love is not about pleasure, Malfoy! It's about duty!"

Malfoy laughed. "Don't tell me those blood red lips were made for duty, Ginevre. Or that lithe little body of yours. Potère is a fool not to adore you."

"Don't speak to me that way," said Ginevre. Her heart was racing.

"Pourquoi, Ginevre? I am only stating the facts."

"You are a devil in human form, Malfoy. No gentleman would speak to a maiden of… of these things."

Malfoy laughed again. "You've a great deal to learn, haven't you?"

Ginevre flushed scarlet. "Not from you!"

"Calm yourself. I've no designs on your virtue. And even if I had, I'm the one lying helpless at your mercy, am I not?"

Swift as lightning, Ginevre's hand came down across his face. "I pray you learn respect," she said, withdrawing her hand. A red blotched marked his cheek where she had struck.

Once more, his grey eyes were indecipherable. "As you wish, mademoiselle."

End Notes:

Will Ginevre fall prey to Malfoy's charms? Well, this is a D/G fic. Of course, it's also H/Hr, so the next chapter will be back to those two and Ronald, who have some serious work ahead of them finding the pieces of Vol de Mort's soul.

If you didn't catch it, Bartholomé de la Croix is my conversion of Barty Crouch's name, since Crouch came from the word 'cross,' which is 'croix' in French. All other conversions should be fairly obvious.