Author's Notes:
1) Many of you are lamenting the lack of Draco and Ginny action right now. Don't worry. Ginny will be returning to the scene of the crime shortly, very shortly. Draco doesn't understand why nobody, besides me, wants him without Ginny. (I'll have to explain that to him in private.)
2) This chapter is a bit shorter than I usually like to post; however, I thought it best to end it where it should end, regardless of length.
3) Thanks for reading and all the wonderful reviews! -fallenwitch
Chapter 11
Where The Hell's Ginny?
"Oi, Malfoy, where the hell have you been? And where's my beautiful Ginny?"
Draco and Blaise walked across the Quidditch field toward Fitzgerald.
"Bugger off, Fitzgerald. Can't you give the witch a break from your ruddy arse?" Blaise yelled. As they closed the gap on Fitzgerald, Tom took Draco aside.
"Really, where is she? Hasn't taken sick, has she?" Draco could hear the concern in Tom's voice. The rabid witch never missed a Quidditch game. He shook his head and put a hand on the Tom's back
"She had some personal business to take care of. I don't know when or if she'll be back, Tom." The damn Irishman looked crestfallen.
"Do you think I could owl her?"
"Sorry, Tom, she didn't say where she was going." The big bloke nodded. "I'll let you know if I hear from her." Draco watched Tom lumber onto his broom and take off across the pitch, holding back a tear or two.
----
"About bloody time you showed up, Malfoy," Hill yelled, halfway across the field. "I would have replaced your sorry arse by now if I could find someone capable of catching a lousy Snitch. McMillan here sucks. Sucks."
"Hey," McMillan said, knocking Hill in the chest, "you know who sucks? You suck. It was your idea, Mr. Team Captain, to have me play Seeker so go find yourself another team, and while you're at it, go find your own goddamn Snitch next time." Draco laughed. That's what he loved about his team. They needed him.
Hill and McMillan, walking in tandem, raised their brooms high in the air, in their usual salute, and looked toward the empty stands - twice - before glaring at Draco. "Where the hell's Ginny?"
----
"Hey, Malfoy," Draco swung around at the angry growl, "where the hell's Ginny?"
----
"Malfoy," Bruin Smith said, putting his arm around Draco's shoulders, "let's face it. You're an arsehole when it comes to women. You always have been. So you're not shagging her anymore, so what? You didn't have to kick her off the team."
----
Three grueling hours and one mother-of-a-Snitch in hand later, Draco Disapparated back to the Manor in full Quidditch regalia, throwing his broom halfway across the foyer and storming upstairs to his bedroom. After slamming that door closed, he began ripping off his gear. What? No, he didn't feel like getting the fifth degree about her in the locker-room shower as well. Obnoxious wankers.
Ginny. Ginny. Ginny.
She broke his heart, he didn't break her heart, and he didn't know where the hell she was so everyone could piss off. Of course he had a goddamn heart. On the team? She wasn't even on the bloody team. He was on the team, in case those bastards had forgotten. And he had dragged his skiving arse out there so he could forget about her, not have her thrown in his face with every accusation under the wretched sun. Fuming, he walked starkers into the shower and blasted it on as hot as he could get it, hoping to burn her out of his aching body's memory.
When he stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, he was burnt and limp and in a royal bad mood. No, he didn't want to eat with those arseholes. He had lost what little appetite he once had and would now like to be left alone. And that's what he was - alone.
----- ----- -----
Draco glanced at his latest involuntary acquisition from Flourish and Blotts, Dark Arts from the Dark Ages, courtesy of his runaway bride. How much did this one set him back? Fifty Galleons? Five Hundred Galleons?
In his usual arse backwards manner when it came to her, he discovered she had been pilfering Dark Arts books from the Manor library and supplementing her stash with special order books from Flourish and Blotts. He meant SPECIAL order books - out of print and rare volumes, costing hundreds of Galleons each.
When he gave her an unlimited account there, he didn't intend for her to bleed him dry. How much could one witch read? Well, he found out when he went to Flourish and Blotts to straighten out the mistake they had made by owling him a Dark Arts book from the thirteenth century. Apparently she could read to the tune of several thousand Galleons, all automatically deducted from his Gringotts vault and invisible to him because he never bothered to check on it.
Did he mention the potions paraphernalia she had been nicking during her daily walks on the Manor grounds? According to Sam and Frank, she insisted on walking through the forest and the wild meadows and even the occasional bog, collecting various specimens that struck her fancy. And, lord knows, there was every imaginable thing out there waiting to be plucked, dried, and tucked into a brewing cauldron. The only manifestation of this that Draco ever saw was the ever-present vase of wild flowers that she kept on her bureau.
Why are we discussing this? Well, putting two and two together, Draco reasoned this is what she went back to their flat for - potion ingredients, indispensable books, and perhaps a journal or notebook filled with culled Dark Arts information.
Anything else you should know? Yes, two days after she left, Draco uncovered the gaping hole that allowed her to escape. She had stolen his unrestricted, untraceable Portkey and hauled arse out of England, courtesy of him. There was no finding the witch unless she wanted to be found, and he suspected that wouldn't be anytime soon and perhaps not in his lifetime.
The logical conclusion from all this? She used him. From the moment she stumbled into his flat, more dead than alive, she started scheming and plotting how best to get what she needed from him before she escaped. When the time came, she didn't hesitate to flee his noxious company. She never gave a damn about him.
What had he lost in the transaction? Not much. His Portkey, his mother's wand, an engagement ring, and thousands of Galleons. Oh, and, yes, his goddamn heart, that useless piece of trash that he was better off without.
In case there was any question about it, let us remove all doubt. Love didn't only make Draco blind; it made him stupid as well.
----- ----- -----
Two weeks after she escaped, she was kind enough to drop him an owl. It came with his usual afternoon owls, looking like any other owl his secretary had ever dropped on his desk. At first he thought he might be having a visual hallucination, but no, that was his name in her familiar handwriting. He collected himself, waiting a moment for the lump in his throat to pass and for the air to rush back into his lungs, before opening it.
He started reading it and as he read it, something quite remarkable happened. The organ that no longer existed, the one replaced by that gaping hole in his chest - exploded - sending searing shrapnel everywhere and ending his life as he knew it.
What happened? Well, the damn thing was actually still in there, hiding and waiting and hoping. It was this last kick in the gut that sent his half-beating heart over the edge, committing suicide and gloriously ending all possibility of an emotional rescue, the one that wasn't coming anyway.
Draco called out to his secretary. He was going home for the day. No owls. No floos. Nothing. Reschedule everyone. He didn't give a damn if it was the Minister of Magic. Reschedule his arse. Then he threw on his cloak, calmly took out his wand, and Disapparated to the Manor.
An hour later, he was still staring at the vault in the library. He walked around, stopped, and stared at it some more. What difference did it make if he opened it now or a year from now? It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Denial? Yes, it was a beautiful thing, but he couldn't claim that protective, unconscious cover of darkness, could he? He knew. He knew right down to his caustic Slytherin core, the one that breaking even as he was standing there. No, he wasn't moving. The world was moving around him, and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do to stop it.
So he opened the vault and took out the magical contract he had signed, the one intertwining his life with Ginny's. As he held it in his hands, it vanished with a muffled pop and a whisper of feathery red smoke. He stood there, choking on that smoke, hoping it would kill him, but it didn't. Yes, until death or sale or marriage did they part. Well, they were now parted.
Ginny had gotten married.
----- ----- -----
Four days later, Blaise found him passed out drunk by the lake at the Manor, with his empty bottle of Firewhiskey still in hand.
"Up you go, mate. Come on, you've got two good legs, use 'um, would you? There you go." Blaise swung one of Draco's arms around his neck and grabbed onto his waist before Disapparating them back to the Manor.
Draco's secretary had come to Zabini Enterprises in a panic over her missing boss. She couldn't find him. He wasn't answering her owls. He had turned off his floo. And the last time she saw him, he told her to cancel all his appointments for the day and left abruptly. She expected him back at work days ago, but he never showed up. She was one step away from calling his Aunt, when she came knocking at Blaise's door.
When Blaise went to the Manor, every house elf within a fifty-mile radius pointed him to the unconscious figure by the lake. Merlin, they had even thrown a couple of blankets with warming charms over him, afraid he would catch his death out there. As far as Blaise could ascertain, Draco was alive, just very drunk.
Four hours and two sobering potions later, Draco was up and back at work. No, he never spoke to Blaise about what happened, and Blaise didn't ask. Sometimes there were things that even best mates didn't talk about.
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