Author's Notes:
After two months of wandering lost in D/G cyberspace trying to find my missing muse, I'm back with more of our story. Much appreciation to everyone who left a review and to all who have returned for more of this tale. A special thank you to Marcia for the beta as well as the much needed kick in the rear to get this thing posted! Now, on with our story... -fallenwitch
Chapter 13
The Minister's Wife
Five hours and thirty-seven minutes later, Draco stared at his Portkey. Yes, he was certifiable. He was over-the-edge, out-of-his mind nutters. He was also a masochist. Did he mention that one? It seemed to be the only rational explanation for the irrational, pathetic, troll-like behavior he was exhibiting, behavior that any self-respecting Malfoy would be duly ashamed of.
Of course he shouldn't help the devious, dying witch. He knew that. What was it in for him? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing except more torture and torment and the usual boatload of trouble that accompanied Her Rebel Highness.
But it was the masochist in him that couldn't seem to get enough of the irresistible torture she dished out, so he decided to Port on over for a second helping of the stuff, hoping to rid himself of his miserable affliction. Maybe after gorging himself on her foul presence and rotting from the inside out again, maybe - just maybe - that ridiculous, brain-dead excuse for an organ in the middle of his chest would learn a bloody lesson. Forget the noxious wench. If she screwed you over once, she'll do it again. How ruddy basic was that? Even a two-year-old Squib could magic that one. Merlin.
Was he angry? Of course he was angry. He was furious with the wily witch and contemplated killing her, right after he resurrected her dying, freckled arse for a second time.
Flipping the Portkey over and over again between his fingers in an anxious, absent-minded fashion, Draco paused. Was this another elaborate rouse by his least favorite pair? Perhaps. Was he worried? Not really.
Chervenko had proven himself to be many things over the past year of fighting, but simple-minded wasn't one of them. The Bulgarian wasn't daft enough to embroil his newly liberated country in a senseless and expensive war with England by doing something untoward to Draco upon his arrival.
Why screw Draco over a second time when there was no call for such blatant hostility? The illustrious Minister of Magic already had the girl and the country of his choice. What else could he want? As far as Draco was concerned, there was nothing more a wizard could want. No, he suspected Chervenko's call for help was the real thing.
Draco shut down his overactive mind, threw on his cloak, and activated his second unrestricted, untraceable Portkey, the one that had been a royal pain in his arse to obtain, considering he never surrendered or inactivated his first one. How many Portkeys did one wizard need? Well, he needed one for himself and one for Christo Chervenko's wife to steal, that's how many. Didn't everyone know that by now?
----- ----- -----
Christo closed his tortured eyes and collapsed against Ginny, burying his tormented face in her, unable to move for fear he would shatter. Then he wrapped his protective arms around what was left of her essence, knowing she never would have approved of what he was about to do, but she was his life and his world, and he refused to let her be denied, not if it was within his power to grab it for her.
A door swung open. "Sir?"
He nodded while holding her close.
Yes, it was a gamble and one he couldn't afford to lose, not with her life at stake, but Christo was nothing if not a well-seasoned and masterful gambler as well as a brilliant strategist. He had gambled their lives and the future of Bulgaria on the outcome of the civil war and won, hands down. But this one was for her. It was all for her now.
Minutes later, the young Minister of Magic stood flanked by his guards as he felt that familiar gusting whirlwind of motion churning the tense air in the vaulted room. A tall, elegantly dressed Death Eater dropped out of the air and into their midst, alone, his fine leather boots hitting the floor with a thud. He straightened and glanced around, cool and unflinching in the face of twenty-four Bulgarian wands aimed at him.
----- ----- -----
Draco stared down the barrel of two-dozen Bulgarian wands pointed at every orifice and essential anatomical part on his body. Despite the friendly welcome, he needed no reminder that the decision he was carrying out wasn't the smartest one he'd ever made. No matter how this adventure started out, he knew it would end badly. How could it not? She would either die, or if all went well, she would leave him for her terrorist husband again.
Draco looked the irritating bastards in the eyes, one at a time, until he found himself staring into a startling set of razor blue eyes that stared right back at him. The head terrorist attached to those eyes stepped forward.
"Mr. Malfoy, I apologize for my overzealous guards. Christo Chervenko. Thank you for responding so quickly." Draco looked at Chervenko's outstretched hand with disdain. The extended hand was withdrawn. "Please, this way."
Chervenko's guards warily eyed the infamous foreign Death Eater as he followed their newly anointed Minister of Magic down the long main corridor and into his office.
The two wizards stood shoulder-to-shoulder at her bedside in a room hastily crafted beside Christo's ministry office. Despite their obvious external contrasts, Christo and Draco could have been hatched from the same egg. Both were sons of privilege and wealth drawn into world changing events by their illustrious fathers; both had more than their share of intellect, cunning, and courage; and both instilled fear and hatred and admiration in others.
Yes, Christo was a member of the Order, but he was no Gryffindor. He had Slytherin-like blood, as pure and thick and rich as any Death Eater alive, coursing through his finely chiseled, Durmstrang-trained body. He and Draco were two sides of the same coin, brothers crafted of the same material, each looking opposite ways.
"Be warned," Christo said in a subdued tone, his eyes focused on his wife's still face. "Ginny is not the same witch she was before the war. Still, she is my heart and soul. I am indebted to you, Mr. Malfoy, and I do not forget my debts."
Indebted? Yes, that made it twice, arsehole, twice Draco's taken a dying Ginny off Chervenko's hands. And just because he returned her safely to him once before, didn't mean it would happen again. He wasn't a pickup-dropoff health care service for sick and dying witches. In case Chervenko hadn't noticed, Draco already had a day job, one that didn't involve being Chervenko's house-elf, thank you very much.
As for her being the terrorist's heart and soul, Draco didn't give a damn. The Minister of Magic could stand in the back of the line with the rest of them. This was a one-way trip only. And he wasn't doing it for anyone but her and his newly beating heart, so Chervenko could shove off. It was his savior-of-the-wizarding-world antics that had her dying in the first place. The selfish bastard could power his next revolution on his own.
After all important information concerning her condition and preliminary treatment exchanged hands, Draco took several steps back, allowing Christo to drop to Ginny's side and whisper a private goodbye in soft-spoken Bulgarian, his hand on her face, his heart in the pit of his stomach.
When Christo rose, the wizards exchanged places as Draco knelt to pick Ginny up, blanket and all. Merlin, she was thin, a mere shadow of the runaway bride he had held last, and her beautiful, porcelain skin had taken on that lethal silver sheen associated with certain Dark Magic spells.
Before leaving, Draco turned to Chervenko, who was eyeing the scene with obvious concern etched in his exhausted eyes. "She will have the best medical care and every comfort possible. Her safety in my home is guaranteed. I give you my word as a wizard."
Satisfied with this, Chervenko nodded but refused to let her out of his sight until she was ripped from him moments later when Draco activated his Portkey, getting the two of them the hell out of Bulgaria. That country was nothing if not deadly for her.
This time when Draco took a dying Ginny home, there were no shouted orders or barely controlled pandemonium. This time Healer Topman was waiting with his Dark Magic experts in tow. Within moments of her unconscious head hitting the pillow on her bed, Draco relinquished her to their skilled hands and backed out of the room, one lingering step at a time, until he found himself out in the hallway staring at a closed door.
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Draco stood on the threshold of her newly created sanctuary with his heart in his throat. It was late. Healer Topman and his Dark Magic crew were gone. He hesitated, knowing his presence was an intrusion into her world, but he couldn't help himself, not where she was concerned.
Then he was by her side, staring at his long-lost witch, the one he never thought he would see again. The rosy light of the candles and torches gave her unconscious face a luminescent quality, masking the silver sheen of the Dark Magic curse that was tugging away at her fragile life force. He stared at her wasted body and her beautiful face with its familiar features. Although not petrified, she was as still as death and unnaturally cool to the touch.
What had happened to her during that damn civil war? Where was the gorgeous witch he had seen in the picture with Chervenko just before the start of the war, the one who couldn't run to her stinking rebel and his war fast enough?
Draco reached out and picked up her limp hand, staring at her engagement ring and wedding band, the trinkets Chervenko had placed on her finger signaling his possession of her heart. Sighing, Draco pulled up the sleeve of her rough flannel nightshirt, making a mental note to owl his clothier. She needed a proper wardrobe, not this revolutionary trash she came back in.
Unfastening the leather holster with his mother's wand sheathed in it, he set the weapon aside. Good lord, the witch was unconscious and dying, but Chervenko had her packing and ready for battle. What kind of ridiculous rebel bullshit was this? Did he intend to bury her in it as well?
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(Four weeks later)
He knew it was dark, ancient, and lethal. He didn't need to pay 500 Galleons for a bunch of jerkoffs to tell him what he already knew. That was it - no more groping in the dark. No, not that kind of groping, you idiots, the other kind of groping. Draco vowed to stop his useless search for the nonexistent, sure-fire cure. There wasn't one.
It was one thing to wish her dead from across a continent. It was another thing to watch her slipping away before his horrified eyes. Draco ran a hand over his exhausted face. No one could give him what he so desperately searched for. No one could promise to keep her from slipping over to the other side of the veil anymore than they could promise him that she wouldn't awaken severely damaged in some horrid way. No one talked about it, but they all knew Dark Magic curses were prone to that sort of thing. Wasn't that the whole purpose of Dark Magic curses in the first place? To inflict pain and suffering and woe of the worst sort? Who knew what kind of a punch this ancient one packed.
Draco thought talking to those "experts" might help bind his anxiety, but it didn't, nor did it make a damn bit of difference in her treatment because he stuck to the odd, dark brew that Healer Topman and his Dark Arts magicians started her on a month ago, the one he sold half his soul to obtain the rare and potent ingredients for.
No one knew which ancient curse had struck her down, and with every Death Eater involved in the Sophia battle dead, no one would ever know. Ginny's survival came down to a calculated guessing game based on a backwards extrapolation from her symptoms to a dozen or so possible curses. Yes, a fucking guessing game. Can you believe that? Practicing tenth century healing in a twenty-first century world. It was bloody barbaric was what it was.
Draco had been in no mood for games, but he rolled up his sleeves and hedged his bets with the best of them. The complex brew Healer Topman and his team had concocted was as wide reaching and broad a shot in the dark as they could manage without killing her outright from either the ingredients or the unintended interactions between the ingredients. And Draco had placed the bet of his life, her life, on it.
What if he was wrong?
Draco stopped his pacing long enough to lean his forehead against the frigid window and stare out into the swirling madness that was engulfing the Manor. A late winter storm was pelting the enormous floor to ceiling windows with bursting sheets of rain. It was a black, moonless night, but the occasional hissing flash of lightening illuminated his broken silhouette in stark relief against the briefly visible elements followed by ground-shaking thunderous clapping.
When was that goddamn potion going to start working? Sinking into the nearest chair, he closed his miserable eyes and buried his worried face in his hands, as close to collapsing from the mounting strain of it as he had been since he brought her home a month ago. Chasing down that bloody curse was going to be the death of him.
"Christo?"
He stood and spun around at the sound of her voice, a kind of music he hadn't heard in over a year. She was staring at him, like a cat in the dark, perched precariously off the side of her bed.
"Ginny?" he whispered, unprepared for her conscious presence.
"Draco?" she breathed, confused and straining to see his features in the dark. Instead, she was flooded with glimpses of his silver hair and his unmistakable lanky frame outlined in stuttering black against the raging storm with its precarious lighting.
"Yes, Ginny, it's me."
Before he could stop her, she slid off the bed and went to him, taking a single shaky step. That's when her weakened legs buckled out from under her. She fell, crash-landing face first in an undignified sprawl on the floor, taking the bedside table with her when she reached out and latched onto the first available object to stop her fall. The table and its unforgiving contents rained down on her.
"Ginny!" Draco rushed across the room in a panic, threw the bloody table off of her, and reached out his hands to help her up. "Are you hurt?"
She looked up from amid the rubble, grabbed two fistfuls of his robes, and yanked the Slytherin to her before letting loose a spate of rapid, testy Bulgarian.
Huh?
Draco was on his knees, nose-to-nose with the furious witch. In the many times he had envisioned their reunion, this particular scenario wasn't a part of it. Shit.
"Ginny," he said, trying to pry loose her choking hold on his robes, "I don't speak Bulgarian. Try again."
"Then what the hell are you doing in Bulgaria?" she spat out in English, furious.
Draco jerked loose his robes and squatted in front of the angry witch. "I'm not in Bulgaria. You're in England."
Her eyes widened as she glanced around the spacious, darkened room. Draco charmed up the candles to a dull roar, allowing her visual access to her environment. "England," she breathed, before staring at him, bewildered. "England?"
"England," he said, extending a hand to help her up. When she continued to stare dumbly at him, Draco reached over, scooped her up out of the rubble, and deposited her stunned, convalescing bum back in bed where it belonged.
Her confused eyes searched his. "I don't understand. Did we lose the war?"
He shook his head. "No, you terrorists won the war."
"We did?"
"Yes, you did."
Her face lost what little color it never held as a sweeping panic hit her slow-to-wake mind. "Oh my god, Christo - "
Draco shook his head. "He's alive and busy running Bulgaria. When you're ready, you can read all about him in the Prophet like the rest of us."
"Then what am I doing here?" she whispered, her dark eyes locked on his.
"You were struck down by an ancient Dark Magic curse during the battle for Sophia, one that's very difficult to cast and even more difficult to treat. You were dying and Chervenko sent you here in search of a cure."
"He what?" she said, sitting bolt upright.
"Your husband sent you here for medical treatment."
"He didn't."
"He did."
"And you let him?"
"Obviously."
"How long have I been here?"
"A month, give or take a few days."
"A month?" she muttered, disbelieving, to herself before glancing up at Draco again. "A month?" When he nodded, the confusion on her face transfigured into unabashed, unadulterated horror. "Oh, shit."
That was the was the last thing he heard her say before she collapsed back into bed, taking the covers with her and pulling them over her mortified head.
Draco sighed. "It's good to see you again too, Ginny."
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