Author's Notes:
Many thanks for your indulgence with the crazy antics in the last chapter, as writing that type of thing really isn't my forte. And now for something a bit different... - fallenwitch
Chapter 6
What The Hell Took Them So Long?
(A Day Later)
Draco planted his weary arse where he always planted it, in the goddamn uncomfortable chair by the side of her bed, this time in St. Mungos. No, she wasn't dying, but she had sustained multiple broken bones, a punctured lung, and a severe concussion.
Draco buried his face in his hands and groaned. He was still reeling from the moment of impact. No, not that moment, the other moment, the moment he looked up and saw those faces looking back at him, the ones capable of destroying the tenuous world he had created with his lethal redheaded witch.
He wasn't a stinking troll. He knew it couldn't last, but he had this fantasy that he could choose the time and place of its ending. The illusion of control, it was a genetic vulnerability many Malfoys were fatally prone toward. Yes, he would choose the wizard she would marry, and he would let go when he was good and ready. Well, that fucking delusion was over.
Channels of communication, alliances, friendships, whatever the hell you wanted to call them, were created during the War and ran between the Death Eating communities, at the highest levels, all over Europe. Despite the Dark Lord's death and the shattering of his iron fist, remnants of those channels continued to exist, loosely linking the autonomous Death Eating fiefdoms scattered across Great Britain and the Continent.
A bunch of wankers playing pick-up games of Quidditch were a world away from the sophisticated group Draco and Ginny stumbled into. The children of the elite traveled in a tight social circle, and it was no small fact that Draco Malfoy was seen escorting a card-carrying member of the defunct Order and one of the infamous Weasley clan to his birthday party. Any questions about his actual attachment to her or her identity were answered when he got into an all out Muggle brawl over her. That was positively scandalous but not fatal. After all, the War was over, and pureblooded witches were all the rage.
However, it was only a matter of time until that tidbit of society gossip collided with the wounds of the War, igniting a disaster that could prove fatal.
Who the hell did Blaise shag to get that list of guests? The last time he checked, Blaise wasn't on the bloody A list. Draco ran an exhausted hand over his face and sighed. Sure, Blaise could charm and dazzle his Zabini arse into any group he had a mind to. But he had never shown the slightest interest in crashing that lethal and uptight group. None.
Yes, Blaise was a Slytherin, but he was no Death Eater. His resourceful mother had pulled the appropriate strings early on and whisked him away into hiding for the duration of the War. Both his current stepfather and his mother had never been major players, even before the War. They were wealthy society types, not ambitious, power-seeking people willing to stake their lives and fortunes on the Dark Lord. When the War ended, the Zabinis were on the out.
Blaise didn't give a shit. That perilous group wasn't the only party in wizarding England. On his return, he went out and found a new group of blokes to associate with. No, they didn't have his social standing or his wealth, but Blaise didn't give a rat's arse about that. Then, in a quirk of circumstances, the two former housemates landed on the same Quidditch team in one of the early pick-up games. It was love and annoyance at first sight.
Blaise's infectious love of life and his blatant disregard for the conventional were a fucking breath of fresh air for Draco, who was suffocating in the fall out from the War. The expectations, the claustrophobic obligations, and the smelly arse kissing were never ending chores. That all changed with the Dark Lord's death, but that's another story.
When Draco took Ginny to that first Quidditch match, hopeful he would be able to unload the pathetic Gryffindor onto one of his fellow players, he assumed he was in safe territory. His two worlds had never collided before, not even close. She was on display and up for grabs.
Draco slumped down into his chair and threw his aching head back, staring at the white plaster ceiling. It was his fault. Yes, the bloody fuck up of Hagrid proportions was his doing. When he reversed gears in the middle of the show and decided to hold onto Ginny for longer than planned, he left himself open and vulnerable to the kind of shit that went down at that party.
What was he doing? She had him turned around and upside down. Having successfully negotiated his way through the War and its aftermath, why was he stumbling over this trivial matter? Yes, their lives were connected to each other, but that could be remedied. He would simply cut her loose to fend for herself.
Looking down and over, he saw the ugly, swollen bruises marring her face and her exposed arms. Yes, all he had to do was cut her loose, if he and Blaise didn't kill her first. Merlin.
The door to Ginny's room swung open.
"Who the hell's that?" Blaise asked, walking in and staring backwards into the hall. Draco glanced up.
"That's Frank."
"Who's Frank?"
"Frank's a friend of Sam's."
"Oh," Blaise said, nodding. "Why the hell does Sam need a friend, isn't one enough?" Draco gave Blaise a stern look. "Right." Throwing a huge bouquet of flowers onto the table next to Ginny's bed, Blaise pulled over a chair, and sat down, staring at Draco.
"Mate, you look like shit. Why don't you go home, clean up, and get something to eat? Frank and I will look after Ginny." Draco shook his head. He wasn't leaving her side. "You know sitting here, castrating yourself, won't help her to get better any faster." Draco refused to respond to Blaise. "All you'll do is scare the shit out of her when she finally wakes up and sees you looking worse than she does." Draco put a tense hand to his forehead. "If you like, I'll floo Healer Topman and see if we can't get another bed brought in here because you're going to need one if you keep this shit up." Draco stared up at Blaise.
"Are you finished?" Blaise shrugged his shoulders.
"I think that about covers it."
"Good, now shut the hell up," Draco snapped.
Sighing, Blaise settled into his chair for the long haul, threw his boots up on the bottom of Ginny's bed, and contemplated taking out his Daily Prophet. "And get some goddamn manners," Draco hissed, knocking Blaise's boots off of Ginny's bed.
"Right, sorry." Blaise shifted his arse around the hard wooden chair trying to find a comfortable niche where one didn't exist.
One Daily Prophet, two Witch Weeklies, and four hours of tolerating Draco's foul disposition later, Blaise yawned, stood up, and stretched.
"Listen, Draco, why don't we go and get a bite to eat? I'm bloody famished, and I hear the cafeteria food here is fabulous." Draco shook his head. "Tell you what. I'm going to go get some of that marvelous food, for the both of us, and bring it back in here. Alright?" When Draco didn't respond, Blaise reached over and gave him a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. "Be back in a few."
"Blaise," Draco called out, "thanks."
"No problem, mate."
When Blaise kicked open the door a half an hour later, balancing two trays of culinary delights, he found Draco asleep in that arse numbing chair with the top half of his body draped protectively over Ginny. About bloody time, he thought, placing Draco's tray on the table next to Ginny's bed and casting a warming charm on it.
Then Blaise looked at his tray of food for a moment before throwing open the door to Ginny's room. "Oi, Frank, you hungry, mate?"
----- ----- -----
(Eight Days Later)
She had to go. She was a liability and a lethal hazard to him. He did what he needed to do. He resuscitated her from death's door and insured his own survival. That was as far as her intrusion into his life was supposed to go.
It was her predicament and her responsibility, not his. He happened to be the first unlucky wizard to come along when her previous owner decided to dump her toxic arse. Hell, he had done more than his share. If she was clumsy enough to get caught killing a powerful, high-ranking Death Eater, that was her problem. His bloody Malfoy arse had been on fire enough to light up half the wizarding world during the War. He didn't need this kind of shit right now.
Draco shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his cloak, trying to shake the demons that plagued his world. The rustling of her robes in the wind caught his attention. When he looked up, she was leaning over nicking a wild flower or two, her cloak and robes swirling in a tempest of black around her. He stopped and waited.
It was her ritual walk he had imposed on, not his, the one Healer Topman recommended months ago as part of her original rehabilitation. The Slytherin was feeling claustrophobic and paranoid as hell in their flat. He needed some air, that's all, and a moment of undisturbed quiet to think. Yes, it was Saturday, but there would be no Quidditch for him today. When she asked him about it, twice, he told her, twice, that he wasn't feeling up to Quidditch.
Quidditch was the last goddamn thing on his mind.
She was the only thing on his mind.
The thought of marrying her off to some wizard turned his stomach raw. However, that was the preferred option. He had long ago vowed that he would never sell her, never. At least with wizarding marriages there were certain covenants and traditions that would afford her a measure of protection. If he sold her, she would have no rights and no protection. Any heinous mischief could befall her. Most likely she would vanish, and he would never know what had become of her.
He stood at the side of the lake, watching her throw a stone. It skipped and jumped and flew over the glassy top before sinking straight to the bottom like a lead weight. Draco turned his eyes away from her.
Minutes later, the crunching of her boots announced her presence as she walked up beside him. Glancing up, he saw her staring out at the lake, face flush and hair tousled, with a wild flower or two in hand. It didn't take much to entertain her, did it?
They stood side-by-side watching life on the Manor grounds in the luxury of their usual silence, the one he had grown to treasure. But that afternoon his piece of property spoke.
"Draco?"
"Hmmm?"
"Thank you." He turned and stared at her.
"For what?" She laughed, that rare and delightful sound, before turning her dark eyes on him.
"For everything," she announced while ambushing him. Yes, that crazy crimson ball and chain stepped right up and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him tightly. "For everything," she whispered, burying her face in the fabric of his cloak.
He was sure it was something he had eaten for lunch that was causing the aching in his chest. Indigestion with a touch of reflux, perhaps? When she didn't let go, when she proceeded to lean against him, Draco sighed and threw his arms around her. Burdensome wench. That was the moment Draco lost his footing and felt himself slipping into her magical world of red silk and honey, the one he couldn't get enough of, the one that was breaking his Malfoy heart.
"Ginny," he murmured, closing his pained eyes and burying his tortured face in the nape of her delicious neck. The Slytherin held his precious witch close, wondering vaguely if an antidote for her powerful magic existed anywhere.
----- ----- -----
(Fifteen Days Later)
He gripped onto the edge his desk at work, fearing for his sanity. Was he was losing his ever-loving Slytherin mind? He pushed his tense arse firmly against his chair, least his head accidentally snuck up it, but that didn't stop the shit from flowing freely. Nope, it didn't stop a thing.
There it was again, that irrational, psychotic thinking, knocking around the inside of his skull, reeking havoc in the place previous occupied by his brain. What if he didn't get rid of her? What if he, heaven forbid, decided to keep her? What if he told the Bulgarians to fuck off? And how, exactly, would he keep them safe after uttering those eloquent, consoling words to the Bulgarian Ambassador? His irrational thinking hadn't traversed that far, yet. Draco groaned and slid his elegant Malfoy frame halfway under his desk. Wearing invisibility cloaks for the rest of their lives wasn't an option, at least not a viable one.
Goddamn it, was he a bloody Malfoy or not? If he wanted something, all he had to do was go after it. If he wanted this traitorous, murdering wench, and blatant supporter of the Order, he was going to have to step forward and claim her, publicly. He was going to have to lay his Malfoy life on the line. It was as simple and painful as that.
Draco put a weary hand to his aching head. If he could slip underneath his desk, without calling undue attention to himself, he would, but there was no hiding from the consequences of his disastrous trip to Bulgaria. Merlin. Wasn't this the kind of stress that turned lesser wizards into squibs?
Hauling his slippery arse back into his chair, Draco pulled out a worn piece of parchment from his cloak pocket, the one with the list of wizards he considered adequate and eligible for marriage to Ginny. It was a goddamn short list, too short. Hell, even Blaise was looking good right now. Yes, Blaise could use some work; however, he had the wealth and the resources to care for her in the manner she deserved. Draco wasn't blind. He knew Blaise was smitten with her, and she seemed taken with him as well. Draco picked up his quill and wrote Blaise's name on the piece of parchment before folding it up and tucking it back into his pocket.
----- ----- -----
(Twenty-two Days Later)
What the hell took them so long?
He knelt beside her bed and leaned over, gently rousing her with one hand on her exposed shoulder. The light from the hallway illuminated her sleeping form, entangled in a mess of sheets and blankets, right up to her chin.
"Ginny. Ginny, wake up," he whispered. The urgent tone in his voice was evident to his house elf, standing at the ready beside his master. The unconscious witch drowsily opened her eyes, squinting at the intrusive light outlining his familiar figure.
"Draco?" She sat up, dazed.
"Come on, Ginny. We've got to get going."
"What?" Draco motioned to his house elf, who scurried over, putting house slippers on the nightgown clad woman. With this accomplished, Ginny stood and felt Draco's winter cloak drape around her. "What's going on?"
"Shhh...." he said, pulling her warm, compliant figure to his. She leaned against him and buried her still groggy face in the soft fabric of his robes, shutting out the offending light. Draco withdrew his wand, nodded to his elf, and Disapparated them a moment later.
When their feet hit the ground, Ginny looked around but couldn't see much. It was dark. The curtains were drawn, and there was no seepage of moonlight to help orient her. Draco had his hands on her, helping her into an enormous bed and pulling off her house slippers.
"Go back to sleep."
She watched his retreating figure until it disappeared into the shadows and listened to the alternating sharp and muted echo of his boots as he crossed the wooden floor and rugs.
"Draco," the rhythmic sound stopped, "where are you going?"
"To sleep."
"What's going on?" She heard him sigh before those footsteps reversed course, landing him beside her again. The left side of the bed lowered when he sat down. She could see his concerned eyes on her.
"The Bulgarians are coming."
"What?"
"The Bulgarians are coming. I don't know anything more. I won't know anything more until tomorrow. Try and get some sleep." She nodded before her dark eyes fell from his and crash-landed on the crisp cotton sheets.
A long minute or two of silence hit the pair.
"Ginny," he said softly, reaching out for her. But she eluded his touch by turning over and away from him, shutting him out of her world. Then she pulled up the bedcovers and stared out into the void of night.
Draco reached over and put his hand on Ginny's shoulder - on her arm - on her back.
"Ginny - "
"Ginny, no - "
"Ginny, please -"
But she never responded to his overtures. Instead, she lay there, mute and staring.
Draco scrambled over to the other side of the bed and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Ginny," he whispered, panic edging his voice. "Ginny, it's Draco. I'm right here." He had one hand on the side of her face, stroking it in a futile attempt to comfort her, in the way that he always comforted her. But her eyes never wavered from their locked position, focused on some unknowable point. "Ginny... no... don't," Draco pleaded, pulling her limp figure to his.
But it was too late. She was already gone.
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