18. Truth be told
January, 1999
Saint Daunes, France.
"You killed Harry," Ginny whispered, wide-eyed, too stunned to even cry. "You-killed-Harry!" she repeated, eyeing the woman across her with ferocious disbelief.
"Actually," Hermione, her eyes itchy from the tears that irreparably accompanied this memory, corrected her, "we killed him."
Life flies out of Harry's eyes, leaving nothing but a disfigured and bloody body where the Boy Who Lived had stood moments before. Hermione collapses to the ground, sobbing in earnest, hiccupping mingled tears and blood. Remus and Snape, eyes fixed on Harry's slumped form, fearfully await the moment when Voldemort will rise from the young man's body, signifying that their last attempt has failed and that Harry's sacrifice has been in vain.
But nothing happens. The Death Eaters stare, aghast, at Harry Potter's cadaver. Time is still. Then there is a rapid movement, a raucous sigh, and blood gushes, thick and dark, on Hermione. She screams, shaking the wizards from their torpor, as Severus Snape's body hits the ground with a heavy thump. Behind him stands Bellatrix Lestrange. Her mouth is half open in a gaunt grin, and in her hand she holds a bloodied dagger. Snape's throat was not enough to appease her thirst for revenge, however, and she makes to lunge at Remus Lupin, who eyes her with a hate rarely seen in this man's eyes. Rodolphus Lestrange manages to catch his wife's wrists before she can reach the werewolf.
"Enough, Bella," he whispers in her ear, eyeing Remus with mild apprehension, for the man's upper lip has pulled back to reveal rather sharp canines.
"Traitor!" she howls and fights against Rodolphus' grip. "Traitor! Murderers! You killed him! You kill-"
"Stupefy," comes a cool voice.
Bellatrix immobilizes in her husband's arms.
"Stupefy. Stupefy."
Hermione barely registers that she has been petrified. Remus is too distraught to care. The thought he believes to be his last flies to his spunky, feisty, little Nymphadora, and he hopes that she will quickly outgrow her infatuation for him once he is dead.
Lucius Malfoy pulls the hood back from his face, then places his wand back into his robes. Then, turning to the Death Eaters, he nods slowly, as if pondering something.
"We all knew this would happen," Malfoy says tiredly. "Whether by the hand of Harry Potter or some other prophesied savior, whether in ten years or a hundred, the Dark Lord was bound to meet his match." Bellatrix' eyes roll furiously, threatening to burn holes in the back of Lucius' head. "Thirty years ago, we were dragged out of our peaceful, measured lives to follow the lead of this power-craving genius. Beyond his magical abilities-which were as astounding as they proved to be convincing-, his power resided in the fact that he managed to make us all irremediably tied to him. By staining our hands with murder, torture, and deceit, he insured that we would support him until he deemed us no longer fit. He branded us. He marked us as surely as if we had been cattle, this brilliant, half-blood degenerate."
The mention of blood status rings through Hermione's mind like an alarm. Though she doesn't know what Malfoy is working toward, she can sense that the two words did not dirty his elocution for nothing.
"What we would have needed then, and what we need now, is a government capable of guarantying that never again a man like Voldemort will rise. What we need are rules ensuring that order is maintained. What we need are witches and wizards capable of leading a country by making the right decisions."
Remus' eyes fall upon Snape's head, a pool of blood wreathing his dark hair with a morbid halo. Not for the first time since he has known Severus, he manages to feel sorry for the man whose role in the Order required that he kill Dumbledore. Not for the first time, either, he keeps the pity to himself and chases the thought that, with his acute werewolf hearing and smell, he should have sensed Bellatrix approaching.
"What I ask for," Lucius Malfoy continues, "is names. We have dealt with shameful anonymity for too long. In order for our community to rise from its ashes, its leaders must be strong and unafraid of assuming their actions. And those actions," he finishes somberly, "will involve permanently excluding half-bloods and Muggle-born wizards from the community, because only they, more than anyone, due to their inferior status and power, have the bitterness and ambition that create monsters like Voldemort."
Hermione wishes she could close her eyes, for she does not want to see this man, feet in his half-Muggle savior's blood, placidly blaming the greatest evil known to wizardkind on said savior.
"We must keep them out of our affairs. You were here with me tonight. You saw how Voldemort, a half-blood propagator of death and affliction, was vanquished at last by Harry Potter. You saw how Harry Potter's own friends, half-bloods Remus Lupin and Severus Snape, and Muggle-born Hermione Granger, turned on him and coldly finished him off with a joint Unforgivable Curse. If you were with me tonight and have seen what I saw, and like myself, believe that we can only thrive once our community is rid of Muggle filth, then I suggest you tell the world what you saw and do something about it."
"Unsurprisingly, Peter Parkinson was the first to step over and stand by Malfoy's side. Then there came Romilda's father, I believe, and a pretty renowned researcher, Angela Bjork. Rabastan Lestrange was next, followed by Hadrien Prewett, Padma and Parvati's mother, and Amos Diggory. You should have seen the look he gave Harry, Ginny. You would have thought he was eyeing something fouler than Voldemort himself."
Ginny sat there, speechless. The immensity of everything Hermione had just revealed was too overwhelming to comment upon lightly, or even comment upon at all. The brown-haired witch added four teaspoons of sugar in her tisane in a gesture that was as uncharacteristic of her as it was revealing of her state of mind.
"After that, it was sordidly easy for people to turn against us. Mudbloods and half-bloods killing the savior of wizardkind? They tactfully neglected to point out that Harry wasn't exactly a pure-blood, either. We're lucky the conclusions from our trial established that, since we had somewhat aided in the process of defeating Voldemort, we would be spared imprisonment for life and merely be banned from the community."
"You were tried?"
Hermione nodded grimly, then sipped at her deliciously sweet tea.
"And you didn't tell me?" Ginny asked, feeling an all too familiar anger at being constantly kept away and in the dark when her friends were in trouble.
"There was no point," Hermione retorted without the smallest hint of regret. "You were away, probably bothered enough as it was by the recent death of both your family and Harry, and there was nothing you could have done for us. Besides, we were quickly made to understand that it would be in our best interest to go with the Wizengamot's decision. Basically, we fled. And besides, our fate was the one put in vigor for all Muggle-borns and half-bloods, not just us `backstabbing traitors'. It was pretty clear they let us off `easy', probably because we knew too much."
"Well, I'm glad you played in their perfect little plot and didn't disclose such valuable information, even to people who thought they were your closest friends. Does Tonks know? What about Luna? And Neville?"
"No one knows, Ginny. And again, don't you realize we were happy to get away with our lives? Those were Death Eaters. Coming after us would have been more than a piece of cake; it would have been fun. And let me tell you that your aunt-in-law would have been delighted to drop by, see if she could be of some use, maybe slit a throat or two…"
Ginny was shocked at Hermione's cynicism, regardless of how well she understood its necessity when trying to protect oneself from painful truths. She, herself, during her second year at Hogwarts, had been hard to approach, for her sarcastic comments and biting barbs had sent more than one unsuspecting student back to square one. It had taken time, loneliness, and a few, persistent souls to pull out a metamorphosed Ginny from her cocoon of paralyzing acrimony.
"I quickly figured out I was pregnant," Hermione continued, "and that was incentive enough to get the hell away from Malfoy, his cronies, and the imbecile mass of wizards in their leave. All that mattered was the child in my womb. Moving to New York was quite an adjustment, but in the end, there are few things I have regrets about, though many I miss-and miss sorely."
Hermione placed her cup back on the table and stared at Ginny neutrally, as if the younger witch's approval or blame couldn't matter less to her. This was no longer the Hermione she had been at Hogwarts, eager to please the teachers, daring to cross the line only if she thought there was no other way, and severely berating herself for it afterwards. Ginny silenced the remaining anger inside her, walked around the table, and embraced Hermione.
"It must have been so hard, being so lonely," she said.
"About as hard as it must have been for you," Hermione replied, her voice oddly high-pitched and wobbly.
They sat there for a while, reliving what had happened in their minds, imprinting in every inch of their being and memory the words to what exactly had happened between Harry Potter and Voldemort. At some point Hermione stood up. She kissed Ginny on the forehead, then went to bed. The redhead sat there, looking idly at the ring around her fourth finger.
***
London, England.
Draco emptied the first envelope, allowing for a flow of photographs to pour on his desk. He found himself perusing them with less detachment than he would have hoped for. The date of Ginevra's first day in Paris was scrawled in Blaise's aristocratic handwriting in the upper right corner of the envelope.
Ginevra stands in front of Rodin's Gates of Hell, a blissful smile on her face, her eyes luminous with delight. She casts a look around to see if the museum guard is around, then, satisfied, runs her hands along the bronze bodies surging from the sculpture and coiling at the corners. Her fingers brush over the twisted figures, the babies' plump arms, the women's taut stomachs, the men's necks and shoulders. When after fifteen minutes she moves away to keep exploring the Musee d'Orsay, there is a tinge of regret etched in her curvy mouth.
Ginevra is seated on the floor of one of the Louvre's sculpture courtyards. Her hand guides her pencil across the drawing pad as her eyes dart back and forth between paper and sculpture. The graphite makes dark lines, a curve here, an angle there. Slowly, the man's marble musculature emerges from the previously incoherent pencil marks.
"Vous dessinez très bien," (1) a dark-skinned man tells her.
Though she doesn't understand, she can tell from his sparkling eyes and grin that he is being friendly. She flashes him a bright smile.
Draco groaned, and, for a second, wondered whether he should send someone after the French man. The following pictures showed him Ginevra exiting the Louvre, in the subway giving an unordinary amount of money to a beggar, and at the Champs Elysees blushing like a school girl at men's flattering glances.
Damn the French and their love of women, Draco thought somberly. There was a knock on the door. Draco, still going through the pictures, called, "Come in".
"Eh bien, ma jolie, on se promene seule dans la nuit?"
Ginevra throws her aggressor a surprised and uncomprehending look.
"T'es pas très polie, dis donc. A moins que tu ne sois stupide?"
She tries to pull her arm away, unsuccessfully ordering the man to let go of her.
An envelope landed on the desk, bearing the dates of the past week. Draco looked at it without understanding, positively infuriated by the man's attitude toward his wife. His knuckles had become white. His jaw was clenched so hard it became almost painful.
"Those are last week's pictures," Blaise murmured, sounding as if Voldemort had announced he would drop by for tea.
Draco watched mutely as the one photograph he had been staring at revealed how the Frenchman had become more violent and his wife had fought back.
"You were there and didn't help her?" Draco gritted out.
"Well, I would have, but she seemed like she could take care of herself…"
"He could have hit her!"
"I would have prevented that," Blaise retorted testily. "I just felt that if I got involved then, it would show I had been tailing her."
"And? So what? I asked you to do it," Draco stated, his voice frigid.
"Somehow I doubt she would have appreciated that, Draco."
"I couldn't care less. I have every right-"
"To have Ginevra followed?" Blaise said, slightly smirking. "Certainly. She'd be delighted to hear you say it. Maybe I'll just tell her now, in fact, with evidence a la carte," Blaise added, making to grab the most recent envelope.
"Don't you dare," Draco hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously at Blaise's attempt to take the incriminating evidence from him.
Calmly, he opened the envelope, and looked at the first picture that came out. Blaise closed his eyes and waited, dread slowly seeping into him.
Ginevra walks into the courtyard of the house. There is a woman sitting on the stone front-porch, and she is feeding an orange-haired baby.
"Granger," Draco snarled, his brow furrowing in curiosity.
Granger notices Ginevra and smiles. Having walked to her, she appears to present the baby to her. Ginevra looks flabbergasted. They exchange a few words, and Granger leads them back to the bench where she was earlier. She looks noticeably uncomfortable. Her attempt at a comment earns a bitter retort from Ginevra, upon which she casts a spell at the blonde, whose hair instantly turns red and wavy, covering her shoulders with a thick, coppery mane.
Blaise had been watching the picture and his friend alternately. Draco's eyes widened ever so slightly, as cats' do when one makes an unpredicted move, and for a moment, it appeared like some of his iris' pigments had been damaged: the gray rings around his pupils became so pale they might have been ice. The piles of papers, sets of quills, ink bottle, and picture frames on Draco's desk began to shake. Blaise, slowly and smoothly, started to back away, throwing appraising looks at the distance between himself and the door. The glossy bottle of ink rose from the table, hovered about temptingly, then whizzed to the wall and shattered.
"Look, Draco, I know-" Blaise began, wondering whether he would make it out of the room in time, when files and papers shot from their storing areas and began whirling around the room, threatening to give both men paper cuts.
Draco let his finger softly caress the image of his red-haired Ginevra playing with the Mudblood's baby. His anger, beyond anything he had ever felt before, chilled him to the bone, sharpening the edges of every instant lived and enjoyed with his wife, clarifying uncertain moments, bringing blinding light to the months of deceit. Blaise slipped out of the room as the paper-cutter and razor-sharp quills launched themselves at him.
So the littlest Weasel is out to get me, Draco mused, his thoughts crisp and cool like the minutes before a storm. He sensed, as if he were an outsider to himself, a blind and consuming fury looming about him, preparing itself to dip in and collect its due. Pain was all that, for the moment, kept it at bay, a pain not entirely unfamiliar to the one that had accompanied the news of his father's death; it spoke of losing a loved one and learning to deal with that absence; it spoke of shutting one's feelings out to never be wounded again; it spoke of cold, then of a new beginning now betrayed, worthless and soiled. Anger seeped into him at last, igniting the being of dry and dead wood he had become the moment he had recognized her at last.
The desk split in two with a sharp crack. Draco stood up, walking over the shards of wood and the splattered black ink, and reached the door where his quills and paper-cutter still quavered imperceptibly. He pulled the paper-cutter from the wood, weighed the blade at the tip of his fingers, then grasped the hilt and violently threw the paper-cutter across the room. It got stuck in the opposite wall, burying itself almost entirely there. Draco cracked his knuckles aimlessly, peering around his office and feeling oddly detached, almost calm. He wheeled around and crashed his fist into the wall. The pain it caused brought back a few sparks of feeling into him, but not enough to shake him from his murderous rage. He went on, breaking every single object with a push from his mind.
There came a soft, hesitant knock on his door.
"Come in," he called, his voice smooth and unctuous, belying the battlefield that spiked his mind.
His secretary warily slipped her head through the open door, holding out a scroll toward her livid boss. Draco smiled tightly, took the scroll from her hand, and waited for her to disappear. He ripped the ribbon that tied it, noticing without particular enthusiasm that it bore Cyrus' seal.
My very dear cousin,
I hope your return to England has been without trouble. I am certain you were delighted to begin work again- don't try to deny it. I know you love it. You're probably wondering why, after spending this very agreeable week in your company, I would take some of my precious time to write you a letter. I've been meaning to find a way to tell you this, but I understood that it would not be pleasant news to give during Christmas. Please, forgive me for delaying and, also, for bringing such bad tidings to your house.
It appears that your wife Ginevra is no Vassil as you were told, but that she was christened Ginevra Molly Weasley, lastborn of Arthur and Molly Weasley's family. Astarte informed me of this a few days ago.
Also, it would seem that Ginevra is after more than your heart-she is after other men's as well.
For a few seconds, Draco saw Ginevra kissing Cyrus under one of the Bibi Khanym mosque's arcades. His cousin's letter burst into flames as Draco felt a new wave of hatred electrify him. He was surprised to find, after all he had learned about Ginevra, that it focused on Cyrus rather than on her, though his fingers itched to close around her frail neck and crush the life out of it. Another explosion shook Draco's office, leaving little more than rubble and Draco, looking out the window, in its wake. Outside the rain came down in waterspouts, making a loud clicking noise on the paved streets and windows.
I need to get out, Draco thought somberly. Get out, calm down, make a decision, and go for the kill.
***
Paris, France.
Ginny wandered aimlessly as tourists and Parisians, surprised by the rain, hurried to find a shelter. The Place Saint Michel was quickly empty, save for the passage of an occasional, rain-jacket clad passerby. Ginny pretended to look for something in her robe pocket, conjuring a bright yellow umbrella that she pulled out and opened in a flash of sun-colored plastic. A curtain of sidetracked rain hid the water-washed, gray street to Ginny's vision, isolating her from the world outside.
What am I doing? What do I do now?
The days spent with Hermione and Harry Arthur had convinced her of one thing, at least: she would not give the baby up. That option had always appeared horrendous to her, but seeing the way her sister-in-law interacted with her child had forever banished the possibility of an abortion. She realized that, more than anything, she wanted the baby, whoever's it may be, and that for it she would give up anything and anyone.
Give up Draco. Why is it so hard to imagine? He never mattered, never really was part of the equation. The real question is: can I let my family's death go unpunished?
Yet, now that she had chosen what to do with her child, the path was very clear: she would not raise anyone to become Draco Malfoy's heir, so she had to leave. And if that meant no more spying, no more plotting, no more pretending that she loved him, then so be it. She could do that.
Of course I can, she tried to convince herself.
A look at the "J'aime Paris" watch she had bought told her Draco would be home from work soon. With a sinking feeling, she Apparated to the Manor, hoping she could find the strength and determination to permanently pack her bags and go.
***
Malfoy Manor, England.
"Welcome back, Mistress," Grainne said brightly upon Ginny's Apparating on Malfoy Manor's front porch.
"Thanks," Ginny retorted rather glumly. "Is Draco back yet?"
"Not yet. He has been working late again while you were away."
"And is Narcissa around?"
"No, Mistress. She decided to go spend some time with Mrs. Bellatrix and her family."
"Oh, right," Ginny said. "Lucky her."
She walked up the stairs leading to her room, her mind obscured by a single, harrowing, and highly intellectual thought: what would she wear that night to please Draco? The vanity of it all annoyed her, but she figured it was her way of making a clean good-bye, and that she was willingly playing the role of the loving spouse one last time, preparing herself to never play it again.
Draco found his wife waiting for him at the dinner table, wearing a dress of salmon silk that complemented her pink cheeks marvelously. He berated himself for thinking how pregnancy fit her well, eventually establishing that, as a male, he was entitled to having such thoughts… thoughts which, of course, had nothing to do with an affection for her he clearly didn't have. She rose slowly, ceremoniously, then, giving in to instinct, threw herself in his arms. He was surprised by the fierceness of her hug and the desperation that seemed to emanate from it, though he easily attributed them to a conniving plot to further ensnare him. He was angry to notice how his body delighted in the feel of hers and hurried to escort her back to her seat.
"So," Draco began neutrally, an odd light dancing in his eyes, "how was Paris?"
"Great," Ginny replied without a second's hesitation. "You should see the Louvre, Draco, it's absolutely breath-taking! So many rooms, paintings, sculptures-"
"Do they move?"
"No, they're Muggle."
"Then they are utterly unworthy of my attention."
Ginny rolled her eyes, belatedly reminded of her husband's disparaging comments.
"Well, not of mine. Though, I have to admit, my favorite was the Musee d'Orsay."
"Really," Draco said, his voice flat. "Why?"
"I think it's the choice of pieces they have there. The first floor is just-"
James materialized next to their table and bowed. Ginny was surprised at finding herself happy to see him again. They ordered dinner, and Draco requested champagne to celebrate her return. She felt flattered, though there was a hint of unctuousness in his every glance and attention that unsettled her. Convinced that she was delusional, she paid no attention to her mind's signals of alert, answering his unusual amount of questions without much precaution.
"… are just so ill-mannered! The number of Parisians who bumped into me on any single day and stalked off without so much as an excuse is truly incredible."
"Did they give up their seat in the, ah-subway?"
Ginny was puzzled by the fact that he knew of Muggle means of transport, but even more so by the reason why anyone would give her a seat.
"I hear pregnant women are entitled to special treatment with Muggles." Draco shrugged.
A chill stiffened Ginny's back as she was reminded of her condition and the choices that that entailed. For a fleeting moment she felt vividly how empty leaving Draco would make her, but she realized that she had no choice and would move on with the typically Weasley strong-headedness.
"Did you get to see the whereabouts of Paris?"
"No," she said, unsure as whether that qualified as a lie since, technically, Saint Daunes was closer to Toulouse than it was to Paris.
"I suppose Paris is simply a lot to handle," Draco offered placidly.
"Yes, that's exactly it," she was relieved to admit.
"Did you see the Eiffel Tower?"
"Yes, but I didn't climb to the top-the line was just too long."
Draco smirked, aware of how eagerly the owners of the Jules Verne, a prestigious restaurant located on the first floor of the Tour Eiffel, would have accompanied Ginevra there.
"And the Arc de Triomphe?"
"I was there, too," Ginny said, noticing his immaculate pronunciation of the French syllables.
"I hear the Ile Saint Louis is rather pleasant to visit."
"It is," Ginny lied, letting her thoughts drift back to the night when a Parisian had decided to be even ruder than his compatriots.
"How was Notre Dame de Paris?" he went on.
"Charming," she replied, fairly certain that she hadn't set foot anywhere near the cathedral. The champagne made her thoughts somewhat murky.
"Did you run into Serafina Zabini? I hear she was spending a few days there with her friends."
"No, I didn't."
"And, of course, you took one of those famous canal-boat trips?"
Never had Draco asked so many questions. The sentences swarmed in Ginny's mind, and she wondered if drinking alcohol on an empty stomach had been such a good idea.
"Yes, I did."
"Did you like the Quartier Saint Germain?"
"Yes-"
"But, surely, not as much as the Champs Elysees."
"No," Ginny smiled, looking out the window to escape Draco's piercing eyes.
"Did you like the expositions at the Grand Palais?"
"I didn't-"
"At the Orangerie, then?"
"Yes," Ginny answered, not recognizing the names he threw at her, though she was well aware she had been to none. She figured if she said "yes" to what rang a bell and "no" to the others, she would fare well enough. Her thoughts danced inordinately in her head.
"You must have enjoyed the Musee Picasso?"
"Yes."
"Then again, with your taste for sculpture, I suppose the Musee Rodin was even better?"
"Yes," she repeated, smiling at the thought of the Gates of Hell she had spent so much time admiring.
"Did you have a picnic on the Champ de Mars?" He kept bombarding her methodically, his ideas so clear he felt he could almost name the second when she would cross herself.
"No," she said tiredly.
"A hot chocolate at the Trois Magots?"
"No."
It almost felt like a game.
"An apple in the Jardin des Tuileries?"
Ginny glanced at him oddly but directed her gaze to the frozen grounds again. There were no apple trees in the Jardin des Tuileries.
"No."
"Did it rain a lot?"
"No."
"Was Potter your first?"
"Yes."
A satisfied and cruel smile stretched Draco's lips. Ginny kept looking outside the window for a second, peacefully wondering what kind of question that was. Then she realized who had asked it and what she had answered. She turned to stare at Draco and was met with his calculating, stone-gray eyes. Horrified, she pushed her chair back, got up, and, seeing that he didn't flinch, quickly walked toward the door.
Get out. Get out now, quickly, before he…
Her hand was on the door-handle when one of the table knives whizzed a few millimeters from her face and buried itself into the door. She felt the blade trembling against her cheek, closer to her skin than her own hair.
"I suggest you come back to the table, Ginevra," came Draco's voice.
Obediently, she walked back toward his seated form, barely noticing the locks of hair that fell to the floor as she did so, severed by the knife. Draco eyed her coldly, his glare sharp and deadly like a razor-blade, and she couldn't find the strength to lift her eyes from her crumpled napkin on the floor. Her mind was blank with barely restrained terror.
"Look at me."
Ginny sat up straighter in her seat, placed a hand on her belly for comfort, and slowly, met Draco's murderous stare with her own fear-tinged, amber glance. She had hated his arrogance and cruelty back at Hogwarts but had never felt particularly threatened by it-with six brothers in tow, a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex, and a close encounter with the Dark Lord himself, she didn't need to worry about a snotty brat's prerogatives. As it was, however, she would rather have been kneeling on a scaffold with an axe held above her head.
"Draco, I-"
"You know," he cut her off, "with all the lies you've been telling, I think it would be better if you sat silent for a while."
His gaze, running all over her figure, was scathing beyond anything she had ever experienced. She doubted he looked at anyone, not even Muggles, like that. Draco picked up his wine glass and thoughtfully slid the rim across his lips, not taking his eyes off her, as if debating which limb he would tear off her first. He probed her thoughts lazily, finding them gaping open, made available by the shock and dread that shook her. She winced as he replayed their fooling around in the snow, their honeymoon, and the night of their wedding. He was surprised to perceive unveiled happiness and desire in those memories but closed his mind to the questions they engendered. She had tricked him, no more. Gotten a kick out of it, probably. Whatever joy he found in those recollections was inexorably linked to the success of her plan to destroy him.
"Cyrus was kind enough to inform me of your real identity," Draco began, "and of your wantonness."
"How dare he-" Ginny snapped, her eyes wide with anger.
"Loyalty?" Draco offered coldly. "Family ties? Both of which you have an excellent understanding and respect of, it would appear."
"It also appears I'm not the only one versed in deceit!" she retorted, furious that Cyrus had managed to pass off his rape attempt as a product of her own depravity.
Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Is that so?"
"Yes! He ambushed me in the mosque, asking for seven shag-"
"That's enough, Ginevra," Draco snarled.
"Look, then," she said, her voice twisted and unevenly pitched. "See for yourself!"
Ginny hadn't expected his mistrust to hurt her so deeply. His accusation of having seduced Cyrus felt like a burning iron on her skin, like punishment imposed to an innocent, even though she understood how thoroughly she was not blameless, and that any claim to justice would be risible. Beyond the pain he caused her with his disbelieving and inquisitive frown, however, she knew she had to protect herself and the child she carried. She hoped he would trust her enough to let them walk out of the dining room alive.
Draco ruthlessly dug into her mind. In an instant of delusional satisfaction, he delighted in the flash of pain that ran across her face when he probed her thoughts. He delved through memories of her childhood and loving family, pushing aside birthdays, Christmases, and dinners, until he found what he was looking for. Again he saw the kiss Cyrus' letter had contained, but he witnessed the preceding dialogue and Ginny's ferocious retaliation against his cousin's courtship. He was filled by complementary feelings of absurd wrath toward Cyrus and gratitude for Ginny's fidelity-if only in that respect. At last he withdrew from her head, granting her a moment of respite that she immediately sought advantage of.
"Look, I'll just take what I had before coming here and lea-"
Draco sniggered. It came out as a soft, extremely mellow laugh, textured and refined like bitter honey.
"You aren't going anywhere."
It was Ginny's turn to narrow her eyes as she wondered whether she should let panic take over and make a dash for it, or calmly wait for Draco to explain himself and not end her life with a butter-knife stuck between her shoulder blades. She eyed him warily.
"It so happens that you are my wife," Draco went on, "and that I have a reputation to uphold-even if it is a reputation you've been striving oh-so-hard to permanently damage. Besides, you're also carrying my child."
Ginny's arms closed protectively over her slightly bulging tummy.
"So, as you can imagine, you are quite valuable to me. Not to mention I paid such a hefty sum for you. I'd like to see my investment rewarded."
"Aren't you afraid you'll wake up with a knife against your throat one morning?" she muttered.
"The question is, `Shouldn't you be afraid to wake up one morning without a baby in your womb?'."
"You wouldn't-" she hissed, desperation seeping from her voice.
"You'll be surprised to find that where machination and threats are concerned, I can be just as conniving and ruthless as you are."
That was quite a blow, and Ginny was silenced by it. She gave Draco an expecting, albeit nervous look, knowing that he had something on his mind and that she'd better subject herself to it without so much as an objection.
"You will live in Malfoy Manor and keep your little act up until my heir is born. Then I will decide what to do with you."
"You can't just-"
"I can do whatever I want, Ginevra," he replied sharply, "as your are bound to me by more than paperwork and promises of undying love. Even if the past months have been nothing more than a lie, that child you carry is mine, and I intend to raise it as such."
"No," Ginny said. The premature maternal instinct immediately kicked in. "I do not belong to you, and neither does the child! I may have tricked you, but you deserved it."
She said this with an air of finality that comforted her. He, on the other side, winced imperceptibly, then leaned forward, peering into her eyes.
"Is that so?" he asked coldly. "Do explain."
"You know what I mean, Malfoy," she answered, emboldened by her anger. Forgetting that she was in a rather precarious situation, Ginny felt protected by the justification that he had caused her family's death.
"Apparently not," he lied smoothly, somewhat unsettled by the rage that had flared in her eyes, distantly pleased by her display of courage. "Regardless of whether I deserved it or not, Lady Malfoy," he addressed her evilly, "you will remain by my side until I decide otherwise. If you know what's good for the two of you, that is."
The hatred vanished from her eyes, leaving fear and tiredness in its wake. Draco thought somberly that, even though she seemed vanquished by their conversation, in the morning she would have found a way to get back at him. He would have to make sure she didn't get any ideas.
"I'm going to bed," Ginny said, her eyes downcast, as she pushed her chair back.
He let her walk rapidly out of the room, neglecting to throw a knife at her that time. He followed her and caught up with her as she opened the door to their bedroom. When he placed his hand on her hip to escort her through the door, she recoiled and shot him a venomous glare.
"Get your hands off me."
"No," he replied, smiling despite himself, though in the darkness of the room she didn't see it.
She glared at him, nodded as if answering an unspoken question, then made to exit the room. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"To my room."
"This is your room."
"Not-any-more."
She tried to tug her hand from his grip. He responded by enfolding her in an uncompromising embrace, then leaned to whisper into her ear.
"We wouldn't want the house-elves knowing that we sleep in separate chambers, now, would we?"
"Since when do you care about what house-elves think?" she mumbled against his shoulder, struggling to push him away.
"Since I have to trouble myself with the doings of petty and treacherous beings, amongst whom my beloved wife features as well."
He placed a slow, tantalizing kiss in the crook of her neck, then bit her tenderly. She whimpered. Feeling how delectably she responded to him, Draco found himself wanting her. He shoved her roughly toward the bed, in an attempt to keep as much distance between them as possible. He hated himself for what she spurred in him.
"Get to bed," he snarled, heading for the bathroom where a cold shower would help him regain his senses.
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