chapter 5
Well, Ron looks like he's having fun, she thought. He had found a knot of men who, from their hand movements, were discussing Quidditch. She wanted to laugh, watching one of the department heads zooming his hands around just like Ron did after a match....really, he was old enough to be past that, one would think. Her mother looked amazing, years younger. She didn't know she could look that good. Was her father that tall, elegant man who was the center of the room when he walked in? It was his hair, his gestures, but he'd lost the self-effacing stoop that she'd always known. Power looked good on him.
She was watching the people around them, out of old habit. Despite all the political reverses he'd suffered, Lucius Malfoy was still diamond-bright and handsome, hair worn long in an almost archaic style that, combined with the expensive simplicity of his robes, proclaimed his breeding and money. But as she watched, she saw him laughing at a joke, and understood suddenly the charm that her father spoke of. Narcissa, his wife, had greeted her at the doorway, all slender blond beauty in robes that made Ginny feel envious before she caught the look of amazed envy from Narcissa and remembered that she too was wearing a designer gown. She sipped her club soda, feeling more relaxed here than she'd expected. She'd gotten nothing but compliments, and many surprised comments from people who weren't aware that she was as old as she was. From the looks the men were giving her, she was grown up indeed.
She listened now to conversations...complaints about the shakeups at the ministry, shop talk among the aurors, and a conversation about how to tell a gentleman, within a group that was, from the tailoring, composed of nothing but. The Manor's public rooms were amazing. Silk hung the walls, and the human servants were silent as house-elves as they circulated. There were immensely valuable paintings, several of them Malfoys through the ages. Over and over, the white-blond coloring and long nose and jaw repeated themselves, a dominant stamp that had lasted for a long, long time. She began to understand, sitting here, the sheer pride of blood that motivated people like Lucius Malfoy.
"My dear sir, it's not what you do, it's how you do it," a familar voice said with a laugh behind her. "You'll excuse me?"
She turned, and found herself face to face with Draco Malfoy.
Oh. Oh, MY. Her mind stuttered for a moment. School robes hadn't done him justice. He was all sleek elegance, from the stiffly cut white-blond of his hair (when had THAT happened? it looked fabulous) to the soft grey blush in the folds of his matte black robes that bore the unmistakeable stamp of the same cutting edge tailor her brother had gotten his robes at. If his father was the old aristocrat, he was young power, and he looked good enough to eat. Especially with his face lit with the animation of laughter and the enjoyment of his surroundings, as it was now.
He looked at her and was, she realized, at a loss for words. She'd never seen that before. It was very attractive on him....human. A slow blush crept up his face, and then he looked at the floor a moment to compose himself.
"You look...beautiful..." he said, "but I'm sure I'm not the first to say that tonight."
"You're the first to blush over me," she said. "And I must admit, it's a good thing you never looked like that at Hogwarts. None of the girls would have been able to keep their minds on the work."
He smiled, but it wasn't with his usual arrogance. "Would you like to walk in the garden with me?" he asked. Suddenly, the cool summer air seemed to be an excellent idea, and she took his arm, stepping through the french doors onto the terrace and thinking that she never would have believed that she could spend even a minute in the company of the boy and not be trading insults.
The garden was lovely, and much to her surprise Draco knew the different flowers that bloomed in the darkness, scenting the air delicately. And she was amazed by how....nice...he was. So she said so, out here where there was no one within earshot.
He laughed. "I believe my father would have my arse if he heard comments about mudblood lovers out of me tonight," he said. "And, really, it was just habit, more or less, since your brother is so very easy to wind up. But we grow up. You're not who you were...at least, tonight you're not...and I'm not, either."
"Catching more flies with honey, hm?" she said, smiling.
"Something like that." He smiled in return.
"So....what are you going to do, now that you're out of Hogwarts?" she asked as they strolled through a trellised arch and into the slumbering quiet of a cypress grove.
"I'm apprenticing in Paris this fall. To Master Armand Fouinon at the Sorbonne...If I work hard, he says that I can have my Master's certificate in just a few years, and that's something I want to do."
"Oh, how wonderful!" she said. "Potions are fascinating. I'm considering mediwizardry, myself. After my brothers nothing will surprise me."
He laughed at that. "Are you going to specialize?"
"I don't know yet. I might."
The statue of Actaeon in the center of the grove glowed in the moonlight, and she looked at it with a suppressed laugh. He glanced down, and humor lit his face.
"I've never had anyone think it was funny before...." he said, inviting her to share the joke.
"I was just thinking...I feel like that, sometimes," she said softly. "Torn apart by things I thought I could rely on." Her eyes were dark and remote, and he looked at the way the moonlight glinted on the smooth coils of her hair, ghosting over her robes and bringing out the shimmer woven in. "I always thought if we had money enough for things, the problems would go away."
"Money doesn't mean you don't have problems," he said. "Just different ones."
"I'm learning that," she said wryly. "It's been insane."
They paused in the moonlight, and she thought how otherworldly he looked. And she wondered if his hair was soft or hard to the touch. And how he would kiss. And whether or not she wanted him to kiss her. It would so anger her parents if he did, she knew....she'd grown up hearing chapter and verse on the Malfoys. But he wasn't his father. He was...himself. And she was finding she liked what she'd seen of that person, very much. Behind them, they could hear the soft murmur of voice and music that was the reception, and the elemental voice of the wind in the cypress boughs. She looked up at him, and saw his eyes were dark, as if he was wrestling with an inner decision.
"Ginny, I..." he stopped and shook his head. "Oh, to hell with it," he said, half to himself. And suddenly he had his arms around her, and his mouth touched hers, and Ginny was on fire.
Fire up her spine, and a flame lit in her belly, and oh, gods, she wanted him! Their mouths fumbled against each other, and the touch of his hand down her face made her shiver. It was easy to take all her tension and worry and transmute it into kissing him, especially when he was still silver-gilt beautiful but wonderfully affected by her, little noises of need as she kissed him, little shivers running over him.
"Ginny...." His voice was desperate and hoarse, and it went straight to her gut. A sheer potent flame of rebellion licked over her, and she found herself considering....Yes, she thought. The feeling was intoxicating. Sod them all.
"Do you know anywhere where we can do this right? We can't either one of us get grass stains on our robes," she whispered urgently into his ear. He jerked back in shock and stared at her, looking like Ron when he'd gotten on the Quidditch team...incredulous and amazingly happy all at once.
"Fuck, you're serious," he said, half to himself. "Um...look, you remember how to get to the green salon from here?"
"Yeah...through the dining room and the blue sitting room," she said, "But..."
"Door behind the tapestry of Circe and the pigs," he said, quietly. "Password is recludeo, got that?" She nodded. "The passage goes to my bedroom. And if you aren't sure you want this...don't come up."
"I'll see you there," she said, firmly. "Don't come up if you aren't ready to follow through."
He looked at her, and, breathing deeply, muttered a charm at her. She felt it wash over her face, and her lips stopped throbbing. "Didn't think you wanted to walk through there looking well snogged," he said, and she grinned.
"Good thinking. I'll see you in a few minutes," she said, and with a control he itched to shatter turned around and walked up toward the terrace. It wasn't until she went inside that he managed to find his feet and follow, moving through silent corridors to his bedroom. His body felt hot, his mind on autopilot. He had never hoped anything in his life the way he was hoping that he'd find her in his room when he got there. She had burnt him when he kissed her, and he needed that heat, needed it like air. It was hard to look casual moving through the party, but he was good at putting on an act.
She walked through the reception feeling as if it were a dream. Nods and smiles, but moving ever onward, like getting through the crush after dinner to the loo, she thought to herself.
By this point, the green salon was largely deserted, save for a party of older witches playing cards at the far end of the room. But just across the room from the doorway, Circe's blond hair blew in a magical wind as she watched the pigs rooting at her feet, while Ulysses peeped from the edge of a doorway. She ducked behind the tapestry, whispered the password, and felt the handle of the concealed door give under her hand.
The passage was wide enough that her skirt didn't brush the walls, and it was clean, surprisingly so, to her. She'd always thought secret passages were dirty cobwebby things. At the end, there was another door, and she stepped out from a painting that looked at her with surprise, then opened its mouth for a remark.
"Shut up," she told it, and took her wand out, then thought a moment. There was a spell that Bill's last girlfriend had taught her...She remembered it, and performed it, impressed that she felt no different than before, then took her hair down. She shook it, feeling the freedom of it falling loose around her shoulders, just as the door opened and Draco walked in. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her. But, Merlin, what a hungry gaze! She'd never seen that on a man's face before. And he was a man, oh, yes. Not the boy that had tormented her. In the two weeks since school had let out, he'd become...who he was meant to be. And she wanted that. She was tired of being everyone's younger sister, everyone's little girl. There was also the fact that, well, she'd heard whispers. Apparently Draco Malfoy's education had been...comprehensive. Because, according to rumor, he knew what to do. There were worse ways to lose your virginity.
He had color rising in his face as he looked at her, and he ran his hand down the front of his dress robes, letting them fall open over a soft collarless black shirt and trousers. He slid the robes off his shoulders, tossing them over a chair with a carelessness that she found immensely arousing.
"Take your robes off, Ginny," he said, quietly, finally. "I really don't want to fuck them up, since that's a Satcheverel original, and no matter what you think now you'll be sorry later."
She didn't say anything, just ran her own hand down the side seam fastenings and let the robe fall from her body, tossing it over another chair. His eyes went dark as he stared at her in bra, knickers, and stockings, watching with impatient restraint as she removed each piece. Her hands were shaking, so it took longer to peel the gossamer stockings down her legs. He was out of his clothes in a few quick movements, and caught her up against him. His skin against hers was an electric shock, and his hands were everywhere, making her burn, making her moan and melt inside. She needed....something. He tipped her backwards onto his bed, and his mouth burned down her body. Her hands skated over him, soft spikes of hair, the delicate feel of the skin at the nape of his neck, the long muscles of his back, and she was so lost that she barely heard the question. He had to ask twice.
"Have you done the spell?"
It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking, and then she said, "Yes...."
"Good," he said,and then returned his mouth to her breasts.
When he dipped a hand down and cupped it around her sex, she jerked and moaned, whispering, "Oh, that's...." with amazement.
He tipped his head, and stopped moving his fingers. "Am I your first?"
"Does it matter?" she panted, eyes heavy with lust.
"It matters to me, " he said quietly, his own eyes heavy-lidded and his face flushed.
"Yes...wanted someone who knew what he was doing...."
He smiled, and said only, "I"ll put you on top", and then he moved his hand and, oh, it was infinitely better than her own explorations. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was using those talented lips of his on the side of her neck, and discovering that she really, really liked to have her earlobe bitten.
He was silent, except for heavy exhales that weren't quite moans, and her moans were soft, and then suddenly his arms were around her and she squeaked in surprise as he rolled them both over and she realized exactly what she could do from this position. A small shift and wiggle would...They both gasped as his cock found her opening, and she felt the barrier within her, but also a promise of more.... No good way to do this, I suppose, part of her said, and she gathered her courage and drove herself down on him. Her yelp was muffled through gritted teeth, and she just froze there a moment, getting used to him.
It hurt. But it was good. Good. Very good. Deep breath. She opened her eyes. He was so gorgeous, head thrown back, eyes closed and she moved a little, and watched tension ripple through him. His eyes opened, black with passion, and he said, "Ginny....move, please...." in a desperate tone, and so she did, just a bit, watching him ripple like water underneath her.
And finally he wrapped his arms around her again and rolled them over again until he was on top. She melted under him, drinking his moans from his mouth, fused against him, until she felt the needing fire inside her crest and peak and he drove into her hard three times, shivered, and went stiff over her with a sob, face buried in her shoulder. It made the sensations inside ripple with pleasure again so she just let it flow, let it go, let the tide ebb out at its own pace.
He rolled off her, gathered her up, and kissed her gently. She smiled up at him, and he returned it, an open and unfeigned smile that she'd never seen before, and liked very much.
"Was that...what you wanted it to be?"
Ginny stretched languidly against him, feeling a faint and sated pleasure from the contact with his skin. "I have no complaints at all."
"I'm glad," he said, then dropped his eyes. "I....that was amazing, I wish..."
Reality was flowing in. "They'll be looking for me," she said, with a sigh.
"Yes, me too." He looked beautiful still, a young god, even with her bite marks rising across his chest.
Regretfully, she slid from the bed, used a cleaning charm on herself, and put her hair up again, dimly registering him doing the same in the background. He pulled his shirt on, and used his wand to put the finishing touches on her hair. Satisfied it looked the same, she put her foundations back on and put on her robe again.
He was lethally handsome in his black robes when she turned from the mirror, but somehow he still looked naked. It was in his gaze, in the way he bit his lip. "This....isn't a one time thing," he said. "I want...more."
"Me too," she said. "Can you write me tomorrow?"
"I'll do that. Don't worry, " he said, with a grin. "I know how to make it look like an innocent letter. Give me the name of one of your friends from school who would write you."
"Amy Gerard," she said.
"Use the password you used in the green salon again when you get it, and it'll reveal itself to you." He led her out into the corridor, to another painting. "This one lets out in a loo downstairs next to the foyer," he said. "Use the peephole and make sure...."
"Of course," she said, and stared at his mouth hungrily for a moment. He growled in frustration, and kissed her again, and she shoved him away and disappeared down the portrait hole before they could both go up in flames again and wind up screwing on the floor amidst ruins of designer robes.
"By Merlin," the painting (Etienne de Malfoi, 1617-1755)said, "you've got a firey one there!"
"You have no idea," he muttered, going down the hall to another passage. It wouldn't do for them to come out together, either. He schooled his face to calm enjoyment, shoving the feelings down and away. But all night, every glimpse of red hair above bare white shoulders and that dress made him forget what he was saying, and a fire burnt in his blood that drowned all rational thought.
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