chapter 7
Normally portkeying into the Manor wouldn't have been possible. But the spells were written by mature wizards, who understood about wanting to bring people in for purposes more salacious than occult. Ginny had a bracelet now, one of the little hemp ones strung with beads that were popular friendship tokens, and when the red bead was rolled between her fingers and a word whispered, it became a portkey. A portkey through the Manor defenses, but only to Draco's bedroom.
The bracelet had come with "Amy Gerard's" letter from Majolica, where she was staying with her parents. At least, that's what her family thought it said. Not, she thought, that they were noticing things closely...or, at least, noticing the right things. She had a massive fight with her mother about painting her nails peacock blue, and how her new robes (she'd grown an inch over the school year, and her mother insisted on new ones) fit, with her insisting that she wasn't going to wear anything that made her look like she belonged at St. Belwyn's Home for the Aged and her mother insisting that anyone taller could see absolutely everything, and she hadn't raised her to walk around Like That, and other issues were effectively smokescreened behind Ron carping about how he was treated at work, and the sheer distraction of her father's long hours and nearly constant availability which left Molly trying frantically to keep things normal.
Ginny had taken to spending a lot of time wandering the land around the burrow, and had suffered having a telltale spell placed on her that would alert Aurors if she was in danger. But it didn't tell -where exactly- she was, as her mother had wanted it to do.
And so there was a loophole, and she slid through it several nights a week, and in between read over her letters, which to her eyes only spoke eloquent words of longing and need, interspersed with wit and laughing commentary on shared interests. It got them through the nights where they couldn't meet, and the long summer days between, and the formal affairs where their eyes met across a crowded room, but could do no more.
Tonight, dinner was over, and her father was off again to meet with someone, and her mum was going too. The wife of the Minister had equally important jobs, if often unspoken. She had given Ginny a quick hug in passing, and then headed out the door. Their hands on the clock swung to work as Ginny looked. She smiled to herself. He was home tonight. And this meant she was free to go to him, once the house was asleep.
Ron was in the shower, and as she walked up the stairs he walked out of the bathroom and said, "I'm off to bed, Gin. The wards are set, aren't they?"
"Yeah...I was going to read for a while and go to bed myself," she said, watching her brother wander into his room and shut the door. He would be asleep in fifteen minutes, she knew, and snoring symphonically.
She bathed, then, thinking of other hands on her body, and feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. When she got out, wrapped in her bathrobe, she listened for a moment. She could hear her brother snoring, the soft murmur of the two Aurors on duty outside the house talking, the ghoul in the attic shifting. She padded downstairs quietly, seeing the hands of her parents at "working" still. Good.
So she went upstairs, dried her hair, and, pulling on one of her new summer robes, carefully worked the contraception spell. Then, she stood in the center of the room, rolled the red bead on her bracelet, and whispered, "Recludeo". And the world spun away.
The large bedroom was lit with candles, shedding a warm golden light over the dark wood and damask of the room, and there was Draco, in dark pants and loose silk shirt, his long narrow feet bare on the persian rug. "You came," he said, with a mixture of relief and need, before he gathered her up in his arms and just held her. And she found herself relaxing. Oh, this was right. This was where she belonged. And she raised her mouth to his, and at that first soft brush of lips, the fire surged, and they both leapt into the flame.
She was so small. Her hands were half the size of his, collarbones that looked fragile enough to snap with a kiss, wrists so narrow that he could wrap his hand easily around them both and pin her to the bed if he chose.
He could spend hours just tracing the pure line of her jaw, and the creamy beauty of her throat. Her breasts were pure white, so white he could see the veins underneath, her chest above them spattered lightly with freckles, and her nipples were a very very pale pink that flushed quite beautifully to rose when she got turned on.
He had never understood people who compared a woman to a flower, until he had Ginny's hips cupped in his hands and he lay sprawled on his belly between her legs, just breathing in that intoxicating scent of aroused woman, and looking. She tasted even better. The only problem with making her come that way was that he couldn't see her face. But, then again, when he did that, she wanted to reciprocate. And he didn't mind that at all.
By now the first time was fast, for the hunger of being apart. The second was more languid, slower, and she wept when she came with the intensity of the feeling. He kissed away her tears, and she whispered, "I love you, Draco, so much...." He groaned, and whatever he said was muffled by her hair, loose and wrapping them in flame, for she heard nothing except an unintelligible string of syllables.
They were lying together talking when the clock chimed two. "I have to go," she said. "I need to be there when they get in."
"yes..." he said. "Tomorrow?"
"I don't know..."
"It's crazy there, I know. But you do want...." He trailed off, and she pulled him to her and kissed away the fear.
"I want to be here. More than anything. I love you, Draco. Understand that, please." She sighed, and said, "But, gods, if they find out..."
"I know," he said. He'd spent time thinking about that. It was thinking about her. He couldn't do anything else.
She rose, and dressed, and was gone, leaving only the scent of their lovemaking in the air, and one miserably confused young man in the bed. He hadn't told her about the potion. It never seemed to be the right time.
Damn the potion! Because she fit with him, like hand and glove, in bed and out. Less tutored in the compromises of political thought, but her instincts were good. She learned fast, and her idealism seemed to balance his expediency nicely. She made him smile. She was beautiful. He made her laugh. And she had held him when she'd arrived like coming home. And she said she loved him, and he thought he did love her.
But....how much of this was the potion? She had been nothing to him but an opportunity for a joke once. His face flushed, remembering how he'd teased her to the point of tears the very day before the accident in the Great Hall. And then he'd seen her anew. He got up and found the bottle of sleeping potion on the table, and took a dose, and fell into sleep. When he took the potion, he didn't dream. Right now, he didn't want to dream at all.
Ginny had the hang of the parties now. She'd learned to nod and smile, and sip her wine carefully. The same people tended to be there, and the day after the party found her doing careful research on who was who. Eventually, she was able to begin carrying tidbits to her father's attention, and he looked at her with pleased surprise in his eyes.
"Quite the politician you're becoming, my girl," he said, smiling. "I do need something done, though...."
"What?"
"Nothing complicated, but since you've proved that you can pick out the useful information...."
"Who do you want me to talk to?"
"Chap named Alexander Ludsthorp. You won't have heard of him...he went to Beauxbaton, for all he's got a good English name. His mother was French, raised there, and he came back here to overhaul the factories he inherited from his father. They make a lot of the Aurors' equipment, and, well, we don't know much about him. Or even where to start looking."
"And you want me to find out what to look at."
"Well, I just want you to find the holes for us to put the ferrets down. We'll take care of the rest."
"All right," she said. "I can do that."
"Ginny, I'd like to introduce you to Alexander Ludsthorp," her mother's voice said, and she turned to meet the eyes of a young wizard wearing his brown hair in a slick modern style, and a set of robes that she assessed as being from Eccleshall...not as hip as Satcheverel was, but not St. Belwyn's by any means. So, more conservative. She knew how to handle that, and was momentarily glad that her own robe tonight was a conservatively cut one. The fascination came in movement, when the robe rippled with sullen iridescences that barely caught the eye and its contrast with her hair, which had been arranged seemingly casually to tumble in large curls down her back.
He shouldn't wear that haircut, she thought, he's not got the bones for it. Indeed, he had a round face that made him look even younger than he was, and she was reminded of no one so much as Neville Longbottom. But he had a boundless self-confidence, showing in the glint in his eye, and the way his shoulders were set.
He bowed deeply to her, and said, "I am deeply honored, Miss Weasley. Would you care to dance?"
"Certainly," she said. She felt her mother's smile on her back, and prayed this wouldn't be too damned boring.
He bowed deeply to her as they finished the dance, and said, "Would you care for a walk on the terrace? It's bound to be cooler."
"I'd love to," Ginny replied truthfully. Someone's Cooling Charms had failed, and no one had put up new ones yet, and she was glowing rather more than she wanted to. The cool breeze would help.
He installed her on a bench, and returned with two glasses of wine, handing one to her. But he just looked at her for a moment, and smiled, and recited what she recognized as a piece of Muggle poetry.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
She giggled, she couldn't help it, and he laughed too. "I couldn't resist," he said.
"No one's ever recited poetry for me before," she said, blushing despite herself.
"Well, you definitely deserve nothing less," he said. "I'm impressed that you recognize it."
"I studied Muggle Literature last year at school," she said. "I especially enjoyed the Romantic poets."
"Where did you go?"
"Actually, I'm still in...I have a year to go at Hogwarts...I'm in Gryffindor House."
"I never would have believed you weren't out yet. You're so..." his eyes traveled briefly over her body, "mature in your speech."
"I'm sure that's due to being the youngest. I've always tried to act older," she said, dismissively. "So what is it you do?"
Molly looked out and saw her daughter and the handsome young man sitting together on a bench, and smiled. Her plans, at least, were working out.
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