Author’s Notes: Wow, two chapters in one day! Thank you all for reading. This chapter is named for a song recorded by the Polish singer Basia (pronounced Bah’-sha). I think of her as eastern Europe’s answer to Celine Dion, except she’s a bit more jazzy.
Anyway, looong chapter ahead -- a lot of stuff happens, including some hot and heavy D/G action, a bit of crossover with “The Mists of Avalon,” the return of Moaning Myrtle, and more Order of the Phoenix members . . . so let’s get started. Please review when you are done! Thanks :-)
CHAPTER 11 – Yearning
Blaise Zabini’s funeral was a quiet, somber affair that took place a few days later. Only relatives, a few close friends, and a handful of Hogwarts professors were in attendance, but this was typical. Wizards and witches who took their own lives were looked upon as outcasts who were obviously mentally unstable. Their lives were not to be celebrated nor their deaths recognized. As such, the casket remained closed, no photos or portraits were displayed, and aside from Draco, none of his housemates were present.
Staring in disbelief at the handsomely carved casket, it was hard for Draco to fathom that the body of the closest friend he had ever known was actually inside it. He lingered after the funeral was over, Ginny at his side. He had asked -- no, begged -- her to go with him. She had intended to refuse, but he looked so helpless, so desperately alone, she found that she couldn’t. Now that she was here, she was glad she’d accepted. He seemed to need her companionship, and they hadn’t sniped at each other once.
They sat there together in silence, each one thinking their own private thoughts. As she pondered how long Draco and Blaise had known each other, he reflected on what had happened after they left Hogsmeade. He kept mulling over that one aching question, the only one for which there was no answer: Why?
*****
Draco had been growing impatient. Walking toward the stairs, he called out, “Blaise, what is taking you so damn long to find that chess set? You just got it last week -- you haven’t had time to lose any pieces!” When his friend did not respond, he sighed loudly and tromped downstairs to see what the hell could be keeping him.
As he entered the dorm room, the silence was deafening. There lie Blaise: unmoving, not breathing. He ran to him and shouted, “Blaise! Wake up! Please, please wake up!” When he felt no pulse or breath, he screamed, “NO!!!”
Cradling Blaise’s head tenderly in his hands, he cried for the first time in Merlin knew how long. He sobbed loudly, not particularly caring who might overhear this blatant display of raw emotion. He eventually composed himself and surveyed the room for -- he didn’t know what. A suicide note, evidence of foul play, anything . . . some clue that could possibly hold the key to what had happened. That was when he spotted the torn packaging and the mirror lying on the bed. On reading its inscription and seeing Blaise’s fingers wrapped loosely around an empty vial, he quickly deduced what must have happened and ran to his friend’s side.
“You fucking idiot!” he yelled through furious tears. He grabbed his friend’s limp shoulders and shook them roughly. “You had everything to live for -- what were you thinking, you selfish prig?!”
Draco’s heart was racing. He stood up, pacing the floor around his friend’s lifeless body. “I’ve got to find Professor Snape,” he said to no one. He bolted out of the room, up the stairs, and out of the Slytherin Common Room. Desperately seeking his Head of House, he silently prayed that he had not gone to the village for the afternoon. He soon found Snape, who Flooed for Madam Pomfrey. When the mediwitch arrived, she confirmed that Blaise had indeed poisoned himself. It was too late to save him. He was gone.
*****
Even as he sat here at the funeral, he could not comprehend it. How could Blaise have been so despondent over Marianne’s betrayal that he would actually kill himself? Over a girl? A muggle, no less? For the boy to even consider such an unspeakable act . . . it was just so unlike him.
Then why did you do it?
As sons of Death Eaters, Blaise and Draco shared a unique bond. It was sort of a ‘members-only’ club, one that could only be fully appreciated by those who lived it every day. They had a keen understanding of the cruelty their fathers were capable of. This had created a feeling of kinship between them, weaving some connecting thread that not many understood. Most people wondered how the two ever became friends, each one being as ruthless as the other, but they actually had a lot in common. They shared an unwavering respect for their fathers, although it stemmed mostly from duty and fear rather than love. They also secretly dreaded the day that an overzealous Ministry agent, or worse, some surreal, unspeakable horror might take their fathers away. When that day had arrived for Lucius Malfoy, his son’s world fell apart, and Blaise’s letters of support helped sustain him through the very difficult time that followed.
Pulling him out of his thoughts, Ginny stroked Draco’s hand tenderly. She sighed, gently swiped a fresh tear from his cheek, and asked, “Do you want to walk outside and get some fresh air?” The day was unseasonably warm, and there was a lovely rhododendron garden on the grounds that she wanted to see.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered absently. He slowly rose to his feet, sapped of all energy. He had not been able to eat much the past few days. Food had lost all its flavor. With his headaches recently intensified, sleep had been elusive; when rest finally did come, it did not refresh him.
The pair ambled along the rock path in the meticulously-kept garden, moving among the tall, hardy bushes. As they walked, Ginny considered how little she really knew about Draco Malfoy. He must have some capacity to care, perhaps even to love. He was obviously devastated by his friend’s untimely and inexplicable death, and his emotions were palpable. Just being here today, she too felt incredibly sad, although she had never really thought much of Blaise. Maybe it was seeing Draco in such misery that made her feel that way.
She felt very close to him all of a sudden and decided she was ready to share something with him, something intensely private. She took his hand, then biting her lip, she asked hesitantly, “Listen, er, do you want me to -- help take your mind off of -- all of this?”
He looked at her in wonder, his mouth hanging open. Gods, I love this girl.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied breathily. Pushing her in between the tall bushes, he wrapped his arms around her and lavished her with hot, wet kisses. Sure, he was nearing mental exhaustion, but he could always find the physical strength for this.
Somewhat surprised, but by no means repulsed, she backed away slightly. He wondered for the briefest of moments if this wasn’t what she had meant, but he did not regret it or even think of stopping.
Although this was not what she meant, she soon found herself relinquishing to his deep, hungry kisses, a singular thought filling her brain: Not what I meant, but it’s definitely good. She returned his passion, enthusiastically working up a good-sized love bite on his neck. As she did, he moaned, “Ginny,” into her silky ginger tresses, breathing in their crisp, fresh fragrance. He launched an all-out assault on her lips; almost immediately, his eager hands were wandering everywhere, worshipping her body with tender strokes and caresses.
For a fraction of a second, his mind protested, Why can’t I keep my hands off of her, even at my best friend’s funeral? But his body clinched that argument, quickly convincing the rest of him, Why would I want to, when she feels so bloody amazing?
He removed her robes in record time and transfigured them into a velvety, forest-green blanket. He hastily cast the two mandatory Charms (Silencing and Cushioning) and magically spread the blanket. Meanwhile, Ginny pointed her wand toward a sign she had seen just outside the garden’s entrance. She reworded it to read, “Danger – Keep Out!”
Catching her movements out of the corner of his eye, he asked with a sexy grin, “What did you do, you clever witch?”
“Just giving us some modicum of privacy. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked huskily. All the while, she laid her delicate hands in places that were making him feel weak and empowered at the same time.
“Mind? Hell, no. I don’t want anyone seeing you naked but me,” he growled, kissing her possessively.
Without much thought, she murmured, “Good, that’s . . good.” But it wasn’t long until she could say nothing but his name, softly and lovingly, between her tender kisses. She worked on undoing his robes, her lips never left his. As the offending garments were removed, he struggled to maintain bodily contact with her so he could feel that glorious touch of hers he loved so much.
At almost the last moment, Ginny tried to convince herself that she didn’t want this, that it somehow wasn’t right. Sweet Merlin, we’ve just attended Blaise’s funeral! How could we be so selfish? But it was far too late for that. Hesitating for all of four or five seconds, she pounced at him with renewed vigor, pushing him onto the softened area beneath them, where they both surrendered to their feelings completely.
*****
Both of them utterly spent, they rested for a bit. Ginny eventually rose and reached for her wand. She whispered the spell Fleur had taught her, stood up to dress, and then said, “You know, we really should start looking for our portkey. Professor Dumbledore said it would only be active from 4:07 to 4:11. By the way, do you know what time it is?”
“What do I care?” Draco said casually. As his eyes lingered on her lightly-freckled skin, he wished she weren’t in such a hurry to get dressed again. He drew a deep breath then sighed, “Ginny, you are sensational. Incredible. And yet . . you’re driving me insane! I mean, most girls I’ve been with, they hung all over me. But you never even spare me a glance. I see you in the Great Hall or at the library and—” he paused. “You ignore me. Why?” he asked, the hurt evident in his tone.
Or at the Quidditch pitch, she thought. She was flattered that he had been watching her, apparently enough to notice that she was not returning his gaze. For a moment, her heart stirred. So the emotionally detached Draco Malfoy does have feelings. But she knew that in the natural order of things, reality would soon return and bring with it a few bitterly cold facts: Weasleys hate Malfoys, and vice versa, she told herself. Malfoy men have only one use for women. This isn’t real. I’m such a fool.
When she ceased her self-ridicule, she saw that he was studying her, waiting for her to say something. She worked to force down any feelings she might fancy herself to have for him, convincing her mind that they were simply a fabrication of her own design, and therefore, she could just as easily make them vanish. “You know why,” she replied calmly, as she pulled on her stockings. “Because of who you are, and who I am, I just -- have to.”
He started getting ready at a leisurely pace. “I know, what you’re saying does make sense, but it’s just that—”
After struggling for a moment, he said, “Ginny, you’re special. To be honest . . . I’ve never known a girl like you.”
With a mildly skeptical laugh, she asked, “To be what?! Honest?” She looked to where they had shared such intensity a short while ago -- so much so that it made her knees weak just thinking about it, and she felt even more idiotic. Aggravated that she could not suppress her conflicting feelings, she snapped at Draco, “I’m sure you don’t feel anything for me or any girl, so you can just stuff your so-called honesty.”
He was puzzled by her remark. “What are you on about?” he asked, getting quite peeved with her.
“Your ex-girlfriends -- no, your conquests -- they talk, you know? Were any of them ‘special’? Perhaps all of them?” she asked snidely. At his confused expression, she sighed, “You really have no clue, do you?” She turned the blanket back into her dress robes, and after sweeping off any debris, she put them back on. She said stiffly, “We will discuss this some other time.”
“I look forward to it,” he said without emotion, continuing to stare at her intently. As soon as these words left his mouth, a clock near the garden chimed loudly, four times.
Knowing they were nearly out of time, Ginny pleaded, “Oh, come on, you! The portkey will only be active for a few minutes! I do not want another detention; we’re lucky to have been able to come at all today.”
“Yeah,” he moaned, licking his lips, “weren’t we? And it was great.”
Ginny sighed exasperatedly, “Is that all you think of?” He shrugged and smirked at her.
But truthfully, he had no intention of missing the portkey time either. Using his wand, he finished dressing in seconds, and any evidence of their tryst in the garden was removed. They soon found the ragged old umbrella that was their portkey back to the school. It was covered with rust and draped in cobwebs. Draco thought it looked disgusting, while Ginny thought it looked like something from her family’s shed.
As they waited for it to activate, he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Another girl may have seen the gesture as positively endearing, and Ginny might have too -- if he were a different boy. However, since it was Draco, she saw it as a sign of ownership, a silent message that said, ‘You’re mine’, and it did not set well with her. She instinctively moved a few inches away from him, much to his chagrin. He sighed loudly in frustration, but she told him coolly, “I don’t know if we’re being met by someone, and if so, who that someone might be.”
Each of them placed a hand on the aged umbrella. Shortly after 4:07, they were standing outside the Hogwarts gates, being met by Rubeus Hagrid. “Hello, Ginny,” the half-giant said, smiling tenderly at her, then he added gruffly, “Afternoon, Malfoy.” Draco sneered in reply.
“Hello, Hagrid,” she said with a sugary-sweet smile, as she distanced herself a bit further from Draco. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“No trouble at all. Wouldn’t leave you out here to your own, now would I?”
They entered the grounds, and Hagrid clanked the gate shut behind them. He marveled at the unusual pair, wondering why they were together in the first place. Why would Ginny go to a funeral for a Slytherin, with another Slytherin? It don’t make no sense. Thinking he saw a love-bite on Malfoy’s pale neck, Hagrid had an unsettling thought that the two of them might actually be romantically involved. But he put that idea down straight away as pure codswollop. Why would she go out with the likes of Draco Malfoy? She’s too good for him. But, stranger things have happened. Look at Lily Evans and James Potter. I had her pegged for liking Severus Snape meself. She always stood up for him.
The three of them proceeded in silence, Hagrid and Ginny at ease in each other’s company, Draco wearing a tight expression as if he were irked about something. They walked together for several minutes until Hagrid’s path diverged. “I’ll leave you two now. Ginny, you’ll be alright?” he asked, eyeing her companion suspiciously and definitely concerned for the youngest Weasley. With a smile that appeared somewhat forced, she nodded, and he said, “I gotta go head over to the greenhouse and retrieve some more of that . . that er . . . stuff for Madam Pomfrey. She and Professor Snape are needing more of it, to er, . . never mind.”
As he walked away, Ginny could have sworn she heard him muttering regretfully to himself, “I should not have said that . . . Definitely . . should not—”
As Draco and Ginny drew near the castle steps, he impulsively grabbed her hand. He shoved her toward a small stone bench veiled within a cluster of trees. Pulling her down with him, he sat on the bench and said roughly, “We need to talk about us. Now.”
“There’s an ‘us’ to talk about?” she asked bluntly.
He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t get you at all, Ginny. What goes on in your brain? I mean, sometimes, you actually seem to like me -- that’s usually a prerequisite for sex, especially for girls -- but then at other times, you act like I’m something a hippogriff dropped.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, becoming mildly irritated with him.
He grumbled, “Just now, with Hagrid! Moving so bloody far away from me, just to prove to that creature that you don’t ‘like’ me?” She gasped softly in offense, but he went on, jeering sarcastically, “Oh, no, you obviously can’t stand me; you just shag me senseless every now and again! Anyway, who cares what a freak like that thinks?”
By now, she was angry. She said defensively, “Hagrid is my friend! He is also friends with my brother and his friends.” Then she half-whispered, “I’ve got to be careful, or Ron will find out that you’re my . . that we’re having . . semi-regular . . . relations.” As she said this, she looked away and crossed her arms coldly.
But he would not be ignored any longer; he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You act like I’m some arrogant, cold-hearted bastard, someone you wouldn’t give the time of day to, but what you do give to me . .” He paused momentarily then said affectionately, “That passion, that spark in your eyes . . it’s so intense, I can feel it somewhere deep in my soul. And the way you’ve helped me through all this with Blaise -- I mean, he was like a brother to me. I know you didn’t think much of him . . hell, you probably didn’t even know him, and yet you went to his funeral with me.”
He paused, turned away from her, then muttered weakly, “Can’t believe I’m saying this to you, of all people.”
Then he looked her in the eye and said clearly, “I like you. And although your behavior is sometimes . . unpredictable, I know you care for me. A little, anyway, or you wouldn’t have dropped your knickers for me -- twice,” he added with emphasis. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I need you, Ginny. And I don’t just mean the sex, which, by the way is definitely first-rate. I don’t know what this is, or why it is, but it isn’t just physical.” Then in a voice that hardly sounded anything like his own, he said quietly, “I know because . . of the way I feel with you when we’re not.” He leaned closer to her, kissed her softly on the cheek, and stroked her hair; this time, she did not move away. Running his fingers through her ginger mane, he thought, Gods, I sound like Saint Potter.
But he didn’t really care.
Ginny had the most bewildered expression on her face. She was looking at him intently, saying nothing, and trying to absorb what he was telling her. To be perfectly truthful, she too was struggling to grasp what she felt. She gazed at him and said softly, “I know exactly what you mean; it doesn’t make sense to me either. And I’m sorry if I’ve been snappish with you, but I honestly don’t know what I feel.”
She drew a sharp breath but then hesitated.
“What?” he prompted.
“Well, maybe I can enlighten you on my -- unpredictable behavior. This may not help much, but at least . . ”
“Anything, please. I am begging for this to be clarified,” he sighed.
Ginny sat up straight and inhaled deeply. Then, perhaps not very wisely, she decided to go against her instincts and trust him, taking him into her confidence. She figured it was probably the best time (If there ever was one, she thought) to reveal the one secret that nobody knew, not even her family or her best friends.
“Maybe if I answered your question from the alley in Hogsmeade -- you know, why my heart thinks we should get married someday?” She paused then chuckled nervously. “There is a reason. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Well, that depends,” was his initial response. Then he grinned and asked, “Will you at least acknowledge my existence in the Great Hall, from time to time? Gods, how can we carry on a proper ‘clandestine affair’ if we are forbidden to sneak an occasional glimpse of one another?”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t let my brother or Harry catch you,” she warned. “And what about your friends?”
He snorted then said with acute honesty, “No worries there. I just lost the only one I really cared about anyway.”
“Right.” She hedged momentarily then took the plunge. “Well, as you may know, our family is a very old one, perhaps even older than your own.” He raised one eyebrow, but she ignored it. “The Blacks or the Malfoys -- neither predates the Weasley line. It dates back to Uther Pendragon. Before that, no one knows, but King Arthur is definitely our ancestor.”
He interrupted her, asking suspiciously, “You are King Arthur’s descendent? Is that who your dad was named for?” She nodded, and he remarked wryly, “Who knew the ‘Weasley history’ was so colorful?”
“It’s true,” she insisted earnestly. “Centuries ago, Mordred, Arthur’s son he had with his half-sister Morgaine, was about to become a father himself when he was killed. The mother-to-be was a young witch named Mary Weasley. They were going to get married and live near Camelot, but when Mordred died, she moved away. So the people in her new village wouldn’t banish her, she told them she was a widow. She had twins, a son and a daughter. Her daughter died of disease at age ten; her son also became seriously ill, but he survived. His mother never married, so he carried on the Weasley name.” She stopped briefly to gauge Draco’s reaction. “With me so far?” she asked.
Mildly intrigued, but still skeptical, he nodded and said, “Go on.”
“Well,” she continued, “there were no daughters born into Mary’s family for almost two hundred years. Only sons. Morgaine, High Priestess of Avalon, stood by and watched. Eventually, a Weasley did have a daughter, and when the girl turned eleven, the Priestess granted the family a legacy. She would get to visit Avalon and meet Morgaine and her Aunt Viviane, The Lady of the Lake.”
Ginny looked at him to see if he was still listening. He was, very intently, although he did not really believe a word of it. Shaking his head, he chuckled, “All right, Weasley, now I know you’re having me on, so you can stop with the fairy tales, okay? Morgaine and the Lady of the Lake are both myth. And this is answering my question how?”
She bit back, “They are real! And if you don’t shut it, I won’t tell you anything more!”
He sighed and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers on the bridge of his nose. In a very tired voice, he said, “Fine. You were saying, my dear?”
She breathed deeply then continued, “I turned eleven the year I started at Hogwarts. On June 21st, the summer solstice, I took a portkey to the edge of a mist-covered lake; a long, narrow boat arrived to ferry me across. The mists gradually lifted and there it was: Avalon.” Her eyes lit up at the memory, and Draco thought she might cry.
“I entered the Hall, and Morgaine invited me to sit down. She placed her hand on my head and said, ‘Guinevere—”
“Your real name is Guinevere?” Draco sneered with laughter. “Bloody hell -- that’s hilarious!”
“Oh, shut your face,” she snarled at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, laughing at my name! What about your own?”
He only glared back at her coldly, saying nothing.
Continuing with her story, Ginny said, “The Priestess said, ‘You have survived childhood and are now burgeoning on womanhood. You may ask one question, and my answer will be true.’”
Ginny shrugged, “Like any young girl, all I wanted to know was who I would marry when I grew up. I concentrated on Harry Potter with all my being, hoping it would help if she saw him in my heart.” Draco scoffed, and she narrowed her eyes at him briefly then pressed on.
“Anyway, Morgaine took my left hand in her right and placed them both on my heart. Then she put her left hand on my forehead and closed her eyes. Even though the room was stiflingly hot -- you know, like it is in Divination -- a shiver ran through me. It was over in a matter of seconds.
“She opened her eyes and pointed to The Lady of the Lake, saying, ‘One day soon, you will speak to a young man whose mother looks just like my Aunt Viviane. He is the one you will marry.’
“Confused, I started to ask her what she meant. But before I got the chance, the sweltering Hall, Morgaine, the Lady of the Lake -- they were all gone, and I was back home in my room, utterly exhausted. I must have slept for days afterward.”
She paused then Draco urged, “So what happened next?”
Ginny chuckled without amusement and said, “Well, I couldn’t wait for Ron to get home from school. I had to know what Harry’s mum looked like, but it was much too late to send an owl, especially a decrepit one like Errol.
“We met my brothers at King’s Cross, and I immediately asked Ron about Harry’s mum. She had red hair, green eyes, and was sort of pretty. He asked, ‘Why, already planning what your children will look like?’ The twins snickered -- even Percy bit back a grin. But when Mum threatened to hex their mouths off of their faces until dinner, that shut them all up,” she added with a smug grin.
“So I continued to pine away for Harry, hoping that Ron or maybe Morgaine was wrong. Then the summer before my third year, we went to the Quidditch World Cup. I saw a woman there who was a dead-ringer for the Lady of the Lake. My heart jumped; it was her! Then I saw your pointy little face and put it all together. She was your mother. I nearly died from the shock.”
For a moment, neither one said a word.
“My, that’s -- that’s interesting, Wealsey,” Draco concluded. “This trip to Avalon, it really happened? You’re not just messing with my head?” he asked, eyeing her doubtfully.
“Of course I’m not! Why would I make up some dumb prophecy, when it’s obvious I would much prefer it didn’t happen?” she said with a scoff.
He returned his own, saying with disgust, “And you expect me to believe that crap! Honestly, what do you take me for? And to think I just now . . . bared my soul to you!”
She gasped at him defiantly, fiercely proud of her Weasley heritage and its connection to the Pendragon line. She respected Morgaine’s gift, even if the results were -- less than desirable.
As she rose from the bench, Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Believe whatever you want to, Malfoy. But when I first saw your mother and figured out who she was, I was horrified. I never said I wanted to marry you; I just knew that I would. I guess it’s up to you to change my mind.” She walked away in a huff.
Thoroughly vexed, he groused, “Whatever you say, Weasley.” Yet he stood up and followed her anyway.
They soon reached the opening they had come through earlier. Looking across the grounds, he spied a bench near one of the greenhouses. On it was Professor Lupin and beside him
was—
“Nymphadora?”
“Tonks?”
Draco touched Ginny’s arm and asked her suspiciously, “Since when do you know my cousin?” He seemed perplexed that the two of them could have ever met before.
She scurried to cover her tracks. “Well, I . . I don’t really. She’s a friend of my parents.” Not wanting to look Draco in the eye, she kept her eyes on the distant bench instead. Clearly, Tonks and Professor Lupin were on very friendly terms indeed, as she was practically sitting in his lap. Ginny added slowly, “I thought she was seeing my brother Charlie, but evidently -- they, er, broke up.”
“Looks like it,” he agreed. “What are they doing now? Can you tell?”
“Oh, he kissed her. Wait, now he’s kneeling in front of her,” Ginny informed him. Squinting her eyes, she asked, “Is he holding up a ring box?”
“Aww, shit. That stupid cousin of mine; only she would get involved with a damn werewolf. She is definitely one of a kind -- and thank Merlin for that! That awful pink hair—”
“Oooh, she kissed him back, and I think she’s -- yes, she’s crying, and he’s practically beaming . . oh -- this is sweet!”
“Oh, yeah, this is bloody wonderful. Remember, that idiotic bint is still related to me, and I do not approve of her becoming engaged to a werewolf. Wait till Mother hears about this!”
She lambasted him. “You are so prejudiced! Here you were, hands all over me not a half-hour ago, and I’m friends with both of them! Does that mean you disapprove of me?”
He said derisively, “No, you’re a pureblood witch, so you’re suitable, even if you are a bit -- misguided. But them—!” For once, words failed him. He sighed loudly, adding, “It’s just not right.”
“So you’re saying half-bloods and werewolves should not be married?”
Miffed at her accusation, he snarled, “She is not a half-blood! All the Blacks are purebloods!”
“Oh, really? And just how much do you know about your mother’s other sister? The one who’s not a known Death Eater? The one who isn’t a barmy maniac?”
He gasped at her impudence. “I happen to like my Aunt Bellatrix!”
She snorted quietly, “Loser.”
That set him off. “Look here, I’ve had just about enough of you!” He glared at her then passed by her to go inside the castle. She looked again to see what Lupin and Tonks were doing now. But they were already gone. Hmm, guess they went inside the greenhouse. Maybe they wanted to have a quick celebratory shag before dinner. But only students go there to ‘do the deed’. Surely, professors have their own private quarters . . .
Giving up on finding them again, she went into the castle as well. Besides, what am I, a voyeur all of a sudden? She rolled her eyes at her behavior. Not watching where she was going -- she was too ticked off at Draco for his horribly biased attitude -- she nearly bumped into Sophia Bellucci, the young girl from Italy, as she approached the front doors.
“Hello, Sophia. How are you?” Ginny asked in a friendly tone.
“Oh,” she began awkwardly in her thick accent, “I am well, Miss Weeeasley, how are you today?”
“I’m fine. And what brings you out on this brilliant afternoon, other than the lovely weather we’re having? It’s a good amount of sunshine, for this time of year.”
Sophia looked confused, as if this were a few too many English words for her to grasp at one time. Ginny simplified her question, asking the poor girl, “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is bell-beau-beautiful weather. Sun hot, no?”
“Yeah, it is. Where were you just now?” she asked curiously.
“Just now?” Sophia asked, confused by the phrase. “Oh, oh -- from -- where did I come? Now?”
“Yes,” the older girl prompted. “Were you at Hagrid’s?”
“Ah, I did see Hagrid, yes. He’s very nice. I like his aneemals. The uni-un-unicur—”
“Unicorns,” Ginny finished for her. “Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”
“Oh, si, I like. Pretty.” She struggled for a better word then came up with, “Gras-ful.” She moved her hands fluidly, as if to illustrate their movements and flowing manes. Ginny thought, Not bad.
“Graceful,” she guessed aloud. The young girl nodded enthusiastically. “Well, Sophia, I’ll see you later. Glad you like it here. Bye.”
“Graci -- thank you, Miss Weeeasley. Arrivederci.” She turned and headed toward the dungeons, waving and smiling buoyantly. Ginny thought, She’s probably grateful to have had at least one English conversation in which she was actually understood.
As she walked the path leading toward Gryffindor Tower, she heard voices up ahead of her. She recognized Draco’s instantly, but was he talking with -- another girl? Finding herself a little jealous, she thought irritably, What was all that baring-my-soul-to-you shite? I should have known, the lying bastard!
When she rounded the next corner, any jealousy she felt was abruptly squelched. He was talking to Moaning Myrtle, evidently about Blaise. Ginny sighed to herself. I’m such a moron.
Myrtle asked Draco, “And this happened how many days ago?”
He answered, “Four. He died four days ago. Can you help me?”
The ghost thought for a moment, then said assuredly, “Yes, I’m sure I can.”
“Great! Thank you so much, Myrtle. I owe you one for this -- maybe even two.”
“Maybe,” she asked hopefully, “you can find someone who can help me leave Hogwarts?”
“Yes, yes, I will definitely get right on that,” he affirmed.
She grinned from ear to ear and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Then she zipped away through the nearest wall.
Ginny had a mystified look on her face. Draco grabbed both of her hands and kissed her lips soundly. Whirling her around, he explained why he was so excited. “It’s wonderful, Ginny. Moaning Myrtle says when a person dies here, their spirit remains on the grounds for a week, sometimes longer. If they choose to remain here, they become a ghost.”
“So you think that Blaise might wish to remain as a ghost?” she asked slowly, as if trying to determine how that would be ‘wonderful’.
“Hell, no!” he snapped at her, rather insulted. “That would be a terrible thing to wish on anyone, except maybe Pansy. No, Myrtle is going to find him for me -- his spirit, anyway -- so I can talk to him before he goes! Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Yes, I-I guess that would be . . good.” She wasn’t sure this was what Draco needed. But how could she talk him out of it, when he was so enthusiastic about it? She hadn’t seen him this excited, this hopeful, about anything since she first met him. And as it meant so much to him, she did not wish to dissuade him. “Yes, it is wonderful.”
“Damn right, it is. First, I’m going to yell at him and then I’m going to strangle that arrogant bastard for leaving without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-arse. Frankly, he’s going to be glad he’s—”
As suddenly as she had left, Myrtle reappeared. He looked at her expectantly, asking as if she were daft, “Well?”
She had an odd look on her face and hesitated when she spoke. “Er, Draco . . I-I- don’t—”
But he couldn’t wait all year -- he only had three more days until Blaise would leave Hogwarts forever! He ranted excitedly, “Where is he? Did you bring him with you?”
A bit nervous, she hedged, “I don’t know how to say this, but he-he-he’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” he asked irritably. He was beginning to lose patience with her.
“I mean I can’t find his spirit. It’s-he’s not on the grounds,” she added with a slight wince.
“What does that mean?” He was getting more agitated by the second. Why did I have to meet up with a stupid ghost? he asked himself. She wasn’t making any sense at all!
But Myrtle was baffled as well. “I-I don’t understand it myself. What it means is,” she said warily, “if he’s not here -- then . . then he must not be dead.”
~End of Chapter~
I can see you now: “Blaise isn’t really dead? What the heck’s going on?” Fear not, all will be explained -- you must keep reading to find out! ;-) And to those who were shocked and/or disgusted by his ‘death’, vengeance shall be yours! (Go on, do your ‘happy dance’ around your computer now; we won’t laugh -- too much.) Regarding the ‘pseudo-fluff’, Draco is not turning into a softy. It’s just hard to express such feelings without a little tenderness.
In an attempt to keep him in character throughout, I tried to make it more of a ‘me’ centered thing, as he would probably think of himself first. And please forgive Ginny’s attitude toward him; I’m trying to write her as JKR might in a similar situation. (Can’t you just imagine what she’d say to that? “As if!!”) :-D
In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: A humongous *Thank You* to the late great Marion Zimmer Bradley, whose excellent book “The Mists of Avalon” inspired the Morgaine sequence. And some ‘Disclaimers within the Credit’, I know that MZB said The Lady of the Lake had dark hair, but most films depict her as a blonde, so I went with that. And Mordred did not father any children (that we know of). Call it “creative license.”
Oh, and Mrs. Weasley says, “Now, please be a dear and click where it says “Review!” and tell everyone what you thought of this chapter.” (THANKS, Ms. W!! :-D )
Anyway, looong chapter ahead -- a lot of stuff happens, including some hot and heavy D/G action, a bit of crossover with “The Mists of Avalon,” the return of Moaning Myrtle, and more Order of the Phoenix members . . . so let’s get started. Please review when you are done! Thanks :-)
CHAPTER 11 – Yearning
Blaise Zabini’s funeral was a quiet, somber affair that took place a few days later. Only relatives, a few close friends, and a handful of Hogwarts professors were in attendance, but this was typical. Wizards and witches who took their own lives were looked upon as outcasts who were obviously mentally unstable. Their lives were not to be celebrated nor their deaths recognized. As such, the casket remained closed, no photos or portraits were displayed, and aside from Draco, none of his housemates were present.
Staring in disbelief at the handsomely carved casket, it was hard for Draco to fathom that the body of the closest friend he had ever known was actually inside it. He lingered after the funeral was over, Ginny at his side. He had asked -- no, begged -- her to go with him. She had intended to refuse, but he looked so helpless, so desperately alone, she found that she couldn’t. Now that she was here, she was glad she’d accepted. He seemed to need her companionship, and they hadn’t sniped at each other once.
They sat there together in silence, each one thinking their own private thoughts. As she pondered how long Draco and Blaise had known each other, he reflected on what had happened after they left Hogsmeade. He kept mulling over that one aching question, the only one for which there was no answer: Why?
Draco had been growing impatient. Walking toward the stairs, he called out, “Blaise, what is taking you so damn long to find that chess set? You just got it last week -- you haven’t had time to lose any pieces!” When his friend did not respond, he sighed loudly and tromped downstairs to see what the hell could be keeping him.
As he entered the dorm room, the silence was deafening. There lie Blaise: unmoving, not breathing. He ran to him and shouted, “Blaise! Wake up! Please, please wake up!” When he felt no pulse or breath, he screamed, “NO!!!”
Cradling Blaise’s head tenderly in his hands, he cried for the first time in Merlin knew how long. He sobbed loudly, not particularly caring who might overhear this blatant display of raw emotion. He eventually composed himself and surveyed the room for -- he didn’t know what. A suicide note, evidence of foul play, anything . . . some clue that could possibly hold the key to what had happened. That was when he spotted the torn packaging and the mirror lying on the bed. On reading its inscription and seeing Blaise’s fingers wrapped loosely around an empty vial, he quickly deduced what must have happened and ran to his friend’s side.
“You fucking idiot!” he yelled through furious tears. He grabbed his friend’s limp shoulders and shook them roughly. “You had everything to live for -- what were you thinking, you selfish prig?!”
Draco’s heart was racing. He stood up, pacing the floor around his friend’s lifeless body. “I’ve got to find Professor Snape,” he said to no one. He bolted out of the room, up the stairs, and out of the Slytherin Common Room. Desperately seeking his Head of House, he silently prayed that he had not gone to the village for the afternoon. He soon found Snape, who Flooed for Madam Pomfrey. When the mediwitch arrived, she confirmed that Blaise had indeed poisoned himself. It was too late to save him. He was gone.
Even as he sat here at the funeral, he could not comprehend it. How could Blaise have been so despondent over Marianne’s betrayal that he would actually kill himself? Over a girl? A muggle, no less? For the boy to even consider such an unspeakable act . . . it was just so unlike him.
Then why did you do it?
As sons of Death Eaters, Blaise and Draco shared a unique bond. It was sort of a ‘members-only’ club, one that could only be fully appreciated by those who lived it every day. They had a keen understanding of the cruelty their fathers were capable of. This had created a feeling of kinship between them, weaving some connecting thread that not many understood. Most people wondered how the two ever became friends, each one being as ruthless as the other, but they actually had a lot in common. They shared an unwavering respect for their fathers, although it stemmed mostly from duty and fear rather than love. They also secretly dreaded the day that an overzealous Ministry agent, or worse, some surreal, unspeakable horror might take their fathers away. When that day had arrived for Lucius Malfoy, his son’s world fell apart, and Blaise’s letters of support helped sustain him through the very difficult time that followed.
Pulling him out of his thoughts, Ginny stroked Draco’s hand tenderly. She sighed, gently swiped a fresh tear from his cheek, and asked, “Do you want to walk outside and get some fresh air?” The day was unseasonably warm, and there was a lovely rhododendron garden on the grounds that she wanted to see.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered absently. He slowly rose to his feet, sapped of all energy. He had not been able to eat much the past few days. Food had lost all its flavor. With his headaches recently intensified, sleep had been elusive; when rest finally did come, it did not refresh him.
The pair ambled along the rock path in the meticulously-kept garden, moving among the tall, hardy bushes. As they walked, Ginny considered how little she really knew about Draco Malfoy. He must have some capacity to care, perhaps even to love. He was obviously devastated by his friend’s untimely and inexplicable death, and his emotions were palpable. Just being here today, she too felt incredibly sad, although she had never really thought much of Blaise. Maybe it was seeing Draco in such misery that made her feel that way.
She felt very close to him all of a sudden and decided she was ready to share something with him, something intensely private. She took his hand, then biting her lip, she asked hesitantly, “Listen, er, do you want me to -- help take your mind off of -- all of this?”
He looked at her in wonder, his mouth hanging open. Gods, I love this girl.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied breathily. Pushing her in between the tall bushes, he wrapped his arms around her and lavished her with hot, wet kisses. Sure, he was nearing mental exhaustion, but he could always find the physical strength for this.
Somewhat surprised, but by no means repulsed, she backed away slightly. He wondered for the briefest of moments if this wasn’t what she had meant, but he did not regret it or even think of stopping.
Although this was not what she meant, she soon found herself relinquishing to his deep, hungry kisses, a singular thought filling her brain: Not what I meant, but it’s definitely good. She returned his passion, enthusiastically working up a good-sized love bite on his neck. As she did, he moaned, “Ginny,” into her silky ginger tresses, breathing in their crisp, fresh fragrance. He launched an all-out assault on her lips; almost immediately, his eager hands were wandering everywhere, worshipping her body with tender strokes and caresses.
For a fraction of a second, his mind protested, Why can’t I keep my hands off of her, even at my best friend’s funeral? But his body clinched that argument, quickly convincing the rest of him, Why would I want to, when she feels so bloody amazing?
He removed her robes in record time and transfigured them into a velvety, forest-green blanket. He hastily cast the two mandatory Charms (Silencing and Cushioning) and magically spread the blanket. Meanwhile, Ginny pointed her wand toward a sign she had seen just outside the garden’s entrance. She reworded it to read, “Danger – Keep Out!”
Catching her movements out of the corner of his eye, he asked with a sexy grin, “What did you do, you clever witch?”
“Just giving us some modicum of privacy. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked huskily. All the while, she laid her delicate hands in places that were making him feel weak and empowered at the same time.
“Mind? Hell, no. I don’t want anyone seeing you naked but me,” he growled, kissing her possessively.
Without much thought, she murmured, “Good, that’s . . good.” But it wasn’t long until she could say nothing but his name, softly and lovingly, between her tender kisses. She worked on undoing his robes, her lips never left his. As the offending garments were removed, he struggled to maintain bodily contact with her so he could feel that glorious touch of hers he loved so much.
At almost the last moment, Ginny tried to convince herself that she didn’t want this, that it somehow wasn’t right. Sweet Merlin, we’ve just attended Blaise’s funeral! How could we be so selfish? But it was far too late for that. Hesitating for all of four or five seconds, she pounced at him with renewed vigor, pushing him onto the softened area beneath them, where they both surrendered to their feelings completely.
Both of them utterly spent, they rested for a bit. Ginny eventually rose and reached for her wand. She whispered the spell Fleur had taught her, stood up to dress, and then said, “You know, we really should start looking for our portkey. Professor Dumbledore said it would only be active from 4:07 to 4:11. By the way, do you know what time it is?”
“What do I care?” Draco said casually. As his eyes lingered on her lightly-freckled skin, he wished she weren’t in such a hurry to get dressed again. He drew a deep breath then sighed, “Ginny, you are sensational. Incredible. And yet . . you’re driving me insane! I mean, most girls I’ve been with, they hung all over me. But you never even spare me a glance. I see you in the Great Hall or at the library and—” he paused. “You ignore me. Why?” he asked, the hurt evident in his tone.
Or at the Quidditch pitch, she thought. She was flattered that he had been watching her, apparently enough to notice that she was not returning his gaze. For a moment, her heart stirred. So the emotionally detached Draco Malfoy does have feelings. But she knew that in the natural order of things, reality would soon return and bring with it a few bitterly cold facts: Weasleys hate Malfoys, and vice versa, she told herself. Malfoy men have only one use for women. This isn’t real. I’m such a fool.
When she ceased her self-ridicule, she saw that he was studying her, waiting for her to say something. She worked to force down any feelings she might fancy herself to have for him, convincing her mind that they were simply a fabrication of her own design, and therefore, she could just as easily make them vanish. “You know why,” she replied calmly, as she pulled on her stockings. “Because of who you are, and who I am, I just -- have to.”
He started getting ready at a leisurely pace. “I know, what you’re saying does make sense, but it’s just that—”
After struggling for a moment, he said, “Ginny, you’re special. To be honest . . . I’ve never known a girl like you.”
With a mildly skeptical laugh, she asked, “To be what?! Honest?” She looked to where they had shared such intensity a short while ago -- so much so that it made her knees weak just thinking about it, and she felt even more idiotic. Aggravated that she could not suppress her conflicting feelings, she snapped at Draco, “I’m sure you don’t feel anything for me or any girl, so you can just stuff your so-called honesty.”
He was puzzled by her remark. “What are you on about?” he asked, getting quite peeved with her.
“Your ex-girlfriends -- no, your conquests -- they talk, you know? Were any of them ‘special’? Perhaps all of them?” she asked snidely. At his confused expression, she sighed, “You really have no clue, do you?” She turned the blanket back into her dress robes, and after sweeping off any debris, she put them back on. She said stiffly, “We will discuss this some other time.”
“I look forward to it,” he said without emotion, continuing to stare at her intently. As soon as these words left his mouth, a clock near the garden chimed loudly, four times.
Knowing they were nearly out of time, Ginny pleaded, “Oh, come on, you! The portkey will only be active for a few minutes! I do not want another detention; we’re lucky to have been able to come at all today.”
“Yeah,” he moaned, licking his lips, “weren’t we? And it was great.”
Ginny sighed exasperatedly, “Is that all you think of?” He shrugged and smirked at her.
But truthfully, he had no intention of missing the portkey time either. Using his wand, he finished dressing in seconds, and any evidence of their tryst in the garden was removed. They soon found the ragged old umbrella that was their portkey back to the school. It was covered with rust and draped in cobwebs. Draco thought it looked disgusting, while Ginny thought it looked like something from her family’s shed.
As they waited for it to activate, he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Another girl may have seen the gesture as positively endearing, and Ginny might have too -- if he were a different boy. However, since it was Draco, she saw it as a sign of ownership, a silent message that said, ‘You’re mine’, and it did not set well with her. She instinctively moved a few inches away from him, much to his chagrin. He sighed loudly in frustration, but she told him coolly, “I don’t know if we’re being met by someone, and if so, who that someone might be.”
Each of them placed a hand on the aged umbrella. Shortly after 4:07, they were standing outside the Hogwarts gates, being met by Rubeus Hagrid. “Hello, Ginny,” the half-giant said, smiling tenderly at her, then he added gruffly, “Afternoon, Malfoy.” Draco sneered in reply.
“Hello, Hagrid,” she said with a sugary-sweet smile, as she distanced herself a bit further from Draco. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“No trouble at all. Wouldn’t leave you out here to your own, now would I?”
They entered the grounds, and Hagrid clanked the gate shut behind them. He marveled at the unusual pair, wondering why they were together in the first place. Why would Ginny go to a funeral for a Slytherin, with another Slytherin? It don’t make no sense. Thinking he saw a love-bite on Malfoy’s pale neck, Hagrid had an unsettling thought that the two of them might actually be romantically involved. But he put that idea down straight away as pure codswollop. Why would she go out with the likes of Draco Malfoy? She’s too good for him. But, stranger things have happened. Look at Lily Evans and James Potter. I had her pegged for liking Severus Snape meself. She always stood up for him.
The three of them proceeded in silence, Hagrid and Ginny at ease in each other’s company, Draco wearing a tight expression as if he were irked about something. They walked together for several minutes until Hagrid’s path diverged. “I’ll leave you two now. Ginny, you’ll be alright?” he asked, eyeing her companion suspiciously and definitely concerned for the youngest Weasley. With a smile that appeared somewhat forced, she nodded, and he said, “I gotta go head over to the greenhouse and retrieve some more of that . . that er . . . stuff for Madam Pomfrey. She and Professor Snape are needing more of it, to er, . . never mind.”
As he walked away, Ginny could have sworn she heard him muttering regretfully to himself, “I should not have said that . . . Definitely . . should not—”
As Draco and Ginny drew near the castle steps, he impulsively grabbed her hand. He shoved her toward a small stone bench veiled within a cluster of trees. Pulling her down with him, he sat on the bench and said roughly, “We need to talk about us. Now.”
“There’s an ‘us’ to talk about?” she asked bluntly.
He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t get you at all, Ginny. What goes on in your brain? I mean, sometimes, you actually seem to like me -- that’s usually a prerequisite for sex, especially for girls -- but then at other times, you act like I’m something a hippogriff dropped.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, becoming mildly irritated with him.
He grumbled, “Just now, with Hagrid! Moving so bloody far away from me, just to prove to that creature that you don’t ‘like’ me?” She gasped softly in offense, but he went on, jeering sarcastically, “Oh, no, you obviously can’t stand me; you just shag me senseless every now and again! Anyway, who cares what a freak like that thinks?”
By now, she was angry. She said defensively, “Hagrid is my friend! He is also friends with my brother and his friends.” Then she half-whispered, “I’ve got to be careful, or Ron will find out that you’re my . . that we’re having . . semi-regular . . . relations.” As she said this, she looked away and crossed her arms coldly.
But he would not be ignored any longer; he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You act like I’m some arrogant, cold-hearted bastard, someone you wouldn’t give the time of day to, but what you do give to me . .” He paused momentarily then said affectionately, “That passion, that spark in your eyes . . it’s so intense, I can feel it somewhere deep in my soul. And the way you’ve helped me through all this with Blaise -- I mean, he was like a brother to me. I know you didn’t think much of him . . hell, you probably didn’t even know him, and yet you went to his funeral with me.”
He paused, turned away from her, then muttered weakly, “Can’t believe I’m saying this to you, of all people.”
Then he looked her in the eye and said clearly, “I like you. And although your behavior is sometimes . . unpredictable, I know you care for me. A little, anyway, or you wouldn’t have dropped your knickers for me -- twice,” he added with emphasis. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I need you, Ginny. And I don’t just mean the sex, which, by the way is definitely first-rate. I don’t know what this is, or why it is, but it isn’t just physical.” Then in a voice that hardly sounded anything like his own, he said quietly, “I know because . . of the way I feel with you when we’re not.” He leaned closer to her, kissed her softly on the cheek, and stroked her hair; this time, she did not move away. Running his fingers through her ginger mane, he thought, Gods, I sound like Saint Potter.
But he didn’t really care.
Ginny had the most bewildered expression on her face. She was looking at him intently, saying nothing, and trying to absorb what he was telling her. To be perfectly truthful, she too was struggling to grasp what she felt. She gazed at him and said softly, “I know exactly what you mean; it doesn’t make sense to me either. And I’m sorry if I’ve been snappish with you, but I honestly don’t know what I feel.”
She drew a sharp breath but then hesitated.
“What?” he prompted.
“Well, maybe I can enlighten you on my -- unpredictable behavior. This may not help much, but at least . . ”
“Anything, please. I am begging for this to be clarified,” he sighed.
Ginny sat up straight and inhaled deeply. Then, perhaps not very wisely, she decided to go against her instincts and trust him, taking him into her confidence. She figured it was probably the best time (If there ever was one, she thought) to reveal the one secret that nobody knew, not even her family or her best friends.
“Maybe if I answered your question from the alley in Hogsmeade -- you know, why my heart thinks we should get married someday?” She paused then chuckled nervously. “There is a reason. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Well, that depends,” was his initial response. Then he grinned and asked, “Will you at least acknowledge my existence in the Great Hall, from time to time? Gods, how can we carry on a proper ‘clandestine affair’ if we are forbidden to sneak an occasional glimpse of one another?”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t let my brother or Harry catch you,” she warned. “And what about your friends?”
He snorted then said with acute honesty, “No worries there. I just lost the only one I really cared about anyway.”
“Right.” She hedged momentarily then took the plunge. “Well, as you may know, our family is a very old one, perhaps even older than your own.” He raised one eyebrow, but she ignored it. “The Blacks or the Malfoys -- neither predates the Weasley line. It dates back to Uther Pendragon. Before that, no one knows, but King Arthur is definitely our ancestor.”
He interrupted her, asking suspiciously, “You are King Arthur’s descendent? Is that who your dad was named for?” She nodded, and he remarked wryly, “Who knew the ‘Weasley history’ was so colorful?”
“It’s true,” she insisted earnestly. “Centuries ago, Mordred, Arthur’s son he had with his half-sister Morgaine, was about to become a father himself when he was killed. The mother-to-be was a young witch named Mary Weasley. They were going to get married and live near Camelot, but when Mordred died, she moved away. So the people in her new village wouldn’t banish her, she told them she was a widow. She had twins, a son and a daughter. Her daughter died of disease at age ten; her son also became seriously ill, but he survived. His mother never married, so he carried on the Weasley name.” She stopped briefly to gauge Draco’s reaction. “With me so far?” she asked.
Mildly intrigued, but still skeptical, he nodded and said, “Go on.”
“Well,” she continued, “there were no daughters born into Mary’s family for almost two hundred years. Only sons. Morgaine, High Priestess of Avalon, stood by and watched. Eventually, a Weasley did have a daughter, and when the girl turned eleven, the Priestess granted the family a legacy. She would get to visit Avalon and meet Morgaine and her Aunt Viviane, The Lady of the Lake.”
Ginny looked at him to see if he was still listening. He was, very intently, although he did not really believe a word of it. Shaking his head, he chuckled, “All right, Weasley, now I know you’re having me on, so you can stop with the fairy tales, okay? Morgaine and the Lady of the Lake are both myth. And this is answering my question how?”
She bit back, “They are real! And if you don’t shut it, I won’t tell you anything more!”
He sighed and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers on the bridge of his nose. In a very tired voice, he said, “Fine. You were saying, my dear?”
She breathed deeply then continued, “I turned eleven the year I started at Hogwarts. On June 21st, the summer solstice, I took a portkey to the edge of a mist-covered lake; a long, narrow boat arrived to ferry me across. The mists gradually lifted and there it was: Avalon.” Her eyes lit up at the memory, and Draco thought she might cry.
“I entered the Hall, and Morgaine invited me to sit down. She placed her hand on my head and said, ‘Guinevere—”
“Your real name is Guinevere?” Draco sneered with laughter. “Bloody hell -- that’s hilarious!”
“Oh, shut your face,” she snarled at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, laughing at my name! What about your own?”
He only glared back at her coldly, saying nothing.
Continuing with her story, Ginny said, “The Priestess said, ‘You have survived childhood and are now burgeoning on womanhood. You may ask one question, and my answer will be true.’”
Ginny shrugged, “Like any young girl, all I wanted to know was who I would marry when I grew up. I concentrated on Harry Potter with all my being, hoping it would help if she saw him in my heart.” Draco scoffed, and she narrowed her eyes at him briefly then pressed on.
“Anyway, Morgaine took my left hand in her right and placed them both on my heart. Then she put her left hand on my forehead and closed her eyes. Even though the room was stiflingly hot -- you know, like it is in Divination -- a shiver ran through me. It was over in a matter of seconds.
“She opened her eyes and pointed to The Lady of the Lake, saying, ‘One day soon, you will speak to a young man whose mother looks just like my Aunt Viviane. He is the one you will marry.’
“Confused, I started to ask her what she meant. But before I got the chance, the sweltering Hall, Morgaine, the Lady of the Lake -- they were all gone, and I was back home in my room, utterly exhausted. I must have slept for days afterward.”
She paused then Draco urged, “So what happened next?”
Ginny chuckled without amusement and said, “Well, I couldn’t wait for Ron to get home from school. I had to know what Harry’s mum looked like, but it was much too late to send an owl, especially a decrepit one like Errol.
“We met my brothers at King’s Cross, and I immediately asked Ron about Harry’s mum. She had red hair, green eyes, and was sort of pretty. He asked, ‘Why, already planning what your children will look like?’ The twins snickered -- even Percy bit back a grin. But when Mum threatened to hex their mouths off of their faces until dinner, that shut them all up,” she added with a smug grin.
“So I continued to pine away for Harry, hoping that Ron or maybe Morgaine was wrong. Then the summer before my third year, we went to the Quidditch World Cup. I saw a woman there who was a dead-ringer for the Lady of the Lake. My heart jumped; it was her! Then I saw your pointy little face and put it all together. She was your mother. I nearly died from the shock.”
For a moment, neither one said a word.
“My, that’s -- that’s interesting, Wealsey,” Draco concluded. “This trip to Avalon, it really happened? You’re not just messing with my head?” he asked, eyeing her doubtfully.
“Of course I’m not! Why would I make up some dumb prophecy, when it’s obvious I would much prefer it didn’t happen?” she said with a scoff.
He returned his own, saying with disgust, “And you expect me to believe that crap! Honestly, what do you take me for? And to think I just now . . . bared my soul to you!”
She gasped at him defiantly, fiercely proud of her Weasley heritage and its connection to the Pendragon line. She respected Morgaine’s gift, even if the results were -- less than desirable.
As she rose from the bench, Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Believe whatever you want to, Malfoy. But when I first saw your mother and figured out who she was, I was horrified. I never said I wanted to marry you; I just knew that I would. I guess it’s up to you to change my mind.” She walked away in a huff.
Thoroughly vexed, he groused, “Whatever you say, Weasley.” Yet he stood up and followed her anyway.
They soon reached the opening they had come through earlier. Looking across the grounds, he spied a bench near one of the greenhouses. On it was Professor Lupin and beside him
was—
“Nymphadora?”
“Tonks?”
Draco touched Ginny’s arm and asked her suspiciously, “Since when do you know my cousin?” He seemed perplexed that the two of them could have ever met before.
She scurried to cover her tracks. “Well, I . . I don’t really. She’s a friend of my parents.” Not wanting to look Draco in the eye, she kept her eyes on the distant bench instead. Clearly, Tonks and Professor Lupin were on very friendly terms indeed, as she was practically sitting in his lap. Ginny added slowly, “I thought she was seeing my brother Charlie, but evidently -- they, er, broke up.”
“Looks like it,” he agreed. “What are they doing now? Can you tell?”
“Oh, he kissed her. Wait, now he’s kneeling in front of her,” Ginny informed him. Squinting her eyes, she asked, “Is he holding up a ring box?”
“Aww, shit. That stupid cousin of mine; only she would get involved with a damn werewolf. She is definitely one of a kind -- and thank Merlin for that! That awful pink hair—”
“Oooh, she kissed him back, and I think she’s -- yes, she’s crying, and he’s practically beaming . . oh -- this is sweet!”
“Oh, yeah, this is bloody wonderful. Remember, that idiotic bint is still related to me, and I do not approve of her becoming engaged to a werewolf. Wait till Mother hears about this!”
She lambasted him. “You are so prejudiced! Here you were, hands all over me not a half-hour ago, and I’m friends with both of them! Does that mean you disapprove of me?”
He said derisively, “No, you’re a pureblood witch, so you’re suitable, even if you are a bit -- misguided. But them—!” For once, words failed him. He sighed loudly, adding, “It’s just not right.”
“So you’re saying half-bloods and werewolves should not be married?”
Miffed at her accusation, he snarled, “She is not a half-blood! All the Blacks are purebloods!”
“Oh, really? And just how much do you know about your mother’s other sister? The one who’s not a known Death Eater? The one who isn’t a barmy maniac?”
He gasped at her impudence. “I happen to like my Aunt Bellatrix!”
She snorted quietly, “Loser.”
That set him off. “Look here, I’ve had just about enough of you!” He glared at her then passed by her to go inside the castle. She looked again to see what Lupin and Tonks were doing now. But they were already gone. Hmm, guess they went inside the greenhouse. Maybe they wanted to have a quick celebratory shag before dinner. But only students go there to ‘do the deed’. Surely, professors have their own private quarters . . .
Giving up on finding them again, she went into the castle as well. Besides, what am I, a voyeur all of a sudden? She rolled her eyes at her behavior. Not watching where she was going -- she was too ticked off at Draco for his horribly biased attitude -- she nearly bumped into Sophia Bellucci, the young girl from Italy, as she approached the front doors.
“Hello, Sophia. How are you?” Ginny asked in a friendly tone.
“Oh,” she began awkwardly in her thick accent, “I am well, Miss Weeeasley, how are you today?”
“I’m fine. And what brings you out on this brilliant afternoon, other than the lovely weather we’re having? It’s a good amount of sunshine, for this time of year.”
Sophia looked confused, as if this were a few too many English words for her to grasp at one time. Ginny simplified her question, asking the poor girl, “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is bell-beau-beautiful weather. Sun hot, no?”
“Yeah, it is. Where were you just now?” she asked curiously.
“Just now?” Sophia asked, confused by the phrase. “Oh, oh -- from -- where did I come? Now?”
“Yes,” the older girl prompted. “Were you at Hagrid’s?”
“Ah, I did see Hagrid, yes. He’s very nice. I like his aneemals. The uni-un-unicur—”
“Unicorns,” Ginny finished for her. “Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”
“Oh, si, I like. Pretty.” She struggled for a better word then came up with, “Gras-ful.” She moved her hands fluidly, as if to illustrate their movements and flowing manes. Ginny thought, Not bad.
“Graceful,” she guessed aloud. The young girl nodded enthusiastically. “Well, Sophia, I’ll see you later. Glad you like it here. Bye.”
“Graci -- thank you, Miss Weeeasley. Arrivederci.” She turned and headed toward the dungeons, waving and smiling buoyantly. Ginny thought, She’s probably grateful to have had at least one English conversation in which she was actually understood.
As she walked the path leading toward Gryffindor Tower, she heard voices up ahead of her. She recognized Draco’s instantly, but was he talking with -- another girl? Finding herself a little jealous, she thought irritably, What was all that baring-my-soul-to-you shite? I should have known, the lying bastard!
When she rounded the next corner, any jealousy she felt was abruptly squelched. He was talking to Moaning Myrtle, evidently about Blaise. Ginny sighed to herself. I’m such a moron.
Myrtle asked Draco, “And this happened how many days ago?”
He answered, “Four. He died four days ago. Can you help me?”
The ghost thought for a moment, then said assuredly, “Yes, I’m sure I can.”
“Great! Thank you so much, Myrtle. I owe you one for this -- maybe even two.”
“Maybe,” she asked hopefully, “you can find someone who can help me leave Hogwarts?”
“Yes, yes, I will definitely get right on that,” he affirmed.
She grinned from ear to ear and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Then she zipped away through the nearest wall.
Ginny had a mystified look on her face. Draco grabbed both of her hands and kissed her lips soundly. Whirling her around, he explained why he was so excited. “It’s wonderful, Ginny. Moaning Myrtle says when a person dies here, their spirit remains on the grounds for a week, sometimes longer. If they choose to remain here, they become a ghost.”
“So you think that Blaise might wish to remain as a ghost?” she asked slowly, as if trying to determine how that would be ‘wonderful’.
“Hell, no!” he snapped at her, rather insulted. “That would be a terrible thing to wish on anyone, except maybe Pansy. No, Myrtle is going to find him for me -- his spirit, anyway -- so I can talk to him before he goes! Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Yes, I-I guess that would be . . good.” She wasn’t sure this was what Draco needed. But how could she talk him out of it, when he was so enthusiastic about it? She hadn’t seen him this excited, this hopeful, about anything since she first met him. And as it meant so much to him, she did not wish to dissuade him. “Yes, it is wonderful.”
“Damn right, it is. First, I’m going to yell at him and then I’m going to strangle that arrogant bastard for leaving without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-arse. Frankly, he’s going to be glad he’s—”
As suddenly as she had left, Myrtle reappeared. He looked at her expectantly, asking as if she were daft, “Well?”
She had an odd look on her face and hesitated when she spoke. “Er, Draco . . I-I- don’t—”
But he couldn’t wait all year -- he only had three more days until Blaise would leave Hogwarts forever! He ranted excitedly, “Where is he? Did you bring him with you?”
A bit nervous, she hedged, “I don’t know how to say this, but he-he-he’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” he asked irritably. He was beginning to lose patience with her.
“I mean I can’t find his spirit. It’s-he’s not on the grounds,” she added with a slight wince.
“What does that mean?” He was getting more agitated by the second. Why did I have to meet up with a stupid ghost? he asked himself. She wasn’t making any sense at all!
But Myrtle was baffled as well. “I-I don’t understand it myself. What it means is,” she said warily, “if he’s not here -- then . . then he must not be dead.”
~End of Chapter~
I can see you now: “Blaise isn’t really dead? What the heck’s going on?” Fear not, all will be explained -- you must keep reading to find out! ;-) And to those who were shocked and/or disgusted by his ‘death’, vengeance shall be yours! (Go on, do your ‘happy dance’ around your computer now; we won’t laugh -- too much.) Regarding the ‘pseudo-fluff’, Draco is not turning into a softy. It’s just hard to express such feelings without a little tenderness.
In an attempt to keep him in character throughout, I tried to make it more of a ‘me’ centered thing, as he would probably think of himself first. And please forgive Ginny’s attitude toward him; I’m trying to write her as JKR might in a similar situation. (Can’t you just imagine what she’d say to that? “As if!!”) :-D
In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: A humongous *Thank You* to the late great Marion Zimmer Bradley, whose excellent book “The Mists of Avalon” inspired the Morgaine sequence. And some ‘Disclaimers within the Credit’, I know that MZB said The Lady of the Lake had dark hair, but most films depict her as a blonde, so I went with that. And Mordred did not father any children (that we know of). Call it “creative license.”
Oh, and Mrs. Weasley says, “Now, please be a dear and click where it says “Review!” and tell everyone what you thought of this chapter.” (THANKS, Ms. W!! :-D )
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