Undisclosed Desires
I want to recognize your beauty's not just a mask
I want to exorcise the demons from your past
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart
~*~*~*~
It had taken a few days, but Ginny eventually grew accustomed to Draco being the only other resident in the house. At least, that's what he supposed based on her new behavior after Jimmy's release. She had stopped glaring at him and had instead adopted an expression of deep contemplation or depression—he couldn't tell which.
Draco had tried to stay out of her way as much as possible, observing her from afar when he could. Mostly he spent his time among the flowers. Even when he wasn't working, he'd take a book outside and find a nice place to lie down in between a bed of geraniums and morning glories. There, he'd pass the day outside where the silence was comfortable and open, rather than contained within walls like it had been in Azkaban.
He held his arm above his eyes, blocking out the sun, and pulled the sleeve of his robe down to stare at the pale, unmarred skin of his forearm, analyzing it for the faintest trace of the dark curse that used to reside there. He had only worn the Mark for a short time compared to others, but, all the same, that kind of magic left an imprint. Sometimes Draco felt remnants of the Mark in the middle of the night, waking him up from nightmares of old men flying off towers and demons of fire consuming everything they touched—dark thoughts and odd bolts of fear that came and went as swiftly as the deaths he'd had the misfortune to witness. He was sure the panicked sweat he occasionally woke up in was a side effect of the curse, as were the feelings of despair and anxiety when he thought about his family. These were things he had not experienced before he had been branded with the Dark Mark.
In Azkaban, he'd spent most of his time trying not to think, and since arriving at The Cottage, his thoughts had burst free into the sun, naturally staying away from the dark. But now that he was thinking about his past and about the Mark once again, he couldn't help but feel as if he should have been thinking about them all along. How was it fair that he had forgotten the war so easily when people like Jimmy needed the refuge of a secluded cottage to defeat their demons? Normally he wouldn't give a goblin's arse about the consequences of his actions. While in school, he'd done plenty of things to torment his classmates, and he'd been proud of his actions. But his involvement in the war was not something he was proud of, and he did give a goblin's arse about what his actions had done to people.
Maybe that was because he had failed. Would he have felt differently if he had succeeded in his mission, if the Dark Lord had won? Or would the Mark have consumed him as surely as it consumed him now?
He lay in the flowers with his eyes closed for several minutes, absorbing the sun, until he sensed the light being blocked by a larger presence. He opened his eyes slowly to see Ginny's slight frame standing over him.
“What do you want?” he asked testily.
She dropped down to her knees, her hands coming to the sides of his face.
“What are you—!” But his outrage died in his mouth as he saw her red-rimmed eyes and anguished expression.
Before he knew what was happening, her lips had covered his and he had no time to register what was going on, no way to regain his balance, because even though he was still lying on the ground surrounded by a vibrant sea of fragrances and colors, he felt like he was falling and she falling with him. His hands automatically reached up to cup her face. He found their positioning awkward and clumsy, but it didn't matter because she was lips and warmth, teeth and sun, tongue and fire. His nose brushed against her chin as her braid tickled his ear, but he was too focused on the taste of her to care—a taste that was so much better than the scent of flowers or the sound of freedom.
He hadn't realized until this moment, with the bird in his heart beating its tiny wings against his ribcage, why he had watched her as closely as he had these past few weeks. So, he tried to tell her in his kiss because telling her with words took a courage that he did not possess.
Abruptly, she pushed herself off him, as if she’d burned herself on his lips, as if she’d suddenly found her actions distasteful. For those few moments, Draco had felt like something had gone right, like everything seemed to have fallen into place, but when he saw her face, he mentally recoiled from her.
Ginny's eyes nervously darted from one flower to another, completely avoiding Draco. Her hands were balled into fists, clenched so tightly that her knuckles had paled, which was a stark contrast to her bright red face. None of those things were what repelled him, though. It was her face, the utter revulsion that hung there, and he wondered if she had also made that face when she was kissing him.
The sky burned like fire behind her, reminding Draco of the evenings she had run off with the deliveryman, and at this thought, he withdrew from her even further. She’d used him, he realized, to make herself feel better. Not only that, she had picked him second to 'delivery boy'. And Draco refused to be anyone’s second choice.
She seemed to sense his thoughts because, if it were possible, her eyes became harder—flinty and ready to ignite.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“I understand perfectly,” he replied, grabbing his book as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Is that so!” she shouted at him from the ground. She seemed to have no strength to pick herself up but enough to harbor such a deep and exhausting anger. “You don’t understand a damn thing!”
Draco dusted grass and petals off his robes and then looked down at her with such indifference that it almost looked like loathing. But it was painful how far from loathing he felt for her. That’s what made this encounter unpleasant, what made his heart beat like it wanted to rip itself from his chest. She felt nothing for him—had used him, even—and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Despising the hateful expression on her face, Draco turned away, dismissing her. A moment later, however, he was sprawled out on the ground again. Ginny had tackled him and was straddling his waist. He heard the sound of her palm meeting his cheek before he felt the pain. She stared into his astonished eyes with resolute stubbornness, and Draco could do nothing but rub his stinging cheek. Then her expression crumpled into one of such pain that Draco wanted to pull her into his arms and soothe her in any way he could. Of course he didn’t act on the urge, but the tears that gushed down her cheeks weakened his resolve. Did that make him less of a man if a woman’s tears had the power to make him do her bidding?
“I shouldn't have even—” she spat, disgusted.
“Then why did you?” His voice was calm, his anger now dissipated.
“Because! I have… no one! There’s no one!”
Draco sneered. “What about your deliveryman?”
“He doesn’t want me! No one does. Except you.”
It was almost humorous how quickly his blood ran cold. He was sure his face had paled to its original complexion—a feat in itself considering how tan he’d become from his work in the fields.
“I see the way you watch me,” she whispered.
Her body dipped lower over his, and, for a moment, Draco thought she would kiss him again. He wanted her to, but she froze, realizing what she’d been about to do, and straightened her back again.
As she wiped the tears from her face, Draco said, “Can you please get off me?” But she ignored him.
“My brother died five years ago today,” she said. Something about her voice was too distant and too casual.
Draco said nothing.
“He… he died fighting your lot. He died so that people wouldn’t have to die anymore—so they wouldn’t have to be afraid.”
Her fist connected with his chest, but all the heat had left her, and her punch was more like a weak attempt at a slap.
“And you let them!” she cried. “You were one of them! How could you do that? You killed my brother!”
She punched him again, over and over, but, if her punches were weak before, they were jokes now. “You killed him,” she mumbled again, and Draco knew that she was no longer with him there in the garden. Her mind had taken her back to a time that plagued Draco’s thoughts most nights. But while he had come to realize that his past was behind him, a wall over which he had climbed, an injury that was nearly healed, she had never even tried to jump over the wall. Her wounds were still fresh, refusing to heal.
Lifeless as she was now, Draco sat up, pulling both of them to their feet in two swift motions.
He was unapologetic.
“I won't ask for your forgiveness or even try to explain myself. You would never understand my motivations. What I did was wrong to you, but it was necessary to me.”
She didn't say a word. Moments passed in which the sun seemed to have disappeared beyond the horizon. They hadn't noticed the lateness of the evening, but the slight chill in the air reminded them.
“Figures,” she said finally.
He bowed his head, unable to meet the accusation in her eyes. “I'm sorry about your brother,” he said softly.
Her eyes glittered, and the corners of her mouth twitched as if she was holding something back. He knew that he had sounded insincere, but that was his disappointment talking. This was not the way he had imagined kissing Ginny Weasley, and he had imagined kissing her more times than he was comfortable admitting to even himself.
“But I forgive you for hating me,” he continued.
“You forgive me?” she asked incredulously.
Draco was a bit relieved to hear some emotion in her voice and he nodded. “I hated you, too, you know, at first. Because I was afraid of you. But you've taught me one thing that I will never forget.”
“What's that?”
“Forgiveness is overrated. I don't need it to be a good person because my definition of good is different from yours.”
Then he left her in the morning glories, her eyes staring after him, his heart aching painfully. He had kind of lied. Forgiveness wasn't overrated, and he wanted hers more than anyone else's.
Draco had been fertilizing snapdragons when they came to pick him up. Mr. White had been sent to fetch him from the garden, and he ushered Draco into the house with the end of his cane. Draco didn’t have time to wonder what was going on before his eyes fell on their guests. Sitting at the long wooden table in the kitchen, taking cups of tea from Lucy, were the Ministry official that had set Draco free and none other than Harry Potter.
“There you are, dear! You can go home today. Isn't that nice?” Lucy said with her usual grin.
Draco didn't dare believe it. Actually, he couldn’t comprehend that part at all; he was still getting over seeing Potter’s face here at The Cottage, Draco's sanctuary for the past few months.
“That’s right, Malfoy,” Potter said, a slight smile on his face. “You’re free to go.”
Suddenly, the words penetrated Draco's brain. He was free? He could go back to the manor? He could see his mother? His father?
“Just like that?” he asked skeptically, though he might not have been able to hide the tiny hint of hope that sneaked in through his voice. His eyes darted to Potter, who sipped his tea with a confidence that Draco couldn’t remember him having in their school days. It was strange seeing how much Potter had changed. Draco had half-expected time to have stopped while he’d been serving his sentence, and the man in front of him did not resemble the boy he’d hated at school.
Since Draco had seen him last, Potter had grown. He had the appearance of a boy pretending to be a man but wearing his new skin well. Despite that, there were some things that would always be the same, always be so very Potter. The round glasses, for one, and the famous lightning bolt scar, for another.
“Just like that,” Lucy answered kindly.
“Then what is Potter doing here?”
Potter's saucer clattered as he put his tea down and cleared his throat, but it was Draco's old friend, the Ministry official, who had answered before Potter could even catch his breath.
“Mr. Potter was the one who suggested you for this program. He has a right to be here.”
“Potter was the one? You were the one?” Draco asked, almost horrified by the news. Scar-head was the reason he had been released from Azkaban two years early. Fantastic! He owed his freedom to his oldest enemy!
“Mr. and Mrs. White wanted to start a rehabilitation program here to help prisoners and the like integrate back into society, specializing in after-effects from the war and recovery. After a look at your Azkaban files, I nominated you to try out the program. The Whites have had amazing success with some patients from St. Mungo's, too, but you'll be the first prisoner to successfully complete the program.”
Draco sat down at the table, his legs unable to hold him up any longer. He shook his head in disbelief, his thought processes slowing down. He had to wonder what had happened to the prisoners who had not successfully finished rehabilitation. Did they go back to Azkaban? Maybe get shipped off to America?
“But…” Draco paused. “What made you think I needed rehabilitation? My trial, the charges...” His eyes narrowed in anger as a thought came to him. “Wait, what after-effects? I'm not mental!”
The corners of Potter's mouth drooped as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“Your report stated that you wouldn’t speak; you didn't move. You were wasting away in your cell, Malfoy. The guards thought you would stop eating one day. You probably would have died if you had stayed there. And I nominated you because there’s evidence that you are not as dangerous as your trial made you seem.” Potter threw back the rest of his tea and then stood, the Ministry official following his lead. “Now, why don't you go pack your things?”
Draco found himself heading back to his room, his mind strangely blank, which was oddly reminiscent of his days in Azkaban. All the time he’d spent at The Cottage, unable to turn off his brain, and now he couldn’t think of anything at all. But he was going to go home. This time, he'd really be free.
When he entered his room, a sudden burst of energy seized him, and he began to rush around the room looking for his clothes, which were strewn all over the floor and bed. It wasn't as though he had a lot of clothes, only what Lucy had provided to him, and his personal belongings were scant. He wondered if this was how Jimmy had felt when he had packed to leave The Cottage those weeks ago. And then he wondered what Jimmy had gone home to, whether he had a home at all anymore. Did Draco? What if his mother had left the manor? What if she’d gone to the continent? What was he going to do with his freedom?
Thoughts of Jimmy led to thoughts of Ginny. He supposed she could go home now that there would be no more residents at The Cottage to take care of. Or maybe she’d continue to live with the Whites, waiting around for someone else to be admitted. Maybe she'd continue to see that deliveryman. But Draco had to make himself stop thinking about Ginny. Whenever his mind strayed to her, he grew irrationally angry. He couldn’t get their last encounter out of his head, couldn’t stop thinking of her debilitating grief, how she had blamed him for things beyond his control.
He could admit that he had been wrong now. When he was sixteen, he had chosen the wrong path. He’d been tempted by Dumbledore’s offer of salvation for him and his family, but he hadn’t acted soon enough. It was too late to regret that now. Everything that had happened during the war had shaped him into the person he was today. And Ginny? Well, she refused to see anything in him except his misdeeds. He couldn't cure her of her sorrow. Even though he had his own demons to deal with, on which he was certainly no expert, Draco was sure that he was the last person Ginny wanted to go to for help anyway. So he put Ginny to the back of his mind, where she couldn’t plague him. Today was a happy day, a long-awaited one.
Before he left the room, Draco grabbed all the letters he'd written with no intention of sending, including the one to Crabbe stashed underneath the mattress, and then he snatched the stuffed bear from the bed, refusing to leave behind his good luck charm. He flew down the stairs, eager to leave this place, eager to see his mother. Outside the door to the kitchen, though, he could hear a muffled conversation. He was about to make his way inside until he heard Ginny's name.
“She seemed to be doing fine until he came,” Lucy said.
“I was afraid of that,” Potter answered with a sigh.
“Perhaps it isn't personal,” Lucy reassured him.
“I don't think so. She knew him. She knew what he used to be like and the things he'd done. I think she has always blamed him, even though it’s irrational. He didn't start the war. He really wasn't even a big part of it. His actions didn't affect much.”
“I'm sure you know better than I do. Filip and I hid out here in the gardens during the height of the war, trying to stay away from it.”
“I was really hoping to take her home today, too,” Potter said. “Mrs. Weasley keeps asking me about her.”
Lucy’s voice was soft, so Draco pressed his ear to the door. “I know, dear. Give her a couple more months. Having Draco here might have hindered her recovery. Maybe she’ll do better when he leaves.”
Draco stepped away from the door, staring at the white-painted wood as if it had slapped him. He had always thought that Ginny had worked here, as a nurse or attendant or something, but she had been a resident—a patient—just as much as he had been. Now her overwhelming grief and anger suddenly made sense. She was still suffering from the war, unable to reconcile with the past.
But, again, he had to push the thoughts aside. There was nothing he could do for her. He was going home. So he schooled his features to hide the truth he had heard and entered the kitchen.
“Ah, there you are. You really don't have a lot of things, do you,” Potter said, earning a glare from Draco.
Mr. White slapped Draco on the back and said, “Good riddance, boy. Don't come back.”
“Oh, Filip, be nice to him!” Lucy reprimanded her husband. “Thank you for all your work. Become a productive member of society and stay out of Azkaban, or maybe we'll see you again.”
“Let's hope that doesn't happen,” answered Draco. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. It faltered and died as soon as he felt himself saying, “Tell Ginny that I...”
“Of course, dear. I'll let her know.”
She may not have wanted to say goodbye to him, but he was damn well going to say it to her. Be the bigger person and whatnot.
“Here we go, Malfoy,” Potter warned, holding out a chipped and dirty teacup for him to touch.
Just as the teddy bear had given him his first taste of freedom three months ago, the teacup released him from his shackles permanently. When the tugging sensation at his navel had subsided, Draco looked up at the gates that protected the Malfoy manor from the rest of the world and let out a sigh of relief.
He was home.
“Draco?”
On the other side of the iron bars stood his mother, looking lovely and healthy and better than he had dared to imagine these past five years. She shoved the gates open and scooped him into her arms like he was a toddler again, heedless of Potter and the Ministry official watching uncomfortably.
“Welcome home!” she cried.
It was the sound of freedom.
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