A/N: This chapter is really the first of two parts, and it may seem a bit out of context. Some of you may go ‘WTF?’ later on, but there is a reason for everything.
As always R&R. *Hugs to all*
It had been agreed that the Death Eater insurrection would temporarily go inactive. There would be no more meetings, no more discussions, and no more recruits, for fear of eager Death eaters trying to get a promotion by infiltrating the resistance.
Lucius and Draco spent more and more time locked away, deep in discussion. They were careful to meet with deeply, fanatically loyal supporters of the Dark Lord, as well as with members of the hidden resistance. Narcissa had had lunch with her sister Bellatrix on more than one occasion, a task that she privately confessed to Ginny as being deeply exhausting.
She told Ginny how utterly insane her sister had become, and how difficult it was to hold a coherent conversation with her, amid her fanatically loyal and partisan ravings about everything from Muggles to ‘those pitiful fools who think that they can stand against the might of the Dark Lord’.
Bellatrix had also had some choice words of wisdom regarding Ginny. She told Narcissa that she herself had been in favour of ‘burning the traitorous bitch’, and that she couldn’t understand why on earth Lucius and Narcissa had allowed their only son to marry her.
She had said, “In my opinion, Sister dearest, you are not nearly hard enough on the boy. You have spoiled him for too long. He should have been given a few salutary lessons in respecting one’s parents and bloodline.”
She had also asserted the opinion that, “Once the child is born, it might be best to dispose of the mother before she can poison his mind.”
Narcissa had smiled indulgently and made agreeing noises in all the right places before reminding Bellatrix that the girl’s mother had borne six healthy sons, and perhaps they might benefit from keeping her alive. She’d had to return home to a stiff gin and tonic, an icepack for her headache, and a darkened room.
Draco himself did not emerge from this period of uncertainty entirely unscathed. A number of the Death Eaters with which he was required to meet, particularly those with whom he had attended school, were distant and often mocked his choice of bride. Pansy Parkinson, and in fact the entire Parkinson family, had taken to ignoring him completely, which was something he told Ginny he could live with quite happily.
Her early pregnancy too became a source of mirth and lewd comments, as well as ridiculous suggestions that the baby wasn’t even his, which they both knew to be completely preposterous for reasons she avoided thinking about. She herself had far too much on her mind to be bothered by the whispers and stares of people in Diagon Alley.
As Christmas approached, she entered her sixth month of pregnancy, and was more or less confined to the Manor. From it, she watched the snow fall, blanketing the grounds in pure white, and her tree, now bare of leaves, stood tall and skeletal, the branches adorned in icicles and pure white snow.
The festive time of year was reflected in decorations throughout the Manor, beautiful trees with gold ribbon and exquisite ornaments adorned the hall, drawing room, and dining room, along with smaller coordinated wreaths and hangings. However, the festive spirit had not quite made it to the family, with the omnipresent sense of gloom hanging in darkened corners and around the Malfoy men. They all knew that the Christmas season would mean more attacks on Muggles, more terror, and more families decimated as their children came home from school and they all gathered together in one place.
Draco and Lucius had been required to ‘attend’ an attack on a family found to have connections to the resistance, and they had been morose ever since.
Somewhat perversely, it was Ginny who brought happiness into the Manor. Her latest midwife appointment had shown that the baby was strong, healthy and, as far as the midwife could tell, perfect.
As Ginny had dressed one morning, she noticed how thick and lustrous her hair looked and how she seemed to glow with health, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the family either.
A week and a half before Christmas, as she appeared at the door of the breakfast room, Lucius had looked up from his morning coffee. For the first time in her memory, he had acknowledged her and said, “Good morning, Ginevra. It is gratifying to see you looking so well.” She honestly thought she might faint in shock.
Narcissa had turned to look at her and given her an encouraging smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you,” she had replied, her voice shaking slightly.
As she approached the table, Draco stood up and pulled out a chair for her. Helping her into her seat, he pushed it in under her and sat down again, flashing her a brief smile.
As they had eaten breakfast, conversation centred on the baby; with barely three months to go, the imminent new arrival lifted everyone’s spirits and provided a welcome distraction. Even the intimidating Lucius seemed to look upon the arrival of his first grandchild with a degree of warmth that Ginny had never seen him display before.
After breakfast, she returned to her room, her thoughts troubled by the heartache that the Christmas season had brought her. A year ago, she thought, she had been wrapping presents for Harry and her family, much extended after the weddings of Ron and Hermione and Percy and Penelope, as well as gifts for her friends. It troubled her deeply that every single one of them was now dead.
There would be no more Weasley jumpers and homemade fudge, no more books from Hermione, no more jokes from Fred and George or orange things from Ron. Even the Firebolt X2 that Harry had bought her had been destroyed with her childhood home, after she had arrived to find her family slaughtered, and she herself been kidnapped by the Death Eaters.
As they had dragged her away, she had watched as the only place she had ever truly called home was razed to the ground; she hadn’t even had a chance to mourn her family properly. But it was the Weasley jumper above all things that sent her plummeting over her emotional cliff and into great wracking sobs, curled up in the middle of her giant bed, hugging a fluffy pillow to her chest.
After that, a tight knot of pain and sorrow lodged itself in her chest and she withdrew from the preparations for Christmas. She spent her days reading or staring morosely into the middle distance, her eyes unfocused as unpleasant thoughts swum in her head, surfacing randomly, bringing tears to her eyes.
Her nosedive into depression did not go unnoticed by Narcissa or Draco, who both encouraged her to tell them what was bothering her, but to no avail. Finally, two days before Christmas, she was sobbing quietly, or so she had thought, into her pillows in the early hours of the morning when she felt her husband climb into bed next to her. She was too tired and too pregnant to resist him when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her towards him, his hands around her wrists.
“Ginny, this cannot go on,” he hissed in her ear. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
Tears flooding down her face, she poured out everything that was troubling her, the weight in her chest easing with every word. When she finished, he held her tightly but said nothing.
On Christmas morning, she deliberately stayed in bed claiming that she was having Braxton Hicks’ contractions, and had the house elf bring her breakfast. She did not want to join them on a day so intrinsically linked to families and togetherness; it was almost laughable in its irony.
At half past eleven, Draco turned up.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
“I guess it depends on how you define ‘better’,” she said.
“I bought you a gift,” he said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her.
“I didn’t get you anything, you know that right?” she said, struggling into a sitting position.
“I guess that depends on how you define a gift then doesn’t it?” he said, raising an eyebrow at her and caressing her bump briefly before handing her a long box. She found it to contain a beautiful white gold and diamond bracelet to match the necklace and earrings he had given her after their wedding.
“It’s beautiful, thank you,” she murmured.
“Are you going to join us for Christmas dinner?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No,” he replied, dispassionately.
“I guess I am then.”
“Oh, and I’ve arranged something for you for this afternoon.”
“Being?”
“You’ll see.”
She didn’t want to appear ungrateful but she really preferred to know things in advance so she could practise a suitable response for his misplaced extravagance.
Dinner that afternoon was predictably opulent with multitudes of crystal glasses, rows of silver cutlery, and piles of fine bone china.
To start, there was a thick, delicious soup that she assumed she was supposed to know the name of, since no one actually told her. As well, there was an enormous goose that Ginny couldn’t bring herself to eat, plus a joint of roast beef, mountains of roast, boiled, and herbed potatoes, six or seven different kinds of vegetable, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, and rich gravy. There were several bottles of wine, the whites in buckets by the head of the table and the reds in crystal decanters.
She herself had been provided with a jug of pumpkin juice, and there was a jug of iced water nearby. She swallowed hard; the more pregnant she had become, the harder it was to eat large amounts at one sitting, and the house elf was piling food onto her plate in the mistaken belief that, because she was eating for two, she should have double portions. As she picked at the pile of food in front of her, Narcissa eyed her shrewdly from across the table.
Conversation was predictably sparse, with the main topics being the activity (or rather, lack of it) of the insurrection, the current state of knowledge regarding the ‘official’ resistance and the Order of the Phoenix, the ramifications of the most recent of the long line of poor decisions made by the Dark Lord, and, somewhat perversely, the following year’s holiday destination.
Dessert was every bit as rich as the main course with Sherry Trifle, Chocolate Soufflé, Profiteroles and thick cream, as well as a blue-flaming Christmas pudding. Her back was beginning to ache again and the movements of the baby against her full stomach made her nauseous.
As soon as she was able, she excused herself and disappeared to the library, one of the few places in the Manor where she was almost guaranteed not to be disturbed. A while ago, she had found an alcove behind some bookshelves that contained a particularly comfortable armchair next to a window.
She was bored to insanity; she had nothing to do with her days other than read, and there was no way in hell that she was going to take up any form of embroidery whatsoever and become a stereotypical pampered rich wife.
With a resigned sigh, she picked up a book that she had read twice before, a slushy wizarding romance set during the medieval witch burnings. The plot was vapid and predictable with the Wizard racing against time to rescue his beloved, only to find that the chief witch-hunter was an evil wizard himself. Magical battles, vows to destroy people, and cliché declarations of love and that was more or less the plot, but she enjoyed reading the book anyway as it contained some quite explicit sex scenes which were always entertaining as a cheap mid-afternoon thrill.
She had just reached the part where the hero and heroine had seen each other for the first time (and of course had fallen in love at first sight), when Draco’s head appeared around the bookcase that was hiding her from view.
“There you are. I wondered where you had sneaked off to.”
“I don’t sneak,” she replied acerbically, “I leave that to you.”
She was feeling particularly belligerent that afternoon, possibly as a result of being irritated that her ‘secret spot’ had been discovered, although she knew that it was clearly not secret since someone had seen fit to furnish it in the first place, but also possibly because reading slushy romance novels made her particularly resentful in the wake of losing her own love, and her subsequent less-than-ecstatically-happy marital arrangements.
He was unaffected by her causticity and said, “Are you going to get changed then?”
“For what?”
“I’m taking you somewhere this afternoon remember?” He wasn’t smiling or looking smug, in fact he had a sombre expression on his face which worried her.
“Well, actually all you said was that you had arranged something.”
“Well, suffice it to say you will need to wrap up VERY warm.”
“Any particular dress code?”
“No, wear what you like, but we’re going to be outside.” Now she was really confused.
“I’ll meet you in the hall in about 20 minutes?” he said.
“I suppose,” she replied, and he disappeared.
She got to her feet with a groan, threw the book down onto the little side table and made her way back to her bedroom. She changed into a pair of Muggle jeans that she had magicked to fit her, a thin t-shirt, followed by two more thin t-shirts (her mother had always said that lots of thin layers were better than one thick one), a scarf that she tied around her bump to keep the baby warm, a thick jumper, thick socks and some nice boots she had bought the last time she had been in Diagon Alley.
She then grabbed a hat, scarf, and gloves set made of soft cashmere (a Christmas gift from Narcissa), and her favourite, warmest, and most voluminous cloak. It was a lovely garment, black with silver embroidery and fasteners. It had been a gift from Draco that he had bought for her the day after the first frost, ostensibly to keep the baby warm. It was much to her chagrin that it had turned out to be the most beautiful and best cloak she had ever owned, since she was failing spectacularly in her efforts not to be grateful to him for anything.
As she walked towards the entrance hall, she griped and grumbled to herself about all the things she was failing to do. She had long ago given up trying to hate him. It was almost maddening really, she wanted to hate him with a passion but found that he never gave her quite enough cause.
She had also been determined to keep his night time visits to a minimum, and had told herself that she was not going to enjoy his attentions. However she’d had to abandon that particular resolution some weeks into her marriage, since he’d made every conceivable effort to please her traitorous body and succeeded magnificently. She had decided that she was fighting a losing battle, and that it was far easier to close her eyes and just enjoy the sensations his attentions elicited without thinking too much about anything else.
The broken resolution that really annoyed her though was the one she had made before her wedding, the one where she would earn their trust and then abuse it in order to escape. However, her unbelievably, unusually swift pregnancy, and her subsequent fondness for the child, had precluded any further plans of escape. There was no way in hell that she would go though all that suffering and pain, only to abandon her child to be raised by servants of the Dark Lord, however ‘mutinous’ they might be.
As she descended the stair case towards the entrance hall, she was still grumbling to herself and didn’t see him stood waiting for her.
“What are you grumbling about?” he said suddenly, startling her.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just griping in general,” she replied dismissively as she reached him.
“Whatever. Right, well, come and have a look at this,” he said, and appeared to be suppressing child-like excitement.
He opened the door for her and she stepped outside into the biting cold, the fresh snow crunching underfoot. In front of her, pointing down the sweeping driveway was a car, a very new, very expensive car in a deep shade of black with a somewhat vainglorious number plate of DLM1. As she looked at it, she realised that it was a Muggle car.
It wasn’t something insanely extravagant like an Aston Marten, but it was impressive nonetheless. The snarling cat insignia told her that it was a Jaguar, but more than that she had no idea; she knew more about broomsticks than she knew about cars.
“It’s an X-type, three litre V6 Sport model. Nought to Sixty in seven seconds.” He was clearly proud of the fact that it had to mean something significant.
She was incredulous. “What on earth are you doing with a Muggle car?”
“I imagine I’m going to drive it,” he said simply
“I gathered that, but you, a Malfoy, owning something so quintessentially Muggle?”
“Driving is entertaining. Especially with the…modifications…I had done.”
“Do you even have a Muggle driving licence?”
“Of course, don’t you?”
“No, I prefer to Apparate.”
“It’s not as much fun as driving. A to B instantly, as opposed to A to B via C, D, E and F, and at a hundred miles an hour. It’s great!”
She was truly stunned. “Let me get this straight. You, a Malfoy, heir to one of the most notorious and powerful Wizarding families, known for your…connections, have actually willingly purchased something Muggle for ‘entertainment’?” She couldn’t have disguised her incredulous expression if she had tried.
“Yep.” He had an infuriatingly superior look on his face.
“Why do you even need a car?”
“Why not? Besides, I thought it might come in handy – you can’t Apparate with a baby, can you?”
“Is that what you got me all trussed up for? To look at a car?”
“Of course not, we’re going for a drive.”
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.” He was becoming infuriating.
He opened the passenger door for her and she saw an impressive black leather interior. She sat gingerly on the seat and swung her legs into the door, trying not to touch the sills. He bent down and tucked her cloak into the car, then shut the door. The car had a strangely pleasant ‘new’ smell, and she ran her fingers over the smooth leather in awe.
The driver side door opened and she felt the car move slightly as he got into his seat.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded her, and she pulled it reluctantly across her.
“Won’t it damage the baby if we have a crash?”
“We won’t crash.”
“What if we do?”
“We won’t, trust me.”
“So why do I need the seatbelt?” She was being deliberately difficult, her belligerent mood still simmering under the surface.
“Just bloody well wear it, would you, and stop being so bloody difficult,” he growled as he turned the ignition key and the engine roared throatily into life. She could feel the rumble of the powerful machine beneath her and it gave her a strange thrill of excitement.
Deciding that she would really rather not be riding in a car that he was driving whilst he was mad at her, she changed the subject. “So, what are these modifications you mentioned?”
“It’s difficult to explain really. Have you ever been on the Knight Bus?”
“Sadly, yes.” She shuddered, remembering the gut-wrenching motions of the bus as it hurtled all over the country with the driver possessing no apparent driving skills whatsoever.
“Well, according to the wizard that performed the modifications, they’re similar to that. Basically it means I can skip through traffic jams, and things move to avoid me. So I always get a parking space and that is why we won’t crash.”
He pulled away down the driveway at a speed that she thought far in excess of what it needed to be, the roar of the engine and the skittering of the gravel thrown up behind them filling her ears as she gripped the door handle for dear life.
As he approached the gates alarmingly fast, he pushed a small silver button on the dashboard and they opened instantaneously. He pulled out onto the deserted road, apparently familiar with where he was going since she saw plenty of road signs that he appeared not to take any notice of.
It became clear to her as they travelled in silence that he was as skilled at driving as he was at everything else, and she loosened her white-knuckled grip on the door handle.
She sat in contemplative silence as she watched the snow-covered countryside flash past the windows and enjoyed the delicious warmth of the car knowing how cold it was outside.
After a while, he pulled onto a motorway that was almost deserted and the monotony of the scenery drew her attention inside the car. She thoroughly examined the central console and he smiled at her curiosity. Her eyes were drawn to the speedometer and she received a nasty shock.
“A hundred and thirty miles an hour?” she shrieked,
“I know. It’s good, isn’t it? I have done a hundred and forty-two,” he said with a boyish grin.
“No, it’s not good. It’s scary. You’ll get caught, if not by the Muggle police, then by those Speed Camera thingies.”
“I think not. That’s another of those modifications I mentioned. Speed Cameras can’t see me.”
“What about the police?”
“If they notice me, which I doubt, they’ll suddenly realise that I’m not breaking any laws. Funny that.”
“Yes,” she said weakly, “Funny that.”
After three rest stops for her to use the bathroom (“It’s not my fault, I’m pregnant, in case you hadn’t noticed”), and two hours later, they pulled off the motorway back onto winding back roads.
The countryside began to look vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. After a little while, he pulled into a deserted lay-by and switched off the engine.
She looked at him curiously as his grim look was back. He turned to her and said,
“You have a choice here. We can turn around and go back home, or we can carry on going. It’s up to you.”
“Go where though?” As she said these words, he pointed towards the windscreen and she followed his line of vision. At the side of the road just ahead of them was a road sign that read, ‘Welcome to Ottery St. Catchpole. Please drive carefully through our village.’
She felt as though someone had punched her, hard. She took deep, steadying breaths and willed the tears not to fall. She failed, and they spilled down her face onto her jumper.
“What are we doing here?” she whispered shakily.
“You were so upset the other night about your family that I thought it might help if I brought you here. We can go if you want.”
“NO!” she said, far more forcefully than she intended. “No, I…I,” she trailed off, and swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Now she was here, she was afraid. She knew it was stupid but she was afraid that if she saw their graves, it would make it more real. But then again, he had brought her here to try to help her. Perhaps it would do her some good to see where they were buried.
The magnitude of what he had done for her began to register in her mind, and she turned her head to look at him. He was staring out of the windscreen tapping his fingers gently against the steering wheel.
“I…I want to see them,” she whispered.
“If you’re sure,” he said, and he switched the engine back on and drove into the village.
As they passed places so familiar to her from her childhood, she began to feel rather sick. The last time she had been here, she had been visiting her family, and then everything had gone so terribly wrong. Now here she was, a little over a year later, married to a Malfoy, six months pregnant and riding through the village in a Jaguar.
~~*End Chapter 9*~~
As always R&R. *Hugs to all*
It had been agreed that the Death Eater insurrection would temporarily go inactive. There would be no more meetings, no more discussions, and no more recruits, for fear of eager Death eaters trying to get a promotion by infiltrating the resistance.
Lucius and Draco spent more and more time locked away, deep in discussion. They were careful to meet with deeply, fanatically loyal supporters of the Dark Lord, as well as with members of the hidden resistance. Narcissa had had lunch with her sister Bellatrix on more than one occasion, a task that she privately confessed to Ginny as being deeply exhausting.
She told Ginny how utterly insane her sister had become, and how difficult it was to hold a coherent conversation with her, amid her fanatically loyal and partisan ravings about everything from Muggles to ‘those pitiful fools who think that they can stand against the might of the Dark Lord’.
Bellatrix had also had some choice words of wisdom regarding Ginny. She told Narcissa that she herself had been in favour of ‘burning the traitorous bitch’, and that she couldn’t understand why on earth Lucius and Narcissa had allowed their only son to marry her.
She had said, “In my opinion, Sister dearest, you are not nearly hard enough on the boy. You have spoiled him for too long. He should have been given a few salutary lessons in respecting one’s parents and bloodline.”
She had also asserted the opinion that, “Once the child is born, it might be best to dispose of the mother before she can poison his mind.”
Narcissa had smiled indulgently and made agreeing noises in all the right places before reminding Bellatrix that the girl’s mother had borne six healthy sons, and perhaps they might benefit from keeping her alive. She’d had to return home to a stiff gin and tonic, an icepack for her headache, and a darkened room.
Draco himself did not emerge from this period of uncertainty entirely unscathed. A number of the Death Eaters with which he was required to meet, particularly those with whom he had attended school, were distant and often mocked his choice of bride. Pansy Parkinson, and in fact the entire Parkinson family, had taken to ignoring him completely, which was something he told Ginny he could live with quite happily.
Her early pregnancy too became a source of mirth and lewd comments, as well as ridiculous suggestions that the baby wasn’t even his, which they both knew to be completely preposterous for reasons she avoided thinking about. She herself had far too much on her mind to be bothered by the whispers and stares of people in Diagon Alley.
As Christmas approached, she entered her sixth month of pregnancy, and was more or less confined to the Manor. From it, she watched the snow fall, blanketing the grounds in pure white, and her tree, now bare of leaves, stood tall and skeletal, the branches adorned in icicles and pure white snow.
The festive time of year was reflected in decorations throughout the Manor, beautiful trees with gold ribbon and exquisite ornaments adorned the hall, drawing room, and dining room, along with smaller coordinated wreaths and hangings. However, the festive spirit had not quite made it to the family, with the omnipresent sense of gloom hanging in darkened corners and around the Malfoy men. They all knew that the Christmas season would mean more attacks on Muggles, more terror, and more families decimated as their children came home from school and they all gathered together in one place.
Draco and Lucius had been required to ‘attend’ an attack on a family found to have connections to the resistance, and they had been morose ever since.
Somewhat perversely, it was Ginny who brought happiness into the Manor. Her latest midwife appointment had shown that the baby was strong, healthy and, as far as the midwife could tell, perfect.
As Ginny had dressed one morning, she noticed how thick and lustrous her hair looked and how she seemed to glow with health, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the family either.
A week and a half before Christmas, as she appeared at the door of the breakfast room, Lucius had looked up from his morning coffee. For the first time in her memory, he had acknowledged her and said, “Good morning, Ginevra. It is gratifying to see you looking so well.” She honestly thought she might faint in shock.
Narcissa had turned to look at her and given her an encouraging smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you,” she had replied, her voice shaking slightly.
As she approached the table, Draco stood up and pulled out a chair for her. Helping her into her seat, he pushed it in under her and sat down again, flashing her a brief smile.
As they had eaten breakfast, conversation centred on the baby; with barely three months to go, the imminent new arrival lifted everyone’s spirits and provided a welcome distraction. Even the intimidating Lucius seemed to look upon the arrival of his first grandchild with a degree of warmth that Ginny had never seen him display before.
After breakfast, she returned to her room, her thoughts troubled by the heartache that the Christmas season had brought her. A year ago, she thought, she had been wrapping presents for Harry and her family, much extended after the weddings of Ron and Hermione and Percy and Penelope, as well as gifts for her friends. It troubled her deeply that every single one of them was now dead.
There would be no more Weasley jumpers and homemade fudge, no more books from Hermione, no more jokes from Fred and George or orange things from Ron. Even the Firebolt X2 that Harry had bought her had been destroyed with her childhood home, after she had arrived to find her family slaughtered, and she herself been kidnapped by the Death Eaters.
As they had dragged her away, she had watched as the only place she had ever truly called home was razed to the ground; she hadn’t even had a chance to mourn her family properly. But it was the Weasley jumper above all things that sent her plummeting over her emotional cliff and into great wracking sobs, curled up in the middle of her giant bed, hugging a fluffy pillow to her chest.
After that, a tight knot of pain and sorrow lodged itself in her chest and she withdrew from the preparations for Christmas. She spent her days reading or staring morosely into the middle distance, her eyes unfocused as unpleasant thoughts swum in her head, surfacing randomly, bringing tears to her eyes.
Her nosedive into depression did not go unnoticed by Narcissa or Draco, who both encouraged her to tell them what was bothering her, but to no avail. Finally, two days before Christmas, she was sobbing quietly, or so she had thought, into her pillows in the early hours of the morning when she felt her husband climb into bed next to her. She was too tired and too pregnant to resist him when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her towards him, his hands around her wrists.
“Ginny, this cannot go on,” he hissed in her ear. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
Tears flooding down her face, she poured out everything that was troubling her, the weight in her chest easing with every word. When she finished, he held her tightly but said nothing.
On Christmas morning, she deliberately stayed in bed claiming that she was having Braxton Hicks’ contractions, and had the house elf bring her breakfast. She did not want to join them on a day so intrinsically linked to families and togetherness; it was almost laughable in its irony.
At half past eleven, Draco turned up.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
“I guess it depends on how you define ‘better’,” she said.
“I bought you a gift,” he said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her.
“I didn’t get you anything, you know that right?” she said, struggling into a sitting position.
“I guess that depends on how you define a gift then doesn’t it?” he said, raising an eyebrow at her and caressing her bump briefly before handing her a long box. She found it to contain a beautiful white gold and diamond bracelet to match the necklace and earrings he had given her after their wedding.
“It’s beautiful, thank you,” she murmured.
“Are you going to join us for Christmas dinner?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No,” he replied, dispassionately.
“I guess I am then.”
“Oh, and I’ve arranged something for you for this afternoon.”
“Being?”
“You’ll see.”
She didn’t want to appear ungrateful but she really preferred to know things in advance so she could practise a suitable response for his misplaced extravagance.
Dinner that afternoon was predictably opulent with multitudes of crystal glasses, rows of silver cutlery, and piles of fine bone china.
To start, there was a thick, delicious soup that she assumed she was supposed to know the name of, since no one actually told her. As well, there was an enormous goose that Ginny couldn’t bring herself to eat, plus a joint of roast beef, mountains of roast, boiled, and herbed potatoes, six or seven different kinds of vegetable, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, and rich gravy. There were several bottles of wine, the whites in buckets by the head of the table and the reds in crystal decanters.
She herself had been provided with a jug of pumpkin juice, and there was a jug of iced water nearby. She swallowed hard; the more pregnant she had become, the harder it was to eat large amounts at one sitting, and the house elf was piling food onto her plate in the mistaken belief that, because she was eating for two, she should have double portions. As she picked at the pile of food in front of her, Narcissa eyed her shrewdly from across the table.
Conversation was predictably sparse, with the main topics being the activity (or rather, lack of it) of the insurrection, the current state of knowledge regarding the ‘official’ resistance and the Order of the Phoenix, the ramifications of the most recent of the long line of poor decisions made by the Dark Lord, and, somewhat perversely, the following year’s holiday destination.
Dessert was every bit as rich as the main course with Sherry Trifle, Chocolate Soufflé, Profiteroles and thick cream, as well as a blue-flaming Christmas pudding. Her back was beginning to ache again and the movements of the baby against her full stomach made her nauseous.
As soon as she was able, she excused herself and disappeared to the library, one of the few places in the Manor where she was almost guaranteed not to be disturbed. A while ago, she had found an alcove behind some bookshelves that contained a particularly comfortable armchair next to a window.
She was bored to insanity; she had nothing to do with her days other than read, and there was no way in hell that she was going to take up any form of embroidery whatsoever and become a stereotypical pampered rich wife.
With a resigned sigh, she picked up a book that she had read twice before, a slushy wizarding romance set during the medieval witch burnings. The plot was vapid and predictable with the Wizard racing against time to rescue his beloved, only to find that the chief witch-hunter was an evil wizard himself. Magical battles, vows to destroy people, and cliché declarations of love and that was more or less the plot, but she enjoyed reading the book anyway as it contained some quite explicit sex scenes which were always entertaining as a cheap mid-afternoon thrill.
She had just reached the part where the hero and heroine had seen each other for the first time (and of course had fallen in love at first sight), when Draco’s head appeared around the bookcase that was hiding her from view.
“There you are. I wondered where you had sneaked off to.”
“I don’t sneak,” she replied acerbically, “I leave that to you.”
She was feeling particularly belligerent that afternoon, possibly as a result of being irritated that her ‘secret spot’ had been discovered, although she knew that it was clearly not secret since someone had seen fit to furnish it in the first place, but also possibly because reading slushy romance novels made her particularly resentful in the wake of losing her own love, and her subsequent less-than-ecstatically-happy marital arrangements.
He was unaffected by her causticity and said, “Are you going to get changed then?”
“For what?”
“I’m taking you somewhere this afternoon remember?” He wasn’t smiling or looking smug, in fact he had a sombre expression on his face which worried her.
“Well, actually all you said was that you had arranged something.”
“Well, suffice it to say you will need to wrap up VERY warm.”
“Any particular dress code?”
“No, wear what you like, but we’re going to be outside.” Now she was really confused.
“I’ll meet you in the hall in about 20 minutes?” he said.
“I suppose,” she replied, and he disappeared.
She got to her feet with a groan, threw the book down onto the little side table and made her way back to her bedroom. She changed into a pair of Muggle jeans that she had magicked to fit her, a thin t-shirt, followed by two more thin t-shirts (her mother had always said that lots of thin layers were better than one thick one), a scarf that she tied around her bump to keep the baby warm, a thick jumper, thick socks and some nice boots she had bought the last time she had been in Diagon Alley.
She then grabbed a hat, scarf, and gloves set made of soft cashmere (a Christmas gift from Narcissa), and her favourite, warmest, and most voluminous cloak. It was a lovely garment, black with silver embroidery and fasteners. It had been a gift from Draco that he had bought for her the day after the first frost, ostensibly to keep the baby warm. It was much to her chagrin that it had turned out to be the most beautiful and best cloak she had ever owned, since she was failing spectacularly in her efforts not to be grateful to him for anything.
As she walked towards the entrance hall, she griped and grumbled to herself about all the things she was failing to do. She had long ago given up trying to hate him. It was almost maddening really, she wanted to hate him with a passion but found that he never gave her quite enough cause.
She had also been determined to keep his night time visits to a minimum, and had told herself that she was not going to enjoy his attentions. However she’d had to abandon that particular resolution some weeks into her marriage, since he’d made every conceivable effort to please her traitorous body and succeeded magnificently. She had decided that she was fighting a losing battle, and that it was far easier to close her eyes and just enjoy the sensations his attentions elicited without thinking too much about anything else.
The broken resolution that really annoyed her though was the one she had made before her wedding, the one where she would earn their trust and then abuse it in order to escape. However, her unbelievably, unusually swift pregnancy, and her subsequent fondness for the child, had precluded any further plans of escape. There was no way in hell that she would go though all that suffering and pain, only to abandon her child to be raised by servants of the Dark Lord, however ‘mutinous’ they might be.
As she descended the stair case towards the entrance hall, she was still grumbling to herself and didn’t see him stood waiting for her.
“What are you grumbling about?” he said suddenly, startling her.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just griping in general,” she replied dismissively as she reached him.
“Whatever. Right, well, come and have a look at this,” he said, and appeared to be suppressing child-like excitement.
He opened the door for her and she stepped outside into the biting cold, the fresh snow crunching underfoot. In front of her, pointing down the sweeping driveway was a car, a very new, very expensive car in a deep shade of black with a somewhat vainglorious number plate of DLM1. As she looked at it, she realised that it was a Muggle car.
It wasn’t something insanely extravagant like an Aston Marten, but it was impressive nonetheless. The snarling cat insignia told her that it was a Jaguar, but more than that she had no idea; she knew more about broomsticks than she knew about cars.
“It’s an X-type, three litre V6 Sport model. Nought to Sixty in seven seconds.” He was clearly proud of the fact that it had to mean something significant.
She was incredulous. “What on earth are you doing with a Muggle car?”
“I imagine I’m going to drive it,” he said simply
“I gathered that, but you, a Malfoy, owning something so quintessentially Muggle?”
“Driving is entertaining. Especially with the…modifications…I had done.”
“Do you even have a Muggle driving licence?”
“Of course, don’t you?”
“No, I prefer to Apparate.”
“It’s not as much fun as driving. A to B instantly, as opposed to A to B via C, D, E and F, and at a hundred miles an hour. It’s great!”
She was truly stunned. “Let me get this straight. You, a Malfoy, heir to one of the most notorious and powerful Wizarding families, known for your…connections, have actually willingly purchased something Muggle for ‘entertainment’?” She couldn’t have disguised her incredulous expression if she had tried.
“Yep.” He had an infuriatingly superior look on his face.
“Why do you even need a car?”
“Why not? Besides, I thought it might come in handy – you can’t Apparate with a baby, can you?”
“Is that what you got me all trussed up for? To look at a car?”
“Of course not, we’re going for a drive.”
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.” He was becoming infuriating.
He opened the passenger door for her and she saw an impressive black leather interior. She sat gingerly on the seat and swung her legs into the door, trying not to touch the sills. He bent down and tucked her cloak into the car, then shut the door. The car had a strangely pleasant ‘new’ smell, and she ran her fingers over the smooth leather in awe.
The driver side door opened and she felt the car move slightly as he got into his seat.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded her, and she pulled it reluctantly across her.
“Won’t it damage the baby if we have a crash?”
“We won’t crash.”
“What if we do?”
“We won’t, trust me.”
“So why do I need the seatbelt?” She was being deliberately difficult, her belligerent mood still simmering under the surface.
“Just bloody well wear it, would you, and stop being so bloody difficult,” he growled as he turned the ignition key and the engine roared throatily into life. She could feel the rumble of the powerful machine beneath her and it gave her a strange thrill of excitement.
Deciding that she would really rather not be riding in a car that he was driving whilst he was mad at her, she changed the subject. “So, what are these modifications you mentioned?”
“It’s difficult to explain really. Have you ever been on the Knight Bus?”
“Sadly, yes.” She shuddered, remembering the gut-wrenching motions of the bus as it hurtled all over the country with the driver possessing no apparent driving skills whatsoever.
“Well, according to the wizard that performed the modifications, they’re similar to that. Basically it means I can skip through traffic jams, and things move to avoid me. So I always get a parking space and that is why we won’t crash.”
He pulled away down the driveway at a speed that she thought far in excess of what it needed to be, the roar of the engine and the skittering of the gravel thrown up behind them filling her ears as she gripped the door handle for dear life.
As he approached the gates alarmingly fast, he pushed a small silver button on the dashboard and they opened instantaneously. He pulled out onto the deserted road, apparently familiar with where he was going since she saw plenty of road signs that he appeared not to take any notice of.
It became clear to her as they travelled in silence that he was as skilled at driving as he was at everything else, and she loosened her white-knuckled grip on the door handle.
She sat in contemplative silence as she watched the snow-covered countryside flash past the windows and enjoyed the delicious warmth of the car knowing how cold it was outside.
After a while, he pulled onto a motorway that was almost deserted and the monotony of the scenery drew her attention inside the car. She thoroughly examined the central console and he smiled at her curiosity. Her eyes were drawn to the speedometer and she received a nasty shock.
“A hundred and thirty miles an hour?” she shrieked,
“I know. It’s good, isn’t it? I have done a hundred and forty-two,” he said with a boyish grin.
“No, it’s not good. It’s scary. You’ll get caught, if not by the Muggle police, then by those Speed Camera thingies.”
“I think not. That’s another of those modifications I mentioned. Speed Cameras can’t see me.”
“What about the police?”
“If they notice me, which I doubt, they’ll suddenly realise that I’m not breaking any laws. Funny that.”
“Yes,” she said weakly, “Funny that.”
After three rest stops for her to use the bathroom (“It’s not my fault, I’m pregnant, in case you hadn’t noticed”), and two hours later, they pulled off the motorway back onto winding back roads.
The countryside began to look vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. After a little while, he pulled into a deserted lay-by and switched off the engine.
She looked at him curiously as his grim look was back. He turned to her and said,
“You have a choice here. We can turn around and go back home, or we can carry on going. It’s up to you.”
“Go where though?” As she said these words, he pointed towards the windscreen and she followed his line of vision. At the side of the road just ahead of them was a road sign that read, ‘Welcome to Ottery St. Catchpole. Please drive carefully through our village.’
She felt as though someone had punched her, hard. She took deep, steadying breaths and willed the tears not to fall. She failed, and they spilled down her face onto her jumper.
“What are we doing here?” she whispered shakily.
“You were so upset the other night about your family that I thought it might help if I brought you here. We can go if you want.”
“NO!” she said, far more forcefully than she intended. “No, I…I,” she trailed off, and swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Now she was here, she was afraid. She knew it was stupid but she was afraid that if she saw their graves, it would make it more real. But then again, he had brought her here to try to help her. Perhaps it would do her some good to see where they were buried.
The magnitude of what he had done for her began to register in her mind, and she turned her head to look at him. He was staring out of the windscreen tapping his fingers gently against the steering wheel.
“I…I want to see them,” she whispered.
“If you’re sure,” he said, and he switched the engine back on and drove into the village.
As they passed places so familiar to her from her childhood, she began to feel rather sick. The last time she had been here, she had been visiting her family, and then everything had gone so terribly wrong. Now here she was, a little over a year later, married to a Malfoy, six months pregnant and riding through the village in a Jaguar.
~~*End Chapter 9*~~
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