Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Copacetic	By : alecto Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Ginny Views: 8449 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money off of Harry Potter

Chapter List
- 5
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- 7
Sometimes she got really sad. Really, really sad. Sometimes she missed Harry so much that it felt like she had eaten tin, that if someone reach a hand down her throat and threw a fist around, all they would hear was clattering from her empty, hard gullet.

The nights were hardest. They always were. She thought that maybe it was because during the day her mind was racing, planning, thinking. She kept herself busy all the time—owling her children at Hogwarts, settling the separation and impending divorce with Harry, coming to work and spending longer hours than needed there. Even Amorin had remarked that she “looked like shite” and probably “needed to take a little time off.” She had laughed at him, and had gone back to making notes on the Cannons and their latest loss. And whenever she got home from work, she either made dinner right away, or booted up her computer and continued to write the article about Lucius.

Yes, Lucius. Somehow, he had become a fixture in her life. She saw him more than she saw Harry, which was such a ridiculous and alien concept that it made her laugh aloud to think of it.

What an irritating man he was. She had wondered, before the interview process had started, if she was going to be upset at being in his presence and in his home. They still had not spoken about the diary.

If she was honest with herself—she had forgotten about the diary years ago. Ginny didn’t consider herself religious or particularly fatalistic—it was unpleasant to believe that a power greater than oneself was picking one’s path, sight unseen—but she felt as though the diary had been a non-negotiable. Which was hard, and interesting to admit to herself. She had come to terms with that a long time ago. That without the diary she would have just been the youngest Weasley. Not particularly remarkable. In a sick and twisted way, the introduction to Lucius—and therefore Tom—had shaped her irrevocably. That it was going to happen sooner or later—that that diary was going to make its way into her hands, and if not that, then one of the other Horcruxes, and if not those, then something else. Maybe something worse. Something that was going to change her the way she was meant to be changed, malleable as she had been.

It was an odd way of looking at it. She had tried to explain it to Harry once—that without the diary she may not have met him, may not have had their children, may not have been the person she was to the day, that perhaps even the Horcrux hunt might not have happened, that even perhaps the War might have had a different outcome, or that might have been no War—and he had shut her down completely. She had tried, once, to explain it to Hermione, who had reasoned her way around it. She had tried to tell it to Ron, who had guffawed.

Why did she always feel like the smartest of her friends and family? No—that was an exaggeration. Bill and Charlie were whip-smart, and mature, too. Her father was kind and genial and wanted knowledge like her brothers wanted food. But the rest of the family and the rest of the circle of post-War friends—Hermione, Harry, Ron, Percy, her mother, Tonks, all of them—she was smarter than them. Hermione was book-smart, but fucking stupid when it came to day to day life. She was raising her children to be neurotic little freaks, as lovely as they were, and as much as Ginny loved her own nieces and nephews. Her brothers were dolts, loveable as they were. Harry was a numpty who had been emotionally blinded by war glory and war pain.

Ginny shoved those thoughts aside. If she spent too long thinking them, then she became bitter and cruel, and it reflected in her outward appearance and in the way she interacted with people, and as feisty as she was at times, she didn’t want to end up a bitter and judgmental old maid.

Though it was possible that she was on that path already.

She sighed, and flexed her fingers above the keyboard. She hadn’t even noticed that the sun was setting, and that her flat was growing darker. She hadn’t even had dinner yet, and so she left Lucius on the page, refusing to direct her thoughts toward him any more for the night because she wasn’t sure where those thoughts were going, and she headed to the kitchen.

---

The next time they met, Ginny brought her own record player. She always worked better with some music in the background, and she wanted to make notes before meeting with him. It was easy enough to bring into the Manor—shrunken and hidden in her purse—and while he went off to make a few calls, she set it up in the library.

Yes, she was doing it to goad him. She was irked that they had only really scratched the surface of his personality and his life. She had the feeling that he was giving her as little as possible—the most frivolous details—every time they met so that he would be able to stretch the process on for as long as possible. She didn’t know what his aims were in that. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know, because when she thought of it, she got a little odd inside.

She bent over her notes.

“What. The hell. Is this?”

Oh, there he was. Emerged from the bowels of the house like a bat out of hell, already grousing about something. She found that it was moments such as this that he truly, truly showed his age—his complaining.

Ginny looked up. Lucius appeared to have gritted his teeth together. His arms were crossed over his chest in such a petulant manner that she fought the urge to chuckle at him. She knew that that would be the worst thing that she could do—laugh at him.

“It’s a record-player that my father rigged up to work in magical households. Isn’t it lovely?” Ginny realised she was aggravating him, but she wanted him to at least enjoy the music. It was time to start dislodging that stick from his arse.

“What?” Lucius was riled at having some alien device in his home.

“I just brought it here to help me work—I write better with music, and when I used to live on my own in Muggle London I liked to explore the record shops.”

Lucius frowned at her. “You lived in Muggle London?”

“For a short time, yes. I hated the press and the publicity that I got as being a war survivor in Wizarding London.” Ginny looked expectantly at him, and he realised that he knew exactly what she was talking about. It was the reason that he had become so reclusive in the Manor. “Anyway, I really started using the record player then. It gives off a better sound than the wireless. Warmer, I think. And I really started to become interested in older Muggle music.”

He couldn’t say that he loved the music coming from the machine, but he didn’t mind it, either. It was reminiscent of the Wizarding music that he had listened to while growing up. Lucius frowned harder and made a grumpy sound in the back of his throat.

Ginny rolled her eyes and kept her head down, still writing. “Sit down if you’re staying,” she said shortly. She had notes to write. Sometimes just even being back in the Manor made her mind race, and things came to her as she walked through the house itself.

She stopped for a moment, still looking at the page. Being back in the Manor—she had said it in her brain as though it was one of her own homes that she was returning to. As though it had fond memories. That was interesting. She kept writing.

Lucius raised his eyebrows at her, but she missed it because of her downcast eyes, and so he sat down heavily on the couch, somewhat chastised. He looked to his left and surveyed the crackling device that was near to him.

Ten minutes later, Ginny looked up from her intensive writing and blinked. Lucius was standing, and bending over the turntable, examining it carefully. As she watched, he lifted the arm, and the music stopped. That was when he looked up at her with widened eyes. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he turned a bit red.

“How do I—” he started, and Ginny stood, coming to stand beside him. She gently took the fragile arm from his grip and crouched down, lining up the needle tip with one of the shiny grooves on the black of the vinyl record. Lucius watched the proceedings with hawkish eyes.

She stood and smiled at the song that started.

“I love The Shirelles,” she murmured. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he was warming to the music. He had expected some severe Muggle tripe, but instead was enjoying the alternative to silence. It was not unlike wizarding music. He was alright with it, he supposed.

He watched her. She was moving her shoulders subtly, looking down at the record. There was an odd look on her face, something that reminded him of wistfulness. Lucius could see an adolescent quality in her, and realised that as a young girl, during those formative years, she was fighting a war. There were probably not so many dances for her—and he winced, inwardly, to realise that he had been on the opposite side of that war.

She exhaled quietly and started to walk back to her ottoman.

Until he caught her wrist firmly in his hand.

Ginny jerked her head up at him and started to scowl.

“Why are you touching me—” she started, her mouth turned down at the corners.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, and pulled her to him.

Ginny’s head jerked back like whiplash, and she stared up at him with a slightly furrowed brow.

He resisted the urge to laugh, and took her right hand in his left hand, bringing her body flush to his, resting his right hand on the small of her back. He was older, that was true, but one thing could be said of his age: he had grown up in a time when children were taught how to dance—properly.

And he felt nothing sexual in the embrace he had her in. She looked too flabbergasted to react. He had expected her to pull her hand out of his, but he was pleasantly surprised to feel her body acquiesce.

Ginny felt the tops of their thighs touching and she resisted the urge to pull away or laugh. The situation was surreal. Lucius Malfoy had not only accepted a Muggle device in his family home, he had shed some of his stuffy propriety and was now dancing with her in small circles in one of his sitting rooms. Not only that, but he seemed relaxed, no wrinkles creasing his eyes or face. He was a pleasantly good dancer, his steps small and controlled, his hand nice and warm across her back. He was leading completely, and she was just swaying along to his beat.

“You’re a nice dancer,” she said mildly, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“Years of practice,” he replied, almost smiling. “A perk of being a pureblood child of high society.”

Ginny laughed.

“This is surreal,” she said, repeating her earlier thoughts out loud.

He exhaled out a laugh of agreement. “Perhaps.”

“Twenty-seven years ago you were making me a key instrument in the opening of the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts. Now we are dancing in your sitting room.” Ginny’s tone and eyes had taken on a slightly flinty bent, but she wasn’t particularly trying to start a fight.

Lucius looked down at her, opening his mouth to speak, and then closing it. For once, he appeared at a loss for words.

“Oh,” he said flatly.

The song came to an end and she stood there, her hand still lightly in his. He seemed to be thinking about what to say. Ginny looked up at him.

He tilted his head down to meet her eyes properly. She could feel his pulse in the skin of his palm against her back. Even through her shirt, the heat was palpable, almost overwhelming—but Ginny refused to become overwhelmed, instead held her ground, shoving any questions aside in her mind.

His hand tightened on hers to an almost painful degree, as if he were preventing her from pulling away. In retribution, Ginny dug the strong tips of her fingers into the thick meat of his shoulders. His jaw tightened.

They were locked in an odd stalemate. Anyone coming across the two of them would think them to be some sort of romantic tableau, a two-headed statue. He could feel the cadence of her breaths from where their bodies were touching.

It was so very long ago—for him, at least. Twenty-seven years was a lifetime, and it felt even greater than just one lifetime because of the added weight of the war. It was trite of him to say that he had been a different person, and he wasn’t even sure that he believed that, because he believed that people never truly changed.

When he released her, suddenly, she tumbled, and bumped against the couch, knocking her handbag off of the cushions and onto the floor.

“Fuck,” she swore. The strange silence was broken and he had to hide a smile at her clumsiness and her dirty mouth.

“Let me help you,” he said, and picked up her handbag for her, righting it, putting it back on the couch beside them. She was rubbing absentmindedly at her flank.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to try and start something,” she said, and it was so casually apologetic that he believed it. He had, in fact, expected her to bring it up far earlier than this—how many weeks in? Five? Six? He couldn’t remember.

“Well,” he started, but she kept talking.

“It’s not something I think about, really. I guess being back here brought it up.”

“Did it?”

She was nodding and looking around. On any other person her behaviour would seem avoidant, but he was used to her frenetic energy and so he knew that she was already thinking about the next topic. If the subject had truly bothered her, she would have kept at it. Still—

“I’m sorry.” He thought he would throw it out there to see if it was what she wanted.

She laughed at him.

He hadn’t been expecting that. Despite its spur of the moment inception, his apology had actually—surprisingly—been genuine.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

He didn’t understand. As he opened his mouth to speak to her, he noticed something by his boot.

Ginny had turned around and was sorting through her handbag, making sure that everything was back in place. He spoke form behind her.

“What is this?” His voice was filtered in an odd way, a way she had never heard before.

She turned around. He was holding what looked like a newspaper clipping in his hand.

Oh, god.

Lucius had not been expecting to find a clipping of himself in her purse. He had picked up the piece of paper because it looked important, and had caught a glimpse of the picture, and it had been so devastatingly familiar that he had looked at it closer. And it was him—so serious, deep-eyed and stock-still. His heart had twisted in a strange way to see his younger self on the page.

He looked up at her and saw the expression on her face.

“Why—” He started to speak but cleared his throat. “Why do you have a photo of me in your purse?”

There was no revulsion or anger in his voice. Ginny wasn’t surprised by that, as this Malfoy was excellent at concealing his true feelings. But the fact didn’t make her feel any better.

“From the research I did before I met you,” she replied, still stuck in place, half-mortified, and half-thrilled at the whole situation that was unfolding itself in front of them.

“What?”

“I went into the Prophet archives and did a searching spell to find all articles on you. I wanted to have my bases covered before I walked into your house.” She said all of this without moving a muscle. She wasn’t sure how he was going to react to her, and staying still seemed the best option. Like an animal versus animal.

“I see,” he murmured, moving his thumb across the paper. “Why did you keep this one?”

Ginny didn’t answer.

He tilted his head at her.

She sighed.

“I liked the way you looked.”

He stared.

She shifted.

“I thought you looked—beautiful, really. I can’t say that I thought you were untainted, even back then. Because even at that age, there was obviously an air of—of—something around you. Something wasn’t right. But I liked the serious look on your face. And you appeared to be relatively untouched by Tom.” Her face turned bright red. “All right?”

He didn’t reply. He was looking at the photo in his hand.

When she cleared her throat, he jolted.

“I had forgotten that this photo had been taken.”

“You used his name,” Lucius said, looking at her.

“What?”

“Voldemort’s name.”

“Oh,” Ginny said. She flushed. “Well, that is how I knew him.”

Lucius was shocked. He knew that his shock was showing on his face, and tried to contain it as best as he could, but hearing her toss off the name was unbelievable to him. It made his respect for her increase, and also frightened him.

“Because of me,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, shaking her head back a little.

“I didn’t—” He seemed to stop and reconsider his words, tilting his head towards himself as he thought furiously. “I didn’t exactly know what I was giving you.”

Ginny turned, and walked until she was a foot away from him.

“That is absolutely no excuse,” she said, her hands in her pockets, her eyes firm. “That’s like giving a child poison and then saying that you didn’t know what was in the vial. It’s irresponsible, cruel, and cowardly. You never even asked what Tom was giving you. You just handed it over to me. And I think you’re lying. I think you had an inkling of what it was, but you just didn’t give a shit.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“You’re lucky that I’m a forgiving woman, Lucius. And that I’ve had years to come to terms with what happened to me in my first year at Hogwarts.”

“What did he do?” The question came out of his mouth before he could stop it.

She opened her mouth and then closed it, and she looked at him with something in her eyes that was completely foreign to him—a strange brew of wisdom, sadness, terror, and excitement. He felt that if she spoke, he was going to hear something personal and dire and intriguing and cruel. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to speak, if he should have even asked the damn question. He felt like he was leaning forward towards her.

A noise split the air. It was a cross between a ringing and a bellowing, and Ginny jumped, dropping her pen on the ground.

“What the hell? What the hell?”

Lucius felt like screaming profanities to the vaulted ceilings. Fuck would do quite nicely. She was throwing her head around, trying to find the source of the racket, and he couldn’t believe it—he couldn’t believe his fucking luck. No, it wasn’t luck. It was the worst thing. The most embarrassing thing that could happen. When she was here. The worst.

“Calm down, Ginevra.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No. It’s my alarm.”

“Your alarm?” She was eyeing his body as if something on his person had set it off.

“The Manor’s alarm.”

She frowned. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Speaking four words to me at a time. Tell me—right now—what is going on. And make that fucking racket stop!”

He stopped it.

“When the Manor senses a threat—a legitimate threat—it shuts itself down for at least 24 hours. It becomes a sort of safe-house.” He looked perturbed.

“What are you saying?” Ginny controlled her voice, made sure it wasn’t shrill.

“That we’re going to be unable to leave the Manor for that amount of time.”

“What?”

“After the second war, I found that my family was getting more—threats—than before,” Lucius said, tone hesitant. “I installed new wards that were intelligent, and could learn to assess the threat to discern if the level of danger was high enough to risk turning the Manor into a safe-house.”

“You mean there’s someone dangerous out there? Out in your yard?” She tried not to panic.

Lucius shook his head. “ No. If there is, they are only at the gates. They cannot get past. And even if they did get past the gates, they could not get into the Manor. The doors have been warded shut. We cannot even get out into the garden.”

She would have accused him of orchestrating this for some dramatic or perverted effect, but there was too much embarrassment and anger in his eyes for this to be game of make-believe.

“The wards are dramatic, I know, but honestly Ginevra, the threats became so malicious and so measured after we were acquitted—I had to do something, and this seemed right. I didn’t mean for you to be caught in this. I am not often targeted during the day.”

“Often?”

He realised his mistake, then.

“Are you targeted often?” She stared at him.

“Enough,” he answered noncommittally.

“So someone just throwing a Stinging Hex at your wards—”

“Would not be enough to trigger the lock-down. It’s something serious enough, but until the Aurors get here, we will not know.”

“Aurors?”

Lucius grimaced. “I linked my system to automatically notify the Auror Department when the Manor goes into lock-down. Technically, they’re supposed to come right away to assess the threat and deal with it.”

“But?”

“But the last time they came immediately was when Draco was twenty.”

“Holy Christ,” Ginny swore. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Lucius murmured, ambling away from her and looking outside.

“So the Aurors just let you wait?”

“It’s usually no more than a day.”

“Well, why don’t you call them?” Ginny couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“They never respond to my Floo calls.”

“What?”

“They never respond to my Floo calls,” he repeated, his voice raising. “There. Is that what you wanted me to say? That I can’t even get a damn Auror to my house? Not even if I were having a heart attack, dying?” He broke off, glaring at her. “They will come eventually. Eventually.”

Ginny thought for a moment. “What if I sent an owl to—”

“Potter? No. I won’t permit you to use the owlery.”

“Lucius, that is insane.” She was irked with him. “I could explain what I was doing here, and I know that Harry would get the house out of lockdown far faster than the usual way.”

“No.” The word was roared at her. Ginny was actually struck speechless at his vitriol. He breathed heavily for a moment. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. But I do not want Potter to feel pity for me. I do not want your name to be dragged through the mud of the gossip magazines for being discovered here. I do not want the Auror office laughing at me for hiding behind a woman’s skirt. Please understand that.” He had turned away from her, his jaw tight.

Ginny considered it for a moment. Nobody was expecting her home. She could theoretically spend the night in the Manor and no one would notice. And there was something desperate and genuine to the way Lucius was speaking to her. She realised that it was a leftover from his Pureblood society, that he had to assert his masculinity in one way or another. She could let him have this one small victory.

“Fine.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said fine. Do you have a guest room for me?”

Lucius looked back at her, his face incredulous. “Of course I have a guest room.” This was said slightly more haughtily.

“Well, then. Show me to it,” she said.

“The elves can—”

“No,” she said firmly, clearly. “You show me to the guest room. You can do it. It’s your house. It’s your manor.”

Lucius looked at her, and then nodded, his expression unreadable.

---

Ginny lay on the bed, exhausted.

Here she was. In a bedroom. In Malfoy Manor.

That was a shock to the system.

She held the pillow over her face and laughed into it because she wasn’t sure if any of the bedposts of the mirrors were charmed with ears and she didn’t want anything or anyone to hear her laughing like a loon to herself.

It was a nicely decorated room. She was surprised at that. It was done up in shades of warm gold and brown, and the bedposts weren’t carved with images of devils and snakes as she might have expected. The carpet was thick and lovely under her feet, and Lucius had mumbled about extra robes in the armoire before he walked out, looking distracted, saying something about his ledgers and meeting her in the dining room at eight o’clock. She suspected that he was avoiding her because he didn’t deem it appropriate to be in the same room with her—some odd vestige of pureblood what-have-you—or that he was embarrassed about the whole debacle. No matter. She would get it out of him at dinner.

What she was getting was a distinct look into Lucius’ personal life. Being in a sitting room in the manor was one thing. Being in a bedroom was another thing. And really, it was kind of hilarious. What a fucking situation.

She wanted to get up. She wanted to look around. But she fell asleep. She must have, because all of a sudden there was a knocking at the door and the room was darker and she felt cotton-mouthed and dozy.

“What?”

The knocking continued.

“Come in,” she hollered, deciding not to get up from the bed until it was absolutely necessary. Surreptitiously, she looked at the coverlet under her head to make sure that she hadn’t drooled anywhere. How unbecoming.

The door opened and Lucius stood in the doorway.

“Ginevra.”

“Yes?” She propped her head up on one hand. “Why are you standing in the doorway like that? Come inside if you want.”

“That’s not appropriate,” Lucius replied.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “We’re grown-ups, not teenagers. Your society is so bizarre.”

He gritted his teeth and then stepped into the room, coming to the foot of the bed. Seeing her lying back on the duvet, her body splayed, made him both uncomfortable and greatly aware of his male gender. She was fully clothed and yet seeing her on a bed that he owned was so suggestive.

“What do you want for supper?”

Ginny sat upright, her hair falling around her face.

“Are you cooking it?”

“No,” he replied. “I was going to get the house-elves to prepare it simply because of time constraints.” He stopped, and looked at her. “I can cook, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.” She smiled. He had sounded defensive.

“I’ve taught myself, in these past years.”

“Really?”

Her gob smacked tone riled him. “Yes, really. Sometimes one needs something to do. When one is all alone.” He stopped and inhaled. “Since there are only two of us, I suggest that we eat either in the study or directly in the kitchen. The formal dining room can be a bit oppressive.”

“Oh. Well. All right—the study sounds fine. But I’m afraid that I’ll spill something on the floor and get in trouble.”

“Probably,” he said, and she sensed that he was being serious.

“I didn’t think that you could cook,” she said, laughing.

He tossed his head in irritation.

“Just—oh, I’ll come get you in an hour,” he snapped.

---

“This is really good,” Ginny said.

“Thank you,” was the reply, although she sensed that what he had really wanted to say was “I know.”

“Good fire,” she said, her voice calm and low.

He made a sound of assent, and she craned her head up to look at him.

They had eaten at the low table in the study, and it had been amiable. They hadn’t spoken much before or during the meal, but directly afterward he had poured them both a glass of sherry, and Ginny had taken the liberty of stretching out on the couch. He was sitting in a wingback chair, just slightly out of her range of sight, and he had taken his shoes off, which amused her greatly. Seeing Lucius Malfoy in stocking feet was so odd. He had undone the top button of his shirt, and had let his hair out of its binding, the mass of white and silver pulled over one shoulder, the tips curling in the centre of his chest. There was a smoothness to his face that pleased her. As she watched, he took a long sip of his sherry, and then turned his head slightly to meet her gaze, pursing his lips at her.

“Staring is rude.”

Ginny grinned. “I know.” She turned back to the fire, smiling still, so pleased with the warmth on her legs. “I like your socks.”

“Don’t be pert,” he replied, so automatically that she laughed out loud.

“I can’t believe I’m lying on your goddamn sofa, watching a fire.”

There was a silence from behind her. Then—

“I know.”

He wanted to say odd, isn’t it but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth to say more, something he didn’t want would come out. The days on which she was in his house were the days that he looked forward to, and the thought of that was distressing him. Even now, having her in his study, in front of his fire, he didn’t feel uncomfortable. The silence was not uncomfortable. Instead, he only just felt calm.

She stood, arched her back, made a noise of content.

“I’m tired. I’m going to fall asleep here if I don’t go upstairs.”

“Can you find your way?”

“I think so.”

“Good-night, then.” That was all he could say. He couldn’t even bring himself to rise up out of the chair, because he felt that it would be too much. She didn’t care, it seemed. She only grinned and thanked him for dinner, and made a movement to clean the plates from the table, which he halted brusquely, and then she left the room, disappearing from the orange glow they had created, fading immediately into the dark of the Manor.

He sat back in his chair. Sipped his drink. Hoped that she didn’t get lost in the Manor, although a part of him knew, inherently, that the house liked her too much to let that happen, that nothing ghastly would come out of the darkness at her, that the portraits weren’t going to be too rude. Part of him then hoped that she would get lost. That he could come and find her. Maybe take her to his bedroom. Sling those legs open and feel them clench around his hips. Find the vitality in himself again. Feel like that boy in the photo.

He stopped those thoughts immediately, horrified.

He was starting to like Ginevra Weasley.
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