The Nineteen Years Between

The Nineteen Years in Between

By rrunawayromance

From the Epilogue of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; p. 756 (US Hardback version)

"Draco Malfoy was standing there with his wife and son, a dark coat buttoned up to his throat...Draco caught sight of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny staring at him, nodded curtly, and turned away again."

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It had been so many years.

And still, as his piercing blue-grey gaze singled her out, she could not stop her heart from pounding in her ears or the numbing cold that was filling her chest, spreading through to her fingertips and making her feel giddy and lightheaded.

19 years and 3 months from when he first wiped away her tears and she returned the favor by slapping him across the face. 18 years and 3 months from the day she caught her reflection in the mirror after bantering with him, and realized that she had been smiling ever since he had stalked away. 17 years and 10 months from the first time his lips crashed onto hers, pressing her body into the wall of the broken lift and feeling her every curve with his strong, graceful hands. 17 years and 7 months from the morning she stumbled home with a smile on her face, sweat and pleasure tousled in her hair, and his fresh, intoxicating smell covering every inch of her flushed skin; a scent she tried to transfer onto her own sheets and pillows as she buried herself in them. 16 years from the time she first tried to approach him about their relationship and he wiped away her tears as she again, returned the favor by leaving a red handprint on his left cheek. 15 years and 5 months from the time she attempted to get her questions answered a second time, and this time it was her pillows that soaked away her angry tears not knowing that this time he would attempt to pick up the pieces. 15 years and 4 months from the time she finally understood what it meant to be loved, and 15 years and 3 months from the day she woke up and her heart melted to see a blanket wrapped snuggly around his sleeping form covering everything save for one eye, a bit of forehead and a patch of that downy blonde hair. It was that morning made her ache for every other morning that held a chance of seeing him so vulnerable, child like and adorable. And it was 14 years, 6 months and 5 days far gone from when she slapped Draco Malfoy across the face for the last time and Floo'd out of Malfoy Manor to her flat in London, the only tears she shed due to the dust and soot that flew into her eyes when she landed in her empty new home.

The ease with which he could turn away from her was unnerving. It was blunt, to the point and absolutely unquestionable; there could be no overanalyzing of the situation because he had let his eyes linger, or widened them in surprise.

All he did was look away.

All she could do was continue to stare at his tall, lithe body, the blonde cornsilk hair that she could still feel between her fingers and in the curve of her neck, the pointed nose that was so perfectly straight and those lips that she knew so, so well.

Luckily her son bumped into her as he ran past and snapped her out of her reverie. Half listening to James' excited rambling, she began to look over the rest of the Malfoy family. His son, a small boy who carried himself just as his father did and looked like a carbon copy of him too. And then, there was her.

She was tall, taller than Ginny, and an unfamiliar face. Sharp features that were feminine but strong, and long jet black hair that glistened against her expensive black robes. Unlike other mothers sending their children off on the train for the first time, she wasn't fussing over her son, but talking to him with an expressionless face.

As if determined to set herself apart from her, Ginny engaged in the conversation again, laughing at how much her eldest resembled Ron in demeanor. She tousled her son's hair, nagged him lightly and kissed her two boys on the cheek before letting them board the Hogwart's Express; all the while darting her eyes in Draco's direction to see if his eyes would find hers again.

They didn't.

As Albus hopped back into the carriage, she closed the door gently behind him and stepped back to grab her Lily's hand before she could run off with the train. This was her life now, these were her wonderful children. James, 12 years old now with the messy black hair, Ginny's brown eyes and a more muscular build than Harry when he was that age. Albus, a clone of his father in every aspect of his being, and then Lily. Her little doll; wavy dark red hair that could have come from Ginny or from her namesake Lily Potter, and hazel eyes that were full of life and adventure. These were the children she loved more than life itself.

16 years since the time she had wondered what they would look like; if they would have his blonde hair or her own red or if they would inherit their father's mesmerizing blue grey eyes while she was wrapped in his arms, warm with the comfort of contact sending small pleasure waves throughout her body.

It had been a long time.

All it took was one look to unravel 14 years, 6 months and 5 days of living another life, with another man and with the determination to forget pushing the memories into the furthest corners of her mind.

They arrived back home, to Godric's Hollow, and after dropping Lily off at her friend's house, and kissing Harry before he laid down for a quick nap on the couch, Ginny crept up the stairs to their room and quietly shut the door.

In the farthest corner of the closet, buried beneath heaps of old clothes sat her worn Hogwarts trunk. Snapping it open, she smiled as the familiar smell of spellbooks, potions materials and faint traces of pine that she associated with Hogwarts filled her lungs. Underneath an old school robe was a moleskin bag. Her smile faded. Almost of their own accord, her fingers moved deftly and opened the bag, turning the contents out into her lap.

A ticket from a playhouse. An undershirt that Ginny immediately lifted to her nose and inhaled as deeply as she could, only to find that time had faded his smell. A Slytherin house patch that had once been a Portkey transporting them from London to Paris. And then, a small, old-fashioned, simple key. It was a pendant, 3.5 inches in length fashioned from a matte white gold, with a bit of deep green leather wrapped around the middle, and a small "G" studded with diamonds hanging from the where the top met the longer midsection of the key. Her eyes closed, she turned the key over in her hands, feeling warmth spread back into them, and as she slipped her own shirt off and pulled on the old undershirt, she held the key to her heart.

As the metal warmed, her eyes snapped open and she rummaged again through the trunk with urgency. Then she found it. A picture she had taken one morning, long ago, that looked almost like a picture just of a messy bed, until the observer noticed the white blonde hair and closed eye peeking out of the sea of blankets. The eye blinked open; the blankets were shifted once more as the sleeper rolled to the opposite side, and then completely removed as a hand jerked the sheets from their cocooned state. Before the outline of the revealed figure could be seen, a flash of red entered the frame and was quickly covered as the sleeper held the red haired girl in a tight hug, eyes closed again, cheek resting on the cheek of his new pillow, who was still laughing with content.

Ginny couldn't tear her eyes from the photo, not truly seeing as the memory revived itself in her mind. So many memories filling her mind since his eyes stared into her own just a few hours past, electric memories flooding every neuron in her head, playing back scenes taped by a faulty camera in her mind.

Nineteen years later...and she could still feel unbearable desire fill her just by looking at a picture of him, could still feel the pain and disappointment of heartbreak stinging in the space behind her eyes. The perfect fairytale of star crossed lovers, ending in the only way fairytales can in reality.

There in the dark closet, with her own shirt back on and her things re-packed, Ginny sat with her head against the wall, the key still clenched in her hand, lost in rewind.

It started with a question...

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