Disclaimer: Own nothing but the plot

A/N Masquerade is done, but with my beta. Will update that very very soon, I promise. For now, read, review, and enjoy.

- SIX NIGHTS IN LOVE -

Companion to Seven Days in Paris

Only at night is he free to love her.

"Always remember that if a person loved you once, after a hundred years, there will still be some of that love no matter how much they deny it. "

- The Wonder Years

On the first night, Draco cannot fall asleep.

He has never been one to fall easily into deep slumber; in fact, Lucius had trained him to sleep with one eye open – not literally, of course. But tossing fitfully for hours on end is not something characteristic of any Malfoy, as they are not supposed to feel guilt. Each time he closes his eyes, however, Draco sees hers. He sees the question and longing and tenderness as he replays their scene earlier that evening.

If he allows himself, if just for a brief second, Draco sees love.

After his fifth failed attempt at sleep, Draco throws off his blankets and quietly makes his way towards the bed. Ginny is but a small lump, lost in the satin sheets and sheer enormity of it all. Her red hair is tousled and forms an angelic fan around her face, a face which has wearied so much in so little time. He feels the odd urge to touch her, and when he does he wants more, so much more.

His pride battles with his heart. Over and over, Draco reminds himself that he does not covet sleeping in the bed for any other reason than the utter discomfort of the narrow couch. Finally, he decides that he'll wake early in the morning, and she will never know.

With that thought consoling him, he slides under the covers, comforted by her familiar scent and bodily warmth.

On the second night, Draco finds that the bed really does not help much.

He wakes up, rather periodically, as if something haunts his mind. His first thought upon waking is to see if Ginny is still there, to see if she is just a dream, if they are just a dream. Seeing that she is still beside him, and that she has not taken off from sight of the ugly mark burned onto his forearm, he lets himself relax and admire the contours of her face as she sleeps in unsuspecting peace.

Only now does Draco let his guard down – when there is nobody to see him do so. He is safe in the knowledge that, contrary to him, trains cannot wake Ginny.

He lies on his side, head propped up with one hand, and gently strokes her face. Her skin is soft like the velvety smooth of flower petals, her eyelashes long and thick. Leaning forward, he presses a light kiss to each of her freckles, across her nose, down the slope of her neck. He runs his agile fingers over her her as if he will never be able to again, as if he wants to memorize every part of her – every blemish, every imperfection.

Except they don't seem much like imperfections to him.

On the third night, Draco retrieves the letter.

He waits until her breathing has steadied before slipping away from her arms. A simple charm reconstructs the pile of ashes in the fireplace, and in seconds he has in his hand a folded parchment decorated with hearts and ribbons. His heart beating unnervingly fast, Draco slides his finger alongside the edge and flicks it open, loopy black handwriting jumping out at him with jarring familiarity.

This is not Seamus Finnegan's script, Draco realizes. It's Harry Potter's.

A few select words jump out through his blurred vision. Fiancee, love, wedding. Glancing at her, Draco redirects his attention the paper, trying desparately to remain unaffected but the trembling of his hands painfully deceiving him.

The sentences come to him haltingly, as if he cannot absorb too much at once. Slowly, a life he has imagined many times before pieces together before his very eyes. A concerned family, a friend caught in the middle, an engagement to Harry Potter – broken, shattered, purposely damaged beyond repair. Never has he seen Potter beg in such a deriding manner, if only just on paper, and never has he imagined that Ginny – or any witch, for that matter – could dismiss such begging without second thought.

She has a perfect life, Draco realizes, and the letter slips out of his hands without much fanfare. No, he has not bothered to find out where Ginny went and what she did in the years since they'd parted, though he thought about it enough, but this – well, this is pretty much the best life she could've wished for. And yet, the beautiful penthouse, the model fiancee, the wonderful job – she's giving it all up, throwing it out like soiled trash while knowing the repercussions all too well.

For him.

He returns to the bed slowly, and he has never felt more stunned.

On the fourth night, neither of them sleep very much.

Tonight is a quiet night – their stomachs are full, but their hearts fuller. Ginny lies upon his chest, fingers lightly stroking the pale skin there, and her mass of hair hinders him from seeing the expression in her eyes. He can feel her breath on him, can feel her warm body pressed against his. His own hand idly draws circles on the small of her back, and there they are, two pieces of one puzzle, fitted together in harmonious silence.

"Why are you here?" He finally asks, and his voice is so low he almost doesn't recognize it. "Why are you risking your perfect life for this?"

A part of him doesn't want to know, but the other part needs to.

There is a long silence in the room as she halts her finger movements, and then resumes as if he has not asked. "I owed it to myself," Ginny answers after a pregnant pause. "To my heart."

She looks up then, to lock vulnerable brown with unfathomable silver, and he sees in her face the candid honesty with which she offers herself to him – her mind, her body, her love. The moonlight reflects on her eyes in such a way that Draco wonders if she's crying.

Then, he realizes, she is.

On the fifth night, Draco is roused from sleep.

He does not wake at first. As the knocking grows more urgent, more insistent, Draco slowly becomes aware of his surroundings, aware of the delightfully warm pressure Ginny's body exudes upon his own. Her hair tickles his chin, and her small hand is tucked into his own, and while Draco lies quietly, breathing in her utterly feminine scent, he remembers that somebody is still at the door.

After he untangles himself with expert skill, he finds Nott waiting expectantly. Dressed in black, his blue eyes hooded, the younger man begins to sweep into the room. But Draco catches his arm with cold, nimble fingers and propels the both of them into the hall, silent all the while.

"You're early," He says when the door is securely shut.

Nott glances around him with a much bemused expression. "Have you someone in your room?" He inquires in that sly, lilting voice of his.

Draco presses his lips together. "Why are you here?" He demands.

With a smug, knowing smile, Nott retrieves a long sheath of parchment from his robes. "I thought you might want to know that it's ready. The directions are here."

Draco does not open it. "Who," he wants to know.

"It doesn't matter," is Nott's low reply. "The ministry will think it's you." There is a pause, and then Nott smirks. "I guess I'll let you get back to your whore," he says.

Lunging towards him, Draco nearly decks him. "Fuck you, Nott," He growls, their faces inches apart.

Nott shrugs, and turns to leave. "You're welcome," he replies rather calmly, and then, after thinking for a moment, adds, "You know, Malfoy, you used to wake on the first knock. You used to be more alert."

I used to be a lot of things, Draco thinks, and then returns to Ginny.

On the sixth night, he leaves.

He wakes just past midnight, when the world is still and the air is cool with the oncoming of morning. She is still entwined in his arms, breath regulated from sleep and smile dreamy from passion. It takes all the self-control his Malfoy disposition has drilled upon him to release her from his embrace.

Draco dresses quickly, and quietly. When he has finished gathering his belongings, he pauses at the bedside where Ginny is sleeping yet unsuspectingly. Quickly, so as not to tempt himself, he brushes his lips against her – one soft, sweet, last kiss that lingers throughout his body, in the tingle spreading throughout him, and in the heavy ache settling in his chest. Her lips part, and she lets out a content sigh, and in this moment Draco feels a surge of emotion he did not think he was capable of.

"If I knew what love was, brat," He whispers in her ear, knowing all the while that she cannot possibly hear him, "I would love you for eternity." The hand which is holding the rose squeezes it so tight that a thorn pricks into his skin, and the other lightly grazes her face.

He charms the flower to stay alive eternally, and then sets it down beside her bed. The ring is almost an afterthought, as he knows he cannot bear to look at the ring without seeing her in his mind, remembering the way she used to stroke his hand in their most intimate of moments. The ring is their essence, the symbol of two lives intertwined at the most wrong moment. He does not want it anymore, for such symbols merely procure the pain, but he cannot throw it out anymore.

She will treasure it, he knows, just as she has treasured his heart, even though she will never know that she had it, will never know that she still does and always will.

Turning sharply, Draco quietly exits the room for the last time.

On the seventh night, he watches her sleep.

He is standing on the platform of Paris's Wizarding train station, just overlooking the small hotel. Under the disguise of a thick cloak, nobody stops to question him, nobody dares think he look at all like the deceased Death Eater found early that morning near Versailles. She is safe here without him – in his opinion, she will always be safer without him.

One day, he thinks, he will return for her. One day, there will be a happy ending. One day, they will be together again – just them two, no darkness, no Voldemort, no Harry Potter tainting the perfect harmony that only fated lovers can achieve, whether in life or death.

One day.

But not today.

=FIN=