5th September 2002
Five days he's been at the Manor. Five, and she already feels like ripping her own hair out.
You'd think she'd never even see him. After all, it's a three story building, built across mass grounds, rooms and rooms on end, almost too many corridors, four different gardens. Yet he still manages to find her while she walks down for her morning tea.
He doesn't say a word to her. Just looks down at her predatorily, tracking her like she's his prey. And she entirely ignores his existence. Or tries to.
He floats around the Manor like a ghost. She can't even hear him coming, doesn't notice the footsteps or air of threat that he brings with him everywhere he goes. He just shows up unannounced.
Doesn't utter a word, just embarks his brooding presence, and is always entertained by her discomfort. And it is certainly difficult to hide when he materialises silently, appearing behind doors and around corners. Catching her off guard where she certainly doesn't expect anyone to find her.
One morning, she's partaking in her usual routine, getting into the shower being the first thing she does after slipping out of bed.
She uses the shower in the main bathroom of the North Wing of the Manor. Simply because the water is softer, warmer and it's the most spacious and lavish bathroom she's ever stepped foot in. So why waste it? Naturally, it's better than the en suite shower.
It's only a short walk from the master bedroom where she and Theo sleep and is never disrupted by any inconvenience— when it was only the two of them living there, that is.
Once she's stepped out of the shower and wraps her towel around herself, she exits the bathroom, perfectly refreshed by the warmth of the water that leaves her face rather red and dewy.
But as she journeys back to her suite, Malfoy's at the end of the corridor, emerging towards her.
She stumbles backwards, tries to return to the bathroom but she feels humiliated. She plays it out instead. Pretends he doesn't bother her.
She's aware that his predatory eyes are collecting the image of her in nothing but her towel, tracking her from head to toe.
"What are you doing?" she snaps, outraged.
"Felt like going for a walk," he smirks.
"Here?"
"Nott permitted me to go anywhere I like in the Manor." He says it so matter-of-factly, as if anything she has to say would immediately be false.
She scoffs. Her hair is dripping down her neck, making her shiver. Combined with his cold façade, she can't feel the warmth of summer that she's supposed to.
"Are you now telling me that this wing is out of bounds?"
He's enjoying this. They're both aware of his superior position— that she's the one who should feel vulnerable.
His eyes never leave her. Her towel, her body. There's not even an ounce of respect for her privacy. And if there is, he has no inclination whatsoever to act upon it.
She grips tighter to her towel. He notices this and his sinister smirk widens.
She ignores his question.
"He also told you not to bother me. There are gardens and grounds that stretch for miles. It's a pleasant day. Take yourself out there if you're so intent on going for a walk."
Far, far away from me.
"Very well."
He consumes another eyeful of her, a judging look on his face that tries to make her insecure as his eyes drink in each curve and dip that the towel fails to hide. He almost exceeds and she feels the need to move, but she's too disgusted by him to fret.
"Oh and don't worry. I won't touch you. I don't think it would be very courteous of me to maim Nott's wife after what he's so graciously doing for me."
"I wasn't—"
"I know," he grins, his tone far from grave.
Worried, she was going to say.
He doesn't believe her, it's clear. He won't hear a word she's saying.
"But I wouldn't put it past you," she snarls, delivering it as an insult.
He just laughs.
"No, neither would I."
She's still as she waits for him to leave. When he disappears and can no longer be heard, she goes back to her room and slams her door shut like a pissed off teenager. She cusses out loud.
Fucking twat.
There's such a persistent cockiness about him that she hadn't expected. It makes her want to scream. He knows he's wrong— everything about him is wrong, but he takes advantage of his disgrace and weaponises it to humiliate others.
He'd been the same in school. Always coming out on top of every quarrel, every debate. His aristocratic superiority made it seem like everything coming out of his mouth should be believed. Should be obeyed. And he would always be listened to because of that. Never missing out on what he wants.
She wants to associate him with every insult under the sun.
But corrects herself, realises she's allowing him to affect her in such a way. Wasting her time and mental capacity, falling as a gullible victim to his immaturity.
In spite, she takes herself over to the far wall of the bedroom, and sets her sight upon the garden that sits ahead of the North Wing. The view grants her peace of mind as she studies the chrysanthemums, the hydrangeas, the carnations, the peonies, all blooming under the blue sky.
They need watering, she thinks.
It's been too dry recently in the North West. Rainfall is usually frequent, but this summer has been the hottest yet.
She spends her time out in the gardens, enduring the potent scents of flora that manage to make her eyes water and her sinuses sensitive. She waters the flowers one by one and is disheartened to come across a cluster of withered life among some of the beds.
She decides to replant them. Goes into the greenhouse and collects an array of seeds for the peonies and hydrangeas.
Gardening was yet another enjoyable hobby that Geneva picked up from her mother. She can still vibrantly remember the garden in the muggle home from her youth. She'd catch her mother outside almost everyday, planting and repotting, watering and feeding them. She had made sure to teach Geneva how to build a proper garden.
Since the age of seven, she'd been learning the importance of looking after life.
Peonies, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and carnations. Nevertheless, a random array, they had been the bright colours of her childhood.
Four years later, she'd never see her mother again.
Hours pass and she's ended up touring around each of the gardens, bypassing the hedgerows and several greenhouses. Merely distracting herself with every possible thing to do outside to avoid being stuck in the same building with a murderer while Theodore is at the Ministry.
While she waters a few more of the flower beds, she's sidetracked by a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. In one of the windows of the East Wing, he's standing there.
Still, as if he's a part of the building. A statue positioned in that particular place. And he's watching her.
She doesn't look directly at the window. She takes a brief glance, but then pretends not to notice his stalking of her. She thinks that if she pretends not to be bothered by him, eventually he'll get bored. Or so she hopes.
When she takes another quick look, he's vanished.
The sky is no longer clear and the sun's projection keeps being interrupted by the flurry of clouds that move in its way. They are all grey and gloomy. Heavy rain clouds.
She returns inside and watches the sudden storm through the windows of the living room. Funny how such awful weather can grant such clarity for peace of mind.
That evening, after she's made it through another one of their uncomfortable dinners, she resigns herself to bed, having had a headache form.
Theodore comes into their room an hour later, interrupting her small nap, and he's holding a pain relief potion as well as some chocolate.
"Thank you," she smiles, sitting up and taking the vial of pain relief from him.
He sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at her as if she's life threateningly ill with sympathy in his hazel eyes. His hand brushes over her cheek as if his touch could nurse her back to health.
"Anything caused it this time?" he asks, placing his hand on her shoulder.
She often gets headaches. They're not always too bad, but it depends what her present situation in life is. Stress tends to make them more frequent.
"I could name a few things," she sighs, downing the vial in one go. He doesn't reply, just has a regretful look on his face. She continues, "It's alright. I'm alright."
"I am sorry, Gen. About all of this."
"I know. But it's ok. What can we do? It wasn't your choice."
His brows thread together, and a funny expression crosses his face. He looks as if he's about to say something, but instead he just smiles.
"Yeah."
She suspects what she doesn't want to, but decides not to delve into it right now.
Her head is already beginning to feel better. She's more awake than before.
"I hate that I've thrown it all upon you like this. I should have talked to you about it first. It was wrong of me."
"I'm not angry with you. And anyway, even if you'd asked me before, I would have said yes. I'd do anything for you Theo, you know that."
He leans into her and places a kiss on her forehead. When he pulls away, he gazes into her eyes with a suggestive look of affection that she knows all too well.
"How are you mine?" he whispers. "You make me feel so lucky, Gen."
He says things like this just before he wants to fuck her. Rather, make love to her.
He gets that lustful look in his eyes as he balances upon her lips and it's a look that strives to hold her in the palm of his hand and consume her within himself. She loves that look. It's what made her fall for him.
She shifts up the mattress, bearing herself closer to him. Her fingers entwine with the buttons of his shirt and she fumbles with them delicately. Teasing him by not undoing them.
His palm sweeps over the back of her hair and he pulls her onto his lips. They kiss and eventually he's on top of her, and his t-shirt is off, trousers unbuckled and she's naked, moaning into his mouth. He says how much he loves her and she earns his praise when he slides his bare groin against her stomach.
And when she's wet, he pushes himself between her legs making her moan louder. She enjoys the sounds he makes while she bucks her hips closer. Deeper.
He tells her how beautiful she is, how much he loves fucking her and she agrees. Again and again.
Until he pulls himself out of her and his wetness spills down her own thighs. She lets herself go and shudders, her eyes falling into the back of her head.
She's lying there, bare beneath his sweat-soaked body with his hands weakly groping her breasts. And she's coming down from such a high.
"Did you—?" he asks. He always asks.
She nods.
He smacks another kiss to the top of her head and walks off into the bathroom, proudly naked. She admires him until he disappears and she rolls over onto her side, disregarding the mess she's made. Her eyes shut and she's asleep before he can return to her side.
-
i want theo and draco...paris?