FINDING TIME AT BAMBURGH VIEW

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Pairing: Draco/Ginny

Rating: M

Summary: It sounded like the beginning of a mystery novel: reclusive old woman dies, leaving her entire fortune to a beautiful young witch.

Spoilers: Up to and including DH, EWE

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: This story was rewritten for the Draco/Ginny fic exchange on LJ. Thank you to my wonderful last-minute beta, bella_kate. Words can't say how much I appreciated it. If even half the typos that you picked up on had got through I would have been horribly embarrassed. This story was nominated for Best Fic Overall, Sweetest Fic Overall, Favourite Line, Snarkiest Conversation, Best Prose, and Best Portrayal of Ginny Weasley. It won Most in Need of a Sequel.

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The air exploded from Ginny’s body as she hit the ground, cutting off the scream that had swelled inside of her. Her vision blurred as pain swept through her. Unconsciousness pressed insistently at the edges of her mind. She fought to keep her eyes open, even as she longed to close them. She did not dare to.

She was not sure that there would be any coming back if she did.

A horrified cry split the air.

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ONE

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Forty-eight hours ago, if someone had asked Ginny Weasley where she would be spending her morning off from work, the last place that she would have said was a cemetery.

While, in comparison to the multitude of strange things that she had experienced in her life, standing in a cemetery at any time of day should not have seemed all that odd, it was made infinitely more so by the fact that the funeral that she was attending was for someone that she had never even met. Indeed, she had never even spoken to the newly interred occupant of the grave before her. It was only through a brief sequence of similarly peculiar events that she had ended up in the cool, lonely graveyard that October morning.

On the evidence of the crowd attending the service, Miss Edwina Smythe, 137, from Northumberland, had not been a particularly popular witch. Besides Ginny, there were only three other mourners present. One was a small, plump old woman with purple-grey hair; another was a rather bored looking mousey young woman with thick rimmed glasses who was attempting to hide the notebook that she was holding in one hand. Finally, there was a gangly middle-aged man who Ginny was willing to bet was the reason behind why she was there that day. Ginny eyed him with a mixture of anticipation and mistrust. She had yet to properly form an opinion.

The service concluded with little fanfare. A single handful of dirt was cast into the open grave to strike the lid of the coffin with uncomfortable noisiness before the watchers began to move away. Ginny followed, though she eventually paused beneath a towering elm to wait for the man that she had identified earlier.

Edward Foster was everything that might be expected from a man of his profession – that is to say, a solicitor. Though, as he approached, Ginny noticed that he also possessed a pair of unusually kind blue eyes which brightened on seeing her, along with the rest of his face. Ginny immediately found herself responding in kind. If her smile was a little less enthusiastic, it was only because of the oddity of her situation.

“Miss Weasley,” he said, holding out his hand. “Edward Foster, the executor of Miss Smythe’s estate. I’m so pleased that you could come. When I did not hear from you, I was concerned that perhaps you would not.”

Ginny felt her cheeks colour slightly. “I wasn’t certain that I was going to be able to,” she said, neatly sidestepping the truth of the matter which lay more along the lines of not knowing whether she was going to bother to attend at all. As Ron had so neatly put it, she didn’t have a bloody clue who Foster was. Curiosity had won out in the end, however.

Foster nodded. “Perfectly understandable,” he said. “It was rather short notice. Now, if you’d allow me to Apparate us there, let’s go to my office. I’m sure you have many questions you’d like answered.”

Ginny hesitated, her hand hovering over his arm for a moment before descending. She could almost feel her heart skipping a beat as she did.

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It started with a letter that had arrived in a crisp, official looking envelope the previous Tuesday morning – just as Ginny was devouring the single dry piece of toast that had composed her breakfast. The unfamiliar owl had watched her carefully as she had read over the contents, waiting for a reply that it had taken Ginny several minutes to write. Truthfully, sitting in the little kitchen of her London flat, she had been rather baffled as to what to write. It was not everyday that a girl learned that she had been made the beneficiary of a will.

Now, as she settled into the seat that Foster offered her, Ginny found that she was once again lost for words. She was thankful for the coffee that his secretary brought in while he dug out a thick stack of papers. Sipping from her cup filled the silence and warmed her through again. The sober yet stylish robes that she had worn to the funeral had not exactly stood up to the seeping autumnal weather.

When Foster turned around and took his seat behind the suitably imposing desk, there was a triumphant smile on his face. “Here we go,” he said, patting the thick folder in an almost fatherly manner.

The chair that Ginny was seated on creaked as she shifted her weight, despite the fact that the movement was barely perceptible. The furnishings in Foster’s office suited the building. Heavy and dark, they lent an air of authority to what had proved to be a surprisingly small set of offices. When Ginny had first received the letter from him, she had pictured something much larger. She had imagined something like the grand offices of Lester, Malfoy, and Hume which stood across the street. Now she found that she was oddly reassured that Foster did not work for a firm of that size.

“I won’t waste any time getting to the heart of the matter, Miss Weasley. Despite the size of this file, Miss Smythe’s instructions are refreshingly simple. She left virtually her entire estate to you.”

Ginny gasped, her eyes widening. “No,” she said. “That can’t be right.”

“I assure you that it is,” Foster said. “I, myself, drew up Miss Smythe’s arrangements when she contacted me after being admitted to St Mungo’s. She had been ill for some time, you see, and I believe she suspected that her time was drawing to a close.”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. Well, it is but… Mr Foster, I didn’t even know her. Are you sure that you haven’t got the wrong person?”

Foster smiled and leaned forwards, his forearms resting on the edge of his desk. “I am quite certain. You are a notable public figure, and - even if you were not – I doubt that there is another Ginevra Molly Weasley. Besides, I know for a fact that Miss Smythe was a great fan of your work. She was something of a mystery buff.”

Ginny felt her cheeks darken slightly. Her talent for writing mysteries had been unexpected and surprising. She still had not quite managed to get used to the fame that had accompanied the success of the radio serial that she worked on. It was odd to be known for being something other than yet another Weasley child or Harry Potter’s girlfriend, even though it had been some time since she had been classed as the latter.

Still, she did not think that she was good.

“Miss Smythe’s estate is not insubstantial. The bulk of it, however, consists of her cottage in Northumberland, situated on the coast a little way from Bamburgh Castle, and her account at Gringotts’. There are some other, smaller holdings, but for the moment we need not trouble ourselves with those. I understand that this must all be a bit of a shock…”

“That’s an understatement!” Ginny blurted out before she could stop herself. Her mind was reeling from what he had already told her. After sucking in a deep breath, she added, “Didn’t she have any relatives? What about friends?”

“I asked her much the same question,” Foster admitted. “As her solicitor, I believed it was my duty to ensure that she was certain of what she was doing. She informed me quite succinctly that most of her close friends had already departed from this world, and that she had only a few, distant relatives. From what I understand, they were not close. There had been a disagreement in the past and, as you saw yourself today, they did not attend the service.”

Ginny’s chest tightened, her eyes dipping slightly. It was so sad. She could not imagine being in such a position.

“Provision has been made for one of them – a cousin – to take one item of their choosing from the cottage. You need not concern yourself with that unless you wish to though. I can make arrangements for them to visit the cottage and then provide you with an itemised list of the contents.”

She nodded absently, knowing instinctively that she would not want to meet the cousin. It would be uncomfortable, to say the least.

In the background she heard a scraping sound as Foster pulled out his desk draw, then a rattling as he withdrew something. When his hand reappeared, there was a set of keys dangling from his fingers. These he held out to Ginny.

“There is not much more to say, Miss Weasley. Only, Miss Smythe was a wonderful character – a true individual. I trust her judgement in acting as she did implicitly. As it is, if you have any further questions, I shall be happy to answer them for you.”

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On Saturday morning, an owl arrived from Foster carrying a Portkey that was charmed to carry her to Edwina Smythe’s cottage. Ginny eyed it with a distinct air of trepidation. She trusted Foster, but the fact remained that she still knew next to nothing about the woman behind her newly acquired fortune. Foster had been understandably careful about how he had answered her questions.

Ginny discovered that she half wished that she had asked Hermione or Harry to see what they could find out about the woman after all. Working at the Ministry, both had far better resources than she could even dream of. She had been reluctant to disturb Hermione, though, who seemed to be perpetually busy with one thing or another. Her reluctance to contact Harry had been even greater though. Things had remained awkward between them, despite the amicableness of their break up earlier that year.

In the end, she reassured herself that Foster had impressed her as a thoroughly respectable member of his profession and set about preparing for the day ahead, and her trip to Edwina’s cottage.

She dressed carefully, in casual clothes that would be suitable if she happened to run into anyone, but which she would not mind getting a little dirty if she needed to. She had no idea what state the cottage was in, after all, since Foster had informed her that Edwina had been in St Mungo’s for some time before she had passed away. Mention had also been made of a pet that a neighbour – the elderly woman that Ginny had seen at the funeral service – had been taking care of. The pet in question had apparently been unceremoniously returned once it had become known that Edwina had left nothing in her will for its temporary care giver.

So it was that Ginny found herself dressed in jeans and a pale blue sweatshirt, standing at the end of a long path that was barely more than a dirt track. A sweeping, bone-chilling wind assaulted her the moment that the residual energy from the Portkey faded, and not for the first time Ginny cursed the fact that the cottage had been blocked off from the Floo network while her benefactress had been ill.

“A necessary precaution, you understand,” Foster had told her. “Such properties are often targeted by criminal types when it becomes known that their occupants are in hospital or have passed away.”

Ginny suspected such precautions were par for the course with Edwina Smythe. The woman’s interest in mystery stories had seeped into her every day life, leading her to install some fairly nasty anti-Apparation wards and several other security measures. Foster had told her that she may have to bring in a specialist if she wanted to disarm them on a permanent basis. Ginny was thinking of asking Bill if he would take a look at them in his spare time. Her big brother liked a challenge.

The cottage was far more isolated than she had expected it would be. A patchwork of fields surrounded it on three sides, flat at first and then rising into gentle rolling hills. Dry stone walls divided the otherwise open expanse into rough pockets, attempting to tame the countryside. Ginny was shocked by the size of it.

To her back was the sea. Ginny spun around to stare at it, shifting the rucksack that she had slung over one shoulder as she did so, and battling with her hair as it whipped around her. At this time of year the broad sandy beach seemed bleached of colour; the water beyond it was a grey, trembling mass. It was raw, and it was beautiful. For a heartbeat, as the wind tugged at her, Ginny almost felt as if she was flying again.

Shivering, she dragged herself from the view and began to make her way up the path towards the house. The closer she drew, the more excited she became. From the outside the cottage appeared almost Spartan with its rough hewn grey walls. Green-brown lichen clung to the individual stones, colouring and texturing them, as if it had been placed there purposely. The white painted window frames looked almost unnaturally bright in the dull landscape.

By the time she had reached the sturdy stone wall that provided a protective barrier for the cottage’s garden against the elements, her heart was thudding nosily in her chest. She tried to take her time – to look around and study the garden. By the gate there was a simple plaque that read ‘Bamburgh View’. The wind pressed her on insistently, however, and she hurried towards the front door. It was finding out what the interior of the cottage was like that really excited her anyway. There would be plenty of time to explore the exterior later.

Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, she very nearly fell into the cottage once she had managed to dig the key out of her bag. Quickly closing the door, she sucked in a much needed lungful of air and closed her eyes. Already she could feel some of the cold leaching from her body.

“Morning, Ginny.”

She swore.

Loudly.