It was getting dark in the Quidditch grounds, and the stars twinkled softly against the deep blue sky.

Draco Malfoy walked through, broomstick and robes in hand, intending to have a nice, calming fly on his own in the cool evening breeze—when he suddenly encountered a small, vivid redhead, running up to him, a cheeky grin on her face.

Draco stopped walking automatically, staring at the girl who was approaching him, horror on his pale face. Again? Ginny Weasley had been following him everywhere for the past few weeks, her bright mood and grin in place. He found her mood dampening, sometimes, because she was always more cheerful than he was. He could never understand it.

She didn't try and flirt with him, was not even overly polite to him, like the rest of his female fan club. She baffled him—and annoyed him, endlessly.

"Weasley, why are you here?" demanded Draco, thoroughly irritated, when she danced to a stop right in front of him.

"Well, why are you, Malfoy?" she returned, smiling. "And I'm very happy to see you, too."

"I...have my reasons for being wherever I am," he said coldly, deciding to stop this before it became a conversation and balancing his broom over his right shoulder as he started to move on to the changing rooms. "Now get lost."

"If I do, Malfoy, do you promise to find me?" chirped Ginny, eye gleaming merrily in a way Draco found rather insane—it was mad for people to look so bloody cheerful.

Draco's lips twitched, and he narrowed his silvery gray eyes. "I do, Weasley. At least by my next lifetime." He took a step forward, until he was a foot away from the lithe form of Ginny. "Now will you move your little arse before you drive me as insane as you are?"

"Nuh-uh. A lifetime is too long."

"Weasley, move!" Draco said loudly, trying to side-step her. She danced into his way again. "Get out of my way!"

"Shan't!" Ginny sang, swinging her scarlet hair onto her shoulder. "Be nice, and I might consider it."

"All right," he said through gritted teeth, scowling. He took a deep breath. "Weasley, please, will you go away?" He had used the 'P' word, and he thought he'd repent it for the rest of his life. And all for a Weasley. How stupid. "Please?"

Ginny pouted. "Not nice enough. And 'be nice' doesn't mean you've got to tell me to 'go away'!"

"To me, Weasley, it does." He shook his head disparagingly at Ginny's perpetually chipper expression, and began to walk past her again.

He felt a small, clenched fist clutch at his robe, and he stopped in his steps in utter disbelief. "Oh no, you don't, Malfoy."

He whipped around to face her, features displaying a rather amusing mixture of horror and surprise. "Please tell me you did not just grab my robe, Weasley!"

"Believe it or not," Ginny laughed, holding up her hand. "Anyway, you can't just walk away like that. Not from me, ferret-boy!"

Draco clenched his jaw, fighting the impulse to shout at her, and settled on narrowing his gray eyes dangerously at her. "Weasley," he said in that practiced, menacingly quiet voice he'd mastered, "what is your goddamned problem, anyway? You're testing my patience more than I usually tolerate."

Ginny laughed merrily. "Oh, I have many problems, Malfoy. Come, we'll have a little picnic, and I'll vent to you and tell you all about them."

Draco stared at her in exasperation, before rolling his eyes and striding away. There simply was no hope for a bint like that. Ginny ran behind him easily, and Draco momentarily wondered how her little legs could match his longer stride so quickly. She appeared at his side again, walking with him.

"Right. We won't talk about my problems. How about yours?"

Draco stopped in surprise. "What do you mean, yours?"

"Your problems, Malfoy."

"And why on earth would I tell you about my problems?" he demanded hotly, glaring down into her bright brown eyes. He suddenly realized that he'd sounded rather petulant, and added haughtily, "Not that I have any problems that cause me much concern."

Ginny laughed, throwing back her head, and Draco noticed that her eyes, the color of melting chocolate, grew starry in mirth.

How pathetic of him. He was sure it was the night air, messing with his head, though now he wasn't quite sure how night air could mess with one's head...

"Yeah, right, you don't have any problems," scoffed Ginny. "I've never seen a more acute form of denial."

"Weasley, whether I have problems or not is none of your bloody concern," he said rudely.

"Maybe not, but I can make it my concern. But admit it, Malfoy. You have problems."

Draco looked away from her teasing gaze, folding his arms over his chest. "Everyone has problems, Weasley," he said in annoyance. "At least I don't have a mental problem, like you seem to have."

"Oh, Malfoy, I always knew I was crazy," said Ginny unabashedly. "It's part of my personality. It's what makes me so appealing." Her eyes, starry and melting cocoa, looked up at him amusedly from beneath her long lashes.

Draco stared at her, unable to deny that that was true.

But then curiosity got the better of him. "You have problems?" he asked casually.

"Sure," she answered coolly, a sudden distance in her eyes. "Some more bothersome than the rest."

She would have problems. He knew... "You mean—like, the whole thing with Riddle's diary?" he asked hesitantly.

She flinched, but recovered immediately. "Yeah, things like that, too," replied Ginny lightly.

He felt slightly awed. "No one would imagine...you act like you own the world, Weasley." He smirked, in spite of himself, to show that he appreciated her, to some extent—her strength, it was undeniable.

She laughed. "As far as I'm concerned, Malfoy, I do own the world."

"What do you mean?" asked Draco curiously.

"See..." she explained, her eyes thoughtful now, "You can have tons of problems...but you can always make up your mind, that you'd face them, no matter what, and be happy—no matter what." She smiled. "That's all it takes, really. To make up your mind that whatever happens, you'll be happy."

He stared at her for a few moments, trying to understand that.

And then he realized that he was standing here, talking to this crazy girl, again. "Weasley," he said tersely, running an exasperated hand through his hair, "your ideas are very inspirational and philosophical—thank you. Now just leave me alone, all right?"

"Admit it, Malfoy, you enjoy being with me."

"I will admit no such insane thing."

"Then how come you haven't told me to piss off, or avoided me, or put a Silencing Charm on me, or even flown away now?" her chocolate eyes sparkled knowingly, but there was something serious in her tone. "That's what you do to nearly everyone else, you know."

Draco flushed lightly, and his eyes were defensive. "Just because I try to be polite does not mean I enjoy being with you, Weasley. Actually, you rather irritate me, if you haven't noticed."

A whiff of soft breeze lifted one of the stray strands of silver hair framing his face. He saw Ginny's eyes follow it wonderingly.

He smirked mischievously. "Can't take your eyes off me, can you, Weasley?" he said smugly.

She immediately rolled her eyes, and stared deliberately at the sky before she looked back at him. "I can so take my eyes off you!" she laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I'm not one of your crazed fans."

"You're...you're just absurd," he stated finally, realizing he was talking to her again. "Now I really don't want to continue this conversation, so do me a huge favor, and let me be on my way."

"Malfoy!" she complained as he walked again—she followed him, of course. "Now, there is something called persistence in the noble house of Gryffindor, so I'm not letting you go like that."

He turned on her. "If you're not one of my 'crazed fans', then why do you follow me around?"

"Because I love annoying you," she answered immediately. But suddenly, her eyes turned very intense. "And because...I think there might be something in you, Malfoy, that's worth following."

"'In me'?" Draco repeated in surprise. "Oh, there are many wonderful things in me, Weasley, but you are not one of the lucky few that gets to see."

"That's not what I mean, you jerk," she snapped. He felt a twinge of surprise at her tone. She was serious.

"I mean...I feel that there might be something in that cold, frozen little heart of yours that isn't arrogant, and egoistic, and unbearable, and...cruel."

His stormy gray eyes beheld her in a mixture of shock and anger. "D'you know what you're saying?" he hissed at her. "Because if you don't, then just shut your mouth, you little fool."

But her words rang in his mind...

He looked at her—she was a tiny thing, lithe and slender, with a long mane of fiery hair framing her thin oval face. Her large, dark brown eyes seemed very large, very intense in that small face.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But...after all I've seen in you, that's what I think."

He was frozen, but he forced an eyebrow to raise incredulously; he hated to admit it, but he wanted her to continue.

"You push everyone away—you don't let anyone come close. You're surrounded by people—friends—but you always like to be alone...I don't know why," she said, her voice soft.

"It's like you've got this thick, cold wall of ice around you, and you don't let anyone in. But I think, inside that wall, there's something decent—but something you feel you've got to hide.

"Sometimes, I feel...like you don't like what's happening around you, you think it's wrong—and you want to pull away, but you feel that you've got to pull away from everything else, too." Her voice was a whisper now. "And so...you're mostly alone, but you never get...lonely."

Malfoy felt cold all over, except for a bit of warmth in his chest, that he couldn't understand. He swallowed. "Weasley, just—just get lost, all right? That's the absolute nicest thing you can do for me right now, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd oblige."

"No, it isn't," she shook her head, taking a step toward him. "That isn't the nicest thing, not at all." She looked up at him, and her eyes were sparkling as she gazed into his own, dazed gray eyes.

She threw her arms around his neck, and pulled his face closer, until his lips, parted with surprise, were only an inch from hers.

"This is, Draco," she murmured against his lips, and then she kissed him—a soft, chaste kiss that lingered when she pulled away the tiniest bit, a few moments later.

Draco stared at her in shock for a moment, something pounding inside him, a warm, beautiful tattoo against his heart. She looked beautiful, and he could see her, see her lovely chocolate eyes, her soft, pink lips.

As the moments passed, he smiled, smiled in spite of himself. "Maybe I should be nice, too," he whispered. "Maybe I should be nice, Ginny, and kiss you back."

Draco runs out into the night impatiently, and quickly spots the coppery glint of a certain Gryffindor's hair. He makes his way toward her in long, graceful strides.

"What happened?" he demands of the girl urgently, looking into her starry brown eyes. "Is something wrong?"

She laughs freely, and something within him unclenches, relaxes, as he listens to the sound of her beautiful laughter.

"No, silly," she says, walking ahead and looking back at him playfully. "I just wanted to see you."

He frowns disapprovingly, though he has to admit that his chest swells with the warmth that envelops him. Still, it is wrong—she shouldn't be out this late at night. Not to merely see him.

"And you send me a charmed owl in the middle of bloody Transfiguration to 'see me'?" he questions dryly. "I must be quite a sight to behold."

He catches up to her, taking her hand and making her halt in her mindless strolling. He regards her unusually flushed face levelly.

"You're not bad-looking," she says lightly.

"Ginny." He puts his hands on her slender shoulders, and stares into her eyes intently. "Something's up. Tell me."

She sighs. "Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I just..." she takes a deep breath. "I just...I'm sick, Draco. Sick of all the secrecy, the sneaking around, the lies—as though we're doing something wrong here." She looks up at him passionately, a sudden light behind her chocolate brown eyes. "I'm sick of lying about something so beautiful, and I just felt frustrated. I knew seeing you would make me feel better, so..." She drops her eyes, a soft blush coating her pale cheeks.

And then, Draco realizes, that he should probably tell her, anyway. His seventeenth birthday draws near, with all its ominous, life-ending implications. It is only fair that he tells her, gives her the choice. The thought brings a familiar lump to his throat, but he speaks anyway, his voice tight and strained.

"Ginevra," he says softly. He sighs, his gray eyes willing hers to look into his. "The lies. They'll always be there. Because...because what we're doing —" he gestures helplessly to himself and her, as a single entity, as one "—it is wrong."

Her eyes widen in surprise, and then a certain determination seems to come over her. She looks up at him bravely, and smirks. He sees the strength in her, and it moves him, moves him enough to put on a façade of lightness over his pained face.

"Why?" she challenges. "Not very virtuous, then? Not the good knight in shining armor?"

"No, I'm afraid not," he answers with a bitter smile.

She looks up at him suddenly, with a defiant, strange sort of determination playing across her features. Her eyes melt at him, like a swirl of chocolate. "Well, then," she says lightly, "I'm sure I can find tons of reasons to say away from you." She tosses her hair at him, and turns her back on him dramatically, smirking. He raises an elegant eyebrow at her, before taking her by the shoulders and turning her to him again.

"What?" he says.

"Well, you're evil, right?" she retorts. "And you're dangerous. You could just be playing with me, using me, fucking with my feelings—" he flinches delicately at this, but she ignores him, continuing ruthlessly "—and you could even get me killed."

"You're right," he says in a calm voice, though pain rips through him at the truth in her words. Merlin knew, he was never to be trusted. Even if she knew he loved her with every pore of his being, it was even good for her to doubt him. Especially because he could get her killed, and it was much safer for her to be not connected to him in any way at all.

"You're right," he repeats flatly. "I am dangerous."

"Sure," she continues dramatically, a wicked light in her eyes, "there's something inside you, you prick, that makes me love you more than anything in the whole world—" here, again, he smiles sadly, because her words strike him so deeply with warmth "—but otherwise, you're just pure trouble packaged in a hot body."

He smirks dryly, but gives no other answer.

"But when are you going to understand," she says, looking up at him intently, suddenly serious, "that I don't care? That I don't care even if I die, if it's for you?"

He swallows. "Do you realize how disgustingly corny you sound?" he says lightly.

"I do. But I don't care." Her eyes are hard. "I don't care what you say, Draco, but this—this love we have—it's too...beautiful, it's too precious for me to let go like that. And I know, I know you feel the same way, much as you try to say otherwise."

He casts away his humor for a moment, and says earnestly, "I know, Ginny. But that's my point. I love you. I can't—I can't stand—" he runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he speaks agitatedly "—I can't stand for you to risk yourself for me."

She sighs, and begins to walk away from him, but he follows her easily. They walk side to side for a few silent moments, both staring at the movement of their feet, pondering. The night is cool, quiet, providing no intrusion to their thoughts.

"Enough of this," she says finally. She looks up at him, and she's grinning—he realizes that she's put away the fear, the uncertainty, for now. He sees the humor, the love, dancing in her eyes, and he can't help but smirk back.

"I don't think you're making good use of my hot packaging," he says mischievously. "You can look but you can also touch, you know. I'm rather in the mood for a good snog."

She rolls her eyes, and then says, "You know, I think I get it now. Maybe I should stay away from you."

He frowns. "What now?" He hates to admit there's a certain fear in him, despite her joking tone and loving eyes—he's afraid, he's afraid she'll leave him, and he's also afraid that she won't.

"You're an arrogant git," she states brightly. "And arrogant gits aren't usually very nice people."

Her words make him laugh, and he sees the approval in her eyes at his good humor. "Okay," he encourages. "Keep it coming. What other fault can you find with me?"

"You've got an ego the size of a troll," she says matter-of-factly.

He pretends to look concernedly down at himself. "I think it's much bigger, actually."

"You're rude and cold and can be extremely hurtful."

"I'd call it expressing my opinion."

"You enjoy playing around with other girls and having them drool over you just to prove that you can."

"You know, I think some boys drool over me, too. It's rather nauseating."

"You're a right snob and you show off all the time."

"It's not my fault I can swim in gold, Ginny."

She snorts and continues with her tirade. They've reached the edge of the woods now, and they circle it, strolling slowly toward Hagrid's pumpkin patch. "You're a really sore loser."

"Hey, baby, I'd have to actually be a loser to fulfill that one." He's grinning widely now, gray eyes playful as they're fixed steadily on her pale, lovely face.

"You have no heroism whatsoever."

"Look, I'm no Harry bleeding Potter of a tosspot. In a life-or-death situation, I'd just save yours and my neck and leave the others to fate."

"Which is my point exactly. And you use too much hair gel."

"What?" For the first time, Draco looks horrified. "I do not! I hardly use gel at all! My hair just stays that way and it's no fault of mine."

She halts, and turns around to face him directly. She fingers his collar playfully, drawing closer to him. "Let me see," she murmurs. She reaches up, to run a hand softly through his silver-blond hair, and Draco closes his eyes at her touch.

"Okay," she admits grudgingly, "it's not greasy."

"I know," he replies smugly, putting his arms slowly around her svelte waist and looking down into her eyes intensely. Her sweet breath mingles with his in the still night.

"You're a very, very bad person," she breathes against his chest.

"Thanks," he whispers, smirking.

"I should just go with Harry—my noble hero." She giggles.

He freezes, and suddenly takes her by the shoulders sharply. She gasps a little at his rough touch, and he glares down into her eyes, his own fiercely stormy gray.

"Here's my biggest sin," he murmurs dangerously, his lips grazing hers as he speaks. He's looking into her eyes stormily, and their faces are so close he can see the little freckles on her nose. He can hear that she's holding her breath as she gazes into his eyes, suddenly uncertain.

With one hand, he gently caresses her skin, from her arm, up her soft, graceful neck, to her cheek. Her breathing is heavy, coming out in short gasps now.

"I don't share, Weasley," he whispers against her lips. "You're mine—all mine—and I don't share what's mine."

And later on that night, he proves exactly how little he shares his most priced belongings—by the end of which Ginny admits helplessly that being shared is the last thing she'd want; for all of Draco's heinously bad crimes, including his hot packaging, Ginny finds that she'll hold him as close as possible, anyway. After all, evilness isn't contagious.