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Draco groaned as light streamed through the windows in the Great Hall. It was a glorious day outside—the sky was clear and blue with no sign of clouds. The school was abuzz with excitement about the superb day and how they were all going to pass time in its splendor.
Adamantly against frolicking and playing outside like the rest of the school, Draco returned to his dormitory after breakfast. The Slytherin common room was dismally quiet, but he enjoyed the feeling of pure solitude as he relaxed on a large green armchair in front of the fire. He thought it was a bit ironic that he was resting inside in front of a crackling fire while everyone else was outside. He comfortably melded himself into the chair, pondering his father’s strict expectations for him.
Suddenly, there was a faint clamor arising from the hallways outside the Slytherin common room, and abruptly a large slew of Slytherins burst into the common room. Loudly and raucously, they laughed something about hexing poor first-years and not getting caught. Draco grumbled to himself as the perfect silence of the common room was shaken into oblivion. Immensely irritated, he hastily stood and stalked off towards his chambers, intending to bury himself under his thick, warm covers and waste the day away. However, he could still hear muffled laughter from the common room, and as he struggled to fall asleep, the din from the rowdy Slytherins only became louder and more infuriating.
Muttering to himself about the inconsiderate rudeness of those who did not respect those wanting solitude or sleep, Draco grabbed his broomstick from under his bed and stomped out of the Slytherin dormitories and over towards the Quidditch field.
It looked as though everyone was outside—playing games, reading books, talking with friends… Snogging under the trees… Marching over to the Quidditch pitch, he was pleased to note that the stadium was virtually empty—there were only a few students who looked to be a mix of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and they were perfectly content throwing around a large ball which closely resembled a Quaffle.
Mounting his broomstick expertly, Draco pushed off from the ground and smoothly rose into the air. He loved the feeling he got from flying—a tranquil, unbothered feeling that seldom let anything trouble him. Soaring around the pitch, Draco gradually accelerated his broom until everything that passed was just a blurred stroke of color. He ascended until he was fifty feet above the field, and he slowed to a halt.
Perching on the top of his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, Draco reached his hand into his robes and felt around for the golden Snitch his father had given him. Clasping his fingers around the small, walnut sized ball, he felt the smooth golden surface as the wings beat frantically under his hand. It was one of the few things his father had given him that Draco actually was fond of. As his thoughts turned back to his father, Draco’s serene mood slipped back into confused ideas and unreasonable expectations.
Nowadays, everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater; however, no one was certain as to whether Draco would follow in his father’s footsteps. His father had large shoes to fill—he had an infamous reputation and an inexplicably dark aura. Lucius would do whatever it took to serve his sole purpose—pleasing the Dark Lord in hopes of gaining power and recognition when the scum of the world was abolished.
Draco was not certain if he wanted to be quite so severe. He had always been told that Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods were the worst sorts of wizards—the type he should never befriend or converse with. However, in his limited experiences with the supposedly lower class wizards, he had found that there was not a huge difference between himself and them. On the other hand, their few principles that varied from Draco’s beliefs were the ones that Draco had always been taught were the most horrible—the explicitly unacceptable.
If only there were an easy way for him to tell his father that he could consider the life his father lead, but that he did not want to bind himself to it. Draco did not mind balancing himself between the so-called ‘good’ and ‘bad’ wizards, but to irrevocably unite himself to one side was a larger commitment than what Draco was willing to stomach. If he joined his father, he would be expected to be ceaselessly grim and powerful—he would be forced to serve the Dark Lord—wait on his every beck and call. Draco wanted to finish Hogwarts and choose his own life and destiny, not what his father had chosen for him.
Firmly grasping the handle of his broomstick, Draco careened downwards directly towards the grassy field. He was speedily approaching the hard ground, when swiftly he tilted his broom upwards and flew back into the air. Trying to clear his mind of thoughts concerning his father, Draco practiced rapidly accelerating and feinting.
Suddenly, he noticed an all too familiar head of unmanageable jet-black hair approaching the pitch with a Firebolt perched on his shoulder. Draco felt his elated mood diminish as he recognized Potter, along with the Weasel, the Mudblood and the little Weaslette. Turning quickly, he zipped to the far end of the stadium and hastened his speed until the passing blurs of his surroundings became fleeting moments of color. He suddenly plummeted towards the ground, distractedly admiring the field as it grew frighteningly close. As he was about to hurtle into the unforgiving ground, he expertly slanted his broomstick and flew into the sky.
Slowing down, he glanced towards the despicable Golden Trio and their current antics. Potter was now rocketing around the stadium, rivaling Draco’s movements from several minutes sooner. Potter’s shameful Muggle-loving friend Weasley was struggling to cajole the Mudblood onto a broomstick. It was ridiculous. Looking around further, he noticed the isolated Weaslette sitting by herself on a set of bleachers, seemingly enticed by Potter’s flashy skills. She certainly seemed dedicated to him, he thought as he glimpsed at her small figure as she watched Harry feint towards the ground.
Potter rose into the air after his fantastic feint, and looking inquisitively at Draco. Realizing that he had ceased movement and he was just balancing on his broom in midair, Draco smirked at Potter’s confused gaze. “What do you want, Potter?” he spat out menacingly. Potter shrugged and turned to fly away; however, Draco had a sudden idea of how to keep his mind off of his father. “What? Scared, Potter?” he drawled loudly, enticing Potter to return.
Draco smirked as Potter turned around, flying slowly back to Draco’s perch. “Of what?” he asked fiercely, but with a note of curiosity in his voice. With a smug expression on his face, Draco coolly pulled the struggling Snitch from his pocket, holding it by its golden base so the wings could flutter freely.
“You up for a game?” Draco asked shortly. He knew Quidditch was the best way for him to forget about his father, and it would be more rewarding to play if he beat Potter at finding the Snitch.
Much to his surprise, Potter nodded affirmatively. “Any stakes?” he questioned. Draco thought for a moment—it would be amusing to wager something, but he could not think of anything Potter had that he would want. He shook his head and held out his hand. Harry clasped it firmly and they quickly shook hands. Draco released the Snitch, and watched as it eagerly flew towards the goalposts on the far side of the stadium before abruptly changing directions and flying towards the ground.
Draco continued to sit on his broom without moving, giving the Snitch adequate time to hide. Potter was waiting for the Snitch as well, except it looked as though there was a question bottled up inside he was dying to ask. “Spit it out, Potter,” Draco said sharply, tired of waiting for Potter to muster enough confidence to ask.
Potter shrugged, as though trying to brush off his behavior. “Where’d you get the Snitch from?” he asked casually. It sounded as though he wanted one of his own.
“My father,” Draco said unperturbedly, “he got it for me last year—I don’t know where it came from though.” Potter nodded, accepting Draco’s words.
“D’you practice with it often?” Potter asked curiously. Draco shugged—he had played with it before, but it was not very exciting by himself. The two of them passed a few more casual words about Quidditch until several minutes had passed.
“Ready?” he asked Potter. “GO!” he shouted, and they sped off in different directions. He looked as Potter circled the far end of the Quidditch pitch, narrowing his eyes in search of the Snitch. Draco glanced across the ground, the Snitch was not in clear sight of anything—chances were that it was probably taking refuge among the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw impromptu game. Either that, or it was hiding near the filthy Mudblood Granger and her Muggle-loving boyfriend, who were riding around the field on the same broomstick looking disgustingly content with themselves.
Contemplating where the Snitch might be, he peeked at the littlest Weasley in the stands. She kept gazing up at Potter, and then shifting back towards the small book she had in her lap. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she was biting her tongue as she worked in her book. Draco had never known that she was so devoted to Potter—he had always known about her crush on Potter; everyone at Hogwarts did—but to see her so entirely entranced by his every move was a whole new level of devotion.
Draco rolled his eyes at the captivated Weasley—she had always been a strange character. She was one of the few people that he could remember who had stood up against him—he reflectively contemplated their first meeting at Flourish and Blotts—she had denounced him in support of Potter.
Turning his attention back to the game, he was shocked to see Potter already diving towards the center of the field. Draco rushed after, determined to catch the Snitch before Potter, but as he trailed Potter towards the ground he realized Potter had been feinting all along. Draco whipped around and sped towards the goalposts, feeling the cool wind cutting across his face. He looked around cautiously for the Snitch, trying to use the bright sunlight to catch a glimpse of its golden shine. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter feinting again, his sharp dive drawing gasps from the other Hogwarts students playing Quidditch. Thoroughly repulsed, Draco ascended until he was far above everyone on the field.
He calmly floated across the stadium, expertly watching for the golden glint of the Snitch. Quite a bit of time had passed since he and Potter had started, and neither had actually seen the Snitch. Suddenly, Draco saw a fleeting shine of gold to his right. He quickly twirled and looked down, but much to his dismay, it was just the golden strands of the Weaslette’s hair reflecting light. He stared at her for a moment—she was the embodiment of everything he was supposed to loathe—but inside, he did not feel a shred of hatred. Instead, she looked peaceful, and somewhat mysterious—he had never known someone who was not sinister like his father, so those who were eternally virtuous and moral were mystifying to him.
Draco gazed intently at her for a moment longer until he saw her head shift to look up at Potter again. Abruptly looking in another direction, Draco lazily began perusing the field for the Snitch. Cocking his head slightly to the side, he could see the Weaslette barely on the side of his vision. He was surprised to see that she was not studying Potter, but rather, her watch seemed to be affixed on him. Needless to say, Draco felt quite baffled as he watched her attention shift between him and her small notebook.
Brushing his hair elegantly out of his eyes, Draco scrutinized the field for the Snitch while periodically glancing down to see what the Weaslette was doing. After awhile, as the sun began to set in the sky, she seemed to have turned her attention back to Potter, who was lackadaisically searching for the Snitch. Neither Draco nor Potter was trying very hard, which explained why they both had failed to find the golden object. Suddenly, Draco spotted the Snitch fluttering around down near the goalposts. He quickly turned and dove towards the Snitch, but Potter was on his tail. Draco could feel Potter approaching him from behind as he reached out to wrap his fingers around the struggling Snitch. However, just as he was about to grab it, Potter knocked his hand out of the way and seized the Snitch, just as he normally did.
They both lifted out of their dives, and Potter lightly handed the Snitch back to Draco. Surprisingly, Draco was not upset at his loss—he had almost expected it. There were some things that would never change. Besides, it was not a decisive Gryffindor-Slytherin game, so there was no reason for him to get angry. Nodding good-bye at Potter, who had begun to descend towards Granger and Weasley, Draco flew a few more laps around the pitch before landing in the middle.
The Quidditch stadium was now entirely empty, with the exception of the distracted Weaslette sitting up in the stands, content with her bloody notebook. Draco was about to leave, when he had a sudden idea to go tease the Muggle-loving Weaslette—she would probably just get angry with him, like that day in Flourish and Blotts. He wondered if she would react the same way, especially now that she knew him.
As he quietly crept up behind her, he noticed that she was not writing in the book, but rather she was sketching a picture. Her composition consisted of two Quidditch players; a sloppy looking version of Harry Potter, and a very finely detailed version of himself. Completely bewildered, Draco stood for a moment, trying to discern why she was drawing a picture of him in her sketchbook. Was it possible that, despite all the insults and family loyalties, that she was still not revolted by him? He found it hard to believe that she could possibly tolerate him, but after seeing that sketch of hers, he felt as though he had to look at their grudges in a new light. It was his father who had always told him that Weasleys were awful—perhaps Draco did not have to abide by his father’s wishes. Either that or he had to make his own reasoning of why he should avoid Weasleys.
He shrugged—there was no use in throwing away his entire relationship with his family just to find out what it was like to be nice to a Weasley. It did not make any sense. He still felt as though he should surprise her though. “Is that what I really look like?” he asked coolly, feeling a smug smile arise on his face as she whipped around with wide eyes and on open mouth. She seemed stunned that he had found her, and she quickly moved to hide her sketch from him. “No,” he said, referring to the drawing, “let me see it.” Now that she knew he was here, he could look at the sketch more closely—try to figure out what in Merlin’s name she had been thinking.
Silently gazing at the picture, he noted that her portrayal of Potter was very rushed and shoddy, particularly his head and facial expressions. However, her rendering of himself was very detailed and delicate looking, as though she had spent a good deal of time meticulously drawing each part of his body. Aside from the intense confusion he felt, he was almost honored that she had taken the time to draw him so superbly. Draco could feel her trembling beside him as he continued to inspect her artwork. She seemed to be frightened by his presence—a significant different from their previous encounters. As he looked critically at her work, he could not find anything to provoke her with. Noticing a dark line on the paper that seemed to divide him and Potter, he asked “Why the harsh line?” It was the only thing he could think of to ask at the moment, especially as he worked to sort out the turmoil of his inner emotions.
“It’s a barrier,” she responded quietly, obviously referring to the well-known feud between Malfoys and Weasleys. He almost pitied her fearful voice and shaking body—as much as his father tried to tell him otherwise, she was still a normal person. In fact, at the moment he was having trouble seeing any reason why his father would prevent him from talking to Weasleys. Draco looked at the Weaslette, but all he saw was the top of a head of ginger hair. Fighting the urge to obey his father’s orders, and avoid the young Weasley, he carefully reached out and tilted her chin up so he could see her face. “Do you really think there needs to be a barrier?” he asked seriously. He could feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest as he found himself torn between his father’s beliefs and his own curiosity.
The Weaslette broke her eye contact again and looked down towards the ground, taking a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “I don’t want there to be,” she whispered, barely audible over the rustle of trees in the faint wind. Draco was tremendously perplexed—if she did not want there to be a grudge between their families, then what exactly did she want? He looked at the Weaslette—what was her name anyway? Oh yea… Ginny. As he glanced at Ginny, he noticed she seemed to have an expectant look on her face, as though she anticipated something special—something to show that there was no barrier. He absentmindedly stroked the skin on her arm as he wondered what life would be like without a ridiculous feud. He knew it would not work—if anything, it would tear their families apart more. Of course, they could make the first move to ending years of outrageous disputes.
He leaned cautiously towards Ginny, wondering how she would respond. It seemed as though she liked him, although he was not entirely certain. As he moved, she tilted towards him, matching his movements. Suddenly, Draco felt too close—it was too much too soon. He could not just throw away everything he had ever been told in one moment. Stalling, he glanced back down at the drawing, affixing his eyes upon the painstaking lines and accurate details. Looking back at Ginny, he could see in her eyes how much he had inspired her in making this sketch, and how much this moment meant to her. She caught his gaze, and then reached down and smeared out the dark barrier on the page, replacing it with a lighter stroke.
Ginny put down her charcoal and beamed at Draco. He smiled slightly, before he caught himself and tried to restore the blank expression on his face. However, he could feel his heart beating rapidly as he tried to overcome the feeling of being so close to the one girl he should never be with. But then, his father was not here right now. Draco felt himself lean towards Ginny. He could see her face light up as he slowly moved closer, and she cautiously nuzzled her way into his arms. Shocked at her bravery, he decided it was his turn to make a move.
Slowly reaching his hand under her chin, Draco tipped her head upwards and gazed into her eyes, which were a warm chocolate color, full of emotion and meaning. He gently kissed her lips, waiting to see if she pulled away in disgust—but much to his surprise, she seemed to meld into his body and respond to his light touch, encouraging him to continue. He intensified the kiss, astonished at how perfect it felt to have her in his arms. He could feel her tremble as he stroked her back tenderly—he felt as though she made him complete.
As they finally separated, he gazed into her eyes in awe. Whatever his father had ever told him was now irrelevant—there was absolutely no reason to hold a grudge against this Weasley. She opened her mouth to say something, but he did not want to hear it—he wanted to experience the beauty of the moment, silently and sincerely. She looked into his eyes adoringly, and he could sense how much this moment meant to her, especially after she had spent her day drawing him. Draco was still not certain what had possessed her to sketch him—but it was not those things that mattered. What mattered was that they were together right now, enjoying each others’ company and not quarreling. She was a hard one to catch—just like that damn Snitch. He knew their friendship could never be accepted—there were too many people who would disagree with their antics. However, he wanted to make this occasion last as long as possible. Smiling genuinely, he swiftly pulled her into another mind-blowing kiss, caressing her softly and enjoying the moment.
A/N: I wrote this in order to explain the other side of 'Fading Lines'... I'm not sure if this fic stands alone, but if you're confused, then tell me so I can fix it. Anyway, I'm not really sure what I think of this story, as I have a tendency to write things and then never read them again. It's a problem. Anyway, my sister read it and she said she liked it, but she seems to like everything I write, so it's hard to say. If it's incoherent, that's probably because I'm tired and its late, and there's a small chance I'll reread it tomorrow and make the appropriate changes (and then remove this extremely stupid author's note)
Adamantly against frolicking and playing outside like the rest of the school, Draco returned to his dormitory after breakfast. The Slytherin common room was dismally quiet, but he enjoyed the feeling of pure solitude as he relaxed on a large green armchair in front of the fire. He thought it was a bit ironic that he was resting inside in front of a crackling fire while everyone else was outside. He comfortably melded himself into the chair, pondering his father’s strict expectations for him.
Suddenly, there was a faint clamor arising from the hallways outside the Slytherin common room, and abruptly a large slew of Slytherins burst into the common room. Loudly and raucously, they laughed something about hexing poor first-years and not getting caught. Draco grumbled to himself as the perfect silence of the common room was shaken into oblivion. Immensely irritated, he hastily stood and stalked off towards his chambers, intending to bury himself under his thick, warm covers and waste the day away. However, he could still hear muffled laughter from the common room, and as he struggled to fall asleep, the din from the rowdy Slytherins only became louder and more infuriating.
Muttering to himself about the inconsiderate rudeness of those who did not respect those wanting solitude or sleep, Draco grabbed his broomstick from under his bed and stomped out of the Slytherin dormitories and over towards the Quidditch field.
It looked as though everyone was outside—playing games, reading books, talking with friends… Snogging under the trees… Marching over to the Quidditch pitch, he was pleased to note that the stadium was virtually empty—there were only a few students who looked to be a mix of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and they were perfectly content throwing around a large ball which closely resembled a Quaffle.
Mounting his broomstick expertly, Draco pushed off from the ground and smoothly rose into the air. He loved the feeling he got from flying—a tranquil, unbothered feeling that seldom let anything trouble him. Soaring around the pitch, Draco gradually accelerated his broom until everything that passed was just a blurred stroke of color. He ascended until he was fifty feet above the field, and he slowed to a halt.
Perching on the top of his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, Draco reached his hand into his robes and felt around for the golden Snitch his father had given him. Clasping his fingers around the small, walnut sized ball, he felt the smooth golden surface as the wings beat frantically under his hand. It was one of the few things his father had given him that Draco actually was fond of. As his thoughts turned back to his father, Draco’s serene mood slipped back into confused ideas and unreasonable expectations.
Nowadays, everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater; however, no one was certain as to whether Draco would follow in his father’s footsteps. His father had large shoes to fill—he had an infamous reputation and an inexplicably dark aura. Lucius would do whatever it took to serve his sole purpose—pleasing the Dark Lord in hopes of gaining power and recognition when the scum of the world was abolished.
Draco was not certain if he wanted to be quite so severe. He had always been told that Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods were the worst sorts of wizards—the type he should never befriend or converse with. However, in his limited experiences with the supposedly lower class wizards, he had found that there was not a huge difference between himself and them. On the other hand, their few principles that varied from Draco’s beliefs were the ones that Draco had always been taught were the most horrible—the explicitly unacceptable.
If only there were an easy way for him to tell his father that he could consider the life his father lead, but that he did not want to bind himself to it. Draco did not mind balancing himself between the so-called ‘good’ and ‘bad’ wizards, but to irrevocably unite himself to one side was a larger commitment than what Draco was willing to stomach. If he joined his father, he would be expected to be ceaselessly grim and powerful—he would be forced to serve the Dark Lord—wait on his every beck and call. Draco wanted to finish Hogwarts and choose his own life and destiny, not what his father had chosen for him.
Firmly grasping the handle of his broomstick, Draco careened downwards directly towards the grassy field. He was speedily approaching the hard ground, when swiftly he tilted his broom upwards and flew back into the air. Trying to clear his mind of thoughts concerning his father, Draco practiced rapidly accelerating and feinting.
Suddenly, he noticed an all too familiar head of unmanageable jet-black hair approaching the pitch with a Firebolt perched on his shoulder. Draco felt his elated mood diminish as he recognized Potter, along with the Weasel, the Mudblood and the little Weaslette. Turning quickly, he zipped to the far end of the stadium and hastened his speed until the passing blurs of his surroundings became fleeting moments of color. He suddenly plummeted towards the ground, distractedly admiring the field as it grew frighteningly close. As he was about to hurtle into the unforgiving ground, he expertly slanted his broomstick and flew into the sky.
Slowing down, he glanced towards the despicable Golden Trio and their current antics. Potter was now rocketing around the stadium, rivaling Draco’s movements from several minutes sooner. Potter’s shameful Muggle-loving friend Weasley was struggling to cajole the Mudblood onto a broomstick. It was ridiculous. Looking around further, he noticed the isolated Weaslette sitting by herself on a set of bleachers, seemingly enticed by Potter’s flashy skills. She certainly seemed dedicated to him, he thought as he glimpsed at her small figure as she watched Harry feint towards the ground.
Potter rose into the air after his fantastic feint, and looking inquisitively at Draco. Realizing that he had ceased movement and he was just balancing on his broom in midair, Draco smirked at Potter’s confused gaze. “What do you want, Potter?” he spat out menacingly. Potter shrugged and turned to fly away; however, Draco had a sudden idea of how to keep his mind off of his father. “What? Scared, Potter?” he drawled loudly, enticing Potter to return.
Draco smirked as Potter turned around, flying slowly back to Draco’s perch. “Of what?” he asked fiercely, but with a note of curiosity in his voice. With a smug expression on his face, Draco coolly pulled the struggling Snitch from his pocket, holding it by its golden base so the wings could flutter freely.
“You up for a game?” Draco asked shortly. He knew Quidditch was the best way for him to forget about his father, and it would be more rewarding to play if he beat Potter at finding the Snitch.
Much to his surprise, Potter nodded affirmatively. “Any stakes?” he questioned. Draco thought for a moment—it would be amusing to wager something, but he could not think of anything Potter had that he would want. He shook his head and held out his hand. Harry clasped it firmly and they quickly shook hands. Draco released the Snitch, and watched as it eagerly flew towards the goalposts on the far side of the stadium before abruptly changing directions and flying towards the ground.
Draco continued to sit on his broom without moving, giving the Snitch adequate time to hide. Potter was waiting for the Snitch as well, except it looked as though there was a question bottled up inside he was dying to ask. “Spit it out, Potter,” Draco said sharply, tired of waiting for Potter to muster enough confidence to ask.
Potter shrugged, as though trying to brush off his behavior. “Where’d you get the Snitch from?” he asked casually. It sounded as though he wanted one of his own.
“My father,” Draco said unperturbedly, “he got it for me last year—I don’t know where it came from though.” Potter nodded, accepting Draco’s words.
“D’you practice with it often?” Potter asked curiously. Draco shugged—he had played with it before, but it was not very exciting by himself. The two of them passed a few more casual words about Quidditch until several minutes had passed.
“Ready?” he asked Potter. “GO!” he shouted, and they sped off in different directions. He looked as Potter circled the far end of the Quidditch pitch, narrowing his eyes in search of the Snitch. Draco glanced across the ground, the Snitch was not in clear sight of anything—chances were that it was probably taking refuge among the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw impromptu game. Either that, or it was hiding near the filthy Mudblood Granger and her Muggle-loving boyfriend, who were riding around the field on the same broomstick looking disgustingly content with themselves.
Contemplating where the Snitch might be, he peeked at the littlest Weasley in the stands. She kept gazing up at Potter, and then shifting back towards the small book she had in her lap. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she was biting her tongue as she worked in her book. Draco had never known that she was so devoted to Potter—he had always known about her crush on Potter; everyone at Hogwarts did—but to see her so entirely entranced by his every move was a whole new level of devotion.
Draco rolled his eyes at the captivated Weasley—she had always been a strange character. She was one of the few people that he could remember who had stood up against him—he reflectively contemplated their first meeting at Flourish and Blotts—she had denounced him in support of Potter.
Turning his attention back to the game, he was shocked to see Potter already diving towards the center of the field. Draco rushed after, determined to catch the Snitch before Potter, but as he trailed Potter towards the ground he realized Potter had been feinting all along. Draco whipped around and sped towards the goalposts, feeling the cool wind cutting across his face. He looked around cautiously for the Snitch, trying to use the bright sunlight to catch a glimpse of its golden shine. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter feinting again, his sharp dive drawing gasps from the other Hogwarts students playing Quidditch. Thoroughly repulsed, Draco ascended until he was far above everyone on the field.
He calmly floated across the stadium, expertly watching for the golden glint of the Snitch. Quite a bit of time had passed since he and Potter had started, and neither had actually seen the Snitch. Suddenly, Draco saw a fleeting shine of gold to his right. He quickly twirled and looked down, but much to his dismay, it was just the golden strands of the Weaslette’s hair reflecting light. He stared at her for a moment—she was the embodiment of everything he was supposed to loathe—but inside, he did not feel a shred of hatred. Instead, she looked peaceful, and somewhat mysterious—he had never known someone who was not sinister like his father, so those who were eternally virtuous and moral were mystifying to him.
Draco gazed intently at her for a moment longer until he saw her head shift to look up at Potter again. Abruptly looking in another direction, Draco lazily began perusing the field for the Snitch. Cocking his head slightly to the side, he could see the Weaslette barely on the side of his vision. He was surprised to see that she was not studying Potter, but rather, her watch seemed to be affixed on him. Needless to say, Draco felt quite baffled as he watched her attention shift between him and her small notebook.
Brushing his hair elegantly out of his eyes, Draco scrutinized the field for the Snitch while periodically glancing down to see what the Weaslette was doing. After awhile, as the sun began to set in the sky, she seemed to have turned her attention back to Potter, who was lackadaisically searching for the Snitch. Neither Draco nor Potter was trying very hard, which explained why they both had failed to find the golden object. Suddenly, Draco spotted the Snitch fluttering around down near the goalposts. He quickly turned and dove towards the Snitch, but Potter was on his tail. Draco could feel Potter approaching him from behind as he reached out to wrap his fingers around the struggling Snitch. However, just as he was about to grab it, Potter knocked his hand out of the way and seized the Snitch, just as he normally did.
They both lifted out of their dives, and Potter lightly handed the Snitch back to Draco. Surprisingly, Draco was not upset at his loss—he had almost expected it. There were some things that would never change. Besides, it was not a decisive Gryffindor-Slytherin game, so there was no reason for him to get angry. Nodding good-bye at Potter, who had begun to descend towards Granger and Weasley, Draco flew a few more laps around the pitch before landing in the middle.
The Quidditch stadium was now entirely empty, with the exception of the distracted Weaslette sitting up in the stands, content with her bloody notebook. Draco was about to leave, when he had a sudden idea to go tease the Muggle-loving Weaslette—she would probably just get angry with him, like that day in Flourish and Blotts. He wondered if she would react the same way, especially now that she knew him.
As he quietly crept up behind her, he noticed that she was not writing in the book, but rather she was sketching a picture. Her composition consisted of two Quidditch players; a sloppy looking version of Harry Potter, and a very finely detailed version of himself. Completely bewildered, Draco stood for a moment, trying to discern why she was drawing a picture of him in her sketchbook. Was it possible that, despite all the insults and family loyalties, that she was still not revolted by him? He found it hard to believe that she could possibly tolerate him, but after seeing that sketch of hers, he felt as though he had to look at their grudges in a new light. It was his father who had always told him that Weasleys were awful—perhaps Draco did not have to abide by his father’s wishes. Either that or he had to make his own reasoning of why he should avoid Weasleys.
He shrugged—there was no use in throwing away his entire relationship with his family just to find out what it was like to be nice to a Weasley. It did not make any sense. He still felt as though he should surprise her though. “Is that what I really look like?” he asked coolly, feeling a smug smile arise on his face as she whipped around with wide eyes and on open mouth. She seemed stunned that he had found her, and she quickly moved to hide her sketch from him. “No,” he said, referring to the drawing, “let me see it.” Now that she knew he was here, he could look at the sketch more closely—try to figure out what in Merlin’s name she had been thinking.
Silently gazing at the picture, he noted that her portrayal of Potter was very rushed and shoddy, particularly his head and facial expressions. However, her rendering of himself was very detailed and delicate looking, as though she had spent a good deal of time meticulously drawing each part of his body. Aside from the intense confusion he felt, he was almost honored that she had taken the time to draw him so superbly. Draco could feel her trembling beside him as he continued to inspect her artwork. She seemed to be frightened by his presence—a significant different from their previous encounters. As he looked critically at her work, he could not find anything to provoke her with. Noticing a dark line on the paper that seemed to divide him and Potter, he asked “Why the harsh line?” It was the only thing he could think of to ask at the moment, especially as he worked to sort out the turmoil of his inner emotions.
“It’s a barrier,” she responded quietly, obviously referring to the well-known feud between Malfoys and Weasleys. He almost pitied her fearful voice and shaking body—as much as his father tried to tell him otherwise, she was still a normal person. In fact, at the moment he was having trouble seeing any reason why his father would prevent him from talking to Weasleys. Draco looked at the Weaslette, but all he saw was the top of a head of ginger hair. Fighting the urge to obey his father’s orders, and avoid the young Weasley, he carefully reached out and tilted her chin up so he could see her face. “Do you really think there needs to be a barrier?” he asked seriously. He could feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest as he found himself torn between his father’s beliefs and his own curiosity.
The Weaslette broke her eye contact again and looked down towards the ground, taking a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “I don’t want there to be,” she whispered, barely audible over the rustle of trees in the faint wind. Draco was tremendously perplexed—if she did not want there to be a grudge between their families, then what exactly did she want? He looked at the Weaslette—what was her name anyway? Oh yea… Ginny. As he glanced at Ginny, he noticed she seemed to have an expectant look on her face, as though she anticipated something special—something to show that there was no barrier. He absentmindedly stroked the skin on her arm as he wondered what life would be like without a ridiculous feud. He knew it would not work—if anything, it would tear their families apart more. Of course, they could make the first move to ending years of outrageous disputes.
He leaned cautiously towards Ginny, wondering how she would respond. It seemed as though she liked him, although he was not entirely certain. As he moved, she tilted towards him, matching his movements. Suddenly, Draco felt too close—it was too much too soon. He could not just throw away everything he had ever been told in one moment. Stalling, he glanced back down at the drawing, affixing his eyes upon the painstaking lines and accurate details. Looking back at Ginny, he could see in her eyes how much he had inspired her in making this sketch, and how much this moment meant to her. She caught his gaze, and then reached down and smeared out the dark barrier on the page, replacing it with a lighter stroke.
Ginny put down her charcoal and beamed at Draco. He smiled slightly, before he caught himself and tried to restore the blank expression on his face. However, he could feel his heart beating rapidly as he tried to overcome the feeling of being so close to the one girl he should never be with. But then, his father was not here right now. Draco felt himself lean towards Ginny. He could see her face light up as he slowly moved closer, and she cautiously nuzzled her way into his arms. Shocked at her bravery, he decided it was his turn to make a move.
Slowly reaching his hand under her chin, Draco tipped her head upwards and gazed into her eyes, which were a warm chocolate color, full of emotion and meaning. He gently kissed her lips, waiting to see if she pulled away in disgust—but much to his surprise, she seemed to meld into his body and respond to his light touch, encouraging him to continue. He intensified the kiss, astonished at how perfect it felt to have her in his arms. He could feel her tremble as he stroked her back tenderly—he felt as though she made him complete.
As they finally separated, he gazed into her eyes in awe. Whatever his father had ever told him was now irrelevant—there was absolutely no reason to hold a grudge against this Weasley. She opened her mouth to say something, but he did not want to hear it—he wanted to experience the beauty of the moment, silently and sincerely. She looked into his eyes adoringly, and he could sense how much this moment meant to her, especially after she had spent her day drawing him. Draco was still not certain what had possessed her to sketch him—but it was not those things that mattered. What mattered was that they were together right now, enjoying each others’ company and not quarreling. She was a hard one to catch—just like that damn Snitch. He knew their friendship could never be accepted—there were too many people who would disagree with their antics. However, he wanted to make this occasion last as long as possible. Smiling genuinely, he swiftly pulled her into another mind-blowing kiss, caressing her softly and enjoying the moment.
A/N: I wrote this in order to explain the other side of 'Fading Lines'... I'm not sure if this fic stands alone, but if you're confused, then tell me so I can fix it. Anyway, I'm not really sure what I think of this story, as I have a tendency to write things and then never read them again. It's a problem. Anyway, my sister read it and she said she liked it, but she seems to like everything I write, so it's hard to say. If it's incoherent, that's probably because I'm tired and its late, and there's a small chance I'll reread it tomorrow and make the appropriate changes (and then remove this extremely stupid author's note)
The End.
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