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(A/N I have to make a confession. I'd actually decided never to write again, ever, because I couldn't compare to some other writers, but then this one came out.
It is alarmingly me, and him and me, at the start, and then alarmingly Wodehouse at the end. Completely different from Quidditch, and therefore I shall have to make an additional disclaimer: DO NOT READ IF YOU LIKED THE ENDING OF QUIDDITCH. No, really. I have no idea where this came from and I have never written anything like it, and I personally think that the whole Quidditch story is more... complete and together without it.
And I miss him *cries*)
Ginny wasn’t stupid. She knew that there was no such thing as love, that the magic that everyone talked about was nothing more than flattered fancy, that someone like that could actually express interest in you, and that this compliment would eventually lead you to feel that no-one else would do.
She used to wonder, when she was young, and innocent, and even more naïve than she was now, how it could be that people could actually get together. The statistics involved were mind-boggling; suppose someone (let’s call her A, shall we) knew twenty-five eligible people, and was truly, madly deeply in love with one of them, called, say, B. And if B knew twenty-five people he (or she, actually, though she didn’t know it then) could possibly fall in love with, and was truly, madly, deeply, in love with C, then what was the possibility that C was A?
She was too young to understand how to calculate probability ratios, but had a good enough sense of proportion to realise that the answer to the question was: pretty bloody small. And she thought, with a sense of pleasure, how wonderful it was to be living in a world so full of possibilities, and she laughed the truly happy laugh that belonged only to the truly innocent.
And then the years passed and she grew older and she thought, actually thought about what the Flirt Guides: How to Snare Your Man in Witch Weeklies and the plays that her richer relatives sometimes brought her to really meant, what they were really saying, whether consciously or otherwise, and then she realised.
And what she realised was this: there is no love.
There is no one soul-mate, no one right person who could make everything else fade away. No-one could pine after someone who’d pushed them away forever, and the only people who died of a broken heart were those who were too old, or weak, to adjust to the change in their lives.
There is only mutual regard, and the expressing and returning of interest that you gradually allow yourself to be fooled by, and that was the closest thing to the fairy-tale love that existed only in tales told to starry-eyed young children.
And the fairy dust was brushed from another sugar-coated dream that adults feed children, and the world didn’t collapse, and she went on living.
And secretly, in her heart, she swore to herself that she would never, ever forgot this truth, never let herself be taken in.
And she hadn’t.
She could remember the exact expression he’d had when she’d told him what she’d thought about something or another, once, the amused ‘you are such a funny little thing’ look that had been combined with affection and wonder and almost-shy, child-like want.
And once, and she was dressing in the morning, preparing to go to work, years after she’d seen him for the last time, months even after she’d thought it’d healed over and she’d managed to put it behind her, something had unaccountably jolted her memory and she’d started to recall, and her face twisted and she had to put a hand out, for a moment, to steady herself against the pain.
But it was just that she still felt, the paltry, almost second-rate love that was all it could be in real life for him, because they’d liked each other and reciprocated each other’s feelings and he hadn’t pushed her away; she had.
Which meant, therefore, that he’d probably fallen out of love with her already.
She grimaced as that thought occurred to her, for the first time in her history of maudlin reflections about him, but continued dressing.
This business of dressy, formal, witch robes never ended, did it?
First the thin, cotton shift, then the first, second, layers of the robes (three layers, three layers, and they couldn’t even be bothered to include enough material for her to cover a respectable amount of skin above her knees).
Then she Apparated out of her apartment.
She arrived at Leaky Cauldron, and spotted Harry.
“Harry!” she said, over the general buzz of the patrons, “Always on time.”
He laughed as he tipped the barman as he set a glass of Firewhiskey in front of each of them.
“Nice robes. Ron won’t be too pleased. And drink up. You’ll need it, anyway, to make it through this evening.”
She grinned; he’d just voiced what she was thinking.
“Ta, Harry, lifesaver.”
And she put it to her life and tilted her head, swallowed it in one gulp and waited for the fire to burn its way down her throat.
“At least I don’t like her anymore,” Harry said dryly, as he set his glass down on the table with a thunk.
“And good thing, too,” she said consolingly.
“Yes, yes, and I hear she stopped crying nearly so much after they got together.”
She eyed the bottom of her glass reflectively, and gestured to Tom again.
“Well, you know, I really think Boot’s good for Chang, in his own way; that woman needs to lighten up.”
Then she laughed as he turned to her, aghast.
“Look, I’m sorry, I never liked the woman.”
He sighed and knocked back his own drink.
“I don’t know when you got so reasonable,” he said sardonically, before they Apparated.
And they stared at the general hustle and bustle.
Molly Weasley hurried up to them, leaving the little huddle of Weasleys.
“So glad you’re here, dears, restrooms are over there, and Harry, Cho says she wants to see you, oh and Ginny you need to see Colin, he says there’s something he needs to speak urgently to you about.” She said all of this very quickly, not once losing her thread, and Ginny was reminded of morning rushes on the first day of school.
“Well, bye then,” Ginny smiled ruefully at Harry, and then made her way to where she could see Colin trying determinedly to chat up an old Ravenclaw, a few years their junior.
“Colin!” she hissed as she dragged him away, “Don’t go round doing that when you don’t know them!”
Colin turned to her in puzzlement.
“Belinda breeds Flobberworms as a hobby!”
She patted him sympathetically on the back and handed him a drink as he blanched.
“So what did you want to speak to me about?”
“Ginny, he’s here.”
“Who’s he?”
He raised an eyebrow, and she flushed.
“Oh. Malfoy,” she said flatly, then pulled herself together, “I knew he’d be. Boot was a Slytherin, remember? And who gives a damn about His Malfoyness, anyway?”
“Apparently most single witches who like the smell of money; they remind me rather of sharks. Though most of them did gravitate to Harry when he arrived. But still,” he gestured to where a knot of women stood thronged around a tall man with his back to Ginny and Colin.
“Gosh, is that Bulstrode?” she looked at a particularly large one whom she’d previously assumed, because of the moustache, to be male.
“She almost sat on me just now,” he shuddered.
“Well, anyway, I shall just steer clear of him, and that will be alright.”
And then the ceremony started, and everyone sat down (there was a bit of a tussle in the corner as witches tried to position themselves to be as close to Draco as possible) and she had the opportunity to focus on him when his attention was on the wedding.
And he looked, if possible, even more like Malfoy than he had.
Which, odd as it sounded, was all she could think of to describe it; he looked, now, like the embodiment of Malfoy-ness; the arrogant-bastard charm, the old money which continually grew through the financial acumen of each generation of successful Malfoys, the careless grace.
And the pointed features she had once thought unappealing.
Then, when she’d finally drank in her fill of the sight of him and had turned back to Boot, saying his vows, she felt his eyes on her (such a familiar feeling, she wondered for a moment how she’d ever forgotten what it was like). And she looked up before he looked away, unflinching and deliberate, and straight at him, and nodded.
He nodded back, grey eyes cool, and then turned back to Cho Chang getting up and reciting her own vows.
Then the couple’s wands were tied together, and they placed their hands on the bundle of silks and recited the proper Wizarding wedding vows, in Latin, and then it was done.
And then everyone clapped and cheered, and many of the Slytherins made appreciative wolf whistles, and everyone broke up to go to the respective tables of food.
Ginny balanced a pasty on her plate, and a few tuna sandwiches, and deftly rescued Harry from Millicent.
“Harry, dearest,” she said, quickly going up and grabbing his arm in the face of the advancing Millicent, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!”
And the Millicent almost growled, and turned and lumbered away.
Harry looked almost green.
“Thanks, Ginny, I didn’t know what to do!”
“Yes, well, when in doubt, turn to Ginny,” she said, oozing sarcasm, then they both laughed and went out of the church, to the sloping grass patch outside, to sit.
She was in the middle of telling him how she’d fired her first nurse a week ago when she felt someone walk over to them and stand behind her.
“Malfoy,” Harry said warily; they had been in the same Cursebreaking department at the Ministry, before Draco had decided to go off and start his own company and double the Malfoy millions, but old habits die hard, and the old schoolboy enmity had left its mark.
“Potter.”
And then he stood there, until Harry moved over and asked him to sit, casting an exasperated look at Ginny.
“So, Potter, what’s been going on? Has Moody been lambasting the new recruits more than usual?”
“Does he ever not?”
And then the two men started a complicated discussion of new strategies and new spells and new recruits, odd family names (Doorknob? Really?) and even odder spell names coming into the discussion,
After reducing several blades of grass to begging on their knees from mercy from the Horrendous Fingernails of Doom, Ginny waggled her fingers at Harry in explanation and got up and walked over to Colin.
Harry waved her off, too intent on what Malfoy was telling him about the newest guarding Hex (“I’m telling you, Potter, you should have Moody look into it; know a chap who’s lost a hand and seven fingers to that thing!”), and Malfoy merely glanced at her retreating back before returning his attention to Harry.
Then, eventually, it was time for the newlyweds to hie themselves off to a life of petty squabbles and children and the beauty of growing old together, and everyone gathered in front of the church, to watch them go.
And Ginny, focusing on the glow in Cho’s cheeks, the sheer radiant happiness, wondered if they were one of those couples who would eventually fall prey to the decay of their lovely illusions, to the startling realisation that life is not the happy, sunset-and-rainbow thing it is when you first get together with someone, and who would end up, ten years later, bitter and divorced, with toddlers in tow.
So she didn’t notice where she was standing, didn’t pay attention to whom was standing beside her, in the crowd, and thus got a rather nasty shock when he leaned over her shoulder and laughed into her ear.
(When she jumped her shoulder bumped his sharp chin and he didn’t move back, didn’t even flinch.)
“Are you avoiding me, Weasley?”
“Why should I be? Would I? That is …” and she bit it back, resisting the urge to babble; she could feel a bead of sweat behind her ear starting its slow slide down her neck under the hot summer sun, and she hoped he wasn’t watching it.
“Well, opinions differ, but I personally think you’re just unwilling to face your continued attraction to me. Despite your cool nods and your measured glances, you’re really still madly in love with me, aren’t you.”
And she was too surprised to notice his waspish tone, his self-deprecation mocking the both of them, so she swung around too quickly, acerbic retort ready-formed on her lips.
And felt seven different types of idiot when she saw him blinking in surprise at her.
“Oh,” and then more significantly, “Oh.”
She hated the fact that he could still read her well enough.
But nevertheless, he wasn’t stupid enough to dwell too long on it, instead taking her by the elbow and pulling her away from the crowd, round to the back of the church.
“Malfoy!” she hissed indignantly, far too embarrassed even to think of making a scene “Let go of me!”
“Let me consider that for a moment… No, I don’t think so.”
And he finally got her round to where no nosy soul peering round the rough-hewn stone corner of the church could see them.
“You know, Weasley,” he said, light and conversational, “You’re rather difficult to find when you don’t want to be found, aren’t you?”
She shrugged, desperately wanting to go back into the church and let the hot glow of embarrassment on her face cool off, but he still had her caught fast by the arm.
“I tried to find you after that time at the Burrow, but short of asking your parents there wasn’t really a way to go about doing that. And I was hardly going to do that, was I? That woman might actually have made me de-gnome her garden first,” he shuddered.
She was so infuriated at him saying such rude and plainly irrational things with that stupid logical inflection of his that she wrenched her arm out of his grip.
“And I told you, Malfoy, that that was it and you’re not to bother me anymore!”
“And when have I ever listened to you? Besides, after much thinking, I’ve come to conclusion that what you said is utter bollocks.”
She flushed and scowled darkly at him.
“No, really, it is. I mean, did you listen to yourself? ‘Sorry, Draco, my love, and the person with whom I’ve wanted to get together with for ages, I’m afraid that now that I’ve the opportunity to do so, I’ve decided I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, really. Toodles!’” he mimicked in a falsetto, and she very nearly launched herself at him and clawed his eyes out.
“Well you couldn’t just have expected me to come back to you after all that, could you?”
“No, I expected you to act as the mature adult you were always purporting yourself to be and forgive my mistake. It would have been understandable if you weren’t madly in love with me to still be in love with me three and a half years after we split, but I mean, really!”
“Oh shut up, Malfoy, I can’t stand your stupid posturing and stupid logical-ness and stupid… nose!”
He blinked at her again, clearly dumbfounded by this new turn.
“My nose?”
“Your nose! I hate it! It’s pointy and sharp and pale and I hate it!”
“Now you’re being stupid, Weasley. And I might add that my nose has always been considered one of my better featured,” he tapped the side of it, fondly, then continued, “Anyway, let me put it to you, properly. So this bird, right, A, has an enormous thing going for this smashing guy, B.”
She looked at him in surprise. They had the same names as her own imaginary people!
“And so B makes a mistake, or rather several, in quick succession, first dropping the bird and then trying to get back together again with entirely the wrong idea in mind, and A storms off, declaring that she never wants to see hide nor hair of him again. B tries to find A and explain to her how and why what she was saying was utter rubbish, but she has taken herself off the face of this earth. Then they meet, several years later, and B finds that A is still a really smashing bird, especially compared to the hags after him purely for his good looks (did I mention that B is a really handsome chap?) and charm and money, and that A is also still head over heels for him. So, the question is,”
“Is C, A?”
He gave her a queer look and waved at her to shut up.
“No. That’s not it. You’ve missed the point entirely! Pay attention, now, Weasley.” And he fell to ruminating and stared at her thoughtfully.
Several minutes passed.
“The question?” she heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“Oh. Right. Well the question is whether A should continue being petty, and not forgive B, and let them suffer for another few years before they forgot each other, or should she give in to his manly charms?”
She stared at him. Then she drew back a hand and hit him, as hard as she could, in his stomach.
“Shit, Weasley!” he gasped, head somewhere in the vicinity of her navel.
“I think you’ll find that the correct option for her is to hit him, cut her losses, and walk away.” And she made to do just that.
“Catch!” he wheezed, and she turned and caught it, still wary of things people shouted when her back was turned.
It was the ring, still sparkling from all its many facets, and warm from where he’d been wearing it on his finger.
“Say yes, Weasley.” He made a concerted effort to stand properly and finally straightened.
She looked at it, and she looked at him, and she thought of love and all it could be and all it was said to be, and she thought of the strength of the feelings that must have existed to still be there after several years, and most of all she thought of a boy, fresh out of school, hunting for a girl he’d wanted to find so he could give her a ring.
“Manly charms it is, then,” and it felt like something being lifted off her chest, as she said that.
“My Weasley and her wonderful right hook,” he murmured affectionately.
And she walked over, and put a soothing hand on his stomach, and kissed him better, and she realised that he wasn’t her soul mate, that there was no one person perfect for each person, that this was merely intense mutual regard, and she wouldn’t die if he died, and that the love in fairytales really couldn’t compare to this.
It is alarmingly me, and him and me, at the start, and then alarmingly Wodehouse at the end. Completely different from Quidditch, and therefore I shall have to make an additional disclaimer: DO NOT READ IF YOU LIKED THE ENDING OF QUIDDITCH. No, really. I have no idea where this came from and I have never written anything like it, and I personally think that the whole Quidditch story is more... complete and together without it.
And I miss him *cries*)
Ginny wasn’t stupid. She knew that there was no such thing as love, that the magic that everyone talked about was nothing more than flattered fancy, that someone like that could actually express interest in you, and that this compliment would eventually lead you to feel that no-one else would do.
She used to wonder, when she was young, and innocent, and even more naïve than she was now, how it could be that people could actually get together. The statistics involved were mind-boggling; suppose someone (let’s call her A, shall we) knew twenty-five eligible people, and was truly, madly deeply in love with one of them, called, say, B. And if B knew twenty-five people he (or she, actually, though she didn’t know it then) could possibly fall in love with, and was truly, madly, deeply, in love with C, then what was the possibility that C was A?
She was too young to understand how to calculate probability ratios, but had a good enough sense of proportion to realise that the answer to the question was: pretty bloody small. And she thought, with a sense of pleasure, how wonderful it was to be living in a world so full of possibilities, and she laughed the truly happy laugh that belonged only to the truly innocent.
And then the years passed and she grew older and she thought, actually thought about what the Flirt Guides: How to Snare Your Man in Witch Weeklies and the plays that her richer relatives sometimes brought her to really meant, what they were really saying, whether consciously or otherwise, and then she realised.
And what she realised was this: there is no love.
There is no one soul-mate, no one right person who could make everything else fade away. No-one could pine after someone who’d pushed them away forever, and the only people who died of a broken heart were those who were too old, or weak, to adjust to the change in their lives.
There is only mutual regard, and the expressing and returning of interest that you gradually allow yourself to be fooled by, and that was the closest thing to the fairy-tale love that existed only in tales told to starry-eyed young children.
And the fairy dust was brushed from another sugar-coated dream that adults feed children, and the world didn’t collapse, and she went on living.
And secretly, in her heart, she swore to herself that she would never, ever forgot this truth, never let herself be taken in.
And she hadn’t.
She could remember the exact expression he’d had when she’d told him what she’d thought about something or another, once, the amused ‘you are such a funny little thing’ look that had been combined with affection and wonder and almost-shy, child-like want.
And once, and she was dressing in the morning, preparing to go to work, years after she’d seen him for the last time, months even after she’d thought it’d healed over and she’d managed to put it behind her, something had unaccountably jolted her memory and she’d started to recall, and her face twisted and she had to put a hand out, for a moment, to steady herself against the pain.
But it was just that she still felt, the paltry, almost second-rate love that was all it could be in real life for him, because they’d liked each other and reciprocated each other’s feelings and he hadn’t pushed her away; she had.
Which meant, therefore, that he’d probably fallen out of love with her already.
She grimaced as that thought occurred to her, for the first time in her history of maudlin reflections about him, but continued dressing.
This business of dressy, formal, witch robes never ended, did it?
First the thin, cotton shift, then the first, second, layers of the robes (three layers, three layers, and they couldn’t even be bothered to include enough material for her to cover a respectable amount of skin above her knees).
Then she Apparated out of her apartment.
She arrived at Leaky Cauldron, and spotted Harry.
“Harry!” she said, over the general buzz of the patrons, “Always on time.”
He laughed as he tipped the barman as he set a glass of Firewhiskey in front of each of them.
“Nice robes. Ron won’t be too pleased. And drink up. You’ll need it, anyway, to make it through this evening.”
She grinned; he’d just voiced what she was thinking.
“Ta, Harry, lifesaver.”
And she put it to her life and tilted her head, swallowed it in one gulp and waited for the fire to burn its way down her throat.
“At least I don’t like her anymore,” Harry said dryly, as he set his glass down on the table with a thunk.
“And good thing, too,” she said consolingly.
“Yes, yes, and I hear she stopped crying nearly so much after they got together.”
She eyed the bottom of her glass reflectively, and gestured to Tom again.
“Well, you know, I really think Boot’s good for Chang, in his own way; that woman needs to lighten up.”
Then she laughed as he turned to her, aghast.
“Look, I’m sorry, I never liked the woman.”
He sighed and knocked back his own drink.
“I don’t know when you got so reasonable,” he said sardonically, before they Apparated.
And they stared at the general hustle and bustle.
Molly Weasley hurried up to them, leaving the little huddle of Weasleys.
“So glad you’re here, dears, restrooms are over there, and Harry, Cho says she wants to see you, oh and Ginny you need to see Colin, he says there’s something he needs to speak urgently to you about.” She said all of this very quickly, not once losing her thread, and Ginny was reminded of morning rushes on the first day of school.
“Well, bye then,” Ginny smiled ruefully at Harry, and then made her way to where she could see Colin trying determinedly to chat up an old Ravenclaw, a few years their junior.
“Colin!” she hissed as she dragged him away, “Don’t go round doing that when you don’t know them!”
Colin turned to her in puzzlement.
“Belinda breeds Flobberworms as a hobby!”
She patted him sympathetically on the back and handed him a drink as he blanched.
“So what did you want to speak to me about?”
“Ginny, he’s here.”
“Who’s he?”
He raised an eyebrow, and she flushed.
“Oh. Malfoy,” she said flatly, then pulled herself together, “I knew he’d be. Boot was a Slytherin, remember? And who gives a damn about His Malfoyness, anyway?”
“Apparently most single witches who like the smell of money; they remind me rather of sharks. Though most of them did gravitate to Harry when he arrived. But still,” he gestured to where a knot of women stood thronged around a tall man with his back to Ginny and Colin.
“Gosh, is that Bulstrode?” she looked at a particularly large one whom she’d previously assumed, because of the moustache, to be male.
“She almost sat on me just now,” he shuddered.
“Well, anyway, I shall just steer clear of him, and that will be alright.”
And then the ceremony started, and everyone sat down (there was a bit of a tussle in the corner as witches tried to position themselves to be as close to Draco as possible) and she had the opportunity to focus on him when his attention was on the wedding.
And he looked, if possible, even more like Malfoy than he had.
Which, odd as it sounded, was all she could think of to describe it; he looked, now, like the embodiment of Malfoy-ness; the arrogant-bastard charm, the old money which continually grew through the financial acumen of each generation of successful Malfoys, the careless grace.
And the pointed features she had once thought unappealing.
Then, when she’d finally drank in her fill of the sight of him and had turned back to Boot, saying his vows, she felt his eyes on her (such a familiar feeling, she wondered for a moment how she’d ever forgotten what it was like). And she looked up before he looked away, unflinching and deliberate, and straight at him, and nodded.
He nodded back, grey eyes cool, and then turned back to Cho Chang getting up and reciting her own vows.
Then the couple’s wands were tied together, and they placed their hands on the bundle of silks and recited the proper Wizarding wedding vows, in Latin, and then it was done.
And then everyone clapped and cheered, and many of the Slytherins made appreciative wolf whistles, and everyone broke up to go to the respective tables of food.
Ginny balanced a pasty on her plate, and a few tuna sandwiches, and deftly rescued Harry from Millicent.
“Harry, dearest,” she said, quickly going up and grabbing his arm in the face of the advancing Millicent, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!”
And the Millicent almost growled, and turned and lumbered away.
Harry looked almost green.
“Thanks, Ginny, I didn’t know what to do!”
“Yes, well, when in doubt, turn to Ginny,” she said, oozing sarcasm, then they both laughed and went out of the church, to the sloping grass patch outside, to sit.
She was in the middle of telling him how she’d fired her first nurse a week ago when she felt someone walk over to them and stand behind her.
“Malfoy,” Harry said warily; they had been in the same Cursebreaking department at the Ministry, before Draco had decided to go off and start his own company and double the Malfoy millions, but old habits die hard, and the old schoolboy enmity had left its mark.
“Potter.”
And then he stood there, until Harry moved over and asked him to sit, casting an exasperated look at Ginny.
“So, Potter, what’s been going on? Has Moody been lambasting the new recruits more than usual?”
“Does he ever not?”
And then the two men started a complicated discussion of new strategies and new spells and new recruits, odd family names (Doorknob? Really?) and even odder spell names coming into the discussion,
After reducing several blades of grass to begging on their knees from mercy from the Horrendous Fingernails of Doom, Ginny waggled her fingers at Harry in explanation and got up and walked over to Colin.
Harry waved her off, too intent on what Malfoy was telling him about the newest guarding Hex (“I’m telling you, Potter, you should have Moody look into it; know a chap who’s lost a hand and seven fingers to that thing!”), and Malfoy merely glanced at her retreating back before returning his attention to Harry.
Then, eventually, it was time for the newlyweds to hie themselves off to a life of petty squabbles and children and the beauty of growing old together, and everyone gathered in front of the church, to watch them go.
And Ginny, focusing on the glow in Cho’s cheeks, the sheer radiant happiness, wondered if they were one of those couples who would eventually fall prey to the decay of their lovely illusions, to the startling realisation that life is not the happy, sunset-and-rainbow thing it is when you first get together with someone, and who would end up, ten years later, bitter and divorced, with toddlers in tow.
So she didn’t notice where she was standing, didn’t pay attention to whom was standing beside her, in the crowd, and thus got a rather nasty shock when he leaned over her shoulder and laughed into her ear.
(When she jumped her shoulder bumped his sharp chin and he didn’t move back, didn’t even flinch.)
“Are you avoiding me, Weasley?”
“Why should I be? Would I? That is …” and she bit it back, resisting the urge to babble; she could feel a bead of sweat behind her ear starting its slow slide down her neck under the hot summer sun, and she hoped he wasn’t watching it.
“Well, opinions differ, but I personally think you’re just unwilling to face your continued attraction to me. Despite your cool nods and your measured glances, you’re really still madly in love with me, aren’t you.”
And she was too surprised to notice his waspish tone, his self-deprecation mocking the both of them, so she swung around too quickly, acerbic retort ready-formed on her lips.
And felt seven different types of idiot when she saw him blinking in surprise at her.
“Oh,” and then more significantly, “Oh.”
She hated the fact that he could still read her well enough.
But nevertheless, he wasn’t stupid enough to dwell too long on it, instead taking her by the elbow and pulling her away from the crowd, round to the back of the church.
“Malfoy!” she hissed indignantly, far too embarrassed even to think of making a scene “Let go of me!”
“Let me consider that for a moment… No, I don’t think so.”
And he finally got her round to where no nosy soul peering round the rough-hewn stone corner of the church could see them.
“You know, Weasley,” he said, light and conversational, “You’re rather difficult to find when you don’t want to be found, aren’t you?”
She shrugged, desperately wanting to go back into the church and let the hot glow of embarrassment on her face cool off, but he still had her caught fast by the arm.
“I tried to find you after that time at the Burrow, but short of asking your parents there wasn’t really a way to go about doing that. And I was hardly going to do that, was I? That woman might actually have made me de-gnome her garden first,” he shuddered.
She was so infuriated at him saying such rude and plainly irrational things with that stupid logical inflection of his that she wrenched her arm out of his grip.
“And I told you, Malfoy, that that was it and you’re not to bother me anymore!”
“And when have I ever listened to you? Besides, after much thinking, I’ve come to conclusion that what you said is utter bollocks.”
She flushed and scowled darkly at him.
“No, really, it is. I mean, did you listen to yourself? ‘Sorry, Draco, my love, and the person with whom I’ve wanted to get together with for ages, I’m afraid that now that I’ve the opportunity to do so, I’ve decided I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, really. Toodles!’” he mimicked in a falsetto, and she very nearly launched herself at him and clawed his eyes out.
“Well you couldn’t just have expected me to come back to you after all that, could you?”
“No, I expected you to act as the mature adult you were always purporting yourself to be and forgive my mistake. It would have been understandable if you weren’t madly in love with me to still be in love with me three and a half years after we split, but I mean, really!”
“Oh shut up, Malfoy, I can’t stand your stupid posturing and stupid logical-ness and stupid… nose!”
He blinked at her again, clearly dumbfounded by this new turn.
“My nose?”
“Your nose! I hate it! It’s pointy and sharp and pale and I hate it!”
“Now you’re being stupid, Weasley. And I might add that my nose has always been considered one of my better featured,” he tapped the side of it, fondly, then continued, “Anyway, let me put it to you, properly. So this bird, right, A, has an enormous thing going for this smashing guy, B.”
She looked at him in surprise. They had the same names as her own imaginary people!
“And so B makes a mistake, or rather several, in quick succession, first dropping the bird and then trying to get back together again with entirely the wrong idea in mind, and A storms off, declaring that she never wants to see hide nor hair of him again. B tries to find A and explain to her how and why what she was saying was utter rubbish, but she has taken herself off the face of this earth. Then they meet, several years later, and B finds that A is still a really smashing bird, especially compared to the hags after him purely for his good looks (did I mention that B is a really handsome chap?) and charm and money, and that A is also still head over heels for him. So, the question is,”
“Is C, A?”
He gave her a queer look and waved at her to shut up.
“No. That’s not it. You’ve missed the point entirely! Pay attention, now, Weasley.” And he fell to ruminating and stared at her thoughtfully.
Several minutes passed.
“The question?” she heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“Oh. Right. Well the question is whether A should continue being petty, and not forgive B, and let them suffer for another few years before they forgot each other, or should she give in to his manly charms?”
She stared at him. Then she drew back a hand and hit him, as hard as she could, in his stomach.
“Shit, Weasley!” he gasped, head somewhere in the vicinity of her navel.
“I think you’ll find that the correct option for her is to hit him, cut her losses, and walk away.” And she made to do just that.
“Catch!” he wheezed, and she turned and caught it, still wary of things people shouted when her back was turned.
It was the ring, still sparkling from all its many facets, and warm from where he’d been wearing it on his finger.
“Say yes, Weasley.” He made a concerted effort to stand properly and finally straightened.
She looked at it, and she looked at him, and she thought of love and all it could be and all it was said to be, and she thought of the strength of the feelings that must have existed to still be there after several years, and most of all she thought of a boy, fresh out of school, hunting for a girl he’d wanted to find so he could give her a ring.
“Manly charms it is, then,” and it felt like something being lifted off her chest, as she said that.
“My Weasley and her wonderful right hook,” he murmured affectionately.
And she walked over, and put a soothing hand on his stomach, and kissed him better, and she realised that he wasn’t her soul mate, that there was no one person perfect for each person, that this was merely intense mutual regard, and she wouldn’t die if he died, and that the love in fairytales really couldn’t compare to this.
The End.
obssessedmadwoman is the author of 9 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 12 members. Members who liked Love also liked 627 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 12 members. Members who liked Love also liked 627 other stories.
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