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.
"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.
Author notes: PLEASE REVIEW!!
To Be Continued.
starlit skyes is the author of 5 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked Something Inside also liked 1221 other stories.
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