There it was, the depression, the boredom.
Each day stretched on endlessly, like reading the same page, over and over again.
Each day, I stared at Draco Malfoy, and he looked at me and gave me that look – that look that said I was nothing more than the dirt under his beautiful shoes. And yet, he was so ravishing.
Piercing, mercury eyes. Silver hair that shimmered enticingly. That slow, vain smile in his perfectly handsome face.
At least he looks at me, I’d think.
I shook my head, trying to zoom out of my daydream. I looked at my watch; the one Fred had given me for my tenth birthday.
Shoot.
I was late for Potions – again. Maybe it wasn’t just reasonless gloom, it was just rotten luck – reasons for depression were lining up this year, with one thing or the other.
The only thing I wasn’t depressed about, yet, was my art. I loved drawing, and it hadn’t failed to cheer me up these last few months. I usually drew something that made me happy, and as I looked at it, I felt a bit better.
Oh, great, I had started daydreaming again. I determinedly picked up my bag, swung it on my shoulder, and stomped off towards the Potions dungeons, hoping fervently that Snape would be in a good enough mood to forgive my lateness to class for my hopefully-well-done homework.
Of course, I was only fooling myself – I might as well hope that Snape would give out chocolate frogs for his birthday.
I broke into a run, my hair billowing around me.
I stopped at the doorway to the dungeon, and slowly pulled open the thick, creaking iron door. Snape stood inside, his black cloak whirling around him as he ‘taught’, which, in effect, meant ‘terrorized’, and he turned to look at me with chilling black eyes.
“Well, Weasley. Thought the correct times for lessons are beneath you, did you?” Snape’s lip curled in disapproval.
Oops. Why did I even allow the image of Snape in a good mood form in my head? It would only make it harder for me to keep my temper now.
“I'm sorry,” I said shortly. If I had continued, I would probably have said “I'm sorry I even came now, you greasy git,” and that, however exciting, would have been disastrous.
But Snape seemed to hear my thoughts, and his eyes flashed.
“Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness – and insufferable insolence.” Snape stated flatly.
I muttered a string of profanities, hopefully unintelligible. I was exasperated to the point of almost throwing a Weasley tantrum as I strode in and took a seat.
I noticed with more irritation that the person sitting next to me was fidgeting uncomfortably. I threw a glance at him – Ugh. Blech.
The boy sitting next to me was Colin Creevey. His face was a brilliant red, and as he caught my eye, he gave me a delighted, nervous smile.
Can I say, “just my shitty luck”? I tried all through the year to avoid Colin – who thought obsession was ‘perseverance’ and ‘perseverance’ would help him get me – and in the class I most hated, I sat with him. Now he’d think it was actually working.
I sighed, and looked down at my feet, looking for some distraction in my old shoes to dream away this class.
X
I walked to lunch, hardly noticing my friend Rosaline chattering to me at my side. I wondered idly how I’d ever found friendship in such a ditz – all Rose thought of was fashion and members of the opposite sex – and then decided I didn’t really care. She was friendly, and to be honest, that was all I counted on.
Because, to tell the truth, I only want time to fantasize about a certain platinum blond Slytherin.
Okay, I’ll admit, the said Slytherin was easily comparable to a disgusting ferret crawling in the mud when he did and said the things he sometimes did. Like that time when he’d pushed me into the lake, or the time he’d turned my hair green. It was like he was living to humiliate me. Or living to ignore me, which was more painful.
I quickly sat at lunch. I realized Rose had stopped talking. I glanced at her, marveling at this unexpected happening.
I saw her wide blue eyes latched on the handsome form of Terry Boot at the Ravenclaw table, and prayed for his soul – as he was the latest object of Rosaline’s devotion.
I gobbled whatever it was that I had dumped on my plate, hardly noticing what I was swallowing. I only paid attention as I later took blissful bites of apple pie. In my book, even general gloom was not a good reason to ignore dessert of any kind.
Then, I trudged off to the common room – we had a free period now.
As I chose my favorite chair next to the window, I took a determined decision to not take a single glance at the piles of homework in table in front of me. Believe me, I did not need Vanishing spells and Diets of Bowtruckles to lighten my mood.
Instead, I picked up my little sketch book, running my fingers lightly over the dark brown leather on it. I opened it, pausing for a minute to look at the last sketch in it – the one of Hogwarts – something I had not been brave enough to attempt for the last four years due to the stunning beauty of those tall towers.
But I was extremely proud of this drawing – I felt I had done it enough justice.
I put my chin in my hands, and thought of what I felt like sketching presently. The grounds? Myself? The mountains?
None of them seemed very appealing at the moment. Then the ideal image floated into my mind – Draco Malfoy, in all his splendor, as he rode on a broomstick! I didn’t know if I would be able to catch the perfection of his features, or the arrogance of his seraphic smile, but I felt like trying.
I didn’t need him to pose for me or anything – I’m corny enough to know that he posed like that in all his beauty, in the eye of my mind and heart. I quickly bent my head down and got to work.
I began by sketching the broomstick, the easiest part. I flourished a Firebolt on it.
Then I enjoyed drawing his tall, lean frame that seemed so lithe and beautiful even in its still, penciled form. I enjoyed drawing the way his long Quidditch robes would billow magnificently around him.
Then I started on drawing his pristine face. I drew the high, angular cheek-bones and the flawless square of his jaw. I drew how his full lips would curve into that jubilant, exulted smile as he soared into the sky, his wide, beautiful eyes fringed by thick lashes.
I finished with his long hair framing his face, wishing I could get that perfect shade of silver, imagining how it would glint in the sunlight.
Wow, I said to myself. I had to admit, it was pretty good. I gazed at it for a few seconds, wishing that Draco Malfoy would look at me like the Draco beaming at me from this page.
I suddenly realized that the people around me were bustling around. I glanced at my watch – 3.30. The bell must have gone ... I didn’t want to be late for yet another class.
I quickly gathered my books for divination, my next class, and skipped out of the common room.
My success at portraying the Slytherin wonder had definitely heightened my spirits. I walked swiftly through the crowded hallways, hardly noticing my surroundings as I daydreamed. A long sequence of images of a certain fair haired, stormy eyed personage swam around my head.
Stupid, stupid me. I generally couldn’t condone such thoughts in myself, and I knew I was only making way for more gloominess when I reminded myself that my fantasies were unreal. But at least it had me whistling for now.
From the greenhouse in front of me came a long line of people. I looked at them, trying quickly to remember which year they were in. I realized, with a jolt, that they were sixth year Gryffindors – and Slytherins.
I swallowed tensely as my eyes automatically found Malfoy, his ivory skin looking stunning against his jet black robes. His usual sidekicks were present, looking a lot like gorillas flanking him.
His elegance was even more pronounced as he stood next to them – I hardly even noticed Harry and his friends wave at me, waving back at them only well after they had gone into the hallway.
I had stopped walking, as I gaped like an idiot at the sight. But suddenly, Draco turned his magnificent head, and his grey eyes latched on to me. He muttered something, at which Goyle sniggered, and then Draco gave me a smooth, breathtaking smile.
The beauty of it was staggering – but – why was he smiling at me? I looked back at him, resisting the urge to beam at him in delight – the way Colin had beamed at me, earlier. To my sudden terror – and joy – Draco started walking to me, in lithe, long steps.
I made myself take deep breaths. I had to be nasty to him – the way any sane Gryffindor and Weasley should. But my mind reproached me – who said I was sane, anyway?
No doubt he was up to something bad. Walk, Ginny, run! I thought to myself, but I couldn’t move myself an inch.
Draco stopped about a foot from me, and he smirked mockingly. “Weasley,” he said in a low voice.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Ah, forget it,” he said dismissively, as if he were giving up on some plan. “Come, Ginny,” he said, his voice low and unbelievably seductive. “Let's take a little walk, shall we?”
“Um, why?” I demanded, managing to make my voice acerbic, fighting with the fact that his piercing grey eyes were managing to interfere with my coherency. I put a hand on my hip, and made to stomp away from him. Fantasies were one thing – in real life, Draco was an asshole.
Or at least, that’s what I was trying to convince myself.
He suddenly drew closer to me, and put his hand on the small of my back. I could feel the warmth of his skin on mine, and I suppressed a little shiver. He leaned close to me. “Don’t act,” he told me. I felt his nose touch my ears, and I did shudder – in pleasure. “You know you want me, Ginevra,” he murmured in a silky voice.
I was shamefully rooted to the spot, and I could feel the heat on my face, and the thudding of my heart.
“You know you want me. You want me so much, don't you?” he whispered, the hand at my back slowly moving upward. “Give in ... Ginny.”
“Malfoy... what are you d-doing?” I managed to stammer, drawing my eyebrows together in what was probably the most unconvincing scowl of the century. My lip trembled, to make me even more pathetic. I drew my face away a few inches, but then I could see his piercing pewter eyes – and that made nothing better.
“I'm making you see the light. You're very pretty, you know that, Ginevra?” he answered, pronouncing my name delicately. The trembling ensued.
“And I’m perfect.” He drew me closer to him, and all my resolve broke, and I allowed myself willingly to feel his hard, muscular body against mine.
“What are you trying to say, Malfoy?” I asked uncertainly, my thoughts scattered by the unnatural intensity of his stormy gaze.
“This,” he said abruptly, and before I was aware of myself, I felt a something kick my shin outwards deftly so that I fell forward, on my nose. Startled beyond belief, I heard a smattering of laughter around me.
From my position face down on the hard ground, I gritted my teeth and raised my head – I could see a pair of finely molded dragonskin shoes in front of my face.
I watched as the shoes swiftly moved backward. I clenched my jaw and raised my head higher, to see the bewitching form of Draco Malfoy smirking down at me, his eyes glinting in malice.
“Wow, look,” he said softly in a politely surprised tone. “She loves me so much she’s at my feet in worship.”
I staggered to my feet, the blood beginning to pound in my ears, as I recognized my temper rising. At least I had that to save the situation – a bit. I didn’t bother to brush the dust away from my robes.
“Don't give yourself false hopes, Malfoy.” I said through gritted teeth. The image of me physically assaulting him swam in my head – impossible, of course – his Seeker’s reflexes would never allow it.
The thudding in my ears and chest was muffling the laughter around me.
But then an idea occurred to me, an idea that gave me sudden, vindictive pleasure. It was reckless, of course – fed by the rage that was booming in my head.
The pleasure heightened as I imagined how that perfect, condescending smile would falter as my idea came into being.
I swiftly reached backward to my bag, and I pulled out the first book my fingers got hold of. Before anyone could react, or even notice my action, with a triumphant ‘Hah!’ I hurled the book at the smirking boy in front of me.
I grinned in sudden pleasure as I saw the book find its mark (I was, after all, a pretty good Chaser) and the flawless mouth turn down in disapproval as the book bounced off his shimmering platinum head. His eyes were slits of silver.
It took him less than five seconds to recover.
“Bless her,’” he said softly. “Tomato-head is having a tantrum.” There were a few chuckles and snickers from around me at this comment – whereas they had remained silent at my show of good aim.
Obviously, they would never dare laugh at Malfoy.
But then he suddenly moved, his lips twitching into a mocking smile as he gracefully reached for the book on the ground next to him, where it had fallen.
I watched in speechless horror as I realized what was happening – what book I had used as my weapon.
My sketch book.
He picked it up in his long, pale fingers, examining it delicately. There was a smirk playing on his face, his eyes still tight.
He opened the book with deliberate slowness as the Slytherins around him watched. His pale eyebrows rose as he took in the first few pages of my book – my sketches.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Wee Weasley is artistic.” I heard a smothered shriek of laughter from somewhere to my right – I was too horrified to look – but I recognized it as the voice of Pansy Parkinson.
“Oh, crap, Malfoy, give that here!” I cried desperately.
“Oh, no, Weasley,” he disagreed, his eyes glinting. “Not until I’ve had my fill of it.”
He flipped the pages, ‘mmm’-ing and ‘aaah’-ing in mock amazement.
Even in my absolutely humiliated state, I noted with a glimmer of pain that he looked so exquisite, perfect, pristine as an angel standing there, fingering through my sketches. An Evil Angel.
I could not think of a single thing to say as he flipped a page to what I knew would be my prized drawing of the Hogwarts towers.
“Malfoy ... don’t!” I whispered finally, knowing he would not hear.
“Wonderful, beautiful.” he said solemnly, shaking his head gravely.
Then a sudden smirk flashed across his face.
He gestured to the sketch of the school. “Did you practice by sketching that hovel you live in?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer. I wished my temper was still there, to give me at least righteous fury, but it was dead.
“Look at this, people! Isn’t it a masterpiece?” he called to his watching fan club, waving my book in the air.
But then a thought struck me – and I suppressed a yelp of anguish as I realized what drawing it would be in the next page.
With that slowness that seemed like forever to me – he delicately turned the page. Now the tears pricked my eyes ruthlessly.
I watched as his fair eyebrows rose, his blazing eyes widening as he took in my drawing of him. He looked up at me, his silver eyes piercing, that intense look again. I knew he would never let me live through this moment.
“Aw, would you look at that,” he said softly, gesturing with a long finger to the page, as the tears spilled from my eyes hopelessly.
“Poor, infatuated little Weasley.”
X
I stood motionless, ten unbearable minutes later, my head hung as I heard the groups of chattering people walk past me, snickering and calling taunts at me I could barely hear.
After a single “Piss off!” I had become speechless with humiliation. What was the point of defending myself when I had been so stupid, so humiliated? Why couldn’t I have kicked his face?
Why was he so cruel?
I exhaled and inhaled deeply, trying to gather my remaining self-respect, or my ability to move, for that matter. Then it was quiet.
I slowly lifted my head, planning to pick up my desecrated book and possibly flee to some place I would never have to be seen again.
I could not suppress a gasp of astonishment as I saw Draco Malfoy still standing there, barely two feet from me, staring intently at me. His expression was unfathomable. We looked at each other for a few seconds, my expression broken, and his very serious.
His eyes were piercing, and so very intense. It was like there was a bubble around us, and we were enclosed in it.
“Hate me, Ginevra,” he said suddenly in a quiet voice. His pale hands suddenly pulled aside his cloak, revealing his pale, hard forearm.
I took a sharp intake of breath as I recognized the mark etched there – a black skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth. The Dark Mark. I still could not speak.
I stared at him, bewildered, horrified.
“Hate me,” he repeated, his voice still soft.
Because ...” he took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s how it should be. It’s ... better that way.” His voice was muted, velvet soft.
Then he turned, and without one glance at me, he loped back toward the castle. I stood there for a few more minutes, staring dumbly after him, before I finally discovered my feet and walked to class.
Each day stretched on endlessly, like reading the same page, over and over again.
Each day, I stared at Draco Malfoy, and he looked at me and gave me that look – that look that said I was nothing more than the dirt under his beautiful shoes. And yet, he was so ravishing.
Piercing, mercury eyes. Silver hair that shimmered enticingly. That slow, vain smile in his perfectly handsome face.
At least he looks at me, I’d think.
I shook my head, trying to zoom out of my daydream. I looked at my watch; the one Fred had given me for my tenth birthday.
Shoot.
I was late for Potions – again. Maybe it wasn’t just reasonless gloom, it was just rotten luck – reasons for depression were lining up this year, with one thing or the other.
The only thing I wasn’t depressed about, yet, was my art. I loved drawing, and it hadn’t failed to cheer me up these last few months. I usually drew something that made me happy, and as I looked at it, I felt a bit better.
Oh, great, I had started daydreaming again. I determinedly picked up my bag, swung it on my shoulder, and stomped off towards the Potions dungeons, hoping fervently that Snape would be in a good enough mood to forgive my lateness to class for my hopefully-well-done homework.
Of course, I was only fooling myself – I might as well hope that Snape would give out chocolate frogs for his birthday.
I broke into a run, my hair billowing around me.
I stopped at the doorway to the dungeon, and slowly pulled open the thick, creaking iron door. Snape stood inside, his black cloak whirling around him as he ‘taught’, which, in effect, meant ‘terrorized’, and he turned to look at me with chilling black eyes.
“Well, Weasley. Thought the correct times for lessons are beneath you, did you?” Snape’s lip curled in disapproval.
Oops. Why did I even allow the image of Snape in a good mood form in my head? It would only make it harder for me to keep my temper now.
“I'm sorry,” I said shortly. If I had continued, I would probably have said “I'm sorry I even came now, you greasy git,” and that, however exciting, would have been disastrous.
But Snape seemed to hear my thoughts, and his eyes flashed.
“Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness – and insufferable insolence.” Snape stated flatly.
I muttered a string of profanities, hopefully unintelligible. I was exasperated to the point of almost throwing a Weasley tantrum as I strode in and took a seat.
I noticed with more irritation that the person sitting next to me was fidgeting uncomfortably. I threw a glance at him – Ugh. Blech.
The boy sitting next to me was Colin Creevey. His face was a brilliant red, and as he caught my eye, he gave me a delighted, nervous smile.
Can I say, “just my shitty luck”? I tried all through the year to avoid Colin – who thought obsession was ‘perseverance’ and ‘perseverance’ would help him get me – and in the class I most hated, I sat with him. Now he’d think it was actually working.
I sighed, and looked down at my feet, looking for some distraction in my old shoes to dream away this class.
I walked to lunch, hardly noticing my friend Rosaline chattering to me at my side. I wondered idly how I’d ever found friendship in such a ditz – all Rose thought of was fashion and members of the opposite sex – and then decided I didn’t really care. She was friendly, and to be honest, that was all I counted on.
Because, to tell the truth, I only want time to fantasize about a certain platinum blond Slytherin.
Okay, I’ll admit, the said Slytherin was easily comparable to a disgusting ferret crawling in the mud when he did and said the things he sometimes did. Like that time when he’d pushed me into the lake, or the time he’d turned my hair green. It was like he was living to humiliate me. Or living to ignore me, which was more painful.
I quickly sat at lunch. I realized Rose had stopped talking. I glanced at her, marveling at this unexpected happening.
I saw her wide blue eyes latched on the handsome form of Terry Boot at the Ravenclaw table, and prayed for his soul – as he was the latest object of Rosaline’s devotion.
I gobbled whatever it was that I had dumped on my plate, hardly noticing what I was swallowing. I only paid attention as I later took blissful bites of apple pie. In my book, even general gloom was not a good reason to ignore dessert of any kind.
Then, I trudged off to the common room – we had a free period now.
As I chose my favorite chair next to the window, I took a determined decision to not take a single glance at the piles of homework in table in front of me. Believe me, I did not need Vanishing spells and Diets of Bowtruckles to lighten my mood.
Instead, I picked up my little sketch book, running my fingers lightly over the dark brown leather on it. I opened it, pausing for a minute to look at the last sketch in it – the one of Hogwarts – something I had not been brave enough to attempt for the last four years due to the stunning beauty of those tall towers.
But I was extremely proud of this drawing – I felt I had done it enough justice.
I put my chin in my hands, and thought of what I felt like sketching presently. The grounds? Myself? The mountains?
None of them seemed very appealing at the moment. Then the ideal image floated into my mind – Draco Malfoy, in all his splendor, as he rode on a broomstick! I didn’t know if I would be able to catch the perfection of his features, or the arrogance of his seraphic smile, but I felt like trying.
I didn’t need him to pose for me or anything – I’m corny enough to know that he posed like that in all his beauty, in the eye of my mind and heart. I quickly bent my head down and got to work.
I began by sketching the broomstick, the easiest part. I flourished a Firebolt on it.
Then I enjoyed drawing his tall, lean frame that seemed so lithe and beautiful even in its still, penciled form. I enjoyed drawing the way his long Quidditch robes would billow magnificently around him.
Then I started on drawing his pristine face. I drew the high, angular cheek-bones and the flawless square of his jaw. I drew how his full lips would curve into that jubilant, exulted smile as he soared into the sky, his wide, beautiful eyes fringed by thick lashes.
I finished with his long hair framing his face, wishing I could get that perfect shade of silver, imagining how it would glint in the sunlight.
Wow, I said to myself. I had to admit, it was pretty good. I gazed at it for a few seconds, wishing that Draco Malfoy would look at me like the Draco beaming at me from this page.
I suddenly realized that the people around me were bustling around. I glanced at my watch – 3.30. The bell must have gone ... I didn’t want to be late for yet another class.
I quickly gathered my books for divination, my next class, and skipped out of the common room.
My success at portraying the Slytherin wonder had definitely heightened my spirits. I walked swiftly through the crowded hallways, hardly noticing my surroundings as I daydreamed. A long sequence of images of a certain fair haired, stormy eyed personage swam around my head.
Stupid, stupid me. I generally couldn’t condone such thoughts in myself, and I knew I was only making way for more gloominess when I reminded myself that my fantasies were unreal. But at least it had me whistling for now.
From the greenhouse in front of me came a long line of people. I looked at them, trying quickly to remember which year they were in. I realized, with a jolt, that they were sixth year Gryffindors – and Slytherins.
I swallowed tensely as my eyes automatically found Malfoy, his ivory skin looking stunning against his jet black robes. His usual sidekicks were present, looking a lot like gorillas flanking him.
His elegance was even more pronounced as he stood next to them – I hardly even noticed Harry and his friends wave at me, waving back at them only well after they had gone into the hallway.
I had stopped walking, as I gaped like an idiot at the sight. But suddenly, Draco turned his magnificent head, and his grey eyes latched on to me. He muttered something, at which Goyle sniggered, and then Draco gave me a smooth, breathtaking smile.
The beauty of it was staggering – but – why was he smiling at me? I looked back at him, resisting the urge to beam at him in delight – the way Colin had beamed at me, earlier. To my sudden terror – and joy – Draco started walking to me, in lithe, long steps.
I made myself take deep breaths. I had to be nasty to him – the way any sane Gryffindor and Weasley should. But my mind reproached me – who said I was sane, anyway?
No doubt he was up to something bad. Walk, Ginny, run! I thought to myself, but I couldn’t move myself an inch.
Draco stopped about a foot from me, and he smirked mockingly. “Weasley,” he said in a low voice.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Ah, forget it,” he said dismissively, as if he were giving up on some plan. “Come, Ginny,” he said, his voice low and unbelievably seductive. “Let's take a little walk, shall we?”
“Um, why?” I demanded, managing to make my voice acerbic, fighting with the fact that his piercing grey eyes were managing to interfere with my coherency. I put a hand on my hip, and made to stomp away from him. Fantasies were one thing – in real life, Draco was an asshole.
Or at least, that’s what I was trying to convince myself.
He suddenly drew closer to me, and put his hand on the small of my back. I could feel the warmth of his skin on mine, and I suppressed a little shiver. He leaned close to me. “Don’t act,” he told me. I felt his nose touch my ears, and I did shudder – in pleasure. “You know you want me, Ginevra,” he murmured in a silky voice.
I was shamefully rooted to the spot, and I could feel the heat on my face, and the thudding of my heart.
“You know you want me. You want me so much, don't you?” he whispered, the hand at my back slowly moving upward. “Give in ... Ginny.”
“Malfoy... what are you d-doing?” I managed to stammer, drawing my eyebrows together in what was probably the most unconvincing scowl of the century. My lip trembled, to make me even more pathetic. I drew my face away a few inches, but then I could see his piercing pewter eyes – and that made nothing better.
“I'm making you see the light. You're very pretty, you know that, Ginevra?” he answered, pronouncing my name delicately. The trembling ensued.
“And I’m perfect.” He drew me closer to him, and all my resolve broke, and I allowed myself willingly to feel his hard, muscular body against mine.
“What are you trying to say, Malfoy?” I asked uncertainly, my thoughts scattered by the unnatural intensity of his stormy gaze.
“This,” he said abruptly, and before I was aware of myself, I felt a something kick my shin outwards deftly so that I fell forward, on my nose. Startled beyond belief, I heard a smattering of laughter around me.
From my position face down on the hard ground, I gritted my teeth and raised my head – I could see a pair of finely molded dragonskin shoes in front of my face.
I watched as the shoes swiftly moved backward. I clenched my jaw and raised my head higher, to see the bewitching form of Draco Malfoy smirking down at me, his eyes glinting in malice.
“Wow, look,” he said softly in a politely surprised tone. “She loves me so much she’s at my feet in worship.”
I staggered to my feet, the blood beginning to pound in my ears, as I recognized my temper rising. At least I had that to save the situation – a bit. I didn’t bother to brush the dust away from my robes.
“Don't give yourself false hopes, Malfoy.” I said through gritted teeth. The image of me physically assaulting him swam in my head – impossible, of course – his Seeker’s reflexes would never allow it.
The thudding in my ears and chest was muffling the laughter around me.
But then an idea occurred to me, an idea that gave me sudden, vindictive pleasure. It was reckless, of course – fed by the rage that was booming in my head.
The pleasure heightened as I imagined how that perfect, condescending smile would falter as my idea came into being.
I swiftly reached backward to my bag, and I pulled out the first book my fingers got hold of. Before anyone could react, or even notice my action, with a triumphant ‘Hah!’ I hurled the book at the smirking boy in front of me.
I grinned in sudden pleasure as I saw the book find its mark (I was, after all, a pretty good Chaser) and the flawless mouth turn down in disapproval as the book bounced off his shimmering platinum head. His eyes were slits of silver.
It took him less than five seconds to recover.
“Bless her,’” he said softly. “Tomato-head is having a tantrum.” There were a few chuckles and snickers from around me at this comment – whereas they had remained silent at my show of good aim.
Obviously, they would never dare laugh at Malfoy.
But then he suddenly moved, his lips twitching into a mocking smile as he gracefully reached for the book on the ground next to him, where it had fallen.
I watched in speechless horror as I realized what was happening – what book I had used as my weapon.
My sketch book.
He picked it up in his long, pale fingers, examining it delicately. There was a smirk playing on his face, his eyes still tight.
He opened the book with deliberate slowness as the Slytherins around him watched. His pale eyebrows rose as he took in the first few pages of my book – my sketches.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Wee Weasley is artistic.” I heard a smothered shriek of laughter from somewhere to my right – I was too horrified to look – but I recognized it as the voice of Pansy Parkinson.
“Oh, crap, Malfoy, give that here!” I cried desperately.
“Oh, no, Weasley,” he disagreed, his eyes glinting. “Not until I’ve had my fill of it.”
He flipped the pages, ‘mmm’-ing and ‘aaah’-ing in mock amazement.
Even in my absolutely humiliated state, I noted with a glimmer of pain that he looked so exquisite, perfect, pristine as an angel standing there, fingering through my sketches. An Evil Angel.
I could not think of a single thing to say as he flipped a page to what I knew would be my prized drawing of the Hogwarts towers.
“Malfoy ... don’t!” I whispered finally, knowing he would not hear.
“Wonderful, beautiful.” he said solemnly, shaking his head gravely.
Then a sudden smirk flashed across his face.
He gestured to the sketch of the school. “Did you practice by sketching that hovel you live in?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer. I wished my temper was still there, to give me at least righteous fury, but it was dead.
“Look at this, people! Isn’t it a masterpiece?” he called to his watching fan club, waving my book in the air.
But then a thought struck me – and I suppressed a yelp of anguish as I realized what drawing it would be in the next page.
With that slowness that seemed like forever to me – he delicately turned the page. Now the tears pricked my eyes ruthlessly.
I watched as his fair eyebrows rose, his blazing eyes widening as he took in my drawing of him. He looked up at me, his silver eyes piercing, that intense look again. I knew he would never let me live through this moment.
“Aw, would you look at that,” he said softly, gesturing with a long finger to the page, as the tears spilled from my eyes hopelessly.
“Poor, infatuated little Weasley.”
I stood motionless, ten unbearable minutes later, my head hung as I heard the groups of chattering people walk past me, snickering and calling taunts at me I could barely hear.
After a single “Piss off!” I had become speechless with humiliation. What was the point of defending myself when I had been so stupid, so humiliated? Why couldn’t I have kicked his face?
Why was he so cruel?
I exhaled and inhaled deeply, trying to gather my remaining self-respect, or my ability to move, for that matter. Then it was quiet.
I slowly lifted my head, planning to pick up my desecrated book and possibly flee to some place I would never have to be seen again.
I could not suppress a gasp of astonishment as I saw Draco Malfoy still standing there, barely two feet from me, staring intently at me. His expression was unfathomable. We looked at each other for a few seconds, my expression broken, and his very serious.
His eyes were piercing, and so very intense. It was like there was a bubble around us, and we were enclosed in it.
“Hate me, Ginevra,” he said suddenly in a quiet voice. His pale hands suddenly pulled aside his cloak, revealing his pale, hard forearm.
I took a sharp intake of breath as I recognized the mark etched there – a black skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth. The Dark Mark. I still could not speak.
I stared at him, bewildered, horrified.
“Hate me,” he repeated, his voice still soft.
Because ...” he took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s how it should be. It’s ... better that way.” His voice was muted, velvet soft.
Then he turned, and without one glance at me, he loped back toward the castle. I stood there for a few more minutes, staring dumbly after him, before I finally discovered my feet and walked to class.
Author notes: Please review! I really want to know what you think! Lurkers, stop lurking! LOL. Reviews mean a lot to me, and I really love it when people tell me what they think – especially constructive criticism, so there!
And while you're at it, if you can, also read my fic Tomorrow Sounds Good. It's more light hearted and funny!
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