"'So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story…?’”
-From Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Ginny Weasley was a liar. There’s no shortage of liars in the world, but as far as she was concerned, she was one of the absolute worst. If you were to ask anyone who knew her, particularly her brothers, they’d have told you that she was terrible at telling untruths. They were always getting in trouble with their mum as children because Ginny always gave it away with clumsy subterfuge. The thing about Ginny’s lying, you see, is that in order to be really convincing, it had to be a lie that she herself believed. Ginny Weasley’s greatest skill was in self-deception. It was something that she had always suspected about herself, even when she hadn’t realized what it could mean.
The problem with lying, of course, is that most lies are eventually found out.
***
I once read this book about a man who gets stranded in the ocean on a lifeboat with a tiger, but by the end of the book you’re left wondering if there really was a tiger, or if the tiger in the story was really him all along and he only said there was a tiger so he wouldn’t have to face the trauma of his situation. Ever since then I’ve wondered what kind of animal I would be, and I really have no idea. I suppose I could be a tiger, large and unmistakably powerful. Or perhaps I would be another feline, like a housecat, always secretly wanting attention but snubbing my nose at it when I get it. It might be fun to be a bird, to fly free whenever I wanted, but of course the purpose of this exercise isn’t about fun, really.
Once I told Harry about the tiger-man, and asked him what animal he’d be. He’d looked at me thoughtfully for a few seconds and then asked me to pass the salt.
I’d like to be a bird. I’d be a jobberknoll, I think. I’d sit silently on my perch, never making a sound, until the moment of my death when I’d unleash a furious recall of all the memories of my entire life.
I wonder if anyone would be there to hear, and if they were if they’d listen or just cover their ears.
***
“Do you know what I hate?” he said, watching as his friend carefully picked out the mushrooms in his omelet. Seeing that there would be objections to his train of thoughts, Draco continued, “I hate liars. I hate how those smarmy bastards who sit down in the Reconstruction Office can look me in the face and tell me they don’t need my help, when the truth is that they would like nothing more than to get their hands on my money. It’s just not the thing to ask for any of it and make it look as though they do need me. Instead they bring me before the Wizengamot endlessly.”
Looking up, Neville Longbottom suppressed a laugh. “You know of course that that’s the War Crimes Tribunal, not the RO. And anyway, do you really think that your money is going to salvage public opinion of your family?”
Glowering darkly, Draco returned, “It bloody well ought to! I’ve spent enough of it. Is it so bad to want to be considered like any other normal wizarding family?”
At this Neville laughed outright. “Your problem isn’t that you want to be considered normal, Draco. It’s that you want to be as popular as Harry.”
Draco frowned, a gesture reminiscent of the sneers he used to be so famous for. “I don’t know why I bother with you, Longbottom. You’re undoubtedly bad for my image.”
Shaking his head and stabbing a bit of his omelet, Neville replied, “I suspect you like being seen with me because the opposite is true.”
Draco huffed, but Neville didn’t miss the crinkling at his eyes which denoted some worry. “Well, at least I know you’re not after my money. And you’re not so bad at chess.”
Neville knew that this was the closest thing to an outright compliment or statement of friendship he was likely ever to get out of Draco Malfoy, and with that in mind, picked up a wedge of toast and tossed it at the blond’s head.
***
Breakfasts were usually silent, with me pondering what dirty dealings I should expose next in my column, and Harry reading the Prophet, which of course I detested but never could break him of the habit of reading. So it came as a bit of a shock when his voice broke into the patterns I was making on the surface of my porridge.
“What?” I blurted, nearly dropping my spoon in surprise.
“I got a letter from some production company. They want to turn my life into a musical. In America.” He looked quite put out by this, and I wondered for the millionth time why he just didn’t tell them all to sod off, but stressed over politely-crafted rejections to everyone who tried to capitalize on the story of his life.
“What are you going to tell them?” I asked, since it was unusual that he would even bring it up to me.
He didn’t move, but for a second I had the idea that he had jumped back as though I had risen up and slapped him in the face, and when I realized he hadn’t I wondered if the fantasy had been something lurking in my own brain.
“I’m going to tell them no, of course,” he responded tersely. And then I realized that I hadn’t imagined his reaction. It was merely that I knew him well enough to have noticed the tightening of his eyes, the way his breath caught, and the set of his mouth, and knew that my reaction had angered him.
Which begged the question: if I knew him well enough to know all this, why couldn’t I seem to bring myself to care anymore?
Harry wandered off to work eventually, and I was left feeling more lonely than usual. Something had been niggling at me, teasing me, and I couldn’t yet put my finger on it. I went outside to feel the sun on my face, something I did every sunny morning because it pleased me and annoyed Harry because he didn’t understand it (I never bothered to try to explain that there was really nothing to understand). As I opened the door to let myself back in, a sweet breeze kicked up and blew in behind me, sending my hair flying in front of my face like orange tentacles and blowing Harry’s newspaper about the room. As I stepped in my foot landed right across the face of Draco Malfoy, and I knew exactly what my next piece would be on.
***
“Why in the bloody hell does she want to talk to me?”
Neville once again had to suppress a grin, as it was very hard to take seriously Malfoy’s ire, wrapped in bandages as he was. “She said something about wanting to get the perspective of the other side.”
“Oh for—” Draco cried as he tried to move and nearly tripped. “I may have to rethink this Halloween costume.”
“I told you it doesn’t send the right message to go wrapped in bandages to the hospital charity ball.” Neville had in fact said as much, but Draco had been convinced it would be appropriately thematic. Neville thought it would get him mistaken for a burn ward victim.
“And as for your Weasley friend, don’t think I haven’t read her articles. ‘Sides,’ she says. What sides? The war is over. She probably wants to rake me over the coals, just like everyone else she does in her column. I still refuse to give any interviews. You know that.”
“You don’t know her like I do,” Neville replied, trying not to laugh as Draco attempted to disentangle himself from his costume.
“What? Do you actually think she’d write anything different?”
“No,” Neville said. “You just don’t know how tenacious she is, and how much she hates anyone by the name of Malfoy.”
***
The minute I saw his smiling face winking at me from the toothpaste ad, I knew exactly who my next target would be. I’d actually forgotten about him until then, in the way that you can forget about someone who constantly goes after media attention. Perhaps it’s better to say that I hadn’t realized how perfect he was until that moment, an oversight for which I was now kicking myself.
Draco Malfoy represents the sum total of everything I hate. He comes from an entitled, moneyed family that somehow—again—escaped punishment for their involvement with Voldemort. Sure, his father’s in Azkaban for what he’s done, but Draco Malfoy caused the death of Dumbledore. Dumbledore! He let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He made the lives of anyone not prejudiced enough a living hell. And now he’s perfectly free to play Quidditch and hawk toothpaste as though nothing’s happened.
That’s the crux of the problem, you see. People are forgetting. And if this keeps on, it’s only a matter of time before it starts again. And I’m not going to let that happen.
I only wish I’d realized sooner that Draco Malfoy is my perfect man.
***
“Tell me again why you’re friends with him?” Neville was being rather unhelpful in my quest to incriminate Draco Malfoy, a fact that made me only more determined.
“There was some alcohol involved,” he replied, turning somewhat red under my scrutiny.
“I thought you said it was during a call,” I asked suspiciously, since I knew Neville took his job as an Auror very seriously.
“It was. But look, can’t you just let this one go?” he pleaded. “Malfoy’s harmless. Honest. Don’t you think that if there was anything seriously amiss I would report it?”
This was true, but Neville was such a kind soul and I knew Malfoy would take advantage of that. “I think it’s more likely that he’s tricking you somehow.”
Neville drew himself up, offended. “Listen, Ginny. I’m a fully qualified Auror, and if I thought he was up to anything dangerous I’d take him out myself. You know better than that.”
“Nev, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. I’m late for work.” A feeling of terrible darkness invaded me as I realized how badly I’d offended Neville, who’d always stood by me. As he Apparated away, I knew that at least I could blame Malfoy for this.
***
I believe that our choices define our destinies. This is a very basic thing to say, but leads to such complexities that I’m not sure I can fully represent them with mere words.
I believe in multiple realities, and that the most minute daily choices we make have the power to alter the course of our lives, even when we don’t know what the outcomes will be, or even when we’re unconscious of the fact that we’re making a choice of that magnitude.
Say for instance tomorrow morning I have orange marmalade on my toast at breakfast, when I could have had porridge instead. Only I’ve used the last of it up, and later that evening I’m passing a shop and I pop in to get some more. I’m on the same exact path I would have taken had I not stopped at the shop, but I’m delayed a few minutes. And because of that, a runaway bus hits me at the crosswalk.
Maybe that’s a bit extreme, but so is destiny. It’s full of accidents and awkward spots, and most of the time we don’t even know that we’re shaping our own futures.
Somewhere out there, I think, are millions, or billions, perhaps infinite alternate versions of me, each living their lives with slightly different choices, all living out their own triumphs and sadnesses.
***
I first caught him outside his Quidditch club, looking unruffled and smiling, which turned to a scowl when he saw me. He Apparated away before I could even get close.
Again over the next two weeks I tried to catch up with him. I was already nearly finished with the article, but I wanted him to say something that I could use to show what kind of person he really was. All I could get thus far was that he was wily and seemed to have a sixth sense for when I was near.
Naturally, the moment that I came upon him was when I was least prepared. I had decided that my best opportunity to approach my quarry would be at the hospital charity ball, which would be crowded with people he was trying to impress so that he couldn’t make scene.
He was browsing a display of rather ornamental hats when I bumped into him without realizing at first who it was. His eyes widened as he took me in, but surprisingly he stood his ground. Caught off guard, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Interesting choice,” he commented, nodding to the fake pistol and medieval style headdress I held. Before leaving Ron and Hermione’s I had mentioned stopping at the costume shop to see if I could find anything for the ball and somehow had got roped into picking up a few things for them, as they were apparently always too busy.
Thought of the ball was enough to remind me of my mission. I grinned sardonically. “I thought I’d be an original this year. This Muggle object, see? It’s used for death.” It was for Ron’s costume, who, to Hermione’s chagrin, had become obsessed with the western film genre and wanted to go as a cowboy to the ball.
Something in his eyes changed. “I know what a pistol’s for, Weasley. I do, however, doubt that you’d be able to use one.”
I laughed, more at the absurdity of the conversation than anything else. “I’m more subtle than that. I don’t need a piece of metal, or even a wand, to bring down my prey.”
Something flashed across his expression, but I couldn’t tell what it was. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Chasing your prey?” He smirked, and my blood boiled. “I can’t tell you how subtle you’ve been. I absolutely never saw you coming.”
Suddenly the only thing I wanted was out. I still wanted the interview, but the walls felt like they were closing in on me and I had to leave. It didn’t matter; he was going anyway. Before he turned away, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I think you’d look good in wings.” It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about costumes.
The worst part of the conversation was that I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
***
Neville Longbottom was not stupid. He’d had a certain reputation at Hogwarts, but that had more to do with the social shyness of his awkward teen years than because of any reflection on his intelligence. But, despite how miserable he’d been for some of his time at Hogwarts, he had learned one valuable skill that wasn’t taught in a classroom: he’d learned to study people. He had, for most of his life, been a people watcher, a skill that served him well in his occupation as an Auror.
This was why he knew that something wasn’t quite right. The ball was as he’d expected, and everyone seemed to be having a good time, but something was making him uneasy. Perhaps it was the way that Harry and Ginny seemed to orbit around each other without really ever coming into contact, even with their eyes. Perhaps it was that Luna Lovegood appeared engrossed by the ceiling, or that Hermione seemed distracted, watching Harry or Ginny. Maybe it was that a strange light had entered Draco’s expression, making him more caustic than usual.
Whatever it was, Neville knew down to his bones that tonight would spell disaster for someone he cared about. Remembering some observances from his school days, he suspected from which quarter disaster would spring, and knew that it was inevitable.
A flash of white caught his eye, and Neville saw Ginny, dressed in white wings, gliding nearer to him.
“Did you get your interview yet?” he asks as she glided up to him.
Her lips pursed, and she shook her head. “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Are you sure I can’t yet persuade you to let this go?” he asked, knowing what her answer will be.
Her eyes sparked and her hand tightened on her glass. “I can’t just ‘let it go,’ Neville. Everyone’s forgetting how it was! They’re all sitting back and pretending like nothing ever happened, that everyone’s friends, and in another generation or two it’ll be ready to happen all over again!”
Neville looked at the floor briefly, because the pain in her voice had been only too real.
“Like you, friends with Malfoy now. And maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t be him. But it’ll be someone. And I’m trying to make sure that we don’t forget!”
Looking up, Neville considered her for a second, watching her flushed with the intensity of her belief, and then spoke some of the harshest words of his life. “Nobody’s forgetting, Ginny. We’re just forgiving, and moving on.”
She spun away, her back rigid, and Neville decided to go find Harry. Something told him that before the night was over Harry was going to need a friend.
***
I found him under the balcony, near some rose bushes. I’d gone out there to be alone, but something about his posture told me that he would be susceptible to my questions.
He must have heard me coming, which wasn’t hard to do, given the rustling of my costume, and when he saw me, he muttered, “The wings suit you.” And as simply as that I was thrown back to all those years ago, on a similar kind of night, where he spoke the same words to me. I remember the perfume of other flowers—not roses, but headier—with other worries and another kind of wings on my costume.
“A swan?” he asks me. “Are you here to be my muse, or your own?”
I want to say something, but I somehow can’t get the words to form, and then I remember the stories I heard about mute swans, and how they’re silent until they sense their deaths approaching, and then sing out a hauntingly beautiful song. And I realize that without knowing what I was doing I’ve put on my tiger suit, so to speak; I’m lost at sea in my lifeboat, and I wonder that if I open my mouth the whole story of my life will come spilling out.
So instead I launch myself at him, pulling on his shirt roughly to reach his lips with mine, and suddenly it all comes flooding back. I remember a sunny blue sky and laughter. I remember his hand in mine as we strolled in the rain. I remember frustration and longing and the painful, blossoming tendrils of love starting to slither their way out of my heart. But mostly I remember that I had forced myself to stop remembering any of these things.
He tries to protest, but the words are hardly out of his mouth before he brings his down to mine again. I think that was the moment when I realized that the life I’d known was over, and there would be no going back this time. He tells me how he missed me, how he’s been trying to forget and can’t, and how he’s been trying to salvage what’s left of his good name not because he wants to win me back but because he says he wanted to know that he could be touched by my goodness. And I wonder if he realizes how much of a lie that is, because I know that he does want me back, and then he tells me so, and then asks me to be with him again.
This time I know that this choice will change my future, and I welcome it.
“If you had to tell the story of something horrible in your life, and you could use an animal as a protagonist instead of yourself, what animal would you choose?” These are the first words out of my mouth, my swan song, and I could kick myself.
He laughs softly into my hair, and I think it would be better off if he just ignored the question. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s going to leave, because I’ve answered his question with another, pointless question, and at one of the most meaningful moments of my life, at that. And then he answers. “I think I’d be a tiger.”
FIN
Harry breaks the customary silence of breakfast to tell Ginny about a letter he’s just received. “Someone wants to turn my life into a musical,” he says, a glint of mirth at the corners of his eyes.
Ginny, who had been lost in thought, swirling her porridge around in the bowl, drops the spoon, obliterating the sideways figure eight she’d drawn.
“Who do you think they’ll cast as me?” she asks, knowing that he’s going to turn them down, as always.
They spend a few minutes thinking of celebrities to play all their friends, laughing and joking, and as he gets up to leave for work she reminds him she’s going to stop by the market later and asks if he wants anything.
“I think we’re out of marmalade,” he says.
Original Prompt:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive in your fic:
"The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference."
I want either Draco or Ginny - your choice, you can even do both if you swing that way - to slowly realize that the hatred for the other person has become central to their life, and really isn't hate.
The tone/mood of the fic: Thoughtful, introspective. You don't have to dive into the deep end of the angst ocean, but neither should you go for frothy giggly fluff. If it can be mistaken for an episode of Sex and the City, you need to rethink your direction.
Preferred rating of the the fic you want: Whichever one best lets you get your point across.
Canon or AU? No epilogue. Other than that, canon.
Deal Breakers (anything you don't want?): D/G ending up indifferent or apart. Their love can still be a little messed up, but it should be clear that they love each other deeply and will be together.
The End.
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This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked Mute also liked 1103 other stories.
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