It was the eyes that were causing the problem, she realized; they had to be perfect. Ginny stared at those eyes, victimized by the graphite held loosely in her fingers, and contemplated. What was it about that moment three weeks ago that had captivated her?
She sighed, resting her head in her right hand, as she held the pencil above the paper and retraced what she had already done. It had been the way he had smiled, fully, his entire face glowing without a trace of malice. It had been the way he seemed freed by his laughter. In that moment, he had been good.
His mouth was perfect, tilted upwards, slightly more on the left, just the slightest hint of the sharp teeth beneath. The chords of his neck were only partially emphasized because of his relaxation and his collarbone peeked out from his opened shirt. Even his hair seemed right, loose and fluid.
But the eyes. His eyes seemed perpetually captured in a frown, pensive and slightly wistful. Nothing like they had when he had smiled on that day.
No one had looked like that then. The news had come, startling them all, and suddenly the entire school was released from the long felt hovering tension that they had almost ceased to notice. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had returned to Hogwarts and breathed life back into the cold atmosphere. It had been the first day of February, and, strangely enough, the first day of spring, and for these three weeks, the feeling had yet to dissipate. Ginny felt that the whole of Scotland was celebrating.
And that was why his eyes had to be perfect. No student that had remained at Hogwarts had been able to escape the joy, not even Draco Malfoy. And Ginny had never seen anything so beautiful as the smile that had graced his features, even if it was only momentary.
She wondered if this was some sort of intrinsic failing of her personality. If the one agreeable expression she had ever seen on his face — one that had completely captivated her — was the one that she would never see again. Perhaps her vision was so clouded by all the smirks and scowls and grimaces and the glowers that she just couldn't quite put that smile onto paper.
She glanced down, frowned again, and then decided to give up. She closed her sketchbook and tucked it away, leaning back in her chair to observe her surroundings. The library was surprisingly quiet — considering NEWTs and OWLs were in two months and finals a week beyond that — and Ginny couldn't hear anything but the shuffling of pages and that underlying shifting one always hears in a place inhabited by ghosts.
She sighed, laying her forehead on the surface of the table, and closed her eyes. She slowly counted backwards from one hundred, hoping to clear her mind. But it didn't work. The sounds of cheering still echoed in her ears, and her vision narrowed to the image of a smiling boy, forgotten youth flooding his face. She was trapped by one short instant, by one brief smile that had captured her attention and become her obsession.
Banging her forehead on the table's surface, she clenched her hands and swore to herself that this was it. That she would put the drawing away and forget about it until she saw his smile again. She promised herself, and when she sat up, the burden on her shoulders seemed to have disappeared and she swung her bag up onto her back with a wistful smile.
She was determined. It was over. For now.
...
Ginny ran across the great hall, a foreign feeling of immense joy pounding in her chest. She was done for the day! Done for the week! She felt free. Nothing but the weekend now, and the forecast on the wizarding wireless that morning had prepared her for two and a half days of bright sunshine. The boys were still on the pitch, watched by a worried Hermione as they tried to get ready for the game, and she — she had nothing to do. It was glorious. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on her sketchpad; she was going to draw everything in sight.
She smiled broadly and closed her eyes for a second, barely slowing her steps.
And when she opened then, a person had appeared directly in her path and Ginny had to fight to skid to a stop, tripping over her feet and stumbling onto the floor in front of a tall and beautiful woman.
“Oh!” the woman gasped, reaching down, “Are you alright?” Her tone was patronizing, and Ginny looked up to snap at her; but there was real concern in the bright blue eyes so Ginny held her tongue.
“Yes, I'm fine,” she said smiling, as she stood, “I'm sorry I startled you.”
The woman smiled back, and Ginny's mind went blank — total déjà vu. Those eyes, not the color, but the shape, so much like Draco's when he had smiled. They glowed from the inside, the corners folding slightly, and small lines appearing. Ginny was speechless, this must be Draco's mother, but she hardly recognized her. This couldn't be the same cold woman that Ginny had met three years ago.
Her hands itched for a pencil. That damned smile!
Then Ginny realized that she had been staring and Draco's mother was waiting for some sort of response. “I'm sorry!” she said, the telltale flush rising to her cheeks, “Would you repeat that?”
The woman looked as if she would have liked to laugh. “I said that I should apologize for startling you. I'm Narcissa Malfoy. And you...?”
“Ginny–Ginevra Weasley,” Ginny replied, taking the outstretched delicate hand and feeling briefly envious of the woman's perfectly shaped fingers.
“It's so nice to meet you,” Ms. Malfoy replied, not skipping a beat at the sound of her name. “You have the most beautiful red hair.”
Ginny felt her eyes widen, and reached up unconsciously to touch her hair, loose and curly around her shoulders. She wondered if Narcissa was mocking her.
Obviously sensing her discomfort, Ms. Malfoy laughed. “No really, it's beautiful. It reminds me of Draco's hair when he was much younger.”
Ginny choked, her eyes growing even larger as laughter fought to escape. “Draco had red hair as a child?”
Narcissa smiled indulgently, “Yes, until he was four. It was beautiful, much like yours, except lighter. I believe I have a picture...”
Ginny watched in shock, still fighting the laughter, as Ms. Malfoy dug through her purse. She was smiling wistfully as she finally pulled out a small album of photos, and Ginny watched curiously, not even glancing at the pictures as she stared at the woman's beautiful face, so different than what was expected. Relaxed and patient, there was no sign of a scowl, and Ginny could sense the pride Ms. Malfoy felt for her son.
Ginny’s was just beginning to wonder about what effect Lucius’s death had on his widow when she was called back to the present.
“Ah, here's one,” Ms. Malfoy said, pulling a picture out of the album. It was small, no bigger than a postcard, and in it was a very chubby, much younger Draco. He sat with his arms wrapped around a small stuffed rabbit and his hair was bright orange, the color of sunset. Occasionally, little Draco would squeeze his rabbit tightly or smile playfully.
Ginny did laugh this time, holding the picture close to her as her shoulders twitched with mirth. “This is adorable!”
“Isn't it?” Narcissa laughed, looking like a normal happy mother, and Ginny smiled at her openly. She was surprised at how much she liked her. “Draco would be so angry if he knew I was showing this to anyone. He hated his red hair.”
Ginny nodded, a plan already forming in her mind, “I'll bet. May I... may I keep this?”
Narcissa looked at her curiously, and suddenly smiled broadly, no trace of condescension left. “Of course, just don't show it to anyone,” she added, with a wicked smirk. It looked just like Draco’s as well.
Ginny grinned back mischievously, “Of course not.”
Narcissa opened her mouth to say something when a person emerged from the stairwell behind her. “Mother, you left your... what are you doing here?” Draco asked, his glance shifting between the two, a scowl appearing as his eyes lingered on Ginny.
Narcissa brushed him off, though, before Ginny could respond, taking the shawl he held in his hand. “We were just talking, darling. Thank you. I should be going.”
She turned back to Ginny, “It was lovely to meet you, Ginevra.”
Ginny smiled, with added sweetness to irritate Draco, “Oh, the pleasure was all mine.”
With a final smile at both of them, Ms. Malfoy turned and then left through the doors to the outside.
The smile dropped off her face rapidly as Ginny turned to look at Draco, his arms crossed as he stared at her. “What were you doing with my mother?” he asked imperiously.
Ginny smirked haughtily, “Nothing at all, Draco darling,” she quipped before turning on her heel and practically skipping from the hall, her good mood not even dented by the encounter.
...
The problem with Ginny's brothers was very simple. They were related to her. They were always there — 'supporting' her, hanging all over her, watching her every move. And mocking her. And now, they — well, really just Ron — were responsible for her standing at the doors of the library, wondering whether or not she was about to make a horrible mistake.
Yesterday, after a rather horrid day, with weather to match the mood, the two of them had driven everyone from the common room with yet another one of their screaming matches. Ginny couldn’t even remember what they had been arguing about, but it had ended with a bet, a statement of terms, and Ginny at the doors of the library.
They looked heavier than usual, and she was completely unwilling to open them. But finally, with a heavy sigh, she pushed and they swung open easily.
She spotted the blond head she was looking for almost immediately. He was bent over books across the room, and she could feel nervous tension building across her shoulders. This was not going to go well.
After a silent pep talk, she scowled and crossed the room, stopping in front of one of her least favorite people, Draco Malfoy.
He glanced up at her after a moment, his eyes passing over her form impassively, before he turned and continued his work. Ginny stared in silent indignation, her body almost shaking with anger, before she quietly hissed his name.
He looked back up, the placid look still hanging over his eyes. “Yes, Weasley? Have I done something particularly awful to deserve having to talk to you?”
She clenched her jaw, then let it relax. She took a deep breath, then let it out. She may have hated him, but she was unfamiliar with blackmail, and even more unfamiliar with swallowing her pride. “I need your help.”
He stopped writing, finally, and set down his fountain pen, resting his hands on top of his work, before turning towards her. “No.” And then he went back to his work, no curiosity, no regard, and hardly any acknowledgement.
She stared at him for a long moment, and steeled herself. “You will help me,” she said firmly, and he glanced back up at her, his eyebrows raised. “You’ll want to.”
He smirked at her, “And what could I possibly want to do for you, unless it's burning that sweater, or changing the colour of your particularly offensive hair.”
Ginny felt her confidence grow, and her lips curled into a slow smirk, as she leaned her hip against the table's edge. “Really? My hair offends you? I thought you loved everything about yourself.” The impassive facade began to fade as he caught onto her meaning. “Though I guess if I wanted to go somewhere for really believable dye charms, I would go to you.”
The skin around his eyes tightened slightly, and he drew in a nearly silent breath. She gently reached out and touched his smooth blonde hair, running her fingertips through the ends slowly as she marveled at her own bravado. “Though I suppose platinum isn't really all that believable.”
She smirked down at him, and he suddenly reached up and snatched her wrist roughly, yanking them both around behind the bookshelf and out of view.
He threw her wrist back at her angrily, and she grimaced, pulling it up to her chest and observing the quickly fading red marks.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he hissed angrily.
She smiled, feeling dizzy with some sort of strange new power. “Wow, your mother said you hated your red hair, but I never thought it would be this easy. I figured I would at least have to wave the picture around in front of your face before you gave in.”
He glowered at her, “Give it to me. NOW!”
She smiled, “Of course,” before pulling the picture from her bag and handing it to him. His face paled as he stared at it. Supremely satisfied, Ginny added, “I love the bunny, by the way, do you still have it?”
“You made copies?” he asked, his voice tight.
“What do you take me for?” she replied, looking up at him and stepping closer for a better view. She had never realized before how tall he was, or how he towered over her even when his shoulders were hunched forward. It was empowering to know that the clenched knuckles, the pale cheeks, and the ruffled appearance were all due to her. To know that he was, at least partially, in her control.
“What do you want?” he repeated, looking dignified even in defeat.
Ginny pursed her lips. “Help.”
He sighed. “Obviously. You've always been a lost cause.”
She gave him a look that said she was clearly unimpressed. “I need to ace my Potions final to stay in the NEWT level class.” And to shove Ron’s words back in his face, she thought.
“You want me to tutor you?” he scoffed, “I don't work miracles.”
Ginny clenched her fists and stomped heavily on his foot.
“Ow! You bitch!”
“If I pass potions for the year by acing the test, I will destroy the remaining pictures. Well, all but one. And I can guarantee that you will see Ron humiliated, as an added bonus.”
Draco's left eyebrow quirked upwards at that, but the scowl didn't leave his face as he stared at her for a long moment, before looking down at the picture. Eventually, a very foreign look crossed his face, and he nodded. “Fine. Meet me here tonight at half nine, bring your latest potions assignment.”
“But curfew's at ten,” she protested, “What if I get caught?”
It was his turn to smirk as he looked down at her, and she knew, suddenly, that this was not a game she should be playing. “Well, then, I guess you miss our first session.”
He moved to step by her brushing against her as he did and sending unexpected heat up her arm. She shivered as he leaned down, his lips a breath from her ear; “My advice? Don't.”
And when she stepped from behind the shelves a few moments later, clutching her bag to her chest, his head was once again tilted over his work, and she prayed fervently he was completely oblivious to her strained breathing.
…
Later that afternoon, Ginny tossed and turned in her bed, as she tried to nap before the tutoring session. She felt completely uncertain about everything except for the fact that she was making a huge mistake.
She had never actually planned to use the picture, though most of the scenarios that had run through her head had been both appealing and hysterical. She wouldn’t have even had to if it wasn’t for Ron and the stupid bet. Now she had to pass Potions or end up horribly embarrassing herself. And of course, Hermione couldn’t help, being swamped by the NEWTs and though Harry had offered, Ginny wanted to do well.
She sighed heavily, thinking that maybe there was still time to pull out. After all, there had to be someone who could help her other than Draco. She didn’t even know why she had thought of him first. He may be intelligent, but he was still an arse.
She pulled her sketchpad into her lap, hoping for some release and opened it to the drawing of him. She stared at it, fighting laughter. How wrong it had been to portray such a person in their single moment of decency. She hated him! Hated him in all his snobbery and arrogance and rudeness. She hated his smirks and his scowls and the way he always seemed to get the last word. No doubt that this was a huge mistake.
She lifted the page to tear it out before pausing, a flash of Narcissa's eyes appearing in her mind. She took a deep breath and then stared back at the sketch, imagining clearly now how they should be shaped. Her pencil appeared in her hand, seemingly out of nowhere, but she didn't stop to wonder, lost already to the emotion that drove her hands to the paper.
Carefully she re-shaded, reshaped, recreated the expression, the joy for freedom so clearly expressed that when she finally laid down the pencil, she could do nothing but smile serenely at the look on his face, all previous anger replaced by something so simple as accomplishment.
But when she closed the book on his face and laid back against her pillows, the relief she had been expecting did not come. The image of that day did not disappear from her mind, but instead came back full force — the sound of Slytherin laughter and the celebrations loud in her ears, the smell of dinner in her nose, and the sight of him, that Draco, were all she could see. His smile and his boyhood clearly visible for that moment, before disappearing in the streamers falling from the ceiling.
She muffled her exasperated shout with her pillow before collapsing back into bed.
Her hands found the sketchbook, turning to a new page, and without even thinking about it, she began to shape his face with her charcoal. She called forth the growing panic she had seen in his eyes that afternoon, leaving the strokes loose as she formed his straight mouth and pointed face.
It wasn't long before she changed tactics again and began a second sketch in the left corner of his placid face bent over books, a fountain pen in hand. And then she added a drawing of his smirk, arrogant and perfect, his eyebrow cocked and his arms crossed.
He was all angles, an artist’s dream, with his slanted cheekbones, sharp eyes, and long nose. She was entranced, lost to her hands shaping bodies and gestures and faces. And when she looked down again, she gasped, for she had drawn herself, next to him, his mouth by her ear as he goaded her and her own lips parted, her eyelids half-closed, her hand on his arm to keep from falling.
Her heart sped up and she slammed the book closed, shocked. Slowly, she opened it again, but the two of them were still there, just as close as she remembered. She shook her head, staring at the picture and moving to tear it out, but, again, she paused, her fingers hovering above it.
Finally, she sighed, closing the pad. She let her head fall back against the pillows, reminding herself to breathe slowly as she tried to push the image from her mind.
But all that she was left with was one final thought: I knew that this was a bad idea. Then she glanced at the clock and realized that it was already ten past.
...
Draco was waiting for her in the library, across the room, and when he met her eyes, he jerked his head towards the shelves. She followed, many steps behind him, as he led her into the furthest part of the room.
She told herself to breath slowly, to not blush, and to just not talk to him to avoid putting her foot, or perhaps both of her feet, in her mouth.
He stared at her, waiting, as she stood by the table. “Aren't you going to sit?”
She jumped slightly and nodded, pulling out a chair. He rolled his eyes. “Sit next to me, it will make it easier.”
She nodded again, wordlessly tucking the chair back in and crossing to the other side of the table. When she pulled out her chair, she accidentally smacked him on the back of his head with her bag, and he jumped, scowling up at her.
“I'm sorry,” she said, startled by the anger in his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking.
“A few rules, Weasley. One,” he said, not looking at her, as she sat down, “Don't touch me. Ever Again. Two. Never mention the photo in my, or anyone else's, presence. Three. Do Not Speak To Me Outside Of These Sessions. In fact, speak as little as possible to me during the sessions. Four. Tell no one that I agreed to this. And Five, try not to act so bloody stupid all the time.”
His speech was heavily stilted throughout his list, emphasizing every word slowly, as if she was an idiot. Her blood boiled and she fought to control her temper.
“In exchange for this I will help you pass Potions for the year and will not tell anyone, like your overly obnoxious brother or your little pet puppy, Harry Potter, about the study sessions.”
Ginny rolled her shoulders, trying to relax and failing. “Right. Sounds fair,” she finally said, grudgingly. “Are you finished?”
“No, we haven't even started the lesson yet.”
Her jaw clenched; she'd be surprised if she had any teeth left at the end of this.
“Let's start with the lesson that you have due tomorrow, and then we can go back to the beginning and work over everything that you'll need.”
The change in atmosphere was tangible, as he started pulling out books, focused now on something other than her, and Ginny sighed, releasing her anger. At least these sessions would provide plenty of practice for dealing with insufferable gits.
It was two hours later, the assignment complete in her bag, and a theoretical potions book sitting opened between them when she realized that she wasn't bored. She wasn't even all that confused. She was just sitting there, taking it all in, the information opening up before her like a doorway opening to the outside. It was as if the way he explained things just brought them into clarity, putting them into new light and opening up all sorts of connections that she never would have thought to make.
“Have you ever thought about being a teacher?” she asked, interrupting him.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Don't be shocked that everyone's not as idiotic as you are, Weasley. Just because I'm intelligent doesn't mean that I would subject myself to dealing with students like you every day.” His fingers then moved to his temples, slowly rotating in circles.
She sighed, “You're just really good at making everything a little bit easier to understand.” Well, not everything, she thought as he sighed again, the air rushing by her ear and sending a small shiver down her spine.
He nodded again, dropping his head and rotating his shoulders before returning his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Does your head hurt?” she asked.
“Is it that obvious?” he replied, sarcasm dripping off his tongue.
“Maybe you need glasses,” she said with a smile, waiting.
“I do not need glasses,” he snapped back.
“Just for reading,” she continued, faking obliviousness to the tightening in across his back. She was sure that wouldn't help his head. “You could get the same ones as Harry!” she said, clapping her hands together with a mocking grin. He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “I mean, they even sell them in the high end designer shops now. They're a fashion statement.”
Draco glared at her, “And what sort of statement is that?”
She shrugged, smiling at him openly. He shifted uneasily in his seat. “I can afford to pay a lot of money for a really hideous pair of glasses made famous by a very lucky boy?”
He raised his left eyebrow at her before chuckling lightly and shaking his head. “You are insane.”
She bowed her head, as if in gratification, “I know.”
She could tell that he was going to sigh again, and allowed herself a small smile when the air escaped his lips heavily, “Let’s just get back to work.”
She gave him a mock salute, realizing that she was quite possibly beyond exhaustion, “Yes, sir!”
Then the two of them leaned back over the text, and she followed his finger, as it skimmed the important lines, pausing when he looked up at her to explain key points with more simplistic language and a few gestures or drawings.
She decided to be kind and not tell him he was a horrible artist, and remained silent as she watched and listened, fighting the sleep that lurked behind her eyelids. Maybe, she thought, consoling herself, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
…
In Ginny's mind there were a lot of ways to define insanity, and it was three days after her argument with Ron and two after her first tutoring session with Draco, when she decided that she was closer than she had previously thought. Harry Potter, the-boy-who-was-totally-oblivious, the savior of the wizarding world, her unofficial brother, was standing next to her, looking out over the Quidditch pitch, and trying to make small talk. But that wasn’t the insane part.
The insane part was her discomfort. She was waiting, impatiently, as she had been all day, to return to the library. To sit next to Draco as he explained one potion or another. She felt more comfortable there than she did with Harry — that was the insane part.
“This weather is really weird, right?” Harry asked, staring out over the Qudditch pith. It was a beautifully sunny day, warm, dry, and perfect. Utterly surreal for February in Scotland. She nodded in response, thankful she wasn’t playing Quidditch so she could fully enjoy it.
There was no reason to play now that Harry and Ron were back. Without the captain and keeper, the team had floundered spectacularly, and even though Ginny had caught every snitch that came her way, they were still in dead last, needing to win the next game by a margin of eight hundred points to even participate in the Quidditch finals.
Harry shifted on his feet. He was about to say something, and Ginny temporarily panicked. She was terrified he would bring up the goodbye kiss she had given him at the beginning of August. She remembered the steaminess of the night, the dampness of the grass, the lack of stars, and the completely emotionless kiss they had shared that had only proved to Ginny that Harry Potter was all myth and fantasy.
It had seemed, at the time, as if all of her life had been like that — a shaky construction of fantasies and daydreams that was always holding her two steps away from reality. Kissing Harry Potter had blown it over, and though she was grateful, she had decided that she was finished waiting for him and for other things to just happen.
Ginny had made it her job following that day to get he and Hermione together, but considering that she had only been in their presence for three weeks total since then, the odds weren't in her favor. And he kept doing really strange things whenever she came into a room.
Like when she had turned up on the pitch; he had dropped his broom in the mud, tripped over it, and then accidentally kicked the quaffle up into the air, smacking Colin in the face with it.
“Ron was talking about having you sub in as a chaser this weekend,” Harry said finally, staring up at the scoring drill Ron was running with the chasers. She watched with unchecked amusement as another awkward throw smacked Ron in the face. She tucked her wand up her sleeve when Harry glanced over.
“Oh,” she said, frowning, “Well, do me a favor and tell him I said thanks, but no thanks.”
Harry seemed a bit startled at that. “What? Why not?”
Ginny couldn't really think of a good answer though, so she just shrugged. “I have no real desire to play Qudditch this week. Nor do I feel like standing up for my brother.”
“Ginny,” Harry said, exasperation creeping through his voice. “This isn't about you and Ron, it's about the team.”
She rolled her eyes skyward, deliberately facing away from Harry so he couldn't see. “Don't kid yourself Harry, if I played, we might win, but there's no way we'd get into the final and Ron will only see it as a personal victory. I don't pity him enough for that …yet. Besides,” she continued, “I have other things to do.”
The game was against Ravenclaw, and Ginny fully intended to reclaim her ownership of her favorite table in the library while they were all out cheering on their team.
Harry looked at her, obviously in some sort of pain, and Ginny stared back curiously. “What is it, Harry?”
“You're not coming to the game?”
Ginny shrugged, “I wasn't planning to, but Hermione will be there. I'll just ask her to cheer twice as hard in my place.”
Ginny was fighting the slowly overtaking complacency that had become a feeling consistent with these talks with Harry. He shrugged again, “Well, I guess if that's what you really want. But I'll miss you.”
Ginny forced a small smile, fighting back some sort of bitchy remark that she wasn't quite sure she wanted to understand. It wasn't as if she had ever tried to tell him what she really wanted. “I'm sorry Harry.” But she wasn't. She was just killing time until he mounted his broom, so she could sit down.
She stared after his retreating form and allowed her facade to slip as he took off into the sky. She sighed and sank into the grass, soaking up the sunny heat and relaxing as the guys changed the line-up above her. She wondered if she really was going crazy, or if all this strangeness was just because she had gotten used to the three of them being absent. Their personalities were so big, and the dynamic of them all together would take over a room. Stranger than their absence was having them return.
She closed her eyes, sinking into a contemplative trance as she realized again what their presence implied. The war was over. There was nothing left to fight for. It was time for real life to start. She felt like she was the only person in the entire wizarding world who was struggling with this concept. Ever since she was eleven, she had been tied up, inextricably, in the war; but she had never gotten to play a major part.
She had spent the better part of six years preparing for a fight that she would never have to face. The danger was just gone now. And she couldn't make sense of it.
...
That evening came sooner than she would have liked, and at half past nine, Ginny sat down at the table with only half of the work Draco had asked her to do complete. And she knew that most of it was wrong.
He came in five minutes later, nodded at her, and sat down. She stared at him as he sank deeper into his chair, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. He didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes and slowly began loosening his tie. He looked exhausted, large circles had formed under his eyes and his clothing hung off his frame awkwardly.
“Um,” she said softly, afraid to disturb him, “I didn’t exactly finish the work you told me to do.”
He looked across the table at her in weary resignation, “I figured.”
She pulled out the parchment and slid it across to him, and Ginny found herself fidgeting as he looked it over. Though they had only met three times, she felt completely unsettled from the drastic change in his attitude. Normally he was mocking and aloof, but now he was unbelievably distant.
“What’s wrong?” she asked suddenly.
He glanced up at her, his face expressionless, before he slowly raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.”
She sighed, “Right.”
He went back to correcting her work, without even commenting on her stupidity once. Something was definitely wrong.
When he finished, he passed it back. “Your work is actually improving,” he murmured, “It’s just the conceptual stuff you don’t understand. Like why the different stirring motions affect the combination of ingredients, and the significance of particular measurements and ingredients.” He paused and ran his hand through his hair, mussing it. A short, frustrated breath escaped his mouth and he rolled his shoulder to relieve the tension, “I can't believe we have to go all the way back to third year theory.”
She sighed and focused her glare on the table. “Thanks, I guess.”
They worked for a few hours on the assignment, walking through the steps and then stopping every now and then to explore the intricacies of the potions and their ingredients.
She watched as the colour in Draco’s face returned, as his spirits lifted, though only slightly, while he explained the concepts that made each potion function. She took it all in and felt much more relieved at the end of the session than she had at the beginning.
It was while she was packing up her books that he stopped her with a question. “Why?”
She turned slightly towards him, but didn’t look up, “Why what?”
“Why ask me for tutoring?” he continued.
He was tilting his chair back and looking at her curiously from across the table when she glanced up. “Well, you’re smart aren’t you? A genius, right?”
He shrugged, “Yeah, but why even bother? Why not just fail?”
“I need to take the Potions’ NEWT to get the job I want. And besides, I made a bet.”
“What about Granger?” He let his chair fall back to the floor.
“She’s busy prepping for NEWTs.”
“So am I.”
Ginny slung her bag onto her shoulder, feeling momentarily guilty about taking his time. “But she’s been gone almost the whole year. You’ve been here.”
“Not the entire time,” he said pointedly.
Ginny remembered the week he had disappeared following his father’s death and swallowed heavily. “Right. I’d forgotten.”
He chuckled drily and without humor, staring at the floor. “So why?”
She frowned. “Why are you so curious?”
He shrugged again. “Why are you so reluctant to answer the question?”
“I already did. I told you — I made a bet.”
“What are the terms?” he asked, standing up and grabbing his sweater from the back of his chair.
Ginny felt her face burning, “None of your business.”
The curious look on his face had been replaced with open mocking and obvious interest as he stared at her. She rolled her eyes at him.
“I’ll see you Monday,” she said, taking a few steps away from him.
He reached out and stopped her as she went to step by, his hand closing around her upper arm. She glanced up at him, surprised by the warmth of his touch. He smirked down at her, “You should tell me or I might just make you lose to find out.”
She told herself that she wanted to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Instead she settled for forcing a smirk back at him as she stared into his grey eyes, dark and tired. “If I told you then you definitely would.”
After a beat, she managed to pull away, and she walked quickly from the room, feeling far more humiliated than she should.
…
She sighed, resting her head in her right hand, as she held the pencil above the paper and retraced what she had already done. It had been the way he had smiled, fully, his entire face glowing without a trace of malice. It had been the way he seemed freed by his laughter. In that moment, he had been good.
His mouth was perfect, tilted upwards, slightly more on the left, just the slightest hint of the sharp teeth beneath. The chords of his neck were only partially emphasized because of his relaxation and his collarbone peeked out from his opened shirt. Even his hair seemed right, loose and fluid.
But the eyes. His eyes seemed perpetually captured in a frown, pensive and slightly wistful. Nothing like they had when he had smiled on that day.
No one had looked like that then. The news had come, startling them all, and suddenly the entire school was released from the long felt hovering tension that they had almost ceased to notice. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had returned to Hogwarts and breathed life back into the cold atmosphere. It had been the first day of February, and, strangely enough, the first day of spring, and for these three weeks, the feeling had yet to dissipate. Ginny felt that the whole of Scotland was celebrating.
And that was why his eyes had to be perfect. No student that had remained at Hogwarts had been able to escape the joy, not even Draco Malfoy. And Ginny had never seen anything so beautiful as the smile that had graced his features, even if it was only momentary.
She wondered if this was some sort of intrinsic failing of her personality. If the one agreeable expression she had ever seen on his face — one that had completely captivated her — was the one that she would never see again. Perhaps her vision was so clouded by all the smirks and scowls and grimaces and the glowers that she just couldn't quite put that smile onto paper.
She glanced down, frowned again, and then decided to give up. She closed her sketchbook and tucked it away, leaning back in her chair to observe her surroundings. The library was surprisingly quiet — considering NEWTs and OWLs were in two months and finals a week beyond that — and Ginny couldn't hear anything but the shuffling of pages and that underlying shifting one always hears in a place inhabited by ghosts.
She sighed, laying her forehead on the surface of the table, and closed her eyes. She slowly counted backwards from one hundred, hoping to clear her mind. But it didn't work. The sounds of cheering still echoed in her ears, and her vision narrowed to the image of a smiling boy, forgotten youth flooding his face. She was trapped by one short instant, by one brief smile that had captured her attention and become her obsession.
Banging her forehead on the table's surface, she clenched her hands and swore to herself that this was it. That she would put the drawing away and forget about it until she saw his smile again. She promised herself, and when she sat up, the burden on her shoulders seemed to have disappeared and she swung her bag up onto her back with a wistful smile.
She was determined. It was over. For now.
...
Ginny ran across the great hall, a foreign feeling of immense joy pounding in her chest. She was done for the day! Done for the week! She felt free. Nothing but the weekend now, and the forecast on the wizarding wireless that morning had prepared her for two and a half days of bright sunshine. The boys were still on the pitch, watched by a worried Hermione as they tried to get ready for the game, and she — she had nothing to do. It was glorious. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on her sketchpad; she was going to draw everything in sight.
She smiled broadly and closed her eyes for a second, barely slowing her steps.
And when she opened then, a person had appeared directly in her path and Ginny had to fight to skid to a stop, tripping over her feet and stumbling onto the floor in front of a tall and beautiful woman.
“Oh!” the woman gasped, reaching down, “Are you alright?” Her tone was patronizing, and Ginny looked up to snap at her; but there was real concern in the bright blue eyes so Ginny held her tongue.
“Yes, I'm fine,” she said smiling, as she stood, “I'm sorry I startled you.”
The woman smiled back, and Ginny's mind went blank — total déjà vu. Those eyes, not the color, but the shape, so much like Draco's when he had smiled. They glowed from the inside, the corners folding slightly, and small lines appearing. Ginny was speechless, this must be Draco's mother, but she hardly recognized her. This couldn't be the same cold woman that Ginny had met three years ago.
Her hands itched for a pencil. That damned smile!
Then Ginny realized that she had been staring and Draco's mother was waiting for some sort of response. “I'm sorry!” she said, the telltale flush rising to her cheeks, “Would you repeat that?”
The woman looked as if she would have liked to laugh. “I said that I should apologize for startling you. I'm Narcissa Malfoy. And you...?”
“Ginny–Ginevra Weasley,” Ginny replied, taking the outstretched delicate hand and feeling briefly envious of the woman's perfectly shaped fingers.
“It's so nice to meet you,” Ms. Malfoy replied, not skipping a beat at the sound of her name. “You have the most beautiful red hair.”
Ginny felt her eyes widen, and reached up unconsciously to touch her hair, loose and curly around her shoulders. She wondered if Narcissa was mocking her.
Obviously sensing her discomfort, Ms. Malfoy laughed. “No really, it's beautiful. It reminds me of Draco's hair when he was much younger.”
Ginny choked, her eyes growing even larger as laughter fought to escape. “Draco had red hair as a child?”
Narcissa smiled indulgently, “Yes, until he was four. It was beautiful, much like yours, except lighter. I believe I have a picture...”
Ginny watched in shock, still fighting the laughter, as Ms. Malfoy dug through her purse. She was smiling wistfully as she finally pulled out a small album of photos, and Ginny watched curiously, not even glancing at the pictures as she stared at the woman's beautiful face, so different than what was expected. Relaxed and patient, there was no sign of a scowl, and Ginny could sense the pride Ms. Malfoy felt for her son.
Ginny’s was just beginning to wonder about what effect Lucius’s death had on his widow when she was called back to the present.
“Ah, here's one,” Ms. Malfoy said, pulling a picture out of the album. It was small, no bigger than a postcard, and in it was a very chubby, much younger Draco. He sat with his arms wrapped around a small stuffed rabbit and his hair was bright orange, the color of sunset. Occasionally, little Draco would squeeze his rabbit tightly or smile playfully.
Ginny did laugh this time, holding the picture close to her as her shoulders twitched with mirth. “This is adorable!”
“Isn't it?” Narcissa laughed, looking like a normal happy mother, and Ginny smiled at her openly. She was surprised at how much she liked her. “Draco would be so angry if he knew I was showing this to anyone. He hated his red hair.”
Ginny nodded, a plan already forming in her mind, “I'll bet. May I... may I keep this?”
Narcissa looked at her curiously, and suddenly smiled broadly, no trace of condescension left. “Of course, just don't show it to anyone,” she added, with a wicked smirk. It looked just like Draco’s as well.
Ginny grinned back mischievously, “Of course not.”
Narcissa opened her mouth to say something when a person emerged from the stairwell behind her. “Mother, you left your... what are you doing here?” Draco asked, his glance shifting between the two, a scowl appearing as his eyes lingered on Ginny.
Narcissa brushed him off, though, before Ginny could respond, taking the shawl he held in his hand. “We were just talking, darling. Thank you. I should be going.”
She turned back to Ginny, “It was lovely to meet you, Ginevra.”
Ginny smiled, with added sweetness to irritate Draco, “Oh, the pleasure was all mine.”
With a final smile at both of them, Ms. Malfoy turned and then left through the doors to the outside.
The smile dropped off her face rapidly as Ginny turned to look at Draco, his arms crossed as he stared at her. “What were you doing with my mother?” he asked imperiously.
Ginny smirked haughtily, “Nothing at all, Draco darling,” she quipped before turning on her heel and practically skipping from the hall, her good mood not even dented by the encounter.
...
The problem with Ginny's brothers was very simple. They were related to her. They were always there — 'supporting' her, hanging all over her, watching her every move. And mocking her. And now, they — well, really just Ron — were responsible for her standing at the doors of the library, wondering whether or not she was about to make a horrible mistake.
Yesterday, after a rather horrid day, with weather to match the mood, the two of them had driven everyone from the common room with yet another one of their screaming matches. Ginny couldn’t even remember what they had been arguing about, but it had ended with a bet, a statement of terms, and Ginny at the doors of the library.
They looked heavier than usual, and she was completely unwilling to open them. But finally, with a heavy sigh, she pushed and they swung open easily.
She spotted the blond head she was looking for almost immediately. He was bent over books across the room, and she could feel nervous tension building across her shoulders. This was not going to go well.
After a silent pep talk, she scowled and crossed the room, stopping in front of one of her least favorite people, Draco Malfoy.
He glanced up at her after a moment, his eyes passing over her form impassively, before he turned and continued his work. Ginny stared in silent indignation, her body almost shaking with anger, before she quietly hissed his name.
He looked back up, the placid look still hanging over his eyes. “Yes, Weasley? Have I done something particularly awful to deserve having to talk to you?”
She clenched her jaw, then let it relax. She took a deep breath, then let it out. She may have hated him, but she was unfamiliar with blackmail, and even more unfamiliar with swallowing her pride. “I need your help.”
He stopped writing, finally, and set down his fountain pen, resting his hands on top of his work, before turning towards her. “No.” And then he went back to his work, no curiosity, no regard, and hardly any acknowledgement.
She stared at him for a long moment, and steeled herself. “You will help me,” she said firmly, and he glanced back up at her, his eyebrows raised. “You’ll want to.”
He smirked at her, “And what could I possibly want to do for you, unless it's burning that sweater, or changing the colour of your particularly offensive hair.”
Ginny felt her confidence grow, and her lips curled into a slow smirk, as she leaned her hip against the table's edge. “Really? My hair offends you? I thought you loved everything about yourself.” The impassive facade began to fade as he caught onto her meaning. “Though I guess if I wanted to go somewhere for really believable dye charms, I would go to you.”
The skin around his eyes tightened slightly, and he drew in a nearly silent breath. She gently reached out and touched his smooth blonde hair, running her fingertips through the ends slowly as she marveled at her own bravado. “Though I suppose platinum isn't really all that believable.”
She smirked down at him, and he suddenly reached up and snatched her wrist roughly, yanking them both around behind the bookshelf and out of view.
He threw her wrist back at her angrily, and she grimaced, pulling it up to her chest and observing the quickly fading red marks.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he hissed angrily.
She smiled, feeling dizzy with some sort of strange new power. “Wow, your mother said you hated your red hair, but I never thought it would be this easy. I figured I would at least have to wave the picture around in front of your face before you gave in.”
He glowered at her, “Give it to me. NOW!”
She smiled, “Of course,” before pulling the picture from her bag and handing it to him. His face paled as he stared at it. Supremely satisfied, Ginny added, “I love the bunny, by the way, do you still have it?”
“You made copies?” he asked, his voice tight.
“What do you take me for?” she replied, looking up at him and stepping closer for a better view. She had never realized before how tall he was, or how he towered over her even when his shoulders were hunched forward. It was empowering to know that the clenched knuckles, the pale cheeks, and the ruffled appearance were all due to her. To know that he was, at least partially, in her control.
“What do you want?” he repeated, looking dignified even in defeat.
Ginny pursed her lips. “Help.”
He sighed. “Obviously. You've always been a lost cause.”
She gave him a look that said she was clearly unimpressed. “I need to ace my Potions final to stay in the NEWT level class.” And to shove Ron’s words back in his face, she thought.
“You want me to tutor you?” he scoffed, “I don't work miracles.”
Ginny clenched her fists and stomped heavily on his foot.
“Ow! You bitch!”
“If I pass potions for the year by acing the test, I will destroy the remaining pictures. Well, all but one. And I can guarantee that you will see Ron humiliated, as an added bonus.”
Draco's left eyebrow quirked upwards at that, but the scowl didn't leave his face as he stared at her for a long moment, before looking down at the picture. Eventually, a very foreign look crossed his face, and he nodded. “Fine. Meet me here tonight at half nine, bring your latest potions assignment.”
“But curfew's at ten,” she protested, “What if I get caught?”
It was his turn to smirk as he looked down at her, and she knew, suddenly, that this was not a game she should be playing. “Well, then, I guess you miss our first session.”
He moved to step by her brushing against her as he did and sending unexpected heat up her arm. She shivered as he leaned down, his lips a breath from her ear; “My advice? Don't.”
And when she stepped from behind the shelves a few moments later, clutching her bag to her chest, his head was once again tilted over his work, and she prayed fervently he was completely oblivious to her strained breathing.
…
Later that afternoon, Ginny tossed and turned in her bed, as she tried to nap before the tutoring session. She felt completely uncertain about everything except for the fact that she was making a huge mistake.
She had never actually planned to use the picture, though most of the scenarios that had run through her head had been both appealing and hysterical. She wouldn’t have even had to if it wasn’t for Ron and the stupid bet. Now she had to pass Potions or end up horribly embarrassing herself. And of course, Hermione couldn’t help, being swamped by the NEWTs and though Harry had offered, Ginny wanted to do well.
She sighed heavily, thinking that maybe there was still time to pull out. After all, there had to be someone who could help her other than Draco. She didn’t even know why she had thought of him first. He may be intelligent, but he was still an arse.
She pulled her sketchpad into her lap, hoping for some release and opened it to the drawing of him. She stared at it, fighting laughter. How wrong it had been to portray such a person in their single moment of decency. She hated him! Hated him in all his snobbery and arrogance and rudeness. She hated his smirks and his scowls and the way he always seemed to get the last word. No doubt that this was a huge mistake.
She lifted the page to tear it out before pausing, a flash of Narcissa's eyes appearing in her mind. She took a deep breath and then stared back at the sketch, imagining clearly now how they should be shaped. Her pencil appeared in her hand, seemingly out of nowhere, but she didn't stop to wonder, lost already to the emotion that drove her hands to the paper.
Carefully she re-shaded, reshaped, recreated the expression, the joy for freedom so clearly expressed that when she finally laid down the pencil, she could do nothing but smile serenely at the look on his face, all previous anger replaced by something so simple as accomplishment.
But when she closed the book on his face and laid back against her pillows, the relief she had been expecting did not come. The image of that day did not disappear from her mind, but instead came back full force — the sound of Slytherin laughter and the celebrations loud in her ears, the smell of dinner in her nose, and the sight of him, that Draco, were all she could see. His smile and his boyhood clearly visible for that moment, before disappearing in the streamers falling from the ceiling.
She muffled her exasperated shout with her pillow before collapsing back into bed.
Her hands found the sketchbook, turning to a new page, and without even thinking about it, she began to shape his face with her charcoal. She called forth the growing panic she had seen in his eyes that afternoon, leaving the strokes loose as she formed his straight mouth and pointed face.
It wasn't long before she changed tactics again and began a second sketch in the left corner of his placid face bent over books, a fountain pen in hand. And then she added a drawing of his smirk, arrogant and perfect, his eyebrow cocked and his arms crossed.
He was all angles, an artist’s dream, with his slanted cheekbones, sharp eyes, and long nose. She was entranced, lost to her hands shaping bodies and gestures and faces. And when she looked down again, she gasped, for she had drawn herself, next to him, his mouth by her ear as he goaded her and her own lips parted, her eyelids half-closed, her hand on his arm to keep from falling.
Her heart sped up and she slammed the book closed, shocked. Slowly, she opened it again, but the two of them were still there, just as close as she remembered. She shook her head, staring at the picture and moving to tear it out, but, again, she paused, her fingers hovering above it.
Finally, she sighed, closing the pad. She let her head fall back against the pillows, reminding herself to breathe slowly as she tried to push the image from her mind.
But all that she was left with was one final thought: I knew that this was a bad idea. Then she glanced at the clock and realized that it was already ten past.
...
Draco was waiting for her in the library, across the room, and when he met her eyes, he jerked his head towards the shelves. She followed, many steps behind him, as he led her into the furthest part of the room.
She told herself to breath slowly, to not blush, and to just not talk to him to avoid putting her foot, or perhaps both of her feet, in her mouth.
He stared at her, waiting, as she stood by the table. “Aren't you going to sit?”
She jumped slightly and nodded, pulling out a chair. He rolled his eyes. “Sit next to me, it will make it easier.”
She nodded again, wordlessly tucking the chair back in and crossing to the other side of the table. When she pulled out her chair, she accidentally smacked him on the back of his head with her bag, and he jumped, scowling up at her.
“I'm sorry,” she said, startled by the anger in his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking.
“A few rules, Weasley. One,” he said, not looking at her, as she sat down, “Don't touch me. Ever Again. Two. Never mention the photo in my, or anyone else's, presence. Three. Do Not Speak To Me Outside Of These Sessions. In fact, speak as little as possible to me during the sessions. Four. Tell no one that I agreed to this. And Five, try not to act so bloody stupid all the time.”
His speech was heavily stilted throughout his list, emphasizing every word slowly, as if she was an idiot. Her blood boiled and she fought to control her temper.
“In exchange for this I will help you pass Potions for the year and will not tell anyone, like your overly obnoxious brother or your little pet puppy, Harry Potter, about the study sessions.”
Ginny rolled her shoulders, trying to relax and failing. “Right. Sounds fair,” she finally said, grudgingly. “Are you finished?”
“No, we haven't even started the lesson yet.”
Her jaw clenched; she'd be surprised if she had any teeth left at the end of this.
“Let's start with the lesson that you have due tomorrow, and then we can go back to the beginning and work over everything that you'll need.”
The change in atmosphere was tangible, as he started pulling out books, focused now on something other than her, and Ginny sighed, releasing her anger. At least these sessions would provide plenty of practice for dealing with insufferable gits.
It was two hours later, the assignment complete in her bag, and a theoretical potions book sitting opened between them when she realized that she wasn't bored. She wasn't even all that confused. She was just sitting there, taking it all in, the information opening up before her like a doorway opening to the outside. It was as if the way he explained things just brought them into clarity, putting them into new light and opening up all sorts of connections that she never would have thought to make.
“Have you ever thought about being a teacher?” she asked, interrupting him.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Don't be shocked that everyone's not as idiotic as you are, Weasley. Just because I'm intelligent doesn't mean that I would subject myself to dealing with students like you every day.” His fingers then moved to his temples, slowly rotating in circles.
She sighed, “You're just really good at making everything a little bit easier to understand.” Well, not everything, she thought as he sighed again, the air rushing by her ear and sending a small shiver down her spine.
He nodded again, dropping his head and rotating his shoulders before returning his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Does your head hurt?” she asked.
“Is it that obvious?” he replied, sarcasm dripping off his tongue.
“Maybe you need glasses,” she said with a smile, waiting.
“I do not need glasses,” he snapped back.
“Just for reading,” she continued, faking obliviousness to the tightening in across his back. She was sure that wouldn't help his head. “You could get the same ones as Harry!” she said, clapping her hands together with a mocking grin. He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “I mean, they even sell them in the high end designer shops now. They're a fashion statement.”
Draco glared at her, “And what sort of statement is that?”
She shrugged, smiling at him openly. He shifted uneasily in his seat. “I can afford to pay a lot of money for a really hideous pair of glasses made famous by a very lucky boy?”
He raised his left eyebrow at her before chuckling lightly and shaking his head. “You are insane.”
She bowed her head, as if in gratification, “I know.”
She could tell that he was going to sigh again, and allowed herself a small smile when the air escaped his lips heavily, “Let’s just get back to work.”
She gave him a mock salute, realizing that she was quite possibly beyond exhaustion, “Yes, sir!”
Then the two of them leaned back over the text, and she followed his finger, as it skimmed the important lines, pausing when he looked up at her to explain key points with more simplistic language and a few gestures or drawings.
She decided to be kind and not tell him he was a horrible artist, and remained silent as she watched and listened, fighting the sleep that lurked behind her eyelids. Maybe, she thought, consoling herself, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
…
In Ginny's mind there were a lot of ways to define insanity, and it was three days after her argument with Ron and two after her first tutoring session with Draco, when she decided that she was closer than she had previously thought. Harry Potter, the-boy-who-was-totally-oblivious, the savior of the wizarding world, her unofficial brother, was standing next to her, looking out over the Quidditch pitch, and trying to make small talk. But that wasn’t the insane part.
The insane part was her discomfort. She was waiting, impatiently, as she had been all day, to return to the library. To sit next to Draco as he explained one potion or another. She felt more comfortable there than she did with Harry — that was the insane part.
“This weather is really weird, right?” Harry asked, staring out over the Qudditch pith. It was a beautifully sunny day, warm, dry, and perfect. Utterly surreal for February in Scotland. She nodded in response, thankful she wasn’t playing Quidditch so she could fully enjoy it.
There was no reason to play now that Harry and Ron were back. Without the captain and keeper, the team had floundered spectacularly, and even though Ginny had caught every snitch that came her way, they were still in dead last, needing to win the next game by a margin of eight hundred points to even participate in the Quidditch finals.
Harry shifted on his feet. He was about to say something, and Ginny temporarily panicked. She was terrified he would bring up the goodbye kiss she had given him at the beginning of August. She remembered the steaminess of the night, the dampness of the grass, the lack of stars, and the completely emotionless kiss they had shared that had only proved to Ginny that Harry Potter was all myth and fantasy.
It had seemed, at the time, as if all of her life had been like that — a shaky construction of fantasies and daydreams that was always holding her two steps away from reality. Kissing Harry Potter had blown it over, and though she was grateful, she had decided that she was finished waiting for him and for other things to just happen.
Ginny had made it her job following that day to get he and Hermione together, but considering that she had only been in their presence for three weeks total since then, the odds weren't in her favor. And he kept doing really strange things whenever she came into a room.
Like when she had turned up on the pitch; he had dropped his broom in the mud, tripped over it, and then accidentally kicked the quaffle up into the air, smacking Colin in the face with it.
“Ron was talking about having you sub in as a chaser this weekend,” Harry said finally, staring up at the scoring drill Ron was running with the chasers. She watched with unchecked amusement as another awkward throw smacked Ron in the face. She tucked her wand up her sleeve when Harry glanced over.
“Oh,” she said, frowning, “Well, do me a favor and tell him I said thanks, but no thanks.”
Harry seemed a bit startled at that. “What? Why not?”
Ginny couldn't really think of a good answer though, so she just shrugged. “I have no real desire to play Qudditch this week. Nor do I feel like standing up for my brother.”
“Ginny,” Harry said, exasperation creeping through his voice. “This isn't about you and Ron, it's about the team.”
She rolled her eyes skyward, deliberately facing away from Harry so he couldn't see. “Don't kid yourself Harry, if I played, we might win, but there's no way we'd get into the final and Ron will only see it as a personal victory. I don't pity him enough for that …yet. Besides,” she continued, “I have other things to do.”
The game was against Ravenclaw, and Ginny fully intended to reclaim her ownership of her favorite table in the library while they were all out cheering on their team.
Harry looked at her, obviously in some sort of pain, and Ginny stared back curiously. “What is it, Harry?”
“You're not coming to the game?”
Ginny shrugged, “I wasn't planning to, but Hermione will be there. I'll just ask her to cheer twice as hard in my place.”
Ginny was fighting the slowly overtaking complacency that had become a feeling consistent with these talks with Harry. He shrugged again, “Well, I guess if that's what you really want. But I'll miss you.”
Ginny forced a small smile, fighting back some sort of bitchy remark that she wasn't quite sure she wanted to understand. It wasn't as if she had ever tried to tell him what she really wanted. “I'm sorry Harry.” But she wasn't. She was just killing time until he mounted his broom, so she could sit down.
She stared after his retreating form and allowed her facade to slip as he took off into the sky. She sighed and sank into the grass, soaking up the sunny heat and relaxing as the guys changed the line-up above her. She wondered if she really was going crazy, or if all this strangeness was just because she had gotten used to the three of them being absent. Their personalities were so big, and the dynamic of them all together would take over a room. Stranger than their absence was having them return.
She closed her eyes, sinking into a contemplative trance as she realized again what their presence implied. The war was over. There was nothing left to fight for. It was time for real life to start. She felt like she was the only person in the entire wizarding world who was struggling with this concept. Ever since she was eleven, she had been tied up, inextricably, in the war; but she had never gotten to play a major part.
She had spent the better part of six years preparing for a fight that she would never have to face. The danger was just gone now. And she couldn't make sense of it.
...
That evening came sooner than she would have liked, and at half past nine, Ginny sat down at the table with only half of the work Draco had asked her to do complete. And she knew that most of it was wrong.
He came in five minutes later, nodded at her, and sat down. She stared at him as he sank deeper into his chair, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. He didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes and slowly began loosening his tie. He looked exhausted, large circles had formed under his eyes and his clothing hung off his frame awkwardly.
“Um,” she said softly, afraid to disturb him, “I didn’t exactly finish the work you told me to do.”
He looked across the table at her in weary resignation, “I figured.”
She pulled out the parchment and slid it across to him, and Ginny found herself fidgeting as he looked it over. Though they had only met three times, she felt completely unsettled from the drastic change in his attitude. Normally he was mocking and aloof, but now he was unbelievably distant.
“What’s wrong?” she asked suddenly.
He glanced up at her, his face expressionless, before he slowly raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.”
She sighed, “Right.”
He went back to correcting her work, without even commenting on her stupidity once. Something was definitely wrong.
When he finished, he passed it back. “Your work is actually improving,” he murmured, “It’s just the conceptual stuff you don’t understand. Like why the different stirring motions affect the combination of ingredients, and the significance of particular measurements and ingredients.” He paused and ran his hand through his hair, mussing it. A short, frustrated breath escaped his mouth and he rolled his shoulder to relieve the tension, “I can't believe we have to go all the way back to third year theory.”
She sighed and focused her glare on the table. “Thanks, I guess.”
They worked for a few hours on the assignment, walking through the steps and then stopping every now and then to explore the intricacies of the potions and their ingredients.
She watched as the colour in Draco’s face returned, as his spirits lifted, though only slightly, while he explained the concepts that made each potion function. She took it all in and felt much more relieved at the end of the session than she had at the beginning.
It was while she was packing up her books that he stopped her with a question. “Why?”
She turned slightly towards him, but didn’t look up, “Why what?”
“Why ask me for tutoring?” he continued.
He was tilting his chair back and looking at her curiously from across the table when she glanced up. “Well, you’re smart aren’t you? A genius, right?”
He shrugged, “Yeah, but why even bother? Why not just fail?”
“I need to take the Potions’ NEWT to get the job I want. And besides, I made a bet.”
“What about Granger?” He let his chair fall back to the floor.
“She’s busy prepping for NEWTs.”
“So am I.”
Ginny slung her bag onto her shoulder, feeling momentarily guilty about taking his time. “But she’s been gone almost the whole year. You’ve been here.”
“Not the entire time,” he said pointedly.
Ginny remembered the week he had disappeared following his father’s death and swallowed heavily. “Right. I’d forgotten.”
He chuckled drily and without humor, staring at the floor. “So why?”
She frowned. “Why are you so curious?”
He shrugged again. “Why are you so reluctant to answer the question?”
“I already did. I told you — I made a bet.”
“What are the terms?” he asked, standing up and grabbing his sweater from the back of his chair.
Ginny felt her face burning, “None of your business.”
The curious look on his face had been replaced with open mocking and obvious interest as he stared at her. She rolled her eyes at him.
“I’ll see you Monday,” she said, taking a few steps away from him.
He reached out and stopped her as she went to step by, his hand closing around her upper arm. She glanced up at him, surprised by the warmth of his touch. He smirked down at her, “You should tell me or I might just make you lose to find out.”
She told herself that she wanted to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Instead she settled for forcing a smirk back at him as she stared into his grey eyes, dark and tired. “If I told you then you definitely would.”
After a beat, she managed to pull away, and she walked quickly from the room, feeling far more humiliated than she should.
…
Author notes: Thanks for reading!
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