Abyss by estherbraga
Ginny and Harry's breakup hadn’t been violent nor depressing. There was a sense of melancholy. But afterwards, what she found out to sadden her the most was how she struggled; an effort to topple the constant guilt she felt, guilt that overcame any other feeling, even love. She reflected upon the situation and definitely realised she had loved Harry, but the disappointment of not loving him enough had been consuming her for too long. He was sweet and pleasant, and, not very often, funny. Never cruel. Never rude.
Harry valued friendship and family. For that he was attached to hers, perhaps even more than her sometimes... No, not really... All that was offered was in a very acceptable amount. He appreciated what he'd never had, and how unfair of her to mock him or envy his overzeal for his new found bonds. After so much trauma and sorrow, he deserved affection, as everyone whose purpose was so filled of self-sacrifice.
He deserved goodness, righteousness, to be taken care of... Ginny just couldn't meet those expectations. She couldn't meet any expectations. She was lost. She was empty. Unlike Harry, whose journey had been progressively and linearly decided by and for him, she drowned in tears and gasped for air amongst celebrations and picnics. Sectumsempra couldn't cut that profoundly. Oxygen and her new-earnt family's money deceived her. There was a huge lack in her abundance.
There she was, in a soirée thrown by the Ministry of Magic, giggling at silly anecdotes, on a pretty green dress, gazing proudly at her father’s modesty whenever he was complimented.
She looked at Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna and Neville: aurors, bureaucrats and teachers. She looked at the monumental building, its golden ornaments, coloured glass-made chandeliers and asked herself how did she end up there. Acidly, a memory of becoming a Quidditch Seeker overwhelmed her. Why did she give up on that dream? She couldn't find an explication other than her vicious abyss: quitting. She had quitted because, after a few try-outs, others seemed better, any fucking one played better. She wasn't gifted as Harry nor driven as Hermione. Ginny was the last to be born and, apparently, was the least capable of pursuing greatness.
Thereupon the tides brought her to a senseless job as Hermione's assistant in the Ministry. At first, it was temporary. Later, inertia led her to this grey routine. She helped solve prosaic and bureaucratic endeavours of Law and Enforcement as her Quidditch poster collected dust in the attic. It stung. Those brooms flying freely reminded her of failure. So m-u-c-h failure. Yeah. Ginny Weasley, the bright redhead, the saviour’s girlfriend, one of the Dumbledore's Army's youngest leaders, promising star player, burnt too soon.
Absently, she grabbed a champagne flute as she walked towards a corner to put herself together. Tears started bursting from her eyes and there was no reason to spoil her family's party. Her make-up and her vision were blurry when someone offered a handkerchief. Keeping her face down, hiding her puffy, reddish face, his identity remained unrecognizable, slowly, slid her fingers through some fancy embroidery in bold green thread over the silky fabric: "DM". Definitely not thinking through, she raised her head and saw his opaque grey eyes. Her mouth gaped with surprise and he smirked, that mischievous Malfoy's smirk. "You're welcome, Weasley".
Yes. Fate just couldn't throw her a bone. She managed to keep herself low from hundreds of friendly wizards who were amicably chatting at the moment except perhaps the only person she truly despised. Nemesis was a good terminology to define the blonde git. Disturbingly handsome as well, she whispered inaudibly. Still paralyzed, her limbs took some milliseconds to decide to hand him over his handkerchief and mumble silently "Thank you, Malfoy". At her sincere acknowledgments, he froze, saving his regards to her hazel eyes. He opened and closed his mouth, waiting for a comeback, almost anxiously. Amongst the turmoil of emotions that took over her, most of them related to confusion, she returned the look and thought that maybe he hasn't received blunt gratitude lately.
"Seeing me should cause you deep commotion, Weasley, but there's no need to embarrass yourself". He had recovered from the shock, clearly.
"Who would guess that you could actually be funny, Malfoy?". Watching his hands skilfully fold the cloth inside his robes' front pocket, the redhaired gained confidence and felt a rush fuelling her veins when the challenge approached. Defying Malfoy, mocking someone that hateful was energizing, even gleeful. That night's gloom suddenly was replaced by competitiveness. And, thankfully, there was nothing to lose.
The corner of his lips made a subtle move upwards and his platinum perfectly combed hair lost its neatness as a few strands fell, almost covering his silvery eyes. He took a step back and looked at her more carefully: from her copper waves that brushed her shoulders effortlessly, to her heaving breasts as the excitement startled her. At last, when he finished analysing the relief that her dress provoked when it touched her hips, decided to break the silence.
"I'm not a comedian. I have no intentions in making you laugh."
He now had grabbed a glass of Fire whiskey that floated nearby and took a sip. "Besides, with that puffy face, I'm not the one looking like a clown."
Appalled by his comments, she pushed him, which moved his tall figure only a few inches away. The bastard was strong, she reluctantly noticed.
“I do not look like a clown! And why are you here, besides ruining my day?", his eyebrows raised and another smile escaped his lips as Ginny fought not to chuckle as well. The situation was at least amusing.
Albeit the obvious right decision to part ways and leave Malfoy to his smugness, looking around, taking the happiness and politeness in the air at every corner of the room, she somehow felt more comfortable attacking her old schoolmate than debating how amazing the after-war measures had benefitted everyone.
"Harry's adoption centre is working marvellously, isn't it?". Cho Chang's syrupy tone was heard from across the room. The brunette giggled, followed by a group of one-time acquaintances. On her immaculate tight black dress, she owned those affected socialites.
Ginny discretely stretched her lean neck whilst searching for Cho’s date. Without further ado, she found him.
Harry hadn’t had his hair cut in a while. So, he played with the loose strands on the nape of his neck as he walked to the bar. He wasn’t that distant from where she was.
As Ginny gulped her drink, bitter nostalgia travelled down her throat.
Why was she complaining? She no longer had to attend fundraising events nor flatter those bloody sycophants. No more laughing’s at dumb jokes. She didn’t have to be the adorable plus-one to the celebrated hero. Enough with concealing her faults behind Harry’s honour. From now on, she wouldn’t stand at the great Harry Potter’s shadow. Her accomplishments should suffice in the future. Strangely, freedom wasn’t that sweet as she had envisioned.
"Weasley? Weasley?", the blonde's voice woke her from her thoughts and her gaze fell upon his increasingly angry traces. "Damn it, Weasley! Could you be more pathetic? First, you try to hit me - which was such a laughable attempt, by the way - then you start moping over Potter? What the hell did you do to achieve this prowess of getting dumped by such an arsehole?"
Malfoy's gesture transmitted rehearsed detachment with hints of childish mockery. That reminded her of her days at Hogwarts, when her major concerns included grades, Quidditch matches and how to beat the hell of his minions both out of and in the pitch. Draco’s pretended bravery never fooled the Ginny. Even at her first year, when he deliberately humiliated her twelve-year-old self to fulfil his thirst for attention. Attention which he used to say had been taken from him and given to Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived, according to him, was the epitome of phony abnegation.
Later, Draco’s loneliness had grown more obvious. He persisted on becoming this villain to fit in. As time went by, cruelty was merely self-defence. To protect his family, he had to kill. Not so surprisingly, he demonstrated no thirst for blood. What started as performance, turned into real suffering.
He was stuck in the middle, a harmless pawn disguised as an executioner. This dangerous game got him hit. By Potter, no less.
The mark of Harry's aggressive miscalculation still shone on his handsome face: a rosy slit colouring his pale skin. This glimpse of brutality mismatched his aquiline nose and elegant features. The years imposed a gravity to his demeanours. Pain and possibly atonement engraved from his forehead to his left cheek without much loss of charm. For some, his scars made him even more attractive: a sign of repentance, whilst for Ginny, the path toward redemption was still too far ahead. She used to think he still deserved a second chance, nonetheless. Malfoy had paid his dues with interests.
Despite maintaining most of his fortune, his name had kept its venom distilled by the gossipers everywhere. His presence was toxic and conviviality impossible for far too long inside their tight community. Fortunately, some wise decision made by his aunt Andromeda spared him more pain.
After the first half of his early youth in Azkaban, the other half he endured a long period of public alienation. One day, he disappeared. Away from his parents, from the UK, he travelled across Europe, studying and writing short tales of his discoveries on Herbology and Potions.
All had been published by a French editor who claimed having discovered the next literary gem of the century. She hadn’t been wrong. Not entirely. In France, his stories were a hit. In the UK, however, no publisher dared to print them. Nobody wished to be linked to the Malfoy name.
After three more years, the Malfoy only heir returned. He had become quieter and solitary. Without the majority of his friends, most of them imprisoned or dead, he relied on his remaining wit and others' indulgence to succeed.
Luckily, Arthur Weasley was one of the few wizards that appreciated the young man's efforts to become a better person. Hearing about a vacancy at the Ministry, the Weasley patriarch took a chance on the former Death Eater, offering him a job.
Ginny occasionally wondered how his current inferior position must have eaten her inside. When she first heard Draco Malfoy had accepted a position beneath his family name and status, she almost fell from her chair.
Had his time in Azkaban humbled him in some sort?
Since he didn’t need money. She assumed all Draco yearned was approval, a way in. So, there he was, in front of her, nonchalantly staring at her face as if nothing had changed at all.
"I wasn't dumped. Not that is any of your business!". She reassured him and herself as he continued to drink tiredly the content from his glass, just recently refilled.
"Whatever you say, Weasley." Draco shrugged his shoulders and repeated his annoying habit of smirking as if her anger was entertaining.
"And I'm not pathetic! I'm glad we're over. And what about you? Why would you care to come to my dad's homage?"
"He gave me a job. And as my mother raised me well, it is expected of me to come as a thankful gesture." At that response, Ginny was stunned. A Malfoy openly displaying gratitude. The world had definitely shifted.
“Besides, there's whiskey, reasonably nice music and pretty things to look at". He tried to deviate his stare from her at the last words, without much success. It was hard for him to admit how beautiful she looked that night despite Potter's awful effect on her. She used to be stronger and strikingly alive. It was burnt in his memory how he despised her feistiness, mostly because it brought his cowardness to light. She was just and fervent. Therefore, Potter's perfect match. A heroine to a saint.
But since his first day at work, he noticed Ginny Weasley's flamboyance started to die out.
Once, quietly supressing an aggressive commentary toward Granger when she disagreed with him on a dumb document's editing, he rushed to her office. It had been dumb. But who the hell this mudblood thought she was to resend his report, implying his research hadn’t been thorough? The last drop, bloody Granger had reached the last drop.
When he arrived at his destination, he was ready to tell some truths. With knuckles pressed and wrath boiling through his veins, he stormed in. ‘Bitch’, was his first thought when he realised she wasn’t in her office. Fury was immediately replaced by wonder as his gaze fell on the youngest Weasley. Distracted with some papers, she doodled aimlessly and rested her folded legs on a wooden chair. Ginny hadn’t been paying attention as she experimented some new muggle invention Draco had found on her dad’s office.
The gadgets played music to her ears only. They’d alienated from the rest of the room where Draco stood in complete silence. And there he remained for a quick while, watching her either place her quill behind her ear or bite it. Her distant thoughts led her to taint her upper lips with an ink stain. Which made him chuckle.
The blob bitter taste woke her up to reality.
Fearing been found, the blonde left. In his mind, her reckless image was printed permanently. Just as indelible were his wonderings of how nice would it be to touch those lips with his own. He had pushed those ideas away. Until that night.
The following weeks he observed her sad glance as she ate lunch, always accompanied by Granger. The other witch used to speak enthusiastically while the redhead barely nodded --slowly allowing the sun to reflect on her messy ponytail, creating a kaleidoscope of coppery lights around her. Potter himself also used to come with Ron Weasley to take both girls out. Again, Ginny stood a foot apart, no longer bothering to take her supposedly boyfriend's hand. The latter seemed clueless to what was happening.
Draco was the only one who saw her, sinking deeper in her sorrow. He was baffled by noticing how he felt no joy as the sole keeper of this secret. Deep inside, he knew that the real scoop was the rare smiles he’d witnessed from afar.
Suddenly, Potter stopped visiting. And Draco's unconscious hope was lit. Unlike his predictions, Ginny’s behaviour didn’t change drastically. Apart from an increasing amount of alone time, her wandering gazes and weak sighs remained a constant. The only variable, he stalking-ly noticed, was how much more often she had worn her hair down and, of course, her stubborn custom of putting some cheap jumpers on every other day. Apparently, despite her family’s new status, she hadn’t thrown away her old rags. Poverty reminded her of comfort, he thought.
Remembering her aloof twin brothers, he concluded that madness was, after all, in her genes.
«I guess it’s nice that you’re here, then. Even if it’s only a matter of etiquette. » Ginny’s casually replied, this time, bringing Draco back from his own mind. His presence began to seem less disturbing. Actually, his annoyance sounded familiar. A fond memory of childish rivalry embraced her. For the first time in ages, her own failures didn’t haunt her. She owed Malfoy nothing. She could finally exhale.
«This night hasn’t been that terrible. There were fewer insults, less whispering... I consider that a victory”. The blonde let out a sarcastic grin and faked a winning gesture with his hands, almost spilling some of his drink.
«Don’t be so dramatic! As we speak, there are dozens of young and older witches fantasizing about you! You are the forbidden fruit, the bad guy. Some girls dig this rotten background of yours. The poor ladies want to change you. » Ginny took humour as a way out of their common grief whereas Draco eyes widened at her bold jokes. Little Weasley knew how to play.
He proceeded, glad for her light approach. Instead of menacing to go, he took a few steps closer to her, both of them starting to feel the air thinning. «And you don’t believe I can change, I suppose? »
Never breaking their stares, Ginny found herself having trouble finding the words. «I don’t...know. I mean, people can never really change, but we can make better choices. » The blonde slowly caught her breath and, only moving his eyes from hers to her lips, he inhaled the cheap perfume from her hair, taking her right hand. Shockingly, she didn’t fight him, letting his fingers to wander through her skin. Excitement turned on all of her senses.
“You’re maybe right. So, tell me, Weasley, which girl should I choose, then? » Ginny’s thoughts alerted her of the threatening course she was about to take. His flirtatious tone disguised his true desire to laugh at her expense. «I must go. I am too... What have you said, again? Oh, yes, I exude this “bad guy vibe”. I am dangerous, poisonous. How could you stand someone that disgusting? You prefer saints, like Potter.”
The sound of thin glass breaking could probably have been heard at that instant. Their delicate connection being torn as their quick giddy conversation took an unbearable turn.
“You are, in fact, quite contagiously evil. And I won’t buy your teasing. Go find some doe-eyed masochist to disturb! » Ginny’s words were harsh and, for some seconds, she wished she hadn’t said them. It wasn’t fair to continue reminding him of this marred essence that he couldn’t erase. However, he had deserved it.
« What’s with you and Harry? Why this dumb fixation? » With that, she retrieved her hand and used it to punch him in the gut. «Actually, I do not prefer saints! I just don’t like you! » In awe, Malfoy took this stroke discretely, opening his mouth with a low gasp of pain.
Draco’s initially sarcastic response was replaced by real disappointment when he saw her go away. He hadn’t had the time to defend himself. Even if she did stay, he knew no words would have changed how she felt.
Regardless of how often Draco denied being (slightly) jealous of Harry’s noble past, he couldn’t help wishing he had made some of his choices. No, Draco no longer wanted Potter’s fame and recognition. It might sound odd, but he also enjoyed being part of a dark side, snakish, defying, cunning...
It was not like Draco was ashamed of his fortune or his name. He embraced his flaws and learnt the hard way not to replicate his mistakes. But sometimes, waking up to his lame job - guaranteeing Muggles’ safety, no less – and watching a beautiful girl reject him, he just imagined how would it be like whether he was kinder or mellower. Well, if he acted more like Potter.
The unattainable fantasy hit him when her flaming mane moved further in the room, leaving in her prior spot a fruity scent. Mixed with his already warm Firewhiskey, her void burnt his throat until an early state of inebriation and deception.
Harry valued friendship and family. For that he was attached to hers, perhaps even more than her sometimes... No, not really... All that was offered was in a very acceptable amount. He appreciated what he'd never had, and how unfair of her to mock him or envy his overzeal for his new found bonds. After so much trauma and sorrow, he deserved affection, as everyone whose purpose was so filled of self-sacrifice.
He deserved goodness, righteousness, to be taken care of... Ginny just couldn't meet those expectations. She couldn't meet any expectations. She was lost. She was empty. Unlike Harry, whose journey had been progressively and linearly decided by and for him, she drowned in tears and gasped for air amongst celebrations and picnics. Sectumsempra couldn't cut that profoundly. Oxygen and her new-earnt family's money deceived her. There was a huge lack in her abundance.
There she was, in a soirée thrown by the Ministry of Magic, giggling at silly anecdotes, on a pretty green dress, gazing proudly at her father’s modesty whenever he was complimented.
She looked at Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna and Neville: aurors, bureaucrats and teachers. She looked at the monumental building, its golden ornaments, coloured glass-made chandeliers and asked herself how did she end up there. Acidly, a memory of becoming a Quidditch Seeker overwhelmed her. Why did she give up on that dream? She couldn't find an explication other than her vicious abyss: quitting. She had quitted because, after a few try-outs, others seemed better, any fucking one played better. She wasn't gifted as Harry nor driven as Hermione. Ginny was the last to be born and, apparently, was the least capable of pursuing greatness.
Thereupon the tides brought her to a senseless job as Hermione's assistant in the Ministry. At first, it was temporary. Later, inertia led her to this grey routine. She helped solve prosaic and bureaucratic endeavours of Law and Enforcement as her Quidditch poster collected dust in the attic. It stung. Those brooms flying freely reminded her of failure. So m-u-c-h failure. Yeah. Ginny Weasley, the bright redhead, the saviour’s girlfriend, one of the Dumbledore's Army's youngest leaders, promising star player, burnt too soon.
Absently, she grabbed a champagne flute as she walked towards a corner to put herself together. Tears started bursting from her eyes and there was no reason to spoil her family's party. Her make-up and her vision were blurry when someone offered a handkerchief. Keeping her face down, hiding her puffy, reddish face, his identity remained unrecognizable, slowly, slid her fingers through some fancy embroidery in bold green thread over the silky fabric: "DM". Definitely not thinking through, she raised her head and saw his opaque grey eyes. Her mouth gaped with surprise and he smirked, that mischievous Malfoy's smirk. "You're welcome, Weasley".
Yes. Fate just couldn't throw her a bone. She managed to keep herself low from hundreds of friendly wizards who were amicably chatting at the moment except perhaps the only person she truly despised. Nemesis was a good terminology to define the blonde git. Disturbingly handsome as well, she whispered inaudibly. Still paralyzed, her limbs took some milliseconds to decide to hand him over his handkerchief and mumble silently "Thank you, Malfoy". At her sincere acknowledgments, he froze, saving his regards to her hazel eyes. He opened and closed his mouth, waiting for a comeback, almost anxiously. Amongst the turmoil of emotions that took over her, most of them related to confusion, she returned the look and thought that maybe he hasn't received blunt gratitude lately.
"Seeing me should cause you deep commotion, Weasley, but there's no need to embarrass yourself". He had recovered from the shock, clearly.
"Who would guess that you could actually be funny, Malfoy?". Watching his hands skilfully fold the cloth inside his robes' front pocket, the redhaired gained confidence and felt a rush fuelling her veins when the challenge approached. Defying Malfoy, mocking someone that hateful was energizing, even gleeful. That night's gloom suddenly was replaced by competitiveness. And, thankfully, there was nothing to lose.
The corner of his lips made a subtle move upwards and his platinum perfectly combed hair lost its neatness as a few strands fell, almost covering his silvery eyes. He took a step back and looked at her more carefully: from her copper waves that brushed her shoulders effortlessly, to her heaving breasts as the excitement startled her. At last, when he finished analysing the relief that her dress provoked when it touched her hips, decided to break the silence.
"I'm not a comedian. I have no intentions in making you laugh."
He now had grabbed a glass of Fire whiskey that floated nearby and took a sip. "Besides, with that puffy face, I'm not the one looking like a clown."
Appalled by his comments, she pushed him, which moved his tall figure only a few inches away. The bastard was strong, she reluctantly noticed.
“I do not look like a clown! And why are you here, besides ruining my day?", his eyebrows raised and another smile escaped his lips as Ginny fought not to chuckle as well. The situation was at least amusing.
Albeit the obvious right decision to part ways and leave Malfoy to his smugness, looking around, taking the happiness and politeness in the air at every corner of the room, she somehow felt more comfortable attacking her old schoolmate than debating how amazing the after-war measures had benefitted everyone.
"Harry's adoption centre is working marvellously, isn't it?". Cho Chang's syrupy tone was heard from across the room. The brunette giggled, followed by a group of one-time acquaintances. On her immaculate tight black dress, she owned those affected socialites.
Ginny discretely stretched her lean neck whilst searching for Cho’s date. Without further ado, she found him.
Harry hadn’t had his hair cut in a while. So, he played with the loose strands on the nape of his neck as he walked to the bar. He wasn’t that distant from where she was.
As Ginny gulped her drink, bitter nostalgia travelled down her throat.
Why was she complaining? She no longer had to attend fundraising events nor flatter those bloody sycophants. No more laughing’s at dumb jokes. She didn’t have to be the adorable plus-one to the celebrated hero. Enough with concealing her faults behind Harry’s honour. From now on, she wouldn’t stand at the great Harry Potter’s shadow. Her accomplishments should suffice in the future. Strangely, freedom wasn’t that sweet as she had envisioned.
"Weasley? Weasley?", the blonde's voice woke her from her thoughts and her gaze fell upon his increasingly angry traces. "Damn it, Weasley! Could you be more pathetic? First, you try to hit me - which was such a laughable attempt, by the way - then you start moping over Potter? What the hell did you do to achieve this prowess of getting dumped by such an arsehole?"
Malfoy's gesture transmitted rehearsed detachment with hints of childish mockery. That reminded her of her days at Hogwarts, when her major concerns included grades, Quidditch matches and how to beat the hell of his minions both out of and in the pitch. Draco’s pretended bravery never fooled the Ginny. Even at her first year, when he deliberately humiliated her twelve-year-old self to fulfil his thirst for attention. Attention which he used to say had been taken from him and given to Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived, according to him, was the epitome of phony abnegation.
Later, Draco’s loneliness had grown more obvious. He persisted on becoming this villain to fit in. As time went by, cruelty was merely self-defence. To protect his family, he had to kill. Not so surprisingly, he demonstrated no thirst for blood. What started as performance, turned into real suffering.
He was stuck in the middle, a harmless pawn disguised as an executioner. This dangerous game got him hit. By Potter, no less.
The mark of Harry's aggressive miscalculation still shone on his handsome face: a rosy slit colouring his pale skin. This glimpse of brutality mismatched his aquiline nose and elegant features. The years imposed a gravity to his demeanours. Pain and possibly atonement engraved from his forehead to his left cheek without much loss of charm. For some, his scars made him even more attractive: a sign of repentance, whilst for Ginny, the path toward redemption was still too far ahead. She used to think he still deserved a second chance, nonetheless. Malfoy had paid his dues with interests.
Despite maintaining most of his fortune, his name had kept its venom distilled by the gossipers everywhere. His presence was toxic and conviviality impossible for far too long inside their tight community. Fortunately, some wise decision made by his aunt Andromeda spared him more pain.
After the first half of his early youth in Azkaban, the other half he endured a long period of public alienation. One day, he disappeared. Away from his parents, from the UK, he travelled across Europe, studying and writing short tales of his discoveries on Herbology and Potions.
All had been published by a French editor who claimed having discovered the next literary gem of the century. She hadn’t been wrong. Not entirely. In France, his stories were a hit. In the UK, however, no publisher dared to print them. Nobody wished to be linked to the Malfoy name.
After three more years, the Malfoy only heir returned. He had become quieter and solitary. Without the majority of his friends, most of them imprisoned or dead, he relied on his remaining wit and others' indulgence to succeed.
Luckily, Arthur Weasley was one of the few wizards that appreciated the young man's efforts to become a better person. Hearing about a vacancy at the Ministry, the Weasley patriarch took a chance on the former Death Eater, offering him a job.
Ginny occasionally wondered how his current inferior position must have eaten her inside. When she first heard Draco Malfoy had accepted a position beneath his family name and status, she almost fell from her chair.
Had his time in Azkaban humbled him in some sort?
Since he didn’t need money. She assumed all Draco yearned was approval, a way in. So, there he was, in front of her, nonchalantly staring at her face as if nothing had changed at all.
"I wasn't dumped. Not that is any of your business!". She reassured him and herself as he continued to drink tiredly the content from his glass, just recently refilled.
"Whatever you say, Weasley." Draco shrugged his shoulders and repeated his annoying habit of smirking as if her anger was entertaining.
"And I'm not pathetic! I'm glad we're over. And what about you? Why would you care to come to my dad's homage?"
"He gave me a job. And as my mother raised me well, it is expected of me to come as a thankful gesture." At that response, Ginny was stunned. A Malfoy openly displaying gratitude. The world had definitely shifted.
“Besides, there's whiskey, reasonably nice music and pretty things to look at". He tried to deviate his stare from her at the last words, without much success. It was hard for him to admit how beautiful she looked that night despite Potter's awful effect on her. She used to be stronger and strikingly alive. It was burnt in his memory how he despised her feistiness, mostly because it brought his cowardness to light. She was just and fervent. Therefore, Potter's perfect match. A heroine to a saint.
But since his first day at work, he noticed Ginny Weasley's flamboyance started to die out.
Once, quietly supressing an aggressive commentary toward Granger when she disagreed with him on a dumb document's editing, he rushed to her office. It had been dumb. But who the hell this mudblood thought she was to resend his report, implying his research hadn’t been thorough? The last drop, bloody Granger had reached the last drop.
When he arrived at his destination, he was ready to tell some truths. With knuckles pressed and wrath boiling through his veins, he stormed in. ‘Bitch’, was his first thought when he realised she wasn’t in her office. Fury was immediately replaced by wonder as his gaze fell on the youngest Weasley. Distracted with some papers, she doodled aimlessly and rested her folded legs on a wooden chair. Ginny hadn’t been paying attention as she experimented some new muggle invention Draco had found on her dad’s office.
The gadgets played music to her ears only. They’d alienated from the rest of the room where Draco stood in complete silence. And there he remained for a quick while, watching her either place her quill behind her ear or bite it. Her distant thoughts led her to taint her upper lips with an ink stain. Which made him chuckle.
The blob bitter taste woke her up to reality.
Fearing been found, the blonde left. In his mind, her reckless image was printed permanently. Just as indelible were his wonderings of how nice would it be to touch those lips with his own. He had pushed those ideas away. Until that night.
The following weeks he observed her sad glance as she ate lunch, always accompanied by Granger. The other witch used to speak enthusiastically while the redhead barely nodded --slowly allowing the sun to reflect on her messy ponytail, creating a kaleidoscope of coppery lights around her. Potter himself also used to come with Ron Weasley to take both girls out. Again, Ginny stood a foot apart, no longer bothering to take her supposedly boyfriend's hand. The latter seemed clueless to what was happening.
Draco was the only one who saw her, sinking deeper in her sorrow. He was baffled by noticing how he felt no joy as the sole keeper of this secret. Deep inside, he knew that the real scoop was the rare smiles he’d witnessed from afar.
Suddenly, Potter stopped visiting. And Draco's unconscious hope was lit. Unlike his predictions, Ginny’s behaviour didn’t change drastically. Apart from an increasing amount of alone time, her wandering gazes and weak sighs remained a constant. The only variable, he stalking-ly noticed, was how much more often she had worn her hair down and, of course, her stubborn custom of putting some cheap jumpers on every other day. Apparently, despite her family’s new status, she hadn’t thrown away her old rags. Poverty reminded her of comfort, he thought.
Remembering her aloof twin brothers, he concluded that madness was, after all, in her genes.
«I guess it’s nice that you’re here, then. Even if it’s only a matter of etiquette. » Ginny’s casually replied, this time, bringing Draco back from his own mind. His presence began to seem less disturbing. Actually, his annoyance sounded familiar. A fond memory of childish rivalry embraced her. For the first time in ages, her own failures didn’t haunt her. She owed Malfoy nothing. She could finally exhale.
«This night hasn’t been that terrible. There were fewer insults, less whispering... I consider that a victory”. The blonde let out a sarcastic grin and faked a winning gesture with his hands, almost spilling some of his drink.
«Don’t be so dramatic! As we speak, there are dozens of young and older witches fantasizing about you! You are the forbidden fruit, the bad guy. Some girls dig this rotten background of yours. The poor ladies want to change you. » Ginny took humour as a way out of their common grief whereas Draco eyes widened at her bold jokes. Little Weasley knew how to play.
He proceeded, glad for her light approach. Instead of menacing to go, he took a few steps closer to her, both of them starting to feel the air thinning. «And you don’t believe I can change, I suppose? »
Never breaking their stares, Ginny found herself having trouble finding the words. «I don’t...know. I mean, people can never really change, but we can make better choices. » The blonde slowly caught her breath and, only moving his eyes from hers to her lips, he inhaled the cheap perfume from her hair, taking her right hand. Shockingly, she didn’t fight him, letting his fingers to wander through her skin. Excitement turned on all of her senses.
“You’re maybe right. So, tell me, Weasley, which girl should I choose, then? » Ginny’s thoughts alerted her of the threatening course she was about to take. His flirtatious tone disguised his true desire to laugh at her expense. «I must go. I am too... What have you said, again? Oh, yes, I exude this “bad guy vibe”. I am dangerous, poisonous. How could you stand someone that disgusting? You prefer saints, like Potter.”
The sound of thin glass breaking could probably have been heard at that instant. Their delicate connection being torn as their quick giddy conversation took an unbearable turn.
“You are, in fact, quite contagiously evil. And I won’t buy your teasing. Go find some doe-eyed masochist to disturb! » Ginny’s words were harsh and, for some seconds, she wished she hadn’t said them. It wasn’t fair to continue reminding him of this marred essence that he couldn’t erase. However, he had deserved it.
« What’s with you and Harry? Why this dumb fixation? » With that, she retrieved her hand and used it to punch him in the gut. «Actually, I do not prefer saints! I just don’t like you! » In awe, Malfoy took this stroke discretely, opening his mouth with a low gasp of pain.
Draco’s initially sarcastic response was replaced by real disappointment when he saw her go away. He hadn’t had the time to defend himself. Even if she did stay, he knew no words would have changed how she felt.
Regardless of how often Draco denied being (slightly) jealous of Harry’s noble past, he couldn’t help wishing he had made some of his choices. No, Draco no longer wanted Potter’s fame and recognition. It might sound odd, but he also enjoyed being part of a dark side, snakish, defying, cunning...
It was not like Draco was ashamed of his fortune or his name. He embraced his flaws and learnt the hard way not to replicate his mistakes. But sometimes, waking up to his lame job - guaranteeing Muggles’ safety, no less – and watching a beautiful girl reject him, he just imagined how would it be like whether he was kinder or mellower. Well, if he acted more like Potter.
The unattainable fantasy hit him when her flaming mane moved further in the room, leaving in her prior spot a fruity scent. Mixed with his already warm Firewhiskey, her void burnt his throat until an early state of inebriation and deception.
Author notes: Any thoughts? Thanks for reading, anyway!!!
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