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.

…

Snape's sour face greeted her every Monday morning; it wasn’t the best way to start the week, but normally, it was tolerable. This Monday, though, he seemed extra sour; his lips were pursed, his eyebrows drawn together, his arms folded. In her hands she held a returned potions assignment with a large 'O' at the top, despite the red notes in Snape's scrawling hand all over the margins.

She couldn’t tell which one of them was more surprised. 

“A very interesting take on the potion, Miss Weasley,” he said glaring at her, “I suppose I am to believe that you've done all of this yourself?”

She glared back; despite Draco's handholding through the tutoring sessions, she really had done almost all of the work. “Yes, as it's the truth.”

He dropped his arms and stepped towards her. He was so close, she could smell him — boot polish and sage. 

“When I find out who's doing your work, I will make sure that you are expelled.”

Ginny shrugged, shrinking back against the wall, wanting nothing more than to go to her desk. “No one is doing my work for me. Sometimes, things just click suddenly.”

He nodded, still angry, but seeming satisfied. “It's a very expressive take, but theoretically sound. Let's see if it balances. Take your seat.”

Ginny sighed, stepping away and then around him as she went to the front of the classroom to take her seat next to the Ravenclaw table. It had been three weeks of sometimes stuffy, sometimes relaxed, tutoring and she was actually improving. 

She sighed and smirked to herself as she glanced over the homework, incredibly pleased that he thought she was cheating. She started to prep the potion by herself, carefully slicing and dicing and grinding and following the list of ingredients that Draco had recited to her the night before. She was determined to do this perfectly. 

…

Ginny walked into the library that night at quarter past nine. She was used to the routine now, and as Pince stood up to look for students who remained behind, Ginny ducked behind the shelves directly to the left of the door, dodged a few study tables, and walked along the far wall, before cutting over to the main aisle and heading all the way to the back.

The section where the two of them always met was part of the special collections archives. There were mostly old books that couldn’t even come down from the shelves. Leather bindings, so worn and fragile, they were only barely holding together the past. She put her books down on the table, and then quietly pulled out her chair, settling down and tipping it back.

There was a pile of seventeenth century folios behind where she sat, and she let the chair rest on them, leaning back, and letting her head fall on the top book. She liked this alcove, despite the age and the dust. She liked the way sounds seemed muffled, the way she seemed completely alone, but mostly, she liked the smell. It was strong, musty, and damp. Leather and pages and age. It smelled of history, of memories she never had that called her back in time in a most romantic sense. The smell took her away, the sense of displacement a strange comfort when hidden far back between the library’s shelves. 

It all brought a small wistful smile to her face, which stayed there, even after Draco dropped a large pile of books onto the table, pulling her out of the stupor. 

“Good morning,” she said sweetly.

He glanced at his watch distractedly. “It’s almost ten.”

She scoffed at him, “So? It feels like morning. I have that incredible feeling that I get when I wake up after a good dream, and I have nowhere to go and nothing to do. It’s peaceful.”

He shot her a look that clearly said she was insane, and she shrugged. 

“You actually do have stuff to do, though,” he said, pointing at the stack of books. 

She glared at the now familiar text on the top, Potions Theory Applied. She grudgingly brought all four of the chair legs back to the floor and pulled the book off the top of the pile. Draco sat down beside her and pulled the book over in front of him, it opened to the marked page and Ginny glared at that as well. He shot her a glance to make sure she was paying attention, before he launched into a basic summary of the twelfth chapter. She would have liked to let her eyes glaze over, rest her head in her palm, and get sucked away into the past again, but his voice, the sharpness of it, kept her in the present. His energy and strange enthusiasm for the topic grounded her; and she listened, really listened, as they moved through the last three chapters of a book she’d be very happy never to see again. 

Finally, he closed it with a snap and stretched backwards. He yawned, an incongruous gesture for him, and she watched as the cords in his neck tightened, his jaw stretched, and a strange howling noise came from his mouth.

As usual, Ginny yawned in response. 

She chuckled at the slightly embarrassed look on his face, and then leaned her chin in her left hand, fighting a second yawn. She shook her head lightly, forcing herself out of her stupor, and sat back up. Draco rubbed his eyes, before stretching across the back of his chair, his arms over his head. 

Ginny watched, slightly entranced. She always forgot how tall he was, now that he had taken to shifting into the shadows and hunching over his books, but she could never forget his grace; and she was reminded of both again as he stretched backwards, long and lean. 

Ginny reached into her bag with a smug smile and grabbed the assignment she had gotten back from Snape. 

“I got my first ‘O’ in Potions since… well, since second year,” she said. She handed the sheet of paper to him, and he took it, glancing at the writing indifferently. 

He nodded and handed it back. “He’s waiting for you to make a mistake, watch out for that. He still disagrees with the way you accomplish your goals, but he can't find anything technically wrong.”

“He accused me of cheating,” Ginny said proudly. 

Draco chuckled dryly. “Only you would be happy about that.”

“It means that I’m improving.”

He shrugged. “There are definitely worse things.”

She smiled broadly. “The sessions have been going pretty well, but I was afraid that there wouldn’t be that much improvement in Snape’s eyes. Certainly decreases my stress levels.” 

“Because of the bet?”

Ginny nodded. “Among other things.”

“Tell me the terms,” he said smoothly, his voice as gentle as a caress, persuasive and manipulative.

And it almost worked; she was opening her mouth before she caught herself and slammed it shut. She turned to glare at him, but he just smiled innocently. 

“I’ll tell you if you tell me something in return,” she said, not breaking eye contact. 

He nodded, the smile slipping off his face. 

“Ihavetosingalovesonnet,” she mumbled, eyes fixed firmly on the scratched surface of the table top.

“What was that?” he asked, mockingly.

“If I lose by failing Potions, I have to sing a love sonnet,” she said, her face burning. “At the leaving feast. To Snape.”

He smirked. “Which sonnet?”

“Shakespeare’s number twenty.”

Draco waited for two seconds before he burst into laughter, a sound that made Ginny think she was dreaming. Because, even though it was mocking, it was perfect, heavy and full, no reservations. It sounded like the laughter she heard everyday in her common room; laughter that had nothing to hold back. It was free, and it was infectious. 

She laughed with him, burying her face in her hands. And then it subsided, gone as quickly as it had come, and she just sat there, silence hanging over them again. 

“‘But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure’? Snape will just love that.”

“And the worst part is,” she said to her hands, her face still bright red, “I have a horrible singing voice.”

Draco snorted. “That doesn’t surprise me. How horrible?”

Ginny peered at him from between parted fingers, taking in the colour laughter had brought to his face and the smile that lingered in his eyes.

“Have you ever thrown an angry Kneazle into a pool of icy water?” 

He chortled again and shook his head in disbelief. “Can't wait to hear that.”

Ginny sat up straight, indignant. “You won’t. Ever. Because you’re going to help me pass.”

He smirked at her. “Well, I guess now I have the proper incentive. But you know, your plan isn’t exactly sound. You won't get your exam results until the end of May.”

“I know. We’re using the final term evaluation to determine the results. I have to sit for that on April twentieth, but I should have the results a week later.”

“What if you win?” 

Ginny smirked and narrowed her eyes. She almost cackled, thoughts of Ron’s humiliation filling her mind. “I’ll let you wait and see.”

He sniggered behind his hand, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

“What?”

“That was the evilest look I have ever seen on a Gryffindor. It was a bit silly looking.” 

She protested laughingly, “I can be devious.”  

“Well, obviously, that’s how I got here, isn’t it?” 

Ginny deflated slightly. “Yeah.”

They were both silent for a long moment. “What did you want to ask me?”

Ginny stared at him and realized something — as attractive as he was, angular, tall, and lean — he had never looked more beautiful, more relaxed. She was not going to take that away from him, or from herself. 

“It was nothing.”

He cocked his left eyebrow. “Nothing?”

She shook her head, staring at the floor, and when she glanced back up, he had his hawk-like gaze focused on her. 

“Say it,” he said in the same persuasive tone he had used before, but it was laced with something like malice now. 

She swallowed heavily before taking a deep breath. “I wanted… Tell me where you went after your father died.”

There was an empty silence to her right for a long time, so she glanced over at him furtively. Surprisingly, there was no anger on his face as he stared at the ceiling, just acceptance and weariness. 

When he turned to meet her eyes, his face was set in a deep frown. “I was at home, with my mother — and the Aurors,” he said bitterly. “I was trying to keep them from taking every item that held any value whatsoever from our house. They wanted everything.” 

Anger began to colour his cheeks, leaving two small red patches, and he looked away. “When I got there they were levitating our dining set out the front door. Shattered all the Black family china. Mother cried for days.”

He sighed heavily. “Not exactly a highpoint.”

She blinked at him, not even trying to stop her next question. “Do you miss him?”

His eyes darted back to hers, fierce and defensive. “I answered your question.”

She knew he wouldn’t appreciate her sympathy, so she just shrugged and turned away. Just the thought of Lucius Malfoy made her blood boil and the hair on the back of her neck stand up; but the sight of Draco then, his spine straight even when burdened by acceptance, made her curious. He may have done evil things, but Lucius Malfoy had still been a man. And a father. 

“Do you want to do anymore?” she asked.

He blinked, distracted, and then looked at his watch. “It’s half twelve, why don’t we stop for the night.”

She nodded, casting a few glances in his direction as she gathered her books. He sat there, back straight and stiff, staring at his hands. She may have felt incredibly sorry for him as she walked away, but she checked her desire to try to comfort him.

No doubt it would only make things worse. 

…

It was sunny and she had a free afternoon. Ginny ran outside after class and tumbled into the grass. She had met Draco every night for the past three days, and she finally had a night off. It was such a relief: no homework for Snape and none for Draco. She couldn't stop the grin that spread easily over her features as she reclined back, caught between the crisp cool of the grass, and the burgeoning warmth of the sun. An image of Draco lying next to her flashed through her mind, and she shook it away, reaching for her sketchbook. 

She kept smiling as her coloured pencils traveled across the paper, pulling the lake and the trees to the surface, casting shadows, and breathing life onto the page. She loved drawing like this, when nothing motivated her but beauty, when she could get swept away by colour and drifting dreams. As she worked on her drawing, a figure appeared on the opposite side of the lake, brought into existence by her pencils. Tall, distant, shoulders high, face cast in her direction. He was just a grey smudge on the paper, but she could imagine what she would do if he appeared there now. 

She was just setting down the pad, fully prepared to drift off into some surreal daydream featuring her odd and out of place hero, when a shadow blocked her sun. Shielding her eyes, she glanced up to see Harry. 

“Hey, Gin, whatcha working on?” he asked, flopping to the ground and reaching for her sketch. 

She snatched the sketchbook back from his hand, panic tightening her muscles. “Nothing.”

He glanced up at her, surprised and slightly hurt. “I'm sorry, I just–”

“It's okay,” she said quickly, though it wasn't. Not at all. She watched Harry fiddle with his hands awkwardly and she vaguely wondered if it had always been this hard for the two of them to make conversation. 

Ginny, feeling guilty and desperate to break the silence, blurted out, “How about I draw you?”

Harry stared at her, shifting uncomfortably. “I don't know...” 

Ginny sighed with relief at his response, wanting to escape from the oppressive atmosphere, when something on his face changed suddenly. 

“Okay.”

Her short-lived relief collapsed, and she settled herself guiltily on the ground next to him. “You can just sit there, as you are, and try to relax.”

Harry was asleep long before Ginny had finally, in utter frustration, completed his body. His arms tucked under his head, his face turned slightly away, his legs spread out. She stared in dread at his face as she tried to shape her subject. The forehead formed, a scar sliding into view, and then the glasses, tilted in his sleep. Finally she came to his lips, slowly debating what to do. She decided on an expressive smudge, slightly turned up in sleep. 

He really was gorgeous, relaxed like this, no signs remaining from the final confrontation, just the peaceful easiness that comes with the knowledge that a duty has been done. Harry had, for all intents and purposes, been released from his fight; his life could go in any direction now. Any direction he chose. 

As her pencil hovered over the paper, Ginny envied his past seventeen years slightly. It sucked being obligated to do certain things, like save the world, but sometimes, Ginny wished her choices had been taken away as well. Life was too hard when there were options. Every choice is another one that she could blame herself for later. With a sigh, she closed the book and lay back on the grass. 

At least Harry had the option of blaming his life on circumstance. Not that he would. She stared up at the clear blue sky and took a few deep gulps of air into her lungs. The desire for a nice long nap in the sun had disappeared and instead she just lay there, only moving to guiltily inch away from Harry when he shifted closer to her in his sleep.

An hour later, she was about to wake him up to go inside when an owl appeared by her side, silent and forbidding, and stuck out its leg. She took the large package, addressed to her, from it and smiled, ruffling its feathers gently. 

It glared at her, before shaking its head imperiously to straighten its sleek black feathers before it rose and disappeared as easily as it had appeared. She stared at the gap in the sky where it had been moments before, until she remembered the package in her hands. Curiously, she turned it over, shook it up and down, and then cautiously began to open it. A letter, addressed in an elegant, feminine hand to her sat on top of a few smaller packages of sweets. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Swiss chocolates and she swiftly closed the package and shoved it in her bag. 

She stood up and looked down at the boy on the ground. “I'm going in now, Harry,” she said loudly, waiting for him to open his eyes before she took off running for the castle's front door.

She heard him call after her, but she ignored it as she bounded up the stairs and towards the common room. 

…

Dear Miss Weasley, 

I’m so glad I got a chance to meet you while visiting my son. I was in Diagon Alley today and thought to send you some of my favorite chocolates. I hope that you enjoy them as much as I do and that we meet again soon. 

Please take care of Draco and yourself.

Sincerely, 

Narcissa Malfoy

The letter was short and to the point, yet the honesty was somehow poignant even on the page. And the chocolates were delicious. Ginny decided right away to write her back with thanks and settled into her bed, thinking about the last line. 

…

She was sitting in the common room nearly two weeks later, when a fourth year asked her a question about a potion and she answered it easily, and she realized that she got it. She was beginning to fully understand the theory, the exceptions, the basics; and while this might not have been a great accomplishment, to her it felt incredible. Nothing could have stopped the smile on her face; not even the fact that when she looked up at the clock next, it was already half nine. 

She slid silently into the library and darted past Madame Pince and into the dark corridor of shelves. 

Out of breath, she arrived at their table and slid wordlessly into the seat next the Draco. “I'm really sorry,” she whispered, “I-”

But Draco's hand cut her off, covering her lips to keep her silent. And all of a sudden, she was alive again, brought to life by a simple gesture, an uncharacteristically gentle touch. Her heart raced, her lips heating up beneath his fingertips, as she watched, enthralled, as he peered out into the darkness of the library, waiting. At long last, he pulled his hand way, and Ginny unconsciously reached up to touch her lips. 

She ignored the quirk of his eyebrow at the gesture, and instead shrugged, hoping to force the tension from her shoulders. 

“Thanks for waiting, I was... distracted.”

He shrugged, and opened the book before them. “I took the time to gather what we'd need.”

She nodded, watching as he fell into teacher mode — indifferent, slightly chastising, but mostly helpful. Together, they had a rhythm, finally at the point where the questions would bubble up in her mind, challenging his method or means. After they covered a chapter on theory, he gave her a potion to design. 

She had a list of ingredients and the intended use, so she set to work. She wasn't allowed to use books during this exercise, but she could ask basic questions. He stared at the ceiling as she scribbled down quick notes. After less than thirty minutes, she handed him the piece of paper. 

He stared down at it, and then the strangest expression crossed his face. It was one of confusion. She watched in amazement as he actually started to chew on his bottom lip, a gesture that she might have found a little bit too distracting. 

After five minutes, he glanced back up and shook his head. “This is the most disjointed, confusing, and roundabout way to make a shield potion that I have ever seen.”

Ginny stared at the table, running her nail along the edge and chipping away at the varnish. She waited for the corrections.

“It's also brilliant. Were you aware that the way you've designed this would increase the strength of the potion almost sevenfold and allow the drinker to protect the area around them as well?” 

Ginny met his eyes, shocked. “Huh?” 

He looked back, equally amazed. “I mean, I know you did it accidentally, but this just proves what I've been saying all along. Potions isn't always about the ingredients, it's also about the maker.” 

She tilted her head, trying to decipher the tone of his voice. 

“It's very artistic,” he continued, “the way that you combine the ingredients, it's... creative.” 

He paused, staring down at the paper in his hands, and Ginny drummed her fingers slowly on the tabletop. 

“I… uh… like to draw.”

He glanced up, smirking at her, and she pursed her lips. 

“And you're left handed.” 

She nodded.

“Being left handed is supposed to be the curse of the potion maker,” Draco said, tipping his chair back as he mused up at the ceiling. “But Tom Riddle was left handed, and there was probably no person more gifted at creating new potions than he.”

Ginny shivered at the mention of the name, her face starting to turn red, and she suddenly felt very alone and very claustrophobic in the library. 

When Draco was silent for a long moment, she glanced up to figure out where his mind was only to find his eyes watching her like a hawk. She didn't look away as he stared at her contemplatively, but her heartbeat increased — and this time it was definitely from fear. 

“It is possible, of course, that there are residual remnants of his soul in you.”

Ginny still refused to break eye contact, even as her chest tightened and her breath stopped. Mostly, she felt panic, but there was also anger there, under the surface. She wanted to stand up, to slap him, to scream ‘It was your father.’ But she just sat there — sat there and didn’t breathe.

He continued to watch her for at least a minute, barely moving and not changing expression, and she wondered vaguely what he was looking for. But then, suddenly, he just shrugged and dropped his eyes. Ginny waited another moment, and then sucked air into her lungs so quickly that she felt dizzy. Her head spun, and she felt weak and her body tilted forward. 

Passing out was pretty much just what she had expected — everything went dark and the she woke up on the floor. What she hadn't been expecting was waking up to Draco Malfoy staring down at her with something that clearly resembled concern etched across his features. 

“Weasley,” he snapped. “Are you okay?”

She took a few deep breaths, wondering what she was leaning against, when she noticed that her head was being cradled in his arms. 

“Yeah.” She was definitely okay. “I just… forgot to breathe.” She sat up, slowly, groaning.

“For fuck's sake, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Shut up,” she snapped back. “You're the one who brought up Tom.”

If the use of the name surprised him, he didn't show it. He just rolled his eyes as he helped her stand up. 

“Well, don't take everything so seriously. Riddle was a much different potion maker than you are. And he couldn't draw for shit, trust me, I've seen some of his sketches. They're almost as scary as the man himself.”

Ginny stared at Draco, unable to figure out what to do with his inadvertent admission of fear and his request for trust, before she burst out laughing. He stared at her for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Absolutely insane,” he mumbled, but she heard the smile in his voice. 

“What would Voldemort draw?” she asked, giggling. 

His shoulders shook lightly with a silent chuckle as his eyes slid to hers. There was a lightness there — relieved and free, aware. “Mostly cityscapes, surprisingly enough. I think he wanted to be a painter.”

Ginny really couldn’t help herself then, she burst into fresh peals of laughter and grabbed the table’s edge, as she wobbled dizzily. “Just–like–Hitler,” she said in between gasps of laughter. 

Draco chortled, but she couldn’t see his face or understand his response. Her shoulders shook, and her hands trembled, and she knew it wasn’t all from laughter. She found her chair and sat down slowly, finally controlling herself with deep breaths. She closed her eyes and focused on the rhythm, but the blackness just made the dizziness worse. She felt a bit drunk. When she glanced up at him, he raised his eyebrows — a silent question replacing one he would never have voiced aloud.

“I’m okay, just still a bit dizzy.”

“Alright, I think that's enough for tonight, but we'll have to meet for a bit longer tomorrow to cover everything for your exam next week.” 

Ginny nodded, still fighting the slowly fading dizziness.

“Can you make it back to your common room?” he asked, carefully. 

Her eyebrows shot upwards, a teasing smile rising to her lips. “Are you offering to walk me back? Isn't that breaking one of the rules?”

Draco's face was expressionless, giving nothing away, as his eyes searched hers. “I'm sure it would break almost all of them.”

And then he stepped back, tipping his head. “Don’t get caught.”

Ginny watched him disappear, her smile disappearing with him. The dizziness was gone, but it left confusion in its very wide wake. 

…

The next week followed much as she had expected it to. Ginny studied with Draco, tried to nudge Harry towards Hermione, avoided Ron unless offered the chance to harm him physically, received more notes from Narcissa, and just in general had a really good week. That afternoon, she was sitting in the library, all the way at the back as she had become quite taken with their usual place, and casually wondering how she could trick Draco into letting her help him with Transfigurational theory.

She doodled aimlessly across the assignment he had given her, sketching the stack of books on the table in the margins. They hadn’t talked about the Tom thing since it had happened, and Ginny felt both relieved and anxious. It felt as if there was still something that needed saying, as if she hadn’t fully explained herself. She was just adding the shadow the books cast on the table when another joined it. 

She glanced up, knowing it must be Draco, when the words she had been planning caught in her throat. He was seething. And not in the practiced, calculated way he did in the hallways, in a messy and truly pissed off way. 

“What,” he ground out, obviously trying to control himself, “did you say to my mother?” 

Ginny shrank in her chair, even as she wanted to laugh. Despite the ferocity in his voice and the vein throbbing on his forehead, she wasn’t really that scared of him anymore. 

His jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked like he was about to explode.

“Which time?”

If anything, her response made him even angrier. He jerked out the chair across from her and slammed it down on the floor, sending a few books to the floor. Then he turned, glaring at her across the table. 

“I just got a letter from her. Apparently, the two of you have been corresponding?”

“Uh... yeah,” Ginny said, feeling the flush creep up onto her cheeks, even as she tried to fight it. “I just told her that you are a great teacher and–”

“She thinks we're DATING!” he said, his voice only slightly louder than usual, yet still driving Ginny back further into her chair. “She wants me to properly INTRODUCE YOU!”

“Uh...” Ginny stammered, her throat drying up and her fingers tightening around one another. “I'm... sorry?”

Draco growled. Actually growled. The sound starting low in his throat and traveling roughly over her skin. She shivered, not stopping to wonder why. 

His jaw clenched and unclenched again, his rage building, if possible, as he muttered to himself. Ginny could only catch little bits, but phrases like ‘low-class’, ‘obnoxious family’, and ‘idiotic, conniving, pain in the arse’ stood out and started to make her angry.

She pushed it all to the background though, and burst out laughing. He glanced down at her, startled, as she shook her head incredulously at him. The ferocity on his face just made her laugh harder. 

“Shut up,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. There were footsteps headed towards them, and without a thought, Ginny ran around the table, grabbed him by his tie and pulled him with her into the nook between the shelf and the wall. 

Ginny's face caught fire as she realized their proximity. She hadn't stood this close to him since the day she had proposed the deal, and her heart was racing, just as it did whenever she looked at that drawing. His back was inches away from her chest, her arm still wrapped around his side, her hand on his tie. She stopped breathing, wild fantasies running through her mind faster than the blood in her veins. 

There were voices then, and Draco began to lean out to see, but she grabbed him again and pulled his strangely pliant figure back towards her. They stood like that, both waiting, apprehensive, for a long minute until there was nothing but silence on the other side. 

Ginny slowly released her grip on his now crumpled tie, and pushed him away. The quickly disappearing heat left her cold, inside and out. He stepped out, peering cautiously around, and then nodded at her. She followed him, pulling the cobwebs from her hair with a frown. 

He glared at her. “It suits you.”

Her temper flared again, but she checked it, smiling cheekily. “Thank you.” She reached up and plucked a tiny spider from his hair. “This doesn't suit you.”

He stepped back quickly, alarm crossing his face for a moment, and she giggled. His glare intensified. He walked over to the table and started shuffling though her papers. She watched him, wondering if there was something else he wanted to say. His hands paused over the homework he had assigned her, before grabbing it and turning to her with a mocking sneer. 

“If you turn that in, you’ll definitely get worse marks than Potter.”

She crossed her arms — to hell with anger management — and opened her mouth. 

But he cut her off. “Finish it before tonight, and I’ll see you back here.”

She let out a breath, the anger fading temporarily, and nodded, staring at his chest and the way his tie fell, crumpled against his breastbone. 

He was smirking at her; she could feel it. “And stop writing to my mother.”

She jerked her eyes up and glared, but he was already walking away.

…

The next morning, Ginny woke up early for the first time since the beginning of term. She had forgotten to close her curtains all the way, and the gap had cast early morning sunshine on her face, pulling her from sleep. She felt refreshed and light. She even went to breakfast, stuffing herself with eggs and bacon, before practically skipping to class.

It had been good, too. Things felt right for the first time in a long time. Hermione had resurfaced by lunch, and they spent the entire period making bad academic jokes, just to laugh at the identical looks on Harry and Ron’s faces as they tried to grasp the point. Her brother had smiled at her and ruffled her hair. And she had even caught Harry giving Hermione appreciative looks. Snape had handed her back another ‘O’ on an assignment, her fourth since Draco, and McGonagall had approved her special research project. There was even chocolate cake for Colin’s birthday and he loved the film she got him for his camera. 

Her mood was perfect all day. And she openly enjoyed it. The problem with days like that, though, is they unexpectedly get worse. And usually much worse. Her day shattered like a pane of glass when she and Natalie had been walking back from the party for Colin in the Room of Requirement, when they heard yelling. 

Shrugging at one another, they thought, why not check it out? Ginny wished they hadn’t. 

The great hall felt colder than it should have been when she entered it, and what she saw chilled her further. Draco had Thomas Portman, a fourth year Gryffindor, pinned to the wall, and looked about ready to tear off his head. Thomas was shaking and looking a bit pale, but still thoroughly pissed off. 

And in that moment the happiness was gone, replaced by anger, fear, sadness, regret, and — most powerfully — uncertainty. 

There was no one else around, but she could hear more coming, so she crossed the room quickly. 

“Stop it!” she cried, watching Thomas struggle helplessly.

She felt helpless too, as the two boys turned to her. Draco’s icy eyes met her pleading ones, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. Thomas tried to speak, but Draco was practically smothering him.

“What are you going to do?” she asked softly. 

His anger focused on her for a moment, and finally, he dropped Thomas onto the floor. The younger boy wheezed, finally regaining the ability to breathe properly, and Ginny shot him a worried look, before turning to Draco.

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore — he was staring at the boy on the floor, still furious. Ginny walked over and, very discreetly, slid her hand across Draco’s back, a simple comfort, before she leaned over and helped Thomas struggle to his feet. She sensed Draco relax slightly as Natalie joined her, and the two of them pulled Thomas to his feet, leaving Draco standing alone, severe and terrifying, just as he had been before. 

When they had traveled out of the hall, Ginny sat Thomas down on the step. “What happened?”

Thomas shifted achingly. She winced, wondering about the damage, and feeling guilty. Part of her mind staunchly defended Draco, the Draco she knew, while the other screamed about all the times that things like this had happened before.  

“He attacked me! Wasn’t that obvious?”

It was Natalie who spoke first, and Ginny loved her for it. “Just because someone loses a fight, doesn’t mean they didn’t initiate it.”

Thomas’s anger was suddenly directed at the two of them. “I’m telling you, I was in a hurry, and I bumped into him. He insulted me, I insulted him right back, and then he hit me.”

Ginny sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What did you say?” she asked. It had been a long time since she had seen Draco look so angry.

Natalie brushed aside the question, though, temporarily saving Thomas. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I’ll be fine, a little bruised, but he only hit me once. Stole all my breath.”

Natalie nodded and helped him to his feet. They began to walk towards the common room, and Ginny felt the irritation build in her throat. She wasn’t irritated with either of them, though, not even with Draco. She was just irritated. It had been such a good day.

…

“I didn’t really think you’d come,” Draco said, pulling Ginny out of her very tired stupor. She met his eyes and could see immediately that he wished she hadn’t. He still looked angry; in fact, he looked royally pissed off. 

“Why not?” she asked. “We had a meeting, after all. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.” 

It was the first time he had ever been late.

He shrugged, not quite an apology. “I got distracted.” He loosened his tie as he pulled out his chair and sat. Ginny couldn’t read the look on his face — an unsettling mixture of weariness and anger, impatience and bitterness. She started to wish he hadn’t shown. 

“What happened earlier?” she asked hesitantly.

He shot her a look that clearly said this was not a welcome topic, but she pressed further. “What did he say to you?”

His look intensified, and she could tell he was abandoning his control. “Is there any part of you that isn’t an idiot?” he asked snidely. 

She hated the tone, opening her mouth to tell him off, before changing her mind. “Do we need any books?” she asked softly, finally looking away from him. 

Some of the tension in his shoulders loosened, and he wordlessly handed her a slip of paper with a long list written on it. It was quite clear that tonight she would be working with a version of Draco that she hadn't seen in a long while. With a sigh, she lugged herself to her feet very slowly and went in search of the books.

She was just pulling down the second to last book when she glanced down at the list again, pausing to admire Draco's perfectly schooled writing. Then she stopped. Draco. When had he become Draco? Her mind stretched back in time, trying to differentiate between Draco and Malfoy, but the name seemed so natural now, so rational and not even the slightest bit awkward. Even in memories from last year, or the years before, times when she definitely hated him, he still seemed to be Draco. He had even been Draco when he had Thomas pinned to the wall. 

She shook her head, testing the name out loud to herself and pausing in surprise when she realized it no longer stuck in her throat, but slid carelessly off her tongue, as if she had said it, and could keep saying it, every day. She didn’t think she had ever said it before, though. She said it again. It was a surprisingly pleasant name, round and flat all at once. 

Slowly, she wandered back over to the table where the object of her worrying thoughts sat, bent over her assignments from the previous nights. 

It wasn't fun that night. It felt like they weren't making any progress and both of them were short tempered and distracted. Finally, around midnight, Ginny allowed her shoulders to slump and she rested her head on the table. She was tired. It was too much, coming here every night, and the work was too draining. 

“Come on,” he said, his voice weary, the anger that had had her on edge all night still lingering below the surface. “Get up.”

“Oh, Draco, let me sleep,” she said softly, her eyes staying closed. Silence followed her plea, and she was just releasing her last hold on the world when she realized what she said.

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly awake, only to meet Draco's angry glare. And she was afraid.

She lunged to her feet and Draco followed her. Apparently, he had been waiting to snap and now she was trapped between a very furious him and the very solid shelf. She glanced around, hurriedly, planning her escape. 

“Look, I'm sorry, Draco,” she said, pausing to curse her second slip. But now that she had said it, it seemed impossible to stop.

“Don't call me that,” he snarled, as he took a step forward.

And suddenly, he was too close and she was too awake and there wasn't enough time.

“Dra-” she began pleadingly.

His lips slammed down against hers. Open-eyed and open-mouthed, he shoved her back against the books. And it was too angry, and too violent, and too right. Ginny was melting into him, totally forgetting herself as her hands didn't even pause before they went to his tie. His tongue was in her mouth, hot, wet, and desperate; and she was shaking against him. He yanked the hem of her skirt up, pulling her body up and against his with hands that were much too hot and too anxious. 

There was too much of him to push away, but she didn’t even try. She gave in, even though she wasn’t ready. She was too ready, and there was too much between them as they pulled at one another. The earth was shaking beneath their feet, the world was falling down around them. 

Her eyes slammed shut, trying to block it all out, lost to the rushing of blood in her ears, and her hands finally found bare skin. He growled against her lips, and she shuddered, moaning as his fingers ran along the edge of her knickers. And that was when he jerked away, dropping her to the floor unceremoniously, to stare down at her in dismay. She watched in confused horror as he stepped back. Once, twice, and then tuned on his heel and was gone. 

She heard the library doors slam shut, and tears gathered inexplicably in her eyes, as silent, confused sobs shook her body. 

...

Ginny had no idea how she made it back to her room that night, still riding a high of irritation, desire, concern, confusion, pain, and longing. It was the longing that got to her — more powerful than anything else — she longed for something. But she had no idea what. She was confused about everything, him, her, and all that had happened. It was driving her crazy.

It wasn’t about the sex; which, had he not stopped it, she probably would have allowed, she realized in shock. It wasn’t the fact that he had looked at her there on the floor, his eyes full of anger, lust, and fear — cutting her. It wasn’t even the disappointment swelling within her that irritated her the most. 

It was the longing. It was the way she wished he was by her side all the time, lying in the grass under the sun, eating cake at Colin’s party in the Room of Requirement, watching Quidditch from the hill by the lake. It was the confusing realization that she wanted him with her and the smothering fear that he would never want to have anything to do with her again. 

It was the longing that sat with her in bed as she tried to sleep. That kept her up half the night and that drove her to find a distraction. 

She finally decided to write back to Narcissa, as the woman insisted Ginny call her. She didn’t even stop to consider her state of mind as she wrote the letter, sealing it and leaving it on her bedside table, before finally collapsing onto her bed. 

The thoughts crept back, though, as bad ones tend to, and she tossed and turned all night, dreading the morning. 

…

Draco disappeared for three days; she didn’t see him in the halls or at meals, and she skipped the tutoring session they had planned.

But on Thursday, he was at breakfast, looking polished as he sat next to Pansy and ate his food. It was even stranger for him to be there than it was for her, and she cautiously studied him between sips of her tea.

She only stopped trying to catch his eye when she noticed her brother, Harry, and Hermione watching her strangely — their eyes darting away from hers as soon as she looked at them. Her weariness made her brush it aside as paranoia on her part, and she finished breakfast with a heavy heart before heading off to her first class: Potions.

Why is it that time never stops when you need it to? Ginny wondered. Life throws something so big at you and you know you can't handle it, but then you have to wake up in the morning. You have to eat, go to class, work. You can't forget, and you can't move away. But life cuts you no breaks. It throws your world into havoc, and then pretends like nothing happened. Time drudges on.

Ginny was just turning toward the dungeon, her head somewhere deep in the library, when someone grabbed her. A hand covered her mouth just in time to stop the shout, and she felt herself turned around, facing a very tense Draco.

“You know, if you walk that slowly, you’re going to be late to Potions,” he said evenly, his gaze both frustrated and understanding.

“Like pulling me into a–” she glanced around the empty space “–stairwell is going to help. …Where do these go?” she asked, curiosity overtaking everything else.

“My dorm,” he responded shortly, as she peered down the dark staircase. She was about to say ‘cool’ when she realized how close she was still standing next to him.

The feeling of his hands on her bared legs flooded her senses and she almost stepped forward.

He was silent and when she looked over, she noticed he was staring at the ceiling, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched.

“Did you want something?” she asked, finally settling on forced lightness.

He looked over at her sharply; “Yes, just shut up for a second.”

She crossed her arms but stayed quiet, waiting almost desperately. The longing came back full force, and she briefly wondered what he would say if she told him what she wanted. She shook her head — no good could come of that.

“I want–” he started, pausing to sigh, “I need to apologize.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped, and she stared at him incredulously. Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was perhaps the absolute last.

He turned to look at her, and she could sense his desire to smirk at the look on her face. For whatever reason though, he didn’t.

“I was so angry the other day, having my father thrown in my face like that–” Ginny remembered Thomas’s guilty fear “–I was looking for something to hurt. But I shouldn’t have–”

She held up her hand to stop him, unwilling to watch him prostrate himself, even if she did feel like giving him a bit of a kicking. “Forget it, it’s not like I was totally unwilling.”

His left eyebrow quirked, and she cursed herself. “Whatever, you’re forgiven, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to leave, pulling the door all the way shut behind her. The wood and stone seemed to melt together as it morphed silently back into a wall. She sighed slowly, and then continued her descent into the dungeons.

She was fifteen minutes late to Potions and got detention, but she knew that any apology on Draco’s part would come with a price. She wanted to be happy that he had apologized, shed some light on the situation, tried to comfort her somehow; but the only thing she could think about was the way he had said ‘I was looking for something to hurt.’

…

After an incredibly long week, Ginny collapsed onto a couch in the common room. She had her detention in two and a half hours, and she felt like shit. Since Draco's apology, things had gone back to normal for the most part. Her tutoring sessions continued, but they were shorter now — there were no spinoff conversations, the two just focused on the work. She had convinced him to start helping her with seventh year theory, even though she didn't really need it; the material was almost easy now. She just wasn't ready to let him go.

She sighed and sank back into the couch. They weren't meeting that night because she needed a break. Every time they were in a room together, she wanted to touch him. And every time she did, accidentally for the most part, she would jerk away — burned. They were tense around one another, static. There was no humor, no mocking; there wasn’t even any anger. Just rigid politeness, which was just not the way they worked.

It wasn’t right, the tension; she normally felt calm around him, relaxed and open. They got along, because they were so different. And he made her think, question, change. He put her life into a new balance, placed her on a scale and forced her to measure what she was. April was here, and it had been less than two months of tutoring, but she couldn’t believe how quickly she had changed. Her entire mindset was different. The way she thought, attacked issues, reserved judgment… no matter how she looked at it, he had changed her.

Another sigh passed through her lips, and she felt herself relaxing when she remembered the letter in her bag. She had gotten it this morning, the first of Narcissa’s letters to arrive with the rest of the owl post, and had waited to open it.

The seal broke in her hands, and she read it slowly, smiling at the light tone of Narcissa’s writing. The letter was fairly standard, mentioning a few society events Narcissa was planning and the dealings of the house. There were a few brief mentionings of Draco, but nothing specific.

Then she got to the last paragraph and paused, suddenly alert.

I do not know what troubles you, my dear, and please forgive my assumptions, but when it comes to love, you should know that there is no trouble more worth the effort, the sacrifices. Yet I do realize that it is painful. To love or to be loved is such a difficult question; both are good, acceptable, choices, though neither is completely satisfactory. Settling is the game we play and whatever choices you make will take you on a different path. Just remember that you are stronger than you think. Before you give up, you must choose to lead someone else for a lifetime or to allow yourself to be led. Hope for the optimist is eternal, yet neither love nor happiness is ever pure.

Ginny stared at the words on the page, haunted and a little embarrassed. She wondered what she had written in the last letter. She had never felt more comforted, though, than by those confusing words, and she was glad that Narcissa’s letter had borne such caring and concern.

She folded it carefully and slid it into her pocket, her first smile of the day gracing her features as her eyes slid closed. She didn’t even think about the letter’s implications as she settled into herself, ready to doze.

But the next thing she knew, someone was shaking her. “Ginny, wake up,” Hermione called, “We need to talk to you.”

She opened her eyes hesitantly and yawned. No more than twenty minutes had passed, she noticed as she glanced at the clock; the room was still empty, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat atop the coffee table in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn, and wondering if they were planning on explaining the extremely cold shoulder she had gotten from them all week.

Ron, who looked the angriest, blurted out, “Why have you been corresponding with Narcissa Malfoy?”

Ginny’s hands immediately went for her most recent letter; but after finding it securely in her pocket, she masked the movement. “What?” she asked, trying to hide her guilt and indignation with innocence.

There was no way it was going to work.

“Hazel, told us you had a letter addressed to her on your table. She was worried,” Hermione explained, “And so are we.”

Ginny took a moment to curse her only roommate, possibly the sweetest person ever, before she turned her attention back to the three of them.

“Ms. Malfoy and I are friends,” she said, even as she questioned the term. A surge of warmness coursed through her, though, as she thought about the letter in her pocket. “Why are you worried?”

They all gaped at her. “You’re friends with her?”

Ginny shrugged, “Sure, why not? I mean, we’re not close, but we do exchange letters regularly.” At the looks on their faces she grew more and more perturbed. “Look, she’s a nice person and a bit lonely, why shouldn’t I write her?”

“She was married to Lucius Malfoy!” Harry said angrily, “That’s reason enough!”

“Yes,” Ginny said, “She was married to him, and now he’s dead. Surely you don’t think she’s not allowed to have any friends while she’s grieving?”

Hermione put her hand on Harry’s knee. “Ginny, Harry only means that her choice of husband was less than trustworthy, and maybe you shouldn’t let yourself be fooled by her.”

“Merlin!” Ginny cried, “It’s not like I’ve given her my vault number! We just talk about things like school and fashion and life!”

“Ginny,” Ron said, standing, “Be reasonable.”

She snapped; it had been too long a day. “You be reasonable!” she shouted, standing up, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe it’s your quick judgment that alienates people, that pushes them away?”

The three of them all flinched backwards, and Ginny took a deep breath. “I have detention. I appreciate your worry, I really do, but also please know that I wasn’t born yesterday, and I will be friends with whomever I choose.”

Ginny slung her bag onto her back and stormed up the stairs.

She flopped back onto her bed, the anger draining from her, before standing. Now she was going to have to leave for detention two hours early. She pulled on a pair of jeans and abandoned her robes for her comfiest sweater before she grabbed her bag and walked quickly from the tower.

She had just left her anger behind when the portrait hole opened behind her. She turned to see Harry there, looking slightly contrite. “I’m really sorry, Ginny,” he said, approaching her slowly — as if she might bolt.

She rolled her eyes internally but smiled weakly at him. “It’s okay, Harry, it really is.”

He nodded, and she was going to go when he spoke again. “Do you really think it’s my fault?” he asked.

“What?” she said, “What’s your fault?”

“That our judgment pushed people who could have been saved towards evil.”

Ginny sighed, guilt winning out over irritation. “Harry, that’s not what I meant.” She sighed again. “Okay, it is what I meant. But I wasn’t blaming you. There’s nothing you don’t do from the heart, and that heart is good. You always try to do exactly what you think is the right thing, and I really admire you for it. I wasn’t trying to blame you for anything in the past, simply pointing out that the war is over.”

He sighed. “No point in burning the bushes if there’s nothing hiding in them, right?”

Ginny frowned at the strange metaphor, but nodded. “Exactly.”

Harry stepped forward suddenly and wrapped his arms around her, and Ginny froze. After a moment, she slowly reciprocated, sensing his need for comfort, a need to be reassured that he was still good. The boy had saved the world, but he still had no idea he was a hero.

Harry had just released her and taken a step back and opened his mouth to say something, when a familiar voice interrupted. “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

Ginny whirled around to see Draco smirking at the end of the hallway. She rolled her eyes at them both as Harry went for his wand.

“Malfoy,” he spat. “What are you doing here?”

Ginny sighed as Draco walked forward, his smirk predatory. She placed her hand on Harry’s arm and forced him to lower his wand. He glanced over at her, and she shrugged.

“I’m here for Weasley. Professor Snape has a last minute meeting and sent me to summon you for an earlier detention.”

Ginny nodded. “Thanks,” she said, before turning to Harry; “I’ll see you later.”

Harry started forward. “I’ll walk with you.”

Draco opened his mouth for a quick retort, but Ginny cut him off. “I think Draco knows full well where the Potions classroom is, Harry, if I somehow manage to forget.”

Harry gaped at her. “But what if he tries something?”

Ginny fought the urge to laugh and kept her honest response inside. “I’m sure that he’s not stupid enough to attack me when both you and Snape know that he’s the one who came to get me. But if he is, I’m sure I can take care of myself.”

Harry looked reluctantly at the two, Draco’s mocking smile and Ginny firm insistence, before turning. “Fine, I’ll see you later. And watch your back.”

Ginny rolled her eyes as he disappeared into the common room.

“What if I try something, Miss Weasley?” Draco asked with a smirk as she turned towards him.

She smiled grudgingly back, feeling more normal than she had since their kiss. “You’d regret it.”

He chuckled silently as the headed down the stairs. “I’m sure that I would.”

Ginny ignored the way her heart tightened at his words, determined not to drag him down into her own weariness. The two walked in a comfortable silence for a while, until Draco broke it.

“You know, as much as I love watching Potter suffer — it’s like really good television — you should just let him down gently.”

Ginny’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Okay, setting aside the fact that you like television, what are you on about?”

Draco smirked. “Potter.”

Ginny glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows. “Yeah, what about him?”

“He thinks he’s in love with you.”

Ginny stumbled on a loose stone and came to a stop. “Oh. Well that certainly explains all the awkwardness better than my theory,” she said, more to herself than to Draco.

“Your theory?” he asked, a playful smile dancing across his face.

“Um…” Ginny said, hesitating before she decided that she just didn’t care. “I thought he just felt weird about me since I kissed him.”

Draco actually laughed out loud at that, one short bark of unrestrained mirth; Ginny grinned broadly at the sound. “Why, Miss Weasley, you certainly have been busy.”

She reached out and slapped him lightly on the arm. “It was in August, you prat, surely I’m allowed one kiss every eight months or so.”

He shook his head, the smirk still in place. “Or so.”

Ginny dismissed the comment with a toss of her hand. “How do you know he’s in love with me, anyway?”

“I didn’t say ‘in love’, I said ‘he thinks he’s in love with you’. there’s a difference.”

Ginny shrugged again, rolling her eyes. “Details. Besides, what makes you think I’d turn him away?”

Draco stopped suddenly, and she paused, turning to look at him. The expression on his face was unreadable as he took one slow step towards her, then another. Her heartbeat sped up, her skin crawled, but she held her position. Her forced look of clueless curiosity stayed on her face until he was about two centimeters from her, his heat flooding her senses.

He tilted his face forward, and her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his breath on her ear. “Because,” he whispered, the sound of his voice low and spiking heat through her body. “You are so obviously in love with me.”

Her eyes shot open and her jaw dropped; and though her first reaction was anger, her second embarrassment, and her third disappointment, she forced them all away and pushed him from her. She laughed incredulously. “You certainly are arrogant.”

He smirked, looking her up and down, and taking in her flushed face, her unsteady breathing, and the way she unconsciously leaned towards him. “Yes.”

She held the eye contact for another moment, before turning away. He was being maliciously unfair.

“And in a very good mood today,” she said, continuing down the dungeon corridor, “What caused that?”

He smiled cryptically, before pulling open the door of the Potions classroom for her. “Let’s just say that I’m having an off day.”

She laughed outright at that, hardly noticing Snape enter the room. “Only you would say that about a good day.”

He shrugged a small coy smile still gracing his features as he turned to Snape. Ginny turned too, catching the look of confusion on Snape’s face before it hardened again.

“I have brought the student you requested, sir.”

“Thank you,” Snape said dryly, “Though I’m sure she could have brought herself.”

Ginny smiled widely at her professor; Draco’s mood was infectious. “Thank you, sir, you’re the first person I’ve come across today who has had any faith in me whatsoever.”

Draco turned his smirk towards her. “Well, given your past track record.”

“Oh, shut up and go,” Ginny responded, sticking her tongue out at him.

Draco laughed openly at that, and Ginny found herself staring at him for a moment before she joined him. She had been right before — there really was no sound more beautiful.

The laughter was short lived though, and long before she was ready for it to stop, he had turned and gone. She looked back at Snape who was staring at her as if she had sprouted a second head.

“Sir?” she asked. Apparently, Draco’s good mood was not the only infectious thing about him; she actually found herself respecting Snape.

He blinked at her. “Right,” he paused. Were hers and Draco’s actions really so disconcerting? “I've set out a list of potions to brew for the hospital wing. The ingredients are on the table.”

She smiled broadly, taking him aback. “Okay.”

Her heart soared as she looked over the list. Some of the potions were sixth year level; and if he trusted her to do them, she really was improving.

They both went to work silently — Snape at his desk, her at her table. It was the best detention she had ever served; she set up three cauldrons and got to work on the potions simultaneously. She felt lighter than air; finally, the longing had disappeared. And Snape only snapped at her three times to stop whistling before he just gave up and let her.

When she was finished, only an hour and a half later, Snape came over and tested the potions. He actually smiled at her a little (at least she thought it was a smile). “Satisfactory,” he said. From him — it seemed like the highest of compliments.

She beamed at him. “Like okay, I hoped for better satisfactory or perfectly usable and effective satisfactory?”

He glared at her but said, “The latter.”

She clapped her hands together and grinned at him. “That wasn't so hard to say now, was it Professor?”

If possible, his glare intensified. “The end result is perfect, and I'm not surprised, given your performance over the past month–” Ginny's jaw fell open “–but, as per usual, your workstation is a mess and your patience with the material is deplorable.”

Ginny smiled at him, despite the barb. “Thanks, Professor,” she said warmly, “I'll start cleaning right away.”

He nodded at her and stalked back to his desk.

“Goodnight, Professor,” she called out after she had bottled up the end results and wiped down all the surfaces. “I'll see you Monday,”

Snape just grunted in reply, and she left the dungeons with the smile still plastered on her face.

…

Ginny didn’t know if the high spirits would prevail, but she was practically impervious to bad news all through weekend. As she lay in bed before she slept and just after she woke, she would allow herself to think of the kiss, Draco’s unintentionally hurtful apology, and then his breath on her ear; but she refused to carry the thoughts out of bed with her. So the days progressed.

Monday was the best tutoring session she had ever had. The two of them ended up arguing theory late into the night before almost getting caught by Filch and finally deciding that they actually agreed with one another. In the Charms corridor, he had held her hand as they ran, her palm sweaty and rough against his own.

Wednesday they tested diagrams of an alternative Veritaserum amalgam against the original. After a long pointless discussion, she had taken the paper from him, scratched out some of his ideas and replaced them with her own. He had tilted his head and bitten his lip as he looked it over and then agreed with her changes.

Thursday they abandoned Potions for Transfiguration, which turned into a debate about who was a better Head of House — McGonagall or Snape. Snape won, if only for the caricatures Ginny drew of him over their notes.

And the following Monday she got her updated marks on Potions, and told Draco she was still failing. He freaked out, calling Snape an old bat and a bigot, before she fell off her chair laughing. She had received ‘Outstanding’ on all aspects except for style where she got an ‘Exceeds Expectations’. Draco proceeded to then slump in his chair and call her ‘mean’, for which she teased him mercilessly.

Draco’s good mood held, infecting her in the most pleasant of ways. She wondered if now she could get away with calling him a friend. The way they worked together was seamless, in a strange way. They had gone from mutual hatred, to acceptance, to appreciation, to what felt very much like willing friendship. The feeling of obligation left their lessons as if it had never been there, and Ginny much preferred it that way.

Until she got into bed. Then the accidental touches, Draco’s subtle flirtatious mocking, and the series of strange happenings that had led them to this point all came back to her tumultuously.

It was far different but still the same. It was almost as if they had gone back to what things were like before he kissed her; but there was something hovering in the air around them, some tension that Ginny couldn’t fully understand.

And being one who expected downfalls, Friday should not have surprised her, but it did.

“You left this yesterday,” Draco said, announcing his arrival.

Ginny chanced a glance up before returning to scribbling down her notes for the assignment she had to give to him in a few minutes. She was just about to mutter a thank you, when the blood drained from her face.

Her eyes shot up, panic building in her chest; he was holding her sketchbook. She chanced a glance at his face, but it was utterly expressionless in a way that she had forgotten. Panic caught the words in her throat as he set it down on the table before taking his seat. She couldn’t meet his eyes as she slowly reached for the book, the cover burning her fingertips.

She pulled it to her chest, holding it tightly, as her heart raced in her chest.

He was staring at her; she could feel it, burning into her skin, making her wish she could disappear. She stood with a suddenness that surprised her, and her chair skidded backwards.

Without a word, she tore from the library, mortification at her heels.

It took her several minutes of running around the third floor, trying to be as quiet as possible, before she could stop and control herself. She hadn’t noticed the tears in her eyes, until she wiped them away. Her lungs screamed, her face burned, and all of her was a little broken.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want people to see her sketches (though she wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea), most of them were fairly tame — until a certain point. Then the pages turned into nothing but obsessive capturings of Draco. Her painstaking attempt at his smile, then the smirks, and the hands, and the anger. Not to mention the drawings of the two of them, multiplying daily and never completed.

How could she face him now?

She sat down against the wall between two old suits of armor, and just stared at the pad in her hands. She had gotten it for Christmas, shipped by owl post since she hadn’t been able to go home. The cover was rough and green and the creamy pages were coarse and heavy — perfect for drawing. It was bulky, larger than a normal notebook with hundreds of pages. She loved this book, loved it because it was part of her soul. Irrevocable, private, safeguarded. Her fingers ran across the front and then she opened it.

The first drawings, done on during the war, were dark. Bitter and confused pastels, charcoals, graphites — her mind in powders, in dust.

She turned to a sketch near the middle, one of Ron and Hermione sitting by Harry’s bedside as they waited for him to wake up. And then the next one, of the celebration. And then the one of Draco.

It was a smile so pure, so free… she traced his bottom lip with her finger, pulling away in fear of smudging it. Then there were more, pages and pages of him, all in black, interspersed with a few pastel drawings of landscapes or rooms, but he was in those as well. There was the lake, with the small impression of him. Their alcove, larger than it normally was, empty in his absence.

There was the drawing of Harry, sandwiched in between, awkward and clumsy, as if she couldn’t put him on paper. There was no comparison.

What had he thought, as he turned the pages? Had he been angry, upset, mocking, or — she let her mind wander over the last option hesitantly — intrigued.

It was the last drawing that was the most revealing. And tears came to her eyes as she stared at it. He would have seen this last, or maybe first, and it would have confused him, momentarily, and then he would have smirked. His evilest, most arrogant, most degrading smirk. Just imagining it made her cringe, her face heating, utterly mortified.

On the page was a simple color sketch of her hand — with bitten nails and ink stains all — and dangling from those lazy fingers was a long, crumpled, Slytherin green tie. The background was blank, but her hand hung by a small glimpse of her naked thigh. It was expressive, suggestive, and incredibly sexual. She let out a short, pitiful cry, before dissolving.

Whatever he had guessed about her before, he knew for sure now. And so did she — she had fallen in love with him.

…

Ginny sat on the floor for a long time after she closed the book, her tears drying up and her mortification fading slowly.

She had cried for a long time, silent tears falling from her eyes to be wiped away and then replaced. She would have never wanted him to see those drawings, the drawings that so clearly captured her, her own self-portraits of other people, of him.

But he had, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She sat on the floor, her panic rising again, like bile in her throat. But there was something new as well: determination. She had absolutely no desire to go to sleep until she found him and forced him to let her explain.

Filled with purpose, she got up, flexed her stiff muscles, and walked quickly to the library. She didn’t think he would still be there, and he wasn’t. She threw all of her stuff in her bag, hefted it over her shoulder and headed toward the dungeons.

He would listen to her.

She walked slowly, scared of being caught, until she reached the portion of wall that he had pulled her through before. It looked solid. Ginny frowned.

She stared at it, focusing on it turning back into a door. Nothing happened. She pounded on it, but it was solid as stone. She kicked it, guessed passwords, prodded it with her wand, and cursed at it. But it was still a wall.

“God damn, bastard, piece of shit, fucking wall,” she yelled as quietly as she could.

Fighting tears and the desire to scream, she turned and leaned against it, pressing her back against it as hard as she could, the frustration welling inside her.

Suddenly, she felt the stone transform beneath her, and when she whirled around, she was looking at an oak door. She pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it after her. She couldn’t see a thing in the dark, and her breath hitched. She turned to open the door to let some light in, but it had disappeared. “Lumos,” she whispered, but her wand would not light.

Apprehensive, she slowly walked towards where she had seen the stairs, cursing the security measures the entire time.

The walls were damp beneath her fingertips and she stuck against them until she found the banister with grasping fingertips. Carefully, she descended the spiral staircase, only stumbling once when the banister ended. She stood on a landing at the end of the stairs, disoriented by the darkness and the glow of light from underneath the door that seemed terribly bright.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and then put her hand on the knob. She stood there for at least a minute, unable to do something as simple as opening a door.

But, she reasoned, she needed him to tell her how to get out anyway.

Finally, she raised her hand and knocked loudly, before letting herself in. She took two steps into the room, realized that she had woken him, and stopped.

“Weasley?”

The incredulity in his tone made her fists clench, and suddenly, she was very irrationally angry. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Look, Draco,” she began, her eyes still closed tightly as she began to pace across the small space in front of the door. “I’m really sorry about storming out of the library earlier, I was just freaked out about the sketchbook. I mean, I can't even imagine showing those to anyone, much less you. And I was so humiliated, and I just – I mean, I, I didn’t know what–”

“Weasley.”

“–You would say or do. And I guess, I have to–”

“Weasley!”

“–Apologize or something, so, Draco, I am really, terribly, and truly sorry for the–”

“WEASLEY!” Draco shouted.

“Shut up!” she shouted back, turning to him, “I am trying really hard to…”

He had gotten out of bed and crossed the floor — stopping several feet away from her and yet still far too close. Her throat went dry as she stared at him mussed with sleep and shirtless. Shirtless. Her fingers twitched towards him, longing to run across his skin — the same feeling she got when she wanted to draw. Her face heated as she thought about how smooth the skin across his chest must be.

“Look,” she began again, focusing on the green carpet and holding up her hand to stop his questions, “Look, I’m sorry I woke you up, but I just had to apologize, I had no right. And I just felt really humiliated and–”

“Gin,” he said, interrupting her.

And this time she did stop, the color leaving her face. She swore time halted as she stared at the floor, and she shivered. She looked up at him, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin.

“Shut up,” he said quietly, his eyes, patient yet exasperated, boring into hers.

“Okay,” she squeaked, feeling herself flush all over. She broke the eye contact and glanced around the room.

He didn’t move, still as stone and so close, as she took in the space — small but tasteful, with stone walls, a fireplace, and dark pine furniture. There was a door at the other side, which she assumed led to the rest of the Slytherin dorms. She forced herself not to look at him and instead became fascinated with the hangings on the bed, which were green with an ornate and strangely beautiful white acanthus print. They looked expensive and old, just like everything in the room. She was just letting her eyes trail across the stone floor, her heart still pounding heavily in her chest, when he sighed.

He took a step back, “Just calm down, okay? I didn’t even look in your stupid sketchbook anyway.”

Ginny stared at him in shock; the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She felt her heart slow, and the wild thoughts that had been running around her mind ceased as well. “Oh.” She finally said, trying to recover her thought process. “Oh. Right. Um. Thanks, then.”

He smirked at her, “Though, I must say, now I am infinitely curious.”

“You really didn’t look?” she questioned, eyeing him suspiciously.

He raised his left eyebrow. “No.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, a heavy exhalation of repressed air, and then she smiled brilliantly at him. “I’m so relieved.” His lips quirked up slightly in an unconscious response, which just made her smile spread.

“Can I go back to sleep now?” he drawled.

She nodded, feeling as if the past several hours had all been a terrible dream. “I can show myself out,” she said, sneaking another look at his bare chest. He still looked fucking incredible.

Her hand was on the doorknob, when she realized her mistake. “Um, Draco? How do I get out?” she asked, turning towards him with a weak smile.

“How did you get in?” He asked mockingly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I don’t know exactly,” she said, finding it hard to focus on anything but his jutting hipbones.

“The door should appear when you press on the discolored stone.”

“Oh,” she said, beginning to turn around, “But how will I see it? It’s so dark.”

“The torches are out?” he asked, seeming puzzled for the first time that night.

“Yeah.”

“You came all the way down the stairs without any light?”

“Yeah.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, surprised, and his mouth hardened into a straight line. “Why in gods name would you do something so stupid?”

“I was desperate!” she said defensively.

“You were an idiot.” He looked away angrily, tension building across his shoulders. “And, furthermore, what if I had lied? What if the staircase hadn’t led you down here? What if you had slipped? Don’t you ever think?!”

She glared at him, “I told you, I needed to apologize.”

He turned and glared right back. “You are so reckless.”

She balled her hands into fists and stepped closer, fury rising, “You say it as if it’s a bad thing!”

He scoffed at her. “It is.”

“Well, I’m so very sorry that I trusted you,” she growled, stepping closer again.

He glanced down at her, the anger fading from his expression, leaving it absolutely blank. “This is pointless. I’ll light the torches.”

She let out a frustrated exclamation of air, as he walked by her and opened the door. She could hear him muttering to himself, but she couldn’t make out the words. She clenched her jaw, and walked out the door after him. She had just started up the stairs, when he called her back.

“Weasley.”

She turned to face him, still angry. “You’ve used my name once, you can do it again.”

He just sighed, glancing away. She shivered lightly in the dungeon chill. “Just... be careful going back, okay? It’s late.”

Her face softened, and she looked down at him wistfully; from two steps up she was actually slightly taller. She stepped down one — eye level. “Draco,” she said, softly, uncertainly.

He met her eyes, his face a mixture of something she, frustratingly, couldn’t decipher. Then he stepped closer, and in the torchlight, she could almost imagine that he looked hesitant.

But there was something else in the look, in the posture, something that made her heart speed up in her chest, ricocheting crazily against her ribcage. Her eyes never left his as he stepped closer, and then he was too close to think.

“Thank you for not looking at the sketches,” she said weakly, just to fill the silence.

He rested his forehead against hers, one of his hands reaching for hers as the other rested on her neck, and she stopped. Everything stopped — she couldn't move; she couldn't think.

And then he kissed her; her eyes fluttered closed, her body jumped back to life. His skin flooded with heat, and it suffocated her. She wanted to pull him closer, push him against the wall, dive into him; but his lips were pulling at hers slowly, patiently. His fingers weaved through her own and his thumb carefully drew circles under her ear.

She was shattering beneath his touch, pulling apart at the seams, only the have him put her back together. She was melting, falling — empty and full at the same time. She needed him closer, but he was still holding her away even as he opened his mouth beneath hers. And, damn it, he tasted good.

She wrapped her free arm around his bare shoulders and pressed her body against his, suddenly regaining her ability to move. But he resisted, holding her away, before slowly breaking the kiss. He stared at her before closing his eyes, sighing in resignation. She got the feeling that he had just lost some sort of battle. He released her hand, placing his on her hip to steady her.

She hadn’t even noticed how dizzy she was.

He smiled at her playfully, and she pulled him back to her, wrapping her arms around his neck as she hugged him. He stiffened beneath the touch, and then responded, enfolding her in his warmth. The skin of his back was cold to touch, but she could feel the warmth beneath it. He smelled bitter and sweet all at once, spicy yet soft. The scent pulled at a memory of hers, full of something much like regret, but she couldn’t place it.

Her knees buckled when his lips found her ear, and she heard him chuckle, low and sensual. “You should go back.”

“Yeah,” she whispered as quietly as she could, afraid now to lose the silence. She pulled back slightly, and then kissed him again. It felt unshakably right, his bare skin beneath her hands, his mouth on hers. She shuddered; this was what she wanted. He sucked on her bottom lip, scraping his teeth along the inside, and she moaned.

They kissed leisurely for a long minute after that, before she pulled away. “Draco?”

“Hmm?” he murmured distractedly. He let his hands slide down to rest on her hips, resting his forehead against hers again. He rocked slowly from left to right, lost in some rhythm she couldn’t sense. She stared sadly at the look of absolute peace of his face.

“What happens now?”

His motions stilled, and he opened his eyes. But he didn’t pull away. He stared at her for a moment, a thousand emotions flickering across his face. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Then he kissed her, just a short brush of lips, heart-stoppingly soft and artificially relaxed. “You should go back to your keep, Gin.”

Her heart fluttered again at the sound of her name, a small shiver starting in the base of her spine and spreading across her skin. He stepped away.

“Okay,” she said quietly, staring at the distance between them. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He shrugged, closing back up, the change immediate and awkward. She resisted the desire to hit him. “Three o’clock? Library?”

She didn’t get a response right away, but she wasn’t going to wait for him to say no, so she turned and hurried up the stairs. With the torches lit, the stone was easy enough to find; and she pressed it, freeing herself from what had too quickly become an oppressive space.

…

Ginny dragged her feet all the way back to the common room, her mood growing more and more bleak. She was almost hoping to get caught — she needed someone else to tell her that it had all just happened. That he had kissed her.

That he had kissed her like that.

And it left her felling dreadful. She was empty when she stepped through the portrait, lost in worrying thoughts of nothing.

Unfortunately, the common room wasn’t.

Someone must have finally noticed her absence most nights, and that someone stood when she walked inside.

“Harry,” she said, forcing everything else away. “What are you still doing up?”

He stared at her incredulously, before he noticed that there was something terribly and utterly off with her. “Are you okay? Where have you been? Did someone hurt you?”

It all came out a bit rushed, and she just stared at him, not really seeing, as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I’m fine, just tired. I had a rough day and I… fell asleep in the library earlier.”

He didn’t buy it. “Just like you have almost every night for the past two months? Are the chairs really that comfortable?”

She started to laugh, but when she met his eyes, she could see the anger in them. It silenced her.

She took a few steps into the room and sat down in the armchair across from where he had been camped out before. She heard him sigh and watched as he rolled his shoulders before he sat back down.

But the tension didn’t leave him. Hesitantly, she met his eyes, thinking up stories, possibilities, lies.

“Are you seeing someone?” he blurted out suddenly. It was the last question she had expected from him. The atmosphere shifted, as she gaped at him. “If you are, you can tell me, you know.”

But there was no comfort in his words, more a nervousness that she didn’t like.

“No, Harry, I’m not seeing anyone.” It was too much the truth, and she felt the burn in her throat like she was going to cry. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was that shrug and Draco's reluctance.

He sighed in a relieved way that made her nervous. She did not want this conversation now. Ever, really, but especially not now.

“I was thinking,” he began, his voice shifting, “I mean, I’m not going to let your absence this past month go, but I was thinking, maybe you and I could go to Hogsmeade sometime?”

His voice steadied as he spoke, and Ginny discovered hers was gone as she tried to respond. The words were stuck in her throat; all her witty replies and attempts to let him down easy were gone. She settled for shaking her head slowly. “No, Harry, we can't.”

He stared at her. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it. “What? Why not?”

“Because I’m not interested in you that way anymore.”

“Oh.”

That was all he said. That was all there was to say, really. She stood, picked up her bag — making sure her sketchbook was still there, just in case — and then crossed the room and climbed up the stairs.

Her bedroom had never looked so welcoming. She pulled on her pajamas and stumbled to her bed. She crawled in and closed the curtains, lighting the small space with her wand. She tucked her sketchbook under her pillow and then opened her bag. She had jammed her comfiest sweater inside and she pulled it out. The green and black fabric was softer than anything else her mother had ever knitted for her, and she loved the way it tried to swallow her, engulfing her in warmth and comfort.

It went over her head, and she was about to push her bag off the bed when she noticed her assignment from Draco on the top of all her papers. She pulled it out, studying the diagram she had left incomplete on the table.

He had written notes in the margins, mostly words like ‘sloppy’ and ‘inefficient’ but there were parts he had underlined and put tiny checkmarks next to. On the back, he described how she should have finished it and suggested a reading on the finer tuned uses of the type of disguise potion she had been attempting.

Underneath that there was a small note. Tomorrow, was all it said, and she could tell he had been serious just by looking at the shape of the letters. She guessed that was null and void now, and she sighed. She rifled around a little bit more and pulled out Narcissa’s letter.

To love or to be loved. She stared at the words for a minute before burying herself in the covers and closing her eyes. It wasn’t even a choice really.

She finally fell asleep, exhausted, and dreamt of absolutely nothing that night.

…

It was black, blacker than normal. Blacker than anything she had drawn before. It hadn’t started off that black, but during the three hours she had spent waiting, she had redrawn the image again and again in charcoal. Her hands were black, the table was dusty, and there were most likely smudges on her face.

It had started off as a candle, but all that could be made out now was the flame, the wick, and the small amount of light surrounding it. There had been a painting in the background, books, and a person. But now it was just black.

She sneezed.

She hadn’t really been waiting for him the entire time; if he had been coming, he would have arrived within the first thirty minutes. No, she hadn’t been waiting for him; she had been waiting to find the energy to stand back up, to go back to the common room, and to maybe accept that he really hadn’t shown. She didn’t know exactly what she should feel about that, but she did know that she was angry. She just didn’t know with whom she was angry.

She blew lightly on the drawing, sending black powder across the table, before she closed it. It took a little longer to convince herself to stand, but, eventually, she did, her heart heavy and maybe more than a little bruised.

She walked slowly from the library, ignoring the snickering Ravenclaws who stared at her ruffled and dirty appearance. She ignored everything, trying not to focus on anything as she traveled down the third floor corridor, down the main stairs, taking the second left on the second floor.

Moaning Myrtle glared at her when she came into the bathroom before disappearing. She was obviously still a little sore about that whole diary incident. Ginny took the second sink on the left, washing her hands under the hot tap, before grabbing a towel to fix her face.

She stared into the mirror, looking at her pale skin, washed out by a long night and an exhausting day. Her freckles stood out angrily, dark brown defects marking her and — what was it that Draco had said last year — defining her status. And her red hair, darkened by the short winter days, made it even worse. She was all starkness, palest white, eyes too dark, hair too bright. She stood out, and not like Draco, who was watchable; she was just a sore thumb, an eyesore.

There were too many intrinsic contradictions about her. She would have loved to just blend into the background but she was incapable of it. Working against something as real as that for the past six years had only made it worse.

The hot water still running, she sank to her knees, staring at the pipes. How long had it been since she had come here?

Right after Harry, Ron, and Hermione had taken off? And then before, after she had sex with Dean, an empty, painful experience that had ended… badly. And then when she had heard about Bill going missing. And there were dozens of other occurrences, times when there was just nothing left to fight for or against.

She traced the small engraving of a snake on the pipe with her fingernail and sank back against her heels.

How foreign Parseltongue had felt in her mouth, dirty and defiling. She could remember shaping the hisses, the long ‘s’s rolling over her tongue.

Water brushed against her leg, and she looked up, startled. Myrtle had made all the toilets flood, and the puddle was growing. She groaned in irritation, before standing.

“Can't you tell that I need a little time to be alone?” she shouted.

The misty form of Myrtle emerged from the second stall, pouting, as usual. “What do I care?” she snapped in her nasally voice, “Go somewhere else. I don’t want to be miserable with you.”

Ginny gaped at her. “If you weren’t a ghost, I would punch you.”

Myrtle sniffed haughtily, before diving back into her toilet, splashing water and spreading the puddle further across the room. Ginny took a step back, and then let out an angry breath, turning and leaving the bathroom. She stalked down the passage, back to the main stair, when she saw him, the bastard, walking through the Great Hall with Zabini and, of all people, Colin.

She stomped down the stairs to the group, stopped in front of them, and shouted, “Draco Malfoy, you are a COWARD!”

The three of them stared at her, halted in their tracks, each with looks that — in any other circumstance — would have made her laugh. Instead, she felt the blush creeping up her neck. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but she thought it was Zabini, who cleared his throat politely.

“And you,” Draco said, crossing his arms, “are an idiot.”

“Right,” Zabini said, glancing between them, as Ginny mirrored Draco’s stance. “I’ll be off, then. Creevey, we have business to…” he trailed off before he just grabbed Colin’s arm and dragged him towards the stairwell.

“What was that about?” Ginny snapped.

Draco scowled at her. “None of your business.”

She just glared right back with unrestrained anger through the long silence before he raised an eyebrow at her.

“How long did you wait?”

She was shattered instantly by the tone of his voice — curious, but not mocking. She felt herself cave in, different emotions folding in on one another, until she was left with nothing.

“Long enough.”

He was stepping towards her and she really wished he wouldn’t; she wished with every little bit of her left that she could just turn and walk away. But she was falling apart on the landing of the main stair. His hand rested on her shoulder, but she didn’t look up. It was too much, the weight of his hand, of him, along with the bathroom and the candle and the red of her hair.

“Come on,” he said softly, his hand sliding down and wrapping around her wrist to tug her along behind him.

She followed soundlessly, as they crossed the Great Hall and headed toward the dungeon. He pulled her into his stairwell.

“I should have come,” he said.

She frowned at him. “Yeah.”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“Something. Anything. Nothing.”

His hand cupped her cheek, and, just for a second, she let herself lean into it before stepping back. There was solid wall behind her.

“You really are a coward.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stepped forward. Once. Twice. The wall was cold, and she dropped her sketchbook to the floor. She was trapped, trapped again by him. Or maybe she had always been trapped, caught in his snare and unable to escape. Why would you want to? a small voice whispered to her.

And then he kissed her, treading into her space, her soul. Just the tiniest brush of lips — a touch and hot breath.

“You can't–” she said, her voice cracking, “You can't kiss me like that.”

“Why not?” he whispered against her neck, moving closer. His lips brushed against her ear, just as soft. Then down her neck.

“It’s not fair, not when you play games and have mood swings and act like a fucking coward,” she said, hearing tears she did not want in her voice.

“Shh, Gin,” he whispered against her lips.

And pretenses be damned, her name on his lips was all the motivation she needed, her emotions tumbled back into her, and she kissed him. Hard. Bruising. He pressed her against the wall, his body firm against hers, as his fingers gently traveled through her hair.

It didn’t fit, all the heat, the pressure, and then patient hands, gentle touches. It was confusing, distorted, and overpowering.

She tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, and then ran cold fingers down his spine. He shuddered against her, slowing the kiss. Patient lips to match patient fingers.

She growled against his mouth and could feel his smile in response. It made her blood boil, rage building on top of desire and passion and hurt.

She shoved him away, but he just stepped forward again, his hand reaching up to continue playing with her hair.

“Stop it with the fucking games!” she snapped. “Stop trying to control me.”

He sighed, before bending down to retrieve her sketchbook. She snatched it from him and pulled it against her chest. Not the best shield, admittedly, but it made her feel safer.

He stared at her a long time, his face unreadable. “What would you have liked me to say?”

Ginny shifted uncomfortably; he was still too close.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you have liked me to say that I want to kiss you again?”

She shrugged.

“Would you have liked it if I told you that I’m even more confused than you are?”

She glared at him.

“How about, I feel more at ease when I’m with you than I ever have before?”

“Is that true?” she snapped, unable to control the tone of her voice.

He sighed. “They all are.”

She stared at him, open and waiting before her. “I guess that would have been a good start.”

He smirked at her then, familiar and comforting, and she felt herself smiling lightly back.

“It still doesn’t answer you question.”

“Wha–Which one?”

“What happens now.”

“No, I guess not.”

The silence was there again, and his hand went back to playing with her hair. The hair he was supposed to hate.

“What did you draw while you were waiting?” he asked finally, turning and starting slowly towards the stairs.

She followed him hesitantly, unsure if that was an invitation. “How do you know I was drawing?” she asked, concentrating on not slipping. The stairs appeared much more treacherous than they had before, and she gripped the banister tightly.

“You have charcoal all over your shirt,” he said, tossing a smirk up at her. “And your neck.”

She blushed a little at that, stopping on the landing and watching as he opened the door. She followed him in. The room was a mess, not at all what she had expected. There were books scattered across the floor, papers stacked haphazardly.

He shot her a look, not at all apologetic. “I was studying.”

She nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her, and watched as he lit a fire. Heat flooded the room instantly, and she felt herself relaxing easily. She crossed to the bed and sat down, sinking into the duvet.

She let herself fall backwards and sank into the down feather version heaven. She sighed contentedly. “This is the most comfortable bed ever.”

“Really?” he asked, “It gives me horrible back pains.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Spoiled brat.”

He sat down on the other side of the bed, leaning back next to her. “It’s a bit soft.”

It felt like Ginny’s heart had stopped it was beating so fast. She closed her eyes again and tried to control her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. That seemed normal.

“So, what did you draw?” he asked.

She rolled over towards him and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Darkness.”

He turned his head to look at her, and the silence was back.

“We missed dinner,” she said, glancing up at the clock.

“You missed dinner,” he corrected pointedly.

“You ate?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “But I went looking for you.”

She smiled at him, reaching over to touch his hair. “Why didn’t you just look in the library?”

“I figured you had already left.”

Ginny thought about the slowly traveling hands of the clock which had stared down at her and mocked her impatience. “No, I was still there.”

He pulled himself upright, reaching back to muss her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“You apologize too much,” she said, kicking off her shoes and moving across the bed. She felt strangely awkward about how comfortable she was here, but she brushed it aside.

“What else would you have me do?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

She grinned, leaning over to whisper in his ear, “Stop doing things that you need to apologize for.”

“Gin,” he sighed, leaning back against her.

“I guess I’ll have to forgive you,” she said grudgingly, a smile hovering over her lips.

He sank back even further and Ginny let them fall onto the mattress.

“You have too much faith in me,” he said, his eyes closed.

She turned to look down at him, but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

So she kissed him.

…

It was only April, and it was already ridiculously warm. Ginny walked towards the lake Friday night as the sun set slowly, dipping orange fingers into itself.

She settled on the grass, just looking, the beauty seeming crystallized as the sun sank towards its destination, diving into the water. The final descent took an hour; and she waited, peacefully, for the air to turn crisp and sting. She leaned back and stared upwards. The hill she sat on raised her above most else, and only a small portion of the mountains was visible if she looked right, the highest turrets of the castle to the left.

It had been a dizzying few weeks — weeks of light conversations and brief kisses; and Ginny was very patiently waiting for the other shoe to drop. He smiled more, was more willing to re-explain things when they occasionally bothered to study, and was always touching her — as if to remind himself that she was still there. It was wonderful, yes, and just being with him filled her with a happiness she didn’t really understand. But there was something in his eyes when he spoke to her, a distance that he was trying not to breach.

She was sinking into a light doze, as stars appeared, first one, then two, then dozens. Tiny pinpricks in the greater canvas.

And when he came, she heard him long before she could see him, his footfalls treading lightly on the grass, leaving hardly any mark. He sat down next to her and stretched out his long legs.

“I thought you were studying.”

“I got bored. I thought you were heading back to the tower.”

“Ron’s a little angry with me.”

She turned slightly, and saw him looking out over the lake.

“Why?” he asked without turning his head.

“I think Harry may have told him what happened.”

Draco glanced down at her, grinning wickedly. “What happened?”

She reached over and swatted him. “Are you gloating?” The smirk was replaced by a look of utter innocence. “Thought so. He asked me out.”

“Oblivious Harry Potter finally asked out besotted Ginny Weasley?”

“Yes. And I am not besotted!”

“Maybe not anymore.” Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, and he chuckled. “I can't believe how childish you are.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He smirked lightly and turned to look out over the lake.

She reached for him and found his hand. She brushed her fingers across it lightly, before resting her own on top of it. They sat like that until all the stars came out, the sunset fading into darkness, the sky empty of all but those tiny pinpricks of light.

“Come inside with me,” he said, pulling her back from near sleep again. “I need someone there to keep me focused.”

“That is the last thing I’ll be doing,” she responded sleepily.

Through half-closed eyelids, she watched him smile at her before she stretched and started to stand. “I’ll go first, if you leave, I’ll just fall asleep.”

She ran her fingers through his hair as she started to walk away, not looking back until she reached the top of the stairs. He was still sitting, staring out at the lake. He glowed in the night, pale skin, pair hair, white shirt. Ginny stared for a moment at what would make a perfect painting, before she stepped through the doors, all peace and reverence.

She let herself into his rooms and walked, without hesitation, over to the bed. She kicked off her shoes, sending one accidentally under the bed, and laid down. It was cold in the room, and she glanced balefully over at the hearth before making a nest out of the duvet, bundling in his scent and feeling perfectly comfortable. He came in five minutes later, but she was already mostly asleep. He walked over and placed a kiss on her forehead, the only part of her visible, before he crossed to his desk. Ginny drifted off to the scratching of his fountain pen on parchment.

…

There was something tickling her foot, rapidly moving fingers across the sole. She jerked her foot to the left, but it just came back with more force. She tried to wiggle away, deeper into her cloud, but they were persistent hands. She jerked away again.

But her spell was broken, and the tickling didn’t stop. Groaning, Ginny tucked her feet under her, slowly opening her eyes.

“Finally,” Draco said, “I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

She moaned groggily, and twisted onto her side, pulling the blanket with her. “Go ‘way.”

He laughed at her, and she felt the bed shift as he climbed up next to her. She was waking slowly, the long cottony threads that held her to sleep falling away. She forced her eyes to open again, and caught him staring down at her.

She tossed an exaggerated pout at him. “I was dreaming.”

“I know. You talk in your sleep.”

She felt herself blushing under that unwavering look.

“It was very colorful.”

She reached up and rested her hand on his neck, and he dipped his head, kissing her forehead. He started to pull away, but she didn’t let go.

“What did I say?” she asked, rising to meet his lips with her own and bringing herself back into the world.

The last of sleep fell away as he kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulled her against him, heat building as they tried to get closer.

“You made that noise you make, when I kiss you right here,” Draco whispered against her lips as his fingers traced circles against the skin below her ear. He leaned over and kissed it, and she tipped her head back, a small moan escaping. “And then you said my name.”

His teeth traveled slowly down her neck, and she suddenly realized that they were very much in a bed and not in the library, not in his stairwell, not in the abandoned corridor on the way back to the Gryffindor tower.

“Impossible,” she said, hardly recognizing the throaty whisper that came out of her mouth.

“How’s that?” he asked, kissing along her collarbone and across her shoulder. She longed for those lips on bared skin.

“I always remember those dreams,” she said, pulling him down onto the bed with her.

She could feel his smile against her lips as he kissed her, long and heated, but still holding back. Her hands started on the top buttons shakily. One. Two. Three. Four. And then she could reach his chest, the skin hot and flushed beneath her fingertips. She imagined the red indentations she would leave, if only briefly, and she pressed harder. She was all but begging him to let go.

His lips found purchase on her neck again, placing open-mouth kisses along her throat, and she moaned, forgetting the buttons and just tugging impatiently.

“You’re going to rip it,” he said against her earlobe, spiking heat through her stomach.

“You have dozens more.”

He bit down on the skin and she shuddered.

Five, six, seven, eight. The last button came undone and she slipped her hands around his waist, pulling him down towards her. She bit his lip when he resisted, and he groaned — the most delicious sound she had ever heard.

And when he kissed her this time, she could tell that she had almost won. Whatever edge he was teetering on, he was about to fall. Because it wasn’t fair that she was the only one falling, faster and faster, the blood rushing in her ears, and his mouth on hers.

A tiny bit of fear fisted in her stomach as his hands slipped under her skirt, pulling her hips to his, and despite the fire, the pleasure, the way her skin burned beneath his touch, this didn’t even have a definition yet, and—

“Gin,” he said, pulling back slightly and resting his forehead on hers. “We have to stop.”

She blanked totally, trying to get her breathing back under control, to stifle the disappointment, the relief.

“Why?”

“Gin, I just… can’t. Not to you.”

He pulled away and sat as far away from her as the bed would allow.

“What does that mean?” she asked, reaching for him.

He shrugged her hand away. She crawled across the space and settled down behind him, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

He was tense, but after a moment, he relaxed against her, reaching up to touch her hair, curling it around his fingers. He took a deep breath, and then another.

“I just–”

“Did I, I mean, did I…?” Ginny interrupted him.

“No, it’s not–”

“I mean it’s just because, well–”

“Look, Gin,” he said, cutting her off. “This isn’t exactly the least difficult thing I’ve ever had to say, so will you please stop interrupting me?”

She shut up, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him a bit closer. He released her hair and took a deep breath, turning so that they were almost facing one another.

“It’d be totally different if you were just another easy…”

“Actually, I’m trying incredibly hard to be easy,” she said with a grin when he trailed off.

He shot her his ‘please shut up’ look, but she could see the smile crinkling at the edge of his eyes.

“But you’re not. Not like that. Not for me. And–”

“Draco,” she said, interrupting him again. “Shut up.”

His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth. But she cut him off with laughter, throwing her head back and releasing some of the tension. When the humor finally abated, she found him watching her.

“You are absolutely insane,” he muttered.

“Yes,” she teased, poking him. “And you respect me, admit it!”

He turned on her, reaching out to tickle her, his hands slipping under her shirt and finding bare skin. She shrieked with laughter as he pinned her to the bed, her giggles turning into breathy sighs as his lips followed his fingers’ path.

“I admit it,” he said finally, rolling off her and propping himself up on his elbow.

She wanted to say it, right then. To tell him how she felt in no uncertain terms, but the words caught in her throat and she was stuck just staring at him. He smiled at her, reaching over to brush his fingers across her lips.

She sighed — the touch a benediction, a prayer — reverential and sacred. Her eyes closed and she rolled across the bed, into his arms.

He pulled her back against his chest, his arm curling around her and holding her tightly to him. Her mind slowly shut down as she relaxed against him, drifting off.

“Gin,” he whispered, combing her hair away from her ear. “You can't stay.”

She elbowed him lightly. “I just want five more minutes.”

He laughed against her ear, his lips running over the shell. “Okay.”

She sighed, relaxed further, and let go.

…

When she woke up, she could tell it was morning. She was cold and there were people talking; her eyes slid open slowly. She was in the Gryffindor common room, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting across from her, whispering softly.

Draco must have brought her back and dumped her on the couch. She could vaguely remember being draped across his back, piggy-back fashion, and trying — and failing — to tell him the password. (It was 'Ronald Weasley is a great big lump' — Hermione had changed it after their last fight.)

Hermione glanced up and saw her opened eyes. The older girl smiled warmly, and Ginny felt momentarily reassured.

“Where have you been?” Ron growled angrily.

Her eyes darted to her brother's anxiously. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ginny,” Harry said with a sigh from the other side of the couch. “I told you I was worried. You’ve been gone most nights for the past two months."

“Has it really been that long?” she asked sitting up. It was already April sixteenth. Four days until her evaluation.

Ron glared at her. “Yes.”

She felt herself start to panic. Four days? She had to study.

“Sorry, guys, I have to go.”

She started to stand, that dreaded feeling that she got when she slept in her clothes washing over her. Ron stood too, cutting off her escape.

“Sit!” he barked.

She stepped back and sat down, hardly even noticing her own obedience. But her anger bubbled up around her as she stared at their faces. Harry’s hurt look, Hermione’s embarrassed one, and Ron’s anger. She took a deep breath.

“Let’s start simple, where were you last night?” Ron asked.

Ginny bit her lip. That was a hard one to answer. “None of your business.”

Ron bristled. “Of course it’s my business, you’re my sister.”

“So?” she asked angrily. “You’re my brother and I don’t demand to know where you are all the fucking time!”

“Ginny,” he said warningly.

“No!” she snapped back. “Shut up and keep out of my life. I don’t care if you think I’m making the biggest mistakes of my life or ruining everything or being just in general stupid. IT IS MY LIFE! And I get to make MY OWN CHOICES! AND MY OWN MISTAKES!”

She stormed away from them and towards the stairs, anger pumping through her veins. It was slightly refreshing though, waking her up, refocusing her desire to do well. She scrubbed herself clean in the shower, dressed, and then headed to the library. It was already ten and in four days she would have to ace her Potions evaluation. A new determination filled her and she flipped through her notes from the year with a focused calm.

She’d be damned if she let Ron win.

...

“You look busy,” Draco said, joining her at their table several hours later.

She murmured in response but didn’t look up.

He opened a book across the table and got to work. The only problem with this was that his knees almost touched hers under the table. She could feel his body heat, smell his scent. He was close enough to touch, and she could lean across the table, grab him, and kiss him.

It was these thoughts that drove her to look up. He was staring at his book, his eyes darting left to right as he read. He looked edible in his grey sweater, his collarbone peeking out of the v-neck. She stared at the skin stretched across his neck, remembering the taste of it. Her fingers tapped against her book, and she pursed her lips.

“You have to leave,” she said.

He looked up. “What?”

“You have to leave,” she said again, staring directly into his eyes.

“Why?”

She frowned. “I can't concentrate with you here.”

He cocked his left eyebrow, stretching his legs out underneath the table. She had to move her own to accommodate them, and she glared as she did so.

“Why not?”

“You smell good.”

He smiled at that. “I’m afraid that I can't leave. I have to study, and I can concentrate much better if you’re around.”

“Liar,” she snapped. “You just want to drive me crazy.”

“That too,” he said with a smirk. “I was thinking about that love sonnet. It would be quite funny to see Snape’s face when you tell him that nature created him for your pleasure.”

She glared at him. “If I lose the bet because of you, I will never forgive you. And my singing voice will deafen you.”

He was still smiling at her with a fondness she didn’t understand.

“Fine, stay,” she said. “I’ll leave.”

“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you just breathe through your mouth? And then we can both study.”

She glared at him for a moment before her glare broke, and she chuckled drily. “Fine, we’ll both stay, but you’ll have to forgive me if I spontaneously combust.”

“You study with me all the time,” he said dismissively. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

She doubted that, but leaned over her textbook in response. It wasn't really all that bad, having him here was only slightly distracting; and when she concentrated, she realized that she heard the words she read in his voice anyway.

Two hours passed that way when she realized she had a massive crick in her neck. She paused to stretch and caught Draco looking emotionlessly out the window.

“Draco,” she said softly, “What are you thinking about?”

“You talk a lot in your sleep,” he said after a long silence.

She almost didn’t hear him at all. It was only because she was staring at him staring out the window.

“I thought we went over this already.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about it.”

“Did I say something when you took me back to the tower?” she asked, making a few notes on the margins of her notebook paper. She glanced up at his face, taking in the contemplative stare and the suspicion lurking in his eyes.

“Nothing that made any sense.”

The way he said it left her feeling a little uneasy, but she forced herself to look away and return to her book.

“Ginny,” he said a few minutes later, and she glanced up, confused. He had never called her that before.

“What?” she asked, trying to ignore the cold fist in her stomach.

“I don't think we should do this.”

Her breath caught in her throat, feeling almost as though she had been ripped open; she didn’t even need to ask what he was talking about.

“Wha–why?”

“I just don’t think that the two of us together will be worth it.”

“Not worth it? Why not?” she said, her throat constricting painfully, even as anger spiked in her belly. “I thought you and I were good together.”

“It’s not as simple as all that, Gin.”

She glared at him. “Don’t talk to me about simplicity.”

“Look, I'm not trying to patronize you, I’m just saying that there is no one who would accept us as a couple and, anyway, I’m leaving. I don’t want to be your secret, and I know you don’t want to be mine.”

“Don’t assume anything,” she snapped, feeling slightly nauseous. “Plus, your mother would definitely accept us.”

He sighed. “You're making this really difficult.”

“Well, what would you like me to do? Just give up like you're doing now?” she snapped, the anger taking over now.

He was staring at his hands and his hair had fallen in his eyes, but Ginny could tell that she had gotten to him.

“I'm not 'giving up'. I just think that you — we — should take some time. Consider more carefully what you want, what you're asking – not just of me, but also of yourself.”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes across the table and she furiously started gathering her books.

“Good luck on your NEWTs,” she said, her voice laced with cold fury before she stalked from the library.

…

Ginny did a very good job of pretending that she didn’t care. She made it through the next four days, did what she felt to be an excellent job on her Potions evaluation, and then trudged back to the common room. With nothing else driving her, she fell onto one of the couches, and then proceeded to sleep through the rest of her Wednesday.

The noises in the evening pulled her from her doze, but she didn’t move, choosing instead to lie silently. Her eyes cracked open, and she watched the shifting of colors, the reds and the golds and the blacks, fading together in a cold haze, as people darted around the room and laughed, the sounds mixing, the colors blending, the feelings fading.

But that was how it was supposed to work, she told herself. Time forgives no man; life makes no exceptions. She allowed herself one night and one day to brood, and then she stopped. She forced herself to get up, to finish her Transfiguration special project, her Herbology essay, and the other work that was piling up, forgotten. It was the end of term, finals were in less than two weeks, and she had so much to catch up on.

So she forced herself to work, to pretend, to keep moving.

But, apparently, the only person she had convinced was herself. Even Snape had stared at her worriedly when he had handed back her evaluation marks. She had smiled at him and thanked him as she shoved them deep into her bag.

It was like a chunk of her was missing, the chunk that inspired her. It hadn’t always belonged to him, she had been fine before she had accidentally tumbled into his mother, before she had seem him smile, but now that he was gone, he had taken that huge chunk of her with him.

A far larger chunk than she thought he deserved.

The hardest part, though, was the sense that it wasn’t over, that he was asking her to reevaluate what she wanted, but she had no idea what she wanted either. He was leaving, that much was true, and he was also Malfoy and she was Weasley, and there was no escaping that. He had said that they might not be worth it; it hurt her to think that he may have been right.

So it was with a heavy heart that she sat down in the common room the Friday before exams, joining her brother and Hermione on the couch.

“Are you okay, Gin?” Ron asked tentatively.

“Huh?” she responded, looking up. “Yeah, how were NEWTs?”

He nodded, “Survivable, but I’m glad I’ll never have to do anything as painful as that again. Worse than Crucio.”

Ginny laughed lightly before glancing at Hermione. “You survive as well?”

Hermione nodded quickly, “But I’m a bit worried at the state of our workforce, I mean, is that all we’re expected to know? The most important things from each exam were left off. I made notes at the end, but if that's all that’s required of a person to earn a NEWT in…”

Ginny began to block her out as Hermione went into an in depth description of why it was necessary to understand the political ramifications of a treaty written between Goblins and Centaurs in the late seventeen forties, choosing instead to count the horizontal rows of tiles above the hearth.

“Ginny?” Ron whispered softly. “Are you really okay? The past few weeks you’ve been strangely quiet.”

She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. I've just been stressed out waiting for results and prepping for exams. I'm glad it's almost all over."

“You haven’t gotten your Potions results yet?” he asked, confused.

“Uh, maybe I have.” Digging through her bag with a frown, she pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Here they are.”

Ron gaped at his sister. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked as Hermione stared at the paper she'd snatched from Ginny’s hands.

“Congratulations, Ginny!”

Ginny looked over at Hermione from the hearth. “What?”

“You did amazingly, you'll definitely pass!”

Hermione looked so happy, Ginny tried to smile back at her. But there was a burden on her shoulders that was weighing her down. She glanced up at Ron, who looked a bit green, but still incredibly concerned.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

Hermione handed the sheet over, and there it was: a giant green ‘O’ at the top with a paragraph long comment underneath in Snape’s scrawling hand. And suddenly, Ginny was laughing, because it hadn’t all been pointless. He had helped her and maybe she had helped him, but it didn’t really matter all that much because love had changed her; it's the only thing that ever really would. She could look at her life and the person that she was and the person that she is, and it's her loves that had made her that way. There was nothing to be but grateful for that.

It wasn’t exactly clarity, but it was acceptance.

She laughed until she cried and then she stood up, staring into Ron’s startled blue eyes, her own narrowing wickedly.

“Next week, after finals. I hope you didn’t try to burn those old dress robes.”

Ron swallowed heavily and she cackled, before heading up the stairs to her dorm. Next week was finals week. She still had a lot of studying to do, there was no reason to give up yet.

…

Ginny let out a great whooping call as she stepped out of the castle on Thursday afternoon. Everything was finished and there was nothing but the next three days!

She felt loose and light and even though there was nothing she wanted to do more than go curl up in Draco’s bed and sleep for decades, she knew, after weeks of silence, that it wasn’t really an option. He had been pretty absent from her line of sight for the first week after their argument, but he had slowly started cropping up again, talking to Blaise and Colin in the hall — though Colin would never fill her in — or sitting next to Pansy at the Slytherin table.

He had finished his NEWTs on the previous Friday and had apparently thrown a massive party in the Room of Requirement. Even Harry and Hermione had come back slightly tipsy, a very drunk Ron suspended between their shoulders. But Ginny hadn’t heard from him, she hadn’t even caught him looking in her direction.

There was a huge crowd gathering on the hill in front of the lawn and Colin peered at it curiously. “What’s going on, I wonder?”

Ginny grinned. “It’s the bet, come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the stairs at a run. “There is no way I am missing this.”

They laughed together as the reached the crest of the hill, and though Ginny had been prepared for it, she couldn’t stop the hysterical giggles when she saw Ron. In his hands he held a Muggle CD player that Hermione had rigged for these purposes, and he was dressed in his fourth year dress robes which were really, really far too small for him. They were much too short and too tight across the chest.

Colin collapsed onto the ground in laughter and Ron shot him a withering look. The front door of the school opened again and again, letting more and more students out, all of whom joined the crowd watching Ron, hysteria taking over.

He was growing angrier, and angrier, and the show hadn’t even started yet.

After a while, he cleared his throat anxiously, looking at Ginny. “This is for my sister, who is wonderful and talented and so much smarter than me.”

“Than I,” Hermione hissed, through her chortles.

He rolled his eyes– “Than I” –before pressing the play button on the stereo. The first notes of a violin sonata had only just sounded over the space when a cold voice interrupted.

“What is going on here?”

The crowd parted and Snape appeared at the back. Ron turned an even brighter red, and shuffled on his feet, but the horrified look on Snape’s face was by far funnier than any face Ron could make.

Ginny stifled her laughter, and turned to Snape. “Professor, my brother has prepared a performance to celebrate the end of his school career, you should stay and watch.”

A flash of blond hair behind him, but then it was gone and Snape was nodding cruelly. “Very well.”

Ron turned to glare at her. “I am going to kill you. Slowly.”

“Aww,” she said, grinning sweetly, “Such loving words, darling brother. Weren’t you going to dance, though, instead of talk?”

And so it began, plie, pirouette, arabesque, grand jeté, and again and again. The crowd roared with laughter, and Ron turned bright red. The funniest thing about it, though, was his grace. There he was, in hideous maroon dress robes with lacy trim that were far too small and clashed horribly with his hair, but he was good — each turn perfect, his extension remarkable.

It wasn’t long before the laughter turned into cheers, a rambunctious group of students all enjoying the show. Ginny turned to look back at Snape, who appeared to be fighting a very strong urge to spontaneously combust, which just made Ginny laugh even harder. And then, there it was again, that flash of pale blond hair, walking away.

Ginny’s spirit soared, freed by her laughter, and she started to chase after him. Someone called to her but it was all just noise.

She grabbed his arm when she caught up to him, at the very bottom of the hill. “Draco,” she said, smiling at him broadly.

He smiled lightly back, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Your brother has extraordinarily unexpected grace.”

Ginny pouted. “I know, it’s almost not fair. Maybe I should have made him sing opera instead.”

Draco laughed, and then they faded back into silence. He reached up and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, curling it around his finger. He looked soft and sort of sad as he asked her, “What did you want?”

She stared at him for a moment, his eyes focused on the curl wrapped around his finger.

“I want you to kiss me.”

He glanced at her, surprised, and his left eyebrow cocked. "What?"

“The war’s over, Draco, stop looking for things to fight against and kiss me, right here, right no–”

And so he did, cutting her off as he pulled her into his arms tightly, his lips on hers, his hands buried fully in her hair.

Ginny kissed him back hungrily, letting herself feel full again for the first time in weeks, her hands sliding around him and holding him against her. She was sinking, sighing, sailing. The kiss wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t harsh; it was a reaffirmation. A declaration. A promise. It was warm and slow, tired and fresh.

They hardly noticed the silence surrounding them, until a very distinct voice shouted, “WHAT THE HELL?”

Ginny pulled away, startled, her face flushed and happy, to look directly at Ron. And what a sight. The tight burgundy robes pulled at his shoulders as he strained to get through the crowd, his face slowly growing redder and redder.

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK IS GOING ON?”

And Ginny just laughed, fully and heartily, her head thrown back soaking up the sun. She grabbed Draco’s hand, cutting off whatever witty response he had for her brother as she started dragging him quickly back to the castle.

“Run,” she shouted, laughing, as their feet carried them away from the crowd.

There was nothing more right, more perfect, than the way she felt just then. And when she glanced at Draco, half a step behind, she knew he felt the same way. Love changes you, inevitably — sometimes for better, sometimes for worse — but there is always change.

To love or to be loved? Why not just do both?

...