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A/N: All the regular disclaimers apply.
Do you know the way to San Jose? ...sorry, had to get it out there. Can't really say why.
When will the stream be aweary of flowing
Under my eye?
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
Over the sky?
When will the coulds be aweary of fleeting?
When will the heart be aweary of beating?
And nature die?
Never, O, never, nothing will die;
The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,
Nothing will die.
-- Tennyson (Nothing Will Die)
I'll gloss over the details of the beginning of this journey, for in this instance they really are particularly prosaic, mundane even. Simply put, she became important to me simply because she wasn't important. Allow me to explain; because she wasn't overly anything to anyone, she came to mean something to me. Paranoia led me to believe that she had orchestrated the 'coincidental' meetings we had. That possibility was quickly refuted when I realized that half the times we met it was because I had walked into a room she was already in, rooms that she couldn't possibly have foretold I would enter.
I remember one Friday night after dinner, Professor Flitwick had informed the class that if our current essay was turned in before Saturday then ten percent would be automatically added to the final grade, and I was about to transfigure a sickle into a pin in order to tack my scroll to the door, when I heard voices. I knocked once and entered. Both she and Flitwick turned in their seats to look at me, him with a polite questioning look and her with a slight frown. I blatantly stared at her longer than necessary; my mother would have been appalled. She looked excited, but tired. And no, not excited about my presence, she seemed annoyed at that particular occurrence. I later found out that her excitement that day had been due to her perfect score on the latest charms test, which was why she was in the room; Flitwick had called her in to tell her the results that night. The professor interrupted my staring to ask the reason for my being there, in a very polite manner of course. One of the reasons I've always liked Professor Flitwick was because, despite his somewhat provincial heritage, his etiquette has always been impeccable. Anyway. I then looked at Professor Flitwick and informed him that I had completed the essay, to which he responded that I hardly needed the bonus but that he supposed without it, even if I were to get a perfect grade, my average would drop. He then praised me for my diligence in his class, I inclined my head slightly, bid him goodnight, and then left. I never looked at her after my initial lapse of propriety. It was after this particular meeting between us that I began to realize the true coincidence of our previous encounters.
We never touched. Ever. In fact, to this day I have never touched her. Not because I didn't particularly want to, and not because of some silly romantic notion that if I touched her I could never let her go. We simply never did. Occasionally we would talk, rarely about anything of consequence. It was safer that way. We had light, pithy, and surprisingly witty conversations. I would smirk and she would laugh. But more often than not we would merely acknowledge each other with a nod of the head and promptly get back to whatever it was that each of us happened to be doing.
I do remember hearing soft crying as I entered the empty library one other Friday afternoon. I followed the sounds and found her between the stacks hugging her shins, her head resting on her knees as her shoulders shook. She spared a watery glance to see who was watching her and then turned her head back to her knees and resumed crying. I stared at her for a moment longer, she did look rather atrocious, with splotchy red skin and red-rimmed eyes, and then I sat down where I stood, several yards in front of her, and began my homework.
After a few minutes the crying stopped, and a few minutes after that I heard her stand up. I gathered my things and stood while she waited. She then stepped slowly, but precisely closer, and stared at me for a few moments before saying, "Thank you." And then she continued right by me as I watched her leave.
It wasn't until a week later when I passed Finnigan hugging Brown as she cried that I thought that perhaps that is what I should have done, hugged her that is. But the thought faded, because she had thanked me, which means I must have done the right thing.
I graduated a few minutes ago, and she was there.
And that was when I realized I wanted her to always be there.
I wouldn't go so far as to say I needed her to be there, because no one really needs another person, not in any specific way. But I knew at that moment that something would always be missing if she weren't there.
It isn't love, one has to believe in love in order to be in love. And I can't even remember being fond of my parents as a child. Not that I hated them. I knew my place, just as they did. I knew I was a necessary part of the picture, just as they knew they were. Despite common belief, my father never beat me, he would never resort to physical violence in order to exert his authority, he considered such actions far too base. I never feared him, and to do as he said was simply the order of things, something I never even thought to question.
And then there was mother. She performed the part of the doting, yet dignified and reserved, wife and mother magnificently. She never gave what she didn't expect back, she was always meticulous like that. I never craved a mothering hand, for I had never been given one, and if such were to occur now I would simply feel smothered. But back to the woman at hand…
To say that I would kill anyone who hurt her, without hesitation, doesn't mean that I love her. I want her just the way she is, with her innocence perfectly in tact, and that simply wouldn't be the case if she were to get hurt. I'm not possessive of her, she can fuck who she pleases. But she must always be in my life.
The Ministry went on what amounted to an inquisition of epic proportions, and the only reason I escaped their mass prosecution of all those connected to the Dark Lord was due to my age. And to imagine that as a child I had done nothing but bemoan my youth and curse it as the inconvenience it appeared to be. I was silently present at the farcical hearings my parents received throughout the month of June following my sixth year. And I say farcical for that is precisely what they were. The final verdict itself was absolutely irrefutable, but the trial procedure was ludicrous; it seemed as if the courts refused to waste their time proving guilt when they simply knew there was guilt to be found. The whole wizarding world was aware of what happened and none of them thought anything of it. I assume that my parents never argued because they knew, just as the world knew, that they were guilty, that it wouldn't make a difference. In any event, raging against the inevitable would be undignified. The results would have been the same had the trial been conducted properly, however, if there was one thing that the Dark Lord taught me it was that often the ends do not justify the means. If the wizarding legal system wants to shred it's own constitution, then so be it. Provided neither I nor she gets caught in the cross-fire.
My parents weren't dragged away from me screaming, they would never allow themselves to even be accused of doing something so indecorous. They simply stood, their faces carefully blank, unassuming and unsurprised as countless cameras flashed around them. They didn't even share a glance between themselves, or me for that matter, before complacently holding their arms out to be magically bound and led away. There was nothing emotional or sentimental about the event at all, it was all rather anticlimactic, actually.
I do remember feeling at a loss as they were taken away, and I stared at the door that had closed behind them for some time. But soon the camera flashes were on me and as quickly as possible I made it out the door and fled home. As I entered Malfoy Manor I realized that the loss I felt wasn't precisely for my parents, rather it was for the familiarity that they had represented. This particular revelation occurred to me as I was walking up the opulent marble staircase that one was faced with upon entering Malfoy Manor. I was on the 17th stair, (I remember for it was something of a habit to count them) about half-way up the staircase, when I paused mid-step and placed my foot back down with the other and simply stared at the blank wall in front of me.
It hadn't always been blank, in fact it hadn't ever been blank for as long as I could remember. A painting had hung there, had always hung there. And now it didn't. There was nothing overly special about the painting, naturally it had had to be something impressive though, being so centrally located. It was of a man in 14th century clothing, beyond that, I can't recall. It had never mattered to me. And I must confess to not being particularly impressed by men who wore 'pantaloons', and had thus never deemed it worth further scrutiny. I don't know why it was gone, I suppose it could have been taken by the overly zealous ministry officials who had raided the Manor at the first opportunity. But I honestly don't know.
What I do know is that the way I felt when I noticed that the painting was missing was exactly the same way I felt when my parents were taken away. And I knew with absolute certainty that I didn't miss that painting, which meant that I must have missed what it represented; familiarity. And I remember thinking that the empty space would have to be filled. I turned around and went back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I knew a house-elf would be found, and I informed it of what had to be done. And the very next morning the space was filled and the problem rectified. And though it wasn't quite the same as before, it was close enough, and I knew that over time this new painting would become familiar to me. And it did.
I have just finished being congratulated by Professor Snape, he and the other professors are particularly distracted due to the presence of the Weasley Twins. I am of the firm opinion that they're given far more credit than is their due. It was perhaps Professor Snape's reaction to the fall of the Dark Lord was most prevalent to me; it wasn't that he smiled more, if at all, but that he didn't scowl as often that signaled a lighter period was reigning. My parents are not present, of course, and I haven't received any word from them since the time they were arrested. They ensured that all legal and family inheritance matters were kept up to date, thus also ensuring that there was no need to communicate with me. Though I'm not sure if their lack of communication is due to a lack of necessity or a lack of ability. Something else that needs to be looked into.
Here she comes. I think she pities me. I smirk slightly at the idea of this poor, second-hand clothed girl pitying me. Though I am certainly not surprised. She's smiling as comes to a stop before me, handing me a glass of lemonade. I thank her and taste the drink. Not exactly my idea of lemonade, not tart enough, but I suppose a drink is a drink and it is only polite to accept it.
"Hello, Draco."
"Good morning."
There's a pause as she positions herself next to me and we both look out over the crowd. I glance at her and notice she is still smiling slightly.
"It's a wonderful day to graduate on," she comments.
"Yes, it is," and I find myself surprised that I honestly mean it.
"I got you a present, for your graduation that is." She's nervous and her cheeks are turning slightly pink, which is rather endearing. She finally raises her head, at the same time shifting to stand in front of me, and I can tell she's resisting the urge to shuffle her feet. I look at her expectantly, wondering what in Merlin's name she could have possibly afforded to buy me that I would actually want. She reaches into her robe pocket and fumbles around for a moment before pulling out a quill, but it doesn't look like a normal quill. It's slytherin green and is noticeably thicker than a normal quill. She slowly extends her hand and I take it and inspect it.
"I was in Hogsmeade a few weeks ago and I saw it and noticed the colour and that it was one of those new quills that you can fill up with ink. So I bought it for you. I don't suppose it really is for your graduation, just seemed as good an excuse as any," she babbles on, and would continue to do so if I don't interrupted her.
"Thank you."
She breaks off and stares at me, "You're welcome." She looks like she's confused and somewhat frustrated and I can tell that for the moment she's somewhere else. She shakes her head slightly, as if she's decided she'll deal with whatever problem just arose at another time. "So…what are you going to spend the rest of your life doing?"
I can't say the question is unexpected; every single person I've come into contact with today, whether they actually wanted to know or were just being polite, has asked me that question. And I find that even from her it frustrates me. I'm 19, how am I supposed to know what I'm going to spend the rest of my life doing?
"Making you happy."
Holy shit.
Where the hell did that come from?!
"Wh-wh-what?" She stutters, and though she looks dumbfounded she can't possibly look as staggered as I do right now.
"My goal in life is to make you happy," I drop my cup and clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from speaking and I stumble back a step trying to get away. My eyes are wide with astonishment and fear and I'm looking around frantically, looking for an exit, looking anywhere but at her. No! Stop! Don't look at her! Shit! I'm looking at her and I'm frozen, I can't move, I can't even remove my hand from my mouth, not that that is something that I would want to be doing in my current state of raw honesty. Wait…I look down at her hand, the one holding the cup. Fred and George. I spin abruptly, inelegantly, to where I had seen them before. A significant crowd has gathered and it takes a few moments of frenzied scanning to find them. They clearly hadn't expected her to give me the other cup because they look even more shocked than I do, in fact, the only way their jaws could hang any lower would be if they were dislocated.
She moves around in front of me again and I can see in her eyes that she knows what has happened. My hand is still over my mouth and there is no way that I am removing it, I refuse to, it just isn't going to happen. At least my breathing has relaxed. But a person can only look so composed while holding their hand over their mouth.
"They didn't know I was going to give one to you," she defends, "I told them I was going to take Hermione and Ron the cups, not that I was going to keep one for myself and give the other one to you." She's upset, and I don't want her to be upset, but I can't help but be grateful that it is her talking and not me. "They know that Ron never would have accepted anything from them," and she's still talking but I can't hear what she's saying, all I know is that everything she's saying is the truth. It has to be. Which means that everything that I said was the truth. Oh goddess…
I faze in again as I hear her saying the same thing over and over. "Why? Why do you want to make me happy?" No! No questions! The answer springs from my mouth before I can stop it, and to be perfectly honest (as if I have any other choice), I have no idea what I said. I tense. And time draws on as I think frantically, trying to remember what I must have said "I want you", it's the only thing that I can think of. Shit! This is bad! Really, really bad!
What is she doing?! I slump slightly in relief as she reaches for the hand covering my mouth and I realize that my hand is in fact STILL covering my mouth, thus explaining why I didn't hear what I said. Thank Merlin. Wait! Wait! Wait! Nonononono! She's pulling my hand away and I can't stop her! Does it mean that I don't WANT to stop her?!!
"Why?" She asks again softly.
I'm frozen, but I still feel compelled to speak. I do so in the softest voice I can manage, and I still don't know what I said. I hope to whatever deity is listening that she doesn't hear me say "I want you", that would not be good. It would be bad. Really. Really. Bad.
Shit, she's leaning closer. "Why?" She asks again. Again I whisper the words, but this time she heard me. I can tell. She's in shock, she finally drops the lemonade cup, staggers back a bit and brings a hand to her own mouth, her own eyes now wide. Oh SHIT! What did I say?!! Did she really hear me say "I want you"?!! PLEASE NO! I have to know!
I unfreeze and almost trip over my own feet in an effort to get to her. "What did I say?" I ask desperately as I grab both of her arms, doing my best not to hurt her. She mumbles something into her hand and I reach up slowly and gently tug her hand from her mouth. "What did I say?" I ask almost as softly as before.
She drags in a breath, "You said, 'Because I love you, Ginny Weasley'."
Well, damn. This is so much worse.
I close my eyes and let out a resigned breath. "It's true," I say in as normal a voice as I can manage. It's true, and I know it is, and so does she now. I try to let her go and gain my bearings, but find that I can't let her go. Oh Merlin, I can't let her go. And then the realization that I would care if she screwed anyone else follows. And I know that this is so much more than familiarity and that she is so much more than 'important' to me. And I know, I just know, that this is love. And it feels good and nice and it hurts. And I even like that it hurts. When did I become a masochist?
I don't know how much time is passed, but I still have one hand holding her arm, the other holding her hand, and my eyes are now squeezed so tightly closed that they ache. I slowly force them open and look hesitantly at her. Which pisses me off because I've never done anything 'hesitant' in my life.
I clear my throat and correct my posture, but I don't let go. I'm adjusting more and more to this…love…thing. Ahem. Right. Well, as a Malfoy I am many things, but a coward is not one of them. I speak clearly and precisely; veritaserum may very well have stripped me of my dignity, but I will not allow it to degrade me even further by attempting to hide behind what is most definitely the truth.
"I knew I wanted you to always be in my life several minutes after my graduation. I didn't realize I loved you until you told me so." I can feel my prized decorum slipping ever so slightly, and I clench my jaw against it. "I love you, Ginny…and you'll have to excuse me for touching you because I can't seem to let go."
And she is now…crying?! What the hell have I done now? I roll my eyes and am surprised to hear her giggle. My eyes snap back to her face to see that she is grinning through her tears. And she looks the prettiest I have ever seen her. Sweet Merlin, so this is love.
She reaches the hand I am holding up to touch my cheek. "Careful," she whispers, "or the crowd will see you smiling." And I really am smiling. And her gentle touch is anything but smothering. I have the feeling that even if I were to spend ten lifetimes with her, she would still never be familiar to me.
"Love me," I whisper imploringly, and my hand almost slides over to cover my mouth again, but I would have to let go of her to do so, and I simply can't do that. She smiles even wider and steps closer to me, our bodies almost touching.
"Silly boy," she chides gently, "I already do."
I learnt something from all of this; whether or not you believe in something has nothing to do with whether it exists or not. And sometimes that's a good thing. A really, really good thing.
Do you know the way to San Jose? ...sorry, had to get it out there. Can't really say why.
When will the stream be aweary of flowing
Under my eye?
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
Over the sky?
When will the coulds be aweary of fleeting?
When will the heart be aweary of beating?
And nature die?
Never, O, never, nothing will die;
The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,
Nothing will die.
-- Tennyson (Nothing Will Die)
I'll gloss over the details of the beginning of this journey, for in this instance they really are particularly prosaic, mundane even. Simply put, she became important to me simply because she wasn't important. Allow me to explain; because she wasn't overly anything to anyone, she came to mean something to me. Paranoia led me to believe that she had orchestrated the 'coincidental' meetings we had. That possibility was quickly refuted when I realized that half the times we met it was because I had walked into a room she was already in, rooms that she couldn't possibly have foretold I would enter.
I remember one Friday night after dinner, Professor Flitwick had informed the class that if our current essay was turned in before Saturday then ten percent would be automatically added to the final grade, and I was about to transfigure a sickle into a pin in order to tack my scroll to the door, when I heard voices. I knocked once and entered. Both she and Flitwick turned in their seats to look at me, him with a polite questioning look and her with a slight frown. I blatantly stared at her longer than necessary; my mother would have been appalled. She looked excited, but tired. And no, not excited about my presence, she seemed annoyed at that particular occurrence. I later found out that her excitement that day had been due to her perfect score on the latest charms test, which was why she was in the room; Flitwick had called her in to tell her the results that night. The professor interrupted my staring to ask the reason for my being there, in a very polite manner of course. One of the reasons I've always liked Professor Flitwick was because, despite his somewhat provincial heritage, his etiquette has always been impeccable. Anyway. I then looked at Professor Flitwick and informed him that I had completed the essay, to which he responded that I hardly needed the bonus but that he supposed without it, even if I were to get a perfect grade, my average would drop. He then praised me for my diligence in his class, I inclined my head slightly, bid him goodnight, and then left. I never looked at her after my initial lapse of propriety. It was after this particular meeting between us that I began to realize the true coincidence of our previous encounters.
We never touched. Ever. In fact, to this day I have never touched her. Not because I didn't particularly want to, and not because of some silly romantic notion that if I touched her I could never let her go. We simply never did. Occasionally we would talk, rarely about anything of consequence. It was safer that way. We had light, pithy, and surprisingly witty conversations. I would smirk and she would laugh. But more often than not we would merely acknowledge each other with a nod of the head and promptly get back to whatever it was that each of us happened to be doing.
I do remember hearing soft crying as I entered the empty library one other Friday afternoon. I followed the sounds and found her between the stacks hugging her shins, her head resting on her knees as her shoulders shook. She spared a watery glance to see who was watching her and then turned her head back to her knees and resumed crying. I stared at her for a moment longer, she did look rather atrocious, with splotchy red skin and red-rimmed eyes, and then I sat down where I stood, several yards in front of her, and began my homework.
After a few minutes the crying stopped, and a few minutes after that I heard her stand up. I gathered my things and stood while she waited. She then stepped slowly, but precisely closer, and stared at me for a few moments before saying, "Thank you." And then she continued right by me as I watched her leave.
It wasn't until a week later when I passed Finnigan hugging Brown as she cried that I thought that perhaps that is what I should have done, hugged her that is. But the thought faded, because she had thanked me, which means I must have done the right thing.
I graduated a few minutes ago, and she was there.
And that was when I realized I wanted her to always be there.
I wouldn't go so far as to say I needed her to be there, because no one really needs another person, not in any specific way. But I knew at that moment that something would always be missing if she weren't there.
It isn't love, one has to believe in love in order to be in love. And I can't even remember being fond of my parents as a child. Not that I hated them. I knew my place, just as they did. I knew I was a necessary part of the picture, just as they knew they were. Despite common belief, my father never beat me, he would never resort to physical violence in order to exert his authority, he considered such actions far too base. I never feared him, and to do as he said was simply the order of things, something I never even thought to question.
And then there was mother. She performed the part of the doting, yet dignified and reserved, wife and mother magnificently. She never gave what she didn't expect back, she was always meticulous like that. I never craved a mothering hand, for I had never been given one, and if such were to occur now I would simply feel smothered. But back to the woman at hand…
To say that I would kill anyone who hurt her, without hesitation, doesn't mean that I love her. I want her just the way she is, with her innocence perfectly in tact, and that simply wouldn't be the case if she were to get hurt. I'm not possessive of her, she can fuck who she pleases. But she must always be in my life.
The Ministry went on what amounted to an inquisition of epic proportions, and the only reason I escaped their mass prosecution of all those connected to the Dark Lord was due to my age. And to imagine that as a child I had done nothing but bemoan my youth and curse it as the inconvenience it appeared to be. I was silently present at the farcical hearings my parents received throughout the month of June following my sixth year. And I say farcical for that is precisely what they were. The final verdict itself was absolutely irrefutable, but the trial procedure was ludicrous; it seemed as if the courts refused to waste their time proving guilt when they simply knew there was guilt to be found. The whole wizarding world was aware of what happened and none of them thought anything of it. I assume that my parents never argued because they knew, just as the world knew, that they were guilty, that it wouldn't make a difference. In any event, raging against the inevitable would be undignified. The results would have been the same had the trial been conducted properly, however, if there was one thing that the Dark Lord taught me it was that often the ends do not justify the means. If the wizarding legal system wants to shred it's own constitution, then so be it. Provided neither I nor she gets caught in the cross-fire.
My parents weren't dragged away from me screaming, they would never allow themselves to even be accused of doing something so indecorous. They simply stood, their faces carefully blank, unassuming and unsurprised as countless cameras flashed around them. They didn't even share a glance between themselves, or me for that matter, before complacently holding their arms out to be magically bound and led away. There was nothing emotional or sentimental about the event at all, it was all rather anticlimactic, actually.
I do remember feeling at a loss as they were taken away, and I stared at the door that had closed behind them for some time. But soon the camera flashes were on me and as quickly as possible I made it out the door and fled home. As I entered Malfoy Manor I realized that the loss I felt wasn't precisely for my parents, rather it was for the familiarity that they had represented. This particular revelation occurred to me as I was walking up the opulent marble staircase that one was faced with upon entering Malfoy Manor. I was on the 17th stair, (I remember for it was something of a habit to count them) about half-way up the staircase, when I paused mid-step and placed my foot back down with the other and simply stared at the blank wall in front of me.
It hadn't always been blank, in fact it hadn't ever been blank for as long as I could remember. A painting had hung there, had always hung there. And now it didn't. There was nothing overly special about the painting, naturally it had had to be something impressive though, being so centrally located. It was of a man in 14th century clothing, beyond that, I can't recall. It had never mattered to me. And I must confess to not being particularly impressed by men who wore 'pantaloons', and had thus never deemed it worth further scrutiny. I don't know why it was gone, I suppose it could have been taken by the overly zealous ministry officials who had raided the Manor at the first opportunity. But I honestly don't know.
What I do know is that the way I felt when I noticed that the painting was missing was exactly the same way I felt when my parents were taken away. And I knew with absolute certainty that I didn't miss that painting, which meant that I must have missed what it represented; familiarity. And I remember thinking that the empty space would have to be filled. I turned around and went back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I knew a house-elf would be found, and I informed it of what had to be done. And the very next morning the space was filled and the problem rectified. And though it wasn't quite the same as before, it was close enough, and I knew that over time this new painting would become familiar to me. And it did.
I have just finished being congratulated by Professor Snape, he and the other professors are particularly distracted due to the presence of the Weasley Twins. I am of the firm opinion that they're given far more credit than is their due. It was perhaps Professor Snape's reaction to the fall of the Dark Lord was most prevalent to me; it wasn't that he smiled more, if at all, but that he didn't scowl as often that signaled a lighter period was reigning. My parents are not present, of course, and I haven't received any word from them since the time they were arrested. They ensured that all legal and family inheritance matters were kept up to date, thus also ensuring that there was no need to communicate with me. Though I'm not sure if their lack of communication is due to a lack of necessity or a lack of ability. Something else that needs to be looked into.
Here she comes. I think she pities me. I smirk slightly at the idea of this poor, second-hand clothed girl pitying me. Though I am certainly not surprised. She's smiling as comes to a stop before me, handing me a glass of lemonade. I thank her and taste the drink. Not exactly my idea of lemonade, not tart enough, but I suppose a drink is a drink and it is only polite to accept it.
"Hello, Draco."
"Good morning."
There's a pause as she positions herself next to me and we both look out over the crowd. I glance at her and notice she is still smiling slightly.
"It's a wonderful day to graduate on," she comments.
"Yes, it is," and I find myself surprised that I honestly mean it.
"I got you a present, for your graduation that is." She's nervous and her cheeks are turning slightly pink, which is rather endearing. She finally raises her head, at the same time shifting to stand in front of me, and I can tell she's resisting the urge to shuffle her feet. I look at her expectantly, wondering what in Merlin's name she could have possibly afforded to buy me that I would actually want. She reaches into her robe pocket and fumbles around for a moment before pulling out a quill, but it doesn't look like a normal quill. It's slytherin green and is noticeably thicker than a normal quill. She slowly extends her hand and I take it and inspect it.
"I was in Hogsmeade a few weeks ago and I saw it and noticed the colour and that it was one of those new quills that you can fill up with ink. So I bought it for you. I don't suppose it really is for your graduation, just seemed as good an excuse as any," she babbles on, and would continue to do so if I don't interrupted her.
"Thank you."
She breaks off and stares at me, "You're welcome." She looks like she's confused and somewhat frustrated and I can tell that for the moment she's somewhere else. She shakes her head slightly, as if she's decided she'll deal with whatever problem just arose at another time. "So…what are you going to spend the rest of your life doing?"
I can't say the question is unexpected; every single person I've come into contact with today, whether they actually wanted to know or were just being polite, has asked me that question. And I find that even from her it frustrates me. I'm 19, how am I supposed to know what I'm going to spend the rest of my life doing?
"Making you happy."
Holy shit.
Where the hell did that come from?!
"Wh-wh-what?" She stutters, and though she looks dumbfounded she can't possibly look as staggered as I do right now.
"My goal in life is to make you happy," I drop my cup and clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from speaking and I stumble back a step trying to get away. My eyes are wide with astonishment and fear and I'm looking around frantically, looking for an exit, looking anywhere but at her. No! Stop! Don't look at her! Shit! I'm looking at her and I'm frozen, I can't move, I can't even remove my hand from my mouth, not that that is something that I would want to be doing in my current state of raw honesty. Wait…I look down at her hand, the one holding the cup. Fred and George. I spin abruptly, inelegantly, to where I had seen them before. A significant crowd has gathered and it takes a few moments of frenzied scanning to find them. They clearly hadn't expected her to give me the other cup because they look even more shocked than I do, in fact, the only way their jaws could hang any lower would be if they were dislocated.
She moves around in front of me again and I can see in her eyes that she knows what has happened. My hand is still over my mouth and there is no way that I am removing it, I refuse to, it just isn't going to happen. At least my breathing has relaxed. But a person can only look so composed while holding their hand over their mouth.
"They didn't know I was going to give one to you," she defends, "I told them I was going to take Hermione and Ron the cups, not that I was going to keep one for myself and give the other one to you." She's upset, and I don't want her to be upset, but I can't help but be grateful that it is her talking and not me. "They know that Ron never would have accepted anything from them," and she's still talking but I can't hear what she's saying, all I know is that everything she's saying is the truth. It has to be. Which means that everything that I said was the truth. Oh goddess…
I faze in again as I hear her saying the same thing over and over. "Why? Why do you want to make me happy?" No! No questions! The answer springs from my mouth before I can stop it, and to be perfectly honest (as if I have any other choice), I have no idea what I said. I tense. And time draws on as I think frantically, trying to remember what I must have said "I want you", it's the only thing that I can think of. Shit! This is bad! Really, really bad!
What is she doing?! I slump slightly in relief as she reaches for the hand covering my mouth and I realize that my hand is in fact STILL covering my mouth, thus explaining why I didn't hear what I said. Thank Merlin. Wait! Wait! Wait! Nonononono! She's pulling my hand away and I can't stop her! Does it mean that I don't WANT to stop her?!!
"Why?" She asks again softly.
I'm frozen, but I still feel compelled to speak. I do so in the softest voice I can manage, and I still don't know what I said. I hope to whatever deity is listening that she doesn't hear me say "I want you", that would not be good. It would be bad. Really. Really. Bad.
Shit, she's leaning closer. "Why?" She asks again. Again I whisper the words, but this time she heard me. I can tell. She's in shock, she finally drops the lemonade cup, staggers back a bit and brings a hand to her own mouth, her own eyes now wide. Oh SHIT! What did I say?!! Did she really hear me say "I want you"?!! PLEASE NO! I have to know!
I unfreeze and almost trip over my own feet in an effort to get to her. "What did I say?" I ask desperately as I grab both of her arms, doing my best not to hurt her. She mumbles something into her hand and I reach up slowly and gently tug her hand from her mouth. "What did I say?" I ask almost as softly as before.
She drags in a breath, "You said, 'Because I love you, Ginny Weasley'."
Well, damn. This is so much worse.
I close my eyes and let out a resigned breath. "It's true," I say in as normal a voice as I can manage. It's true, and I know it is, and so does she now. I try to let her go and gain my bearings, but find that I can't let her go. Oh Merlin, I can't let her go. And then the realization that I would care if she screwed anyone else follows. And I know that this is so much more than familiarity and that she is so much more than 'important' to me. And I know, I just know, that this is love. And it feels good and nice and it hurts. And I even like that it hurts. When did I become a masochist?
I don't know how much time is passed, but I still have one hand holding her arm, the other holding her hand, and my eyes are now squeezed so tightly closed that they ache. I slowly force them open and look hesitantly at her. Which pisses me off because I've never done anything 'hesitant' in my life.
I clear my throat and correct my posture, but I don't let go. I'm adjusting more and more to this…love…thing. Ahem. Right. Well, as a Malfoy I am many things, but a coward is not one of them. I speak clearly and precisely; veritaserum may very well have stripped me of my dignity, but I will not allow it to degrade me even further by attempting to hide behind what is most definitely the truth.
"I knew I wanted you to always be in my life several minutes after my graduation. I didn't realize I loved you until you told me so." I can feel my prized decorum slipping ever so slightly, and I clench my jaw against it. "I love you, Ginny…and you'll have to excuse me for touching you because I can't seem to let go."
And she is now…crying?! What the hell have I done now? I roll my eyes and am surprised to hear her giggle. My eyes snap back to her face to see that she is grinning through her tears. And she looks the prettiest I have ever seen her. Sweet Merlin, so this is love.
She reaches the hand I am holding up to touch my cheek. "Careful," she whispers, "or the crowd will see you smiling." And I really am smiling. And her gentle touch is anything but smothering. I have the feeling that even if I were to spend ten lifetimes with her, she would still never be familiar to me.
"Love me," I whisper imploringly, and my hand almost slides over to cover my mouth again, but I would have to let go of her to do so, and I simply can't do that. She smiles even wider and steps closer to me, our bodies almost touching.
"Silly boy," she chides gently, "I already do."
I learnt something from all of this; whether or not you believe in something has nothing to do with whether it exists or not. And sometimes that's a good thing. A really, really good thing.
The End.
JSaintG7 is the author of 1 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 60 members. Members who liked Familiar Things also liked 1621 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 60 members. Members who liked Familiar Things also liked 1621 other stories.
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