AN:On the advice of gotsnape, somewhat outraged and shocked at the way I started this chapter (with no mention of what happened to Draco and Ginny the following morning), I have added this little addendum to Chapter 6. It was not intended to be a cliffhanger. Sorry. gotsnape, I hope this meets with your approval.
When Ginny's eyes fluttered open the next morning, she was remarkably well rested, despite the previous week full of restless sleep interspersed with the usual nightmares. She gradually became aware of an odd heaviness on her body. She looked down and much to her surprise, found Draco Malfoy's body entangled in hers, arms thrown around her. She quickly glanced up at his face, now buried in the nape of her neck, eyes closed, looking as peaceful as she had ever seen the hissing Slytherin.
Lying still, she contemplated her current situation, unclear what her next step should be. From the light streaming into his windows, morning had arrived in all her unwelcome glory. Ginny, quietly and ever so carefully, began to untangle her limbs from his, one limb at a time. When she reached his head, she gently lifted it off her neck, reached over for his pillow and slipped it under his head so as not to disturb his sleep. Then she looked down at his tranquil sleeping form, for once unencumbered by his infernal glaring at her. She pushed a stray platinum lock or two out of his face before turning to get dressed.
He watched her, his curious silver eyes falling over her slim figure draped in an oversized flannel nightshirt. She silently slipped on her shabby excuse for a school robe, pulled on her worn boots, and began looking around his room. She walked over to his desk, not touching a thing, just staring at the various objects randomly thrown there. Then she turned to read the titles off his bookshelf, passed his black robe thrown careless over a chair the night before, and stopped a moment at his fine black leather boots. To his amazement, she put her boot beside his, apparently measuring the significant difference between the two, before continuing to work her way around the small room. The little Weasel was now in front of his fireplace, looking up at the picture of his mother on the mantle, taking an inordinate amount of time studying it. Then she ran her fingers down the handle of his Firebolt, almost absent-mindedly. She looked at his closet door for a moment. Then, apparently deciding against that particular invasion, turned to leave.
Ginny couldn't help herself. Before she left his private sanctuary, she walked back over to his bedside, watching him, unguarded for a moment in his sleep, knowing full well she would never have this particular opportunity again. There he was, exquisitely unblemished by his trademark scowls, stares, and rude comments. There were no raised eyebrows or nasty innuendos or that massive defense complex which he seemed to wear at all times. There was only this beautiful boy of a wizard in a peaceful, dreamless sleep. She sighed before turning and silently slipping out of the Slytherin's lair.
He watched her go, moving silently out of his world and back into her own, puzzled by what he had just witnessed as well as by his own inaction. Why hadn't he jumped up and yelled at her for invading his privacy? Yes, he had invited her in but only to sleep, not to put her Muggle-loving Gryffindor nose into his things. Yet, he found he didn't mind her innocent curiosity about his world. He was more surprised than angry. He fully expected the little Weasel to beat his body off of hers the moment she awoke, possibly cursing him as well, maybe threatening a hex or two before throwing on her robes and storming out. He was quite unprepared for the witch he woke up with, having no idea that she existed at all. It was this silent witch who had stunned him into inaction, disarming him completely in the process. He rolled over, landing face first in her lingering warmth, drinking in what little remained of her precious scent and closing his eyes to remember a most unexpected guest.
A certain set of magnificent silver grey eyes scanned the pitch as the last vestiges of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team slowly left their last practice before the big game. Some left in two's and three's, huddled and chatting; others walked alone, contemplating in silence. Draco sat, surrounded by his teammates and many additional Slytherins, all of whom had gathered for the traditional Gryffindor show. They had heckled and taunted and mercilessly tortured the Weasel King.
Although normally delighted which such antics, Draco had been less enthusiastic than usual, distracted by the pressure emanating from the next morning's match. His stare was now boring a hole into the back of Potter's head. That bloody-Snitch-stealing-Gryffindor-excuse-for-a-Seeker was walking, shoulder to shoulder, with the Weasel King, staring straight ahead, silent and tense. It was goddamn good to know he felt the enormous pressure was well. How many times had Potter saved his worthless team from a crushing defeat by simply snatching the Snitch out of another Seeker's grasp? It was goddamn unnatural was what it was.
He was aware of Zabini's firm hand on his shoulder in a final farewell as the last of the Slytherins departed for the castle and supper. Those silver eyes continued to scan the empty pitch. He was now the lone figure in a completely deserted stadium. There he sat, shoulders heavy, eyes filled with concern, scanning the pitch for Lady knows what. Hell, he didn't even know.
No, this game wasn't about his fellow Slytherins, or the Quidditch Cup, or even his father's expectations. It was all about his own ardent desire and ambition to, for once in his goddamn six year Quidditch career at Hogwarts, best that four-eyed freak of a fellow Seeker. He didn't give a Blast Ended Skrewt's arse if they didn't win the goddamn game or if they lost the Quidditch Cup or any of that other infernal crap as long as he got that blessed Snitch.
There would be other games, many other games this year, but it was this one opening game that held his wizard's balls like no other. The Huffelpuff and Ravenclaw teams were called many things by the Slytherin; Quidditch competitors was not among the list. They were a fucking joke. Their Seekers didn't hold a candle to him, much less that freak Potter. He didn't give a rat's arse about those other games. It was this game, and this game only, which held his heart's deepest desire.
She stood in the shadows of the stands, on the edge of the Quidditch field, gazing up at the lone Slytherin. She recognized the familiar bearing, that tilt to his head, those uniquely platinum blond locks shimmering in the last bloody glow of daylight's fading glory. Her weight shifted as she leaned against the handle of her broom, gripped tightly in her hands.
Yes, she knew what that Slytherin Team Captain and Seeker was dreaming about, staring longingly out into the empty pitch. She knew the hunger in his eyes, the twitch in his fingertips, the absolute single-minded desire in his heart to capture his elusive golden lady out from Harry's grasp. He would do anything to woo his beautiful Snitch away from Harry's fingertips and into his own. She lingered a moment before hoisting her broom onto her shoulder and making her way across the field and back toward the castle for supper.
He was aware of movement on the field below him, as she suddenly and silently pulled him out of his world and into hers. He watched her casually strolling across the field, broom hoisted over one shoulder, eyes straight ahead. It wasn't just that fiery silk floating amid the sea of freckles that he recognized. No, he knew that tilt to her head, that familiar swish to her slim hips, that hand carelessly pushing an errant strand of silk away from her face. Then he was awash in her scent, the vague smell of honeysuckle, and the warmth of her body entangled in his. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. When he opened them, she was gone.
His gaze returned to staring at that empty pitch, haunted with the ghosts of games long since played and the ones yet to be born. It was loud and rowdy, filled with cheering and shouting and heartache, so much heartache.
The next day dawned a brilliant, crystal clear blue with a sun brighter than all the Galleons in Gringotts. A brisk wind kicked up and down the stands, blowing cloaks and scarves into a shimmer of assorted cheering colors. He stood, staring at the gathering crowds and listening to the chatter in the stands. Minutes prior, he had given his team their requisite speech before the game. Play hard, play smart, play dirty if need be, just win this goddamn game.
They saw him standing alone, staring out of the Slytherin locker room. His fellow team members gave him a wide berth. Hell would come to any player who disturbed their Team Captain and Seeker during his private meditation just before a game.
With a wave of his hand and without looking back, Draco strode onto the Quidditch field, followed by his teammates in their trademark orderly marching rows. They stopped just shy of midfield and watched as the two Team Captains met and shook hands under the watchful eye of Madam Hooch.
"Malfoy," a certain green-eyed freak of a Seeker spat out, staring hard at him.
"Potter," the Slytherin Captain returned coolly. Their eyes locked for one long moment before the handshake broke, and fourteen brooms took to the pitch, scattering desperately in all directions at once.
Where was that goddamn Snitch? A particular set of grey eyes meticulously scanned the pitch, 180 degrees from the other Seeker. He let his focus toss a wide net, taking every player, every ball, every movement on the pitch into his consciousness, shifting, sorting, following. He sat still on his broom, letting all the movement come to him. Except Scarhead, he kept that bastard in his line of sight at all times. It was too dangerous to turn his back on that abomination for a second.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crabbe and Goyle roughing up Jack Sloper, the Gryffindor Chaser, looking to take him out completely, if possible. Then Zabini flew by the Weasel King with the first scoring Quaffle of the game. At the other end of the pitch, a flash of red silk and freckles netted Gryffindor their first scoring Quaffle. The game was on.
The Slytherin Seeker began carefully circling the pitch, watching, listening, feeling, waiting patiently for that golden lady to call to him. Scarhead was circling the pitch as well, anxious and scanning, his unnatural focus narrowed to the pursuit of that elusive Snitch.
Three hours later, Draco was still circling that infernal pitch, becoming edgier and edgier as each minute ticked by. Where the hell was that goddamn mother of a Snitch hiding? He glanced over at Scarhead, who was looking as tired and desperate as he felt. It took an extraordinary amount of energy to continually hyperfocus on the entire pitch, scanning and sorting and sifting each piece of extraneous movement in search of that one miniscule golden flash. He had been doing it for minute upon minute, hour upon hour... He could not become complacent, but what little patience he had was wearing dangerously thin.
He saw signs of mounting fatigue and restlessness in his fellow teammates as well. Zabini had not scored in the last thirty minutes, his antics held in check by the Gryffindor Beaters, and remarkably enough, by the Weasel King as well. His Beaters were carelessly locking broom handles and elbowing the Gryffindor Chasers. Goyle had even put a reckless hand or two on the back of the little Weasel's broom.
Then it happened; the moment he had been living his entire goddamn life for finally arrived. He saw that beautiful, elusive object of his desires flutter no more than ten feet in front of him, and his eyes locked in on her. His broom was turned around and headed toward that mother of a Snitch in less than a Thestral's heartbeat. Instantly, he was flush against his Firebolt with one gloved hand outstretched and reaching. When the Snitch dove for the ground, he followed in reckless pursuit, streaming head first for the Golden Snitch. He could feel Potter a breath away and closing. Draco's well-trained eyes never left the golden object of his desire. The crowd held a collective breath.
That's when he heard it, when every spectator and player on the field heard her terrifying cry ring out over the noise of the crowds, over the bickering of the players, and into the sacred sanctuary between Seeker and Snitch, paralyzing the pitch. He froze mid-dive.
Then all hell broke loose, one damning piece at a time. His eyes reluctantly, fatally, irreversibly broke contact with the Snitch as he looked up to see that familiar flash of red silk and freckles tumbling toward the ground in a free fall.
Noooo... Noooo... Noooo...
Unable to stop his body, despite his own voice screaming at him inside his unbelievably thick head, he pulled up sharply on his goddamn uncooperative Firebolt and veered sharply right, moving with inordinate speed, while opening up his arms. The impact of his package against his chest almost knocked the wind out of him. His arms lunged forward to grab her struggling form, almost dropping them both off the front of his broom, but she had her arms desperately locked about his waist. The tenacious little Weasel hung on, body dangling precariously from the side of his broom. He regained his balance and hauled his package up against his chest, holding her slight frame securely to his while slowly, painfully descending onto the field, her arms wrapped around his chest. During the entire incident, he did not look at the little Weaselette or any other player on the field that day. The whole stadium was deathly quiet, only the sound of the wind whistling through the now still pitch was heard.
Madam Pomfrey was rushing onto the field as Draco took off again, only then taking the time to access the enormous damage his incomprehensibly foolish actions had resulted in. Scarhead was staring at Draco through his goddamn glasses, askew as ever, astride his broom. Draco looked at Potter's hands. They were astonishingly empty. Then the bubble he had been in broke, the roar of the crowds and the screaming of his teammates all flooded his senses again as he realized the implication of the goddamn insufferable look the noble Gryffindor was giving him.
It was over. His last goddamn match against Potter was over. Draco stood under the shower in the Slytherin locker room for many minutes longer than necessary, soaking in the beating warmth of the searing hot water against his aching body. His whole fucking body and his head were screaming with pain. Not only was it the last of his games against Potter; it was also the longest. A full six hours later, one gloved hand finally captured that blasted sadistic bint of a Snitch.
No one had spoken to him about the incident with the little Weasel. They didn't have to. It no longer mattered, nothing mattered. The locker room was deserted and quiet when the lone Slytherin walked slowly out of the warmth of its torches into the cool of the withering new moonlight. He turned and looked back at the empty stands, the abandoned field, the still pitch.
He found himself sitting in the comfort of the stands, now shrouded in moonlit madness and shadows, staring out at that infernal pitch, reliving his worst waking nightmare. It was a fucking nightmare with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The little Weaselette should be banned from Quidditch with her antics disrupting the shit out of his game. He wanted to stop himself. He had steadied himself, trained himself, willed himself not to respond to the little Weasel's cries or screams but failed spectacularly that afternoon, in front of the entire wizarding world.
What the hell was going on? Was he having a fucking identity crisis, for Merlin's sake? He was a Slytherin, a proud and cunning Slytherin, from a long line of Slytherins. It was the Malfoy way. He was no Gryffindor. Why the hell was he acting like a Slytherin impersonating a foolishly noble and brave Gryffindor? It was this kind of foreign crap that was fast becoming perilous to his health, not to mention his precarious state of mind, and downright lethal to his reputation.
He hung his head as he saw Potter's ever-loving fingers close over the Golden Snitch, drawing it to him for an eternity. There would be no redemption from this particular hell, no second chances, no waking from this horrific joke of a nightmare. It was truly fucking over.
It was then that he felt her presence and looked up. There she stood, his beautiful Nightmare of red silk and freckles, haunting him in the flesh, again. She held his gaze for a moment before sitting down beside him and staring out at the pitch. What the hell was she doing out here? Who the hell cared if she was amazingly uninjured?
"Go home, Weasel," he spat out tightly. She glanced over at him, looking rather unconcerned, and then turned back to the pitch.
Draco had had enough of the little Weasel for one day. He stood to leave but felt her hand on his arm, staying him. He glared at her. Her intrusive hand was burning his arm. He snatched it away from her touch.
"Stay," she implored softly.
He eyed her warily, regretting his hesitation even as it was unfolding. He looked at her and sighed. It would simply lead to hell and more hell, as it always did with her. In fact, she was his hell, his waking, breathing, ever-living hell. And he, as always, couldn't seem to get enough of her hell so he inexplicably sat his dragging arse down.
"What is it Weasel?" he sighed.
"Harry knows," she started before turning to look at him out of her luminous brown eyes. "He knows you would have caught the Snitch if you hadn't -"
Then he put up a hand to stop her. He shook his head. He didn't want to hear it. In fact, he realized that he didn't want to hear another damn word out of her mouth, ever again. This thought was second only to his next one in which he never wanted to see her again, ever, for the rest of his miserable life, and he really wasn't sure that would be long enough.
He stood and began making his way slowly down the bleachers to the field and from there to the grounds and the castle itself. When she called to him, he ignored her, blissfully ignored the sound of the little Weaselette's voice, for once. He vowed there would be no more nightmares, no screaming or falling or bleeding in his room in the middle of the night. It was over.
She watched him make his way across the field, her thrice reluctant and cursing savior. She saw the defeat in the odd tilt to his head, the strangely sagging shoulders, and the unusual war weary stride. Her beautiful, flawless, driven Seeker had collapsed under the weight of her unexpected need for him. Ginny rose from the stands, alone, and made her way slowly back to the elated celebration awaiting her in the Gryffindor Common Room.
Neither looked back toward the stands or the field or the pitch; the sight of many games, much glory, and immeasurable heartache. So much heartache.