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She would not look at him. She would not talk to him. And she would certainly never speak to him again. Being a slightly temperamental red head, Ginny Weasely had no problems playing with fire, and instead had been burned by dry ice. And being once burned, twice shy, she felt it perfectly reasonable that she make an April resolution regarding a certain outrageously wealthy, not to mention opinionated, prefect. Dear Demeter, she’d even heard him refer to himself as the “Prince of Slytherin” once soon after their parting, and had rolled her eyes as she continued on by his knot of admirers. So as of now, she was going to revert back to the good girl she’d always been, let her bruises fade, let Harry fancy himself in love with her, and snuggle back down in her comfortable Gryffindor niche. She went with Harry for evening walks by the lake, her small hand in his large, slightly clammy one, and steadfastly ignored the empty echoing in her heart that came with each step. During Quidditch matches she chased her heart out, with an occasional break to watch Harry searching for the Snitch, but when they played Slytherin, she only had eyes for the Quaffle. Even during the early morning practices she was enthusiastic, mirroring Harry and Ron’s intense love for the sport, and waving to Hermione, who had forsaken the sanctity of her Saturday morning library time to watch her boyfriend and friends fly about.
And she smiled like a doll in the morning, as the sunlight kissed her face.
After a while, Ginny had regained her healthy appetite, though she always slid into a seat that faced away from the Slytherin table with practiced ease. Ron thought it was good that she’d recovered from what he dubbed “a girlish fascination with looking like a stick”. Harry told her she could eat whatever she wanted because she’d always be beautiful to him, and besides, he didn’t want his star chaser starving away her strength; and Hermione was approving of the fact that she had embraced good nutrition and steered away from the altogether ridiculous and vacuous notion of an eating disorder. So her friends and brother watched as Ginny ate well, played well, and threw herself back into studying with a renewed vigour that almost made Hermione ask what had taken her time up beforehand. Though it was on Ron’s mind, he never mentioned Tom and the diary, content to heap another spoonful of mashed potatoes on his favourite sister’s plate as they dissolved into laughter at Harry’s comment about Professor Snape.
And she smiled like a doll at noontime, as she laughed with freckled grace.
In the common room, Ginny and Harry took an apparently well earned break from studying to snuggle by the fire. Her eyes tired were closed and her head rested against his chest, and as he played with a strand of merlot coloured hair, Harry noticed a small smile playing about her lips, and felt his own lips mirror Ginny’s as her held her. At the tightening of his embrace, Ginny stirred, and Harry, in his contentment, missed the flicker of disappointment at the sight of black hair before her smile was recovered. She was his, and she was perfect, and later, when she asked softly if she could borrow his father’s cloak to retrieve a sorely needed book from the library, he immediately complied. In his dorm room, his own smile crinkled his adoring eyes as he handed her the soft cloak. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you Gin?” he asked around a yawn.
Fiery waves flew as she shook her head. “I’m sure, and besides, look at you, you need a good night’s rest.”
With a grin he pulled her in for one last hug, muttering his agreement into her hair. She broke away, and with a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, and a swirl of silver, she was gone.
And she smiled like a doll in the evening, in the dark-haired boy’s embrace.
Unbeknownst to Harry, Ginny had brought her study things with her and was in the library making up for lost time. Time that had not been spent studying, but thinking of the one person she’d forbidden her thoughts to consider. Recalling her reason for being here, combined with the Potions text she was pouring over and the soft whispers of the wind in the near dark brought back vivid memories of silver and white, bruises and blood, bites, hands, grunting and soft cries. And she cried in the dark again, though this time in pain instead of pleasure, this time alone instead of with him. His freezing cold had sapped her warmth and she had barely broken free of the near-sadistic spiral, before resuming her role, shiny and smiling on the outside, but hollow and breakable – the perfect porcelain doll. She drew one leg up, cradling her knee to her chest and stuffed the corner of the cloak into her mouth to muffle her pain, sobbing and rocking and reminiscing in the dark.
And she cried, broken doll at midnight, in a secret, darkened place.
She didn’t notice the floating candle burn out, just as she didn’t notice the footsteps of a patrolling prefect. As his silver eyes drifted over her, Draco felt an unfamiliar, yet uncomfortably recognisable feeling settle over him; regret. Nearly choking on his Slytherin pride, he sat quietly beside her and drew her to him, rocking and soothing as her sobs died down. As she began to settle, Ginny reached her arms around his neck, instinctively knowing she was where she belonged. But the wounds from the last time hadn’t quite healed, and trembling, she whispered, “What are we?”
“Each other's,” was the soft, strong reply, and for the first time since she’d rescued herself from him, Ginny gave her first real smile.
After hurting each other, they’d healed each other, and as Harry found his own love and their friends and family grew more comfortable, she shuddered at the word ‘perfect’. “I’m not. Don’t ever say that I am. Because we’re damaged and we’re broken, but we understand each other that way; we fix each other because we know what its like. And because we know that its love.” And they smiled at each other as she finished her wedding vow.
And he put his doll back together, but with cracks she won’t let him erase.
And she smiled like a doll in the morning, as the sunlight kissed her face.
After a while, Ginny had regained her healthy appetite, though she always slid into a seat that faced away from the Slytherin table with practiced ease. Ron thought it was good that she’d recovered from what he dubbed “a girlish fascination with looking like a stick”. Harry told her she could eat whatever she wanted because she’d always be beautiful to him, and besides, he didn’t want his star chaser starving away her strength; and Hermione was approving of the fact that she had embraced good nutrition and steered away from the altogether ridiculous and vacuous notion of an eating disorder. So her friends and brother watched as Ginny ate well, played well, and threw herself back into studying with a renewed vigour that almost made Hermione ask what had taken her time up beforehand. Though it was on Ron’s mind, he never mentioned Tom and the diary, content to heap another spoonful of mashed potatoes on his favourite sister’s plate as they dissolved into laughter at Harry’s comment about Professor Snape.
And she smiled like a doll at noontime, as she laughed with freckled grace.
In the common room, Ginny and Harry took an apparently well earned break from studying to snuggle by the fire. Her eyes tired were closed and her head rested against his chest, and as he played with a strand of merlot coloured hair, Harry noticed a small smile playing about her lips, and felt his own lips mirror Ginny’s as her held her. At the tightening of his embrace, Ginny stirred, and Harry, in his contentment, missed the flicker of disappointment at the sight of black hair before her smile was recovered. She was his, and she was perfect, and later, when she asked softly if she could borrow his father’s cloak to retrieve a sorely needed book from the library, he immediately complied. In his dorm room, his own smile crinkled his adoring eyes as he handed her the soft cloak. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you Gin?” he asked around a yawn.
Fiery waves flew as she shook her head. “I’m sure, and besides, look at you, you need a good night’s rest.”
With a grin he pulled her in for one last hug, muttering his agreement into her hair. She broke away, and with a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, and a swirl of silver, she was gone.
And she smiled like a doll in the evening, in the dark-haired boy’s embrace.
Unbeknownst to Harry, Ginny had brought her study things with her and was in the library making up for lost time. Time that had not been spent studying, but thinking of the one person she’d forbidden her thoughts to consider. Recalling her reason for being here, combined with the Potions text she was pouring over and the soft whispers of the wind in the near dark brought back vivid memories of silver and white, bruises and blood, bites, hands, grunting and soft cries. And she cried in the dark again, though this time in pain instead of pleasure, this time alone instead of with him. His freezing cold had sapped her warmth and she had barely broken free of the near-sadistic spiral, before resuming her role, shiny and smiling on the outside, but hollow and breakable – the perfect porcelain doll. She drew one leg up, cradling her knee to her chest and stuffed the corner of the cloak into her mouth to muffle her pain, sobbing and rocking and reminiscing in the dark.
And she cried, broken doll at midnight, in a secret, darkened place.
She didn’t notice the floating candle burn out, just as she didn’t notice the footsteps of a patrolling prefect. As his silver eyes drifted over her, Draco felt an unfamiliar, yet uncomfortably recognisable feeling settle over him; regret. Nearly choking on his Slytherin pride, he sat quietly beside her and drew her to him, rocking and soothing as her sobs died down. As she began to settle, Ginny reached her arms around his neck, instinctively knowing she was where she belonged. But the wounds from the last time hadn’t quite healed, and trembling, she whispered, “What are we?”
“Each other's,” was the soft, strong reply, and for the first time since she’d rescued herself from him, Ginny gave her first real smile.
After hurting each other, they’d healed each other, and as Harry found his own love and their friends and family grew more comfortable, she shuddered at the word ‘perfect’. “I’m not. Don’t ever say that I am. Because we’re damaged and we’re broken, but we understand each other that way; we fix each other because we know what its like. And because we know that its love.” And they smiled at each other as she finished her wedding vow.
And he put his doll back together, but with cracks she won’t let him erase.
The End.
Angelsea585 is the author of 7 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 9 members. Members who liked Smiling Like A Doll also liked 1290 other stories.
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