The conversation runs through my head, over and over again.

You can’t make everything perfect, Ginevra.

I grip my cup in anger, hearing my sharp, manicured nails hit the cheap plastic. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, or why I keep coming back. I distinctly remember that I probably wouldn’t be in this mess if my two best friends hadn’t dragged me here that night, so long ago, after another unforgettable fight with my beau. I had met him then, and really everything went downhill from there with my actual boyfriend.

You just take things, and you twist them and mold them until it’s black and white enough to exist in Ginnyland.

Snorting into my drink, I knew he was wrong. I didn’t look at life in shades of black and white. I never had because gray was usually all I could see. Swirling the mahogany-red liquid in my glass, I know one thing: the drink is a strong Muggle alcohol made to make me forget that my boyfriend is a damn hypocrite. How dare he accuse me of… if anything, Harry was the one who was always trying to alter the universe for what was deemed as the side of light and good.

My mother had warned me of this when I had only been eleven: the burden of falling for a hero. Of course, she would never admit to it now; Harry was her seventh son, and he had saved the Wizarding world. But my mother had known best; Harry would never love me for who I was really, and he would always be laden with troubles and responsibilities.

In fact, his real version of me was so high on a pedestal that no one would be able to reach the top but angels with halos.

Gulping down what’s left of my drink, I wait for the dizziness to ease before taking a look through the Muggle nightclub. No one I know would be caught dead here, especially my darling boyfriend Harry.

Don’t drag me into your quest for idealism.

Laughing aloud, I wonder how much of a fool he would feel like if he knew just how wrong he was. If he knew how much of a mess of things I had been making, he’d know a utopia was the last thing on my mind. In fact, it seems that it’s “idealism” that I’m running for, as I move straight into the hands of the imperfect, snarky, and arrogant Malfoy rather than the perfect Prince Charming Potter.

Feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise, his stare burns into me. Unnaturally, he was the only one who aroused this reaction in me, and it has always me made wary. It frightens me sometimes, because it’s certainly not right that he was the one I had a sixth sense about.

Unfortunately, it was him. Did that mean he was my soulmate? Or was he simply an escape that I was addicted to like a drug?

Do you even know what you want anymore, Ginny?

Sometimes I do. I can imagine the future life that everyone thought I was destined for. Be with Harry forever, finish my degree in healing, get married, move to the suburbs, pop out three kids to play with a black, shaggy dog, and watch my life waste away in exchange for my husband’s success.

But sometimes I want more. Sometimes I want Draco.

In those moments, I can feel his eyes on my body, exciting feelings that Harry never could. His touch is rough, but his smirk is sensual, and I use it to justify my actions. The tingles he sends down my spine, and the way his simple words shake me inside, makes the relationship perfectly sensible in my mind. I use it to validate my infatuation on the “cruel”, prejudiced, pureblooded Malfoy.

Of course, it’s crazy. Draco Malfoy and his entire family have been nothing but a torment for everyone I care about, dating back generations. If any one of my brothers or Harry found out, they’d have a heart attack on the spot.

Maybe that was part of the appeal.

Harry’s sworn enemy, his arch-nemesis from Hogwarts, is the one that his girlfriend carries on with behind his back. There’s a malicious sort of irony attached that I find undeniably appealing.

So basically, I’m going to hell for having sex with Draco Malfoy. Eternal damnation for a series of fucks that don’t mean anything, and the joy I get from knowing that my holier-than-thou boyfriend is none the wiser.

Even worse, when I’m with him that seems like a fair exchange.

“It sounds good,” I laugh to myself, most of the sound swallowed by my cup.

“What’s good?” his deep voice reverberates through me, as his hard muscles press against my back. “Besides me, I mean.”

“Funny,” I roll my eyes, subtly scanning my surroundings to make sure there is no one I know. I try to ignore the fluttering of my heart. He can tell though. He always can. His long fingers curl around my wrist and his lips place themselves gingerly at the base of my neck allowing him to feel my pulse racing. Shrugging him off, I glare. He’s getting sloppy, and what if someone saw? Suddenly people in their world would stop looking the other way and see what was happening under their noses.

I can’t decide if that’s the day I dread or the one I’ve been living for.

“Where to?” he sighs, and he looks tired with his blond hair framing his eyes

Not tired in the physical sense, naturally, as I’d felt just a second ago that he was ready and raring to go for sex. There was, however, weariness in the way that he uttered the words that makes me nervous.

I can’t tell if he’s getting sick of the arrangement, or just of me. There’s no real reason for him to be displeased with either. Now, he’s getting no-strings-attached sex, and I’m melting at his every touch. Even if worst comes to worst, he’ll get one up on his enemy.

I don’t see a downside as far as Draco’s concerned. I’m the one that stands to lose it all.

“Motel down the street, first room, I’ll be there in a half hour,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth. He nods slightly, the infamous smirk beginning to twitch as he heads away from me. This is a terrible idea, it always has been, but I’m still going to go to him.

I always will. Nothing can stop me.

After I had a few more drinks, I slip into the motel room silently, and am not surprised when he slams me into the door, groping at my dress. Rough is us; we never fumble, and by now, we know each other’s bodies so well, that I can’t decide whether to be thrilled or resentful at the way he fits me much better than Harry ever did.

I loved my boyfriend. Or at least, I thought I had. But how can I love Draco? He’s just an act of rebellion that’s opened my eyes.

Every time, afterwards, Draco’s tried to stay, we both just lie in bed, never talking and not breathing. When he leaves, we never kiss goodbye, an invisible line being drawn there. I want more sometimes, but I don’t know how he feels. It surprises me sometimes when I wake up, and he’s not there. I’m not sure why it is surprising that he can find the door in the morning when he easily found the bed in the dark.

Let me know when you figure it out. Let me know when you figure out what it is you want. I can’t read your mind Ginny; I bet you can’t even do that.

Harry’s problem is that he is too sure of himself. He is always positive that he is right, in thoughts, actions and speech. He doesn’t wear arrogance nearly as well as his rival did, but Harry has it in him. It is the curse of being the savior of the world.

My boyfriend isn’t right, and that I’m sure of. I know exactly what I want, in moments like these. When I wake up, naked, in unfamiliar, cold sheets, I know. I want to say these moments with Draco aren’t a mistake; that if they were, they wouldn’t keep happening.

And someday, I will tell Harry. Not to hurt him, because that would be cruel, and I’m not evil. No, I would do it to clear my conscience, to try and honor the friendship I had with him after my irrational eleven-year-old crush and before we began to date.

Harry deserves more than my infidelity. And I don’t deserve anything.

There is no justification for what I have been doing. Citing how pretty his eyes are or how his body makes me shudder with pleasure would not clear the affair to the boyfriend I supposedly loved so much.

I do love him, and it’s not a lie—just not the way the world expects me to. I really wish I could love him; it would be better than this pain and so much easier.

Looking at the bruises on my thighs, formed many times over from how hard I clung to Draco’s muscular frame, I know that my life’s gone wrong.

These nights are not enough for me. Cheating on Harry isn’t to fight against the good girl image that’s been thrust upon me. It’s just something I can’t resist, and that’s the weakest excuse. I am not running from idealism, I’m seeking it out. The quirk of fate makes me hysterical, laughing and sobbing in the motel bedroom.

Harry Potter can give me the world, and he may be the one I want, but I need it from Draco Malfoy.