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Said reasons being too horrific to commit to memory, and should family, friends, or enemies bring them up in the future, his foolproof plan was to deny and deny until his death—either that or claim temporary insanity (but only if she was out of earshot if he valued his life, which he did, preferably one with her still in it).
The war was past, and no, he didn't feel any inclination to round Muggles up for a bout of torture or murder or any of those things he'd rather not think about in the dark of night that still echoed with the shadow of the psychotic monster who once had his family at its mercy. But he didn't suddenly love Muggles by any means, and what wizard really did? What wizard actually gave a flying Hippogriff about the well-being of Muggles?
Between using magic to aid the hapless Muggles or protecting Wizarding kind—the Statute of Secrecy had long made clear where the Magical Community sided. Muggles were, at worst, monsters in their clamor for the demise of magic and, at best, a source of quaint amusement he could do without, thank you very much. He'd rather they kept to themselves and minded their own business. So how the hell did he allow himself to get dragged into the Muggle world, without fail, every other Thursday?
Witchcraft, that was how—witchcraft of the darkest, most unknown sort as he certainly hadn't been a slouch in school. But she, with the most distracting pair of brown eyes and crown of fire-gold hair, wielded said witchcraft with devastating effectiveness. It was hardly fair play.
And so here he was on a Thursday night, once again staring at death on his plate, completely at her mercy. He imagined the Manor must have been rocked by a small earthquake as every dead Malfoy rolled in their graves.
And was the vixen responsible for his current situation being understanding of his plight? No, no she was not. She was, instead, laughing at him. "Sweet Godric, Draco. It's just sushi. You look like you're at your last meal. It's not going to kill you."
He raised a suspicious eyebrow at her and poked meaningfully at the reddish-pink slice of something sitting atop a mini mound of rice.
"Ginny, you cannot fool me. That is not what fish looks like."
She rolled her eyes to his annoyance, but no, he would not scowl in return only to have her comment on wrinkles that he certainly did not have at barely the age of thirty.
"Trust the pampered rich boy to have never seen his food before it ended up on his plate."
It wasn't the pity in her tone that made him frown but the way she was pointing out the differences between them again. No matter how many years might pass, he knew this worry would never disappear—that a small part of him would always be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for that moment when she realized their differences were too great for them to work.
But he was a Malfoy, damn it, and Malfoys got what they wanted. Bloody Potter and Gryffindor's victories had been a mere fluke. She, however, was the real thing. He wasn't going to lose. Not this time.
And in no way would he allow some measly Muggle food to be the cause of his failure.
He'd never for the rest of his days admit how close those became his famous last words.
Choking, sputtering, and traumatized several seconds later, he was suddenly not all too certain she wasn't trying to kill him and that this wasn't all just an elaborate, cruel scheme to take revenge. She must have seen the thoughts in his eyes because her laughter redoubled, and she reached across the table to pat his hand sympathetically.
"I didn't like it in the beginning either, but we have all the time ahead of us." She grinned in that gleeful way that never boded well for him. "Mark my words, Draco. I'll have you craving all this sooner or later."
He was too caught up by the "all the time ahead of us" to tell her properly: Hell. No.
He certainly didn't feel any pity for Ron Weasley, but he didn't know how the oaf put up with all. That. Nagging. That was all Granger seemed to ever do when he was in earshot—nagging about pureblood elitism, and house-elf rights, and something-and-something-other rights. He almost snapped once and nearly asked her why she didn't mind her own kind and had to stick her nose in the business of all that was magical. But this was Granger he was talking about. She might very well take his comment to heart and the next thing he knew, there'd be an annual Adopt-A-Muggle Day. Oh the horror.
After every trying encounter, though, was a soft, thankful smile from she of the distracting brown eyes, that and at times kisses, and...soon he could no longer seem to remember what he'd been irritated about.
See? Witchcraft, he'd tell you.
Whatever happened to the Malfoy creed to always wheedle out of every bet and bargain that turned disadvantageous? How, by all that was magical, had he even gotten roped into this bet in the first place?
...had he really been that foolish simply for a potential prize of a chocolate-covered-Ginny?
Yes, yes he had been. He needed to only look down at his blinding orange gear and at Blaise and Ginny laughing their heads off to confirm it.
"Ahem. Not that I'm complaining by any means, but...what are you doing, Ginny?"
"Well I never said I wouldn't do it if you lost the bet, and since you were such an unbelievably good sport about it..."
He grinned in response to her arch smile. Yes, he remembered now why he let himself get into these horrifying circumstances—because somehow with her, the bad still turned out good in the end. Oftentimes, really good.
He knew he wasn't even able to handle his baby cousin Ted Lupin for an hour on a good day. And just the sight of the Weasley brood alone had him taking shelter in Ginny's old bedroom until she dragged him back out. So how for Salazar's sake did he ever let her extract said agreement?
He suspected it happened during one of those moments with her when logical thoughts were impossible. He'd never let her know that nowhere was he more at her mercy than in the bedroom, and for his sake, he hoped she didn't suspect a thing—especially not these days when just that singular gaze from her, the one that said she only saw him, was already enough to extract from him the world.
Add into the mix little boys and girls with her eyes or her button nose and fiery hair, and he was certainly doomed. The word "no" may never be able to pass his lips again.
Ginny's hand was gripping his with a squeeze that was both a friendly warning and an assurance. Be good. He squeezed her back to say, You've nothing to worry about.
No grimacing. Impassive face. Check. He would nod and politely say thanks and then somehow find a way to get them out of here early so that he could give Ginny her Christmas present in relative peace.
He braced himself as one by one, the Weasley matriarch handed out her bulky packages. One by one, jumpers spanning the whole rainbow spectrum were relinquished from their wrappings. Every Weasley and family friend in the room got one. Everyone but him.
He didn't actually want the Weasley jumper itself, of course, but he was hardly an idiot. He knew what it meant and what it meant not to get one. We haven't accepted you. That silent message had been loud and clear. He didn't care for their acceptance, but he needed it because Ginny did. She would deny that need in her stubborn way, but a part of her heart would break over it.
He'd seen her broken once by a career-ending fall and a man-who-didn't-deserve-her after she'd already fought to pull herself together after the death of her brother and the trauma of a cursed diary from even further back. He had painstakingly tried to help her put herself together while pretending nonchalance so that he didn't risk her realizing and pushing him away before she was ready. A whole Ginny was an infinitely more happy Ginny, and he'd silently vowed to do all in his power to keep her that way. Not that he wouldn't still have her if she wasn't.
Her own jumper unopened, Ginny stiffened beside him. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, to take the risk that the thoughts he feared most would be seen flashing through her eyes. Her pressure left his hand, and when he did look, she'd gotten up without a word and was rapidly striding towards the Burrow's front door, shoulders quivering.
An awkward silence fell over the room. He rose and before following after her, nodded in acknowledgment at the multitude of faces staring at him—some confused, others anxious, and still others accusatory, though it wasn't entirely without an understanding gaze or two.
He didn't go to her right away, though he knew exactly where she'd be.
He wasn't ready to face it yet. The other shoe had dropped. His stomach clenched almost painfully at his certainty of the fact, and he wanted nothing more than to postpone the inevitable "I can't do this anymore".
So he found Blaise instead, hoping for a night of oblivion where he could blissfully pretend that the heirloom ring burning a hole in the jacket pocket over his heart still had a purpose for being there.
His best mate took one look at him and said with a knowing smirk, "That's what you get. You could've married a good-little-traditional-pureblood girl like the Greengrass sisters or Pansy. But nooo, you wanted to marry for lurve. I warned you way back."
He glowered right back. "No, you didn't, you git. You egged me on, so you're partly to blame."
Blaise grinned and mercifully poured him a shot of Ogden's. He only got to enjoy one burning gulp before Blaise mentioned Ginny had come by in tears, and all thoughts of a night of oblivion paled like a star before the dawn.
He found her, as always in moments of crisis, at England's National Quidditch Pitch, standing at the highest point of the northern seating stands. It was a place of endings and beginnings, she'd once told him. It was the site of the first Holyhead game that shot her to fame, and also the site where a near-death plunge had ended her career. It was also where she first kissed him, weeks after that fall—another beginning who's ending he was in no way prepared to meet, even if a part of him had always expected its coming.
But nothing could keep him away once he spotted her lone figure, shivering in the stands. She hadn't even remembered to grab her cloak.
"Ginny..."
She wouldn't turn to face him and had draped her hair so that it curtained her face from his view. A wet, sniffling sound escaped from her—unwillingly, he'd bet. He turned her into him instead, pulling his cloak to enclose her.
"Oh, Gin." He kissed the top of her head, and the floral scent of her, which normally put him at peace, only heightened the magnitude of what he would miss.
He held her for a silent moment, attempting to memorize the feel of her small, warm body molded against his as if it were the last time, as it very well could turn out to be.
Eventually, she broke the silence with a shuddery inhale of breath, a preparation to speak. He held her tighter, closing his eyes to help brace himself against the news.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Draco."
Each word twisted knife-like in his gut. No. But he was left too breathless, his mind too chaotic to respond in a way that would stop her devastating train of thought. She tried to pull away, but he wasn't ready to let her go yet. He didn't think he'd ever be ready.
She sighed, the exhaled breath heavy with an emotional exhaustion he could feel echoed in his own chest. With a freezing hand, she reached up to cradle his cheek, and he immediately leaned into her touch.
"How could my mum...you try and try so hard though you won't admit it, and you have this maddening way of making everything you do look easy as if you've been doing it all your life, but I can still see the effort you're making, you know? Why can't they? It makes me so—so angry sometimes. Not just my family, but people in general, too. Ugh. I hoped you listened and got me a stress ball for Christmas."
Relief struck him weak, and he stumbled, falling backwards onto the magically cushioned seat and pulling her along onto his lap.
In that uncanny way she'd somehow developed of perfectly reading his thoughts, her brows shot up in surprise before laughter shone though her brown eyes, still wet and red-rimmed.
"You actually thought that I would...?"
He nodded because he didn't care at the moment if she laughed at him. Laughter was preferable to tears and even better if in exchange, he also got confirmation that they were going to be just fine.
She laughed again, leaned in, and kissed him—kissed him hard enough to stun him. Not that he allowed said effect to last for long before returning her kiss stroke for stroke, answering the warm, insistent pressure of her lips with his own, breathless gasp for breathless gasp. When they finally pulled back, the fog of their mutual exhalations mingled in the icy winter air.
She stared at him, a smile, half-pleased and half-exasperated, gracing her kiss-swollen lips. "You are a ridiculous man," she said with unmistakable fondness as she traced down the middle of his face with her finger, pausing at his lips and tapping them for emphasis.
"And you, woman, are positively insane," he muttered against her finger, "so I suppose we balance out."
He kissed her frozen finger and brought it down to rub warmth into it along with the rest of her hand, opting for physical contact over the quickness of a spell.
After reproaching her for forgetting her cloak and gloves, to which she rolled her eyes and said, "Yes, Mum", he made her laugh, albeit a bit tearily, as he promised by next year to charm or otherwise extort a jumper from Mrs. Weasley. The hand that went over his heart in a gesture of oath-swearing was just as much to calm the ring practically humming against the thudding of his heart. Soon, he thought. One day soon he might just allow her to call him, "Her ridiculous husband."
He didn't have a clue how it happened, but he couldn't say that he regretted that it had. Maybe he would have if she didn't love him back—but she did. That was probably the most unbelievable part of it all.
"You know I love you, Ginny Malfoy, but there is no way in hell I am letting my obituary read as death-by-sushi."
Bewitching brown eyes implored him to change his mind. It wasn't fair of her when she knew what that look did for him. He turned quickly away and pretended to be entirely concentrated on the knotting of his tie.
"Need I remind you, Draco, that you're the one who insisted I could pick anywhere I wanted to go? Besides, it isn't some regular old Muggle shop. This place is known for the best sushi in the world."
"I didn't think I needed to specify that places that could kill me weren't an option," he replied dryly and made the mistake of sneaking a glance at her.
She looked perfectly lovely as usual, this time with her silky hair piled up high and falling in soft ringlets around her face. The only thing marring her ensemble was the disappointment in her eyes.
"Alright, fine. We can go."
"But will you go? Happily, as you promised?"
He met her expectant gaze. Her love for him, long since etched on her dark irises where it would remain regardless of however he chose to respond, made only one answer possible.
Merlin and Circe help him, he was doomed. Utterly doomed. And unfortunately, he still couldn't bring himself to care, not if she would always look at him. Just. Like. That.
Author notes:
It turned into a patchwork kind of story, but might easily have come across as a hot mess. You'll have to let me know where it fell for you. I had fun writing it though, so (hopefully) you had fun reading it too. Happy New Year!
The End.
SunnyStorms is the author of 8 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked Why I, Draco Malfoy, Have Clearly Gone Off the Deep End also liked 636 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 6 members. Members who liked Why I, Draco Malfoy, Have Clearly Gone Off the Deep End also liked 636 other stories.
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