Lately she's taken so much care to avoid him. She knows it's cruel, and childish, and she shouldn't be such a coward, but – guilt stops the words in her throat every time she tries to apologize. It's a dream come true, she thinks, or it should be at least, that after six years of blushing and tripping, of making a complete fool out of herself, Harry has finally noticed her. He's finally plucked her from what felt so much like obscurity and kissed her senseless. Ginny knows she should be delirious with happiness.
Instead, she mostly feels guilty. Blue eyes, so pale and hard that she thinks of them as chips of ice, follow her in the Great Hall, through the corridors, across the grounds. She didn't remember them being so cold. They'd never been so cold when they looked on her.
He catches her arm one day as she's coming out of her Transfiguration class, pulls her to the side of the flow of students. His skin is cool and smooth and his eyes are filled with so much anger that she shivers. He opens his mouth to speak, but she wrenches herself out of his grasp and flees, because all she can think is that his hand was so much warmer that day in the library when he'd touched her cheek and his eyes had gone soft.
It takes him weeks to corner her – weeks of Harry looking at her like he can't think of anyone else, kissing her like the world is going to end. (Maybe it is, Ginny knows, but she likes to think it's just passion that makes him touch her this way.) But finally he catches her, studying in the library late when everyone else has gone to bed.
"Don't run away," he says, and she stiffens because his tone is imperious and confident, as though she had better obey him or else.
"Don't talk to me like that." She stands, shoving her books into her bag and fumbling with the catch to close it. He steps forward and puts a hand over hers on the buckle, halting her frantic movements.
"Please," he adds. It's almost a sigh, and she can't help but sink back into the chair, because for the first time he's showing something other than the anger she had expected. He looks hurt.
"Well?" Ginny clutches the strap of her bag, making a conscious effort not to twist or fiddle with it.
"I thought…" He looks desperate in a way she's never seen him before. "I thought you liked me."
Ginny shrugs. "We weren't exactly meant to be."
"And you and Potter were?"
She meets his eyes boldly, daring him to argue. "Maybe."
Fury flares in his eyes again, and she's almost glad. It's harder to feel sorry for him when he's attacking her. "Why? Just because he survived the Dark Lord? Cockroaches survive nuclear wars. Are you going to go around kissing them?"
"Stop it." She tries not to let him see he's getting to her. "You and I wouldn't have worked out even if it weren't for Harry."
"Why not?" His voice is a hiss and his eyes are so intense that goosebumps ripple over her body. There is a tiny part of her that likes the way he's looking at her, with a single-minded focus no one has ever had for her, not even Harry. The urgency in his eyes is almost reminiscent of the quieter need in the way he'd kissed her last year – cornered in the library in almost this very same spot. She tries to forget the feel of his lips and the way he smelled, but he is standing so close that she is wrapped in the scent of him once again – spicy and dark and utterly addictive.
"There's a war coming." Ginny rises, because she can't have him looking down on her for this. Even standing up he has several inches on her, but this way she can straighten her shoulders and feel a little taller than she is. "And you aren't on my side."
He doesn't argue. They both know she's right. Duty and obligation and all that. It doesn't matter what they want – this is how it's always been, and neither of them is going to compromise their position.
"This war is bigger than us," she goes on, glad to hear her voice come out steady and strong. "I don't know about you, but I intend to be ready when it comes. Ready to fight. We'll only do each other harm if we go on thinking we can be anything."
He shakes his head, the set of his jaw betraying all his frustration and anger where his eyes stay blank. "Potter doesn't deserve you."
"And why not?"
"He'll only push you behind him. He doesn't want a woman – he wants something to protect. To take care of. When the time comes, he's going to get on his white horse and ride away. You don't need that."
"Maybe I won't let him," she counters.
"I wouldn't do that," he says. "I'd fight with you."
"Only instead you're fighting against me." Ginny shoulders her bag and tucks her hair behind her ear, collecting herself with a deep breath. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
She doesn't let herself look back.
Draco grips the back of her chair until his knuckles go white. He can still feel her body heat lingering on the wood, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he hadn't been born a Malfoy.