This is for Ali and it's incredibly late and I'm so so so sorry! Life does not want me to do this whole GGE thing.
And thank you to Sam for beta-ing!
When you were eight years old your father taught you to fly. A Malfoy ought to know how, he'd said. And you couldn't go to Hogwarts without learning the proper way. He said you'd go to flying lessons and show all the ickle first years how it's done.
He took you out into the orchard behind the Manor, handed you a shiny new broomstick that was as tall as you were and stood back, arms crossed and expectant. You don't really remember much of what he told you next. Something about gripping the handle 'just so' and keeping your knees bent and later you learned that apparently what he'd said was all wrong anyway. But one thing you do recall is what he told you before you pushed off from the ground. It was one of the few warnings he ever gave you. And one of the few warnings you've ever heeded from anyone.
"Don't look down, Draco. Don't look down, or you'll fall."
And for once, he was right. You kept your head up, and your jaw set, and you didn't look down. The war came and went, and you stumbled a bit, but you didn't fall.
And then you saw her.
You watch her pause in front of the joke shop at eight in the morning. It's the time the sign says they open, but Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes has been closed for a year now.
Taking some time off is what the family says. You don't believe it for a minute.
And Ginny Weasley pauses in front of the joke shop for thirty seconds every day at eight in the morning so clearly she doesn't believe it either. Thirty seconds to grieve. Thirty seconds is all she allows herself before moving on. But no matter how many times she moves on, she always comes back.
Just like you.
Because you're an unwelcome wanderer with name like a rock tied around your ankles, keeping you from taking a breath. And society has all but drowned you in judgmental stares.
So you stand at the corner of Knockturn Alley for lack of a better place to go, and you don't know why but you can't let her walk on past, today. Something about the way the once vibrant red hair has grown dull, something about the way her freckles stand out against too pale skin.
Maybe you're just sympathetic. Or maybe you're just lonely. Clearly you left your pride back at Hogwarts to rot among the wreckage because you call after her.
"Hey, Weaslette!"
You see her inhale. You can practically count her ribs through her shirt. She's grown too thin and you care. Why do you care?
She turns to meet your eyes and you ignore the look of disdain.
"You okay?" you ask.
She furrows her brow in confusion then continues to walk away without a second thought. "Piss off, Malfoy."
And maybe you should. But you don't.
It's eight o'clock on a Wednesday morning and you lean against the doorframe of the joke shop. She doesn't approve of loitering.
"I told you to piss off, Malfoy."
"You look like hell."
Her face twitches because she can't deny the truth in your words and it stings. It stings far worse than you meant it to. Before you can apologize she turns as though to walk away. "What's it to you?" she asks, though more to herself than anything.
You watch her turn the corner and you can't help but ask yourself the same thing.
It's eight o'clock on Monday morning and she doesn't even pause for a moment of silence; it's too sacred to share it with you. So you follow her and she's all rolling eyes and disgruntled sighs but you persist.
"You're not okay," you accuse.
"I can take care of myself."
She hugs her robes about her thin frame to try and hide the way she shivers, to shield herself from the bitter truth and autumn wind. Her face is drawn, and she can't keep her lip from trembling.
"You're not okay," you say again. "I would know."
You stop in your tracks, and you expect her to keep on going, to move on just to come back tomorrow. But she stops too and the tears she's held in for too many months finally start to overflow.
"Do you think I'll ever be okay?" she asks.
You don't respond because you don't know the answer, which never used to bother you before because it didn't matter. But now you're holding her and you don't know what happens next. You don't know if the two of you will ever be okay.
And then you do what your father told you not to, what you swore you'd never do, and you look down. There's oblivion in her eyes and it's a long way to fall.
And the only place to go is rock bottom.
It's eight o'clock in the morning and the shop is still closed, but the two of you are too wrapped up in each other to care. She still shivers in your arms and too many blankets. Her veins paint spider webs of blue beneath the skin of her wrists and there's something wrong, but you don't know how to fix it.
"He doesn't have a clue," she says. "He doesn't see me anymore."
It's the first time she's mentioned Potter. And it's the first time you realize just how far you've fallen. It's not as though she belongs to anyone; she doesn't even belong to you. She's drifting in and out of your life and she's already leaving you behind. The weights about your ankles are tied too tight and her grip isn't tight enough to hold onto you, or anyone else for that matter.
"I see you," you say, in hopes that will distract her. You hope that perhaps she sees you too. "I see you."
She gets up and searches for her clothes with trembling hands. You move to help her but she holds up a warning finger, and you don't dare push her. She's already been pushed too far and you know it.
The parting kiss to your lips tastes of salt.
It's eight o'clock in the morning when she hits rock bottom on the joke shop floor. You'd tell her that there's nowhere to go but up from here, but she can't hear you.
If only you had told her to not look down.