Adequacy
Summary: Draco x Ginny "The candles that lit the morose halls flickered, and she wondered if that was what Hell looked like."
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: This story is incredibly strange and makes no sense at all. However, it is angsty and Draco/Ginny, which means you guys will flock to it like birds flock to statues of deceased men and Third World dictators. Enjoy.
Adequacy
It is one of the most beautiful, delicious hypocrisies when a Gryffindor is the most fearful of them all. She realized this, subconsciously clutching her bag closer to her chest, as she walked through the dark, dreary dungeons to the Slytherin common room, nearly shaking from panic and anticipation. She knew that he would be waiting and that Pansy would be, too, but it didn't matter too much because she knew he had to tell her something. The candles that lit the morose halls flickered, and she wondered if that was what Hell looked like.
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He was waiting outside, with Pansy standing behind a statue nearby, hoping to remain unseen but not doing a very good job. He smirked at the girl, who gave a shy smile in return and approached. Pansy, still in hiding, shot her a glare that nearly hid the exquisitely agonizing sorrow in her eyes.
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His words cut through her like a knife:
"It isn't going to work; you know that. You've known it all along."
"No, I haven't!"
"Give it up, Weasley. There's nothing you can do about it." It terrified her that he was resorting to using her last name; she hadn't been called that by him in months, and the words were as bad as a gun to her forehead. Bang, bang, you're dead. The tears that trickled down her face might as well have been blood.
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He was with Pansy that night; there was no commitment at all, and he felt nothing for her besides lust. It was always easier for him when relationships were purely physical; falling in love is just too stressful and pathetic for a Malfoy. Thankfully, Pansy didn't notice when he accidentally whispered "Ginny" instead of her name a few times, and she also didn't notice that he failed to make eye contact with her the entire night. He didn't care about her eyes, anyway; he cared only about the moonlight and the fact that if it hit her just right, he could almost imagine her as a petite red-head with blood-tears running down her pale face and a handgun held to her temple. Somehow, though, that still wasn't good enough.
End