Pickled Toads

"Pickled toads aren't even green, you know," said the blond boy, grinning in that awful way of his as he sauntered after her.

"Shut up!" the girl ordered, picking up her pace. He followed, content to watch the blush on her face deepen.

The village of Hogsmeade was quiet and warm, and so it was no surprise that students should be out and about, but it was a surprise that there were only two.

"I'm just saying," continued the blond, "I'm sure there are more than enough words to rhyme that aren't toad -"

"Draco, that was written four years ago. Just drop it, you berk."

"- road, node, load, mode - oh, mowed. 'A lawn freshly mowed.'"

Ginny stopped and turned, causing him to nearly run her over, and ran a hand through her bright red hair. "How creative- imagine, the day you contemplate the color of Harry's eyes. Hmm."

He did look slightly revolted then, but recovered to say, "I didn't spend time over it to write a love poem, little Weasel."

"Weasels are much better than ferrets," she shot back, crossing her arms. It was for lack of a better response, because he was right on that account. Still, she knew he'd used the nickname just to irritate her, and she wasn't about to let him down.

Draco's smile tugged evilly to one side, and he laughed softly. "Ferrets are the better-mannered of the two."

"Are they?"

He touched her shoulder briefly, prompting her heart to beat faster, then pulled his hand back and gave her an appraising look. "Yes, they are."

"It doesn't reflect," she said, though a blush was creeping even further up her face - this time not from jokes about Harry.

"In any case," Draco said haughtily, strolling to a stone bench at the edge of the road, "I think it's safe to say your poor poetry skills are ineffective." He sat, crossed his arms as well, and observed her nonchalantly.

Ginny grumpily sat next to him, leaving a fair amount of room in between, and responded, "I told you that was four years ago. I'm over him now."

He shrugged. "I doubt it."

She didn't reply, and they sat in silence for awhile, both wondering -

How did this… relationship, for lack of a better word, come to be?

It was odd, in any case, the way they interacted - they weren't friends, exactly, and they definitely weren't lovers. But there was something there. Something neither of them could quite put their finger on. It was almost tangible in the way it hung in the air, followed them around, and blatantly sat itself between them.

But what was it?

After a long, long time, Draco's left hand, which had fallen beside him, crept to cover hers, and for a minute they both stopped breathing for fear of missing something important. They just held on, not looking at each other, frozen with anticipation.

Nothing happened, except his index finger traced circles in her palm, and she pressed her fingertips lightly against his, still not daring to look over.

Yes, there was something there, something indeterminable.

"It's a nice day," she said shakily.

"Yes," he said, in an agreeable way which didn't suit his personality. There was more silence, and Ginny gave up on talking. It was as if there was nothing to talk about.

And while she pondered the discrepancies of love, Draco pondered the boundaries.

And there they stayed, holding hands, not facing each other, all because in the end, pickled toads weren't even green.

Author's Note: I tried something new. It's called "Write About Characters That Aren't From The 1970s".

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