The Dance
A dance can't last for eternity, just as you can't replay one moment for the rest of your life.
Even if that's all you really want.
She only really met him in her third year, at the Yule Ball. She'd gone with Neville Longbottom. He was a nice boy, with a round face and smiling eyes and sweaty palms and a nervous mouth. Could someone's mouth be nervous? His was when he kissed her. And it was slimey and slobbery and she hadn't really liked it, but she'd kissed him back, anyway, because he'd taken her to the Ball with him and, well, that was where she only, really met him. It's funny how she can't even bring herself to say his name anymore. She finds that it hurts too badly, or something like that, but of course no one knows this. So she grins to Harry and Ron and Hermione and calls him Ferret. His real name gives her this hollow ache in her chest and, well...this was about when she met him.
She'd wanted very badly to look pretty for the Ball. She'd spent hours configuring her clothes and hair and jewelry to look just so, and when she was done she was sorely dissatisfied. Her hair had, initially, fallen around her face in these gorgeous, bouncy little ringlets and she'd figured that even if her clothes did not look very good, her hair looked quite near amazing. Five minutes later those same curls had evaporated into something not quite near amazing at all, falling around her face in messy waves that she didn't like one bit. So she'd fixed the whole mane of hair back in a bun and little wisps of it had fallen out of it and into her face, but no matter how many times she tried the charm, all she could get those wisps to do was turn into a frizzy mess. So in the end she ended up dunking her whole head in the bathroom sink and combing through the wet disaster forlornly. She gave up on her hair.
Her robes were a rich, majestic red--at least, that is what she told herself when faced with the depressingly frilly robe laid out on her four-poster. Firstly, they were boys' robes--Fred's, to be exact, a hand-me-down that looked old and beaten up, even though she was sure even Fred would never have worn it. In the back was a large, dark stain that would look embarrassingly like she'd peed herself, or, even worse, gotten her monthly visitor unawares. She tried for about half an hour to charm the stain out, since she'd sworn not to go Ron's route and rip out the frills, she argued she could do herself this much justice. The stain refused to budge. She remembered sinking to her knees in a type of pain she could not place, feeling as though she wanted to cry. She gave up on the robe and decided not to wear it. One of her friends from Hufflepuff had let her borrow this sleek, black dress to wear beneath it, and though it seemed to be yards too short for Ginny's lanky figure, it fit her developing chest well enough. Still, she couldn't help feeling very, very naked, what with the spaghetti straps and knowing she was going to be the only one without formal robes, and all.
Her jewelry turned out the worst of all. She'd tried to transfigure some aluminum foil stolen from the kitchens into something shiney and cute--all she managed was to make aluminum foil look, if possible, even more like aluminum foil. As a gesture of goodwill, her friend Luna Lovegood had given her a pair of sea shell earrings with a matching bracelet and necklace. It was pretty, in a sense, but definitely not Ginny's style. Still, she found herself donning the set, standing disappointedly in front of her mirror, appraisingly her afflicted appearance. Although she had tried with the make-up, she had quickly come to the conclusion that she was rubbish at cosmetics. Her face was pink from all the washing she'd had to do, and all she had for her feet were her beaten up school shoes.
Thus she met Neville at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the Great Hall, looking, in her mind, a complete wreck.
She had no idea tonight would change her life forever.
It was a bit sad, really, if you thought about it. Ginny should have been very distraught at having to wear her loafers to a Ball, but halfway into the night, she found herself extremely grateful for them. Neville was a terribly clumsy dancer, and if she had been wearing some elegant stilleto-like affair, she would no longer have had toes. Eventually they retired to a bunch of chairs in the corner and Neville and Ron struck up a conversation, Ron evidently paying more attention to Hermione (who was looking overly happy with Krum) than to what Neville had to say. Ginny quietly excused herself, quickly found herself out in the gardens. They were sparkling, tonight, too beautiful to be true. All the trees and terraces had been decorated with roses and tinkling fairies that glittered brilliantly in the moonlight. The atmosphere was silkily romantic, and as Ginny sat herself down on a stone bench, far away from the noise of the castle, the thought that this would be the best memory of tonight struck her very hard.
Tears pooled in her eyes and, as no one was there, she let them roll over her cheeks, dripping heavily onto her lap. She sobbed quietly. She had wanted so very much to have fun tonight, to be part of the party. All her efforts had proved were futility. She was poor, her costume, as she now bleakly dubbed it, was a lost cause, and her whole evening had been spent, not in the arms of some graceful and fluid dancer, but having her toes stepped on.
"Weasley," the voice was quiet, cold. Ginny's head snapped up faster than lightening to meet the mercury eyes of Draco Malfoy. He looked particularly dashing tonight, dressed all in black. His silver-blonde hair was slicked back into a hard shell and his angular face was emotionless. Still, there was something in him that Ginny had never seen before. "Dance with me?"
It was a fairytale sort of scene, if you could have seen it. The fairies twinkled their approval in the background, clutching onto the rose vines and squat shrubs. Faintly, Ginny could hear a slow song rise up in the background, slow and sensual. A cobblestone path clicked under his feet as he stepped forward to extend his hand, the moonlight illuminating their little story. Because it was their little story. Only theirs, as though they had fallen asleep in some lovely dream, away from the world. No one could find them here. These moments would be only theirs.
Tentatively, Ginny slipped her hand into his larger one. It was warm and smooth, just like a prince's should be. She had flushed when he pulled her into his chest, her head restly hesitantly against him, one hand on his shoulder and the other a knot of fingers with his. One of his hands rested lightly on her hips, and his chin buried itself in her now-dried hair. They swayed to the music, and she breathed in his scent. She didn't see, but he had closed his eyes.
Lost. They were lost. Lost in a dance, in a moment. She couldn't remember who he was, couldn't remember who she was or where they were or why she was here. And that's what a good dance is, isn't it? Forgetting that anything outside the person against you exists.
When the song ended, Ginny wished it hadn't. He didn't say a word to her, just held her for a moment longer, as though he knew this would be the last time. He stepped back then, releasing her, pushing her away. He gave her a sort of crooked half-smile, not saying a word. Then he left, left her standing there with her arms still outstretched. Wanting him to come back and never leave.
They never spoke to eachother after that. Ginny regretted not saying something to him that night. Maybe, if she had, just maybe, something would have been different. He didn't tease her anymore. Didn't even acknowledge that she existed. He didn't look at her. And it made her sad. Made her sad because she looked at him, and when she looked at him she remembered everything about that night. Everything about the way his robes had fit him, so elegantly, everything about the way he'd smelt and held her and felt and everything. Maybe if he looked at her, he would remember, too.
It was like someone cruel had given her half a fairytale. And for the rest of her life, all she would have was that half a fairytale, no matter how much she wanted it to be whole.
She looked at him in the hallways at school, wondering if he remembered their dance. She looked at him in those hallways until she grew up and left Hogwarts and there were no more hallways to see him in. Then she just didn't see him anymore, and wondering whether or not he remembered was not an option. Because that sort of thing was painful, and if you think the only person whose ever had your heart completely, even for a second, doesn't remember...That's when life is pointless, meaningless. That's when there's no more hope.
And although for her that dance lasted a lifetime, that moment fulfilled until her dying breath, he always wondered why he was the only one still waiting.
Author's Note: Couldn't sleep last night (or rather this morning, unless you consider 2 AM night), and wrote this. I had it finished, then, but it felt a little empty. So I just went over it, added little details. I think it came out alright, although I don't think I got the meaning through very clearly. Anyhow, review to tell me what you think.