I Was A Lover
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I'm broke, I'm creative. Props to Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath" - that's where the words came from.
She looked uncomfortable.
Well, as uncomfortable as a polite, red headed girl in a room full of people could manage to look. He could see it in every tiny detail: the way her mouth would pucker just so, the way her eyes would become dead every now and again, but most importantly, the way her brow would furrow for just a half a second, just long enough to give her away.
Draco sipped his champagne and wondered why he was there. The engagement party had been invitation only, and he smirked at every eye regarding him with a peculiar gleam. Of course he would get an invitation, with his name scrawled in looping script, every letter carefully drawn.
Of course they would get married. It was silly of him to think for even a moment that they wouldn't tie their lives together; after all, in every paper he'd been interviewed in, Harry fervently credited Ginny for all his strength and courage. She was his light, he had said, his guide in the dark.
Draco found it funny, considering that on all those lonely nights Potter was running around alone in the woods, Draco had been molding Ginny's flesh beneath his fingers, quelling her fears and flaming desires. She spent so many nights in his arms and his bed. It was sickening to look up and see her now, with that tight smile and those fluttery hands; he had to laugh out loud a little to keep from throwing up.
He leaned back in his chair, its white wooden back digging uncomfortably into his lean muscle, but he didn't care. He swirled his champagne lazily in its flute and cast his gaze around the room, finding little comfort in the faults of his company. There was a nagging in his mind, a tiny pinprick of irritation; turning his head, he caught her pleading eyes fighting for his in the crowd, their deep, sorrowful chocolate a trigger for memories he swore he had already tucked carefully away. He scowled and stood up in his chair, brushing his coat sleeves gently, plucking at invisible specs of fuzz and dust, anything to distract his vision from her porcelain face.
There was wild hustle and bustle as the crowd became more compact, pushing toward the happy couple with eagerness. Draco took a sidelong glance in their direction as the flash bulbs began to pop all around him; he watched that idiot touch her face, so clumsy, and pull her close. He could see her trying to squirm, trying to wiggle free, but Harry eased her fidgets with a squeezing arm and told her to smile.
"It's just a picture, Ginny," he laughed, curling his hand up her arm. The crowd laughed, too, taken by their fairytale excitement, The Hero and his Heroine: The Epitome True Love. The champagne was too warm when Draco downed the rest of it. He'd never had a good gag reflex, of course, so the choking came from that warm shit and nothing else. He turned his head and touched his mouth, wiping a fleck of spittle that had landed on his lip, and saw that she had turned away from him again. He felt something tick in his chest, only a little hiccup, but he grimaced nonetheless, dropping his glass clumsily on the table. He quickly overcame his agitated manner, however, when he realized he was being childish, and besides, she would come back eventually.
Of course she would. He could see it already, the impatience in her eyes when she finally locked his icy gaze again, like this whole ordeal was only a precursor to the rest of her life, her better life. She was only doing it because it was expected of her, her whole redheaded clan and all her friends wanted what was best for her, and of course that's what it was, Potter, so of course that's what she would do.
When the publicity got to her and the tabloids ripped their marriage apart, it would only be appropriate to pick up and move on, like she thought she should. It would be a mess of polite lies, after that, spread all out in black and white. He didn't understand why she didn't just tell the truth, but then again, what fun was that? He rubs his cheek and shakes his head, imagining her on a soapbox in front of cameras, her own personal press conference. He could already see himself standing in the near background, a perfect shot for another tabloid, mouthing the very words she was speaking, because of course they'd be his.
Of course.
He weaved between tables as he crossed the hall, turning back to her once again. He pushed all irrational thought away from the forefront of his mind, focusing once again on faults, and finding hers. The fact that she was watching his departure was one of them.
The first thing he noticed when he made his fashionable entrance into the Great Hall - clichéd, he thought, but it must have been Potter's idea - was all the decorations and red hair.
The decorations because, even as girly as she was, he knew Ginny would never pick colors like lavender and crème. He happened to know for a fact that her dream wedding would be silver and gold, in a subtle, pleasing palette, accenting her creamy skin and vibrant hair. He flicked a lavender bow out of his way as he came around the corner, ducking into a chair with as much as grace as he could muster before he managed the gall to turn his face with a bored expression toward the aisle to await the bride.
In doing so, he noticed all the redheads. He wasn't stupid - he knew her clan was primarily carrot-topped - but this simply exceeded the limit. With the exception of some of his old classmates, and older fools who had gone grey, every other person had tomato-red locks, be they straight, curly, piled in frizzy curls, beehives, or buzz-cuts. He tried to swallow his surprise, but was very unsuccessful; he could feel his mouth gaping open, gasping like a dying fish as they all stood. He still had a chance to escape, he reminded himself. It wasn't like him to be a masochist or a martyr.
Being in this clammy old castle with all these red-faced fools only provoked his sense of unease, surrounded by people who would rather see him beaten senseless than watch their sweet darling dove say her vows. He felt like a child again, watching her from the corner of the room, battling his own inner demons while she flaunted hers for foolhardy fellows like the Boy Who Lived. He sneezed to disguise his blatant sneer. The organ in the corner began a deathtrap tune, a sad little melody that brought the gravity of the situation upon him, and despite himself, he staggered to his feet and turned toward the great doors.
The first thing he saw bustle through them was her dress, and once again, how it didn't suit her. The hem and train was spread like a paper fan, its sloping handle tightening at her knees, making it awkward for her to walk. Her veil was done with lace patterns so detailed that they obstructed the view of her face, casting garish shadows beneath her eyes, like a mourning widow. It was strapless, but beaded so heavily he could hear the fabric brushing against itself as she waddled down the aisle; after she had passed him, he shook his head slowly and sighed. While she looked gorgeous in practically anything, this dress was not flattering, nor did it seem like it was really hers.
His face puckered as she took her place across from that joke of a man. Her own pale visage was even more so, bordering from decidedly fragile to nauseous with every passing moment. She was visibly jittery while that idiot was grinning at her. He could tell she was impatient throughout the readings, her leg twitching just so, but her mother smiled endearingly and dabbed her eyes, and the ceremony went on and on without a hitch, until the Headmaster turned to the expectant crowd with his hands raised.
"Whosoever feels that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, please speak now, or forever hold your peace."
Until divorce, Draco thought smugly, but shooed the bitterness out of his head with a subtle shake and cast his eyes back to the alter, where he found her staring intently at him, her brown eyes wide and hopeful. He wanted to gawk at her; she was practically begging him to do it, here in front of God and everybody.
Instead, he narrowed his eyes and curled his lips into a sympathetic smile, shaking his head at her. He knew she wanted him to do it. She wanted him to stand up and profess his undying love for her, in front of everyone, all her carrot-topped clan, and make another fairytale of her life. He quirked his eyebrows and tilted his head, his eyes never leaving hers. She should've known, by then, that it wasn't going to be him, and if it wasn't him, then it was no one.
After a painfully awkward silence and an impatient crowd with baited breath blued in the face, the Headmaster turned back to the couple and they joined hands, where they exchanged their vows and rings, all quiet murmurs and giant, mocking grins. Draco checked his nails and tried to maintain his cool façade.
At last, they turned to their audience, Ginny bearing that same tight smile, while that dunce Potter raised their joined hands like a trophy and fisted the air. The crowd broke into uproarious applause, but his bride's facial expressions didn't go unnoticed, and the side mouthed whispers undermined the celebration as Potter rushed them down the aisle.
"I heard she was moonlighting with Draco Malfoy. No one returns from that. I give it a year," Padma Patil whispered to her sister, who checked Draco's pointed eyebrow with a blush over her shoulder.
A couple of innocent strangers Draco had never cared to identify side-glanced him across the way, but he just kept clapping until the faux-happily married couple crossed the threshold and disappeared into the typical clichéd sunshine. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and maneuvered through the crowd with feline grace, avoiding the eyes of any other suspicious patrons.
To say she loved him would be too heroic, and to say that he loved her back was just too much to comprehend so soon after all that tragedy. It burned his insides to know that he was the reason for his own sadness; after all, he pushed her into marrying that oaf. He remembered her crestfallen face when he told her he couldn't make an honest woman of her. He should've known that if he wouldn't, someone else would, and of course it would be Potter.
Of course he would've loved her more than Potter. He already did - he knew it from the start, from the announcement of their engagement, from her walking out the door that final time, from him choking on her impatient words. Now the doors were closing and the hall was emptying, the crowd clutching the scene to them tightly with hope and a strange awe. An awe that could've been his, but wasn't, because of course it would be Potters. The resonant bang of the doors back in place felt oddly metaphorical to his feelings, to their trysts, to the new abyss that stood between them. He wanted to wait in that very spot for the day when she'd run back into his arms, but was once again disappointed when he realized that maybe that day wouldn't come.
He knew he shouldn't wonder what he'd done to her heart. It killed him just as much to know that he had killed her, and that all of her capacity to love a person was a victim of his cruelty. He had won out in the end, giving Potter the empty shell of her passion, but at the very least, he couldn't blame her for what she'd done.
Of course, he would've done the same.
Well, there you have it. Four years later, she still packs the same punch, just a little dressed up.
xoxo