Disclaimer: Don't Own. Don't Sue
Author's Notes: Cha, so it's a D/G oneshot, 'cause those are cool. And I think I might expand it a little more, or at least edit, because basically I had the sudden and strong urge to write a D/G oneshot, and this came out in, oh, about five minutes.
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Back Tomorrow
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It is dark, but he remembers every inch of the room, every surface, and he would find them easily even if he were blind. Careful not to wake the slim figure or Ginny Weasley curled gently into herself on the bed, Draco Malfoy stands.
Already the place he occupied grows cold, and she whispers something inaudible in her sleep. He almost turns to look at her, but stops just before he has caught a glimpse of the long delicate strands of ruby red hair that spread across the faded grey cotton sheets. Instead he leans down to pull on his trousers, because he knows that if he does look to Ginny, he will not look away again.
He finds his shirt beneath the single worn wooden chair that decorates the room, and the buttons come together clumsily, because Draco is shaking just a little as he does them up. The fabric of his shirt is new and crisp and freshly pressed and it smells like cold stone hallways and smoke and fear, and oh how he wishes it smelled instead like Ginny, like candles and lavender and sky and dreams.
His wand is in the back pocket of his pants, and he should feel better to have it near him again, but he would rather have Ginny, because every breath she takes protects him, a solid wall of truth building around his heart, but she is still on the bed, and asleep, and he cannot look at her.
If he does, he will never look away again.
Footsteps echo down the hallway outside, but he does not even glance up to the door. No one would dare set foot in here. No one but him. They pass by quickly, people say this hallway is haunted with something worse than ghosts. That's the way Draco keeps it. His shoes are next to the door, the right one lying upside down, and he pulls them on quickly.
They are cold unforgiving leather, and pinch his toes. He is to busy not looking at the person on the bed to notice.
If he sees her, he will watch her forever.
A long time ago, or maybe it wasn't so long ago, Draco has trouble keeping track of time anymore, with everything blurring and fading together until he feels so trapped but trapped in his freedom. A long time ago, Ginny told him that he had a thing about watching people. She said that he could read a person better than anyone she had ever known, because somehow he could understand them by just watching, and looking and seeing.
But Draco doesn't watch Ginny to understand her. He knows both that he already does understand her, and that he never will. He watches Ginny because he has never, in his life seen anyone as beautiful as she is.
Draco is dressed now. In his muggle slacks and collared shirt and shiny black shoes, he looks like he might be going out to a nice dinner somewhere. That is, of course, if one is willing to over look the silvery tears that quiver at the corners of his eyes, or the bruise-like grooves beneath them. Willing to overlook his pained expression, and the forced rigidity that holds him upright.
Last night, Ginny whispered that he was looking worse off than her. And he is. Oh.
He is.
He takes a long deep breath, and then unfolds his last item of clothing from where it lay, carefully placed on the floor next to the door.
He swathes it over his form, and then he is only another shadow in the dark of the room, with his long robe, soft and silky as sin, and the same shade of black too. It brushes the floor as he moves to leave, whispering secrets Draco would rather never hear.
And in his hand, the one marked by a skull and snake, he holds a mask.
Draco turns, then and finally to study the still sleeping form of Ginny Weasley.
She has shifted from her previous position to instead hug at the pillow where Draco's head once lay, because Draco assumes, it smells the most like him. Her hair, lays fanned out about her head in brilliantly red waves more fire that anything else, and her lips, delicate rose lips, are parted just slightly.
Her face is too pale now, from lack of sun, though he can still just make out the freckles that dust her cheeks, and she is just almost smiling in sleep.
He reaches out, as if to touch her, but before he is too tempted to turn back, before he takes a step toward her, he catches himself, and closes his eyes. Then, out of his pocket, the one charmed to hold anything, he tugs two apples, a loaf of bread, and a single red rose.
"I love you." He whispers, his voice slightly hoarse. "Always."
And then he turns away again, careful not to tread on the things he has just set on the floor, and the door to cell sixteen swings shut behind him, locking automatically.
He presses his lips against the cool silver plaque on the door, which reads: Ginevra Weasley, Prisoner 42, Do Not Approach, Extremely Dangerous. (Class 1)
"I'll be back tomorrow." He mouths. And then he turns, his footsteps echoing awkwardly off of the silent, stone walls.
On the other side of the door Ginny sits up, not bothering to brush the tears on her cheeks away.
"I love you, too." She answers, "And I'll be waiting."
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Fin