Chapter Two

Draco fumes.

He stares down at his potatoes, daring them to make any sudden movements so that he might let his tension release in the form of stabbing them viciously with the first sharp object he sees (which, while likely to be a knife or a fork, might possibly be the angle of Pansy Parkinson's poorly plucked right eyebrow. If stabbing with an eyebrow were at all possible. Which it isn't. Which leads Draco to the conclusion that, y'know that mind he once had? He's lost it).

He clicks his heels idly together underneath the table and drums his fingers on the wood.

The Great Hall is drafty this October afternoon, undoubtedly because Hagrid's been tramping in and out all day in preparation for Halloween. Draco can feel autumn in the stones of the castle. It shushes and whispers from within, quiet and unassuming in its beauty, while in the forest, the golds melt into oranges, which melt into browns.

Draco cannot enjoy his favorite season when the thoughts of golds and oranges melting into browns invariably leads him straight back to one gold-orange-brown head of hair sitting at the other end of the hall.

This is classic, he thinks to himself. The patchwork quilt of his life is utterly, utterly sewn together with irony. What's more is that he, Draco Malfoy, does not even own a patchwork quilt. Patchwork quilts are more of a Weasley forte. Irony, O, irony. Cruel mistress.

This is not how his usual train of thought works.

He is logical, meticulous, precise in every movement, every word, every little wayward glance. A leads to B leads to C, his mind works. A, if he has a cup of coffee, B, he will have caffeine, C, he will be awake.

His mind does not work as follows: A, he has a cup of coffee, B, the hall is drafty, C, Ginny Weasley's hair.

This simply isn't how things are done.

The nerve of her, frankly. What was she thinking? Violence. Apologies. Insults. All in the same breath of air. Why, it must be exhausting. All of those extremes in one moment. It was exhausting for him to keep up.

A, he will have a cup of coffee.

Draco seizes this burst of instruction from the reptilian part of his brain, the part at the base of his skull that provides him with instinctual responses. His instinctual response to a hard situation is to have a cup of coffee, which will give him energy and clarity and pleasure.

Is this a hard situation?

He supposes it is.

Well. He supposes it isn't. He is being dramatic, just like Lucius always says he is. Just like Mother insists he isn't.

This is certainly not the first time a fool of a Gryffindor was crossed paths with him with a less than pleasing result. And really, he left with the upper hand, didn't he? He would accept no apologies from a Weasley because that would imply that he needed an apology from a Weasley. Which he did not.

She stands now, that Weasley whom he is not on the same level with, and Draco watches her move surreptitiously from behind the candelabras. She mulls. He mulls. She glances over at him.

Draco had anticipated this, and is already looking away.

---

Ginny hatches her plan in the moment she sees Draco Malfoy's hair fall back into place.

Sure enough, his eyes were looking in a bored sort of way into a mug of coffee (black and steaming, she notes), and sure enough, she would never have known he had been looking at all were it not for his hair. It was the colour of cornsilk, the consistency of water, and it flowed even after his initial movements had ceased.

Ginny sees this, the settling, and knows that he had been looking and that something has shifted from his Quidditch field into hers.

Isn't it Hermione who always says that the one with the most information wins?

She now knows more than he does: He believes her to be ignorant of his glances, but she is the wiser.

It is a small upper hand, but an upper hand nonetheless. Ron has taught her that the smallest bit of leverage can prove to be crucial. It is a matter of tactics.

Ginny is a crap tactician.

But she is working on that. Exponentially more importantly, she is working on this.

---

Draco looks over once again, just quick enough to see her smile the tiniest of smiles before she exits the hall.