Sunsets
For Draco, breakfast the next morning was literally an anguishing experience. All he could do was look over to the Gryffindor table, eyeing that blasted Weasley and wondering why the hell he found the need to in the first place. It was a Saturday, but he'd still awakened earlier than necessary--ignoring all the so-called Malfoy necessities, he'd flew out the Dormitories and to the Great Hall as if it had suddenly become a vital and painfully interesting addition to his life. The other Slytherins had eyed him a bit unpleasantly; as seemed to be the trend this year, he did not fit the sleek and calm outlook the rest of them had settled into.
Draco Malfoy huffed into his seat, trying in vain to gather his robes around him in a vaguely presentable manner--still, it was a bit too noticeable the way his eyes flashed to and fro; hurrying down for a split second to fasten a button, then rushing back up to linger a longing moment on the Gryffindor table, searching for that tumble of fiery hair.
When she did arrive, Draco was in no better condition than he had been when he entered the Hall--he had absently chewed on the crust of some toast, wriggled his eggs about in his plate, downed four glasses of orange juice, and one of pumpkin. At her sight, his fidgeting vanished, replaced by the familiar throb of guilt and pain in his chest--a familiarity that, to him, was so startling and unknown it fit perfectly. He didn't feel the need to move any longer; just to sit in a stinging peace and watch the Weasel in all her glory--a glory, he sometimes thought, he'd been offered to share. Again and again, as he watched her smile and chat with her friends, he relived that incident in the library, every memory of her hurt eyes making him clutch at his pants in desperation; though for what, he did not know. He thought of her anger that had bitten him in the Potions room--yet of her compassion, gently healing his finger with all the skill of a medi-witch; and all of this simply made him bite his tongue so hard it bled.
It was a mixture of befuddlement, anger and guilt that ate him so, that left him so confused that his world seemed to spin and spin and spin...Why had she come to him in the first place? What right had she to intrude that first day in the Hogwarts Express? What right had she to intrude at all! It was bizarre; he knew it was unecessary to linger on something decidedly lost, but he could not help the feeling that what was lost would always be too much for him to stomach. She had started this, and he seemed to have ended it; whatever shred of civil manner she had felt towards him, Draco Malfoy, the boy who had made her childhood memories a diary of haunted words, the boy who relentlessly had taunted her family and ignored her for years...whatever shred of civility she had held towards him was gone. The only compassion he would recieve, if any, would be limited--it was her store of civility towards a beggar, some one she did not know or care for. It was her store saved for those she could not help but pity.
But how, how could she go on like nothing had happened--like she hadn't seen the ghost of what once was in his eyes, like she hadn't once tried to help him? And why would she give up so easily? Where was her determination, her persistence...?
And why, why in the name of god did his stomach seem so full of butterflies every time she smiled?
The Dormitory Draco shared with other sixth year boys was empty, all of them already having departed for Hogsmeade. After breakfast Draco had dragged himself up to this room, and thrown himself across the bed--he had already decided that he wouldn't go to Hogsmeade. It was a waste of his time, not that his time itself wasn't a useless thing. It was, but Draco still felt the need to spend it wrapped up in his four poster, brooding and submerging himself in waves and waves of self-pity and chronic depression. 'I might as well go mad,' he found himself thinking, for once shivering at the cold, empty feeling the Dorm room radiated, 'I won't be missed...'
His father's hands groped and touched...
Draco rolled over.
The laughing was hysterical, crazy, insane...
Fists clenched on already sweat-soked sheets.
"Who am I going to fuck? Who am I going to fuck?"
Tap, tap, tap.
Grey eyes pressed themselves tightly closed, succumbing to the nightmare.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, TAP TAP TAP TAP.
His eyes blinked open as he bolted upright with a gasp, head turning every which way in search of the ruckus.
TAP TAP TAP.
Finally his eyes fell on the window, and his heart immediately stopped. The whole room seemed to go cold, his very blood freezing as he recognized Lucius's vicious looking hunting owl. The creature was a sleek tawny color, with black-rimmed eyes that showed nothing but brute intelligence.
TAP TAP TAP.
The creature was getting impatient: he wanted in. Draco warily eyed the black enveloped fastened to long-nailed claws--he slowly approached the window, letting the animal in with a sigh of resignation. The owl settled on Draco's bed-head for a moment, hurriedly picking at the clip to the envelope, before dropping it curtly on the bed and exiting the way he came. 'So I'm not expected to reply,' Draco thought bitterly, swiping a bead of sweat away from his forehead and whiping clammy hands on his jeans--which he now realized were wet with perspiration, any way. His shirt, this morning crisp and white, was now moist and clingy--his robes rumpled where he'd thrown them over the bed.
Ignoring it, he testily picked up the letter, his breath quickening with restrained fear. Clenching it between his fingers and crumpling the paper, he gritted his teeth, needing to know he was stronger than this...than this flimsy parchment. How could it hurt him? It couldn't. It shouldn't. 'Get it over with, Draco,' he told himself, idly smoothing it out and ripping the seal, emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.
It read:
Dear Draco,
I just thought I should inform you that you're expected back for the Christmas Holidays.
I'm sure we could spend some time together.
Lucius.
Draco had never felt so angry so fast--before he knew it the letter was no more than small pieces of parchment slowly wafting down to his feet, his lip was bleeding because he'd bitten it, and his knuckles were cold-white with fury. 'Spend some time? Spend some time!' he screamed to himself, 'I'd rather die, you...you...' Falling to his knees, Draco dipped his head to the floor, clutching the carpet in outrage and surrender. His tears seemed to soak through the fabric, making the texture on his cheeks damp with moisture.
He looked up, and all he saw was the dim prospect of his future.
He looked up, and he saw Lucius.
Cold rage is something very few people can truly experience--when they do, it is more likely to destroy them than to help them release frustration or anger in any way. Draco's cold rage at that moment was all-consuming--and very literally. Trunk-lids were ripped from their hinges, the bathroom door ruined with dents and blood, shoe marks went deep into the walls, tearing the wallpaper and woodwork; the curtains on the beds were destroyed, fine green velvet and silk now only jagged ribbons on the floor; feathers covered the carpet, pillows ripped from the center...
By the time Draco was done in the Dorm, and dejectedly heading towards the old, discreet pub in Hogsmeade, the house elves knew that this would be one of their hardest clean-up conquests in a long, long while.
Ginny's whole Hogsmeade trip thus far had consisted of being a beautiful but unwanted third wheel to Parvati and Lavender. Hermione had gone off with Harry and Ron, and Helen was with her latest infatuation--so Ginny was feeling blatantly out of place and miserable. It was late evening, when they were just exiting Honeydukes to hike back up to Hogwarts, that the rain started. Parvati and Lavendar squeeled in terror, their hair, they claimed, going to a dreadful waste--nevertheless they giggled and stumbled up the darkened street. Thunder and lightening rattled the skies, making Ginny cringe as she tagged along behind them; eventually she slowed, letting them stay about a yard ahead of her--still in sight, but blissfully out of ear-shot.
She walked doggedly, as if every limb was tired. Pulling her cloak over her head and allowing her shoes to squelch into the softening mud, she trudged on, her mind all the while thinking of the one person she somehow found heart to blame for this. 'Maybe if Malfoy hadn't been born,' she mused sourly, 'today wouldn't have been so despicable and rainy.' Even she had to smile at that--the thought was absolutely absurd and delicately far-fetched.
Still her mind clasped onto its musings, now switching deliberately, it seemed, to Malfoy's molten eyes. Ginny shivered in almost delight, and a bit of terror, at the way they would stare her down, causing the hairs to rise all over her body with the notion that some one's sole attention was on her. It was more than that, though, and Ginny knew it, though she would never admit it.
A gutteral moan startled her, effectively, out of her reverie. She was just by the Three Broomsticks and still had a ways to go in order to get back to school, but the moan was so painfully familiar that she had to stop. She looked around, pivoting on her spot, until she heard the moan again, her eyes immediately traveling to the drain in the alley between the Three Broomsticks and the next shop over; there, in the mud and barely recognizable was a human male--Ginny heart's sunk as she realized who exactly it was, a sliver of silver-blonde hair and another deep-throated moan reassuring her of his identity.
She looked around to Parvati and Lavender, found them two mighty specks on the horizon amidst the raining exterior and slowly sauntered towards the fallen Malfoy. She leaned down towards him, squinting in the rain, catching some in her palms to gently whipe the grimy face of her subject. "Moowrrr," he groaned, and she smelt fire whiskey on his breath, slowly realizing he was drunk, "Zhe wants mowrrrrrrrr..."
"Oh Malfoy," she muttered as her fingers cleared the mud from his face--he'd obviously been rolling about here in his delirium for quite a bit, "What have you done?" For a moment his shaded grey eyes seemed to focus on her face, to understand her question--and then the hail started. Ginny heard it before she felt it, like a barrage of small stones being thrown on every roof in the town, and flinched as her back and head became kin to those roofs. Malfoy winced, the chunks of ice bouncing off his head and shoulders, clattering to the pavement.
For the first time, Ginny acknowledged how cold it was, and how any thought of reaching Hogwarts in these conditions would result in some sort of injury. As if to justify this, Malfoy uttered an agonized moan, and Ginny looked to see a small trickle of blood being washed down his face from a tiny wound on his forehead. "Great, just great," she said aloud, quickly making a move to tug the boy out of the drain. She would have to find shelter in the Three Broomsticks until the storm stopped, and though she wished she could, she could not find the heart to leave the drunken Malfoy youth out here in these conditions.
After some trial, he had been pulled out of the drain, and he lazily slung an arm around her. He was covered in mud, and somehow managed to give her a light coating of the same substance as she pulled her wobbly patient along towards the entrance to the Three Broomsticks.
Ginny was grateful once they entered the foyer--it was warm and dry, though both she and her subject contributed to the small lakes that seemed to gather on the tiled floor. "Uh!" Ginny heard Rosmerta come around the bend, " 'Nother Hogwarts here and wettin' up my porch--oh, hallo Miss Weasley."
Ginny smiled wearily at the portly woman, "Sorry, Rosy," she offered.
"Ah, no worries. I've just 'bout perfected my Scouring Charm the last five times. Come on in, I'll get you an your friend a room; sorry, but ya'll both goin' to have to share, I've only one left, but I can promise you a good, warm dinner each. What happened to yeh both, anyways--looks like ya'll had a jolly good roll in the muds, eh?" Ginny quietly pulled the giddy Malfoy along with her, dripping all over the hallway as Rosmerta led them to their room. "Any who," she said, opening the door and handing Ginny a pair of keys, "Dumbledore's already owled me, 'bout fifty of ya'll staying here tonight, I'll be damned. This storm's--"
"All night?" Ginny inquired, her eyes widening in horror.
"All night. Storm ain't lettin' up 'till mid-mornin' t'morrow, if that. He's sent the fare for ya'll t'get good rooms and good treatment, not that I'd give ya'll otherwise," she scratched her chin for a moment, "Be up in an hour or two with dinner; make yurselves at home. For god sakes, clean the carpet for me--you've done quite a mess just standin' there, you two--and have a hot shower you both..." The woman continued back down the hall, commenting ocassionally on how damned Mother Nature could be, and how her little motel was as full as it ever was.
Ginny kicked the door shut behind her, almost losing her balance as the larger being braced on her swayed. She had not acknowledged this before, but Malfoy was disconcertingly close to her, his face slung by her shoulders as his bent knees supported him. Upright, he was a good head taller than her; down here and in this condition, he was simply a deadweight to her lithe form. As gently as she could, she disentangled him from her, and lay him face-up on the floor. There, with Malfoy restlessly dozing on the floor before her, she surveyed their quarters.
It was a nice room, spacey and tastefully furnished. Not a room a Malfoy would have voluntarily agreed to, she thought bitterly, but a room more than grand to a Weasley. One queen sized four poster rested against the wall, it's sheets neatly folded and drawn back; two bedside tables, one with a lamp the other with a notepad; a closet, dresser, small coffee table and two armchairs, with a mediocre fire place as the center piece. To one side was another door, which Ginny assumed would be the bathroom. Forgetting her charge, she galloped excitedly towards it, bursting forth into a marble-sinked masterpiece. The shower was large and roomy, and, at this moment, oh so enticing to the bone-chilled, mud-adorned Weasley.
More than happy, she stripped her clothing and proceeding to scrub herself clean under hot jets of carressing water.
Author's Note: Thanks millions for the reviews; they make me unbearably happy. And sorry for the delay; my cousin is spending the summer here, and my mother insists that as the only other person close enough to her age to be her friend, I should spend every waking moment with her. Not that I mind; it's darned good to have some sensible company in this hole of doom, and she's always been like a sister to me. I would appreciate her more, however, if my reading and writing time (which I prefer to do in the solitude and isolation of my study or bedroom) weren't so largely disrupted.
But PSHA! Who needs to sleep, right? Well, she does; and I, being the everlasting insomniac on this hot summer night, spent sadly without my boyfriend, seem to have found the ideal time to write my weekly updates. Doesn't help that I have to wake up at eight tomorrow and it's currently 2:27 AM. I shall live.
Okayzz; so the Pearl (or Jenni :P) left me a divine review (or two), and in the first of this pair asked a few questions ; here I shall attempt to answer them: Well, yeah, I suppose Ginny was top of her year :P She did impressively in most of her subjects, and well enough in the rest of them to be promoted to sixth year subjects while she's in fifth year. Mainly, this was a sort of pivot point that leads to my beautifully cliche (as you put it ;-)) scenes, which is ultimately my biggest handhold on their romance. As for the Hogwarts Express thingy with Ginny going to Draco's cabin; I didn't mean that she was looking for a free cabin, more that she was looking for the cabin in which held her friends (namely Herms, Lav, Pav and Helen). However, if you peered into a cabin and saw a marvelously sexy guy with a bloody bandage around his knuckles, wouldn't you oggle and ponder for a moment too long? ;-) As for them having to sit together in Potions; there are two main scenarios that could have lead to Draco sitting alone (and can be fitted together anyways); one is because he has changed and didn't want to sit with any one of his backstabbing friends (if you think about it, his father is a backstabber too, because you don't expect a father to be so cruel...in a way, his emotional state allows good reason for him not to want to be around those 'friends'), two, he may have came in just a bit earlier than Ginny, and here I assume people don't enjoy sitting at the very back of the classroom in the gloomiest corner.
Phew! Okay, now...R&R on this chapter, and I shall dutifully work on the next amidst math homework, visiting cousins and insomnia.
