Her voice had risen to a hysterical cry, and he winced as it rebounded noisily from the high rafters, bouncing around the stone room and reverberating like a drum.
'Granger?-Granger?-Granger?-Granger?' the echoes answered back fiercely.
Ginny didn't seem to notice. She just continued to stare, slack-jawed at him, as he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered to collapse on the window seat. Suddenly appearing much, much older, he dragged a hand through his hair, running it down his tight neck, and sighed heavily with a self-deprecating snort.
"Believe it or not, the feeling is mutual" his voice was sardonic.
Without even really wanting it to, her eyes fell back to the chest before her. Still trembling, she began slowly to empty it, searching for answers, searching desperately for some hintof her reality in this mess. But with every image, every word she read, everything that fell before her frantic gaze only secured her more tightly in the knowledge that herreality wasn't real at all. The reality where there was specified lines between good and evil, and Draco Malfoy was most definitely the latter, where Hermione Jean Granger, the first and truest girlfriend Ginny Weasley had ever possessed, indisputably detestedthe very ground that hewalked upon, was in fact not a reality at all. It was an illusion that she had been shuttered behind, while beyond it a high stakes game of Russian Roulette was being played. A gun forged of passion and bullets of circumstance; something that began as hate, evolved into lust before transforming suddenly and inescapably to love, before either player could quite do anything about it.
At the time, she didn't realise she was doing it, but by the time the shadows had lengthened in the room and Ginny's concentration was finally broken, she was surrounded by a organised chaos of the contents of Draco's heart.
That, Ginny realised, cracked her neck and wincing as she returned blood flow to her legs, was exactly what this was. It wasn't just a chest; this was the most secret, hidden, softest, protected, feared and exalted part of the man that was Draco Malfoy. Everything was pushed in here, protected, hidden from the world; out of sight and out of his mind in the case it was penetrated.
She started with the pictures; there were some here that didn't move, that she recognised as being snapped by Hermione's Polaroid camera, a birthday from her parents in second or third year. It had taken her a month to charm it so it worked in Hogwarts.
Here was a handful of those unnaturally still images, taken in the dark of a library corner. A dusky shot of Hermione, one hand cupping her cheek as she frowned thoughtfully, the blur of a quill in her other hand. She looked up, blushing at the camera, smiling shyly as though coerced. Glanced at him from under her long, dark lashes, head cocked in that very Hermione-ish I-know-I'm-right-but-it's-cute-you're-trying way. Tried to focus on her work, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear. Obviously not succeeding, because in the next snapshot, that a very talented Draco managed to snap one-handed while catching her chin and kissing her for all she was worth with the other, she was smiling against his lips, very distracted.
It took Ginny a long time to move on from that single image. Was it wrong that she was physically shocked to see Hermione so happy? Her joy glowed from the still image, through her smile and her eyes and the relaxation in her shoulders. Was it wrong to think that the boy caught forever in this moment was nothing like the Malfoy she knew? He was playful and fun and smitten, not caring for a moment that she was Gryffindor and he was Slytherin, that he was Pureblooded and she of the dirty blood, and their lips were pressed tightly together, moulding their smiles as one.
The other photographs were mostly magical; there was a collection obviously taken on the same brilliant summer afternoon somewhere where it was glaringly bright and green and the light made a halo appear around Draco's pale skin. He lay back against the grass, one eyebrow raised mockingly. Another showed him sitting up, tearing grass in his fingers, grinning and looking up at something she'd just said, a rare unguarded moment.
Grinning! Ginny could honestly say that in the six years she'd know him, she'd never, ever so much as heard of Draco grinning quite like that; it was light and honest and a little crooked, but it was astoundingly beautiful.
Then they were laying together, Hermione's head on his chest, her long hair haloed around her face, holding the camera above her head to capture them both, spread-eagled on the grass, shirts and ties and robes in wondrous disarray. Draco had one hand behind his head, cradling his skull, and a blade of grass stuck between his teeth. His other hand rested on her flat belly. He gave the camera a cheeky wink, then tickled her. Obviously squealing, Hermione sat up on her knees and fended him off, one handed, into head-thrown-back-laughing submission, before settling back in his arms.
They were sun-soaked, casual, fun-loving humour and long, lazy warm days. Her heart ached to think of moments, stolen just like these, with Harry, curled up together so tightly in the watery autumn sun of their time together that it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. She wished they'd had a camera to capture those moments like Draco and Hermione had.
"Oh" the breath escaped from her body and wrapped around the sound, tugging it from her mouth. Draco looked up at her blush and joined with one of his own.
"Bugger...right, you tell a soul I've got that..." he muttered.
Hermione, curled up in white sheets, eyes closed, breathing gentle, her head lolled in the cradle of her hands so the round strawberry bruises were like thumb prints against the smooth, pale expanse of her neck. The sheets were tangled around her bare legs, draping luxuriously over her behind, while most of her front was covered by the corner of blanket that she had pulled up to her chin. She looked peaceful and sated, innocent, striking and sexy at once. Like a debauched angel, fallen into the arms of the Devil himself and not minding at all.
She quickly put that one down and tried to continue looking through the pictures. But not Draco was standing over her, hovering, and her concentration was broken.
So she flicked quickly through images of the lake, of dark corners and dusty, unfeatured passages, of late nights at the Astronomy Tower and liaisons in the back stacks of the library. She found pictures of...was that Paris?Hermione pretending to smoke, spread out on an antique double bed, and an artistic shot of pale hands entwined against dark robes, and smiles, and sadness and passion and laughter and hurt and fear and joy.
"Bloody hell" she said finally. Draco snorted and handed her the package of letters that she hadn't opened.
"You don't know the half of it"
And so she delved into the correspondence Draco had received from Hermione, tracing this strange and dangerous romance from its very foundations, asking every now and again for his side of the story.
He told her of their interaction. She'd been crying alone in a lonely passage and he hadn't realised it was her, so he'd gone to see if she was alright and tripped, sprawling on top of her. Being the good young Pureblood gentlemen, he'd immediately helped her up and apologised. This was before he'd realised she was a Muggleborn. He'd decided from the ease in which she'd mastered Charms she had to be Pureblooded.
September 1991
To Draco,
I realise this may seem a little strange (that I am writing to you) but I thought it was probably appropriate considering the circumstances.
I would like to thank you for what you did the other day. You did not have to, but you helped me.
Anyway, thank-you for your kindness.
Sincerely yours,
Hermione Granger
He told Ginny how he'd found out about her heritage, somewhere between their encounter in the abandoned corridor and receiving her letter, and replied with a rude and scathing letter condemning her for being a liar and a no-good bloody Muggleborn. Though he hadn't used the 'M' word, he may as well have.
September 1991
To Draco,
Well, you did not have to be so rude! It was really uncalled for, considering you've already told me that you think I am smarter than the average witch, and that I should not listen to those nasty second year boys who called me ugly.
Besides,I did not lie to you! You did not ask me about my family, and I don't see how it matters where I was born.
I am better than you at Charms. So there.
Not sincerely yours because you are a git,
Hermione
She'd giggled at this; who knew young Hermione was so inarticulate? Who knew she cursed, albeit lightly.
It was strange, watching Draco's eyes grow faraway as he spoke about those days. The September 1991 days; of innocence and childhood and sunshine and detentions for lateness. There wasn't forbidden liaisons that could get both participants killed or evil men rising to positions of power through murder and subterfuge.
To D
You know, I still think it is ridiculous that you insist we use these psydenems (that's 'pretend names' to you) because who is really going to care that we owl each other? Aside from your father who, from what you've told me, and please do forgive me for saying it D, is a bit of a git.
Anyway, as I was trying to tell Ronald Weasley today, Professor Flitwick is a dwarf not a goblin. Really, let us not get too carried away. I can understand Ron;he's always listening to those silly brothers of his, Fred and George, but you really do not have much of an excuse.You are a lot smarter than he is, you see, and don't go letting it inflate your ego. I am simply stating fact.
I shan't discuss the troll matter with you anymore, so stop asking.
Unless you know anything about a man named Nicholas Flammel?
Regards
Eltanin
PS; why do you insist on calling me that?
To Eltanin
Well, the thing is, that all through this time that we have been writing, I keep thinking to the way I have to treat you when we are in public. I know it seems silly, but I rather like having you to myself like this. I don't have to share you when you are just Eltanin. Not with Potter or Weasley or anyone.
The reason I insist on calling you that is because I happen to like Astrology. Eltanin is the name of the brightest star in the Draconis constellation. If you can't guess all the mush in that then you're really not as bright as you appear, are you?
Anyway, I think I rather fancy you, you see.I think you are pretty and smart and when you get mad your eyes go really bright and shiny and sometimes I say things to you just to get a reaction out of you.
I am worried about my father, and don't cal lhim names, finding out that-
This letter wasn't finished, and judging by the state of the parchment it had been scrunched up and nearly burned; there was a corner charred clean away where it should have said the date, a younger Draco had tried to destroy this evidence of his own feelings.
"Why didn't you send it?"
Draco looked at her incredulously from the window.
"Are you joking? Why do you think? I may have only been a kid, but I understood the rules. A Pureblood and Muggleborn? My father would have skinned me alive; disowned, discredited and disinherited before I could say 'Quidditch', you can count on that"
"Does he know now?"
He swallowed, crossing the room, and reached past her into the chest, pulling out the crimson ribbon and three crumpled charcoal drawings, handing the pictures to her and keeping the ribbon in his other hand. She took them, spread them carefully on the floor so not to smudge the sharp, crisp lines.
