A/N: A mostly fluffy chapter, taking us into Ginny's 5th year and Draco's 6th. It's mostly shippy, but hey, the fluff-lovers can bask in this chapter before the angst resumes (and yes it will resume)...
I would also like to dedicate this purely D/G chapter to two w00bieful people. Mynuet/Sharlene, high goddess of D/G at whose feet I wibble in worship, and Dove, my loffly co-author and fellow shipper whose immense talents never cease to amaze me. I loff you both. 333
Disclaimer: They own each other, and hopefully, this chapter makes that obvious.
~*~
It was her 5th year when it started, really.
She knew, when she, following Hermione into Prefect meeting and looking up to see forbidding and yet magnetic gray eyes looking... almost glaring, at her.
She'd stared back, bemused, for a few moments, before narrowing her eyes slightly. He had no BUSINESS to be looking at her like that. She had never done anything to him... at least, not that she recalled, or that he didn't richly deserve. He'd always been the first to strike.
He didn't expect her to glare back, it seemed, for then, the gray eyes widened, before he abruptly looked away.
It was then that Head Girl Cho Chang of Ravenclaw and Head Boy Kenneth Bundy of Hufflepuff walked in, and it was to business. Ginny, rapidly taking notes on her new duties from that point on, almost forgot entirely about the brief exchange of glances... glares.
Until the meeting was adjourned, and Draco Malfoy brushed past her on his way out the door.
It was just a brush of robes against robes, but she almost trembled.
And she hadn't the foggiest idea why.
~*~
Among the most important of Prefect duties, along with leading the students and patrolling the hallways, they had to hold tutoring sessions in all the subjects, for the younger students. As luck or fate would have it, perhaps due to the myriad cooking lessons that she'd had from Mum, bent over a pot on a stove, she found herself tutoring Potions.
Draco Malfoy also tutored Potions. It was the one class where his marks sometimes exceeded Hermione's, although Ron and Harry tended to dismiss it as Snape's blatant favouritism.
Harmony didn't seem to be an option, at least not at first. He would jeer at her, and she would snap back at him with a fervour and a fury that she'd never felt around the likes of Harry... and the younger students would watch, half-fascinated, half-apprehensive, as their two tutors furiously diced ginseng and pulverized cobra fangs, their tempers slowly boiling like the simmering cauldrons on the fire.
Either that, or both would be stony silent, cold, clammed up... and she'd feel an inexplicable irritation at his taciturnity. They were supposed to work TOGETHER! He wasn't supposed to pretend that she was INVISIBLE!
And after the silent sessions, as the students filed out of the classroom and they cleaned up, perhaps internally seething, perhaps thinking a thousand unbidden and forbidden thoughts, she'd frown to herself, troubled and not quite knowing why. At those moments, she did not notice his eyes on her, fixed on the almost-imperceptibly trembling lips.
It wasn't until nearly Christmas when it had all changed.
It had been a cold day, she remembered. The winds outside had been blustery and rough, the snow blowing in everyone's face. Hagrid had brought in the Christmas trees to be decorated, and his face had been reddened by the wind.
The dungeons, where Potions tutoring sessions were held, had been close to frigid, and Ginny kept renewing the Warming Charm that she'd put on her slightly threadbare robes.
It had been all right during the tutoring itself. The fire on the cauldron had kept her warm, and Draco (she'd stopped calling him 'Malfoy' in her mind) had been rather quiet. But after the fires had been extinguished, and they'd been left to clean the mess that the group of 3rd years had left behind, she started to shiver.
She wasn't about to renew the Warming Charm while he was there, though. Not when he'd undoubtedly make some sort of snide remark about her inability to afford robes like his, warm, fine... lined inside with something soft, the silver clasps bright in the dim light.
And so, she certainly wasn't expecting it when quiet footsteps approached her from behind, and then, there was an added weight upon her back. A cloak... too large for her, a man's cloak. Black velvet, soft and warm as a caress and yet as heavy as a promise upon her shoulders, lined with sable. She'd gasped, her eyes wide and her face flushing involuntarily, and looked up to meet his almost-impassive face.
He'd curtly told her to keep it until she got something else to keep her warm, and though she was about to protest, he abruptly turned and walked out of the room.
She didn't know what he had seen.
A small, spritely girl, slender fingers and the tip of her delicate nose reddened slightly by the cold, her cheeks flushed to a soft rose, coppery hair shimmering slightly in the weak light of the room as those crimson lips parted and those huge brown eyes widened like a doe's. Her pallor stood out against the ebony backdrop of the cloak, almost luminous.
The next day, she was so out-of-sorts and unsure of what to think or where to turn, that she didn't notice Pansy Parkinson watching her fixedly, as if mentally calculating something or another, a wry sort of almost-smile on her face. She avoided looking at Draco, and of course didn't notice the latter conversing with Pansy in an earnest manner, as if asking for a favour.
It was only a week later, on Christmas Day, that everything came back to her, and she sat amongst her presents, a dark blush upon her cheeks, holding one opened box in her hands and rather speechless.
It was simply wrapped, a black box with the fluid script of a fashionable clothing line "Seraphim" embossed in silver on the top. A plain silver ribbon on the top. And inside, nestled in layers of silver tissue, was...
A cloak, heavy black velvet and lined with fur, the lines of which were different from the one that Draco had drapped across her shoulders that day. A woman's cloak, fitting so well it might have been tailored for her. Along with a pair of leather gloves soft as butter to the touch, and a handsome, fashionable fur cap, milk-white against the bright hair.
And a note, so simple, so curt...
"I want my cloak back now. ~D"
Ron had been completely mystified as to who could possibly have gotten his baby sister such an expensive present, but when all 'potential' boys who might have had the intention of 'sucking up' had been rooted out and negated (it couldn't have been a Slytherin, of course... no Slytherin in his right mind would splurge money in this way on a member of such a prominently Gryffindor clan), he merely shrugged, grinned a little, and went about his business. Hermione raised her eyebrows a bit, but the younger girl said nothing, and kept her face blank when she'd been asked, and the 6th year left her alone as well.
And when she'd gone, snuck to outside the Slytherin locker rooms at the end of a practice to wait for the captain to emerge, she wasn't sure what she was going to do.
She had to thank him, somehow...
And when he emerged finally, his teammates apparently having not noticed the small girl half-hiding behind a nearby pine tree, he'd stopped. She was wearing the cloak and the gloves and the hat, and she was blushing once again.
He stood in front of her, giving her a long, thorough once-over, before smirking very slightly. He took his cloak back from her outstretched hands, and the snow started to fall again around the two of them. Finally, of an impulse, she put two gentle hands on his forearms and stood on tiptoe, intending to kiss his cheek.
But he'd turned his face, and her kiss landed on thin, chiselled lips that were softer and warmer than she would have expected. And her eyes went wide for only a moment before his arms reached around her and yanked her none-too-gently close, returning what she'd originally meant as a light, friendly kiss with an intensity that curled her toes. And any thoughts that might have trumpeted upon the wrongness of it all was drowned out by the feeling of rapture and exhilaration filling her core, the voice of reason muffled by the little moan that came from her throat as his tongue traced the inside of her lips.
And after that, it had accelerated like a train thundering down the track that was her heart.
A week after the first accidental kiss she told him that she loved him. He'd seemed stunned before kissing her deeply, the two alone in the private quarters that Slytherin Prefects were granted. A fortnight after that, she fell asleep in his quarters after two long bouts of lovemaking, an inane little smile on her face. He watched her while she slept, and curled a lock of ginger hair around his finger. He would joke at times, as she lay with her head pillowed on his bare chest, that her prat brother wouldn't approve, and she would retort that what her brother didn't know couldn't hurt anyone, and even if ickle Ronniekins found out, she had enough blackmail on HIM that it would all be even. He would laugh then, kissing her nose or her cheeks or her bare, creamy shoulders, and call her a conniving little wench. She would giggle and stroke his hair and say that it was all his bad influence.
And she thought that it would be forever, because she was idealistic and optimistic like that.
I would also like to dedicate this purely D/G chapter to two w00bieful people. Mynuet/Sharlene, high goddess of D/G at whose feet I wibble in worship, and Dove, my loffly co-author and fellow shipper whose immense talents never cease to amaze me. I loff you both. 333
Disclaimer: They own each other, and hopefully, this chapter makes that obvious.
~*~
It was her 5th year when it started, really.
She knew, when she, following Hermione into Prefect meeting and looking up to see forbidding and yet magnetic gray eyes looking... almost glaring, at her.
She'd stared back, bemused, for a few moments, before narrowing her eyes slightly. He had no BUSINESS to be looking at her like that. She had never done anything to him... at least, not that she recalled, or that he didn't richly deserve. He'd always been the first to strike.
He didn't expect her to glare back, it seemed, for then, the gray eyes widened, before he abruptly looked away.
It was then that Head Girl Cho Chang of Ravenclaw and Head Boy Kenneth Bundy of Hufflepuff walked in, and it was to business. Ginny, rapidly taking notes on her new duties from that point on, almost forgot entirely about the brief exchange of glances... glares.
Until the meeting was adjourned, and Draco Malfoy brushed past her on his way out the door.
It was just a brush of robes against robes, but she almost trembled.
And she hadn't the foggiest idea why.
~*~
Among the most important of Prefect duties, along with leading the students and patrolling the hallways, they had to hold tutoring sessions in all the subjects, for the younger students. As luck or fate would have it, perhaps due to the myriad cooking lessons that she'd had from Mum, bent over a pot on a stove, she found herself tutoring Potions.
Draco Malfoy also tutored Potions. It was the one class where his marks sometimes exceeded Hermione's, although Ron and Harry tended to dismiss it as Snape's blatant favouritism.
Harmony didn't seem to be an option, at least not at first. He would jeer at her, and she would snap back at him with a fervour and a fury that she'd never felt around the likes of Harry... and the younger students would watch, half-fascinated, half-apprehensive, as their two tutors furiously diced ginseng and pulverized cobra fangs, their tempers slowly boiling like the simmering cauldrons on the fire.
Either that, or both would be stony silent, cold, clammed up... and she'd feel an inexplicable irritation at his taciturnity. They were supposed to work TOGETHER! He wasn't supposed to pretend that she was INVISIBLE!
And after the silent sessions, as the students filed out of the classroom and they cleaned up, perhaps internally seething, perhaps thinking a thousand unbidden and forbidden thoughts, she'd frown to herself, troubled and not quite knowing why. At those moments, she did not notice his eyes on her, fixed on the almost-imperceptibly trembling lips.
It wasn't until nearly Christmas when it had all changed.
It had been a cold day, she remembered. The winds outside had been blustery and rough, the snow blowing in everyone's face. Hagrid had brought in the Christmas trees to be decorated, and his face had been reddened by the wind.
The dungeons, where Potions tutoring sessions were held, had been close to frigid, and Ginny kept renewing the Warming Charm that she'd put on her slightly threadbare robes.
It had been all right during the tutoring itself. The fire on the cauldron had kept her warm, and Draco (she'd stopped calling him 'Malfoy' in her mind) had been rather quiet. But after the fires had been extinguished, and they'd been left to clean the mess that the group of 3rd years had left behind, she started to shiver.
She wasn't about to renew the Warming Charm while he was there, though. Not when he'd undoubtedly make some sort of snide remark about her inability to afford robes like his, warm, fine... lined inside with something soft, the silver clasps bright in the dim light.
And so, she certainly wasn't expecting it when quiet footsteps approached her from behind, and then, there was an added weight upon her back. A cloak... too large for her, a man's cloak. Black velvet, soft and warm as a caress and yet as heavy as a promise upon her shoulders, lined with sable. She'd gasped, her eyes wide and her face flushing involuntarily, and looked up to meet his almost-impassive face.
He'd curtly told her to keep it until she got something else to keep her warm, and though she was about to protest, he abruptly turned and walked out of the room.
She didn't know what he had seen.
A small, spritely girl, slender fingers and the tip of her delicate nose reddened slightly by the cold, her cheeks flushed to a soft rose, coppery hair shimmering slightly in the weak light of the room as those crimson lips parted and those huge brown eyes widened like a doe's. Her pallor stood out against the ebony backdrop of the cloak, almost luminous.
The next day, she was so out-of-sorts and unsure of what to think or where to turn, that she didn't notice Pansy Parkinson watching her fixedly, as if mentally calculating something or another, a wry sort of almost-smile on her face. She avoided looking at Draco, and of course didn't notice the latter conversing with Pansy in an earnest manner, as if asking for a favour.
It was only a week later, on Christmas Day, that everything came back to her, and she sat amongst her presents, a dark blush upon her cheeks, holding one opened box in her hands and rather speechless.
It was simply wrapped, a black box with the fluid script of a fashionable clothing line "Seraphim" embossed in silver on the top. A plain silver ribbon on the top. And inside, nestled in layers of silver tissue, was...
A cloak, heavy black velvet and lined with fur, the lines of which were different from the one that Draco had drapped across her shoulders that day. A woman's cloak, fitting so well it might have been tailored for her. Along with a pair of leather gloves soft as butter to the touch, and a handsome, fashionable fur cap, milk-white against the bright hair.
And a note, so simple, so curt...
"I want my cloak back now. ~D"
Ron had been completely mystified as to who could possibly have gotten his baby sister such an expensive present, but when all 'potential' boys who might have had the intention of 'sucking up' had been rooted out and negated (it couldn't have been a Slytherin, of course... no Slytherin in his right mind would splurge money in this way on a member of such a prominently Gryffindor clan), he merely shrugged, grinned a little, and went about his business. Hermione raised her eyebrows a bit, but the younger girl said nothing, and kept her face blank when she'd been asked, and the 6th year left her alone as well.
And when she'd gone, snuck to outside the Slytherin locker rooms at the end of a practice to wait for the captain to emerge, she wasn't sure what she was going to do.
She had to thank him, somehow...
And when he emerged finally, his teammates apparently having not noticed the small girl half-hiding behind a nearby pine tree, he'd stopped. She was wearing the cloak and the gloves and the hat, and she was blushing once again.
He stood in front of her, giving her a long, thorough once-over, before smirking very slightly. He took his cloak back from her outstretched hands, and the snow started to fall again around the two of them. Finally, of an impulse, she put two gentle hands on his forearms and stood on tiptoe, intending to kiss his cheek.
But he'd turned his face, and her kiss landed on thin, chiselled lips that were softer and warmer than she would have expected. And her eyes went wide for only a moment before his arms reached around her and yanked her none-too-gently close, returning what she'd originally meant as a light, friendly kiss with an intensity that curled her toes. And any thoughts that might have trumpeted upon the wrongness of it all was drowned out by the feeling of rapture and exhilaration filling her core, the voice of reason muffled by the little moan that came from her throat as his tongue traced the inside of her lips.
And after that, it had accelerated like a train thundering down the track that was her heart.
A week after the first accidental kiss she told him that she loved him. He'd seemed stunned before kissing her deeply, the two alone in the private quarters that Slytherin Prefects were granted. A fortnight after that, she fell asleep in his quarters after two long bouts of lovemaking, an inane little smile on her face. He watched her while she slept, and curled a lock of ginger hair around his finger. He would joke at times, as she lay with her head pillowed on his bare chest, that her prat brother wouldn't approve, and she would retort that what her brother didn't know couldn't hurt anyone, and even if ickle Ronniekins found out, she had enough blackmail on HIM that it would all be even. He would laugh then, kissing her nose or her cheeks or her bare, creamy shoulders, and call her a conniving little wench. She would giggle and stroke his hair and say that it was all his bad influence.
And she thought that it would be forever, because she was idealistic and optimistic like that.