Draco leaned against the wall of the Great Hall, decorated with
Pumpkins and bats and a slow, witchy music filled the dark room lit only by
a few dozen candles. He liked the way the glow flickered across everyones
face, making thigs seem more mysterious. But his mind kept betraying him.
It kept wandering back to the great conversations he had with his Owl-Pal,
the way he spent all day reading one of her letters, written in a way that
would light up th darkest dungeon and make even the coldest flower bloom in
the middle of a blizzad....but no. She was a Gryffindor, Potter's friend, a
Weasley even.
But... the way he cherished what she had to say and the way he tried to think of special things to say that would make him at least compatible with her...it made him wonder if all that even mattered. He grimaced, thinking of what his father would have to say about that, then thought rebelliously, 'It's my life, not his, and I can control my life the way I please'. He realized he was looking around the room, scanning the faces of people and their partners, until he realized what he was looking for. Or, rather, who he was looking for. His surprise to find out that the girl he dreamed about was the sister of none other than Potter's best friend, Ron Weasley, shrak quickly to remorse that he didn't have a date, anyone to dance with.
He shook his head again, trying to block the thoughts that were coming. Some of his hair fell in front of his face; he hadn't slicked it back like normal. He had decided he liked the soft look of it when it didn't have gel in it. He realized his eyes were looking again, he let them. He found what he was looking for; she was sitting, alone at a table, her red-haired head propped in her chin. "Why isn't anyone dancing with her?" he asked himself out loud, chewing on his lip. "She should have guys asking her to dance every minute".
But the longer he looked, the more he realized that no one seemed to notice her,even. He bit his lip again, trying to not think the thoughts his traitor mind was thinking. But then he gave up, and thought of the night when she had sent the letter asking him to the dance. He had kept the letter hidden away and read it at night, when everyone else was aslepp, feeling her flowing through the paper into him, feeling his love for her grow. He had dreamt about her, not her face, but her words, and her sense, and her love. He wondered if she still even liked him just the tiniest bit.
He made up his mind, which was now his once more, the thoughts his own willingly. He looked around to see whre everyone was; luckily no one seemed to notice him either. He took one step forward on a shaky leg, and he wondered what he would do if she said no. He almost stopped right there, but curiosity dragged his other leg foreward. He walked, slowly but confidently, making his way to her table, her form, herself.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ginny drummed her fingers on the table, thinking of him. The thoughts came easily now, like a sharp knife slicing through her soft, half-melted butter, which is what it felt like to her heart. She wondered if he would ever talk to her again, even if only through owls. She sighed. "Most likely not,' the voice in her head said to her. 'He probably hates you and himself for even talking to you. "Oh, shut up," she mumbled out loud.
By chance she looked up and saw someone coming twoards her, but in the dim candlelight she couldn't make out who it was. Her pulse sped up; someone was going to ask her to dance. As he got closer she could see bits and pices of him; the way his robes moved, so slowly yet so accuratley. The way his blonde-white hair flashing....wait. Who did she know who had hair like that. Even as the thought formed he stepped into the light, and she saw his face looking at hers.
"Would you care to dance, Ginny Weasley?"
Silence. Then...
"Yes."
But... the way he cherished what she had to say and the way he tried to think of special things to say that would make him at least compatible with her...it made him wonder if all that even mattered. He grimaced, thinking of what his father would have to say about that, then thought rebelliously, 'It's my life, not his, and I can control my life the way I please'. He realized he was looking around the room, scanning the faces of people and their partners, until he realized what he was looking for. Or, rather, who he was looking for. His surprise to find out that the girl he dreamed about was the sister of none other than Potter's best friend, Ron Weasley, shrak quickly to remorse that he didn't have a date, anyone to dance with.
He shook his head again, trying to block the thoughts that were coming. Some of his hair fell in front of his face; he hadn't slicked it back like normal. He had decided he liked the soft look of it when it didn't have gel in it. He realized his eyes were looking again, he let them. He found what he was looking for; she was sitting, alone at a table, her red-haired head propped in her chin. "Why isn't anyone dancing with her?" he asked himself out loud, chewing on his lip. "She should have guys asking her to dance every minute".
But the longer he looked, the more he realized that no one seemed to notice her,even. He bit his lip again, trying to not think the thoughts his traitor mind was thinking. But then he gave up, and thought of the night when she had sent the letter asking him to the dance. He had kept the letter hidden away and read it at night, when everyone else was aslepp, feeling her flowing through the paper into him, feeling his love for her grow. He had dreamt about her, not her face, but her words, and her sense, and her love. He wondered if she still even liked him just the tiniest bit.
He made up his mind, which was now his once more, the thoughts his own willingly. He looked around to see whre everyone was; luckily no one seemed to notice him either. He took one step forward on a shaky leg, and he wondered what he would do if she said no. He almost stopped right there, but curiosity dragged his other leg foreward. He walked, slowly but confidently, making his way to her table, her form, herself.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ginny drummed her fingers on the table, thinking of him. The thoughts came easily now, like a sharp knife slicing through her soft, half-melted butter, which is what it felt like to her heart. She wondered if he would ever talk to her again, even if only through owls. She sighed. "Most likely not,' the voice in her head said to her. 'He probably hates you and himself for even talking to you. "Oh, shut up," she mumbled out loud.
By chance she looked up and saw someone coming twoards her, but in the dim candlelight she couldn't make out who it was. Her pulse sped up; someone was going to ask her to dance. As he got closer she could see bits and pices of him; the way his robes moved, so slowly yet so accuratley. The way his blonde-white hair flashing....wait. Who did she know who had hair like that. Even as the thought formed he stepped into the light, and she saw his face looking at hers.
"Would you care to dance, Ginny Weasley?"
Silence. Then...
"Yes."