Chapter Twelve

After today, many things were beginning to form in Draco's mind.

Draco wrote a letter, and another, and couldn't stop writing; he was suddenly pouring his heart out, saying that he felt he was changing and that he felt she was to "blame", but he didn't feel like it was a bad thing any longer, and perhaps she was to "thank".

My eyes are open, finally; I've had them closed for years now.

He scribbled feverishly, filling page after page with confessions.

I'm glad you didn't give up on me, I would have given up if I were you, way too early in the entire process. But then, you're not like I am

He paused, mid-way through this sentence. She is nothing, according to her mother; she wasn't like him in an entirely different way. Draco kept writing,

A while ago you said you fancied me. Do you still feel that way? I don't want to lead you on, because I feel

Draco crossed it out.

He didn't want to explore what it was that he felt for her.

His ears grew warm remembering how she had kissed his nose; he remembered the strange pang of desire when her body was against his, and the unusual feeling he felt when she was so close to him, a feeling that made him very uncomfortable. He had never had a girl force him to read romance novels in dim lighting, late at night, trying to decipher what a woman wanted; what she could be thinking.

He didn't want to feel that he was the one that had feelings for her in the end, and not her for him. Draco was beginning to fear that he was falling in love, or that he had fallen in love already; and he was so overwhelmed with feelings of both anguish and joy about the whole thing that he couldn't sleep again. He knew sleep deprivation would eventually catch up on him; but tonight he didn't care and wrote the final rant to himself, like a diary, wanting to get it all out.

What do I want? Can I change my plans? I wasn't ready for this, for her, I want to

What did he want?

"What?" He asked the ceiling of his four-poster bed, reading his letter over by the glow of his wand, "I want to..."

He looked up. He saw an owl tapping on the window. Draco opened the window and Vivian's owl landed on his desk. He tore the letter open feverishly. She had written to him within hours of parting from him too. What did it mean? What did he want it to mean? What did she want to say?

His fingers trembled when he read the first line, "Dear Brom (or ought I call you by another name? You know what I mean) , I've arrived at my mother's and father's. Two of my brothers are staying here too; they've just returned from a trip abroad, selling their 'unique' merchandise all across Europe. I'm completely overwhelmed; my mother baked herself into a stupor, I haven't eaten so much in one day for months! I'm going to be yet another stone heavier by the time I come home. If you ever hug me, you'll have to have me rotate if you want to feel my entire body; I'm going to become planet-sized soon. Ha-ha, you're probably making a silly face – hug you, you might be thinking, why would I do that?"

He sat down at the window.

"You can write back to me just by giving this owl a letter. He knows where to go. I won't plague you with the messy job of writing an address on, just write VC on it and I'll know it's for me. I'm going to wait for your reply. Have any rants yet? I have a rant building up but I'd rather write it in a diary for now. It'd just trouble you."

He wanted to know immediately, right there and then; what's bothering you? A new letter formed in his mind, a reply letter. He was completely enflamed with passion. He hadn't felt so awake, so full of energy, in a long time. He was dawning with realizations, teetering on the verge of an epiphany.

Draco finished the letter from Vivian, "I think I'm growing really fond of you, my friend. You kind of grow onto a person. First I saw you as generally an ice cube, and I want to chisel you down into at least a smaller ice cube. I think you melted almost entirely though and are a nice puddle with the sunshine reflected in it, but still cold and a bit distant. I suppose you could be a nice pond many miles away; accessible, surely, but it's still quite a trip left to get there."

He laughed to himself, then felt like crying.

I think I'm more than a pond, I think I'm turning into water inside, sliding apart like some sort of liquid, losing its thickness as time ticks away and

No, too strung-out, too... too open. Now he felt he had to be secretive and guarded; he didn't want her to know just as much as he wanted to write back in capital letters I THINK I FANCY YOU TOO!

"Oh, fucking hell," He lowered his head onto his arms and then found the stamina to write back, holding back a lot of what he wanted to say; deciding to keep it for a diary entry too, for now:

"Vivian,

Your family sounds really interesting, actually. What

sort of merchandise do your brothers sell? Maybe

you've got quite a story to tell... I've never thought

about business seriously, actually; I don't think I

could have the passion to stir a crowd into buying

what I'm saying. Rather I'd just stir them to sleep.

Cold shoulder them to death. Ha-ha. You can call

me by name in correspondence; I don't think

your owl will drop the letter or misdirect it. I'm

attaching a feather in here, it fell from my bird's

wing. I have a matching one. Since you were there

when he left, it feels like you should get one too,

like some sort of souvenir.

Meanwhile, there's nothing new here with me,

I'm staying up tonight. I'm guessing you are too,

by the time your owl arrived here. I'm going to

go to bed soon though. I'm up reading.

Draco."

He sent the owl on its way. An hour later, a reply arrived. His stomach turned in surprise and he read it to himself quietly, "Dear Draco, wow, you wrote back fast; my owl was back here in under an hour. I'm glad that you were up. I was staying up too, thinking. What're you reading that's keeping you up so late? I want to read a book that good, I haven't read any good books lately. Have you worn that trench coat I gave you yet? Wear it Monday to the café, I'll be coming back. I might photograph you a bit, you're starting to be like one of my favorite characters I've ever written. This stone-hearted loner that learned to love and live a little, kind of like you except you learned to be friendly and to challenge your life a bit. Nothing earth-shattering is happening to you, I hope? No major emotional landslide out of nowhere? Your writing looked rather frantic. Maybe you're writing in the dark, but how can you read then? I'm sorry for all the questions, I'm really quite bored and I can't be bothered to go to sleep. I'm too full, my stomach hurts. Viv."

He replied,

"Go to sleep, Vivian. I'm reading some sort of Muggle story,

Herman Hesse's "Steppenwolfe", it's interesting."

He had read the book because he had found it in the Slytherin common room; some boy had been reading it and didn't want to return it to the library, so he told everyone it was awfully depressing and that he didn't feel like making anyone else agonize over reading it. Draco read it, to prove him wrong, and he proved him wrong though he didn't tell him; he kept his victory locked inside. It was a good book. Depressing at points, but overall enthralling.

He continued to write,

"Bring some food home, I do need to put on some

weight before the winter comes; I'm going to turn

into an icicle. Maybe you can borrow me some

weight. Trust me, you don't look heavy though,

you look cozy I suppose. Like someone that would

be fun to stay up with to look at the stars; someone

that wouldn't get cold. Eh, I read a cheesy romance

novel before I started this new book, so forgive me,

I'm being corny."

Draco wanted to cross the paragraph out, feeling it was too telling, but he didn't want to start over. He dared himself to send it.

"That's all. Go to bed, write me a letter in the

morning. I'll read it then. Draco."

He sent the owl and climbed into bed and willed himself to sleep, so that he didn't come off too desperate. He woke at five the next morning and took the letter from his desk – he had kept the window open. Her owl waited for him, sitting on a tree branch outside his window. Draco took the letter and opened it,

"Draco – fine, I'm going to bed. One last thing. When I'm coming back, you need to stay up to watch the stars with me. I'm betting you that I'll get colder even faster than you. I can't stay warm, ever. Only my little sister is worse. You'll see. – Viv."

Draco looked at the dark sky outside and bit his lower lip to suppress a smile. He sent back a short letter, "Viv – it's morning. I'm up for a star-gazing night. I know all the constellations, watch me nerd you to death this time. – D".

He waited but she didn't reply within the hour, so he went and showered, dressed, and left his home, pulling on the trench coat. It smelled of some other man's cologne, and had a hole in one pocket, but he didn't mind much. It didn't really look second hand. When he was passing a store window, he looked at himself and realized it did look rather good on him. He listened to the birds singing sweet serenades in the trees no the way to the café.

The doorbells chimed and sang when he entered. The coffee he ordered tasted sweeter and was more filling than usual. Everything felt different. He felt different. He wanted to shout how he felt, he wanted to explain it but words failed him. Instead, he smiled stupidly to himself, biting his lip to suppress it still.

"You're in love, aren't you?" The waitress laughed.

He was startled out of his daydream by her words, "I'm sorry?"

"I've been asking you if I can take your coffee mug and wash it for the last minute or two," she explained, "Your mind's on cloud nine."

Draco flushed, " Sorry," he said again, "Maybe."

"She's a lucky girl, handsome," The waitress teased. She was well over forty, and a lot rounder than Vivian – who he felt looked just fine – and he shrugged off her compliment. He was alright; he still felt a little insecure, after feeling he was a bit too round and too short by seventh year, not growing out of it like the other boys did until he left school; his self-esteem was always rather low because he had such high expectations of himself, so much Malfoy pride to live up to.

He opened the newspaper and read Vivian's heart-warming new article. He got caught up in it; he had to admit to himself, she was quite a writer. She took a topic he couldn't give two hoots about – about two little girls she observed bickering and then how they resolved the problem – and then took the story and made it so much bigger, talking about how the world could learn from it; she drew it out extensively, like a fine essay-writer does; into an entire different realm where it wasn't two little girls anymore, but two armies; two kings; two sparring wizards.

Draco read his own article second. He had never read his article second to anyone else's; Brom Breeler was his only interest in the Daily Prophet. He couldn't get into his own article, really. He felt stood up by Vivian's talent, though his story was completely different in scope and topic, completely incomparable; yet he felt prouder for her than himself.

I'm not sure how I feel, I

What do I want? I just want

Well I'm not sure, but this could be

The world's so strange sometimes because

I'm

I

I think

Maybe I

I think I'm in love.

&&&&&&&&&&

The weekend dragged by; they had exchanged two or three letters but the passion had left and he was simply anxious to see her again. He wanted to hear all the details of her trip. When Monday finally crawled its way in, Draco waited in the café for Vivian. He had the whole weekend to calm down, to put himself together and to sort through his fragmented mind to figure out his unusual epiphany, his sudden surge of passion and interest. He understood himself; suddenly he felt very much in control for he had figured out something very big that Vivian didn't know, and he wanted to keep it so. He had taken a pessimistic look to it all for he felt she didn't fancy him any longer; he had hidden all his confessional-like letters in the bottom shelf of his desk, next to his family photo. Draco felt he would somehow work his way up into telling her, and perhaps they could both somehow grow from the experience; perhaps she would somehow make him get over her; surely she would want him to. She knew just as well as he did that a relationship between them was just not possible.

Why? He challenged himself anyway.

He didn't want to tell her, and he did want to tell her; but both of these options were in agreement about one thing: it had to take time.

Draco waited there, that Monday morning, having had figured everything out – going as far as planning out their conversation that would happen this morning – and he felt very much in control.

When Vivian entered, he was surprised to see that she had dyed her hair red. She was wearing a slightly oversized red sweater, a green scarf, a black skirt and her black combat boots. When she turned to look at him, her brown eyes and red hair and slightly freckled pale skin seemed to create an illusion before him; he felt it was a face he nearly remembered; he couldn't remember where –

She actually looked quite a bit like Ron Weasley; the same nose; less freckles, thankfully, for he was more speckled than some bizarre bird's egg; her hair was the same fiery color.

Vivian moved towards him uncertainly.

This all made sense, somehow. He felt his control waning.

"I have to tell you," Vivian said finally, "This is my real hair color."

"Oh," He said, his mind missing the big picture, overwhelmed yet again with his fall from the "in charge" seat he kept trying to sit himself in; the "in charge" seat that Vivian had taken from him quite some time ago.

"You see, Vivian Crowe is my pen name," Vivian said, tears in her eyes, "I could tell from the start you were different; I figured you were a Slytherin, I didn't know which kind, but nearly all of them felt quite similar about my family. That we were ratty, tattered, poor kids; freckled red-heads, and all."

"I don't understand," Draco said, feeling as if his senses were gone completely. What was she saying?

"I don't want to lie anymore," Vivian said, a tear escaping her left eye and rolling down her cheek, "I'm not who you think I am. I'm n-not some sort of foreign artist girl. I'm a Gryffindor girl, a struggling artist," she babbled, "I'm..."

"Vivian, I," He felt like saying it just then, right away, to stop her from saying something stupid that would make everything fall apart all over again. He had constructed another plan, that he thought he could take if the time felt right; it felt right, because something in him was pressing the panic button now.

"I'm Ginny Weasley," She cried out.

His words jarred inside him.

Everything clicked.

Cold water splashed over his head, figuratively. A slap hit his face, a slap in the face from life. He got the shock. His senses sobered immediately. His thoughts became full sentences. Control slipped away. His confession died away, "What?"

"I knew you'd hate me. I don't want you to be misled by me anymore," Vivian/Ginny began to cry.

The waitresses all gathered a few meters away, watching it as if it were a wonderful soap opera.

Draco stood, looking horrified, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was embarrassed of them," Ginny wiped at her eyes, "I know that sounds horrible, but I wanted to be someone else. Someone on my own, apart from them. I was always just seen as 'one of the Weasley's', hidden in the shadow of my other brother's success, the baby of the family. So I tried to make it on my own. I ch-changed my name and did what I wanted, and thought I could be someone entirely that way. And I could, everyone saw me differently; I could make friends easier, I could find my niche."

He shook his head, the words blowing past him, "You're one of... one of them?"

"Be prejudiced, I know that's how the Malfoys are," Ginny turned away, "I felt afraid of this moment ever since I saw those photographs. Why did I get so scared, do you think? I knew immediately any chance for us to have, h-have a relationship beyond friendship would die. Maybe even friendship itself."

"Obviously it would," Draco blurted out, "A Weasley and a – a – Malfoy? I thought it would be impossible if it was a Malfoy and a no-name artist, but – a Weasley?"

"See? That's why I took another name, too. Like you did. To have people see me in a different light. As someone representing myself only, not an entire family," She wiped her eyes, "I'm guessing you never want to see me again."

Draco stood, shaking his head, "I don't know what to say, I'm..." He had lost control. He didn't know what to do. He was looking for an easy escape. He had to say something, anything, so that he could head home and think it all over and plan what to do. This was too much, "I... I thought I..."

Vivian/Ginny shook her head and turned away from him and fled from the café. Draco stood there, unsure of what just happened. She had lead the conversation in away, because before he could string a coherent response together she had left.

He lowered himself into his seat again, his lips open slightly in surprise still. A Weasley. Narcissa would have a stroke too if she found out. Did he love her now? Could he still love her? Did it matter to him? Seeing Ron's face mirrored in her features was a shock, and he would have easily jeered Ron if Ron had approached him in a café, but he had never even glanced twice at Ginny Weasley, at school or elsewhere.

Vivian? Free-spirited, happy-hearted, lovable Vivian was a Weasley? That was impossible, almost; the Weasley family couldn't produce something so marvelous from their awful gene pool.

Draco lowered his head into his hands and rested his forehead on the table. He closed his eyes and felt his thoughts slowly calm from a rippling, storming ocean back to a calm, collected little puddle, like Vivian had said. Here, he could work slowly and take things one at a time, in small amounts.

He still loved her. Yet he knew that for certain their relationship was doomed. He couldn't under any circumstance tell her how he felt now. Draco felt he could still see her, be friends with her; they could continue talking daily, but he knew eventually it would just hurt too much, for he'd love her past a point of return, past the point of being able to let her go still. Then he'd have to break up the friendship. Either way it would all end somehow.

She had cried. He wanted to kiss her thinking of her crying, but then the word Weasley sprang into his thoughts. Kiss a Weasley? That would be his first kiss. A Weasley had almost taken his first kiss. That's what she was, a Weasley?

No.

He couldn't label her that way, as just a name.

She had been like him in the end; though he changed his name to protect his family's privacy out of pride and respect, while she did it out of embarrassment and a desire to have a future.

Draco felt the numbness settling in him, as he figured out what to do. What he had to do. He had to choose whether he wanted to shame the Malfoy name perhaps forever, but finally get all his feelings out and then move on somehow, for she probably didn't feel the same way, especially now after this conversation today – or, the possibility that she'd want to pursue romance, either or; Or, he had to break things up now and leave it all the way it was now, not risking it.

He didn't know which he wanted to do.

Narcissa's face floated in his mind; his father's death and his feeling of responsibility to pass on the Malfoy genes in a way that had been traditional in their family – onto a woman of good fortune, someone cold and distant like him, to raise a proud child that reached Malfoy expectations; to love that woman eventually, perhaps; but he didn't want it. He had planned it to be so, to have her picked for him by his parents; this was the plan even after he met Vivian for a while. Then things changed, changed beyond his control.

Draco stood, feeling he needed to rest at home and think.

He left the café and all the waitresses returned to work, disappointed by the unhappy finish.