A/N: Okay, so it's been a while since I've posted anything, and this is just a little something I've been tossing around for a few days now, figured I'd jot it down and see where it led me. So don't mind me if it's complete rubbish.
There's this phrase I keep hearing tossed around whenever my name is brought up in conversation: people never change, or anything to that effect. But there are three things I've come to realize. First, the person or people who make up these so-called "phrases" are just a bunch of cynics who were unhappy with their own lives. Second, it's all a bunch of bullshit anyway. People can change; I'm a prime example of it. Not everyone believes I have, but, I suppose, they do have good reason for not believing me.
I do understand why people would doubt my newly pledged allegiance, what with my father being who he is and all. The son of a legendary Death Eater, vowing to fight against Lord Voldemort? Sounds ridiculous, right? But it's the truth, and while we're on the subject, I'm a little sick of having to constantly defend my choices. You'd think people would just be satisfied, knowing that I have switched sides. But no, they have to continuously question and doubt my "true intentions." Why is it that I can't fight on the good side without being accused of having ulterior motives?
Besides, being on the side of Dumbledore and Potter has caused me more grief than any normal seventeen year-old boy should have to deal with, but, then again, my entire life has been anything but normal. I mean, I've never had to face Voldemort or anything, but being the son of a Death Eater isn't exactly a picnic, either. My father found it unacceptable to have anything less than a miniature Death Eater for a son, and he felt the need to remind me of that nearly every day of my youth. I was forced to memorize large quantities of dark magic and spells that would never be found in the textbooks at school. I had to learn to mix many potions whose intentions were to make wizards wish they were dead. And, as soon as my father felt I was "ready," he began bringing me along with him when he was given a mission by Voldemort. I witnessed countless murders by the wand of my father, and several by my own.
It's not something I enjoy talking about, nor something I'm at all proud of, but several times, while with him, my father would torture a wizard until he was near death, and then he would stop. He'd look at me, and without ever having to say anything, intimate to me that I was to finish them off. It's a disgusting term for the slaughter of human beings, and it always appalled me to have to do so. But I knew that if I didn't, I'd end up exactly where they were: on the ground, moaning in pain, begging for death. My father was the kind of man who had no qualms about abusing his children in all manners of the spectrum. In fact, he enjoyed it, saying it did a boy good, taught him a good lesson. He'd stand there, sending spell after spell at me, watching me try to dodge them or, after I'd been hit, curled up on the floor sobbing hysterically, and I remember loathing him in those moments more than I ever had before, because the sick bastard would be smiling. He'd actually smile as I lay there, about dead and wishing I were so the pain would just stop, and a few times, he even laughed. "Buck up son, learn to deal with the pain! You're not a man, you'll never be a man if you can't learn to deal with a little pain!" he'd say. A little pain! He'd send spells at me designed to break every bone in a man's body, to force the lungs to contract until a man couldn't breathe or even move, to momentarily stop the heart, just long enough to force a man to lose consciousness, but never long enough to end the pain and suffering. He used spells that decapitated limbs, that paralyzed movements, that electrocuted and shocked a man until he felt that his entire body was on fire. He'd also used the Unforgivables on several occasions, when he'd felt that I'd been a particular disappointment.
I can remember thinking during the rare moments when he'd give me a moment to breathe, which wasn't often, or he paused to admire his "handiwork," that if I could just have my wand, I'd hex him into oblivion. I'd use every spell he'd ever taught me if I had to, but I'd put him through exactly what he was doing to me. Give him a small taste of what he was doing to me, because during all this, his twisted idea was that he was securing my allegiance towards the Dark Lord, but all he was doing in reality was pushing me further and further away. I could never tell him that I wasn't going to join Lord Voldemort, though, because I knew he'd kill me. I'd be of no use to him anymore, and he'd just kill me as though I was merely one of the thousands of other wizards he'd killed and not his own flesh and blood. So I played along, pretended that I had every intention of joining when I secretly biding my time until I could turn against him. It was difficult to wait, because as I grew older, it became harder and harder to hide my true feelings. My father, unfortunately, had the ability to read minds, which meant I even had to control my thoughts while I was around him. I knew that would be especially difficult, which is when I made my first step towards joining the other side. I approached the only man I felt I could talk to that would understand my position.
I'd always felt a sort of fondness for Professor Snape. He was my mentor, and I'd always looked up to him. He was the father I'd never had, and to him, I was like a son. I knew I could talk to him about anything, as he'd told me on several occasions. I'd even taken him up on the offer, meeting him late at night to talk, although I'd always managed to avoid topics such as Voldemort and the dark side. I knew Professor Snape had the Dark Mark, but I also knew that he was secretly working for the Order, an organization under the guidance of Professor Dumbledore working toward the destruction of Lord Voldemort and all those who followed him. I'd heard my father mention it on multiple occasions, as it was the bane of his life as a Death Eater. I'd made the decision long ago that as soon as I was able, I would join and fight against all those I'd grown up secretly hating.
Professor Snape though, in addition to being my role model, was also trained in the ability of mind reading, and the ability to block those who could read minds, which was exactly what I needed to learn. My only problem was that I couldn't let my father know I was blocking him from my thoughts, which would mean I'd have to learn to block only those thoughts I absolutely couldn't allow him to hear.
I spent several days planning when it would be best to talk to him before I realized there really was no ideal moment. It wasn't exactly something that comes up in everyday conversation, and trying to broach the topic would be entirely too awkward and not at all easy. It would be easiest to just tell him straight out my problem and ask him if he could help me. Thankfully, I had Potions just before lunch, which would mean I could talk to him after class, as there would be no other classes coming in or any for me to attend. It took me a few more days to work up the courage to actually approach him, because I knew this would be the first step, and while I'd planned my eventual joining of the Order, I'd never actually taken any outward action. After this, there would be no going back.
I decided to approach him on a Friday afternoon, and I remember it vividly, because it was gloriously sunny out, exactly the perfect temperature without a cloud in the sky, and to me, it seemed to be a sign that this was indeed the right thing to be doing. I waited until the rest of the class had filed out, which didn't take at all long, and then I walked up to his desk. I could feel my hands shaking slightly, and it took me several tries to voice actual words.
"Er, ah, uh," were the first things I said that could actually be heard. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Er, Professor Snape, could I have a word with you?" He looked up, clearly surprised to see me. I'm sure he was expecting some little first year, too scared to actually speak.
"Of course. You know I'm always here to listen," he replied, intrigued as to what could possibly have me so tongue-tied. He gestured to the seat across from his desk, and I more-or-less collapsed in it, relieved to no longer have to support my own weight. I was trembling like a leaf, and had been afraid my legs would give out before I could finish explaining. I licked my lips, although it did no good. My throat had gone completely dry, and my tongue felt thick and heavy.
"I…I…I need your help," I began, not entirely sure where to start. I hadn't exactly planned out what I'd intended to say, although, in retrospect, that probably would have been a little helpful, as I'd momentarily lost all ability to speak. Professor Snape stared at me for several seconds, obviously expecting me to continue speaking. When I didn't, he took pity on me and asked,
"And what exactly would you be needing help with? Your grades are fine, better than fine, actually. You have some of the best marks I've ever seen in my entire teaching career." Wonderful. Something my father'd taught me was actually useful.
"I…uh, it isn't about my marks," I said, for lack of anything else to say. You idiot! I was screaming at myself in my head. Just tell him! He was beginning to look confused at my obvious lack of speech, and I couldn't blame him. I sounded like I had the intelligence of a hippogriff. I swallowed and plowed on. "See, the thing is…my father, well, he, I, uh…well, I need you…" Merlin, what was wrong with me? "I need you to teach me how to block my mind!" I finally blurted out. At last, I'd finally gotten through the easy part.
Professor Snape looked startled, as if he couldn't believe it'd taken me that long to say that simple little sentence. "Of course," he said. "Do you mind my asking why?" I gulped; this was the part I was dreading. I knew he was bound to ask at some point or another, and I couldn't lie to him. I could lie to just about anyone, and usually did, but not to him.
Then something amazing happened. I opened my mouth, and intelligible words poured out, and they somehow formed themselves into coherent sentences without my having to even think about it. It was as though I'd rehearsed it a thousand times when in fact I'd never planned it.
"I need to block my thoughts from my father, or, at least, some of them, because I can't let him know that I'm blocking him out, or else he'd become suspicious. But I can't do this anymore. I don't want to become a Death Eater, I've never wanted to. I want to fight against Lord Voldemort and all the evil men out there like my father. And, as soon as I'm able, I want to join the Order and help Professor Dumbledore fight in any way I can. But, for the moment, I feel it's too dangerous, as I'm still legally a minor and therefore have to do as my father dictates. However, as soon as I can, I'm going to join the Order. But until then, I need to block my father from all these thoughts, because I know he'd kill me if he ever found out how I'm feeling." I paused, looking at him, trying to gauge his reactions. It was something I'd learn to do quite well, as it was necessary to know when my father was in a bad mood so I could avoid him at all costs. The surprise was written all over his face, as I'm sure he expected me to follow in the footsteps of my father, as did everyone else I knew. But underneath the surprise was something else; there was a pride gleaming in the depths of his eyes. It was in that moment that I think I can truly say that I loved Professor Snape. He was proud of me for wanting to defy my father and fight for the other side, something I couldn't say for many of the other adults in my life. I took a deep breath and finished. "Can you help me? Or, more importantly, will you?"
He was silent for several seconds, and then a smile, a genuine smile, crossed his face. "Of course I'll help you." As cliché as it sounds, hearing those words changed my life, for several reasons. First, it meant that I was finally on the road to fighting my father. This was also the only time in my entire life that I'd ever heard them. Growing up, my father had little patience to help me with anything, always snapping at me to "be more independent" and to figure it out myself, and my mother was too timid to ever defy my father.
Professor Snape then did something else unexpected, although not entirely unwelcome. He stood, walked around his desk, and he enveloped me in a hug. I'd rarely been hugged as a child, because any sort of affection or love could be considered a weakness. At first, I was too stunned to do anything, but then I relaxed and hugged him back for a moment before he released me.
"I always knew you'd cross over," he told me. "I was just never sure when it would be. But I never had any doubts." This was news to me. He'd always known? How had he known? "It was a feeling," he said, reading my thoughts and answering my unasked question.
"Have you ever…do you read my thoughts often?" He shook his head, replying that he didn't usually make a habit of it, as it could often lead to troublesome and nasty problems.
"Now," he began, and I could see that he'd reverted back to his teaching method. "What you're asking me to teach you is something that is rare and therefore extremely difficult to learn. It's difficult because what makes it work is the willpower behind it. Yes, there's a certain level of skill to it, but what makes it truly effective is the drive in the wizard. In other words, the more you want it, the easier it will be, although it is not an easy thing to learn. Let me warn you now- it's an extremely difficult process and it will take several months to learn, and it may not even work in the end. Are you willing to spend such a long time learning something that you may not even be able to use in the end?" It seemed to me a rhetorical question; there was no way I wasn't going to learn. He must have sensed my determination, because he merely smiled and nodded. "Very well. We'll begin at once. After classes would be best. But you're a prefect, which means you have rounds to make."
"I only make rounds on Mondays and Wednesdays," I replied. "We could meet on Tuesdays, or Thursdays, or Fridays. We also have weekends."
"Thursdays won't work, I have to tutor some second years far too dense to understand anything I tell them." I smirked at this; such a typical Professor Snape remark. "How about we meet on Tuesdays and Fridays? It's probably best that we meet at least twice a week, if not more often. As I said, this is going to be difficult, even for you, and meeting as often as possible is the only way to ensure that you have the best chance of learning before the school is over." I nodded my agreement, and that's when I began my long journey towards fighting evil.
Professor Snape was right; it was an incredibly hard skill to acquire. Blocking all of one's thoughts is not all that difficult, all that alone took me nearly two months. But the ability to merely block only block some of one's thoughts is what makes it difficult. It required intense concentration as well as the ability to multitask in one's own mind. I had to think about what I wanted to block from my father and block it, which was fine, but then I had to think about something else without blocking it simultaneously. That was something that I had at first found impossible to do. I could either block all of my thoughts or none at all, but trying to only block that harmful ones was a while other quidditch field. But I was bound and determined. I wouldn't fail; I couldn't fail.
I'll never forget the day I first succeeded. It was one of our weekend sessions, and I was tired from having worked on it the previous two days, it being Sunday. Towards the end of the last session, I had thought I'd felt something, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't from pure exhaustion. We went at it quickly, skipping the usual conversation. I think he'd felt it too, that I was getting close. It was mid-afternoon when it happened the first time. I'd begun as I always did, by thinking of my plans and mapping them out in my head, as I'd been doing nearly every night. I'd blocked those successfully; I could tell from the nod he gave me. I'd then begun thinking about something else, usually quidditch, although that particular day I was hungry and chose to think about lunch. After gathering all my thoughts, I'd given him the signal we'd devised to let him know I was ready. He'd then read my mind quickly, jotting down anything he could read. He'd seemed to finish more quickly than usual, but again, I was tired. He'd looked down at the paper, blinking for a moment, and then looked up at me.
"Chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, biscuits, some corn, and a cherry pie for dessert? Really, can't you think of something besides food?" But he was grinning broadly, because he knew that I'd done it. He hadn't detected anything about my plans, which he probably knew as well as I did at that point, having read them so many times before. But not this time. I'd finally done it! I wanted to shout for joy, but instead chose to shake his hand.
"Thank you, Professor Snape. You've saved my life." I'd said it jokingly, but I think we both realized that I wasn't kidding.
I didn't notice it at the time, but I actually changed quite a bit that year. I stopped associating with Crabbe and Goyle, the lumbering idiots that they were, as well as the rest of the Slytherin house, or, at least as much as humanly possible. I avoided the common room, instead choosing to close myself in my room for extended periods of time, and I took to taking walks at all hours of the day. I'd roam around aimlessly for hours on end, not paying a sickle of attention as to where I was, which often landed me lost, but I also discovered some bloody fantastic rooms. I also began skipping meals, sneaking down to snitch food in the middle of the night instead. The only time I had to put up with them was during classes, which was unavoidable, and during quidditch, again unavoidable. I suppose I could have quit the team, but quidditch was the only thing preventing me from going absolutely insane. Besides, it was one of the few times I got to see her.
She was perfect in every way. Everywhere she went, eyes followed her, although I doubt if she noticed. Her long hair flowed over her back, just begging for a pair of hands to run through it. Her eyes sparkled from under impossibly long lashes, twinkling and glistening as one might imagine stars would. When she smiled, I'd swear my heart skipped a beat and I found there suddenly a great lack in oxygen. Combined with her laugh, there was no man unable to resist her charm. But what was most appealing is that she honestly hadn't a clue as to how much she affected members of…both sexes, really. Males wanted her, females either wanted to be her or were incredibly jealous, or perhaps a tad of both. But it went beyond her physical beauty, at least for me.
She was undeniably intelligent, probably from being around Granger so much. She was quiet and decisive and loved to read, another habit she picked up from Granger. Her nose was forever shoved in some book, unable to tear herself away for even a moment. She read every spare second out of class, and had been in trouble more than once for reading during class. She was fiery and passionate and full of spirit, which I loved. I'd witnessed more than a few spats between her and her nitwit brother, and she always emerged victorious, until I almost began to feel bad for him. I pitied anyone that managed to get on her bad side, actually, as I knew exactly what that felt like. See, we didn't exactly get along, for lack of a better term. To put it plainly, she hated me and in the beginning, I wasn't all that fond of her, either. But feelings change, and mine were no exception. I began to look forward to our near-daily quarrels as an outlet for the building frustration in my life. I had no one else to talk to, no one to vent to, so I used these instead. I said some pretty hurtful things, and I know they'd hit their mark, but she'd always have a biting reply ready. And when all else failed, she'd throw her hands up in the air and stalk off, fuming that I'd gotten the better of her.
But what I loved most about them was just the constant nearness. For some reason, when we were bickering, we felt the need to constantly touch one another. She'd get right up in my face, and it was all I could do to remain focused and not snog her right there in the hallway. When she wanted to make a point, she'd shove me or punch me, which I'd gladly have let her do for eternity if it meant her touching me.
I didn't say much during our arguments, preferring to allow her to do most of the talking, or shouting as the case usually was. I'd lean back and smile and let her rant on, calling me all sorts of colorful names, only piping in when it appeared she was ready to leave. I could do this for hours on end, watching her work herself into a tizzy, sure she was completely unaware as to just how delectable she looked. Her little hands were balled into fists, ready to strike; her hair was flying around her head, as she was constantly in motion, unable to stand still for even a moment. What I loved most, though, was the look in her eyes. They shone brightly, a fire raging within, and it gave her an utterly desirable glow.
I remember one particular fight, as it was more-or-less our last.
"You know, you are so infuriating!" she shouted angrily, hands on her hips. I merely smiled, outwardly calm while mentally waging a war on myself. I didn't trust myself to speak without blurting out things that seventeen year-old boys should not be telling sixteen year-old girls. She glared at me, and said sharply, "why do you do that?"
"Do what?" I asked innocently, thinking things that were the complete opposite, things that mostly involved me, her, and a big bed.
"Smile like that," she said exasperatedly.
"I can't smile?"
"It's not something you're exactly known for, now is it?"
"Pray tell, what exactly am I known for, then?" I asked curiously, wondering what exactly she'd heard about me, and what of it was true. She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and said,
"Let's see, shall me?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and she began ticking items off her fingers. "You're a womanizer, you've stopped eating, you're the only person Professor Snape likes, and let's not forget the most obvious- you're the son of a Death Eater, destined to follow in his foot-" That was where I cut her off.
I'm sorry to say it, but I snapped. I'd had enough of everyone telling me what I was going to do with my life, how I was good-for-nothing and just following the path of my father. I could stand it, barely, from most other people, but not from her. I needed to set the record straight with her; I just felt a compelling need to tell her the truth. Obviously, I couldn't tell her everything, but enough for her to realize that I was different, and that I had no intentions of following my father.
"Let's get something straight," I said icily, much harsher than I intended. "I am so flipping sick of everyone telling me exactly what it is that I'm going to do with my life. Yes, my father is a Death Eater, it's a well-known fact. But just because my father is one does not mean that I intend to become one. So I'd appreciate it if you and the rest of your friends would stop telling me what to do with my life, because that's exactly what it is. Mine. And I'll live it however I damn well please." I hadn't realized it, but as I spoke, I was slowly moving forward, forcing her back until she was flush with the wall behind her. But her stopping hadn't stopped me, and I was mere inches from her face, practically molded to her body. What was strange, though, was that she didn't seem to mind, or, if she did, she hid it well. Her breathing was irregular and breathy, and I was panting myself. The fire was still in her eyes, but I sensed that it wasn't just from our spat. Her eyes flicked down to my lips as hers unconsciously parted and her tongue darted out to wet them.
That's what drove me over the edge. I couldn't stop myself even if I'd wanted to. I leaned down slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop me. Even when I was a hairsbreadth away, I was still anticipating the shove, the indignant cry of disgust, but it never came. I paused, looking up at her, and she smirked (that was my smirk!) and closed the gap between us. I was momentarily stunned, unable to quite grasp that I was actually kissing her, and that she was the one that had kissed me. She felt my stiffness and pulled back slightly, as she didn't exactly have anywhere to go.
"What's the matter? Ferret got your tongue?" she asked huskily, a smile playing her lips. I smirked, finally under control of my actions again. Then I tangled my fingers in her hair and kissed her again.
There was nothing gentle about this kiss. I demanded everything she had to give me, and probably some she didn't. I was sure our lips would be bruised, but at the moment, I honestly didn't give a broomstick. My tongue slid smoothly into her mouth to toy with hers, and they were soon moving in tandem, giving and receiving equally. My hands, which had once been satisfied to remain wrapped in her hair, were no longer content. Seemingly of their own accord, as my brain had stopped functioning the second our lips met, they removed themselves from her silky strands and began a slow and torturous descent down her body. Every inch of skin had to be mapped, every nook and cranny charted, and her body was more than helpful. Her own hands were wrapped around my neck, toying with the long strands of hair that graced the nape of my neck.
It was I who gained his senses first, and pulled back. She nearly groaned from the sudden loss of contact, and pulled insistently at my neck, trying to bring me back. But I wasn't having any of it.
"I…what…what are we doing?" I asked breathlessly. She smiled seductively, and said,
"I'd have thought that was rather obvious." I rolled my eyes at her amusement.
"Yes you twit, I know what we're doing, but I mean, you and I…how can we do this? It'll never work. In case you've forgotten, my family rather despises your family, and yours isn't all that fond of mine, either." She frowned at this, and slowly released my neck. The sudden rush of cool air on my previously warm neck nearly made me gasp.
"I don't know," she confessed. "I honestly don't even know how this happened."
"Well, we got really close together, and you put your lips on mine…" I grinned, attempting to lighten the mood for a moment.
"Don't be cheeky," she said, swatting me lightly in the arm, although I could see the tiny grin she was trying to hide.
"Let me ask you two questions," I said seriously. "I know you said you don't know how this happened, and neither do I. But I know, at least for me, it wasn't unwelcome in the least." I looked at her, gauging her reaction to my words.
"If you're asking if I feel the same way, the answer's yes," she said softly. "Merlin knows it's wrong, but I wanted it as much as you did." I smirked at that, and she groaned. "Now what have I done? I've gone and fed that bloody ego of yours."
"And what a right gorgeous ego it is, isn't it?" I said proudly. She rolled her eyes again. "Anyway, my second question is why? Why me?" She pondered my question for a few seconds before shaking her shoulders. "Why did you believe me?" I elaborated a bit.
"I…I don't know," she began hesitantly. "The gods know you've never given me a reason to believe you, but it was just…something in your eyes. There was a spark there, something I'd never seen before. It was so small, but it spoke such volumes. You really hate him, don't you?" she asked quietly, and we both knew who she was speaking of. I nodded, unable to find the words to express my true feelings towards my father.
We decided to take things slow and see where they ended up. I'm ashamed to admit that I used to be somewhat of a cad, but I wanted this time to be different. I don't know what it was about her, but she had me wrapped around her little finger from day one. I actually wanted to spend time with her, talking and really getting to know her as opposed to all my previous encounters. All we ever did was kiss, and that was fine with me. Normally, I couldn't wait to shag a girl, but this time, I had no problem waiting. In fact, it was I who suggested we wait, until we knew each other better.
Our relationship we kept to ourselves for several reasons. First, it was no one's business and we knew what a ruckus it would create if everyone knew. Second, her brothers all hated me, although in their defense, I'd given them good reason to. She was afraid that they'd pound me to a pulp if they found out. And third, I was afraid what would happen if my father ever found out. Not to me, but to her. No doubt he wouldn't take the news well, and I'd no doubt he'd do anything in his power to end it.
So, we kept it a secret, although neither one of us is ashamed, as they often say those are who can't tell anyone. We met as often as possible, sneaking off during meals and between classes and after classes and on weekends- whenever we had a free moment. Now that I had finally achieved the partial blocking of my mind, I only met with Professor Snape once a week, just for the continued practice to ensure that I would retain the skill once I left Hogwarts. I'd accompany her on her rounds, and she'd meet me during mine. Our favorite time, though, was during Hogsmeade trips, when the entire castle was nearly empty. I'd smuggle her into my room, and we'd waste away the afternoon talking, her sharing stories from her childhood and me dispelling all the rumors about myself. We'd snog occasionally, yes, but as I said before, it wasn't about the sex with her. It was deeper; I felt a connection with her, something I'd never felt with anyone else in my entire life. When I spoke, she listened, really listened, and she'd look at me as though whatever I was saying was the most fascinating thing she'd ever heard, even if it was just about Divination class. She'd ask me deep, probing questions, ones that no one had dared ask before. We'd engage in verbal sparring matches, arguing over anything from quidditch teams to ingredients in potions. We were…I don't even know how to describe it. She was perfect to me. She was the person I'd been waiting for all my life.
At first, I kept my boyhood a secret, too ashamed to tell her all that had happened. She sensed my discomfort and stayed away from the topic, at first. But I knew that one day, she would ask, and sure enough, she did. I was hesitant at first to tell her, but she took my hands in hers, looked me right in the eye, and said,
"Please, don't hide it from me. I want to know everything about you, and that includes what happened when you were growing up." I squeezed her hands and replied,
"I know you do, and I'm not trying to keep it from you. But I've done a lot of things I'm ashamed of, a lot of things I regret, and I just don't want you to think differently of me. The image you have of me now, as being noble and brave, is not who I used to be, nor who I am, really. I'm a coward," I said miserably, dropping my head. She tilted my chin up to look at her again, and she kissed me softly on the lips.
"I would never let something like that change who you are to me. You're everything to me, and no matter what you tell me, nothing will change that. I love you," she said softly, almost whispering that last part. But she had said with no hesitation, no fear of remorse or rejection. I smiled, and part of me wanted to cry. I took her face gently in mine, cradling it as one might a baby.
"I've never felt, in my whole life, what I feel for you right now. You mean the world to me. You're all I can think about, all I dream about. I love it when we're together, and the second you're gone, I miss you. I've…I've never felt love before, and it terrifies me, but I know, I just know, that this is what it's supposed to feel like. I love you, too," I said, the foreign words rolling off tongue. I'd never uttered them to a single human being until now, but I instinctively knew that I, this, was right. She smiled and a single tear ran down her cheek, which I stroked away with my thumb. "I love you, Ginevra Molly Weasley." And then I kissed her.
After much badgering on her part, I finally acquiesced and began to tell her bits and pieces of my childhood. I kept out the really gory parts, rather sugar-coating the whole of it, to be quite honest. I know she'd said she would never leave me, but I still had lingering doubts. I'm fairly certain that she knew I wasn't telling the whole truth, but she was content to live with what she got. I told her stories of the balls mother used to throw, the parties and events held at the Manor. I mentioned trips to Honeydukes as a child, and to the Quidditch World Cup (father always managed to get wonderful seats, although I shudder to think of his methods). And when I felt it unavoidable to delve into the darker bits, I always skimmed those as lightly as possible. I'd dip my voice and speak faster, rushing through them as quickly as possible, not only for her sake, but for mine as well. These memories were painful to me, not only the bad ones, but the good ones, too. I was reminded of happier times, far before the reign of terror of Voldemort, back when we were actually a family. See, I didn't used to always hate my father. When I was younger, I actually idolized him, can remember going around telling adults that I wanted to be "just like my daddy" when I grew up. Then, I realized exactly what it was he did for a living, and those dreams quickly vanished.
Ginny is the one person who has kept me sane during these past few months. She's been my rock, my foundation. Without her, I would have shattered a long time ago. She's been doing everything for me, even down to making meals for me. Every morning, I wake up and there she is, bustling around my room. In a way, I'm reminded of my mother, but I look at her, and my throat tightens up because I wish it were real. I wish we were off in our own house, far away from the rest of the world, just the two of us. She usually catches me staring, and she just smiles before going back to whatever she was doing. I like to come up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist as I whisper, "good morning, love," in her ear. She'll blush and squirm for a moment before turning around in my arms and kissing me softly. Then she'll gather her motherly senses and shoo me off to do some menial tasks, which I love doing, because it makes the fantasy seem all the more real. Husband and wife, spending the day together, cleaning the house…someday, I'm going to make that fantasy come true, which I've told her on many occasions. She'll chuckle and shake her head at me, but I see the glint of hope in her eyes, and I know she wants the same thing. That's why I got her the ring.
It was a simple ring, a silver band. On the inside, I had our initials engraved along with a simple message: Time changes most things, but it can never take away our love. I held on to it for several days, awaiting the perfect opportunity to give it to her. Then, the moment arose.
I awoke in the same way I always did, to the send of her singing to herself. I opened my eyes, and there she was, sitting by the window, staring out at the rising sun. I instantly pulled myself awake, because I knew that this was it, now was the time to give her the ring. I pulled it out of the pocket of my pants (I'd taken to carrying it with me everywhere I went) and rose to join her at the window. I sat down behind her and pulled her into my lap, so my legs were tangled with hers, my arms around her waste, her head nestled to my chest. I was breathing in the heavenly scent of her hair, and we were content to just sit there, not needing words to express how we felt. Her hands were on mine, lacing her fingers lightly with mine. After several moments, I broke the silence.
"Hey, Gin?" I questioned softly. She didn't say anything right away, and I thought that maybe she hadn't heard me, but then she replied, "Yeah?"
I turned her in my arms, wanting to be looking at her when I gave it to her. "I got you something." She looked confused.
"Why? It's not my birthday." I smiled.
"Do I need to have a proper occasion to give my girlfriend a present?" She grinned, loving the way the words rolled off my tongue, and said,
"I s'pose not, but still…" I shushed her with a soft kiss.
"I already got it, so there's no use protesting." She went quiet, and when I pulled out the little box, her eyes widened ever so slightly.
"Is…is that…" she asked shakily, unable to finish her sentence.
"Open it and see for yourself," I said. She fumbled momentarily, and then got it open. When she saw the ring, she gasped.
"Draco… it's beautiful, but what is it for?" I took it out and held it in my palm.
"It's a promise ring. It means that you're mine, and that I promise to always love you. And it also means…" I paused, taking a deep breath. "It usually is also used as an intention to marry someone." I practically whispered that last part, afraid of how she would react. Maybe I was pushing her, moving this all too fast. "I know we're still young, but I love you Ginny, and I want to marry you someday, if you'll have me." She sat still, mouth open in shock, which I took as a bad sign. I went to pocket the ring, praying that I hadn't just ruined our entire relationship, when she stilled me with a gentle touch of the hand. She plucked the ring from my grasp and slid it onto her finger, and I looked up, hardly daring to breathe. She was smiling broadly, tears glistening in her eyes.
"I love you, you prat. Of course I want to marry you someday." Then she kissed me, rather forcefully, and the rest…well, let's just say that it's history.
And that's how I ended up here, a changed man. So for all you non-believers out there, I'm living proof.
Oh, and just in case you're wondering, the third thing I discovered is that I don't really give a fuck what anyone else thinks about me. I have Ginny, and frankly, that's all I'm ever going to need, at least in this lifetime.
A/N: I'm thinking it should just end here…going on would be a bit much, especially on my wrists, which are massively sore at the moment.
Anyways, as always, feedback is welcome, just make sure it's critical and not whiney. If you think it needs some work, tell me how I can fix it or what you feel needs work, don't just tell me or else I'll hate you forever and never speak to you again, and I know how much y'all would hate that.