Ginny switched off her television, flinging the remote angrily across the room. A vase of flowers teetered, but stayed where it was. His face had been there. Again. It seemed he was everywhere she looked, his steely eyes were watching her from every screen and every magazine rack in the country.

It was useless now. She had spent the past seven days trying to convince herself that he was nothing, meant nothing. But she couldn't. She couldn't pretend he was nothing special. Couldn't kid herself. For the umpteenth time that night she considered her options.

Ignore him. It couldn't be done. He was everywhere; she had already proved that by simply turning on her television.

Confront him. How? And when? Where? What would she even say? There was nothing she could throw at him that she hadn't already thrown and hadn't already bruised him with.

Take him back. Take him back… as if she hadn't dreamed of it so many times in the past seven days, in this one day alone even. Stop, Ginny. Think. How could she? It's all about trust, isn't it? A relationship is built on trust, and how could she trust him after what he'd done? How could she think of taking him back, of ever trusting him again, when she can't even look at him without anger fizzing up inside her?

o0o

Draco switched off his television, throwing the remote down on the sofa beside him. It was bad enough that he had to do these stupid interviews, but he couldn't bear to have to watch them as well. He couldn't help thinking about where it would all end up.

An open magazine caught his eye. He looked down, staring straight into his own smoulderingly pouty face. Centre spread in Witch Weekly, again. Wait – why did he even have Witch Weekly? It must have been hers. He sighed. Odd possession's of her kept popping up all over his flat. It was unbearably painful.

How could any of this have happened? First he had her, and that was a miracle in itself, and then the publicity… he had gone from being recognised by his father's name to superstardom overnight. And then this… the direct effect of his newfound glory. She couldn't take what they were doing to him. And he hadn't listened, and then it had happened. And she had left. A lipstick mark on his cheek and a resounding door slam in his ears, and she was gone. Forever.

He should have listened. She knew. She had always known, about everything. She was just right. All the time. And now he knew that he wouldn't last long without her. It had been like a dream at first, but a frail dream, and he had lost control. And now it was shattering, that fragile dream, cracking from the centre and sending fault lines outwards like a broken mirror. Seven years' bad luck. He knew he'd be in for more than just that.

o0o

Ginny screamed down the phone with all the air in her lungs. Draco Malfoy hotline – it had been the last straw. As she funnelled all of her anger into her voice she yearned for what she had once had, yelled with all her might in the hope that she would feel something other that the hurt and hatred that she was already feeling.

She screamed until her voice was hoarse, flinging down the receiver as if it had burned her. It hadn't made her situation any better. She turned, catching sight of the magazine that had been the catalyst to her outburst. There he was, with that look in his eyes. The article had something in it about how he loved beauty. She snorted. You want to see a pretty face, Malfoy? Well you can go straight back to that dolled-up whore that you seemed to love so much.

She sighed. Could she ever recover? Is there a cure for life? Other than death… she could give up, give up on him, on herself, on life, on everything… there was no shame in giving up. There was one problem – her own pride. She had enough to go round twenty other people. She knew she could never give up.

And that wasn't all.

She missed him. She wanted him, his touch, his voice in her ear. She loved him, and she knew she loved him.

But, for what it was worth, she still hated him.