Weight of the World
by ms. metaphor
Rating: PG-13 (swearing)
Pairing: Draco/Ginny
Genre: Romance/Angst
Summary: The poets said that love was glorious, and he believed them. DG, one-shot
Disclaimer: I don't own Draco or Ginny. They belong solely to J. K. Rowling and I admit I am insanely jealous of her. Excerpts from "She Walks in Beauty As the Night," by Lord Byron, "Song," by Allen Ginsberg, and "Sonnet LXXXIX," by Pablo Neruda.
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
Of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight
the weight we carry
is love.
The poets said that love is glorious, and he believed them.
Oh yes, he reads poetry. And no, he does not write it. He isn't that much of a ponce. And if anyone ever guessed—which they wouldn't, because, after all, why would they?—he'd say of course he's read poetry. Every average, semi-cultured, intelligent human does, and Malfoys are always above average.
But getting back to the point, he had believed them. He sneered and smirked and scoffed and drawled and leered, but in the end, all the schmaltzy drivel about true love and eternity went straight to his head.
So, that's how he's got himself a seat on the porch of the Weasley's hideous, little hovel, also known so quaintly as—he gags whenever he thinks this—the Burrow.
Damn Byron.
Next time he goes home, he swears he'll burn every book, every page, of love poetry in the whole bloody manor.
Of course, that doesn't change the fact that he sits outside Ginny Weasley's, dare he say, home. Ugh. Do these people have no pride? No self-respect? No sense of fine décor and no aesthetic eye? And the icing on the cake is that it's just started raining very. very. hard.
As he pulls his cloak tighter about him, he figures he's got two choices, maybe three.
Choice number one: knock on the door, ask for Ginny, beg like Mudblood for her forgiveness, and promise never to hurt her again.
Never mind. He doesn't like number one.
Number two: knock on the door, ask for Ginny, kiss her senseless, hope that she is sufficiently intoxicated by his charms, and declare his undying cough affection cough. Number two is passable, as it's a bit more pleasurable than one and does not involve groveling. On the other hand, it requires him to play the sentimental fool.
Or, number three: break into her house, sneak up to her room, and flat out seduce her.
Or, if that doesn't work, number four: kidnap one of her brothers and hold him hostage till she promises to forgive him. That could be fun, but it probably wouldn't earn him any points.
And if all else fails, there's number five: run.
There are times in life when even the most Slytherin of Slytherins can't come up with a feasible plan. Like, for instance, right now.
He sighs and looks at her door. It's heavy and wooden and warm light seeps out its small, oval window. Perhaps this was a bad idea, he thinks. Perhaps he should've given her more time to cool off. Then again, it's already been four months. By now, she will be even angrier with him for not owling or flooing or something, anything. He can picture her absolutely livid, raging on about how he doesn't care enough to write, looking bloody fantastic with her hair glossy and wild, her little hands curled into little fists.
He realizes he can't not talk to her, as much as he wants to flee. Oh Merlin. Since when did he turn into a spineless, dribbling idiot? He's gifted with women. They are his hobby, his forte, a language he speaks with pleasure and fluency. Since when did he start doubting himself? And since when did one in particular—a Weasley, no less—become more than an amusement?
Damn Shelley and Rossetti and Keats and especially that Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The fates must have a sick sense of humor, because there's just no hope for him. But he swears the day he starts reciting lyrical verse, he will throw himself off Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower.
How fitting.
In all seriousness, he's got to either knock on the door or leave, or sit around in the rain for forty-five more minutes, beating around the bush like a pathetic nancy-boy. And since Malfoy's do not run like cowards or beat around bushes like pathetic nancy-boys, he reckons he's got one choice.
He steels himself and knocks. A few endless, torturous moments. The sound of pounding feet, then the door jerks open.
Why, God, why? The last—and by last, he means LAST—person in world he wants to see.
"Malfoy," Ron spits. Draco resists the urge to wipe off his own face. "What the hell are you doing here? She doesn't want to see you."
"Weasel, do you really think I want to soil myself with the filth of your… house? Ew. No. I think not. But I need to talk to her." Draco grips the doorframe, inwardly restraining himself. How such an idiotic prat could have a sister like Ginny is beyond him. He always thought she didn't belong to the Weasley brood. Must have been switched at birth or something. She is too fine. Too quick. Not to mention, too short. Her stupid lump of brother is well over six feet, which, incidentally, is something Draco hates him for. It is demeaning having to look up at one's enemies.
"You have to talk to her." So-called stupid lump of a brother's mouth twists with scorn. "Too bad you didn't have to talk to her a few MONTHS ago. You know what? I think you'll just have to get over it, Ferretface, because she DOESN'T WANT TO SEE YOU!"
Draco grinds his teeth. How he would like to pound the Weasel. In his head, he can picture himself giggling maniacally while throwing wild punches at a long, redheaded body folded into the fetal position. But he supposes that wouldn't win him any points either. "Look you stupid arse, can you just—just tell her I'll wait."
The taller, overgrown boy laughs—laughs—at him. He's enjoying this, Draco thinks.
"What part of she. doesn't. want. to. see. you. do you not understand?"
Draco pauses, looking thoughtfully. "Pretty much the whole thing. Which is why I'm sitting out here till she agrees to talk to me."
Ron glares at him. And promptly slams the door in his face.
Great. That went well.
He slumps down on the walkway, feet flat on the ground, arms resting on his upright knees. The rain has stopped, and that's a plus, though his clothes are already soaked through. Masses of grey clouds have cleared, exposing an array stars. She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies… Oh hell.
He performs a drying spell, then a warming charm. The minutes drag on. He accio's a pillow, stretches out in the grass. He always liked stargazing, even before Astronomy class, which he is very good at. He's named after a constellation, for heaven's sake—no pun intended. Well, according to his mother he is named after a constellation. According to his father, he is named after a Roman patrician who's known for having an exceptionally nasty streak. He figures both are well suited.
At last, he hears the door open and slam. It's probably past midnight.
A flat voice. "Malfoy. Get up."
She stands with her hands on her hips, but she doesn't look very intimidating. Pink pajamas aren't the best attire for exuding an air of power. Draco knows; in foresight, he wore all black, the color of power and elegance. He's not sure that really counts, because he wears black every day. Though, for a Malfoy, every day's a power play. And no, that's not one of his father's proverbs. Lucius had no talent for rhyme.
He rises gracefully, slowly, just to prove that he's doing it in his own sweet time. "Hello, pet."
Without preamble, she marches up to him and halts a mere hand's breadth from his body; she holds out her hand.
In her palm rests blossom, fresh as the day it was plucked from its stem.
"I want you gone now. And I never want to see you again. Ever." Her face is bastion, an iron gateway barred and bolted, a goddamn brick wall. She's eighteen centimeters—about seven inches—shorter than him, but she glares up regardless of the difference.
He assumed that that over the months, he would forget everything. He thought things, minor and interesting details (like how her head was pretty even with his shoulder, or the way her eyes turn up the slightest bit in the corners), would fade. Maybe, he even hoped they would. But they didn't. Seeing her is like drinking Firewhiskey after months of only water, but his memory is very good and she is exactly as he remembered.
He glances at the flower. "I don't want it back. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?"
"I don't know," she mocks, "but how 'bout SHOVING IT UP YOUR ARSE!"
He rolls his eyes. "You sound like your brother. Don't make me vomit."
"Malfoy—"
"You used to call me Draco."
"Yeah, well, you used to owl me and talk to me and not disappear for months at a time! You used to stand up for the things you believed in, you despicable coward!" She throws the flower in the grass and stomps towards the door, yelling over her shoulder, "Now get out of here before I call my brothers!"
Running after her, he seizes her forearm and forcibly whirls her around. Grips her small arms so hard he'll probably leave bruises. But right now he can't be bothered by that. "Did that surprise you, Ginevra?" he snaps. "What did you expect me to do? Join the 'Light' side, sacrifice myself for noble ideals, become a fucking hero like Harry fucking Potter? Guess what, little girl—I'm not heroic, I'm not noble, I'm not Harry. And I don't want to be. I'm not fighting a war because a few useless Muggles might get hurt, or even killed. I don't. care. I'm not sweet, or even nice, like your family, or Potter, or the boys you're used to dating. I'm mean. I'm spiteful. I'm cruel. I'm selfish. I don't pretend to be anything else. I am what I am and I like it. And I never led you to believe anything else, so if you had some stupid notion in your head that you were going to convert me to a good boy and I was going develop a bloody conscious like some dense, naïve Gryffindor and join the fight against You-Know-Who out of righteous indignation, well then that's your problem, not mine!"
He pants for air.
Then, ducks.
He grabs her right fist and then her left as she swings at him a second time.
"I didn't expect you to turn into Harry! I don't want Harry! If I wanted Harry, then I'd be with Harry! I don't want Harry. I never expected you to into some priggish, hoity-toity hero, but I did think you believed in us. I thought maybe I was enough."
"I'm no bloody Gryffindor. I don't rescue damsels in distress."
"I don't want you to rescue me. Will you just listen to yourself whinging on about how you're-no-hoity-toity-Harry-Potter-hero-blah-blah-blah? Did you ever stop and think about all the grief I took to be with you? Did you ever stop long enough to think that I was ridiculed by my friends, ostracized by my housemates, nearly thrown out by my parents, all for you? Because you were enough? But what did you do? You ran."
"Bravery's not my thing."
"Love makes you brave." Her eyes glisten in the darkness, and the shine spills onto her cheeks. She hastily wipes it away. "Or have you forgotten?"
He gathers a handful of wavy, red strands, wraps it about his hand, lets it unwind and tumble down her shoulder. "I don't know what I'm going to say," he murmurs absently.
She looks up at him, worried. "To who? Your father?"
"I'll be expected to take the Mark immediately."
"You're going to say no." It is not a question. She would never ask him that.
The moonlight washes over her hair; he runs his fingers through it distractedly. "Yes."
"And he'll disown you?"
"Disown me. Disinherit me. Hex me. Curse me. Hopefully, with not too many Unforgivables if I can catch him after a glass or two of good Scotch." He lets her hair go and his hand moves to the windowsill, gripping it so hard that his knuckles are white. No longer distracted, he manages, "What the hell am I going to say?" A very long moment. "I'm not brave."
She says the first thing that pops in her head.
"Love makes you brave."
He can't breathe, but meets her eyes, touches her cheek, forehead, chin. "I have something for you," he whispers. Reaching in his robe, he pulls out a flower.
"Draco." She cradles it in one hand, turning it over and over. "Is this? I…"
It is an Ever-Blooming Amaryllis, pearl-white and flawless. It cost him a small fortune, and it's so rare that it took him months to find.
"You are, to me, this flower."
She understands.
He continues, "It won't ever die, on its own. But—but if it is crushed—" He swallows and takes it from her, holds it in the silvery light. It glows like a gentle beacon. "I wouldn't want to see it die. And some things need to be fought for. Fragile things. Beautiful things. Things… that make life worth living."
His eyes close. Long, fair lashes brush his face; the hard, slanting lines are exquisite and cruel in the moonlight. Her fingers graze his jaw. She thinks maybe he softens, faintly.
"When the time comes," she promises evenly, "you will be brave."
He doesn't answer but cleaves to her. The quickening rhythm of his heart thrums into her chest. She clings to him till his tense body slackens and his pulse slows, matching the quiet, steady beat of her own.
"Of course I remember."
"And you remember how you had something worth fighting for."
He laughs bitterly and yanks up his right sleeve. She looks. No mark. She examines the unblemished skin even more closely. No scars, no bruises, no birthmarks. She doesn't bother checking for concealing charms. Draco wouldn't use one. That would be like lying to him, and he does not lie. "Okay," she concedes, "I admit I'm surprised."
He replies tersely, "You should be." He pulls the sleeve down. "I didn't just come here to chitchat and catch up on old times. There's something the Order needs to know."
Warily, she bites her lip and nods.
"Lucius is dead."
A beat.
"What?"
He sighs. "Com'on Ginny, you're not slow."
"He—oh thank God. I mean, I… I'm sorry, for you. I mean, if you want me to be."
"Don't waste your pity," he says flatly.
Her hands make fists again and she grinds out, "Oh for goodness' sake, Draco, I'm not pitying you."
"I know. Still, don't bother. It's no loss to me. In fact, it's a relief."
She reaches out to touch him, but stops suddenly and pulls back. "He was your father. Even if he was a—a horrible man, he was still your father."
His body stiffens noticeably and his mouth clamps shut for a moment.
"That meant nothing to him. You know that."
She does touch him this time, presses her fingers on his hand, hoping it will unclench and invite her in. It does not. "That doesn't mean he meant nothing to you."
He moves away from her, walking in a half circle behind her, staring at the sky. "I didn't come here to have this conversation with you. I just thought you should know that Lucius is dead, and I didn't join them."
She watches him tenderly, as if she's on the verge of tears. He suppresses the urge to shake her. She frustrates him terribly sometimes. He wants to scream in her face that he is not a victim, not a poor boy emotionally wounded by his mean dad. He wants to shout at her to stop looking at him like that. The look in her eyes, the infinite warmth, makes it so hard to forget his father's face: poised, damnably cold, warped with hatred.
So he says what he can to scare her, to make her stop. "And one other thing… they're after me now. I'd like to be buried next to my mother."
She stares at him blankly, presses a hand to her lips. "No. No. You aren't going to die. You'll go into hiding and I'm sure they'll just—just look around for you and when they can't find you, they'll give up, and the war will eventually be over and everything—"
"Ginny. Stop it." She's turned white. He grabs one trembling hand. "They're not going to give up. If the war doesn't end soon, which it won't, then I'll just keep running until they catch me. Which they will."
"No! They won't! We can—we can hide you! I'll talk to Dumbledore. He can do a Fidelius – "
"I've already thought of that, and no. The Secret Keeper will be tortured and will break, and then there will be two deaths instead of one. It's just a pointless delay."
"But why? Why do they want you so badly?"
"I killed Lucius."
Her reaction is impulse: her arms encircle him, cheek resting the niche of his shoulder. He pushes her away. He's not finished, and he doesn't want her sympathy anyway. "I put Nott in a coma. And I ruined one of Voldemort's potions. Another one of those immortality concoctions. Listen to me. Ugh. I do sound like Harry Potter." He grins to himself. "But I'm not least bit sorry for it. The look on his face was priceless."
"So you are on our side!"
Scowl. "I'm on nobody's side. I did it because I wanted to."
She grins and shakes her head. "You're so stubborn that it's actually funny. You know, I'm not letting you go out there and get yourself killed because you're too stupid or too pigheaded to let us help you."
"And I'm telling you, you don't have a choice."
He turns away.
"Please."
Pleading saturates her voice, and it wounds him to hear it. She shouldn't beg. She shouldn't have to. He wants her never, ever to beg, and he still doesn't want her pity.
"Please, Draco. For me. Because I need you to."
The ache in his heart is burgeoning. He wants to wrench it out, but he can't. He tries, and he can't. He can't, he can't, he can't.
"Please. Because," she whispers, "I need you…"
And the night stretches on, a rhythmic beating of fire and fear and hope, winding about and between them, unfolding an empty road, a land where their feet have never tread. He reckons there is no coming back from some paths—some roads only go one way. He, of all people, knows this completely, empirically. There is forward motion until the last moments of life, when time gives brief respite and all you can do is lament—or celebrate—the choices you made. He knows unquestionably what he will lament. But he realizes, like vacuous space, like naked paper, like waking up blind, he doesn't know what he will celebrate. In the darkness, he reaches out and the words chant to him slowly. Their meter marries the fire and fear and hope he wants nothing of—wants to run from, forget, or else destroy.
When I die, I want your hands on my eyes…
When I die, I want your hands on my eyes…
When I die, I want your hands on my eyes…
His own voice rises, unbidden, heaving forward, up, out, with all the gathering force of the tide. He doesn't think at all. For once, he only speaks.
"When I die, I want your hands on my eyes… I want the light—the light and the wheat of your beloved hands to pass their freshness over me, once more. I want to feel… the softness that changed my destiny."
She kneels in the grass, pulling him down with her. He trembles, leans his forehead against hers.
When I die, I want your hands on my eyes…
Peace washes over him, sweetening the rush of stimuli, emotional and sensual, in which he currently drowns.
"Okay," he finishes. "Okay."
"Good," she sniffs. "Then—then, let's do this." She wraps her little hands around his, tugging him toward the house.
"Must we go in there?" he whines. "I really don't think it's necessary."
She gives him a look.
"Fine, fine. If you're sure your brothers won't spontaneously combust in my presence."
"Oh, shut up, Draco."
But she lets his hand go and kisses him briefly, fully on the mouth. The fleeting contact makes him dizzy. He understands this is goodbye, but only for a little while.
"I'll talk to Dumbledore," he says, "and ask him to be my Secret Keeper."
"I—"
"No. Absolutely not."
She swallows hard. "But I want to see you. I have so much to say. It's been so long. It's felt like so long."
He lifts her wrist, presses his nose to the flesh where she spritzes perfume every morning. A natural, musky aroma he couldn't forget even if he wanted to, which he doesn't. Like opium or sweltering heat, it makes his head swim.
"You won't see me for awhile. I'll try to send messages or, if it's possible, meet you somewhere safe."
"As long as you're safe," she whispers, gazing down. "I'll wait. I'll be okay as long as you're safe."
He captures her face between his moon-white hands and kisses her. A fierce, furious flame flares in his soul, and he can't let go. Sweet, sweet liquid joy in his veins, searing a path from his heart to his mouth, to his hands, to his toes. He is drunk on Ginny. He is drunk, intoxicated, utterly smashed on her. For one staggering, unspeakable instant, there is no Voldemort nor Dumbledore, no Weasley shack or Fidelius charm, no Byron or Keats.
And then it is over and he is running away, eyes glued to the dark street ahead. Do not look back, he orders himself. Do not look back. He puts one foot in front of the other, consciously registering each stride. He counts Twenty-three, Twenty-four, Twenty-five, because it is easier than thinking of anything else. One hundred sixty, One hundred sixty-one, One hundred sixty-two, One hundred sixty-three. Do not look back. Do not look back. Three hundred paces and he halts.
He is far enough, and the cold, damp night air has cleared his head. He figures he's able to apparate now, and also able to restrain himself (barely) from running like a fool back to the Burrow.
This is love.
Merlin, this is definitely love. It's like a kick in the bollocks, a new pair of wings, and winning the Quidditch World Cup all in one. Well, the poets did say love is glorious, and does he believe them?
Hell yes.
Finis