Title: Possibility
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Various relationships progress, mostly
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at
Okay, shameless self-promotion over. On to the story.
***
They'd been talking about families; she wasn't sure how the conversation had come around to that, but she'd been telling him how her mother had failed to notice when she'd chopped off a foot of her hair. He'd taken over an entire linen closet for practicing the Dark Arts, and his father hadn't even asked why there were silencing charms on a closet.
Now she had a distinct ache in her neck, and things were a little fuzzy after the linen closet. Her head was resting back against something knobby and hard that felt rather like a shoulder.
"I fell asleep, didn't I?" Willow grimaced, eyes still closed, not wanting to move and discover more aches.
"It would seem so," Severus affirmed.
"What time is it?"
"I cannot see your clock from here, but it's been several hours at the least."
Willow groaned, and peeled herself reluctantly away from his shoulder, rotating her neck and listening to her joints pop. She didn't feel like she'd slept for hours.
"You should have woken me up," she admonished distractedly, taking in the sight of him leaning propped against her couch, looking thoroughly disarrayed. I think that's definitely worth a few aches.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because my neck hurts and I probably drooled on you," she argued half-heartedly. "Did you sit there all night?"
"I may have slept a little myself," he shrugged one shoulder, seeming utterly unconcerned.
"You should sleep more," she scolded.
"You should nag less," he retorted.
"I don't nag," she protested, flopping back against the couch next to him.
"Of course not," he agreed dryly. His arm slipped around her, his hand finding the place where her neck joined her shoulder and kneeding it gently. "And I am never sarcastic."
Willow let her head fall forward, murmuring incoherent appreciation. "So do you suppose it's breakfast time yet?"
"I think we're in danger of missing breakfast entirely, if we don't start in that direction soon," Severus answered.
"Eating is so overrated," she commented, as his fingers worked their way up her neck to the base of her skull. And I'm not freaking. Huh. Go me. I guess falling asleep and drooling on someone does wonders for your confidence. The being embarrassed just gets pointless.
Also there was the talking .. which is starting to come back to me in a less-hazy way now .. and I think there was some good talking last night.
He knows that my mom tried to burn me at the stake, and that when I decided to go to UC Sunnydale my dad didn't talk to me for a week. That Mom was thrilled when I started dating Tara, like I was making some sort of feminist political statement, but she couldn't remember her name.
His father raised him after his mother died, when he was three. He can only remember her a little. He can't stand Harry's godfather because of a prank that almost got him killed. He really thought he *was* making a political statement when he first got involved with Voldemort.
I still don't know what kind of fiction he likes.
But it's a start. It's a good start.
And damn, he can do nice things with those fingers.
Why was I all freaked out last night? That could have progressed into .. nicer things, with fingers. Or other parts. Why was I objecting to that thought?
"Overrated as it may be, I think I'm obligated to make an appearance," Severus said, sounding regretful. "Things may be . . interesting, this morning."
The first full day back since Solstice. Yeah, interesting's one word for it.
"No fair being right," she pouted; his hand drew away from her neck, and she tilted her head back as far as it would go, stretching muscles that felt far more well-rested than they had a few moments ago. "I don't suppose we can go down together looking all wrinkled in yesterday's clothes, either, huh?"
"Probably not," he agreed dryly. "Though the expression on Filch's face -" Willow giggled.
"Or Dumbledore," she added.
"He'd find it amusing," Severus scoffed. Willow paused, considered.
"Yeah, I think he would, and now I'm disturbed," she agreed a moment later.
"My most sincere apologies," he stood, and stretched, and Willow fought not to gape openly as she pulled herself far less gracefully to her feet, "for disturbing you."
Disturb me. Please.
"It was an amused kind of disturbed," Willow shrugged; she looked up as he was looking down and then he leaned down to kiss her, just a quick closed-mouthed peck on the lips. She blushed, and inwardly kicked herself for it. That'd be why you slowed things down last night; because nice as this is, it's still kinda weirding you out.
But .. in a good way.
"We should do that again," she suggested. "The staying up and talking thing. Only maybe we should plan it so we fall asleep actually *on* the couch. Much less achy the next day."
"I will look forward to it," he agreed, the words overly formal and a little awkward, but he looked pleased.
"And we could - you know, sometime - eventually - I'd like missing breakfast with you," she added, feeling as though her face was likely to burst into real live flames within the next second or two. But I would, and there's no reason I shouldn't say it. Yay for being a grown-up, even if you turn six different shades of crimson while you're at it.
He looked a little confused for a moment, and she wondered if maybe he hadn't understood what she meant - then he swooped down and kissed the tip of her nose. It was so quick and so unexpected that before she had the time to react, he was already gone, vanished in a swirl of dark robes and slamming door.
That man does not know how to close a door quietly. Or open one. Or .. he kissed my nose!
I think he may have gotten the point.
***
The Slytherin table looked half-empty.
It wasn't, of course; Ginny knew there were slightly more than a dozen faces missing. Claudette Delacroix and Jenna Page huddled together to one side of a gaggle of nervous and silent first-years, looking distinctly abandoned. Claudette appeared to be talking continuously while she ate, staring down into her plate of ham and eggs; Jenna just sat there, elbow resting on the table, spoon paused above her bowl of porridge, as if she'd fallen asleep with her eyes open. She gave not the slightest hint that she was hearing a word Claudette was saying; Claudette gave no indication that she knew, or cared, that she was being ignored.
There was no empty seat between them - in fact, there was hardly enough room between their defensively hunched shoulders to slip a parchment - but there might as well have been.
I don't know what I should think about that, Ginny thought, stabbing distractedly at a piece of pancake on her own plate.
Is there a need to think about it? She made your life miserable, and now she's dead, and good riddance. How very convenient. Why think about it more than that?
Because she was a human being and now she's a body in the ground and that . . that deserves thinking about.
Body in the ground, body walking on the ground, is there a difference? Why should you care? A shame not to get to see it, though, after all the times -
- shut UP! I do not want to see Pansy's dead body!
Don't you? Don't you want to see her laying there cold and rotting and know that's all she ever was? She tormented you, for no good reason, no good excuse -
- and what's YOUR good excuse, hrmm?
We don't need excuses. We're different. Powerful. We're more -
"Could you pass the blackberry preserves?" Hermione asked in a tight, very proper voice. Ginny nodded and complied, handing over the jar of jam. Hermione jabbed her knife into the jar so hard it hit the bottom and clinked. Ginny glanced sideways at the other girl as she spread globs of blackberries across her toast.
Hermione was watching the Slytherin table too; Ginny followed her gaze, and her eyes landed on Vincent Crabbe.
Neither he nor his father had been caught, though his father was still missing and wanted - 'for questioning', according to the Daily Prophet. Emmaline Montague and Octavia Crabbe had been interviewed yesterday, the article taking up the entire front page of this morning's edition. It lay face-down on the Gryffindor table now, folded neatly in front of Hermione's plate. The article had been full of photos. Mrs. Crabbe looked as prim and respectable as if she were being questioned about her rose gardens; Mrs. Montague clutched a portrait of her dead son and wept.
Would you have refused an invitation from the Malfoys? demanded Emmaline, eyes dark-rimmed and wild even in newsprint. They were well-respected - connections in the Ministry - how was my son to have known? He can't have known! And those Aurors just went in flinging curses - didn't stop to ask questions, didn't stop to find out why anyone was there -
Of course those who were captured are going to be accusing everyone who was there of being involved, argued Octavia, far more calmly, and the occasional sidelong look she directed at Emmaline was full of something between disgust and pity - as if she wanted to comfort the other woman, but only if that could be done without getting too near her. As if her horrible, visible brokenness might be catching. And Veritaserum only requires one to tell the truth *as one knows it*, so of course they could be mistaken. My husband thought he was just taking Vincent to a party for the Malfoys' son, Draco - yes, he's turned 16 recently - well of course I won't ask my husband to come home and explain that to the Ministry! After what's happened, how can we trust them?
There should be an inquiry, Emmaline choked out between sobs, a moment the Daily Prophet's photographer had evidently found worthy of preserving for posterity. They should turn *them* over to the -
It's all been a tragic misunderstanding, Octovia had interrupted her. And a shame it was bungled so badly they didn't even catch You-Know-Who - assuming he *was* there, of course. But if he was, and he'd been caught - well, that would have cleared all this up neatly, wouldn't it?
I'm so glad my son is back at Hogwarts now, away from all this. It'll be hard for him not knowing where his father is - they're rather close, for Vincent being the age he is, but he's always been a good boy, not rebellious at all -
Hermione set the jar of blackberry preserve back down on the table with a thump. Across the room, Crabbe must have felt her eyes boring into the top of his skull, and glanced up from his plate. For a moment he looked rather uncomfortable, glancing to his left as if looking for guidance. He found a pair of third-years, heads together in deep conversation. Gregory Goyle was missing, too.
And Draco - Ginny's eyes scanned the table, skipped over Blaise sitting with Morag MacDougal, with quite a good bit of empty bench on either side of both of them, skimmed through an assortment of somber-looking sixth and seventh years, paused queasily on a blonde girl she didn't know who was crying silently while eating a plate of pancakes, her movements stiff and mechanical. There was a wide berth around the crying girl too, and at the far edge of it, in the last seat at the end of the table nearest the door, was Draco.
He was watching her, and he didn't look away when her eyes caught his. Ginny suddenly felt her heart pounding in her throat.
Draco raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek just to the side of his eye, and frowned questioningly. Ginny brought her own fingers tentatively up to the scab there.
Madam Pomfrey couldn't heal it, she thought at him, shrugging and quirking her lips a little in outward response. It's okay, I don't mind.
Just flesh, whispered the other voice in her head.
Draco's frown deepened.
No, it's okay, Ginny thought, her own brow furrowing. Don't feel badly about it. I don't mind the scar. I'm - I'm glad you were there.
You see. No one else sees.
No one EVER sees.
No, that isn't true. Draco. Myrtle.
More than flesh . .
But of course Draco couldn't hear her, and just went on frowning, before dropping his eyes and stabbing visciously at a sausage link with his fork.
"Does it still hurt?" asked Harry.
"What?" Ginny jumped. "Oh - no, not much. It itches a little." Harry glanced behind him, looking to see what Ginny had been watching; Ron, sitting beside Harry, did the same.
"She should just come sit over here," Ron commented a moment later.
What? Who should - she followed her brother's line of sight and realized he was talking about Blaise.
"I don't know if that'd be a good idea," Harry commented.
"Why not?" Ron demanded. "Look at them, they're all treating her like she's got the plague or something - that's house loyalty for you, isn't it? I don't know why she got sorted there at all, she's really not bad."
"Not bad?" Ginny said, indignant on Blaise's behalf. "Oh, *that's* a lovely thing to say about your girlfriend." If he knew about Draco -
Knew *what* about Draco, exactly? It's not like you're snogging in empty classrooms and planning to run away together. It's nothing like that.
But it's . . something. Connection.
If he knew about Draco - what if he knew about *Tom*?
He'd hate me. They all would.
Of course they would. It's what they do - spit on you, and beat you, and break your bones and make you bleed, they don't need a reason, just an excuse - just any excuse -
No, Ron wouldn't - he's my *brother*, he'd -
What? He'd understand? You know he wouldn't. You know better. No one understands, no one cares.
Draco's upset I'm going to have a scar. Myrtle doesn't want me to die.
Tom had nothing to say to that; Ginny had the skin-crawling feeling of him retreating a little, wandering off to think about it.
There is no Tom! No one to stroll off to some back corner of my brain and consider. Just me. It's all just me.
It can't be just me - it can't be me thinking these things -
- alone.
"You know what I meant," Ron grumbled.
"Anyway, Morag's sitting with her," Ginny pointed out, popped a piece of pancake into her mouth, and forcing herself to chew and swallow. Ron frowned at this.
"I need to get to the library," Hermione announced to no one in particular, dropping her mostly uneaten, blackberry-jam-smeared toast back onto her plate. She stood, gathering her books.
"We haven't even had classes yet!" Ron protested, but Hermione had already rounded up her things and was walking away. She'd grabbed up the Daily Prophet, to Ginny's surprise, and tucked it under one arm.
"I don't understand her," Ron blurted, a few moments later. Harry gave him a rather incredulous look. "But," Ron brightened, "Now there's plenty of space. Blaise can sit where Hermione was sitting."
Ginny glanced at the plate of rather unappetizing-looking toast Hermione had left at her place, and then at her brother.
"Morag too?" Ginny asked.
"What?" Ron frowned again.
"If *Blaise* comes to sit here, then *Morag* will have no one to sit with, because she's friends with Blaise and everyone's treating *her* like she's got leprosy too, because of *that*," Ginny explained tersely. "So are we going to invite *Morag* to come sit here too?" And are we going to invite them to come sleep on the common room floor when everyone in Slytherin hates them for it, too?
Honestly, Ron, you could *think* just once in a while -
Ron cast another uneasy look in the direction of the Slytherin table. Blaise saw him looking and waved, smiling slightly. Ron flushed, and waved back very quickly, before turning back to Ginny.
"We can't invite half of Slytherin over here, Gin," Harry argued. "And Ron's not seeing Morag, so -"
"So she can just go rot, hrmm?" Ginny crossed her arms and glared. Nice to know what we all think Slytherin girls are good for.
"Hey, I said it was a bad idea to start with!" Harry protested.
"Harry, don't upset her!" Ron elbowed Harry in the arm, "she's not supposed to get upset."
Ginny glowered.
"What?" said Ron, looking puzzled.
Ginny grabbed her plate and her glass of pumpkin juice and stood.
"Where's she going?" she heard Ron ask Harry, as she stormed away.
Oh, yes, let's not upset me, mustn't upset poor fragile little Ginny. She might blow something up. She might get possessed and kill a bunch of chickens and set a basilisk on the school. Mustn't *upset* crazy Ginny Weasley.
You see what they're like -
Oh will you SHUT the bloody hell UP! Go AWAY!
"Hello," Ginny said, plopping down next to Blaise in the empty space to her right.
"Hello," Blaise responded, eyes going wide. Morag choked and sputtered on her pumpkin juice.
***
"Minerva," Severus observed dryly, without turning his gaze away from the Slytherin table, "I believe one of your students is doing something very *Gryffindor*."
" - graded before the - what?" Minerva interrupted her conversation with Electra Vector, leaning around both Dumbledore and Hagrid, who from what Snape could hear, were discussing the possibility of sixth years being allowed to keep infant kneazles in their dorms as part of an extended Care of Magical Creatures assignment. That man will be the end of this school. One of these days he's going to accidentally breed a creature that thrives on a diet of stone, mortar, and students, and that will be that.
"Ooh, what?" Willow asked from his other side, at nearly the same moment, though with considerably more enthusiasm. Pomona Sprout was still nattering away to Willow's right, apparently unaware that she'd lost her audience. Absorbed as he had been in the discussion of neonatal kneazles and their suitability for dorm living - and failing to understand why she doesn't just ignore that infernal woman - he hadn't really been listening to Sprout. The drivel she was spouting loudly and unconcernedly into the silence that had followed his pronouncement seemed to be about the under-appreciated medicinal properties of ordinary muggle celery.
Severus lifted his teacup and gestured in the direction of the Slytherin table and Ginny Weasley, who looked to be introducing herself to a thoroughly flabbergasted Morag MacDougal. Morag was recovering from the shock well enough - if she hadn't been a Slytherin, he'd have said she handled the situation with graceful aplomb. He sipped his tea as Blaise Zabini nodded at something on the Weasley girl's plate, and glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Oh, do you Gryffindors get better food, too?
"I am going to strangle that girl," Minerva ground out between audibly clenched teeth.
" - useful, if added to an infusion of - " Pomona Sprout rambled on.
"She's just sitting with Blaise," Willow commented. "They're friendly in class. Which is good since Blaise is dating Ron - actually, it's kinda funny 'cause he gets this totally panicked look on his face whenever they talk - but its, you know, good that they get along. Better than if they were all jealous of each other and stuff like friends and girlfriends can be - or, you know, siblings. If they're like friends, who can be kinda like siblings. But they're not. Jealous. Which is good."
"Being *friendly* in class is one thing," Severus countered, giving her a sidelong look at the obvious subtext to her perspective on the situation. And has she had friends who were like siblings, and jealous? Or perhaps she's been such. The thought didn't sit well with him, which only made him annoyed with himself. She's missed the point completely.
Or perhaps you're missing the point completely. She's accustomed to a very different life than this; to having friends who are jealous of her, to thinking more of how a situation affects people than politics. Best not to forget that.
Logic would suggest she shouldn't last so much as half a second in the midst of a conflict. Logic would suggest if you feel the slightest fondness for her, you should stay far, far away from her.
But then, she has. Survived a great deal. Far better than you have, truth be told. She left a life behind before it ate her alive, and her friends as well. She left of her own will, and it didn't take her years to realize she'd been wrong, either. She didn't *fail*.
"Sitting at another House's table is quite another," he snapped out. "It isn't done." Stop making her out to be some bloody saint. The woman has flaws, you know. She babbles incessantly.
"It isn't done?" Willow scowled up at him rather incredulously.
She has no appreciation of proprieties whatsoever.
And it would be a distinct impropriety to wipe that ridiculous expression from her face by kissing her senseless. And Merlin but that *is* literal with her.
Which is a distinct flaw. It's *silly*. Childish. You cannot abide - oh, who in the hell do you think you're fooling?
You're besotted, you pathetic cradle-robbing old git. With flaws and sainthood both.
And she'd like to - miss breakfast with you. It's been a good long while since you've missed breakfast with anyone.
Bloody hell, I am not going to start thinking in her insipid little euphemisms!
She seemed to have noticed him watching her, mere milliseconds longer than was strictly necessary. Her scowl faded into a look of nervous puzzlement, which after a moment in which he could practically see the gears turning behind her uncertain eyes, metamorphosed into a tentatively pleased little smile. Just a faint, ever so slightly mischievous quirking of thin, pale lips. Warm, faintly tremulous, eager lips.
No one else in the world would have had the faintest idea what I was thinking.
I caught you, that's what that look says. You've been spotted. No use hiding.
"It's especially not done *now*," Minerva amended in clear vexation, jarring his thoughts back to the situation at hand, and standing. "And not done by Miss Weasley, who is supposed to be avoiding excitement. Well, I supposed I'd better - oh, dear. Too late, it seems."
Severus forced his gaze away from Willow's lips, and saw that while he'd been lost in their contemplation, Morag MacDougal had apparently finished her breakfast, leaving Zabini and Weasley alone together. MacDougal had the rare and admirably *Slytherin* ability to befriend nearly everyone while offending no one - the Slytherin masses would snub her while she sat with Zabini at breakfast, and an hour later in class, they would forget she'd ever made such a social faux pas and she would blithely fail to recall that they'd ever ostracized her and her unacceptable company. It was something Severus had noted in a few students over the years - it fascinated him, being so utterly alien to his own character.
Zabini, unfortunate girl, had far more in common with him than with Morag MacDougal. She was generally quiet, studious, sophisticated beyond her years behind the facade of air-headedness she sometimes put forth - and seemed able to offend by existing. Of course, dating Ronald Weasley likely has something to do with that lately. I will never understand what even naive teenaged girls can possibly see in brainless, gangly, disproportional and entirely hormone-driven teenaged boys.
Thinks the man who was just contemplating the inappropriate snogging of a woman fifteen years his junior. Perhaps you should be giving thanks for the female gender's apparent collective lack of judgement, hrmm?
No Slytherin would bother Zabini and Weasley while MacDougal was sitting with them - that might result in Morag actually being involved in something unpleasant, which would upset the natural order of their small universe, and that was the last thing any of these children wanted to do right now. With Morag gone, though - they were free to attack the disruption that was Ginny Weasley. And Claudette Delacroix had abandoned her breakfast and was stalking very determinedly toward them, tugging Jenna Page along by the sleeve.
Severus glanced after Minerva, who was hastily making her way around the end of the staff table; from the almost painful-looking set of her shoulders and the way she was intermittently shaking her head, he suspected she was muttering to herself. He was wondering if he ought to join her as he glanced back to the Slytherin table; present a united front to the students? Or perhaps it would be better to . . not present a unite front to the students.
There's no particular need to be disdainful of Gryffindor now. He swallowed against the still-bitter taste of his failure.
Except, of course, on the unfortunately numerous occasions when they've very much earned it, he thought bitterly, knew himself to be childish in reassigning his disgust with his own ineptitude to an easier target, and couldn't bring himself to care. I'm sure it only evens the score for the many millions of times they've not been blamed when they richly deserved it. There's no particular need to upset the way things have always been. Not now. Not when so much is already smoking ruin.
Let Gryffindors be Gryffindors, then - Minerva can deal with Miss Weasley's impetuousness. Let them see that I do not deign to become involved.
"It shouldn't be such a big deal," Willow announced, with audible conviction. "I mean, I understand why it is - or, well, sort of, I think probably not like you do, but - I mostly get it. But it shouldn't be." He glanced in her direction, vaguely incredulous. "Just saying," she added with a shrug.
She still believes in saying things just for the saying of them. For the principle of it. Principle, but not propriety. A brilliant mind that expresses itself in fragmented syllables and words that do not actually exist.
She should not exist. That's the crux of it, isn't it? Everything that's ever been burnt into your brain through past experience tells you this woman is an impossibility. One does not live on a Hellmouth, practice black magic, fight demons, turn to cranking just to escape it all - and retain a belief in principle. That simply does not happen.
But didn't you? Retain a belief in principle.
In atonement.
Can you deserve this? Is that possible?
"Oh, that's bad," Willow blurted. For a stomach-lurching, sinking moment in which his brain had not quite caught up to itself, he thought she was somehow responding to his thoughts. Then he realized her attention was on the Slytherin table - where yours should be, you pillock. Figure out your pitiful, mangled excuse for a life later. Show yourself capable of some small modicum of responsibility, and pay attention to your highly traumatized pupils.
Draco Malfoy - not Malfoy; but if not Malfoy, then what? Black. Narcissa Black. Draco Black. Draco, the dragon. The black dragon; now that is strangely fitting of late - had stood, and was making his way towards Ginny Weasley as well; rather more quickly than Minerva, he noticed nervously.
Yes, I think that's bad.
***
A hand slapped down on the table in front of Ginny, making her flinch and jump.
"You have some nerve," Claudette hissed, leaning in close to Ginny's face. Ginny stared back into the other girl's doll-like eyes, imagining them blank and empty as glass. For a fraction of a second Claudette's gaze wavered, some long-buried instinct recognizing danger; Ginny saw the fear in her face and flinched further, trying to shy away from her own thoughts. No! I do not imagine people dead just because they've insulted me!
But you could - you could kill her with a whisper. She wouldn't even have the time to be surprised.
But I won't. I won't.
Claudette saw her wince, and looked grimly satisfied, her trepidation gone as if it had never existed. The Slytherin girl's hand shot forward along the table, hidden from view of the staff table by a large plate of toast, knocking Ginny's glass of pumpkin juice forward. The glass rolled, spraying pale orange liquid everywhere. Ginny jumped back with a startled yelp, nearly tripping herself on the bench before Blaise kicked it backward out of the way. The front of Ginny's robe was still soaked, and the ends of her sleeves; only the edge of Blaise's right sleeve was wet.
"Oops," said Claudette, in a flat, hard voice. Jenna stood behind her, just gaping.
"Aren't you going to giggle or something?" Ginny quipped angrily, glaring at Jenna and snapping her robe sleeves out in their direction, sending droplets of pumpkin juice spraying towards them. Jenna blinked at her as if she'd forgotten what laughter was, then glanced at an apparently random spot to the right of Ginny's head.
"That wasn't nice," commented a sneering male voice. Ginny sucked in a rather panicked breath. Draco. Oh no, don't -
"Hello, Zabini," Draco said conversationally, insinuating himself between Blaise and Ginny. He picked up Blaise's glass of juice. "Were you done with this?"
"Don't!" Ginny snapped out. Draco turned to her, his look appraising and guarded and yet somehow still vulnerable. He put the glass back down, and Blaise snatched it quickly away. Claudette was watching, too-round eyes narrowing unpleasantly. Oh no, why did you have to do this - why does everyone see the stupid, pointless things and not the things that matter? Why are people so - so bloody - so -
- weak? Pitiful? Worthless? They're just meat, just walking corpses.
Why are they so stupid and blind!
Jenna was still staring, eyes shifting slowly, and Ginny suddenly wondered if she really *wasn't* comprehending what was going on in front of her; if she'd actually, really snapped, sometime over the dreadfully mislabelled 'holiday'.
"If you don't want me to," Draco acquiesced with a shrug.
"I - I don't - " I don't know.
"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" Blaise demanded scathingly. Facing Ginny, his back to Blaise, Draco flushed a dark red. Ginny's hand seemed to reach out of its own accord, restraining or soothing, she didn't know, and couldn't quite touch him. My brothers are watching this. Fred and George are watching this. Ron.
And why should you care? Why should you?
"It's not Malfoy," Ginny corrected Blaise quietly, watching something indescribable flicker across Draco's face. Her hand dropped back to her side. Connection. Sight. More than flesh ..
"What?" Blaise asked, clearly confused, leaning around Draco to give Ginny a very worried look. "Do you feel alright? You should sit down, you're not supposed to be getting upset."
"Come on," Claudette tugged on her friend's arm, pulling her away, and Jenna turned and heeled just like a well-trained dog.
"Miss Weasley," came McGonagall's prim and exasperate voice from Ginny's other side, "what, exactly, was unclear about the instruction you were given by Madam Pomfrey?"
Ginny winced, and flushed. I don't need to avoid excitement! I need . . I need . . I don't know what I need.
"And the rest of you - get along to class! This is not a spectacle put on for your amusement!"
Blaise gave Ginny an apologetic glance before gathering up her books and hurrying off; Draco hovered a moment longer. Ginny had the oddest feeling he was waiting for her permission to leave. Not knowing what else to do, she reached out again, fingers just brushing his hand.
His fingers slid into hers for just a moment, squeezing briefly, shockingly warm before slipping away. If McGonagall had seen it, she didn't comment.
***
TBC . .