Chapter 24: A Snake in the Dungeons
Apparently, avoidance was not what the universe had in mind.
"Malfoy," the redhead was shooting him a glare that held just a touch of confusion as she looked up from her work, Snape's robes still audible as he flapped away down the corridor. She'd had more than enough of the dungeons. Two detentions and remedial potions making, all in one month? Damn snakes and their cobble-stoned prisons.
The blond looked about to respond, even opening his mouth, but then shut it and scowled. He just nodded.
"What, no snappy nickname?" She barbed, shooting a glance at him as she returned to her work, cutting the requisite Sopophorous bean for her Draught of Living Death. She'd missed the first half of the class when they'd made the potion, having been… preoccupied with another handsome Slytherin, and had been sentenced to a remedial session on the draught, to be completed shortly following that night's supper.
This handsome Slytherin had just entered the Potion's classroom to oversee her not-quite-detention. And he didn't look happy about it.
"What am I supposed to call you, then?" His tone was sour, and his lips twisted into – Ginny's brow quirked incredulously – almost a pout, really, as he continued with an air of impatient annoyance. "If I call you Weaslette I'm being patronizing, if I call you Weasley I'm being rude – and I don't think you want me calling you Ginevra-"
"No," she agreed. It was a decent question. But incredibly odd coming from him. Since when did he care how she interpreted his words? Since when did he care about anyone other than himself? …A bit paranoid, if you asked her.
"So what is it then?" His voice was bitter but forcibly casual as he suggested, "Red? Or is that objectifying?"
Ginny's stomach lurched. She'd forgotten he'd called her that. She'd been thinking of it as Blaise's playful nickname, but…
She nodded, "It's okay, I guess." She felt a bit off kilter as she answered, and even more imbalanced as she admitted, mumbling as an embarrassed blush heated her face, "The Weasley ones are okay, too." She wouldn't look at him, focused on prepping the rest of her potion ingredients. And now she felt weird about calling him by his surname, now he'd made her aware of it.
The silence was deafening as Ginny continued her prep. The blond boy was occupied with his thoughts in the front of the classroom, not even looking at her. (Fat lot of good he was at supervising potion making.)
Once her salt water was resting, and her timer had been set, she had five minutes to spare. She looked to… whatever she was supposed to call him.
"I…" I can still call you Malfoy, right? She thought, but didn't ask it. Instead she asked, tentatively, "Why did you ask that?" She was curious, but cautious. He wasn't acting his usual blatantly unpleasant self. He seemed to be irritated, but not the sort of irritated she was used to, where he lashed out at anything in sight. His restraint was unsettling.
When he spoke, she could feel how tense he was. Like he was holding back. "Am I not allowed to attempt to act decently?"
Ginny blinked at him. "Oh, you're allowed," she voiced, wondering if she were in some alternate dimension, "but you just don't."
There was a hard gleam in his eyes when his lips curled into a less than amused sneer, his grey stare glaring at the foot of the table beside him. "Oh. I don't." The sarcasm was bitter and decidedly dark.
Ginny was getting annoyed now. Why was he all Mr. Pouty Pants? Since when was Draco Malfoy all emo and bitchy over a couple of innocent questions? "Well, you don't!" The muttering was a bit defensive, and she turned her attention back to her ingredients, fussing with them. Not that she had any ingredients left to prepare: at least not until the directions called for them.
When she risked a quick glance back to the Slytherin boy, he was looking at her with disgust. She felt the blush staining her face and neck as she hurriedly looked back to her things, glancing at the timer in the hopes that she was done letting the water sit.
But he'd noticed.
Damn her. Why was she so damn…
No. No, he would not let those sorts of thoughts into his head.
…But the tension in the room was palpable. And for some reason, all he wanted to do was—
Fucking hell, this is the Weasley girl! he reminded himself. These images flashing before his eyes – it was all just a case of misdirected frustration, surely.
The way she'd looked at him, with her brow furrowed all in confusion and suspicion, and how her lips had parted in surprise at his words… how he could imagine her lips parting again, as she gasped in a much darker surprise… He could imagine her breath, hot and shallow, feeling her pulse pounding as he held her wrists in hand, those same lips just barely daring to say his name-
His unwelcome thoughts were even more unwelcomingly interrupted by the sound of water being poured into a cauldron.
He took in a long low breath. This was just childish. He was seventeen. He was better than this.
He let out the breath shakily, and turned his eyes to the girl who was now focused on measuring essence of wormwood. He didn't like this new development his thoughts had taken. Previously niggling thoughts of what she'd said had morphed into things she might do, and he felt like some sort of hormonal teenager, unable to control himself. It was shameful.
And it was disgusting.
More importantly, it was impossible.
There was no way the littlest Weasley could ever be attracted-
No, scratch that, everyone was attracted to Draco Malfoy (entitlement be damned).
There was no way the littlest Weasley could ever act on that attraction.
And there was no way Draco could make her, not without being plagued by that damn guilt she'd caused. All of these thoughts of the girl's skin on his skin, her breath in the dark, her lips parted to moan his name – all of it was impossible without her say so.
He needed a plan. One plan to satisfy his cravings and move on.
