AN: Well, I've been writing like crazy, and I think I finally managed to come up with a satisfactory chapter. Sorry about the wait, but I did the best I could. I hope you enjoy!

THE APPLE OF MY EYE: CHP 13

I think if you stare at anything long enough you begin to hallucinate. After so long, your mind begins to envision that which is currently occupying it and you see things. At least, that's what I was hoping. Otherwise I had no logical reason to explain why the smoke kept twisting around like strands of white-blond hair, or why the creamy white of the milk looked like pale skin against the gray interior of the pot. Well, there was one other reason I could think of, but I was really hoping I wasn't schizophrenic. I had already come to terms with the fact that I was crazy—either because of or for Draco Malfoy. I could live with that, probably because I realized it was unavoidable. I went crazy without him and I lost my sense of reality around him—this much I knew. I just didn't want to start seeing things. It wouldn't do to have me imagining Draco everywhere, people, for reasons that I should think exceedingly obvious by now.

The insanity I could live with, but the hallucinations would be the end of me. For some reason, the prospect of not being able to discern fact from fiction wasn't too comforting. I took a moment to wish hopefully that this would never be a problem in my life.

What can I say? Clearly I have high aspirations for my future.

I absently stirred the added milk in with the piping hot chocolate, ripping my eyes away from the mixture to stare at the thick mugs lined up along the counter. My stomach was churning in slight resemblance to the liquid as I considered how the night was unfolding, but I wasn't nervous. Not really.

There's something about me—something I don't really know how to explain, actually. If I have to do something nerve-racking, I avoid dwelling on the action at all costs, because it only seems to make the anxiety worse. The best way I know how to explain it is this: jumping into cold water is much easier for me than slowly wading in. I don't really know why, but for some reason I find it much easier just to go out and do whatever needs to be done, because my brain often makes things sound a lot worse than they really are. It's like it works against me, I swear it. I, however, with this method, have found a way to beat the system! It's true, sometimes it really doesn't work, but it certainly does work some others.

The only issue was, of course, that this might be one of the times that my method didn't work. I was trying to ignore that possibility, however, as I ladled the steaming chocolate into two large mugs. I intently concentrated my focus on adding a small amount of whipping cream and marshmallows to each instead, and before I knew it I was picking up the mugs and walking towards the door to the dining room. Rosmerta didn't look up as I passed her.

The orange glow of room was much the same as it had been a quarter of an hour ago. The elderly couple was apparently deep in conversation, for they didn't look up as I stepped into the room. Scruffy Beard Man and Old Fogy were equally engrossed in a game of wizard's chess, and neither paid me the slightest heed as my eyes passed over each of them. Finally, my eyes settled upon the table where Draco and I had sat. It was still vacant, of course, but my gaze slowly traced the path he had taken earlier, and I was rewarded with discovering the subject of my search.

He stood, statuesque, before one of the few large windows. His forearm was braced against the glass and he rested his forehead against it, hand balled into a fist. The thumb of the opposite hand was hooked loosely in one of the belt loops on his trousers, causing his hip to cock to the side ever so slightly. For a moment, I almost thought just seeing him would be enough to make everything alright, for during the moment following, a vague thought that sounded something like, 'Oh yeah, so that's why I try so hard…' ran across my mind.

After a few more moments of sightseeing, I realized that this lovely God-like monument wasn't getting any closer, and even though it was striking from a distance, its beauty would surely be no less than crippling at a closer proximity. At some point—I wasn't sure which, though I had a good guess—my feet had stopped moving.

Wow.

I remained still for another short instant, wondering pathetically if such a thing was normal. Losing your motor skills from the mere vision of Draco Malfoy, or anyone for that matter, was completely normal. Sure it was. Normal—like growing a third head normal, perhaps.

I'm no expert on the subject, but my immediate reaction was that it was about as close to normal as I was too sane, and I think we all know how farfetched that statement is.

I wasn't really surprised by this revelation; I was sadly growing quite accustomed to his strange effects on me. In fact, I was downright preparing for the moment my brain went kaput altogether. I started walking then, as a means of preventing this from occurring prematurely. Hey, might as well utilize the thing while it was still running, you know?

My whole body seemed to relax as I drew near him, his breath rhythmically fogging up the glass windowpane. Remember that analogy I gave you earlier about nerves and cold water? Well once I was directly behind him, I jumped headfirst, without thinking and devoid of preparation.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked, meeting the reflection of his eyes in the glass. "It almost looks like a snow globe." A snow globe? A snow globe? This was supposed to be a natural conversation, and I bring up a bloody snow globe?! Like I said, headfirst.

He laughed softly, causing a steamy circle to appear on the glass.

"Yeah, the snow globe from hell." Apparently his mood hadn't passed. My mouth found it fit to remedy that with more meaningless chatter.

"I used to think it was romantic. I'm trying not to let this one bad experience ruin my preconception." I was somewhat shocked such words had emerged without my conscious thoughts to guide them, and I begrudgingly admitted to myself that my subconscious wasn't always loud, outspoken and entirely idiotic.

Draco turned around to face me with heavy, weighted eyes. I had to restrain myself from physically reaching over to lift whatever burden he was carrying off of his shoulders. Not only would he realize I was borderline psychotic if I did this, but the process probably wouldn't be all in all too graceful with two mugs of cocoa in my hands. My subconscious mentioned that a chocolate-covered Draco wouldn't be entirely bad, but I silenced it by revoking my earlier compliment; the thing was completely useless after all.

"I hope you like marshmallows," I said, indicating the cups in each of my hands. The words caused a slightly devilish grin to spread across his face.

"Been cooking again, have you? I'll try it for your sake, only because dinner wasn't half bad." I returned his grin, a part of me now warmed by the fact that he was acting a bit more like his normal self. I made a mental note to thank Rosmerta again, perhaps a dozen times or so, for the icebreaker. Then maybe I'd send her some flowers.

"Well if you really don't fancy them, I suppose I'll just have to drink both for myself…" I shrugged, moving to turn around, stomach fluttering as his eyes flashed. Have I mentioned I love it when that happens?

Then, like lightning, a cool hand was wrapped around my wrist and grey eyes were holding mine in their iron grip. I felt my smirk slide off of my face.

"Don't be daft, Weasley. I couldn't possibly let you drink both. Think of what it would do to your figure." I meant to glare sinisterly at him for that one, but the twisted almost-smile and the feel of his fingers on my skin seemed to drain away any anger. His fingers—now that subject in itself could have occupied me for hours. The second they made contact with my wrist I knew I wanted to memorize the feeling. Unfortunately for me it was over before it started, and I barely had the chance to adjust to the sensation before it was gone completely. Not surprising in its entirety, is it? I managed to redirect my attentions as his fingers grasped the mug.

"Meh, I'd work it off eventually," I responded, relinquishing my hold on the hot beverage. I watched with acute fascination as he took a long sip. His eyelids drifted slightly closed, and the firelight caused a glowing halo to radiate off of his feathery hair. I laughed at that last one. If Draco was an angel, we lowly humans sure as hell wouldn't be receiving much mercy anytime soon.

"How's it ta-aste?" My words hitched as his tongue passed over now cream-covered lips. Oh bleeding wonderful, Ginny. You sound like you're going through puberty. I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Not bad. Though, it is rather hard to mess up hot chocolate, isn't it?" he baited, sending me an arrogant smile. I tried my best to stay conscious. Passing out because he licked his lips probably wouldn't look too natural, which is what I was going for.

"If you really meant what you said earlier about honesty, it'd be safe to assume that wasn't supposed to be an insult," I retorted. His lips twitched again.

"You're catching on. Points for that memory of yours, Ginny," Draco raised an eyebrow and tapped his temple with two fingers. I couldn't be sure, but it sounded to me like the bloke was implying that I wasn't the only one who had remembered things from earlier today. I distinctly recalled telling him that I preferred Ginny to my many other abundant nicknames, and from what I had seen of Draco's intellect, I doubted his use of it had been even remotely coincidental.

Still, my subconscious thought the possibility of me forgetting something about him was a hilarious concept. As if I could ever possibly do so even if I tried. See what I mean about my brain working against me? You know you're pathetic when part of your mind makes fun of itself. And just for the record, for those of you who don't think such a thing is possible, I've news for you: it is. If you stilldon't believe me, I encourage you to go out and find a bloke who does to you what this idiot manages to do to me, and then we'll talk. If nothing happens, it means one of two things.

You don't like men.

You were lucky enough to discover the secret to life, in which case you need not only speak to me, but to every other female entity on the planet.

"Seems you're a fast learner yourself," I said, watching as one hand stowed itself in the pocket of his trousers. He lifted and dropped one shoulder.

"Depends on the subject."

I choked on a marshmallow. There was no way he could have just said that. Now I was hearingthings too? I had to be—though I wished I hadn't imagined it. I didn't know which was worse, the fact that I was hearing things, or that fact that I wanted to hear things. Fan-bloody-tastic.

In a last act of desperation, I decided to double check.

"Sorry?" I asked, half expecting him to look at me like I was raving mad.

"It's really not that complicated of a concept, Weasley," Draco drawled impatiently. "I'm only a fast learner when it comes to things that aren't dreadfully boring, and in this day and age, such things are few and far between." He turned his gaze back to the white haze outside the window.

Something inside my chest lit on fire. It was a feeling I wasn't accustomed to, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant, though I wasn't sure how else to describe it. The only other thing I knew was that it was completely and utterly consuming.

I couldn't speak. Not a word. I was on fire.

Draco looked over at me after a few moments, and I….well, I wasn't doing much of anything at the time. I was a bit worried that he would take my silence the wrong way, but I still couldn't bring myself to say a single thing; the heat in my chest was too distracting.

I should have known, however, that with an ego the size of his coupled with the fact that he was quite an intelligent young man, he would be able to piece together why I was incapable of speech at the present time. One side of his mouth barely turned upwards, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. For once, his arrogance had actually seemed to serve a purpose!

"So you really think being trapped in hell is romantic, do you?" he asked, taking a drink out of his mug and moving to lean one shoulder against the window. His ankles crossed almost systematically. As if he wasn't attractive enough without the bloody posing. I was grateful to find that my voice had returned when I opened my mouth to respond.

"How can something that looks like that be hell?" I wondered, looking out at the shining mounds of snow. He chuckled once.

"You may be on to something, there. I was thinking this," he looked around the pub, "was a bit more evil-centered, anyhow."

"And I still don't know why," I muttered, before I could stop myself. He sighed heavily. When I turned to look at him, his eyes immediately grasped me, all seriousness.

"Weasley, let me ask you a question." It was more of a command than a plea.

"Alright." The look in his eyes told me he wouldn't have really cared if I'd said no.

"Would you rather be here drinking hot chocolate with my Slytherin arse, or at home, all nice and cozy in Gryffindor Tower?"

Gee, I don't know!

"Here," I answered evenly. His face turned incredulous, his tone sharp.

"What?"

"Here," I repeated. He shook his head in what I assumed was frustration.

"I heard you the first time, Ginny, I just am having trouble understand the bloody hell why." I shrugged.

"Okay, in all honesty I'm probably going to miss sleeping in my own bed tonight. But aside from that, not much else, save for maybe a shower. I look only a fair side better than hideous," I muttered, self-consciously running a hand through my hair at the memory of my reflection in the mirror earlier.

"I don't believe you, Weasley. What are you trying to prove?" That you're underestimated. That I think you're breathtaking. That you drive me crazy in more ways than I can count. That your character is misjudged. That people don't know you. That you can trust me. That I care.

"Nothing. Just being honest." Okay, 'nothing' works too.

The anger in his gaze seemed to vanish with my words but his countenance remained distrustful. He looked at me long and hard then, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. After what seemed like an eternity, he swallowed and looked away with narrowed eyes.

"Assuming you are, I still don't understand." I had never really expected him to say those words, and they caught me a little off guard.

"Don't understand what, Draco?" He turned to look at me again.

"Why." The question would have been downright humorous if not for the trepidation and doubt lurking in his eyes. I felt the same twisting in my gut I had experienced when he had talked to me about his father. I wanted to warp my arms around his waist and cry for him, but I knew better than to think he wanted such things.

"You're thinking about this far too much," I told him cautiously. He let out a breath of air, possibly a laugh, though it was not the joyful sort.

"I do that," he responded with the slight arch of an eyebrow. I smiled slightly, though I tried not to. The thought of Draco analyzing and fretting over something was sort of endearing.

"Is it really that hard to believe? It shouldn't be."

"Was that rhetorical?"

"No."

"Then frankly, yes, it is."

"Why?!" I exclaimed. He let out another exasperated sigh.

"Ginny, look at who you're talking to. People like you wouldn't be caught dead with the likes of—"

"Don't." I snapped, suddenly angry.

"Don't what?"

"Categorize me like that. For God's sake, I'm a person, not some mindless member of Slytherin Haters Anonymous."

"No, of course not!" Draco sneered, and I easily detected the bitterness in his sarcasm this time. "Just every other sodding member of your family is, that's all." I was silent for a moment, frozen by the icy cold of his mistrust. I swallowed the sharp needles of his suspicion and forced myself to speak.

"You know what my brother said this morning?" I expected no response, nor did I receive one save for a sideways glance. "He said that I think differently than the rest of them—that I can't judge people's characters, and that I'm too trusting, or some such nonsense. And you know, I actually agree with the idiot. I don't think the same way about things—people, trust, right and wrong," I took a shaky breath, "you." His head snapped around to mine. I squeezed the handle on my mug tighter, turning my knuckles as white as the snow just through the window. "And I'm—well, I'm glad I don't."

There was a pause, which was to be expected. I had taken a gamble—not something I normally do, seeing as I've shit for luck, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

"Then it's not hell for me either."

And then it all became clear—the outburst after dinner, why he had gotten upset about being here, the mistrust, the questions, hell, all of it. It all fit. My cocoa mug was gripped painfully tight in my hand, but I didn't even notice. Draco had thought that I wouldn't want to be close to him. He had thought I would be uncomfortable with the situation, and that had upset him. The boy had thought that I, Ginny Weasley, hopeless and completely irrational—all because of him I might add— would be in hell in his presence, thus putting him in hell. He had been in pain because he thought I would be. It was all so complex it was ridiculous, but it slammed together in my head with such speed it was nearly staggering.

I couldn't really form a coherent thought, but for once that was okay, because at that moment, I felt the raging fire in my chest take over completely. There was no going back. I was gone.

END CHP 13

Wow, so did that even make any coherent sense? I'm hoping so……leave me a review and let me know, will you?