I'm super, SUPER angry right now. This website is once again having problems. Not only would it not allow me to upload any documents into my manager, but I can't email the support admin to ask them to look into the problem. The only reason I figured out how to update this is because I read Heart's Cadence's AN at the beginning of her new chapter and found that she's having the same problem.
Does ANYONE know what's going on?! Please inform me if you do!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this—it was great fun to write!
THE APPLE OF MY EYE: CHP 14
I'm horrible at some things and I have absolutely no problem admitting it. And let me tell you, playing chess is right up there along with tolerating that atrocious monstrosity of a noise that Muggles call rap; such things should not have to be endured by the everyday witch. Ron, an avid chess player and occasional listener of rap, gave up on teaching me how to play when I was twelve or so when he realized that I used absolutely no strategy whatsoever when playing. To his frustration I still implement this rather ingenious method today, mostly because I don't care about the outcomes of the games, and partly because I find it funny to watch the expressions on my opponents' faces when I move the pieces about in a completely dysfunctional manner.
As you probably gathered from the above statement, I'm not much of an avid player. After all, you can only feign interest with your older brother so many times before you lose your ability to do so, and nobody likes playing with someone who couldn't care less.
Not to mention I was a bit distracted by the fact that I had just discovered that this opponent had some actual interest in me.
I tried explaining all of this to Draco—well, except for the distraction bit. It was completely useless attempting to lie to him anyway. But after we had finished our hot chocolate in relative silence, he had asked me if I wished to play a game with him. Like I said, I had tried to decline, but he had only smirked and told me that I was entirely unconvincing with whipping cream on my nose. After wiping at my face feverishly, I had acquiesced. He had a point, after all. My defenses had been a bit shaky from that point forward, which should be noted as it seemed to have a large impact on later occurrences.
And so, Draco and I were thus seated at our previous dining table with a worn wooden chess set—me with a flushed complexion, and him with an odd sort of smile on his face that I couldn't really place into any given emotional category.
"It's your move, you know," I reminded him. It had been that way for about five minutes now. His eyes continued to flick across the board, and his only response was an ambiguous grunt. I smiled to myself and tried to slow my heart rate; ever since the conclusion of our conversation by the window it had been erratic and frankly kind of frightening.
Things had been kind of cloudy upstairs ever since he revealed that he actually cared about me. True, it wasn't like he had admitted to a ridiculous obsession like the one I held for him, but his words kept floating through my mind.
"…such things are few and far between."
Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn't been expecting anything at all that made those words so valuable. Maybe it was because I now had an actual reason to believe that Draco reciprocated my feelings—to an extent, of course. My efforts weren't proving completely useless, like I had feared. Besides, Draco wasn't a particulary loquacious individual; he meant every word he said, and every word he said had a meaning.
On top of that, little snips of conversations from the past couple of hours kept swimming through my head, and they all supported one general theory: Rosmerta was God.
"Seems to me he was pretty concerned for you."
"I can tell you right now that the boy doesn't need to be analyzed."
"Ask a straight question. Stop trying to figure out what he's thinking on your own and let him tell you."
"There's a pot of hot chocolate warming on the stove. Perhaps Draco would like some."
You see? You see?! In any case, I was still somewhat shocked by just how right she had been. I was considering forming a cult or something in her honor.
Still, even though I had gotten some serious answers, I hadn't gotten all of them. Discovering whether or not he gave a rat's behind about me created new questions—ones that were buzzing in the back of my mind incessantly. Just how much did he care? Was it strictly platonic? Was there even the slightest bit of hope for me, or was I wasting my time completely?
At this point I knew that I couldn't force things with him, but I also knew that he respected me enough to at least give me some answers if I nudged him in the right direction. I glanced up at him then, taking a break from staring at the squares of the chessboard. My subconscious mentioned that the view improved considerably. I had to agree.
He was still absorbed in the game, and his eyes, slightly narrowed, moved about in an incredibly fascinating manner. I admired his concentration, especially when it produced such a glorious look on his face. It managed to slightly distract me from my thoughts for a time, which is noteworthy.
"You really needn't be thinking on it this much. I'm not much of a threatening player, believe you me."
"That's what you want me to think," he informed me without looking up.
"What are you on about?"
"I'm on to your mind game." His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
"You mean the one where I give you honest advice?" I asked, raising a sarcastic brow.
"Ah, but therein lies the dilemma; I'd wager there's motive behind that advice."
"If by motive you mean I'm trying to prevent you from wasting your time, you're absolutely right."
"Nonsense. You've a strategy, I'm sure of it. It's only a matter of figuring it out, is all." I laughed at this.
"Draco, I've been trying to tell you—that is precisely why I'm so horrid at chess. I use none. No motives, no strategy."
"Everyone has a motive, Ginny. Whether it subtle or conspicuous, serious or inconsequential, it's there." His tone of voice—a philanthropic and velvety drawl—made me suddenly feel like I knew nothing about anything, and what a glorious feeling that was, let me tell you.
"It's only chess," I responded, slightly disheartened by his suspicion.
"Life is a chessboard." I saw him smile, and my eyes narrowed as I realized he was simply trying to rile me up. The worst of it was he had succeeded.
"Splendid. I'm done for," I mumbled morosely. Draco chuckled. The fire in my chest—oh yes, it was still there, and from what I could tell it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon—cackled delightfully at the sound.
"Not very optimistic about this, are you? You put on a fairly convincing show, I'll give you that much." He reached out and slid a pawn ahead one space.
"It took you that long to move a bloody pawn?" Gray eyes stared back at me blankly. "Never mind…" I said, holding up my hands in surrender. I had no intention of pretending to know anything about strategy. I pushed one of my own pawns forward, simply because I hadn't moved anything on that side of the board in awhile. Draco's lips twisted into a grin.
"You know, if I didn't think that move was part of a strategy, I would call it almost endearing in its naiveté."
"I hate that word, but in this case I think it suits me." Draco's eyes dropped to the pieces once more.
"Hate it, do you? Why's that?"
"Let's just say that it's one of Ron's favorite strings to pull whenever I make a mistake. No, that's inaccurate. He pulls it all the time. Constantly. It fits in with what I told you earlier about that whole 'I think differently' bit."
"So that's why you became so furious with him in the Entrance Hall when he started bellowing like a deranged maniac," he responded, though he didn't sound entirely surprised. He glanced up from the board and looked into space thoughtfully. "What were his exact words? Something about you playing into my hands like some naïve, idiotic sap?"
"More or less," I muttered, letting my chin fall into my open palm. Reliving that less than flattering moment with Draco wasn't exactly the best way to raise spirits. One of his knights took the pawn I had just moved and I failed to care.
"Well I sincerely hope you don't believe the idiot," he stated, his upper lip curling slightly as if repulsed by the very concept.
I smiled a bit and shrugged. "Not usually," I answered slowly, thinking back to after dinner. I had almost thought Ron was right then, though I didn't plan on revealing that to Draco anytime soon. He slammed a hand onto the table causing me to jump.
"Not usually? Oh come on, Ginny, we both know that's absolutely mental. I mean it's not your fault your brother's irrational and completely daft!" He seemed to grow angry when I didn't respond, and sighed before evening his tone and rephrasing his words. "Evidently your brother just fails to notice that you're intelligent, quick-witted and observant. A naïve person wouldn't be able to look past their imposed preconceptions and give someone a chance— especially when they never did anything to deserve one. It takes a lot to be true to your self in such circumstances."
Despite the fact that the fire was burning savagely in my chest, I shuddered, partly because he refused to let my eyes stray from his—not like I wanted them to, mind you—and partly because I could tell he was sincere.
"I, uh—" I broke eye contact nervously, "I dunno." I angrily wondered what point my imaginative, subconscious musings served if they did nothing to prepare me for the real thing. Granted, it wasn't like I had actually thought anything like this would ever happen. In fact, I was fairly certain if I had been completely convinced that he had actually just said those words I would have fainted.
"It's your move, you know." He echoed my words from earlier, and I glanced up to see a slightly smug expression on his face. My hand hovered above a few pieces for a short while, and I noticed his eyes slide down to watch my movements. I pushed a rook forward, managing to capture a pawn. His face was impassive as I moved his piece off the board—not something I was used to in a chess opponent seeing as Ron had yet to master that particular aspect of the game.
"I suppose I don't really know for sure or anything," I started, "but it appears that you've had a fair amount of experience with the same sort of thing. I mean, from what you told me about your father, it seems like he puts a lot of pressure on you."
"He does," he answered flatly. The detached, unemotional tone made my stomach twist horrifically.
"How do you deal with it?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just have to wait for it to pass. I'm used to it, to be honest. It's how things have always been."
I swallowed, and forced myself to ask what next came to mind by remembering what Rosmerta had said in the kitchen about being straightforward.
"Does it….does it ever get really serious?"
"Serious?" He lifted his head seeking clarification, a puzzled expression on his face evident by a quirked brow.
"Yeah," I said quietly. I was taking a risk with the personal question, but at that moment my rationality was a bit distorted by the encouragement of his earlier comments. His eyes softened in understanding after a moment, and I released a breath I hadn't known I had been holding in relief when he didn't become offended.
"Occasionally."
I didn't fail to notice that his jaw had clenched.
I nodded slowly, unsure if I should ask the next question that had come to mind. His eyes flicked to the game board again, but his concentration appeared to be faltering; he didn't appear to be actually looking at the pieces. After a moment he sighed and looked away from the board, as if giving in to some internal struggle. He ran a hand through his platinum hair, and I found the motion downright hypnotic.
"My father is a very impatient man. He can only stand arguing with an uncooperative son for so long before he becomes—" There was a pause, and I noticed that he swallowed with some amount of difficulty before continuing. "—irritable."
"And when that happens?" I asked, unaware that my voice had lost a significant amount of its strength before I spoke.
"He either gives up temporarily, which is what I normally rely on, or he doesn't." His voice was strained and bordering on what I was tempted to label emotional. I felt an icy hand wrap around my chest as I watched him, constricting my ribcage achingly in its chilling grasp.
"What," I started, my ability to speak hardly functional, "what does that mean?"
"It—" He sighed again, and turned away in exasperation, running a hand over his face. His eyes flickered back to the chess board then. "It means I just captured your rook."
I vaguely saw him shuffle a few pieces on the board, but I didn't even consider looking away from him to watch more closely. The game now felt even more idiotic then ever, and I suddenly felt foolish for paying it even the slightest bit of attention in the first place when this boy was sitting in front of me.
Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and stilled his movements, grasping his hand in my own. I wasn't entirely shocked to find his muscles tense and slightly tremulous, though I wouldn't have known so if I hadn't actually touched him. I marveled at the amount of things he managed to keep hidden from the outside world.
Wide, shocked eyes snapped up to meet mine at the contact. That moment froze for me. The background blended into a curtain of white and I swear I could hear bells ringing somewhere. It was like one of my dreams had become a snow globe.
"I'd listen if you told me," I said. "I just want you to know that."
He remained unchanged, and I waited for awkwardness to seep into the moment and destroy it. It never came.
I reluctantly released his hand, and began to pull away when his large, slender one encased my own. I looked up to find his eyes now intense and hot, like liquid metal. It was all I could do from melting beneath them, and I sucked in an unsteady breath. A slow, easy grin worked its way onto his face and I felt my body go limp; quite suddenly the only thing I was aware of was his touch.
"You have unbelievably small hands. Did you know that?" He asked in a tone I had never heard before. Whether or not that was a good thing I'm not really sure, for although it was deep, smooth and nearly mesmerizing, I felt a thick cloud of what I could only guess was seduction impair my judgment and seize control of my actions with a force that was nearly staggering. I didn't respond to his question, for reasons that I should think exceedingly blatant. I felt his fingertips drag a lazy circle over the back of my hand and my nerves tingled furiously.
"It's odd, though—they have a firm grip for things so delicate." His fingers wrapped around to my palm and effortlessly maneuvered it in such a way so that it was nearly palm to palm with his own, as if he were comparing the two in size. His fingertips danced against mine and began to trace the length of my fingers to my palm. One of them slipped, lacing between my own, and I opened my mouth in an inaudible gasp.
"Your move, Weasley."
I blinked at his words, trying in vain to clear my clouded head. Trying to concentrate on chess under normal circumstances was hard enough, but when he was, well, doing that, my efforts were proving completely futile. For Merlin's sake, he might as well have told me to play a game of Quidditch while someone was sawing an arm off. It was more or less the same concept, minus the grotesque imagery.
I groped in a somewhat blind state for any piece—I didn't give a damn which at that point—and fumbled with what felt like a bishop. I pushed it forward what I guessed was a couple of inches, eager to be done with the task.
His grey eyes skimmed the board briefly before the devilish fingers continued down the entire length of my palm, sending freakishly erratic bolts of electricity through my arm. When they dipped below the cuff of my shirt sleeve to skim across the few inches of skin on the underside of my wrist, my nerves completely succumbed to the sensation and I began to tremble almost desperately. I saw the grin widen, and then his eyes flashed back to mine.
"Checkmate, love."
Funny that he should say that right then, isn't it? That, people, is called irony. Oh how appropriate those words were. It was scary, really scary.
His fingertips slid from my skin, leaving my flesh tingling, my mind dazed, and the fire in my chest blazing with life.
"Good match," he remarked, cocking an arrogant eyebrow. "You put up quite the fight for someone who claims to use no strategy."
I swallowed and nodded unevenly as a means of response, feeling exposed under his gaze. My breathing became labored and arduous at the thought of my embarrassing reaction to his touch, and I suddenly needed to be away from his smoldering stare, if only for a minute.
"I'll be just a moment," I mumbled, frantically pushing my chair back and ripping my eyes away from his. My whole body felt flushed, as if every living inch of me had been affected. I walked across the pub to the back hallway as fast as I could without looking absurd, and quickly stowed into the bathroom, bolting the door behind me. I turned my back against the wood and slid down the length of it to sit on the worn floor.
My mind was scattered in every direction possible; some of the things present were logical and some were completely incongruous. Most disturbing of all was that I found myself unable to distinguish between what was my logic talking and what was being suggested by anything else. This was a scary idea considering that normally it was quite simple to determine what thoughts my subconscious was responsible for and what ones it wasn't. Right now, however, it was all one jumbled, disgusting mess of emotions. Still, over all of this chaos, two thoughts kept presenting themselves over the rest.
The first was that I had apparently been using my sense of touch completely incorrectly my entire life, because God knows I had never felt anything like his hands on my skin. It was either that or there was something about his touch specifically that made my nerves go positively barmy. It took a very small fraction of my IQ points to deduce that the latter was far more likely than the prior.
The second was trying to convince myself that he had touched me at all, because if he had, it meant he had done so completely deliberately and completely with reason. I possessed enough foolish romanticism to recognize that the touch had been far more than casual, and needless to say, that thought had me scared silly.
The problem was, of course, that I had never really expected anything to come of any of this. I had thought about it. Hell, it bloody dominated my mind.
All of that fantasizing did nothing in the long run, though, because right now I was scared. I was petrified because unless I was very much mistaken, Draco Malfoy had just tried to seduce me.
For Christ's sake, I could barely think about that without feeling flushed; I could scarcely imagine what a horrible sight I had made when actually living it.
I held my hand up in front of my face and flexed my fingers. He had tried and he had succeeded, damnit, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he knew just that. His words had been far too coincidental, his eyes too wicked with mischief.
"Checkmate, love."
I groaned, letting my face fall to rest on my knees. I had lost much more than the chess match, and we both knew it.
I wasn't sure how long I sat there, a part of me seemingly terrified, but after several minutes or several years, a revelation slowly worked its way into my thought process. It worked like a drug, relaxing my muscles and slowing my heart rate until the fear no longer boiled through my veins.
I had simply asked myself why I was afraid. When I was unable to come up with a response for the question, I realized that the fear was pretty much unjustifiable. As such, it would be utterly illogical to act afraid if I had no reason to be. I nodded resolutely to myself. So that was that.
All that needed to be done was to ensure that I remembered that for the next time.
The next time? Listen to me—if that's not wishful thinking I don't know what is.
I pulled myself to my feet, trying to pretend that such thoughts had not just flitted through my mind. I ambled to the sink and turned the water to an icy temperature, allowing it to run over my hands and wrists. I splashed my face with the cool liquid, grateful for the sanctuary the small bathroom provided. Considerably more refreshed, I left the room feeling like a weighty burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
As I was preparing to round the corner to the pub, something caught my eye and I stopped short.
Draco was, quite unmistakably, bent over the chessboard intently attempting to arrange the pieces to perfection. Now ladies, correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not incredibly unusual for a male to be overtly organized? Speaking as one who grew up with seven of them, it has been my experience that they are generally the exact opposite, with the exception of the rare few—Percy, anyone?— who are so obsessively neat it's maddening.
Seeing Draco take the liberty to do such a thing was humorous, in an endearing sort of way. I would have never expected to see him exhibit such behavior. I leaned against the door jam, crossing my arms as I considered what an utterly unique sod he was.
"How'd you fair in the match?" a feminine voice queried behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Rosmerta standing nearby.
"I lost, though I wasn't expecting any different."
There was a brief pause, and then she asked in a slightly amused voice, "You've sure picked a handful, haven't you?"
I watched as Draco, having finished with the pieces, brushed invisible lint off of his shirt before turning he steely gaze upon the fire. "I'm afraid so," I responded, unable to refrain from smiling for some idiotic reason.
"Of course, I could be saying the same to him right now."
I quickly shifted my attention to her, but she simply continued to gaze out at Draco thoughtfully. My stomach twisted at the implication of her words.
"You think?" I asked.
She turned to look at me then, one eyebrow raised incredulously. That was answer enough for me. To be honest, I don't know why I had doubted her comment to begin with—I surely had no reason to.
"Okay then," I said.
She smiled slightly, seemingly pleased. "It's getting fairly late, and the two of you have had a long day. I've a shower in my quarters if you fancy taking one."
Under normal circumstances I would have blatantly refused, but given the current state of things, the prospect sounded incredibly enticing. Many of my muscles still ached and my hair felt like a bloody bird's nest. Not to mention I probably smelled a bit peculiar.
"Really? You wouldn't mind?" I asked hopefully.
"Not in the slightest. In fact, I'd be a bit upset if you didn't take one. Call the other over here, will you?"
I turned to look at Draco, whose eyes were still fixed on the blaze. "Pssst! Draco!" I called in more of a harsh whisper than a shout. Though it wasn't excessively loud, I had spent a good deal of time perfecting the tone of voice so that everyone still managed to hear it—a skill I had inherited from my mother, no doubt. His eyes snapped up at the sound and quickly sought out mine. I beckoned him over wildly, and he raised a questioning eyebrow before grinning and shaking his head in amusement at my antics. He stood, pausing to push in his chair with one hand, before pocketing both of them and sauntering over. I watched every step with unmatchable fascination.
"Feeling alright?" Rosmerta asked him as he approached.
"Quite, thank you," he answered, nodding curtly. He turned to me and whispered under his breath, "I suppose it's fruitless to hope that you'll learn how to be a bit more discreet."
"Useless at best," I responded in the same hushed tone. He smiled and turned his attention to Rosmerta, whom had conveniently decided to say something to the rest of the small group in the pub during said comment. She quickly redirected her attention once again, however, and I mentally added another item to the growing list of God-like feats she had demonstrated.
"I was just telling Ginny that the two of you are welcome to take a shower if you like."
"Really? Well I certainly hope you're taking her up on that offer," he mused, nudging me slightly with his elbow.
I glared at him as best I could, but I doubted it was very effective, because I could feel myself smiling against my will.
"Don't be a prat. Do you fancy a shower or not?" I demanded, running a hand over the spot where he had jabbed me.
He smiled again. "If neither of you protest."
Protest? Protest?! I couldn't for the life of me come up with a single reason why I would ever possibly protest to being in the presence of a freshly showered Draco Malfoy. The very idea was utterly unfathomable.
I pressed my lips together tightly and tried to feign an innocent expression. "Not at all," I managed.
Rosmerta coughed lightly. I would have glared at her, but it would've blown my cover entirely.
"So who's first, then?" she asked. I turned to Draco seeking an answer.
"After you," he offered, inclining his head in Rosmerta's direction.
"Fine," I stated simply.
"Then we're off," Rosmerta announced, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and turning to usher me down the hallway. "Mr. Malfoy, I'll come get you when she's through."
"Much obliged," I heard him answer.
I turned to look at him once more before we rounded the corner; his hands were still deep in his pockets, his shirt sleeves still rolled up to his elbows and his hair mussed from hours of the inattention. His all-too-natural smirk was still hanging lazily on his lips, and he winked at me before turning back to the pub.
Rosmerta barely managed to prevent me from walking into a wall.
END OF CHP 14
Thanks for reading!
And oh! The very wonderful l'istesso was so kind as to draw some very fun illustrations from the story! If any of you are interested, here are the links! Thanks so much, l'istesso! You rock!
Links: (h t t p ://i81 (dot) p h o t o b u c k e t (dot) c o m / a l b u m s / j 2 1 6 / p a d f o o t j r / a o m e 2 (dot) jpg)
(h t t p / i 8 1 (dot) p h o t o b u c k e t (dot) c o m / a l b u m s / j 2 1 6 / p a d f o o t j r / a o m e c h a p 1 4 (dot) jpg)
a thank you, I'd appreciate it if any of you took a look at one of her fics, which can be found on under the penname 'l'istesso'. It's called The Many Misadventures of the Young Marauders. Check it out!