Words - 991

Rating - T

Warnings - None

Prompt - "I don't know how he says so much with just his eyebrow." This is five months late and doesn't actually contain that line, but it builds from the idea, so... yeah.

#15 – EXPRESSIVE

He's always had that talent of speaking without words. Ever since she could remember, he had told her more in the subtle shifts of his body language than with any of the actual words he spoke. All intentional, of course, all aimed for her and everyone else to pick up on, subconsciously at least; all planned down to the last word, the last twitch of a muscle.

He saw her and her family walking down the street. His eyes raked up and down, pausing at her head and her cheeks, narrowing slightly before they glanced away.

Pitiful. Pathetic. Poor. Weasleys.

They were in a hallway and her (suddenly horrible, now that it was read aloud and Harry's face was so white) Valentine's poem was still lingering in the air. The corner of his lip quirked up, and his posture shifted forward slightly as he took a deep breath and leaned forward to yell something taunting.

I see right through you, and it's pathetic. How typical for a Weasley.

She saw him in a doorway. He was leaning against the doorjamb, legs extended, hands in his pockets, conversing casually with some friends, relaxed and paying no attention to the group of people waiting for him to get out of their way.

You think I care? You're so beneath me, I don't even notice you. And you know it, all of you do. That's why you let me get away with it.

He was playing Quidditch. His hands gripped against the broom handle, knuckles white, shoulders tense, and he sped faster and faster and faster after Harry Potter and the Snitch.

You think you can beat me? You think you can humiliate me, Golden Boy? I'll show you. I'll shove you into the dirt and laugh; just you wait.

She bumped into him in a crowd of students. Taller than her, his eyes swept right over her head and moved on; but his jaw twitched slightly and his shoulder hit her hard enough to spin her around as pressed forward.

You're not worth my notice, Weasley. But don't you dare get in my way. Don't you dare touch me. Don't you dare.

She confronted him angrily, shouting in his face. He just watched her, shoulders relaxed, and looked almost bored – but for the fact that his hand in his pocket was clenched in a fist, and his eyes were hard.

Shut up, Weasley. Just shut up. I don't want to hear anything you have to say – I can't hear it. Just shut up.

It's happened countless times. Maybe it's not even that he's so expressive, but that she is just good at reading him; knows by now how to pick up on what he's putting out for anyone who wants to listen. It can be difficult at times, to figure it out. It's not so obvious, and every little thing is open to interpretation – but even so, she thinks she usually gets it right. Though it depends on the situation, every new little shift or twitch or glance means something specific. And often, no matter how his body language seems to speak directly to her, Ginny realizes he doesn't even know he's doing it, because how can he? How could anyone?

Maybe that's why she is so surprised when, after associating with him more, an entirely new move appears. It's purely reactive to her statements, as well, but it somehow manages to say just as much if not more than everything else she's been observing all this time. Worse, it's completely intentional – even more calculated than before.

She'll say something, up that one eyebrow will go (perhaps accompanied by his eyes flicking over something pointedly), and he'll respond eloquently without ever opening his mouth.

"Leave Neville alone."

Who do you think you are? Do you think I even care?

"You're going on a date with me."

Lovely. An insane Weasley; just what I need. Oh, and by the way: no.

"No. You can't leave until you kiss me goodnight."

Insane. Completely insane. But entertaining enough, I suppose.

"Leave Harry alone, Draco. Same to you, Harry – leave him alone, I've told you enough times."

Shouldn't you be siding with Scarboy? When did you pick me over him?

"Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

I don't think I understand you just yet. …And yes, something is very wrong.

"Tell me about it."

No. I can't. I never will, and we both know it. So why bother asking, you silly girl?

Maybe it's that – that skill she has spent so long building up. But eventually, it comes to seem to Ginny at least that all of their significant communications are made in this form. She will speak, Draco's eyebrow(s) will shift – and that will be all. What he says out loud is rarely as relevant or as true, and Ginny truly does have to admire his delicate control over the language of the forehead. Never before has she met someone so skilled in the art; never again does she think she will.

But everyone has a limit. And one day, Ginny is proud to find it – to break his control, to be the only one to render Draco Malfoy incapable of speech from both his vocal cords and his occipitofrontalis.

"I love you," she says.

His right eyebrow twitches slightly. His face remains blank. His body freezes; even his breath stops halfway through an intake, so it sounds like a tiny gasp.

And even though Draco isn't speaking, isn't consciously relaying any information at all, Ginny understands his answer:

You do?

His eyes widen, focused on her own. His breath slowly slides out of him. All this in an instant, and then he is smirking arrogantly again, talking about something, but Ginny has been watching for a long time and she is practiced; she saw it, every last little word written in those few seconds:

I love you too.