Happy by VanillaPuF

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 26/07/2004
Last Updated: 26/07/2004
Status: Completed

The COMPANION PIECE to Phase. Read that first. Draco considers he and Ginny's marriage.




1. Happy
--------

**A/N:** This is the sequel/companion piece to
Phase
. It's the best route to *read that first*. Ahem. Now, as for the story. I didn't
plan on writing any sort of additional piece for this universe. I wanted to preserve the sort of
mystery to Draco and Ginny's relationship. But **NGI** asked a very important question. So
I'm going to answer it. Well, Draco is. I wanted to prove that they *are* happy. But not
in the conventional fluffy cotton way. They're different.

**Review!**
**. . .**
They ask us if we're happy.

Can you believe it? They ask *us* if *we're* happy.

*We're just wondering,* they ask, shuffling their feet, *we're just
concerned*.

God forbid someone not have some sort of sick candy cane lifestyle, like theirs. *Everyone
deserves happiness*, they say, as serious as their faces can twist. *And if you're not,
it's only fair to break it off*.

But we have a child and everything. Doesn't procreation count for anything anymore?

All aside, we are.

Happy.

Obviously, we have our problems. And obviously, life could have been different.

It's only natural.

And naturally, sometimes she wonders, what it would be like if it had been different. Naturally,
she doubts. Naturally, she questions.

But it's natural to do that. Even I know that, and if anyone's had problems with
doubting one's self, it's me.

That's what worried them, I suppose. I'm a horrible, evil monster. Absolutely the most
cruel person any of them had ever met. Nevermind that they had met my father and Voldemort himself.
They all pale in comparison, you know.

I don't regret anything I've ever done. I've been a wretched human being, I suppose,
if you evaluate human worth by good deeds and how we treat others. But it's all comparable in
my eyes. I've been consistently horrible my whole life. They've always been wishy washy.
*Don't say things like that*, they'd admonish, and then turn and call my mother names.
They'd get away with murder, as long as afterwards they explained that it was just a moment of
weakness. All that *stuff* they'd been through finally taking a psychological toll, I
expect.

But if *I* were to murder a man and claim to have been in a perfectly right order of mind,
I would be a monster. I suppose I already am a monster in their eyes, so I guess it'd make me
some kind of Dark Lord. That sounds rather appealing, actually.

But you see, it's still murder, either way. At least I am an honest man. I know my sins, I
cannot name them all, but I know I've been bad. But I can live with it. They squirm, they feel
guilty.

But they don't feel guilty for questioning us daily, for giving us horribly confused frowns
at reunions, for wondering *how does that work?* It's really rude of them, of course. They
ought to keep their noses out of our business.

Because we work out just fine.

The element which holds us together is inexplicable. On the outside, we seem faulty.

No, I take that back. Even inside, we *are* faulty.

But there is a force - similar to that which holds the universe together, and similar to the one
that magic reveals itself in - that keeps us working.

And that's what matters, in the end. If it works.

So many witches and wizards are so caught up in dreams of fairy tale romance or fiery hot
excitement that they lose sight of the future durability. Will it last? Can it work? Is it
substantial, dependable?

I suppose ours isn't any of that, conventionally. But what everyone forgets in their flurry
of passion and the world's obsession with lovers, is that things can almost always work. Even
in the face of that which seems impossible. For example, suppose there was a substance that had to
be used by the entire world, by every single living creature. It had to be used every second of
every day for all of eternity. It had to be clean, it had to be everywhere, and there had to be
lots of it. Human thinking leads to impossible ends. But air exists. Furthermore, when one exhales,
one exhales unbreathable substances. But plants can *only* breathe that, and when *they*
exhale, they exhale the air that *we* need.

Impossible?

No, improbable. Who on earth could have ever thought of such a thing?

Well, most assuredly, no on earth *did*. It was already here, working, flowing, when
everyone of us was born.

And that's what makes Ginevra and I work. It's air. On the surface, there are problems.
Everything I exude I cannot take in again, and everything she exhales is useless to her. But our
second-hand air is used by the other, alternately, and we breathe together.

At first, a Malfoy sharing air with a Weasley would be considered ludicrous.

But it works.

And because of that, we're happy.

Of course we didn't know what love was when we were young.

But what we had so shoddily thrown together worked. And out of that which is functional, one
learns. One works. One breathes. And when one can breathe, one can love. And if that's not
happiness, I don't know what the bloody hell is.
**. . .**
I beg for a review.



