disclaimer: You know, JKR says this is mine. She wants the credit given to me. But I suppose her lawyers may not hold the same opinion. Eh.
a/n: Ginjam's PoV. She looks back. Plot bunny bit me. Swear, rabbits bite hard. I hope it didn't have rabies. Either way, please review.
It's just a phase. That's what most had concluded. Let them have their fun, what harm can it do, they're young, It's just a phase.
They guessed that we were thinking along the same lines, I suppose. I suppose, now as I look back, that they guessed that they were inarguably correct.
What else would it be?
I remember picking my most assuredly Muggle diary up off my end-table, only wondering faintly why it wasn't in its usual drawer.
I suppose, now as I look back - I should have known just then.
But I'd slipped it into my bookbag, which was slung haphazardly over my shoulder. I'd gone to every one of my classes and had sat with it all through lunch. I never took it out; not until evening came, after dinner, when he had cast me a glance.
I'd never seen him look nervous. He was no Gryffindor, most assuredly, but he looked as though he were about to be sick all over the Slytherin table.
So I had sent him a faint smile and continued on to the dormitories.
It was his seventh year. I was only in my 6th. Looking back now, I suppose, we were entirely too young.
But I'd opened the book, its crisp, smooth pages fluttering gently beneath my fingertips, and skipped onward to the latest entry.
It was not my handwriting, it was masculine, it was in a dark green ink, and I dropped the book.
I remember, looking back, the rush of absolute fear flowing through me, as I had crawled away from the edge of the bed, clutching at my pillows. My lungs constricted, it became hard to breathe, and I stared at the innocent book in terror.
I don't remember why I decided to inspect it further. Looking back, I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't.
But I did.
Will you marry me?
- DM
I remember the rush of terror which had flowed through me again. It was perhaps worse this time. Was it a joke, a horrible prank he was pulling? I half expected the letters to shift and fade into an insult, or perhaps, he was being specifically ironic and would break up with me.
I remember Hermione coming in and looking at me worriedly. I suppose, looking back now, it made sense that she was concerned to see me looking ill over a diary.
What's the matter? she had inquired.
What was the matter? What was the matter with him?
She'd ripped the book from my frozen clutches, and after reading it, dropped it to the floor as though it had burned her.
Ginny, her mouth formed the words. What is this?
I don't remember what I told her. Maybe it had been the wrong thing to say.
She erupted.
Did you honestly think this was a good idea? Do you know him? Who the hell knows Draco Malfoy anyways? Is he toying with you? What will your family say? What will his family say? You're just so young!
Oh, it's just a phase, I'd said, looking straight at her, my eyes pinning hers down. She'd opened her mouth to protest, and then clamped it shut.
I picked the book up again.
Looking back, I suppose this was the action that had truly frightened her.
I scanned the page, and spotted something I had not noticed the first time. A thrill skipped down my spine, light tickles fluttering against each disc. My finger moved to the seal of wax. The circle, encrusted with an elaborate M, was the Malfoy seal. My fingernail tugged at a corner, and the wax broke back, and there was the glimmer of metal.
Now, fervently, I pulled away the wax and there was a ring. I removed it gingerly and held it up to the light. It was thin, elegant, no jewel.
Hermione was holding a hand to her heaving chest, as though she were about to have a heart attack.
How could this be?
Well, I'd reasoned for her, we're young. What harm could it do?
She said nothing, but turned and left. I watched her go, I watched her lips moving silently, as she clasped a hand to her forehead and left, trying to reason.
It would never fully sink in, I think.
I'd left the book on my bed, and slipped the ring on my finger, to wonder what it would feel like. A little pang erupted in the corner of my heart, as the metal adjusted to the size of my ring finger, and I sighed.
Looking back, I suppose I was crazy. Looking at myself now, I suppose I still am.
After all, we were so young. So wild, so desperate. Times were so urgently serious, this had been frivolous, what was he thinking and why had I agreed?
I remember wondering it aloud later that night, as he drew me a picture of the house he was going to pay to have built, and he had wondered aloud how many rooms we would need.
Looking back now, I suppose, I should have realized he had ignored it. I should have realized, then, that this was ludicrous.
I remember peeling back his left sleeve, tracing the Dark Mark with the same finger I had peeled the wax back for my ring. His face remained hard - as it always was, he was born looking hard, I suspect - and I had remained silent.
Now, I look across at our child, and wonder why some tell their children that they are merely going through phases.
I suppose in the end, that's what drove us to such great rebellion, the absolute thrill of smashing their complacency. It's the chill that ran through us when their faces contorted in confusion and anger, the dark looks and whispers of betrayal. The strain in voices as we were disowned, rejected, scorned.
It was exciting. It was wild.
I suppose, looking back, it was probably love.
But we were young - we didn't know what that meant.
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