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.
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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.