Declaring you weren't going to sleep with someone was all well and good, Ginny thought, if you weren't entirely at his mercy.
But the fact of the matter was, she was at his mercy.
"Is this room good enough for you?" Draco asked, sweeping his arm in a wide arc to display the gratuitously resplendent room to which he'd led her. He hadn't looked back at her once, instead choosing to stalk heel-toe down the hall in his polished black boots, his head down and his hands thrust in his pockets.
She didn't feel it was an appropriate time to note how much he resembled Snape.
Now, she looked around at the bedroom and uttered a meek, "Yes," feeling seven kinds of a heel. She should have insisted on sleeping on the divan instead of putting herself in his debt. But no, she hadn't thought of that, she'd simply followed him like some sort of subservient twit.
He pushed past her, careful not to touch her as he did so, knowing if he did he'd likely just go mad, but he couldn't turn and walk down the hallway.
She was staring at him.
"What?" he asked, throwing his hands in the air. "And if you're recanting your refusal to sleep with me, don't bother."
It was as though he'd turned into a petulant thirteen-year-old. He couldn't seem to help himself.
She mumbled something under her breath, looking none too mature herself, scooting her foot along the carpet, her head ducked down, the thick curtain of her hair stirring slightly as she toed off her shoe and buried her toes into the deep pile.
"Speak up, Weasley, you've never had any trouble with it beforehand." He hated that she was appealing like this, just as appealing as she was when she was sniping at him, and worlds more appealing than she had been at the gala, when she'd been coming onto him obviously and intentionally.
Her natural self just worked better.
And for the moment, he wasn't even going to touch the thought of being attracted to the Weaslette as she truly was.
"I said I need something to wear for pyjamas," Ginny said, looking up at him and shoving her hair back from her face. "I'd transfigure what I'm wearing, but they're Muggle-bought-"
He snorted, unsurprised.
"-and they don't transfigure for shite," she said loudly, over any comments he might feel inspired to make.
"Help yourself to whatever's in the closet," he said, feeling his stomach twist as he said it. "Bathroom's there to the left of the bed. I'll be down the hall a few rooms down-" If you need anything. If you change your mind. "So if you decide to sneak out, do it quietly so you don't wake me."
There. That felt much better.
But her mind was already racing ahead to the closet, and Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine," she said tersely, imagining the closet full of robes and gowns and naughty nighties from his past ingénues and 'overnight guests.' He was probably stocked to the gills with things in which to dress his tarts, and why that made her angry, she simply couldn't say.
She stalked over to the closet and jerked it open, not giving two damns if he was still standing there or not.
Ginny was left standing dumbfounded, her mouth hanging slightly agape, and she dimly registered he couldn't be standing there any longer, because if he had been, he'd certainly have something to say about the daft expression on her face.
The closet was filled from left to right with men's robes, from casual to business to dress, alternated with crisp white shirts and perfectly pressed slacks.
No nighties.
Taking out a hanger holding a white shirt, Ginny turned and surveyed the room one more time. It was a large room, the bed in the middle a large, ebony four-poster. The duvet was a deep green with a gold pattern running through it, matching the drapes and carpet. It looked like a guest room, as immaculate as it was, but why on earth would he have his robes in the guest room?
Because he's a spoiled brat. Probably every closet in this house is filled with his things. Ginny sighed, knowing how far off the mark that assessment likely was.
It didn't matter. It was his house. He could fill it with neckties is he chose to, and she had no say in the matter.
She ran one hand down the length of the closet, left to right, enjoying the feel of the material under her fingers, but enjoying more the smell of him, faint but there, that rose up to her nostrils.
Robe, shirt, slacks, robe, shirt, slacks. She got to the end of the closet after what seemed like ages-it wasn't enchanted, only a very large closet-and expected to brush her fingertips over a pair of flawlessly folded slacks.
Instead, what she encountered was another shirt, softer than the starched ones she'd laid hands to; her curiosity got the better of her and she tugged it free.
A dove-grey shirt with a dull red stain on the sleeve.
She looks into his eyes before she tilts the glass, feeling frantic and trapped-
Unconsciously, her stroking fingers turned to a fist, balling the material up in her hand. He'd kept it and not cleaned it. She could think of no reason why, but she could think of no reason why they persisted in this strange little dance with one another. Dinners with one another as though they were peers, equals, as though they'd not stood on uneven, rocky ground since even before their births. Ground stained with the hatred of years, made even bloodier by the enmity they'd willingly carried throughout their school years, hexes and insults, hurtful words and harmful intentions.
For the first time since the whole absurd thing had started, Ginny wondered what those years had been like for him.
"First impressions are important. But no one is as they seem on a first impression, you know?"
Ginny heard Pansy's words in her head and heaved a sigh. Which impression was she supposed to remember, then? The boy who had taunted her, the man who had taken her on her own kitchen table, or the man who had struggled his way through cooking her dinner, only to put it all down and lay his lips to her hands?
Before she fully registered what she was doing or why, she had shed her jumper and shrugged into his shirt, closing her eyes as the material slid close to her skin, clung to her curves. Her long skirt followed, no longer necessary as the shirt came mid-thigh on her, and she climbed into the big bed, feeling small in more ways than one.
"Thank you," she whispered to no one in particular, and she closed her eyes.
~~~
She's feeling ecstatic-there's simply no other word for it. She's told everyone she knows about the engagement, else she'd be Flooing or owling to someone else, shouting it off the rooftops.
She's going to marry Harry Potter.
It isn't as though it's a surprise-they've been together for over a year, living together (unofficially, of course) for most of that time. But there are so many things to be done, she can hardly wrap her head around them. There are things to decide, place, colors, theme, date. There are clothes to consider, and food and flowers…
There are invitations to think of, relations she hasn't seen in forever. She'll have to treat that sensitively, she knows, for Harry's family-
Well, Harry's family will be there, she thinks firmly. Hagrid and Remus and Dumbledore, McGonagall and Tonks and Kingsley.
She needs to write these down before the time comes, because she doesn't want him to feel as though he has no one.
He is Harry Potter, she thinks, setting quill to paper. There are so many people who love him, she thinks his invitation list shall end up being longer than hers.
She hears the door slam and she slams the small leatherbound journal at the same time, not wanting him to see that she's planning for him, knowing the thought of family inevitably touches his heart, makes him sad.
"Hello, love," he greets her, unwinding the scarf from around his neck and bending down to kiss her. "What's that, then?"
Ginny scoots the book closer to her and smiles up at him. But he's not smiling back.
"Just a journal, Harry." She sees the concern flicker over his features, sees his brow furrow just where his scar is, and she feels her breath leave her.
Just a journal.
A diary, if you will.
"Oh, Harry," she sighs, and she wants to laugh but can't find it in her. That particular corner of laughter, she thinks, has been stolen long ago, by another young man with dark hair and intense eyes, with a destiny bigger than his adolescent body could hold.
She reaches out a hand to him with the fear he won't take it, but he does, laying his cheek to it. "You must think I'm stupid," he says quietly, and she stays silent.
You must think I'm evil, she thinks, and she closes her eyes.
First impressions.
~~~
He slept poorly.
There were any number of reasons for that, but he thought he'd just settle squarely on the fact that she was sleeping under his roof. That was reason enough to sleep poorly. A Weasley sleeping in Malfoy Manor. Perhaps there was some sort of curse against him. Any Malfoy who let a Mudblood-loving redheaded fool sleep under his roof was cursed to a sleepless night.
Blast her, she'd been responsible for quite a few of his restless nights, and it had only been… what? A week? Week and a half?
He refused to pluck his watch up off the bedside table, knowing it would be the hundredth time he'd done so. Refusal or no, however, his hand was midway to the silver watch when he heard a noise. He froze, not out of fear, but to better listen.
A few moments, a gasp, and a noise again. A sob.
A sob?
Imagination, he told himself, the timepiece forgotten in his vigil. A whimper added to the gasp, and another sob.
She was crying.
He was out of bed before he even knew why, trying to determine what would be making her cry. Was she having a nightmare? Did she want to go home? Had someone hurt her?
Never mind there was no one in the house but the two of them.
He let himself into the bedroom without knocking, feeling a foreign sort of bloodrush any Gryffindor could have identified as chivalry. A glance at the bed told him she wasn't there and his face went hot with panic.
Calm down, he derided himself. Check the loo.
He leaned against the door with a bit more force than was necessary, seeing as how she hadn't locked it, and he stumbled on the slick marble tile when the door flew inward.
For a moment, he couldn't find her-Why is this bathroom so fucking big? he asked himself for the first time in his entire life-and then he spotted her, sitting between the claw-foot tub and the basin, her bare legs folded up, her knees to her chest. Had he been the least bit inclined to, he could have seen her knickers, but the thought never occurred to him.
She had him pinned with those eyes of hers, huge and dark and still streaming tears. Her hair was a tangled mess about her face and the arms of the shirt-his shirt-were wet with tears.
"Get out," she said finally, turning her face away from him. To be found like this by anyone was humiliating enough, but to be found like this by him… well, it just topped off the entire experience.
"No. 'S my house," he said sullenly, feeling somehow threatened by her tears. What was he supposed to do? His options, he thought, were fairly limited.
Ginny looked up at him, tears momentarily stopped, eyes wide. Harry had never, not once, disobeyed her when he'd found her like this.
He'd always turned and walked out and soothed her later, after the fact. He had held her and told her everything was fine when he hadn't a clue what the actual problem was.
"What's the matter, then?" Draco asked impatiently. He crossed his arms, then decided that looked too rude, so he put his hands on his hips. Too effeminate. Clasping hands behind the back? Coy. Shoving his hands through his hair? He gave that one a try. It felt damned good, so he did it again.
She couldn't believe the gall of him. The sheer and utter gall to burst into the bedroom he'd given over for the night, and to come into the loo like a madman and confront her when she was barely dressed.
Which of them was madder, she wondered? Him with his hair standing on end or her with her tears for someone she had left of her own volition?
"Nothing I think you could begin to comprehend," she finally said, trying to get off the floor with a little bit of grace. She hadn't been able to help it, hadn't been able to stop the tears. It was the first time she'd dreamed about it, and suitably, she'd dreamed about the first time it had happened, the first time she'd seen the chasm that lay between her and Harry.
There had been times after, of course, when people would ask questions about how he defeated Voldemort, or when Harry, Ron, and Hermione would talk about those years past, about the things they had done, the ways they'd narrowly saved the day.
"You're sitting half-starkers on my bathroom floor," Draco said, figuring now it was appropriate to cross his arms at her. "I'll perform intellectual acrobatics, if I must, to try and comprehend why this is the case."
It was his tone, haughty and superior, condescending, that had her pushing herself off the floor and launching herself at him.
She pushed him, making him uncross his arms and stumble back a bit before righting himself. When he did so, she ducked her head and pushed him again, her hair whipping around her, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt-he saw now all too well what shirt she'd chosen, and he damned himself for keeping it-falling down and flapping down over her fists in swinging swathes of cloth.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be with someone who is better than you in every conceivable way? Someone who looks faultless next to you? Someone with whom you will never be an equal, to whom you will always be suspect?" She punctuated her tirade by pushing at him, though her force had greatly decreased and she was doing little more than pounding her cloth-covered fists on his chest.
He kept his arms at his sides simply because he wanted to touch her. His hands itched to catch her fists, to stop her tirade for her own sake. He looked at her in his bedroom, in his bathroom, in his shirt, and he thought about the rhetorical questions she'd just asked him.
"Yes," he said softly as she hung her head and left her hands resting in tiny fists on his chest. "I
have some of idea of what that must be like."