Paper Roses

Johnson Normal Johnson 2 67 2003-06-17T17:19:00Z 2003-06-17T17:19:00Z 1 1933 8138 - 173 41 10030 10.2625 Clean Clean MicrosoftInternetExplorer4

Paper Roses

Fragile and unyielding the paper rose crumpled in his hand as his fingers consumed it in an angry clench. Softly it crackled as its life was suffocated by a fist full of white flesh. The delicate petals that had been constructed by a careful hand were screwed up into one tight ball of lost creativity. It may never have had a life but this destruction of it was almost like murder.

To add salt to the wound, the fist released its victim which slowly drifted down to the floor. There it lay forgiving yet changed by the assault upon its beauty. It seemed to smile up at the person, mocking him with its love for him. Quickly a foot was brought down on top of it. It went down again and again. Each stamp tore the tissue of the paper cutting it like a knife.

Glancing back down at it now he could see it for what it really was. Not a rose bearing the mark of care and concern, but a piece of shredded up paper that no longer held any resemblance to the rose he had only seconds ago cradled in his hands. There was nothing left but the shoddy remains of dirtied red paper.

It was ironic really that it had been red. Blood and flowers weren’t usually things you linked together. However the paper had joined them by some weak link. He had destroyed the flower and now the bloody remains lay on the changing room floor, staring up at him without a hint of malice.

How could something so small and so insignificant affect his cool exterior so much? After all it had only been paper. It wasn’t as if it had cost anyone any money, just time and effort. Things he considered to be worthless but too many not. What was it he had always been told when dissatisfied with presents under the tree? It was the thought that count. Well if the offender who presented the family had really thought about it they would have known that he didn’t want this lame excuse for a present.

It had been a long day already. This just made it worse.

Having come in to the changing rooms, Draco had pulled off his robes and balled it up in his fists. With a growl of frustration he had thrown the offending robes against the back wall. It had scored with a thud that reflected off the bare walls, and then it slid to the floor in a discarded pile.

His fists had clenched into what he knew would leave moon shaped marks on the innocent palms of his hands. Then as if propelled by his anger, one round ball of muscle and flesh pounded into the wall. Once and then again it continued. He diminished with a sigh of sadness. This was not the way it was supposed to be. It wasn’t him who should be alone in a dingy little room alone. He was above this.

He brought a swift hand up to his face to wipe away the tear that was threatening to break free of his eye. A lump had built up in the back of his throat and nothing seemed to be able to move it. No amount of hitting the wall and throwing things was going to take away the bitter sadness that was coursing through his veins. His face was contorted into an angry sneer that bordered onto sadness.

Furiously he swiped away another tear that threatened to fall. Then ever so slowly, as if in slow motion, he leant sideways against the wall and collapsed to the floor in a subdued wreck. There were unwanted tears flowing down his face, but it was now blank. Nothing that bubbled beneath the surface was visible. Just a blank canvas discarded by the artist.

He had stared at the bench that lined the wall in front of him. It seemed so far away and like him seemed alone. Somehow this normal thing had touched something in him. It was a new feeling for him. Never before had he felt so lonely. He had had no need to. There had always been someone lurking around ready to offer his ego another boost. Not that it needed it of course – he prided himself on his arrogance. Here though, in the changing room with only a bench to comfort him, he finally realised what it must be like to be alone.

Glancing down at his hands he looked at the mud that was stuck to his fingernails. With a sniff to end the tears, he realised how he must look curled up at the foot of the wall. He must look weak covered in mud and smelling of sweat. Weakness would never do though, so he had stood shakily up and took a deep breath. His hands ran over his bare chest. It was so clean and smooth compared to the state of other body parts. He had closed his eyes and hugged himself for a couple of minutes rocking backwards and forwards.

All the anger had gone from him for now.

He was too tired to fight himself.

Walking across the room he had opened his locker and peered into its gloomy depths. After a day like today he didn’t want to seem anything but strong. There was no way in hell that Potter would ever know how much he had cut into the youngest Malfoy. He may have appeared to have a heart of stone, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a very hard stone. Some things seemed to penetrate it.

He was taken aback by what he saw though. There nestled in a heap of his uniform, was a single paper rose. It was beautiful and bright against the dull backdrop of his uniform. As red as blood and as beautiful as the real thing, he had at first believed it to be alive. Only on further gazing though had he realised that it was sculpted out of paper. Each petal was peeled back perfectly to reveal the inner bud. All in all it was a work of art.

Yet something about it scared Draco to the core. At first he had been confused about what it was and now he felt fear. He was scared of scooping it up into his hands and accidentally creasing a petal. Beyond that though was a nagging question that with it brought more fear. Who had left this here for him to find? Had it been meant for him at all? What did the person expect from him?

Gingerly his fingers had reached out and grasped the faux flower between finger and thumb. With caution he then raised it to his eyes and let them wander over it. He sidestepped to get a bit more light on it. His heart was thumping in his chest as his eyes unseeingly ravished the paper rose.

Someone had spent time and effort in creating this piece of Eden. Not for Potter or Weasley. Not for some Hufflepuff hunk who played on the team. No, it had been made for him Draco Malfoy. A boy that was both feared and respected by the school. Well he had been before the Quidditch match.

High up in the sky he had felt truly alive. His eyes had darted back and forth seeking out the flash of gold that would win him the game and the House cup for his final year at Hogwarts. Six long years he had spent toiling away like a slave, always being outdone by an orphan, a weasel and a mudblood. None of them even came close to being as powerful as he, yet they commanded great respect. On more them one occasion had they saved the school by being nosy and no one even thought to ask what a bunch of teenagers were doing roaming the castle at night and solving mysteries. It seemed a bit suspicious to him.

From up there he had been able to see the entire pitch. It stretched out in front of him making him almost drool at the mouth with anticipation. Soon he would see the gold, go in for a dive and nothing would stop him.

Nothing that is except the infamous Harry Potter.

Having spotted the snitch, Draco had gone for the kill. Tunnelling downwards through the heated skies he had sped faster then he felt he should. It was all about controlling the broom, he had thought to himself. All he had to do was pull up at the right point, reach out and grab the snitch. Suddenly though something blurred in the corner of his vision and had plucked the snitch from in front of him.

With confusion the control was lost and he tumbled to the ground with a groan. It hadn’t been hard enough to break anything as one of the teachers had seen the problem before it even occurred. Looking up from the ground all he could hear was a load buzz followed by a roaring laugh. The whole world was looking down on the fallen man and laughing. Finally he had got what he deserved. Not glory and power, but disrespect and the shame of having lost the House cup for Slytherin.

They had tried to comfort him. It wasn’t the end of the world, they said. No one would care tomorrow when the initial buzz had died down. He knew they were wrong though. It would be imprinted into everyones mind. When they looked at him they would see the boy who fell flat on his face while everyone watched. There was no glory with failure. Winning was winning and that was that.

Having screamed at everyone to shut up, for the world just to be quiet, he had finally escaped the snide remarks and pinched looks.

Alone at last, he had realised with short lived relief. Having found solitude, he now wished more then anything else that he wasn’t alone. He wanted someone to comfort him with a smile or reassuring word. Revenge would be nice with that too. He may be the villain of the story of their lives, but he was only human.

The paper rose lingered on though. Someone had cared enough to give him this in his time of need. Of course they had been to embarrassed by him to do it in person. They didn’t want to be tainted by the same brush as he was. A small of his brain argued back though that maybe there was another reason.

His anger had been overwhelming though. No Slytherin he knew would be able of creating something of such beauty. It had to be someone else with more time and more skill. Whoever had made this had the touch of a fairy unlike the bumbling fools of his house. No one pitied him there though. They hated him for losing them the vital points.

Crumpling the rose into a ball he destroyed it in his anger.

‘If you can hear me,’ he whispered menacingly, ‘I don’t want your pity and I don’t want your shame.’

In the corner, out of sight, a young girl hung their head as tears spilt from her eyes. Red strands of hair flopped over her face, hiding her shame at her own forwardness. His words slashed into her one at a time, piercing her resolve.

On the floor of the changing room lay the remains of a hope now lost.

Johnson Normal Johnson 2 75 2003-06-18T14:53:00Z 2003-06-18T14:53:00Z 1 1924 10969 - 91 25 12868 10.2625 Clean Clean MicrosoftInternetExplorer4

Paper Roses

Chapter Two

Savouring the darkness around her, a girl in simple plainness lay lonesome on her bed staring up at a ceiling. Her heart pounded in her chest slowly. It was almost too slowly. To her it felt as if her life were ebbing away from her body in fumes of grey glory. All her limbs felt leaden and weightless at the same time making it difficult for her to tell whether she was really there at all.

When she walked the corridors, or ate in the Great Hall, it was as if she were invisible to the world. The limelight of people’s attention fell on others both cruel and kind. No one seemed to care about the Weasley girl. Their eyes would see right through her as she moved through life being jostled by other, more important people. When she spoke she was sure that her voice escaped in a bubble undetected by others. For all they knew she could be dead, and they would only really care when it was far too late for them to change anything.

Death, it seemed to her, would be a blessing if it weren’t for the pain it caused others. It wasn’t like dying would change the world much. She had made no imprint upon it and as she breathed in and out slowly in the darkness, she knew that what she had now was a living death. Neither dead nor alive, she roamed the school like a ghost. Not like any ghost at Hogwarts though, who were crass and loud. They were scared of being forgotten and fought for their voices to be heard. Virginia Weasley though could walk through walls for all the good it would do.

The curtains were drawn tightly around her bed, leaving her in a shroud of darkness. She didn’t mind though, it let her concentrate more then the demanding nature of light. Her fingers lingered on her throat gently caressing the purpling bruise found there. Maybe if the pressure had been a little harder she would be dead and not here pondering questions and answers.

For months on end she had drifted through days longing to be home. At home she commands her mother’s attention and felt the tug at her heartstrings. School though presented something much more sinister and dark. People were snide to other people because of how they looked or dressed. Girls would be in a constant flutter over boys or the prospect of boys in many cases. There would be fights over morals, each one thinking the other was wrong. Then looming all of the adolescent traumas there was the fear of dying.

Ginny had never been part of youth in the school. She would watch the other girls bustle about and try to impress the boys. The boys in turn would either not notice the amount of effort gone in to attracting them, or ignore the presence all together. It seemed to her that boys didn’t care if you were wearing make-up or had bought a new robe. They didn’t notice if your hair wasn’t exactly perfect. Plastering themselves with perfume and paint was not what attracted men. They were more interested in how the girl looked generally. Bodies seemed to be a lot of the central attraction. To her it all seemed pointless.

At the beginning of her school years she had tried to fit in. Her crush on Harry Potter though made her awkward and clumsy. People looked at her and sneered for being so in awe of a person who would never love them back. It had taken time but slowly his power over her vanished and with it did her urge to fit in with the other witches. Instead she had found herself interested in the world around her.

It was this disinterest in the people around her that led to them slowly forgetting she was there. At first it had been used to her advantage. She could sit at the back of the classroom and observe what was happening out the window. It didn’t bother her that she was rarely spoken to. People would occasionally witter on at her in pity, but honestly, did they think she cared about their intricate love lives?

Later on though it had become lonely with no one around to even pity her existence. There were no longer snide remarks for the nastier of the people, or niceties from the people who supposedly were her friends. She had begun to crave attention, but her own pride swallowed up any chance she had of walking over to some people and talking about the weather. It was pointless crap that didn’t really matter in life at all. In fact she refused to even listen to her brothers spout rubbish.

So she had refrained from human contact, allowing herself to slip into a world where she could be whoever she wished to be. All she had to do was close her eyes and dream. Unfortunately though she would always be awoken from the dream and forced to live the life her mother had given her. She didn’t complain though – that too was pointless. What she did do was create a game though. She would sit and observe the people around her and from that she learnt about human nature.

In theory Ginny knew more about human nature then any of the others. She would watch the way they smiled jovially at some people, but when they left there would be that split second where the true emotion would surface. It only lasted that brief second though and no one ever seemed to notice it. The game was to know people better then they knew themselves. She would imagine little scenarios between people and then manipulate it in reality so it would happen.

One such scenario had been the relationship between Ron and Hermione. Little did they know that she was the reason they were now in happy honeymoon bliss of a relationship. Having noticed the sparks flying off them, she had resolved that if she couldn’t be happy, she would make sure other people were. With this in mind she had created the paper rose.

It had taken her hours to work out the first one of its kind. She was determined to make it perfect though and with time it became so. Each petal was peeled away from the centre precisely to reveal a bud. At the time she thought that it might have been easier to just use real ones, but then it had struck her that that showed nothing of passion. The rose would wither and die – she didn’t want the love of her brother and his friend to do exactly the same. After having sculpted it, she twisted the ends to make sure the paper held together. With a tap of her wand it was binded into a red stem.

Then it came to executing her plan. She had snuck up into Ron’s room and had gently placed it on his pillow. This was then repeated in Hermione’s room. No one noticed her enter or leave. It was the perfect plan and now all she had to do was sit and wait. She didn’t have to wait long though. Having got the roses, both parties wanted to know who had given them the rose. Ginny’s plan was not over yet and she allowed them both to stew. Often she would notice them glancing around for some sort of clue to who it was. Of course they never noticed though and neither told the other just in case they were thought to be foolish.

After two weeks of waiting though they both discovered a note left on their pillows. They were to meet at the Quidditch pitch at sunset. She imagined them both smiling at the letters on the piece of parchment. It had made her feel warm inside to know that she could make two people so very happy.

Before sunset she had gone out and hidden in the stands where she had had the perfect view of the two of them meeting and kissing. From there they had begun a relationship that had filled both of their hearts with something that Ginny felt she could never possibly have. She was alone but it didn’t mean everyone else had to be punished as she was being.

That was what it was. Punishment for being so naïve about the world. Punishment for being so trusting of a diary that whispered into her ear.

So the charade had continued and Ginny had had both successes and failures. The paper roses she made were given away and not one piece of perfection did she keep for herself. Sometimes she would hear people whispering that it was cupid working his magic on the students. Most though didn’t even know of the rose and it made her smile when she thought of the mystery she had created. No one even suspected the girl who wandered around from room to room alone. She never spoke to them and they never spoke to her.

It had made her content to make others happy.

That was until she felt the familiar tug of her heart.

Walking along the corridor, she had bumbled along glancing from one side to the other. In a far off corner two people were arguing and it had instantly got her attention. She had watched as one girl threw insults at the other and she had wondered what the point of hurting another would be. It was her own fault really for not looking where she was going. She should have known better then to lose concentration on the matter in hand. With a firm step forward she had slammed into Draco Malfoy.

She knew what falling felt like. It was almost like flying and felt like total utter freedom from the world. That was until, of course, you hit the ground with a resounding thud. Her brain had warned her of the bump she was about to have and her eyes had squeezed shut as her body teetered on the edge of balance. Only when she didn’t hit the floor did she realise that he was holding her arms tightly in his grip. Her eyes had slowly opened and she’d looked up at him.

The strangest thing was that he was looking right back at her.

‘Mind where you walk,’ he said after a moment of stillness. ‘One day you’ll fall and no one will be around to catch you.’

At that she had felt her head nod slightly. It was as if she couldn’t move. His whole presence had paralyzed her, but not in fear. She was paralyzed by the thought of him being so near to her. It was comfortable and that scared her.

As if realising what he was doing, he had released her with a jolt and carried on his way. Since then she had found herself watching his every move and noticing every little detail about the boy she couldn’t get out of her mind. He haunted every dream, fantasy and nightmare. She saw his pain, his anger and above all his pride. Never did she see him smile or seem in the least bit happy. Her mind told her that all he needed was a hug. A hug would make the world seem so much better.

Never though did she have the courage to wrap her arms around him.

Then the fateful day had come on the Quidditch pitch. Her eyes had been glued to his figure as he descended to the ground in a flurry of silver and green. A frown had creased her forehead. There was no way he was going to make that without hitting the ground hard. Her imagination conjured up images of his face hitting the muddied grass with a crunch that bounced off all the stands. Consumed by the moment she felt the excitement he must have been feeling. The wind must be fresh as it whipped his hair back from his face. He must have felt the freedom of falling and she could imagine him smiling for the first time in a long time.

Then though his world had crumbled round him.

They laughed and mocked the crumpled figure of a boy who thought he’d had everything. Her eyes didn’t leave him though. She didn’t shout out in his defence because she was scared of what he would think of her if she did. The hurt etched out on his features as he screamed for them to be quiet made her stomach flip over. Like her he was alone and the world stood and laughed.

Suddenly she was filled with something that she had never felt before. She would bring him happiness and knowledge that someone cared for him because she did. What she didn’t know though was how to present it. Should she go to him and tell him about everything and nothing? No, she resolved, she would do it in the manner she usually went about it. Her hand had gone to her pocket and from it she withdrew a single paper rose. Tapping her wand against it, it coloured to red.

It hadn’t gone how she had planned though and she had sat and watched as he destroyed her one hope of not being alone. With those words whispered from his mouth, she knew she had hurt him. He didn’t want her pitiful emotions wasted on him. The ego that only hours ago would have thrived was now shrivelled and dead. Still though he had his pride.

Ginny had never cried as hard as she did sitting on the filthy floor of the changing rooms. No one heard her though. They never did. Even as the others piled into the room to change out of sweaty robes, they didn’t see her sat there.

Her tears though had turned to anger, a passion she had not felt often in her brief life. She was filled with a need to lash out, for what she had once seen as pointless to be recognised by the man she was obsessed with. How dare he hurt her like this without even having the grace to know who she was?

Never again would she lash out, she thought as she lay on her bed fingering the dark bruises on her neck. Her eyes closed as a single tear ran down her cheek and the pain of loss throbbed through her.

In her other hand was a single paper rose.

Author’s Note: Here is the third chapter! I’m sorry if it’s been a little long but I’ve been busy and I do seem to have overloaded myself with other chaptered stories. Those too though have been dormant though. I will try to keep them going and not allow them to grow stagnant. This chapter is quite dark and disturbing, so be warned, and I will be putting the rating up a little because of it.

Acknowledgement: To all of those who reviewed, thank you.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the words.

Paper Roses

Chapter Three:

Pain Lies

Alone again in a room with four solid walls, a window and a door. Two means of escape from the torture of being with himself, and yet he would take neither. To go out there would to admit to the failure he was. He would have to sit back and watch the world point and laugh. Oh look, there goes Malfoy the loser. Did you see that fall at the Quidditch pitch? Poor sod, no wonder no one likes him!

Shivering slightly, he drew his knees closer to his chest. It was so cold when there was no one else around. Incredibly cold and harsh against the pale light of his skin. There had been moments where he’d felt like his heart had frozen solid with lack of use, and would stop beating any second now. It was scaring him how difficult it was becoming to breathe. His chest felt like a thousand ton had been rested on it, making him dizzy with the pain of it. Maybe it was because he had been crying for what seemed like days, never the light of the sun touching his flesh. Inside himself a lion roared to be fed more, to satisfy its overwhelming hunger.

He wasn’t going to comply though. The only safety he had was the pain that surrounded his being.

They shouted that it was no use holing himself up and wallowing in self pity. They called that he was being stupid – it was an accident. Why was he punishing himself so much for something that was so trivial? People were dying out there and all he could do was feel sorry for himself. He didn’t care though because none of them understood how it felt to be so high in the sky only to find themselves crashing. Burning.

So eventually they had all gone away – left him to die if that’s what he really wanted. It only proved one thing though and that was that no one cared enough about him to stay through the rough and tough. If they did they wouldn’t have taken his crap and forced him back to normality. He would have done the usual fussing about how he wished they’d just leave him alone, and they would laugh it off. It never happened though. No one came to rescue him from the doom of being all alone.

His fists balled up in anger. No one except that infernal Weasley girl. How he wished she would burn away for all her pity and sympathy. That was the last thing he could ever want from a piece of filth like that. She was beneath him and allowing himself to bask in her apparent care for him, would be lowering himself to her level. Was it not enough that he failed his father during the match? Did she have to make him feel guilt on top of everything else?

It had felt good just to let himself go like that. Just to be able to feel his heart beating in his throat as his vision clouded over in a red mist. Angry had felt good, but there was no more left in his body. It was as if it were betraying him to this other feeling. Guilt.

Uncurling his body from the tight ball, he stretched his limbs out. Standing up from the bed, like an old man who hadn’t walked for a week, he paced over to his mirror and observed himself. Dark circles patterned his eyes in blue like greys. His skin was pale, eyes bloodshot and lips cracking away with lack of moisture. Well, he thought, at least my hair is tidy. Colouring the ivory paleness of his skin was a large red mark, protruding like a nettle sting.

Weasley had deserved what she’d got. The cheek of her to even hope she could get him to see her differently! Draco snorted at the idea even now. It had been pathetic the way she’d just thrown herself at him like that. She hadn’t even been embarrassed for Merlin’s sake. Never before had he seen such a miserable act of desperation. That was defiantly the right word – desperate. What had she been thinking? The only thing that could explain it was sheer insanity.

He rubbed his hot, sticky fingers over his forehead and sighed heavily. It was hard being above everybody. Nobody would ever see eye to eye with him because they didn’t have the guts. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and turned away. Better to be ignorant then face the truth. Soon he would be forced to that anyway, so he might as well delay it until the crucial moment.

Walking along the corridor, he had held his head down. Of course that hadn’t stopped him from being noticed. So maybe he was blowing the whole situation out of proportion, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the pain of it all, both physical and mental. It was a cruel pain that left nothing in its trail of destruction and it hurt in ways that couldn’t be described. Mostly it was the knowledge of shame. It had made his head hang down in self pity that night.

All he’d wanted was something to eat from the kitchens. Just something to take his mind off his own grievances and the deep rumbling in the pit of his stomach. There hadn’t been anyone about, after all it was after lights out, but he still felt completely exposed. Draco couldn’t place his finger on exactly what, though with every step he took it felt like someone was going to jump out and laugh at him. It was like walking a knife’s edge – like having a secret everyone knew. They had all seen how weak he was in the face of perfect Potter.

Then she’d been there. It had been…vivid, he thought, the way she just appeared before him. He had stopped in his tracks, unsure of what to do. Somehow his previous embarrassment had affected his perception of other people. There was something about the way she stood there though. It was dark in the hallway, and yet her skin and hair seemed to glow eerily against the night. Then again, she was abnormally pale and her hair was a horrid shade of red. Without even knowing who she was, he could place her as a Weasley. It was evident at one glance.

‘Come to gloat?’ he had sneered at her, unsure of his standing. ‘Well don’t bother, because it’s not going to work.’

Stepping forward, he had moved to walk round her, but something had stopped him. A whisper of a voice against the air, like the sound of silk falling against skin or the rustle of the trees. It was so subtle, that he wouldn’t have noticed it had her hand not been clutching to his robes with a force.

Pushing her away, he turned to face her, his nose curled upwards like an angry dogs. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he had hissed in disdain. ‘In fact don’t even look at me, you weirdo.’

‘I would have thought that it was you who was the weirdo,’ she had said softly. ‘Everybody else seems to think so. Especially since Harry beat you at the match yesterday. You fly like an ostrich.’

‘What did you say?’ Draco had said, anger building up in him. How dare she talk to him like this, he thought, like he was a piece of dirt on the heel of her boot.

‘You walk around here like you own the place,’ she had continued to dig, her stance seeming unoffending but her words coming out in a gentle force. ‘You don’t. Everyone knows how much of a coward you are. The great Draco Malfoy hiding because he didn’t get what he wanted. Oh what a great shame. He must be suffering so much. Well, I’ll let you into a little secret – you’re not. Get over it.’

His eyes widened. Weasley’s voice was gentle and coaxing, but to it was an edge of bitterness. It was as if he had done something personal to offend her. Looking back, he couldn’t think of any time he had even noticed her. To him she was just part of the scenery. She was something he wouldn’t notice was missing. It wasn’t that she was taken for granted; it was simply that she wasn’t part of his world.

‘You’re pathetic, Weasley.’

Then she was laughing at him. Her whole face lit by some hidden joy. It wasn’t the kind of laughing that was faked for affect, but a real laugh that rocked him to the core. This little wench was laughing at him! She had stopped him in the hallway, verbally attacked him, and now all she could do was be seemingly happy.

A surge of blind, passionate anger had swept over him. Bringing his hands up, he had shoved her hard back into the wall. The breath was momentarily knocked from her body, and a cough escaped her lips. Still though a smile lingered on her lips. One hand clutched her stomach and the other was rubbing her shoulder absently.

Pathetic, he remembered thinking to himself. This Weasley wasn’t even going to retaliate. She was just going to lean there and take his anger. Maybe that had been the point, to stir him up. He had watched her blankly, no longer showing his disgust for her entire being.

Stepping forward, he her shoved her harder, knocking her hard to the wall again. This time his hands stayed on her shoulders, pinning her there to the cold bricks. Leaning forward, he studied her face with another sneer. ‘Not only are you pathetic,’ he whispered, ‘but you smell. Then again, I shouldn’t have expected more from a pathetic, little, ugly, smelly Weasley.’

Then something had happened, her head had tipped slightly, and she had looked at him. Her eyes were dark, with flecks of brown edging the iris. They seemed to look right through him, as if he weren’t there. Her lips were tilted slightly at the corner, giving the impression of a smile. ‘You take yourself too seriously,’ she had whispered. ‘You couldn’t hurt me any more then you already have.’

‘Stop it,’ he had shouted in another whisper. He didn’t want to get caught by Filch out of bed, but he wasn’t prepared to walk away from this. No one did this to Draco Malfoy. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

‘How would you rather I looked at you? You’re nothing to me,’ her words had come softly, ‘nothing. That’s what you fear the most.’

‘Shut up!’ he had shouted it this time, and his words bounced off the walls, colouring them with his anger. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. If I wanted I could kill you right now!’

Weasley had nodded in unspoken knowledge. ‘At least then it would all be over.’

‘What are you talking about, you lunatic?!’ Draco’s face had come closer to hers, without him even thinking. In hindsight, he had probably wanted to intimidate her. Make her scared of him, because then he’d be the one with the power and control. She wouldn’t be the one holding all the cards.

‘You didn’t even think, did you? You just destroyed it. There wasn’t even an emotion when you crushed something so perfect. That’s what makes you.’

Crushed what? His mind had raced and then it struck him. The rose he had found in his locker. It had been her, this tiny, unnoticeable Weasley. She had wanted him to want her… She fancied him! Well that had been a revelation. He had laughed then, but now he wished he hadn’t.

Suddenly she had been pushing against his grip, her neck craned and her lips viciously assaulting his. It had shocked him and he had tried to push her back, but she was stronger then she looked. Eventually he had managed to slam her back up against the wall though, his lips feeling awkward at the contact and angry at his lack of consent. That was something he hadn’t wanted.

‘What do you think you’re doing?!’ he had sneered at her, again his nose wrinkled.

She had looked at him blankly. There were no words there anymore, just this absence of presence. It were as if she had vacated her body – the lights were on but no one seemed to be home. How dare she ignore him like that! Well he would show her…

His fingers moved to her neck and gripped tightly. ‘See I could do it…I could kill you…’

It were as if he couldn’t see clearly anymore. All there had been was this red mist of emotion. He had wanted to end her, end himself, end the world. She was right, he was pathetic, but it wasn’t her place to say it. It wasn’t her place to abuse him as she had. There was defiantly a truth in what she said: at least it would all be over. He wouldn’t have to put up with the laughing, mocking, staring, backstabbing, self loathing and such.

Weasley had blinked, and looked at him, her breaths becoming shallow. She didn’t struggle though. He remembered that clearly – her lack of love for her own pitiful life. What he also remembered was the trance he had seemed to be in. He hadn’t notice her lean forward and begin to place gently kisses on his lips and he pressed his fingers deeper into her flesh. He hadn’t noticed when her own hands came up and wrapped round his throat, gently putting pressure on his windpipe. He hadn’t noticed the tears on her face, or the movement of his own lips. His breathing had become shallow like hers, and it had felt good.

Then there was a crack. Dots blurred his vision and he released her and stepped back. His hand came up to his own cheek. The Weasley girl had slapped him.

Presently Draco shivered slightly. It had been odd, the way it had happened. It had been like they had both been abandoning ship in a dark, morbid passion. The kiss hadn’t even really stuck in his mind, just the slowness of it all. He couldn’t even remember her leaving, or in fact getting back to his own room. Had he gone to the kitchen and eaten? No, he thought, he hadn’t.

Releasing a long breath, he tugged down the collar of his shirt. Two little bruises tattooed his skin. She had marked him and he had done so to her too. Well she had deserved it he persevered in his own mind. It was everything she deserved for looking at him like that.

Draco had destroyed that paper rose, because to him it had meant weakness. It had meant pity and was a bash to his pride. For him it had been nothing more then paper. For her though it had been something else. It was as if she poured everything into the reaction he would give to her offering. Well she shouldn’t have anticipated more than she got, it was pathetic to think she had. He wouldn’t lower himself to her level again. Draco Malfoy was above it all.

Walking over to the door, he pulled it open to face the world. It was time to get over it.