Charmed Strawberries and Soggy Cereal

Narcissa Malfoy was crying.

Not just soft, quiet weeping, but deep, racketing sobs that chilled the bones of Ginny to hear them being emitted from the usually self-assured, confident woman. She was sobbing, screaming, gasping into her hands, her body shaking.

Crying because Draco Malfoy was dead.

Dead, dead, dead…

The single word echoed around Ginny’s head, repeating itself continually, showing off the full pain of those four letters, whirling itself through her mind, mocking her. He’s dead, gone, dead…. She wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Draco had never been hers, she had never been his, and now the tiny flickering flame of hope that had presented itself before had died out. Was gone, and there was no chance of rekindling it. If only, if only…

It had happened so soon, happened before Ginny herself knew what was going on. It had begun, Ginny was quite ashamed to admit, at another funeral…

…the funeral of Harry Potter.

Ginny had been nearly a mirror image of Narcissa at Harry’s funeral. She hadn’t known why she’d been crying so hard, so long, but she had. The cold finality of the death of the Boy Who Lived had hit her, hard. But he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived…he was more. Ginny had known that, always knew it. She had never, however, dug into that deeper part of Harry. Because he had never allowed it.

Perhaps, thought Ginny, that was why Narcissa seemed to be such an emotional wreckage. She had never known her son (like Ginny had never known Harry) not truly, not in the way that Ginny had…

Narcissa didn’t know that he’d always kept his wand in his left pocket with his hand clasped firmly over it. She didn’t know that he’d liked to have conversations with his household objects like they were real people. She didn’t know that he had always stood with his right foot forward like he was going to pass a ball when he was about to perform a spell. She didn’t know all those little things about Draco. She hadn’t known him at all.

But Ginny had.

Those little quirks, the small idiosyncrasies that had made up the persona of Draco Malfoy, Ginny was familiar with them all. She had seen him at Harry’s funeral – the only one to see him, lurking into the shadows, observing from afar. And she had twisted with rage – how dare Harry Potter’s school rival, the Death Eater in training show up at his funeral? She had watched him, at first with a sense of anger, but soon melting into thoughtfulness and slight intrigue as she observed the expressions played on his face. Sorrow, horror, anguish…and a loud guilt ringing out clearly in his steely silver eyes.

So, grudgingly, apprehensively and hopefully, she had made an attempt to touch him after the memorial service. Oh, not physically, of course not, but emotionally, tried to break the infamous rock-hard core of Draco Malfoy. But his reaction had been nothing short of ire, and she had realized that his shell was wound tightly around him, and was as rigid and thick as an Unbreakable Charm. Even now, two years, later, Ginny could recall his words with a fresh and agonizing vivacity that sent a shock of pain through her body.

“Er…hello,” stumbled Ginny with a sort of innocent kind of doubt and tentativeness.

No answer. He stared past her – no, through her emptily, as if she hadn’t been there at all.

Well, Ginny figured, that hadn’t been the greatest beginning to a conversation anyway. “How are you doing?” she tried again, shifting her weight awkwardly. She bit her lip. “Er—if you don’t mind me asking, why are you—”

He had interrupted her, his voice as cold as fresh snow. “Yes. I do mind. Especially if you’re to ask me why in the bloody blue blazes I’m here. So don’t.”

A spark of anger and indignation had flared inside her, but she squashed it, knowing it would never do to cajole him using the means of rage. One last attempt might do it, thought Ginny. So she had quickly barraged on, before she lost her nerve, and blurted out the million-Galleon, unspeakable question, though of course she didn’t know it at the time—

“Everything all right with your family?”

That had most certainly gotten his attention, but not exactly in the way that she had intended. He had jerked, then fixated her brown eyes with his clouded, piercing silver ones. “You,” he said evenly, enunciating each word very clearly, “have no right to be prying about my family business.” He paused for a beat, then added with a cold, clear malevolence, “I do think, Weasley, that you should be more concerned about the future of yours.” He had then Disapparated, therefore dismissing the conversation – and her – entirely.

 

She had been hurt more than she thought she would have been. Well, so what? Sod Malfoy, she had thought, but half-heartedly – as if it were an effort to set the conversation aside so easily. Ginny had tried, obviously, had made many an attempt to kick that mysterious character out of her mind, but thoughts of him had apparently made a permanent home in her head, lurking at the back of her brain. And finally Ginny had to come to terms with the fact that the only way she could quell them was to come face to face with Draco again.

Her chance had come quite quickly – the next day, in fact, and the encounter taking place in her own home.

 

Yawning, Ginny slipped down the stairs, yanking at the ends of her too-short white lacy nightdress. She had stayed up much too late last night (or figuratively, early morning), crying hopelessly. She rubbed at her eyes, which she knew must be swollen and red.

“Mother, what’s for breakfa…” she drifted off and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw that the figure sitting at the old, dented wooden table was not the familiar, plump Mrs. Weasley, but rather, the tall, slim form of Draco Malfoy.

“Oh dear God…” she uttered – under her breath, but the words did still happen to catch his attention. He turned around silently and his eyes widened, his eyebrows slightly arched at her sudden presence. He opened his mouth, (most likely to deliver some sharp, sarcastic remark that he no doubt found witty, thought Ginny uncharitably), but to her surprise simply said, “Hullo, Weasley.”

Ginny’s mouth opened, then closed, opened, and closed again. Finally she gasped out (while pulling anxiously at the bottoms of her short nightdress), “What in God’s name are you doing?”

He regarded her quietly with his piercing silver eyes. “Eating breakfast?” he offered, his tone and expression both unreadable.

Ginny scowled. “That is not funny, Malfoy,” she snapped. “I mean it. For Merlin’s sake, why the hell are you here?” Memories of his lost, thoughtful expression at Harry’s funeral disappearing, she felt irritation and exasperation swelling up inside again.

Draco didn’t answer for a moment. Then,

“Hiding.”

Ginny drew her eyebrows together in puzzlement. “Hiding?” she echoed in disbelief. “Well, bad luck, I found you. Sitting in the middle of a family kitchen is a pretty bad hiding place, don’t you think?”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Why not?” she challenged. “I’m not the one abusing the privileges of its uses every day. So tell me, Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing here? No cryptic answers allowed.” She folded her arms and did her best to look intimidating, which was quite hard what with her nightdress and small height of five foot six.

His eyes flickered – in anger, perhaps? – and he frowned. Paused, as if he were waiting for her to back down. Then a sigh escaped his lips and he said, “Fine, Weasley, if you really want to know. I’m hiding from the Dark Lord, okay? I’m hiding from the Death Eaters. I’m hiding from my father. There you go, three whole reasons. Happy?”

She was taken aback, and sucked in a quick intake of breath. She studied him for a minute, eating his cereal. Finally she said quietly, “That’s only two reasons.”

Draco jerked and looked up at her. Apparently he had thought that that line of conversation was over. “Excuse me?”

Ginny swallowed. “I said,” she repeated, her voice surprisingly steady, “that’s only two reasons. You said that you’re hiding from the Death Eaters and your father. But your father is a Death Eater. So theoretically, it’s only two reasons.”

“I’ve told you before, Weasley. Don’t talk about my family,” and now his voice was harder, colder.

“Why not?” Ginny continued evenly, faintly astonished at her brave audacity. “You talk about mine, don’t you? Why shouldn’t I have the privilege of speaking of yours?”

Draco slammed his bowl of cereal down. “Your family,” he stated between gritted teeth, “is far diferent from mine, Virgnia Weasley.” And he had stalked out of the room.

 

Her anger had gotten the best of her, of course, Ginny reflected. It was the natural thing to feel. Until later in the day—

 

“Pigmentila Frasio!”

“Ugh!” Ginny stomped into the kitchen, where she found Draco Malfoy tapping strawberry after strawberry with his wand, muttering the same incantation over and over. “What,” she demanded, “are you doing?”

He glanced up at her, eyes indecipherable. “Charming strawberries,” he supplied neutrally. “Yellow.”

Ginny sighed impatiently. “I can’t believe no one’s kicked you out yet,” she remarked irritably, mostly to herself.

“Are you going to?” countered Draco.

Ginny chose not to answer that. “Hey,” she said. “You’re just enchanting one strawberry after another. It’d be much easier if you charmed the lot of them at once, see. Let me.” She pulled at her wand from where she’d been using it to hold up her hair and aimed it at the strawberries. “Pigmentila Frasio eta Mulplace!” she whispered, drawing her wand in a small circle around the strawberries. Instantly they turned a sickening shade of yellow. “Ick,” murmured Ginny. “Honestly, why must you do that?”

He didn’t answer, but simply dropped the strawberries into his limp, soggy cornflakes. “You ask a lot of questions, Ginny.”

Her lips curved into a slight smile. He had called her Ginny. Well, that was progress. Her smile quickly disappeared to be replaced by a small grimace, however, when she saw the…interesting…mixture he had in his bowl. “My God, Draco,” Ginny blurted, wincing. “Couldn’t you have poured the milk until after you charmed the strawberries? And did you have to charm the strawberries yellow at all? The soggy cereal…the color of the strawberries…it looks like vomit!”

He surveyed both the cereal and her, a mild smile playing on his lips. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, it does.”

 

It had been strange, really, that they had managed to bond over yellow strawberries and soggy cereal. But then, Draco Malfoy wasn’t your everyday kind of person. From all the weeks on since the Strawberry and Cereal Incident, as Ginny occasionally referred to it as, she had gotten to know Draco more as a person, not someone to be hated and despised as a Death Eater in training.

And oh God, despite herself, she had loved every bit of it.

 

Laughing, Ginny flopped onto the neatly trimmed green grass, in the shade of a huge leafy tree. She leaned against the tall, sturdy trunk, her face shining. “Okay,” she chuckled, “so you beat me this time. But be sure that I’ll kick your ass next time we duel!”

Draco dropped down next to her, grinning. Grinning – Draco, the man of few emotions, was actually beaming back at her. “Oh, really?” he smirked. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you.” And with those words, he whipped his wand out of his pocket, leaned forward and intoned, “Pigmentila Viald!”

Ginny shrieked. “What did you just do to me, Malfoy?” she gasped, fumbling for a reflective surface. Snorting, Draco pointed his wand at a flower and Transfigured it into a mirror. Ginny snatched it up frantically and peered anxiously at herself.

Draco backed away furtively as she examined herself, knowing that an angry Ginny Weasly meant certain death. And sure enough—f

“Draco Malfoy, you horrid prat!” Ginny’s outraged voice rang out. “Purple hair?”

 

Those had been the good memories, thought Ginny, managing a small smile. But they were gone now, disturbed by the knowledge of his death, her Draco’s death…

 

“You have to go?”

Ginny’s voice was strangled, shocked dismay and horror painted all over her face.

Draco moved to comfort her, but she waved a hand dismissively at him, brushing angrily at her wet eyes. “No!” she snapped. “You…you can’t…no, Draco,” and her face suddenly crumpled, and she fell back against the wall, breaking into sobs. “You can’t…you can’t…” she whispered over and over again, her face already wet and stained with tears.

“I’m sorry, Ginny…I have to go…Dumbledore…”

“Sod Dumbledore!” she blurted out. “No—you’ll get killed, please, Draco, don’t—”

“Ginny, come on. You know I have to. Don’t make this more difficult than this already is. I won’t get killed. I know it’s impossible to think that I won’t be killed, but come on, stranger things have happened. Like me becoming friends with a Weasley,” he deadpanned half-heartedly, but Ginny didn’t heed him.

Friends…friends. The word suddenly seemed so stupid, so small. Somewhere, back in her logical mind, she knew that friendship was beautiful, as strong as romance, but right then she didn’t just cry to see Draco going to the fray. She cried because even though that she had a strong relationship with Draco, it wasn’t the relationship she wanted…and she knew, somewhere deep in her heart, she knew that she wouldn’t never get a chance at it if he left.

“Oh, God, Ginny, please. Look…oh, damn this.” Suddenly he broke off with words, and simply pressed all his emotions into a soft kiss.

The kiss was sweet and light and intense and powerful all at once, and at first Ginny was too shocked to react. Then she leaned into it eagerly, but he wasn’t there anymore, she was tasting air, and she looked up at him, his determined face.

“I’ll see you again, Virginia Weasley,” he whispered, and then he was gone with the soft *pop* of Apparition.

 

It had been the last time she’d ever seen him.

 

*

 

Ginny sat quietly in her small flat, sitting at the kitchen table in a lacy white nightdress.

The same nightgown she had worn when Draco Malfoy had first appeared in her house.

And in front of her on the table sat a bowl of cereal, with strawberries sprinkled here and there. It lay there untouched, seeming to be beckoning her to eat it.

It was soggy cereal. And the strawberries were yellow.

And then Ginny Weasley did cry, great heaving sobs escaping her mouth, her eyes overflowing with tears. She hugged herself, crying tears of pain and grief and sorrow until she didn’t think she could cry anymore.

But she did.

She wept with an indescribable pain, not knowing exactly why she was grieving so much for a man she had befriended for all of three weeks, but knowing simply that it was a grief that she would never overcome, a numb aching always lurking in her heart.

And the bowl of soggy cereal and charmed yellow strawberries sat there, uneaten.