Faint

Ginny tries to avoid his gaze in the corridor the next day. She looks at the ceiling. At the floor. At the familiar faces passing her by. Anywhere but at him. Yet she can feel the warmth flooding her cheeks, and knows that they are burning scarlet. She hides behind her long, ruby red hair. The way that his silver eyes follow her is causing an uncomfortable stirring in the pit of her stomach. Her heart gives an inexplicable leap as he comes to halt directly in front of her, crossing his arms over his chest. His very well toned chest . . . Wait, no . . . What am I thinking? Bad Ginny. BAD.

" Well, if it isn’t the littlest Weasel," he says with a smirk.

Her face is positively blazing now. "Malfoy," she responds shortly.

She steps to the right. He moves to block her. She steps to the left. He blocks her once more. She gives a frustrated sigh.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"In a hurry, Virginia?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to get to." Her tone is mocking and she can tell from the glint in his eyes that he is both annoyed and impressed. The rest of his features are like ice.

But before she can walk away, he leans in so close to her that she can feel his breath on her face.

"Pretend all you like. We both know that you need me," he whispers into her hair. It sends chills down her spine. Before she can regain my senses, he pulls back. She instantly aches to be close to him again. And she hates it.

"See you tonight, Weasel," he says softly as he walks away.

She hugs her books to her chest, biting her lip as if the action can stop the tears that are stinging the corners of her eyes. I have no reason to cry. He is wrong. I do not need him. His opinions do not matter.

Before she knows it, she is stumbling into the Potions classroom, drawing several stares. Snape berates her for tardiness as she slumps down into her seat. Though she is a very good student– she is even taking seventh year classes-- he still despises her. She is a Gryffindor, after all. And she finds herself thinking, That is what it all boils down to. The sorting hat determined my destiny. For some reason, this thought brings fresh tears to her eyes. She is vaguely aware that Colin is patting her back awkwardly in an attempt to console her, that Snape is rattling on about different types of healing potions. But the one clear thing in her mind is a pair of cool, gray eyes.

*

The face of her nightmares lingers in her mind, horrible promises in those deep, dark eyes. Deception in that warm smile. The slim moon beams playing over the walls are comforting. Light, however dim, is always welcome when she wakes. Her sleep is filled with darkness. It echoes with her unheard screams and is wet with the blood on her hands. She goes through her normal motions, taking in several deep breaths.

I will not go to him. I will not go to him. I will not go to him.

She forces herself to play this single thought like a broken record. Her limbs are acting against her, her legs itching to make the long trek into the dim dungeons. It is instinctual. Her body and mind are feuding, battling for control over her actions. In the end, her body wins. She pads over to the large vanity that she shares with her room mates, frowning at her reflection. She brushes a hand through her tangled hair, blood red in the moonlight. Straightens her thin white gown. Then, without allowing herself to examine her decision any further, she steps out. She stops at the bottom of the stairs, and sees a familiar figure asleep in the common room.

Harry Potter is curled into the fetal position, resting on the crimson carpet. She knows that Harry sleeps down here when he is having visions, as to avoid disturbing the other boys in his year. He has become quite distant lately, even to his two best friends. She feels a pang deep inside of her at seeing his face distorted in pain, and unconsciously steps forward. His scar is burning brightly, as if made of fire. Without knowing why, she strides over and kneels down beside his sleeping form. Her long fingers brush over his scar. It is hot to the touch, and she jerks her hand back. But when she glances back down at him, she feels something tug at her heart. His brilliant eyes are clenched shut beneath his crooked glasses. He is biting his bottom lip fiercely, and a drop of blood has appeared. His skin is almost gray, drenched with cold sweat.

Quickly, all thoughts of Draco and his warm, solid body flee from her mind. In front of her lies a broken soul, haunted by things that could not be stopped. She can only imagines what he must be seeing. She had overheard once -- back when she followed him around like a lovesick puppy-- that when a Dementor appeared, he heard his mother’s final words. Her screams. At the time, she had yearned to tell him that she knew what he was going through. She had heard Tom’s voice, seen herself doing his bidding. But, of course, he had never asked her or showed any interest in knowing. And after three years of crying and wishing for his attention, she had given up. Even resented him. But now, with him laying helplessly before her, she aches for him. Because she does know what it is like. So she waits. She sits beside him, stroking his soft black hair. Her legs fall asleep, her eyelids feel heavy. But she waits. Until his breathing becomes steady, he stops thrashing around. As she rises to her feet, his eyes flutter open. He gazes up at her, confusion in his sleepy green eyes. She simply smiles at him-- a small, comforting smile-- before turning away.