Faint

Chapter 4: Mind Over Matter

She stumbles blindly back to her own room. Her legs are shaky and the strange fluttering in her stomach has not stopped.

"You need me. That is why you come."

No. She doesn’t need him. It is not about need, or love. It is about passion, about letting go. Slipping away from their lives. Him from his demanding father and the dismal future that awaits him. Her from the horrible memories of what she used to be, and what she fears becoming once again.

Yet she cannot help but think of how she aches for his familiar touch. Even now, only moments after leaving his strong arms, she feels less complete. Like she left part of herself with him. This is crazy. Of course she doesn’t have feelings for him. He is a horrible, selfish human being.

So much like Tom.

But she had loved Tom. Loved him so much that she would have given him her life. And she almost did.

She shakes her head. Why is she even thinking about this? She does not love Draco Malfoy. She doesn’t, can’t, and won’t.

*

"Ginny."

Her name is spoken like a sigh of relief. She raises her eyes and finds herself looking into the deep green eyes of Harry Potter.

"Ginny, can I talk to you?"

A cold feeling rises from the pit of her stomach. What could he possibly want to talk to her about? Unless . . . She recalls the bemused expression on his face when he woke to see her kneeling beside him. She doesn’t want to think of how it must have looked. Don’t jump to conclusions.

"Sure," she replies, struggling to keep her voice neutral. He gestures for her to follow him and she rises to her feet. He leads her out of the common room, through the portrait hole and into a darkened section of the corridor. He rakes a hand nervously through his jet black hair and she crosses her arms over her chest, regarding him carefully.

After a few moments of tense silence, Ginny says, "I thought you wanted to talk."

"I did," Harry says quickly. "I do. I just–" He breaks off with a frustrated sigh. "Ginny, the other night . . ."

She feels her muscles tense up. Some small part of her had held some hope that he had forgotten about it. This conversation will ultimately lead to questions, and she isn’t sure if she can answer them.

"What about it?" she urges, fighting down the wave of panic welling within her.

His eyes widen behind his spectacles, shining like two emeralds in the dim light. "So it was really you? I didn’t just dream it?"

Relief floods through her. He doesn’t know anything. You were panicking over nothing. She almost blushes as his words begin to sink in. Dreamed it, hmm? Now, why would he be having dreams about me?

"No, it was me," she says calmly.

Silence follows. After a moment, she turns back toward the common room. He surprises her by catching her arm. Her skin tingles where his hand lays.

"Ginny," he begins softly.

 For some reason, it sends a chill down her spine. Without looking back at him, she responds. "Yes?" Her voice is, like his, barely a whisper.

"Thank you. No one has ever done anything like that for me." His words cause a pang of sympathy deep within her chest. "It was . . ." He trails off, and she feels his gaze drop. "Thank you," he repeats.

She is very aware of the harsh pounding of her heart against her ribs and how it is suddenly very difficult to breathe. It is a feeling so like the one she gets from Draco. And yet . . . so different.

Somehow she manages to mutter, "You’re welcome."

He lets go of her wrist, but the feeling of warmth lingers on her skin. Without another word being spoken, she returns to the common room feeling very confused indeed.

*

"You’re late," he states coldly, running a finger down her exposed arm.

She looks at the dark carpet, finding herself unable to look into the piercing depths of his eyes. She feels as though she has betrayed him, which is quite ludicrous. They have no real relationship to speak of, no connection deeper than flesh. Yet if he knew of the thoughts she had been accosted by since her talk with Harry, she is sure he would be furious. His behavior yesterday was proof enough of that.

"One of my roommates was still awake," she says, the lie coming easily.

 In fact, she had been in the Prefects’ washroom, attempting to scrub away Harry’s touch. Sure that he would be able to sense it. Apparently, she had been wrong, as his fingers are now grazing that very spot and his expression had not changed.

He takes her hand and leads her to the bed. She realizes that this is the first time this has ever happened. He is always in bed when she arrives, his eyes closed as if he is asleep. She lets herself be pulled along, then laid atop the green satin sheets. He snakes one arm around her waist and presses his lips against hers. The kiss is sweet and tender at first. He lets his free hand brush her thigh, setting every nerve in her body on fire.

She is hungry for him, hungry for an escape from the troublesome thoughts plaguing her. Tonight she doesn’t want tenderness. She is aching for raw passion. Something to deaden the pain, rather than soothe it. She pulls him closer to her, her hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt. If he is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He pulls back, breaking the contact of their lips, and assists her, tossing his shirt to the floor. He smirks at her before leaning in and capturing her lips again, only with more force. Her fingers explore the smooth planes of his toned chest as his hands sweep trails of fire over her skin. The hand on her back moves upward, pushing up the fabric of her worn Chudley Cannons shirt. A small voice in the back of her mind tells her that he was right when he said that she needed him, if for no other reason than to take everything away. Another voice whispers Harry’s name. She shoves both of them down, allowing herself to get lost in the simple pleasure of Draco’s kisses.