Our Winter

1) Do whatever it takes to become a member of the Order, thus allowing:

a) family to afford food;

b) Fred and George to stay out of jail; barring that, bail money;

c) connections to facilitate fabulous career in journalism;

d) never being forced to wear article of clothing another member of family has already worn;

2) Resist wholly inappropriate attraction to Draco Malfoy at all costs, unless such resistance should conflict with goal 1;

3) Don't let grades drop;

4) Never work for Ministry of Magic, as seems shady and stupid for both hiring Percy, and sacking Dad.

5) Thank Mum and Dad for never taking the overprotective kick so far as to marry only daughter off;

6) Check to make sure am not betrothed and am in fact free to make my own decisions.

Thought of starting each entry with 'Dear Diary' then realized am no longer fourteen, nor a prat, so dismissed it and decided to just jump right in, as it were, to the heart of things.

I've been spending some time with Kyle McGraw after classes. We talk about his art and the future and where we see ourselves in ten years. He's always wanted to live in Scotland, to find some way to combine his mother's kind nature and his father's magic with the land they'd both loved so dearly. He hoped to open an art gallery with a back room that showcased the best of the wizarding world's answer to art, paintings that move and the like.

Kyle's got a lot of ambition and the drive to back it up. He says we (as people, in general) can do anything as long as we set our minds to it. I'd like to think he's right. I hope he's right. It's about the only chance I've got. Kyle says I'm too hard on myself, that I've got my whole life ahead of me with nothing standing in my way. He doesn't see my family's financial straits as an obstacle, because as far as he's concerned, as long as they're alive I'll have all the support I could possibly need.

Haven't mentioned Draco Malfoy to Kyle. Once or twice, he asked me why I spent so much time with "that rat" and I mumbled something about Draco being different than he thinks and then quickly changed the subject.

The thing is, I'm not so sure Draco is all that different than other people think. Maybe I've created a Draco Malfoy in my head that doesn't even exist. Maybe I just wanted to see something good in him so badly, wanted to believe he was complex and tortured, that I overlooked the most simple explanation: he's just an obnoxious, spoilt brat and my refusal to accept this glaring fact is a symptom of my wholly inappropriate attraction to him.

Which brings me back around to Kyle. He's seemingly everything I should want, everything Draco is not. Sweet, kind, considerate, concerned about my well being . . . so why aren't I crazy, knock me on my arse in love with him? Why?

~

Have figured out why I'm not in love with Kyle McGraw. Suicide is now a viable option. Will detail later once hands stop shaking

~

Several things of note happened today.

After classes, Kyle McGraw kissed me. We were sitting in the library, going over our Arithmancy homework, and he just suddenly leaned over and kissed me. It was a rather nice kiss, as kisses go (not that I'm an expert, having only been kissed before by Draco Malfoy -- know what, never mind, I don't want to think about that) -- soft and sweet, and I was certain he meant every bit of it. The only thing wrong with the kiss, really, was me:

I couldn't kiss him back.

Now let me be perfectly clear: I wanted to want to kiss him back. But I couldn't. Something inside of me totally and completely rebelled against the idea, something I can't even name. It just felt wrong to have Kyle's lips pressed against mine. Kyle's my friend, the only friend, other than Ezra, who actually likes me for me, and not because I'm Ron's kid sister. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt him, but I also couldn't lie to him.

The kiss ended when Kyle realized I wasn't participating to the fullest, and he looked rueful and sad at the same time.

"Guess those weren't really 'kiss me now, you big studly man' signals you were sending out, after all," he'd said with a self-deprecating grin.

"Kyle," I tried to say, but nothing would come out, beyond his name. "Kyle," I tried again, but it was no good. Every other word had been wiped from my brain. I felt awful and awkward and like the extra-filthy scum that sticks to the regular scum on the bottom of your shoe; like that slimy stuff that coats the Mandrakes when they're fully grown.

Why didn't I want him to kiss him? Why didn't he make my heart beat faster, and my knees weak, and my whole being become focused on him and his stormy gray eyes . . .

I think I got out a few more mournful 'Kyle´s before he started gathering his books together, mumbling excuses about how he'd promised to meet a friend of his who needed help in Divination.

"It'll all turn out right in the end," he whispered into my ear. It was like he knew, without really knowing, the source of my confusion and turmoil.

"Will it?" I asked him helplessly. It would seem at that point that my powers of speech returned to me.

"It has to, doesn't it?" Kyle reasoned in his pleasant, comforting brogue as he slid away from the table. "Everyone's rooting for that redheaded girl."

"What have you done to all of my sweaters?"

I knew it was him, too. Damnedest thing, really, but I knew before he even opened his mouth. No one walks into a room like Draco does. He doesn't make a show of himself, he's silent really, like some sort of lean jungle cat stalking its prey. Yet the very minute he arrives, you can tell he's there. Maybe the air shifts for him. Maybe it's a Malfoy family secret.

"You said you wanted them monogrammed," I pointed out, feeling something spark to life inside of me. How strange, that it was almost like getting a second wind whenever Draco spoke to me.

"I've heard loads of people call you every one of those names before," I insisted with a little grin.

He was quiet for a moment and so was I, going over my Potions homework. I've tried to work out just what it is that Draco does to me, seemingly to my entire nervous system, and this is the closest I can come:

It's as though he consumes me so totally just by sitting near me, by making it so I'm breathing in the same air that he is, that every part of me is aware of him, hyper aware, even, to the point that I can concentrate completely on something else, while still giving Draco's presence my full attention.

I don't understand it and I have no idea what it means. Or at least, I didn't use to know what it means. Oh, God.

Then he said, "Was that young Kyle I saw leaving?"

My cheeks had reddened a little. How long had Draco been there? Had he seen Kyle kiss me? My hair falling around my face, I took a chance and looked at Draco out of the corner of my eye. He appeared calm and in control, but when I glanced down at his leg, I noticed his foot was tapping ever so slightly; a sure sign of impatience. Then I looked up at his face and noticed something interesting: his face wasn't moving. Not a tick, not a blink, not the crook of a sadistic sneer.

That sort of stillness just wasn't natural, and when I got a look at his eyes, just as still as the rest of him, I realized something:

Draco Malfoy was furious. Not just furious, either; livid.

With me.

Perhaps I went too far with the monogram that proclaimed him 'Obtuse Prig.'

"He's not that young," I said, trying to focus on the conversation. "In fact, he's a month older than I am."

"Well, if he's a month older," Draco had said nastily.

"Have you got a point?" I wondered, "or are you just here on an errand of general nastiness?"

"My point," he hissed, leaning in so that his face was pressed against my hair, his mouth near my ear, "is that you've ruined dozens of my sweaters with your pathetic, childish prank."

That in itself was reason enough to be terrified.

"I don't want you to fix them," he muttered, his hand moving to my knee. He parted my robe so that his palm rested against bare skin, then stroked just so. God. I really don't want to think about how it felt, how his hand on me always feels. "I want you to make it up to me," he continued right next to my ear.

It was the longest Quidditch game we'd ever played here at Hogwarts -- Hermione and I were sitting next to each other in the stands, and it went on for nearly seventy-eight hours. The teachers had to bring food up from the castle (and don't think McGonagall and Snape weren't bitter about missing part of the game to do so), and everyone would doze off against everyone else's shoulders from time to time. Thank goodness it wasn't raining.

Pure dumb luck that Draco lost and Harry won; Harry even said so afterward. He went to visit Draco in the infirmary. I still don't know what they said to each other, but after that, they weren't nearly as arch-enemy-like as they used to be. Draco started to mellow after his fifth year, after some business with his father and Voldemort and something Harry and Ron and Hermione were really vague about. Mostly, they ignored each other. After that game, though, the Quidditch matches got really interesting, because it was like Harry felt the need to play as well as he possibly could to be worthy of playing against Draco, and Draco felt the same.

At least, that's how I see it.

Hermione and I talked about it once, and she agreed, which is why she chose to make that particular barb at Draco -- she knew it wouldn't score a direct hit, but would make Draco just irritated enough to leave.

Sure enough, it caused him to push away from the table and glare at her insolently.

"Tell your boyfriend I'm looking forward to the match tomorrow," he said sincerely, "and that I'm desperately sorry he's got such a harpy for a girlfriend."

Hermione rolled her eyes. As soon as Draco was out of earshot, she plopped down beside me, leaned in close, and said "Has that troll put some sort of love spell on you? Because if he has, I swear, I'll have him locked away in Azkaban."

"I wish it were a spell," was all I'd been able to say before bursting into tears.

Now, I'm not normally a hysterical sort of girl; I rarely cry, as, having grown up with six older brothers, I learned at a very young age that I had to be tough if they were ever going to respect me or give me even a shred of independence. But I cried then; I cried and I cried, and Hermione's shock gave way to sympathy, and she wrapped her arms around me and told me it was okay, that everyone would be okay, that she would see to it.

While I was bawling, Hermione offered to tell Harry and Ron that "Malfoy" had been messing with my head and I sprang back from her.

"No!" I said emphatically. "You can't, Hermione, swear it."

"I swear," Hermione said, looking utterly confused. I knew exactly how she felt. "I just . . . I don't understand, Gin."

Among other pieces of advice, Hermione pointed out that I couldn't very well mean nothing to Draco if he hated me so much. I imagine that was meant to make me feel better, but instead, I'm left feeling somewhat hollow. I shouldn't love Draco for a thousand reasons and I don't want to love him . . . but I do. And there's some oddly compelling physical attraction between us, and I know he feels it, too, and he clearly hates me for it and for even suggesting this stupid bargain in the first place. I wish I'd never heard of the sodding Order and I wish I'd never heard of Draco Malfoy.

I wonder what he's going to make me do to make up for his sweaters. I wonder when he'll make me do it. I wonder if he'd be able to love me if I were in Slytherin. I wonder if I'd find him so attractive if he were in Gryffindor.

I wonder if he's ever going to kiss me again and mean it.