She Will Never Know

And I'll be everything that I wanna be.

I am confidence in insecurity;

I am a voice yet waiting to be heard;

I'll shoot the shot BANG!

that you hear 'round the world.

And I'm a one girl revolution,

I'm a one girl revolution.

Some people see the revolution

but most only see the girl.

I can lose my hard-earned freedom

if my fear defines my world.

I declare my independence from the critics and their stones.

I can fight my revolution.

I can learn to stand alone.

- One Girl Revolution; Superchic[k]

She Will Never Know

Part II

It was hard, learning to cope with your own personal antagonist - a bully. Bullies were something your brothers - muscular, rough, boys - handled; you were almost positive that some were bullies themselves. But you - you were a female, a nurturer, a peacemaker. Bullies were something you were unfamiliar with, something that you weren't used to, but still a part of adolesences. And by sixteen, you'd thought that everyone your age had outgrown something as immature like that - bullying.

But, then again, this was Malfoy you were talking about. Not some average seventeen-year-old wizard, not some boy coming from a good home and caring family, not someone who would care about how they made others feel. So you still found yourself writing home to complain to your mum about him as you had for the last five years, calling him 'That Terrible Malfoy Child' - a phrase that you coined when you had ran into him at the bookstore, the year that Da and Mr. Malfoy - that bastard - got in a fight.

What does he have against me? you'd wonder to the paper. Why me? Ron's still here - why not him? Smirking sarcastically, you'd answer yourself on the parchment, probably because he knows Ron, and Ron fights. Malfoy can't hold his own against someone like Ron.

Your mum, being the wise woman that she is, said not to worry about Malfoy. He's immature, Ginny, but he was raised to be a gentleman (not saying that he is one, of course, but it's there). Words are the only way he can and will attempt to hurt you, but they are only as powerful or as powerless as you make them. Love you, dear.

Your mum was right. If you let his words hurt you, then they would. But if you somehow made yourself not care about them - or him - then they would fall on deaf ears, and eventually, he'd tire of talking to a wall and leave you alone - for good. And if not, there was always the hope that he'd be leaving next year. Finally - one year, Malfoy-free. You deserved such.

As you matured, you began to read, and speak. Tom had taken your voice, the beautiful, sweet voice that talked to birds, the voice that sang at the brook behind your house. The voice that gave you the confidence to speak, to be heard aloud, to voice your thoughts and your opinions. And you worked to reclaim it. You memorized poetry and sonnets of old Wizarding legends, reading classics about Merlin, the Founders of Hogwarts, even famous Quidditch players through the ages. When you found your voice again, it came with learned self-taught knowledge. Your reason had straightened itself; your discernment, ever sharper. Your wit and sarcasm fell to a fault as your beauty blossomed inward and upward. Your brain was beautiful, you were beautiful.

Your body changed as your mum had always said it would. Your legs were no longer too long for your body; your shoulders no longer looked awkward on a frame that was too small for it. The pimples left your face, which had evened itself out. Your nose no longer looked too big between two cheeks; your teeth were straightened within your mouth. And Malfoy could no longer make fun of your beautiful red hair, which you now wore with confidence and appreciation of its unique color.

He still made fun of your old and fraying robes, your used books, your freckles, and large, poor family. But as he glanced at your robes, their holes and faded spots, you stood straighter. When he sneered at your books, pages falling out and the binding unraveling, you held them higher in your arms. If he stared at you with his cloudy gray eyes at your face, you smiled at him so your freckles would stand out farther. And instead of feeling shame when he teased the Weasley name, you felt proud of them, of their optimism, their acceptance, and their love.

You did anything within your power to let him know just how much you didn't care. Sometimes, you told him that: you simply didn't care. Sometimes, you asked him why he does, but not bother to hear the rest. Sometimes, you'd fight, and make fun of him. And sometimes, you walked away silently, leaving him and his thoughts alone in the hall.

And he watched you leave. You could feel it, and you never asked why, and you never turned around to look at him as you disappeared down the hall.

~*~

"Why does he keep looking at me?" you wonder to Hermoine during dinner one night. He sits so he faces you, and you don't want him to win by switching places with her. So he stares at you while you eat, and though you pretend it doesn't bother you, it does - it does terribly.

And Hermoine, she is the expert on Slytherin guys, particularly one Blaise Zabini, who tormented her for two years before unexpectedly catching her hand before she slapped him and kissing her right on the lips. You figure that you can trust her opinion.

"Who?" she asks, looking up at you from her meal, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin.

"Malfoy," you hiss over the table before grabbing a dinner roll and buttering it to look inconspicuous.

"What's he doing?" she asks, slowly turning around, scanning the Great Hall and all its eating occupants. She sees him smirking in the direction of Harry, who doesn't notice at all, and Ron, who glares at Pansy Parkinson, who likes him but won't admit it.

"Don't look!" you say before grabbing her shoulders and turning to face you. "He was staring at me just a second ago! He's been doing it all dinner long. And not just tonight, he has since the beginning of school. It's bloody annoying."

She wrinkles her nose. "And everyday, he stops me in the hall to make fun of me. Every single day, without fail! Honestly, Hermoine, what does he have against me?"

She shrugs. "Maybe he never got over the Bat-Bogey hex in fifth year." You grin before it disappears as he turns to face you. His smirk wipes the wide grin off your face.

Looking back at Hermoine, you ask, "Is he really that immature?" She bites her lip, thinking.

"You don't like him at all, do you?" she asks, her voice lowered a notch. You shake your head. "Well," she begins slowly, her voice just over a whisper, "What if you never had a feud with him? Your families never disliked each other? No Weasley/Malfoy history? What would you think of him then?"

You sit back on the bench, absent-mindingly spooning some mashed potatoes into your mouth while you think. Aside from the fact that Malfoy is a bastard, he is rather handsome. His body grew and he now can look down on your tall frame, and he is certainly very muscular. His hair, now touching his shoulder, is tied back with a leather thong, making him look older, more mature - although you know he's not. You're entranced by his stunning eyes, and he can be eloquent sometimes. And you're almost sure that he can play the piano, and in your wildest fantasies, he can fence like how Bill taught you. Mum was right in saying he's a gentleman; he's just not to you, and you don't want him to. But he is smart, top of his house, and a damn good Quidditch player.

"I might have liked him!" you say, repulsed at the thought. "If I didn't like him, I'd think he was rather good-looking, and he is smart." Hermoine nods her agreement, then sighs audibly. You shudder.

"Alright, you have to promise not to get mad at me for saying this," she says to your eagerly nodding head. "It's just what I think; it's not necessarily true, but -"

"Oh blast it, 'Moine. Just tell me, I swear I won't get mad."

The first time she tells you, you asked her to repeat, not sure that you had heard her correctly. The second time, you were sure that she had misspoken, and you had stopped breathing. She rolled her eyes when you asked her to repeat for a third time, but you heard her correctly, saying the same thing that she had the previous two times before: "Ginny, I think that Malfoy fancies you."

~*~

Be nice, you remind yourself as you walk over to the Quidditch trunk, ignoring Malfoy who stands on the other side. Don't be a sore winner and rub it in his face that we won. Not very sportsman-like.

Oh God, he's staring at me again. You can feel it. Your sweaty cheeks flush as you lift your side of the trunk, the violent bludgers bucking inside the trunk. Kicking it with your toe, you look down, refusing to look at him and wishing that he'd stop.

That was a good game. You had scored a brilliant 50 points, and the chase for the Snitch had been close, with Harry sneaking up behind Malfoy and grabbing it right out of - you swear - Malfoy's hands. Gryffindor won. You won. You were sweaty and smelly and must've looked awful, but you won.

"That was a quite a good game, don't you think?" he asks you. Your eyes open wide before closing again. He will not see me like this. He is just Malfoy. Now, quit being such a freak and look. Breathe, it's just Malfoy.

But just Malfoy had changed. You no longer resented his teasing so much, now that you had a completely different angle of him. And - frankly - he wasn't that terrible looking. Right now, he was completely gorgeous regardless of the fact that he was sweaty and smelly, with parts of his hair plastered to his face and his sweater top slightly damp.

"Yeah, it was wicked good," you say, smiling at him. Good job, Ginny!

"You really played hard, Weasley. I mean, you could knock small animals out with your odor." Instantly, you clam up, embarrassed. Not only because you stink, but because he complimented you. Stop! You're blowing this whole thing out of proportion! It's just Malfoy! you feel like screaming to yourself.

You look right into his gray eyes as you continue to walk. "Witty," you say, looking him up and down, feeling quite bold. "You too, Malfoy, and you didn't finish the game exactly spotless." He smirks, running a hand through his white hair, shining with reflected sunlight. You feel like whistling, like your brothers, but that's incredibly tacky and inappropriate.

"Damn close to havin' the snitch."

"You noticed?" he asks you, slightly surprised with his eyebrows raised.

"Of course I noticed! Everyone stops to watch you and Harry chase the snitch."

"Really? Doesn't seem like it."

"Oh yes, it's the most exciting part of the game. You and Harry, neck to neck. Everything stops, you almost forget to breathe." And you have to remind yourself to do just that.

"Well what about you guys? You're fairly important," he says. You're flattered, though you know you shouldn't be.

"Oh, we're important, but not as important as the seekers are to the team and to the fans. Chasers, beaters, keepers? All background," you say, waving your other hand in dismissal as you stop in front of the Quidditch shed.

You set the crate down and dig out your wand in your pocket, lighting the lanterns that hang suspended from the ceiling. The smell of old sweat hits you like a wall, but living with six boys has made it normal to you. Along one side of the wall are shelves with hangers for the Quidditch gear, with all except for two hangers full. Along the other wall are school brooms, hanging handle-down.

Malfoy takes the crate and carries it into the middle of the shed. He uses it as a chair as he begins to dismantle the Quidditch gear. You do likewise, and the shed is silent as you undo the protective gear and shrug off your heavy robe.

He walks over to the shelves and grabs both hangers, poking you in the shoulder with one before you take it from him. You can't help but grin at his thoughtful gesture and say a quiet "Thanks" as you quickly hang your gear.

As he stands up to hang it on the shelf, you steal it, accidentally brushing the top of his hand. It is very soft and tickles your palm. He says nothing but looks surprised as you hang both hangers in their respectable areas of the shelf. When you turn around, he looks at you with a raised eyebrow and a self-satisfied smile.

"You're supposed to insist on hanging it yourself," you say as you wait for him to close and lock the shed.

"Why?" he asks, catching up to you. "If you wanted to take it from me, I wasn't going to stop you." Damn him! I try to do something nice and he's completely ungrateful!

"But that's not being gentlemanly!" you say simply, looking up at him. And you're supposed to be a gentleman! you want to yell into his face.

"It's not a question of being a gentleman or not!" he says before pausing. "Besides, I handed you the hanger."

"That was real difficult, Draco," you say with sarcasm, staring into his eye. You want to see his reaction badly but the only thing that happens is his eyes widen slightly. You're disappointed, but you pretend not to notice.

"I would've hung your gear back up. I was closer," he offers, making you smile and your stomach twist.

"Yeah, but my feminine pride would have been deeply offended," you answer. "And they aren't all that heavy."

"See! You have nothing to complain about," he says, slightly confused.

"One of them isn't so bad," you say, gesturing in front of him. "Two is pressing your luck." His shoulder bumps yours, and you look up and meet his eyes.

"You took it out of my hand, Weasley," he says softly, so only you can hear, catching your upheld hand and wrapping around his long pale fingers around it. His grip is firm but gentle, almost protective and your entire arm feels like it's on fire. "I wasn't exactly holding a wand to your head."

You swallow uncertainly and look from Malfoy to your hands - held together - then back to Malfoy. Don't let go, you think as he unwinds his fingers slowly, releasing their hold one at a time. His scowl confuses you - either he hated touching you - Weasley filth - or he didn't want to let go either. Your hand, now alone, lowers itself slowly, as though he might've grabbed it again if it stayed in midair.

The control and ease that you possessed until now has vanished. Your heart races within your chest. But for all he can do to your body, he has still not given his thanks, the one thing that he would say if he really liked you.

"I was hoping that you'd say thank you, that's all," you say as you walk ahead of him.

No. I'm not finished, you think as you slow down. If he likes me, he'll say it.

You look up at him fiercely. Go on. Say it. But he doesn't, and you know that he won't.

Forget it, you think as you approach the locker rooms, shaking your head. He's not going to say it; Hermoine was wrong. He doesn't like me.

"Weasley," he says as you turn to enter the Gryffindor locker rooms. You turn and look at him, slightly discouraged and disgusted with yourself. His presence now annoys you and you wish to be left alone. From the look on his face, you raise your eyebrow.

"Thank you," he says, nodding slightly, completely surprising you. He turns to the Slytherin locker rooms before he can see your wide smile. He takes off his robe and throws it over his shoulder dismissively.

"You're welcome, Draco," you say as you turn and enter your own locker room.

It feels good and natural to say his name - Draco. And you're pretty sure that he doesn't mind it either.