The True Meaning of an Alternate Universe

The True Meaning of An Alternate Universe

I've got your wedding bells in my ear
Cheers darlin'
You gave me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away

Damien Rice

-*-

Her body is so supple and soft and her skin smooth satin against my lips. I can't help but moan when I hold her like this, undignified and for the whole world to see as she's pressed against the creaky wooden door of some lonely empty classroom. We're in another dimension.

"Ginny," someone mumbles wantonly. That someone cannot be me, not in a million years. Intoxicated, I am a boy whom I have never met, a stranger who's pensieve I now look into with satisfaction. I am simply in it for the pleasure of things.

For her part, she makes no sound. I don't know if I would like her passionate. I am passionate enough for the both of us, it seems. And anyway, our love is a quiet one.

I'm kissing her too much again. She shifts uncomfortably under my weight and I can feel her small hands tightly gripping the shoulder of my shirt.

"Alright," I say and I slip the shirt off and off it goes to the dirty floor where hundreds of plebian students have trodden. How uncharacteristic of me, but you can't help these things when you're so darkly blind.

Soon, we're both considerably less clothed, although never fully naked. We've never given each other that much, never trusting these moments enough to find a nice bed with silk sheets and soft pillows to fall asleep on after sex.

I'm pushing through inside of her before I know it. My body is all over hers, but how can I explain this feeling? I could never get too close to her.

In and out, in and out. I'm panting and sweating and very, very vulnerable. If anyone were to catch us now they would know who I am. She would shrink away. It's so dangerous, what we're doing, but these few seconds of intense pleasure cloud months and months of logical thinking and why, why, why I should not come here any longer.

As soon as I come, and as soon as she comes, she shudders away from me. Mute Girl Ginny Girl takes her clothes, shakes imaginary dust off of them and puts them back on. Her face is always red after sex and it's not because of how heated it is. She's ashamed and I know it. But that single look on her face, the look that I have caused has brought me more anger and desolation and ultimately, pain, than anything else that I've known.

This time, she's crying. She's red and crying. I can't even reach for her.

"You'll come back," I say. And that is all I say because I am not very eloquent at all and I'm not one of those boys that know exactly what to say to sobbing girls. She looks up at me then, great mud eyes magnified by the tears that cling to them. A pink tongue darts out and licks her dry lips.

"No. I won't. Goodbye Draco."

That is the most she has ever said in the course of our relationship.

-*-

I guess her shame has finally caught up to her. Her unquenchable conscience has whispered little by little of how wrong she is for doing what she has been doing, with me, no less. Is it me who has made her look so haunted?

"Mr. Malfoy," they say collectively to me. "What you have done is a very serious offense. We're afraid that it calls for dire consequences."

"Will I be expelled?" I say monotonously. The professors exchange furtive glances and continue to look intensely grave.

"Well--yes." They press further but it's like talking to a rock. "Do you understand? Do you understand what you've done?"

I should say, "Yes, sirs and madams, better than anyone. Certainly better than all of you." Instead I find my heavy head nodding. They take this as a sign of resignation. They decide that I must be sorry, because I have not been so agreeable in my entire seventeen years existence.

I am told I must never go near her. People, who generally used to look at me with contempt, fear and hate, do not even look at me anymore. Before, I was a spiteful boy. Over the course of a sudden day, I am a man. Men pay for their mistakes.

Her parents come to comfort her. They are considering taking Ginny Weasley out of the school. Ginny's mum is crying something awful, and I almost feel a shred of sympathy for them. Ginny continues to look at the ground in shame. Oh, Ginny. Wonderful, beautiful Ginny. Spiteful, hateful Ginny. Why? I ask with my gaze. She can't hear me.

They put her in the hospital wing. As if she is now diseased. It's an insult to both of us. Her parents and companions stand over her. I hear a snippet of their hushed conversations.

"She hasn't looked like this since...well, you know."

Yes, we know. All of us know. Poor Ginny. Bad Draco. Very bad, bad Draco. Like father like son, however. We are the bane of her existence.

And unfortunately, as I watch the entirety of my world turn against me as a whole, I fail to care about what is the truth. Truth is only a biased belief that I've artfully concocted in my apparently sick mind. All I care about is why I was not deserving enough to have Ginny, full and whole. Not ten percent Ginny, not even ninety percent. I wanted every bit; her kindness, her happiness, her liveliness.

I fall asleep that night without much trouble. Sick minds like mine are less troubled than one might think, I suppose.

The answer to my question, though, comes to me in the middle of the night.

You can't have any of her, because she hates your guts, Malfoy. In the dream, someone has written, Ginny Weasley Hates Draco Malfoy in the dirt and it is contained within a wobbly heart. It makes so much sense. I have become faceless, and so has she. Instead of it being the other way around, we have morphed to represent our names and only our names.

"Then I'm wrongfully named!" I try to shout at some unknown power. This unknown power answers me.

"Too late." Oh.

-*-

I'm leaving Hogwarts. Things have died down and they let her out of t he hospital wing. People are still not looking at me, with the exception of Ronald Weasley. He can't stop looking at me. It is not even with hatred anymore--it is with awe, with disbelief. I think he wonders if I am real, if I am tangible. He touched my arm once--the exact place Ginny once held as she came, hard and fast. Came because of me. Does he know any of that?

When it's time for me to go, I find myself going back to Our Classroom, capital letters. Of course she's in there. She's not talking to me again, just like she never did, but in her hand is a note, folded twice and sealed with no kisses.

I see her standing tall, still looking pained and pale and bitter about things I still believe I had nothing to do with.

"I'm sorry I was born with such a name like mine. Some of us--most of us, cannot help who we are," I say slowly. "But why? Just tell me I was not worthy of even one chance, no matter how much I touched you, no matter how many marks of love I left on your body."

Silence meets me. I am so angry, then. A little bit of Old Draco, who cares for no one, really, comes back and he is very impatient to tell this little girl off for wasting so much of his time. After all, what has Draco, any Draco, done to deserve this? Sixteen years of living life as a bully, and when I finally find someone worth redeeming myself for, she rips my life apart. Viciously. It's unjust, I know. But just as quickly, that childish, haughty Draco leaves. I'm pacified once again by the knowledge that this is the girl I love.

"No, I guess not," I mutter. "I guess you cannot even say that much for me. What am I to you, Ginny? After all of those months--do you even remember the first time anymore? The first time that I looked at you? The first time that my hand touched yours? The first time that I told you I loved you?"

I can see that she's crying now. My knees shake a little and I soften my tone. My hands quiver and move to cup her chin, but she darts out of the way. And lets out a sob.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" The question seems so imperative. She looks startled for a moment, then shrugs.

"For lying to them. About you. For telling them you--that you--" Of course she can't say that word. "--that you hurt me."

It's the wrong answer. I laugh and I'm surprised at how much it really hurts. The sound comes out dry from my throat. Something wet pricks my own eyes. "I can forgive you for that. I can forgive you for doing that a million times over and I'd still have enough left in me to love you. But why could you not stand being loved, Ginny? Am I so--disfigured? So unacceptable? Isn't love blind to the face of its bearer? My love, Potter's love, anyone else's love--what difference does it make? Despite who you've known me to be all these years, I still cared for you. And you shot that to hell. You made me feel like I was not worth feeling anything for. And for this, I don't think I can forgive and forget."

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, softer and weaker. This time, she sounds like she means it because she's having a lot of trouble just trying to keep herself from bawling, loud and wailing. But what has been done has been done. We both know that we can't go back to the first time we ever made love. It was probably the only time we ever made love. She was never louder as she was then, screaming and yelling and whispering things in my ear. She was life-full.

"Here," she says at long last. She thrusts the note at me. And with one last fleeting look, she leaves me, flickering out of my life just as fast as she had lit up.

-*-

I read that note on the ride home, where I will probably be met with odd stares. My parents will not know what to do with me. The law will, though. A part of me hopes Ginny will not tell them the truth at all, so that I may go to Azkaban Prison where my body will rot just like my soul is beginning to. But I know she will. She always comes clean. Always.

The note is penned in neat handwriting. It's nice to look at and terribly rigid.

Draco

I really am sorry. Contrary to what you may think, Ginny Weasley was madly in love with you. Her inner-being kept persuading her to realize how wrong you were. Moreover, how wrong it was to enjoy you kissing me and touching me. Meaningless and lusty caresses might have meant nothing to me but your hands were always most expressive of feelings. And inner-beings are quite strong-headed.

I don't think I should try to take up loving you again. I've already begun inching towards becoming strangers with you. I admit selfishly that life would be much easier without you and I believe that you will fade, and that I will love again. You agree and (hopefully) understand, don't you? Let's not make things so complicated. You'll probably marry someone in your parents circle of friends, someone who shares your same views and lives a life similar to yours--some insanely beautiful girl that your parents will fawn over. And me...I'll live my life with a nice, moralistic boy who works a stiff, boring job. But he'll be safe in a way that you never were. Security is sometimes more necessary than love.

I'm sorry I didn't turn out to be the hopeless romantic you were wishing for. I am disappointed in myself, too. But time and thinking do miracles, especially when they work together. I am convinced that what I am doing is for the best. The more I envisioned my future with you, and though I saw myself in love, the more I couldn't see myself escaping the feeling of ever present fright. We are not the only two people in the world. Us being together does not only affect ourselves, and it's a revelation that I've had to reluctantly accept.

And let's admit it--my family hates you. Your family would sooner kill themselves (or better yet, me) than see their only son married to me. Hate runs deep, Draco, sometimes maybe as deep as love. (Look at me--I sound like such a cynic.) Your father is the reason for many of my horrible childhood memories. To love you, and try to live a life with you? To try and merge my family to yours? I can't. Never. Not in this life. I'm sorry. I know you said you couldn't forgive me, but I hope that one day, when you're older and reminded of me, you'll realize that you have forgiven me and forgotten me.

Good-bye Draco, and don't think of me too harshly.

Ginny

P.S. Please don't write back.

Her note gets lost in my clenched fist. I search and search, but there is no room for argument. It does not matter how much I had been willing to give up for her. She is so sensible and in a way, so right. I feel silly and awkward, like a prepubescent little boy who has just kissed a member of the opposite sex for the first time. I wonder how I had ever gotten so caught up in romance. Because I too am sure that I will end up marrying a girl like Pansy Parkinson and I too am quite sure I will learn to love other girls. And yes, maybe one day I will be good enough to forgive her. Maybe.

But forget? It will be the hardest to do. I'm sure I'll fail a few hundred times. But her note, warm and distant balanced out equally in her perfect and persuasive words, convinces me to try. There is finality at the end of the letter that I can't ignore.

I lean back against the soft seat and look out the window, at the distorted image the rain has caused. It's not a cold day--not even remotely, but my hands, which were once scalding when touching her, are left cold and motionless.

I am filled with Ginny-memories. But I make a promise to myself then. Each day, I'll think of one memory. I'll allow myself that much. And every night, I'll put that memory away. I'll throw it away; crumple it up just as I have crumpled her note. Starting with her note. Day by day, I will think of her once and forget her once until there is nothing more left to remember. Until I can stop trying to remember her. Until I can kiss another woman and know that I have never loved anyone like so. Until I can look back at my seventeenth year and feel no increase in heart beat. Until I can shout Ginny Weasley's name to the winds and hear a nonchalant reply, something along the lines of, 'Who?' Pause. 'Oh, right. Didn't I go to school with her?' I will do all of this. Until I walk out of this alternate universe and see the sunlight for the first time in a year. Until I'm living in my right world again. Raw, harsh--

But real. The end.