What You See

Ginny

I hate you. I really do. But not as much as I hate myself for not being good enough for you. They're good enough for you, those beautiful girls, with their clothes and make-up, but not me. I'm just the background. The girl who listens, pushes you through, tries to smack some sense through your skull. That is, if you notice me long enough to listen. But I always try. And it's just not enough.

I've never been beautiful. Not me, with this unsightly hair. I'm not lean enough; my hair isn't straight and thick, falling down my back. When I look in the mirror I see these freckles, and skin that never tans. Maybe that's why I've never been good enough. I want to think that's why. That I can understand. After all, who wouldn't rather have those supermodel-like girls with their tossing hair and flashing smiles? Those girls like Cho, who walk down the hall surrounded by millions of friends, who all have that bag, and that skirt. The glamorous ones.

Then there I am, with my plain pants and shirt, nondescript. Shoving everyone away, angry, but not dramatic enough to be tortured or dark. Just enough to escape everyone's notice. You noticed once, when I tried being like them. Subtly of course, just the tiniest change. "Why aren't you happy with yourself?" you asked me.

Isn't it obvious? I wanted to scream. How can I be good enough for myself when I'm not good enough for you? But I didn't. Instead I just gave you my look. The one that I give everyone, it's so easy to misinterpret. To you it says, "I'm okay with myself, and I don't give a crap what you or anyone else think." You don't see that I've put my soul in my eyes, hoping against hope that you'll see it there and understand. But you don't, Harry. No one ever does.

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Draco

Beautiful Virginia. Everyone thinks I hate you and your family. With the possible exception of that prat of a brother who never notices you, Ronald, that simply has never been true. But I am good at hiding what I really feel, when I want to. Almost as good as you are.

When I look at you I see the bags under your eyes, and the telltale darkness on your face left by your tears. No one else can see it, but I can. It is always there, like the paleness of your skin, such a dark contrast with your strawberry hair. Even your hair has been getting darker, mirroring the soul that you show only through your eyes.

He doesn't think you ever cry, Wonder-boy Potter. Whenever you turn your shadowy eyes to him, all he sees is the surface you want him to see, the message that will put his mind at rest. He misses the flashes of pain in them, the emptiness you pretend you don't feel. Do you even know what expressive eyes you were born with, Virginia?

When you turn your face to me, of course I feel the hot anger of your temper, and the hatred burning through the air towards me. But I also see the rest, what everyone else misses. I see the reason behind your fury. You know that your rage is the only way to distract people away from seeing that aching soul of yours; it's the only way to mask whatever hurt you feel. Sometimes if you get angry enough, the pain even recedes.

But it always comes back at night, doesn't it, Gin? When you cry all alone, because there is no one that you can really trust not to hurt you anymore. I know what its like, what Tom did to you. Everyone thinks it hurt because you trusted him, and he was evil, just using you. But that's not the real reason, is it? It hurts because you trusted him and he left. He's no longer here for you when you need someone. I know. My father did the same thing to me. Sure, when I was growing up he was a hurtful bastard, but even something like that is something we can deal with. Yeah, pain hurts, but emptiness is what really tears at someone's soul.

So write me a letter Virginia. Maybe when you can stop being a masochist and are ready to heal, well then maybe we can save each other.