Shades of Grey

Shades of Grey

Chapter Four: Cabin Fever

No date.

Writing has become my opiate - my means of escape from the real into the surreal. My thoughts tumble out on paper, jumbled and harsh, like blots of ink smeared on fresh parchment.

I cannot escape who I am, who I have become, or what I have done. My morals are neither black nor white; instead, they border the ambiguous lines and muddled shades of grey.

I feel trapped in my own mind, suffocating and gasping for air. I don't know how much longer I can keep it together. Is it wrong to want to run away from it all?

Draco put down the journal and rubbed his eyes. He had been reading over the red writing of the prolific diarist for the better part of the day. His eyes had become bloodshot and sore. He had to squint in order to read the tiny, fine writing. He wondered why his fellow belletrist had decided to print so small (and upside down in the back of the journal for that matter). He or she had obviously gone through a lot of trouble to hide his (or her) writings.

The identity of the author or the reasoning behind the madness did not matter to him. What mattered was the level of comfort he felt with the mirroring thoughts in the journal. He even found a measure of solace in the Weasley girl's presence outside. While she was a dogmatic pain in his arse, and he had not conversed with her once since she broke his wand, it was just a natural comfort to have her nearby. It was nice to know that he was not alone in the world.

The brief interlude of communication had stirred him from his solitude, from the silence he had endured for the past month. Now, having it taken away from him again, he almost longed for it. It was not that he wanted the Weasley girl preaching in his ear every day. It was just that on quiet days like these - of which there were so many - he welcomed the castigation. He would never admit that he was wrong or that he was unjustified; however, he could concede that he wished he had chosen a slightly different path. But the past was the past, and he could not go back and change who he was, even if he wanted to.

It wasn't like anyone would notice, least of all the Weasley girl. Her view of him was set in stone. There was no way to change it, and, frankly, he didn't want to. Draco had to admit that the redhead had spunk but very little else to her credit. She had left his wand in two broken halves on the floor, and when she had quitted the room, he had tenderly picked up the broken pieces and secretly hid the remnants of his power underneath his pillow, along with the journal. He knew that she was attempting to break his spirit. Her first symbolic act had been to break his wand, leaving only the body and mind left. He did not wish to work on his mind since it often wandered back into the abyss where he had placed his loneliness, fears, and guilt. So now all he had left was his body. It was something, he guessed. Something he could work on and improve.

Not long after the Weasley girl had arrived, he had begun a training regimen of sorts. He began doing push-ups, sit-ups, and even stood his bed up so he could do chin-ups off it. The only thing he lacked was room to run and weights for his arms. In lieu of dumbbells, he used the heavy iron urn that stood near the door. In the end, it was all a form of misdirection, distracting him from his true pain and depression.

~*~

Ginevra tramped her way up the stairs into her room on the second floor. She went over to the fireplace and grabbed the bag of Floo powder that sat at the hearth. She had been in this miserable abode for almost a month now, and Harry had not called her once. He said she would be only there a month, maximum. If this was true, then two days from now her time would be served.

Regardless, she was lonely, restless, and going slightly stir crazy. 'Cabin Fever' is what Muggles called it. She just wanted to speak with her boyfriend. They had owled back and forth a couple days a week, but letters were not enough. She needed to see and speak with him. Harry had told her to Floo her in case of emergencies. While this was not an emergency, she did have questions that needed answers.

She had received an owl from him a few days earlier, informing her that all the wards had finally been lifted from Grimmauld Place. Now he, Ron, and Hermione were staying there, so at least she now knew where to Floo him.

Ginevra took her wand in her right hand and lit the dry, stacked wood in the fireplace. The flames grew bright, illuminating her dazzling red hair. She then set down the bag that was in her left hand and bent down to reach inside, nipping a pinch of Floo powder to dash into the fire. The flames turned green, and she clearly enunciated her destination: "Harry's room: Grimmauld Place."

Ginevra's face glowed green in the mist, poking out of Harry's fireplace.

"Gin!" Harry exclaimed, getting up from his bed.

It was only half past nine in the evening, but he was dead tired. He had spent the entire day in meetings and sitting in on hearings.

"Hey!" Ginevra replied, greeting her sleepy boyfriend. "I know you said not to use the Floo except in case of emergencies, but I just needed to see you and talk to you, you know?" She looked both apologetic and embarrassed for admitting something so personal and girlish.

"No worries, Gin," he returned, smiling. He walked over to the fireplace and sat down. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering," she began, sighing, "when do I get to come back home? I mean, when is Malfoy's court date set?"

"Uh, well, we still haven't even discussed it yet," he admitted guiltily.

"What?" she asked, her pitch rising, much like her temper was at the moment.

"Well, there have been slightly more pressing and urgent issues, such as warding Azkaban, hiring guards, and sentencing Death Eaters," he explained to her in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Malfoy was a Death Eater!" she exclaimed, unimpressed with her boyfriend's response.

"Yes, but he never killed anyone," he rejoined, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. "We are first dealing with the Death Eaters who killed. Besides, he was under-age when he joined. We still need to look into the rules for dealing with under-age wizard criminals."

"So what you're saying is that I could be here for another month?" she asked in disbelief.

"Or more," he answered bluntly.

"What!" she shouted, wanting to reach her hands through the fireplace to throttle him.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, but we are seriously backlogged here. It may take a few more months until we can get to Draco's case," he explained, now sounding slightly put off and annoyed with her.

"A few months!" she exclaimed.

Did Harry seriously expect her to guard Malfoy for several months? She was no jailer.

"I'm really sorry, Gin-bug," he said with sincerity in his voice, his annoyed expression dissolving instantaneously. "I really appreciate what you are doing for us." He suddenly frowned and looked serious. "Malfoy isn't giving you a hard time, is he?"

"No," she replied, still annoyed with Harry for not expediting Malfoy's case. "He hasn't been bothering me at all. Of course, I just feed him. That's all."

"Well, it's probably better that way," Harry said, nodding his head. "I will Floo you on the weekend." His eyes then lightened as if he had just remembered something. "Oh, and I have your letter here." He smiled cheerily as he walked over to his desk, holding up a piece of parchment. "I will owl you back tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay." She grumbled to herself, utterly annoyed and deflated at once. "Oh, Harry!" she called out to him, remembering what she had meant to ask him a long time ago. "You forgot to answer one of my questions in my first owl."

"Oh, what was that?" he asked.

"When I went to pack for Godric's Hollow, I noticed that a few of my textbooks were missing - and a few novels. And then I saw some of them in Malfoy's cell." She had an eyebrow cocked in the air, and she looked a might miffed.

"Oh, yeah ..." Harry paused, looking sheepish. "We were in such a rush to get Malfoy into the house that I just told Ron to grab some books for him to read. We really didn't think it would take this long to get everything sorted."

"Ron, huh?" she asked, sounding sceptical.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that, Gin," he apologised, looking truly apologetic.

"Yeah, whatever."

~*~

Draco heard the footsteps approach his door, and he let go of the iron bar, gracefully dropping to the floor. He turned the bed upright with ease and brought a hand to his brow. He very rarely sweat, especially due to exercise, but it was a decidedly muggy mid-July. The humidity made him perspire regardless of how small his pores were.

He was sure that the Weasley girl had heard the metal scrape against the floor for she had quickly muttered a spell to open the door to his cell.

"What are you doing in here?" she cried, exasperated, as she strode into the room.

She was wearing a white tank top and matching boy cut shorts. Her copper mane was held back in a loose ponytail. She looked almost as pale as he did. She also looked tired and put out. He roughly sized up her demeanour and tone and figured that this meeting with her was not going to bode well, for him.

Draco did not bother to answer her. Instead, he went over to the sink and began to wash his face. He grabbed a towel from the tiny counter and began to dry himself. He had wished for a tub of some sort so that he could have a proper bath. At least the girl gave him clean towels and soap every day. He had to be thankful for the small things.

"Still mute then?" she asked, her voice less cold and domineering than usual.

He had his back to her as he went to lift up his shirt, peel it off, and then throw it into the hamper beside his wardrobe. He was going to act as though she wasn't even there. He would begin his routine of bathing himself, at least the upper half of his body. He wasn't about to dignify her small talk with a response. Besides, he figured she was probably only here to pick up his laundry.

Ginevra's mouth dropped open slightly when Malfoy took his shirt off right in front of her. She quickly masked her initial look of shock and averted her eyes. It wasn't the fact that he was undressing in front of her that had startled her the most: it was that the once slender, almost effeminate boy was filling out quite nicely. He had turned to the side to toss his shirt, and she watched how his muscles rippled as he moved. He was not very large or extremely muscular, but he was tight and toned and cut nicely in almost every area.

Draco had not even noticed Ginevra's reaction to his undressing. He was focused on the task at hand. After giving his upper body a quick scrub with the soap, he followed it with a rinse from his cloth and then towelled himself dry. He then walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a fresh, clean, black polo shirt. Luckily, the Order had fetched for some of his clothing. He was only given a few pairs of everything, but that was better than wearing one outfit for several months.

"I see you're reading Wuthering Heights," she remarked absently as she cleared her throat and walked over to his bed, noticing the book lying open and overturned on his pillow.

Draco snapped his head to the side to follow her path. He hadn't noticed that she had fully come into the room. The door was wide open behind him. He could have made a break for it, but then he figured whoever warded this house wasn't stupid enough to overlook a runaway prisoner. He was most likely being tracked somehow.

"It's a good book," she said, trying to stir some conversation.

Draco figured the girl must have been going out of her mind if she was desperate enough to strike up a dialogue with him.

"Nothing is quite what it seems," she continued. "The main characters are so morally ambiguous, and the--"

"I don't plan on starting a book club with you, Weasley," he interrupted coldly.

He had not meant to say that out loud. This was not because he wished to keep her placated but rather because he had startled himself as he had not heard his own voice in weeks.

"Right." She glared up at him. She had merely tried to have a conversation, and he had to go and be a git about it. "That Heathcliff was a right evil, selfish bastard!" she remarked, striding back towards the door. "You must empathise with him greatly." She gave him her best sneer and then turned around to exit.

"Everything he ever did was for love, for Catherine," he rejoined quietly, his back to her.

He then turned around to face her and saw her eyebrow raised in incredulity at the words he had just spoken. He scowled at his openness with her.

"And she was no saint herself!" he spat, recovering, eliciting a glare from the red-haired vixen.

Ginevra huffed at Draco and then turned on her heel, slamming the door shut behind her.

Draco cursed under his breath and went over to his bed and sat down in defeat. He hung his head in his hands and sighed. Suddenly, he sat up and pulled the diary out from underneath his pillow. He opened the book and located the passage that he needed to read.

Anger, revenge, and morality - all the bastard spawns of pride. We cannot escape our parentage, but we can expiate our sins. The only thing that prevents us is our creator. Can we overcome our hubris? Do we want to? ... Do I?

Would pride be his downfall? Why was he holding onto it so dearly, unless it was all that he had left of himself?

~*~

Author notes: Of course any interpretation made of Wuthering Heights is my own, and one may or may not agree with my lackadaisical analysis. Also, I realise that the whole inmate-working-out bit is rather clichéd, but there is a reason why it is overdone. Draco is a eighteen year old man in his prime - he needs to work out his aggression and depression somehow. I could think of someone he could work it out on ...