Shades of Grey

Shades of Grey

Chapter Eight: Starting Over

"If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself. I would find ... a way." - Johnny Cash's version of NIN's Hurt.

They spent the entire night talking, right into the bright and early hours of morning. Draco could sense the loneliness reflecting off her, mirroring his own sense of loss and confusion. He never dreamed of the day the day that he would be sitting in a pool of his own blood on the dirty floor of a prison cell, talking with the Weasley girl about life and its disappointments. If stranger things had been known to happen, he assumed that was a relatively short and mind-boggling list.

How he had come to discussing intimate details with the redhead, and she with him, was beyond unnatural, beyond the surreal. He hadn't even known what her first name was until his last year at Hogwarts. The Carrows had brought in everyone's personal files for select ranks of Slytherins to peruse. He, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo, had been given the task of sorting out who was pureblood and who was half-blood in each house.

He had come across the redhead's file (Ginevra Molly Weasley), and Pansy had snorted at the name and ridiculed it, wondering why everyone called her 'Ginny'. She had assumed that the name had been short for 'Virginia'. Draco, like Blaise and Theo, had merely shrugged his shoulders, uninterested. He never thought much of the little Gryffindor while at Hogwarts. She was just another Weasley, another Potter-worshipper. Although he had not seen much of her during his last year at school, he had an inkling of where she was most of the time. He had known that she had got into trouble a few times with the Carrows (for numerous and, he was sure, pointless reasons) and with Snape for trying to steal Godric Gryffindor's sword. He had not known, however, that she was being abused.

He wasn't stupid. He knew that the Carrows and Crabbe and Goyle and other Slytherins were torturing other students, specifically Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, using the Cruciatus Curse on them for kicks. He did not figure that any actual physical abuse was going on, and he certainly did not suspect sexual abuse, but then he never served or even observed detentions. He spent most of his time at school alone, near the lake or the Shrieking Shack. He thought that disentangling himself from others' crimes would make him less culpable.

He was wrong.

In his mind, he began to go over the vague details that the petite redhead had somewhat offered. He knew that she did not want to share something so personal with him, something that she, most likely, had told no other, had just recorded in her journal. She had done this for him, to make him understand that he was not alone in his pain. After all that he and his family had done to her and her own, all the anger that she had built up inside, she had managed to swallow it, and press it deep down inside herself for one night, one night in which she would offer a piece of herself to him. He was afraid to ask why.

It made him sick to his stomach thinking that someone had tried to violate her or any woman for that matter. He may have been a bully, but he was a firm believer that a wizard should never raise a hand to a witch. He could guess at who all harmed her and what was done or even what was attempted, but the thought that he was once friends with these people made him feel guilty and ashamed, as if he had helped perform the deeds himself. Perhaps that is why she took such pleasure in punishing him. She needed someone to place the blame on. He had brought the Death Eaters into the school, after all.

The wave of revulsion that he felt in the pit of his stomach amplified as he began to realise that the anger he felt towards the people who harmed the Weasley girl wasn't just on general principle alone. It was because the sick and unforgivable actions of a barbarous few had made her this way, had made her resentful and angry. What he was seeing now, this gentle and empathetic creature before him, was the real Ginny before life beat her down. This girl he wanted to protect, and he had no idea why.

It was true that he had begun to form a sort of respect for the little Gryffindor as she told her tale in person and on paper. Her words, written in the diary, had provided him with comfort and solidarity. He found himself admiring her tenacity and strength, her unwillingness and refusal to be broken. She did not surrender; she was relentless as she was obstinate. She had been cunning and resourceful, two traits needed to be able to survive and fight back in a school of Death Eaters. It was a bit too Gryffindor for his liking - the fighting a losing battle part - but she had some true Slytherin to her. There was bite behind her bark.

Draco shook his head and sighed. He was, admittedly, getting soft. This place was finally starting to affect him. He was comparing a Gryffindor to a Slytherin in a positive light for Merlin's sake! He turned his face to steal a glance at her, watching her rest her head back against the mattress with her eyes closed as the glare of the sun began to peek its way through the window. He tilted his head and observed how the light made a warm glow on her cheeks, illuminating the brilliant shine of her auburn hair. Before, he hadn't noticed how serene and calm she looked while at ease (when not yelling at him). Up until this point, he had only seen her fly off the handle or point a wand or a finger at his face in a threatening or self-righteous manner, her eyes ablaze with fury.

He furrowed his brow and frowned, crossing his arms over his now-broad chest. Why could he not stop looking at her? While she wasn't extraordinary, he had to admit that she was exceptional, in her own way. There was something childlike and irresistibly feminine about her when she was still. He had yet to see her smile or laugh, and he doubted he would be afforded such an opportunity. The soft creases at the corners of her almond-shaped eyes and the faint lines in the middle of her cheeks hinted that she did, in fact, smile. Quite a lot, he assumed. Simple features, considered flaws to some, he found endearing on her, even attractive.

She finally opened her eyes and took in a deep breath, lowering her head. He quickly turned his face, averting his eyes should she decide to glance over at him. Instead, she made to get up, and he turned his attention back to her and absently reached out to grab her hand.

Ginevra looked down at his fingers closed around her wrist. Perplexed, she didn't wrest her hand from his. Instead, she slightly parted her lips and made to speak; however, the words would not come out.

"Why did you stop writing?" he asked, searching for any question that would make her stay a little while longer.

"Harry," she replied quietly. He lowered his eyes and let go of her hand. "He came back, and ... well, it was time to stop those sort of things."

He gave a short laugh through his nose, his chest puffing outwards.

"What?" she asked, sitting back down as she folded her arms across her chest.

"So it was time to put the mask back on and be Potter's girl?" he asked, turning his beautifully marred face up at her.

She opened her mouth and closed it. She pursed her lips together and frowned, unsure of how to respond to such a question. "It was not an act," she finally retorted in a defensive tone.

"Sure," he said softly, nodding his head. "He's your soul mate then, yeah?"

Ginevra's frown intensified. Why was he asking her such questions? They were having a cordial conversation up until this point, for hours actually. Why did it seem like he was now interrogating her?

"He knows all about what happened to you at Hogwarts while he was gone?" he asked with a characteristic smirk on his face and a gleam in his cloudy eyes. "You think he cares to know?"

He knew that he was overstepping his bounds with her, but he had to know, he had to find out what was so bloody fantastic about The Boy Who Lived Twice. What could Potter give her that he couldn't? Why could no one else be given a chance, and why was he even asking himself such questions?

"And what are you proposing, Malfoy?" she asked, gesturing with her hands. "That you know, that you care, that you can relate?"

He quickly reached out and grabbed her wrist once more, pulling her down towards him, cutting off her line of questioning. She gasped at his touch as he almost brought her onto his lap. Then, just as suddenly, he turned her arm over to expose it. Faint, tiny white scars lined the inside of her forearm. He knew that she had tried to conceal them, that she had been quick with the dittany and the lies. He felt the same pain. He could relate, thank-you-very-much.

"And these," he almost growled the words as she turned her face away from him, "does he know about these?" He didn't know why he was angry at her for these tiny scars, but he was. He was furious. "We have more in common than you think, Weasley." His hard, aquiline features had softened. "You know that. That is why you told me I was not alone."

She swallowed hard, keeping her face turned away from his, refusing to meet his eyes. She was embarrassed and ashamed, but she was also feeling alarmed and vulnerable. How could he spot her weakness so easily? How could she be so transparent to him? In two months, he had come to know things about her that her family could never even fathom, feelings that she had so cautiously guarded, secrets that she had so carefully hid.

"I'm not proud of what I did," she whispered, eyes dry as she studied his fingers that were wrapped around her slender wrist.

"Neither am I," he rejoined. "But then I have a lot more to feel guilty about, don't I?" He laughed acridly. "Perhaps this will be my ever-lasting reminder." He pointed to his scar with his free hand.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "You know, you could always do something about the guilt," she offered softly, turning her face up at him with a look of empathy in her eyes. "Make amends."

"How?" he asked, harshly letting go of her arm to stare up at her with bitterness in his eyes. He both hated and craved her sympathy. "And would that really change who I am inside?" He shook his head and looked up at her seriously. "Weasley ..." He paused and swallowed. "Ginevra?" Her head snapped up to meet his dark sincere eyes. "Do you believe in second chances? Do you think that someone can change who he is, on the inside?"

She tilted her head and answered him without hesitation. "If a person really wanted to, I think so," she answered, remembering Fred and George for some odd reason. "You can do anything, if you have the nerve."

He sighed and looked down at his hands, nodding his head in understanding, almost in appreciation. "If I could start again," he muttered and then stopped, shaking his head. "No, that's the past." He hung his head in defeat. "There's nothing I can do to change what has happened, what I have done."

"You're right, Malfoy," she replied softly, and his head seemed to drop even lower. "You can't go back and fix your mistakes of the past."

Ginevra then reached over and took his hand in hers, like she had when she first came through the cell door hours before. While the look she had given him earlier was one of sympathy and possibly even of pity, the look she was giving him now caused the rotted knot in his stomach to loosen.

"But you can start over," she said forcefully and determinedly as she squeezed his hand and smiled up at him.

He could not help but let the ghost of a sad smile touch his lips in return for the look she had given him was enough; the look she had given him was hope.

~*~

Author notes: Looks like someone's beginning to melt a little. As for Ginny, we finally begin to see, from Draco's point of view, one of the reasons why she is so bitter. We also see more of the fanon Ginny that we all love: the girl who is empathetic. Where was she hiding? Silly girl, welcome back!

Starting over. Isn't that always the hardest part? In the next chapter you will see that it is not just Draco starting over, but Ginny too. How will they interact with each other in the next chapter? You'll have to wait to find out. ^_^