Shades of Grey

Shades of Grey

Chapter Nine: Mea Culpa

"No one knows what it's like to feel these feelings, like I do. And I blame you." - Behind Blue Eyes by The Who.

Some birthdays are just not worth celebrating. It could be a day like any other day, a let-down like any other; however, when something depressing happens on your birthday, it makes it all the more poignant and all the more disappointing. It was a sobering experience, to say the least.

Ginevra tucked the letter underneath her pillow and sighed, holding back the tears that threatened to spill and flow so freely. She hugged her pillow instead, burying her face into the crisp white linen, stifling the sobs that racked her body with pain. She had never spent a birthday away from home, without her family. She never thought she would miss them as much as she did today.

Presents and letters littered the parlour floor. Everyone had remembered, everyone had congratulated her but Harry. She knew that he was busy and forgetful. He had never celebrated her birthday with her in the past as he had never spent a full summer at the Burrow. However, he had never forgot Ron's or Hermione's birthday. Ginevra was supposed to be his girlfriend, for Merlin's sake! Shouldn't he know? Shouldn't he care to enquire?

She brought the letter back out from underneath the pillow and stared at it. Harry had sent her a note asking her how she was doing, telling her that he missed her, and wanting a report on Malfoy's behaviour. No, 'Happy Birthday, Ginny'; No, 'I love you, Ginevra'.

She laughed bitterly. He probably didn't even know her actual given name. He cared more about Malfoy than her!

Ginevra crumpled up the letter in her fist and threw it into the fireplace. She trained her wand on it and lit the parchment on fire. As she watched the paper burn and turn into ash, she drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her legs, crying bitterly at what a lonely and wretched being she had become.

~*~

Draco tried to ignore the gentle sobs that came from the other side of the door. The walls were thin, and he was accustomed to the silence, which made her soft crying all the more loud to him. As much as he tried to shut the sounds out, he couldn't. He could feel her pain almost as if it was his own.

He didn't know why he felt such empathy towards her. She was his captor, his jailer. Why should he care? He shouldn't, but he did. He wondered why she, of all people, was crying. He never knew her to be anything but stubborn, determined, and strong. He somehow figured that if anyone was to break down and cry it would be him, not her.

He got up from the bed and began to walk towards the door. The sobbing abruptly stopped, and he could hear her sniffle and get up, making her way towards his cell. He stepped back and went over to the sink to wash his hands, attempting to look preoccupied and not as though he had been eavesdropping like he really was.

She knocked on the door and there was a pause. He slowly turned around and strangled out an "Enter" in confusion and shock as she had never knocked before.

It had only been a couple of days since they had their 'talk', since he had ... cut himself. She had been careful to check his dressing every day, always gentle and quiet. He knew that not much had changed between them. She was still wary and suspicious of him. It was foolish of him to believe that in one night she had come to empathise with him completely. She was not his friend, and he was not hers. Perhaps that one night was just a fluke, a one-time occurrence. The hardening knot in the pit of his stomach made him wish that this was not true.

She turned the knob and opened the door, stepping inside. Her eyes were puffy and red. There was no doubt that she had been crying, and she hadn't exactly tried to conceal it from him. He wondered why she was letting him see her like this. He supposed he wasn't important enough for her to hide her emotions and feelings from.

"You have a letter," she announced softly as she walked over to hand him the rolled up piece of parchment.

He took the letter and lowered his head, trying hard not to ask her who it was from. He would have to wait until she left so that he could read it and find out.

"After you have read the letter, would you like to take a bath?" she asked him, and his head shot up in surprise.

"Yes," he replied without any hesitation.

She smiled a little and sniffed, looking somewhat amused by his response. "I figured you wouldn't say 'no'," she retorted and went to leave, to give him his privacy. "Just knock on the door when you want to go up." The redhead then nodded her head sadly and left.

Draco stared at the closed door for a moment and then glanced down at his letter. He went over to his bed and turned on the lamp, even though it was not yet, and it was still bright and sunny outside.

He began to unroll the parchment and scowled. It was a letter from his mother. At least it was her signature at the bottom, her cursive script. Her message, however, was mostly blotted out, censored.

My beloved son,

I deeply regret not being able to send letter or word to you on your birthday as I was censored censored censored censored censored censored.

Your father and I censored censored censored censored censored censored. I hope you have received the news that censored censored censored censored censored censored.

Know that we love you very much, Draco.

My thoughts are with you, always.

Love,

Your Mother

Draco crumpled the parchment in his fist and threw it against the wall. His only letter from his mother in months, and the Ministry censored the whole bloody thing, blotting out everything with black ink.

"Fucking Potter!" Draco screamed, kicking at his metal trash bin, finding blame with one person.

He picked up his lamp, putting the cord out of the socket, and threw it against the wall, watching it explode into several jagged pieces. His anger could not be sated with the lamp. He had to do more to assuage his boiling rage. He turned to his bed and flipped the iron-sprung mattress over, thrashing it against the wall, giving it a sound kick. He then walked over to his sink and threw the porcelain bowl against the door, grinning at the harsh sound it made as it shattered against the wood.

"Fucking Ministry!" he swore again, something most uncharacteristic of him.

He then stormed over to the bookcase and began to grab his sparse collection of literature, tearing the covers off the books that he could grab a hold of, ripping the pages out in large clumps.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Ginevra's shrill voice cried out, ringing in his ears, causing him to drop the textbook in his hand.

Draco's eyes narrowed on the redhead, who had now fully stepped into the room. Her mouth was ajar as she surveyed the mess of his tiny cell, her wand gripped tightly in her small hand. He wanted to lunge forward and rip the wood out of her grasp and train it on her, to make her feel what he had been feeling since he was incarcerated here: hopelessness, frustration, and despair. How he wished he could make her understand how trapped he felt.

"I thought I'd redecorate!" he roared back at her facetiously, picking yet another book from the shelf and tearing its cover off.

She blenched and leapt forward, bringing her hand out to snatch the book from his hands. He reacted instinctively and nimbly stepped back, drawing his arms away to prevent her from stealing the book from him. He reached for another, but she was quicker this time.

"Those are my books, Malfoy!" she cried indignantly as she wrestled the copy of Wuthering Heights from his less-than-tenacious grip and hugged it close to her chest with her free hand.

He suddenly stopped what he was doing and turned around to face her completely. "These are yours?" he asked incredulously with a frown as he absently crumpled a loose leaf of paper in his fist and let it drop to the floor.

She creased her brow and glared up at him as she tightened her grip on her wand and flicked her wrist, sending the mangled remains of the books into a messy pile in the corner of the room.

"Yes, they were," she replied tersely behind clenched teeth as she turned around to face him, training her wand on him once more. "Now, I will ask again, what is going on here?"

Draco scowled and walked over to the sink and swiped his cup and toothbrush off the counter in anger.

"That lovely letter you gave me was from my mother." His voice was filled with venom, and the redhead frowned. "I would love to read it to you," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he dramatically clasped his hands together in front of his body, "but the Ministry saw it fit to censor every bloody word she wrote!" He turned around and leaned his back against the counter and brought his arms up to his chest to fold them over in a huffy manner.

Ginevra took a step forward and lowered her wand. "It was just a letter," she reasoned softly, and he looked down at her with pure hatred in his eyes.

"Just a letter from my mother, who may or may not be in Azkaban for all I know! She wasn't even allowed to tell me!" he cried almost desperately. "The only letter I have received since I have been here! My only contact with the outside world!"

He toed a large chunk of porcelain beneath his boot and kicked it across the room, listening to it smash and break against the wall.

"It wasn't just some letter to me, Weasley," he explained somewhat petulantly, looking down at the floor.

Ginevra swallowed hard and sighed. She, more than anyone, understand what he felt. They were not just letters. They were their only contact to the ones they loved. It was wrong for the Ministry to send him a censored letter. It probably would have been better to have never sent him anything at all.

"It just figures, you know," he began, clearing his throat as he stood up and pushed himself away from the counter. "Potter's got to hurt me any way he can to get his bloody revenge."

"What makes you think Harry has anything to do with this?" she asked, outraged.

Just when she began to empathise with the boy, he turned around and began to do the blame-game routine. She wished that he would just bloody-well grow up!

"What makes you think he isn't involved?" he retorted. "He is the Ministry now. He's been out to get my family ever sin--"

"Oh, bloody-well grow a pair, Malfoy!" she exclaimed, cutting the blond off.

Draco's mouth hung open in shock. He quickly snapped it shut and prepared himself to launch a verbal assault against the vitriolic Gryffindor standing before him.

"You want to blame everyone for everything!" she cut in, refusing to let him speak. "Will you ever place any of that blame on yourself? Will you ever be a man and own up to it?" She then threw the book in her hand to the floor and walked over to him.

He just stood there, motionless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish off the hook. He could not believe that she was talking to him like this. In his stunned state, he watched, in horror, as she reached out with her small deft hand and grabbed his right arm. She pulled it forward and flipped it over to show the Dark Mark on his inner forearm, much like what he had done to her when he revealed the shameful scars on her wrist.

"How did you get this, Malfoy?" she asked as she dug her nails into his flesh.

The same anger was in her eyes as it had been when he confronted her and made her confess. This anger was slightly different - it was accusing and damning.

"You have no fucking clue, Weasley!" he spat back, looking straight down into her cold amber eyes and smirked mirthlessly. "You stand here, passing judgement on me like you have been through what I have, placed in the exact same situations that I have." He laughed bitterly and shook his head. "You act so damn morally righteous, and yet you have no idea what it means to make life or death choices."

He wrenched his arm out of her grasp and glowered at her.

"No, I don't," she replied evenly, to his surprise; however her eyes were still cold and narrowed. "But you want to talk about blame, who did what for revenge, for power ..." She looked down at his arm and then looked back up at him. "Who made you take the Dark Mark, Draco?" He flinched at her use of his first name. "Who made you try to kill Dumbledore?"

"Vold--"

"Who made you?" she interrupted in a low voice.

"I told you! Vold--"

"Who made you?" she asked again.

She was not going to give up. She didn't want to hear his answer. She was just going to ask him the same question over and over again until he felt like crushing her windpipe with his bare hands.

"I DID!" he finally screamed back at her. "I did, alright? I wanted it, Weasley! I thought it was an honour."

She made a face and opened her mouth, but he would be damned if he was going to allow her to interrupt the confession that she had so mercilessly wrung from him. She would swallow his words and choke on them!

"Yes, an honour!" he cried, seeing the look on her face. "I was raised to believe that the Dark Lord's way was the only way. I thought I had no choice but to do what he asked. I thought he'd kill my parents, my mother, if I didn't do what he commanded, what my father couldn't do." He paused with a mingled look of mirth and disgust on his face. "But I still wanted it!"

He hadn't noticed the wetness on his cheeks, the silent tears that trickled down. It was funny. He didn't cry when they took his parents away to jail; he didn't cry when they locked him up here; he didn't even shed a tear when he cut into his own flesh, permanently marring his face, but he was crying now, crying because of a confession that he had held in his chest for almost two years.

"Bleeding berk, I am, right?" He looked away from her, trying hard not to wipe the tears from his face. "So fucking stupid," he whispered, shaking his head as he hugged himself with his arms.

Ginevra frowned and opened her mouth to reply, but the words couldn't come out. He turned his back to her and lowered his head.

"You're right, Weasley," he admitted softly after a moment's pause, sounding utterly defeated. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right." He laughed bitterly, almost pitifully. "This Mark is just a reminder of what I have done, of what a bloody fool I am."

"Was," she corrected softly, and he turned around to look down at her in confusion.

Ginevra glanced down, failing to meet his eyes. She didn't know why she softened at his admittance, at his confession. He hadn't owned up to everything, but at least he was honest in what he had done, and that was a start.

She cleared her throat and looked up at him almost defiantly. "So did you want to take that bath now?" she asked suddenly and unexpectedly.

Taken aback, Draco snorted and slowly nodded his head, wondering which one of them was the most bipolar. "I would like that," he replied.

~*~

Author notes: Will there be a bath scene next? Will we see naked Draco? Will we finally see sarcastic Draco and a more softening Ginny? Well, read the next chapter and find out! ^_^

*Mea Culpa is Latin for 'my guilt' or 'my culpability'.