Slow Burn

Rating: PG-13 (for mention of masturbation)
Pairing: Draco/Ginny
Date: 23 September 2005
Status: Complete
Author's Notes: This one-shot was written as a gift for Fearthainn in a Draco/Ginny fic exchange community on LiveJournal.

It had all started out as a joke.

He'd been dared to do it by a Second year one Hogsmeade weekend. At first he had balked at the idea, and said that it was perfectly disgusting to even think about doing, and how could he be expected to lower himself so? But the other boys present had mocked and goaded him until he'd angrily agreed to do it. By the time he'd realized what he'd said, he'd already been locked into his commitment. Wizarding truth or dare was dangerous that way.

He should have known better, he thought now, watching her meander down the sidewalk. He'd spent the better part of the last five weeks just observing her; memorizing her schedule, her habits, and calculating times when she'd be alone and he'd have opportunity. The thought made him sick to his stomach; a Malfoy, reduced to nothing better than a common voyeur. Pathetic. What would his Father have said, if he had seen his son like this? If he had known that he was going to be reduced to this state of being, he would have let them mock and goad and laugh until Salazar Slytherin himself spontaneously resurrected.

It wasn't for lack of opportunity that he hadn't acted yet. No, he reassured himself, it wasn't because of cowardice, either. It was because he was fascinated. She was intriguing; so much more so than the girls of his own house, though he couldn't figure out just why. Perhaps it was because of her fair skin and unusual hair. Or maybe it was because even though she tended to blend into the background, she always managed to somehow stand out at the same time.

Whatever the case was, he was going to have to fulfill his dare, and soon. Wizarding dares had time limits on them, and severe punishments, if the dare wasn't carried out to its fullest extent. For all intents and purposes, he was now legally bound to kiss Ginny Weasley, whether he liked it or not.

He had ignored the dare for the first week, even though he'd known the consequences for it. When his dreams of her began coming on that third night, he should have done it and gotten it over with. He'd deemed the dreams - disgusting though they may be - tolerable, and had continued to ignore his obligation.

The second week had been a bit more difficult to handle. He'd found himself daydreaming during classes. These were not a typical teenager's daydreams, either. These were the magically-induced sort; the kind that made him feel as though he was blacking out during class, and left in his memory only thoughts of her, with no earthly idea of what had happened during the time he was supposed to be taking notes.

His grades had started to slip, and his friends had noticed. They would snigger and make snide comments about her when he was within earshot, and when he would approach them, they would smile and pretend they hadn't said anything.

The third week presented an entirely new challenge. His dreams had gotten more… graphic - and when he awoke each morning, he had a painful reminder of his promise. He'd thought on that twenty second day that if he relieved himself, the thoughts would pass and the desire would be eliminated.

How wrong he'd been.

As soon as his relief had spurted into his hand, he realized that he'd only made things worse. For the rest of that day, he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind, and he'd taken to stalking her. He provoked fights with her in the hallways, just to see her cheeks and neck flush, and the thought would naturally lead him to wonder how the rest of her skin would flush if she were naked in front of him.

He would torment her best friend, Neville Longbottom, just so the boy would run to her and cry about it - which would cause her to seek him out, and start a fight of her own. As much as he wanted to deny it, there was some chemistry there. He watched her fight with her brother, with Scarhead, and with the Mudblood, and in none of those fights did she ever argue as vehemently as she did when fighting with him.

That had to mean something, didn't it? He wondered.

In the middle of the fourth week, it had gotten embarrassing. Whenever he daydreamed about her, he got erections. In the middle of one of McGonagall's ridiculously boring Transfiguration lectures, he’d gotten an erection so hard that it was painful. Since he'd relieved himself that one time in the third week, he hadn't so much as laid a finger on his member to wash it, let alone wank. He felt stronger that way. During the lecture, though, the pain of his arousal was too strong to be left alone, and he asked to be excused to the lavatory, where he'd wanked so hard, he'd sprained his wrist.

He'd had a devil of a time explaining his injury to a very suspicious Madam Pomfrey.

That was when he'd decided to do something. The procrastinating had become torture, and he'd realized that he was only putting off the inevitable. If he wanted to be free of her, he had to do what he'd said he'd do. The joke wasn't funny anymore.

And so he'd waited. He'd waited and watched for the perfect moment to present itself. When she turned and went into Gladrags, he realized that he had his chance. The store had overly large dressing rooms, the clothing racks were widely spaced, and there were dozens of nooks and crannies to hide in. All he had to do was get inside without being noticed.

It was easier than he'd thought it would be. The heavily falling snow had helped, of course. He'd pulled the hood of his cloak up to cover his distinctive hair and dashed across the street, ducking inside the store. Once inside, he'd had no trouble spotting her, and had slowly - so as not to look too suspicious - made his way towards her.

Once he'd gotten close (so close that he could smell her perfume - the same vanilla scented stuff she always wore), he nearly lost his conviction. She looked so pristine and untouchable that for a few moments, he wondered if some divine power wouldn't strike him down on the spot if he dared to touch her and defile her virtue. Because really, wasn't that what he was here to do? Kiss her and make her dirty and bad and wretched and evil like he was? His courage began to waver frightfully as he inhaled her intoxicating scent and watched her browse innocently through the racks of second-hand robes. She tucked a strand of vermilion hair behind her left ear, and his body was thrown into chaos. He threw caution to the wind when she stepped inside a dressing room with several robes slung over her arm, and he rushed up behind her, shoving her inside and casting a hasty silencing spell on the tiny room.

Once inside, she turned on him, her eyes ablaze and her skin fairly glowing with anger. "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy? Do you realize that we're out in public? Anyone could have seen you shove me in here, and they could be notifying the proper authorities right now!"

He stared at her, unable to force words past his lips. When he didn't say anything, she shifted uncomfortably.

"What do you want?"

He shook his head, and before she could speak again, he'd pushed the door open and fled the store entirely.

Several hours later he found himself sitting alone on a snowy bench just outside of Scrivenshaft's, lamenting over what was certain to be a week of hell. He'd tried, and he'd failed. Just like he'd failed at everything his Father had ever expected him to do or become, just like he'd failed to beat Potter at every turn, and just like he'd failed to best the Mudblood scholastically. Would he ever succeed at anything? He wondered.

His fingers had turned to ice and the snowflakes that were able to touch his face beneath the hood of the cloak melted and ran down his face, creating the sensation of tears. He wished he could cry; he'd never learned how, but he was sure that it would help him somehow. Maybe if he had a way to let out his frustration, he'd be able to do what he needed to do.

After a while, he became aware that someone was sitting next to him, and he shifted slightly where he sat so he could peek at them. As soon as he saw the shock of red hair, panic welled up inside of him, and he froze.

"You never told me what you wanted," she said calmly, not looking at him. "And you've been sitting out here for over an hour. You're going to freeze to death."

"What do you care?" he sneered. "You'd probably enjoy watching it happen."

"Is that what you really think?" she asked curiously, tilting her head sideways at him. "You think that I want you to die a slow, painful death?"

"I don't think that, I know it."

"Hm." She eyed him thoughtfully, and then turned her head to stare out in front of her. After a moment, her silence had made him physically uncomfortable. His heart was beating too fast, he was breathing too quickly, and his stomach was doing rapid, repeated flips.

"What do you want?" he demanded. "Why are you still here? Go find Scarhead and the Mudblood and be with them, where your company is wanted."

"If you tell me what you wanted back in the shop, I'll leave you alone," she wheedled, her voice brooking no argument. He fairly growled at her in response, but she remained calm and unwavering.

"I didn't want anything," he lied. Then, "I have to fulfill a stupid Wizard's dare."

"Oh," she breathed, her hands beginning to tremble a bit. The sight of her shaking fingers playing with the handle of the shopping bag in her lap gave him a measure of satisfaction. Finally she was seeing how serious his situation was. Would she run now, like she should? "How long ago did you agree to the dare?"

"Nearly five and a half weeks ago, not that it's any of your business," he snapped. She blinked at him in surprise.

"It must have been torture for you to wait this long to do it," she observed softly. "Why haven't you done it before now?"

"I don't know," he said crossly, glaring at her.

"Well, you'd better go ahead and get it over with," she said, resolved. "Unless it requires you sneaking up on me, in which case I guess I ruined your chance for today." He frowned at her.

"So you're just going to let me do it?" he asked flatly. She nodded hesitantly. "No matter what it is?"

"I really haven't got a choice, have I? Wizarding dares are like legal contracts - I know that every bit as well as you do. You'll be forced to do whatever it is you swore to eventually, whether it's of your own free will or not."

"You're either the bravest person I've ever met, or the stupidest," he finally managed, scowling as he said it. She shrugged.

"Sometimes people mistake stupidity for bravery," she remarked. "So do what you have to do."

"I warned you."

"I know." Then, "Would it be easier for you to do if I closed my eyes?"

He hesitated before nodding his head once. She nodded back and closed her eyes, steeling herself against whatever assault he was about to launch. For a moment he enjoyed the sight of her sitting beside him, the snow falling silently and landing in her hair, clinging to her for a few precious moments before it melted. It was during this moment that he realized that this was a sight he desperately wanted to see again – her, willingly sitting beside him, trusting him to do whatever he would do with her.

He licked his lips nervously and leaned forward, ignoring her startled gasp when his lips barely came into contact with hers. When she didn't pull away, he took it as a good sign, and pressed his lips more firmly against hers. They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity to him, and he was content. It was enough just to touch her like this and know that she was allowing it to happen.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes met hers, and she shivered. "That was a lot less terrible than what I'd expected," she admitted softly.

"Why?" was all he could manage.

"Because I thought you were going to do some awful hex, or maybe even an Unforgivable-" she started. He shook his head.

"Why did you let me do anything at all?"

She cleared her throat and focused her attention on the bag in her lap. "I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm too trusting, or maybe it's because I don't really believe that you're as bad as you pretend to be."

"Well?" he asked finally. "Which one is it?"

"Maybe it's neither," she said, stealing a furtive sideways glance at him. "Maybe I just trusted you not to do anything bad to me."

"How can you trust me when you hate me so much?"

"Why is it that you keep assuming the worst about me?"

"What?"

"You said earlier that you believed that I'd like you to suffer and die in front of me, and now you're saying that I hate you. Is it just easier to hate me when you assume all of that?"

"Yes," he said honestly, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. She returned his gaze serenely, and then extended her hand. He stared at it as though it were a snake about to strike. "What?"

"I'm trying to shake your hand, Draco," she said calmly, watching his eyes widen at her casual use of his given name.

"I can see that, but why?"

"It's what people traditionally do when they first meet."

"But we've already met," he said, looking confused.

"We're starting over - and maybe this time, we'll get it right."

FINIS.