HomeCalendarFAQSearchMemberlistRegisterLog in


 Acceptance - Harry Potter, DMGW

Go down 


Number of posts : 80
Age : 25
Registration date : 2009-02-17

Acceptance - Harry Potter, DMGW Empty
PostSubject: Acceptance - Harry Potter, DMGW   Acceptance - Harry Potter, DMGW EmptySun Sep 27, 2009 4:43 pm

Disclaimer: I do not own the “Harry Potter” series, or any of the characters, plot devices, etc. therein. This is a work of fiction and any similarities to existing places and/or persons is completely unintentional. Also, this is a romance, which is very un-me.

Dedicated to my reviewers past, present and future, without whom I would have spontaneously combusted. Special thanks goes out to greenmaiden, my first reviewer, who gave me GREAT CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, FOR WHICH I AM UNDYINGLY GRATEFUL. I took A Final Lamentation down and reposted it, taking into account your review. So thanks Very Happy.


It was Draco's first time ever at King's Cross station, and he wasn't at all sure that he wanted to board the train.

He would never, of course, voice these apprehensions to his father. Draco was to go to Hogwarts, be sorted into Slytherin, and have the rest of his year under his thumb before he received his first homework assigment. Then, when he was old enough, he would become a Death Eater. Just like his father.

The three Malfoys were certainly attracting some strange looks in Muggle London; mostly looks of fear, as Draco's father was glaring formidably at any and all passers-by. Draco sneered and spat at the feet of a Muggle woman holding a baby.

Stupid, ignorant, filthy Muggles. How dare they procreate.

His father smiled at him, and his mother smirked in amusement.

And then, finally, they were there – in front of Platforms Nine and Ten. “You remember what I taught you, Son,” Lucius said, placing a fatherly hand on Draco's shoulder.

“Always, Father,” Draco responded immediately, loyally, every bit the perfect son his father had taught him to be. “I'll make you proud.” The ferocity in his tone surprised even Draco.

He turned to his mother. She bent down and kissed him on each cheek and, if he hadn't known the woman better, he would have insisted that her eyes were overly bright – but this was, he had to remind himself, Narcissa Black Malfoy. Narcissa Black Malfoy did not cry. “Goodbye, Mother,” he said. “I promise I'll write often.”

She wordlessly nodded and Draco turned, running toward the brick wall. Within seconds, he was standing next to the Hogwarts Express at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Immediately after meeting up with Crabbe and Goyle, whom he had known his entire life, and settling into a compartment with them, Pansy and Blaise, he changed into his robes. The less, in his opinion, that he had in common with Muggles, the better.

Looking up from the book he was reading, Blaise gazed out the window and said, “It looks like we're leaving.”

Draco looked out the window, too, if only because there was nothing else to do. To his moderate surprise, he saw a young girl; she couldn't have been older than ten. She was running, laughing, her brown eyes filled with tears that were falling down her cheeks; her red hair streamed out behind her. Eventually she stopped, simply waving at the train.

Bitterly, he turned away. It was stupid for that girl to be there. She obviously didn't go to the school. Anyway, it was idiotic to run after a speeding train like that. What good would it do her?

He desperately tried to ignore the fact that his parents hadn't even gone through to the Platform.

Draco didn't know the little girl's name, but he did know for a fact that he hated her very much.


It was still summertime, but Draco Malfoy considered himself a second year at Hogwarts already. He had succeeded in fulfilling all of his father's expectations: he controlled his cronies, always got his way, and was respected – or feared – by the entire Slytherin population. And as he stood amongst the crowd that had congregated in Flourish and Blotts that day, watching people cheer and clap for that absolutely arrogant and dramatic git, Harry Potter, he tried very hard to remind himself of those fulfilled expectations. He was very much superior to the Potter boy. He should never, ever doubt it.

He stalked down the stairs, itching for a confrontation with the golden boy and his entourage. When he saw them, he sneered. He was, he admitted to himself, provoking them; trying to irk Harry, tempt him into violence.

Then he saw the little girl. He thought he remembered her, but it was a while before he remembered where she was from. She was the girl who had been running after the Hogwarts Express his first day of school.

She was defending him – defending him, that idiot Potter! He joked about her being Potter's girlfriend, but he was deeply disconcerted by the overt display of protectiveness. Nobody had ever defended him like that.

And that's because, he thought, no one has ever had to. Draco, at the very least, could take care of himself. He didn't need eleven-year-old girls to do his fighting for him. He smirked.

But he still couldn't deny that he hated that red-haired child very much.


Draco was walking the grounds, Blaise at his side. “Who says I can't torture first-year Muggle-borns?” Draco said, smirking. “I mean, come on – they're only the spawn of Muggles, after all. They shouldn't even be here!”

“Though I agree wholeheartedly,” Blaise said, “you were right outside of McGonagall's classroom. She could have caught you in a second, and even Snape wouldn't have been able to save your arse after what you did to that poor Mudblood.” The boy chuckled.

Draco was joining in – it was pretty funny, after all – when he heard a yell behind him. “Oi! Yeah, you there – with the ridiculously pasty skin.”

“What did you say to me?” He recognized this girl. Just the year before, he had known that he hated her without even knowing her name. Now, though, he had the misfortune of knowing exactly who she was. “Ah,” he leered. “Look, Blaise. It's the Weaslette.”

She gave him just as dirty a look. “Yeah, well at least I don't have to hex people who're half my size.” She pulled out her wand. “I can go after people that are in my league, talent-wise... even if they're my moral inferiors.” She waved her wand at him viciously, yelling a hex at the top of her lungs, before running away.

The two boys stood in silence for a while.

“Well, that was pointless,” Draco said. “What was that supposed to have done? I don't feel any different.”

Blaise looked at him strangely. “You might want to go to Madam Pomfrey, Draco.”

“Why would I do that?” Draco drawled.

“Because,” as Blaise explained, “your ear hair is growing at a pretty alarming rate.”

It had taken Madam Pomfrey ten whole minutes to find the counter-curse – she had never seen anybody with that particular affliction in the hospital wing before. Not to mention the fact that he had had to walk across the entire grounds, then all the way up to the hospital wing, whilst his ear hair formed a long, blond, shiny train behind him.

He hated the Weasley girl.


Draco was excited. It was his first time ever going to the Quidditch World Cup – which was hardly surprising, as it hadn't been held in Britain since before he was born. If such a case had arisen, he was sure, he would have been to it before he was fourteen years old.

As it was, he made his way up to his seats, beside his mother and behind his father. He would be cheering on Ireland, of course – everyone would be cheering on Ireland – but he would restrain the true enthusiasm he felt. If he unabashadly cheered, he was quite certain that he would be punished later for behaving in a manner that was unseemly to a person of his class.

They had the best seats in the stadium. They were here as Cornelius Fudge's guests, as Draco's father had very recently donated generously to Saint Mungo's. At first, Draco had not wondered about the timing of the donation. He had, on the other hand, wondered about the donation itself; unless it served a purpose, Lucius Malfoy did not simply give money away!

When they received their invitations to the World Cup, however, Draco's father's motives seemed clear.

He had to do a double take when he noticed the Weasleys – and Potter and Granger, of course; did those three ever spend even a week apart? – and when he did, he sneered. After giving Potter the prerequisite evil look, he turned his attentions towards the Weaslette.

She was, he had to grudgingly admit, looking rather nice that day. Her only slightly curly, fiery red waves of hair were being blown about by the wind. Her wonderfully chestnut eyes were bright and fierce-looking. If there was one thing he could appreciate about the girl – and there was, he was forced to remind himself, very little to appreciate in a female so common – it would be that she never showed vulnerability. She was, he could admit, admirably strong.

The girl was currently giving his father a look of naked loathing, and he hoped that she didn't turn her eyes toward Draco himself and give him the same look.

However, by giving voice to the thought, even just to himself, he seemed to have jinxed it. She looked to him, then. But, to his surprise, her eyes held no hatred. She was staring, curling her lip, with evident dislike – but not hatred. Quickly, she rolled her eyes and looked away.

His stomach seemed to have dropped. There was a strange longing in him which he couldn't completely quell, but which he managed to suppress, for the most part. He had never felt anything like that before.

As quickly as possible, he made his way to his seat. Throughout the entire game, he tried his best to ignore her hair, as the sun was glinting off it and turning the waves to flame. It was, at the very least, extremely distracting. He was trying to watch the game!

He hated the Weaslette.


It was Draco's fifth year, and he was having the time of his life. Apart from being a Prefect (for which he had received sixty Galleons and a new owl) he was also a member of the Inquisitorial Squad. Having to put up with the toad, Umbridge, was well worth the extra power it provided.

He had been blissfully going about his life, unaware of any kind of rebellion, when he had been informed that Umbridge needed him. And thus he learned of Dumbledore's Army.

The worst thing, though – the very, very worst thing – was discovering the Weasley girl there, too. He had expected to see Potter, of course, along with his lackeys, the Weasel and the Mudblood. Of course there were going to be all the other idiots from Gryffindor, and some dunderheads from Hufflepuff. Even, perhaps, some Ravenclaws (with that day, he lost any respect he might have previously held for the house).

Despite it being quite obvious that she would be there, he hadn't expected the girl.

He had been incredibly angry when he had seen her, even though he ought not to have had a right to. He wasn't her father; he couldn't control her actions. It was absolutely ridiculous that he should feel betrayed.

He tried very hard not to look at her, but it was difficult. She was putting up quite a fight. She was fierce, and beautiful, and absolutely glorious.

And she would never, ever be his, because she was too busy following Potter around.

He hated Weasley.


He was officially a Death Eater.

Draco had lost all hope, now, of being with the Weaslette. After he had admitted to himself that he just might have an attraction toward the blood traitor, he had been dreaming; perhaps she would renounce the Light and come to be with him. She was, at the very least, a pureblood – so if she renounced her family's values, she should be accepted, right?

Sometimes, but only when he was completely alone, he would consider renouncing all that he had believed his entire life. Would he dare risk such rebellion for some blood traitor girl?

The response came from so deep within him that he was shocked.

Merlin, yes.

But now, he was a Death Eater. All such dreams were destined to be just that: dreams. Nothing more.

And then she paid him a visit.

“I have a favour to ask, Malfoy.”

She had taken him into a secluded hallway and placed silencing charms around them. Draco noted her talent. She was good at charms.

Her discomfort was obvious. Her eyes darted around, making sure that they were quite alone. To Draco's satisfaction, they were.

“Really?” he asked. He tried very hard to keep his tone bored and impartial. “What makes you think that I'll grant you a favour, Weaslette? You're a filthy, blood traitor Muggle-lover.” Her dark eyes flashed dangerously. He got to the point. “What do you want?”

She seemed to lose part of her nerve. “I...” she trailed. Then she said, her voice much more forceful, “Go out with me.”

He hadn't been expecting that. “What?”

“You can hear right, can't you, Ferret? You're going out with me.”

“I disagree. You are repulsive, Weaslette.” His lie came out easily, because he knew it was what he was supposed to say. Her response was what shocked him.

“Really?” She looked skeptical. And then she moved closer. “You're lying, Ferret,” she whispered into his ear. Her voice, soft and confident, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “I see how you watch me,” she breathed. “You want me so, so badly... You think about me before you go to sleep at night...” He felt her tongue against his neck, her hips pressing gently against him. “You want me,” she repeated. “So take me.”

And he did. He knew that she was doing it to make Potter jealous, and that she hated him, and that she never would have given him the time of day, had he not been Potter's sworn enemy. None of that mattered to him, quite frankly. She made him completely lose composure; she made him act like a lovesick fool. She took away his power!

He hated that girl...


It was Dumbledore's funeral. Draco went, but skulked in the back and disguised himself with heavy Glamours.

It wasn't completely Draco's fault that the man was dead, but... Well, he had been responsible. He had made so many plans to kill the old coot, but in the end, Snape had done it. And then they had run.

He straightened, though, when he saw the golden trio file in with the Weasley girl. His breath hitched. She was beautiful, much more beautiful than he had remembered. She positively glowed. She was strong and unyielding and absolutely perfect. He couldn't remember why he had hated her so much before. He wanted her back.

The year they had spent together, until a few months ago, had been exquisite. She would come to him, often hidden beneath a cloak, but that didn't matter – what mattered was that she would come to him, not the other way around. That had made him deliriously happy, and he had gotten rather carried away with her and with them together. He dreamt, now, only of her – her hating him and loving him and wanting him.

It seemed that she felt the gaze burning into her back. She turned, finding him quickly. He didn't look away. He was hoping, praying, even though he had different coloured skin and hair and eyes and a completely different face, that she would recognize him.

She looked at him strangely, narrowing her eyes, as if trying to pull some distant, unimportant memory out into the light... But no recognition dawned and finally she turned away, placing her head on Potter's shoulder. He scowled and Disapparated, refusing to admit that the only reason he had even come was because of that... girl.

And now he remembered why he hated her.


Draco Malfoy had never liked the Daily Prophet.

He knew very well that, since Voldemort had been killed, there was little to report. But could they think of nothing better for the front page than an article with the headline, 'Wedding Bells In The Future For Harry The Hero!'? There was a picture of the two of them, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling widely at the camera.

There was an engagement ring on her finger.

It was something he never would have bought her. It was one simple, square-cut diamond set in a gold band. He would have given her the most expensive ring he could get; princess-cut, set in platinum, with the entire band encrusted in diamonds. The main diamond would be flanked by two rubies, showing her fire, her spirit, and...

And maybe he had thought this through a little too much.

So, it was over. Whatever little flirtation they had before, it was finished now. Forever.

But did she have to be so bloody happy with the stupid boy?

Maybe Potter was all she needed. She had been with Draco, but Draco was a step up from her usual standards. Her usual standards were merely the Chosen One. What horrible taste she had.

Just another reason to hate her.


Draco had been very proud of his Weaslette when he had learned that she was a Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies. He had always thought that she had rather a gift for Quidditch.

He had, admittedly, promised to keep out of her life after he learned of the engagement. She belonged, he tried to convince himself, to someone else.

He hadn't been able to stay away for two days.

So now here he was, outside of the Quidditch pitch where she was practicing, waiting for her. When she walked out, a couple of minutes after her fellow players, her hair still wet from her shower, she noticed him right away. She froze completely.

“Why...” Her voice sounded strangled. “Why are you here?”

“Well, Weaslette,” he said coolly. He was attempting to seem nonchalant; he was dressed in black trousers, a black v-neck sweater and a black leather jacket. Leaning against the wall, he was quite sure that he looked almost flawless. He smirked. His arrogance astounded even him. “I heard about the engagement. Came to offer congratulations.

“So... Scarhead, huh?”

She scoffed and, before she put up her usual mask of confidence and anger, he thought he saw her look disappointed. “Don't,” she said, “you talk about Harry. You, of all people!”

He ignored her. “This engagement was a mistake. Now, I realize that you belong to someone else –”

She turned on him sharply, anger permeating from her. “I belong to no one, Malfoy!”

“Fine, Weaslette,” he said, trying to deny the thrill he experienced when she said that she didn't belong to Potter. It was very much something she would say. “I don't really care. You shouldn't marry that git.”

“Why not? Why shouldn't I? He's a perfectly nice –”

“Boy,” Draco interrupted. “He might be brave. He might be romantic. He might be nice,” he sneered. “But he's not enough for you. You have fire and boldness and... And you need someone with as much passion as you have! Someone who isn't dramatic and angst-ridden and selfish, and someone who understands you!”

Her eyes were brimming, but a blink and the water was gone. She turned and started walking again. “Go away, Malfoy,” she said, her voice wavering.

He easily overcame her, blocking her way and grabbing her by the shoulders. “Fine,” he hissed, searching her eyes frantically. “You go on pretending – pretending that you're perfect and your life is great and you're happy with him. But remember that, no matter how much you lie, I will always have been there first.”

She wrenched herself away and Disapparated. That hadn't gone at all how Draco had imagined it. Closing his eyes, he built up his defences and buried away the thoughts of how beautiful she was and how she was brave and strong and perfect.

He hated her.


One year later, he was eating breakfast on the balcony of his home when his owl – in fact, the owl he had received as a gift for becoming a Prefect in the fifth year – came flying down onto the table. After eating a piece of his toast and drinking a bit from his goblet of water, the owl flew up to Draco's room, where he usually slept. Draco opened the letter.

You have been cordially invited

To the wedding of

Mr. Harry James Potter and

Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley

From one o'clock to midnite

On the fifteenth of June

At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Without thinking, Draco stood silently and gracefully. In a single motion, he roared, sweeping his arms across the table and scattering its contents to the floor. He kicked the wall again and again and again...

Why would she send him this? Did she not know it would just cause unnecessary grief? Was she trying to patch things up between them, or was she just laughing at him?

Would she be more offended if he attended, or if he didn't?

He hated what his life had become. He hated that he couldn't go five minutes without thinking about her. He hated that, even though the last time he had seen her was a year ago and it had only been once, he could still remember the smell of her hair. He hated the entire bloody situation.

He hated her.


More headlines. 'The Potters Celebrate The Birth Of Their First Child, Named For His Grandfather'. 'Potter Baby Number Two: It's A Boy!'. 'Daughter Of The Boy Who Lived Named For The Mother Who Saved Him'.

Draco could only hope that she didn't go the way of her mother and have seven children by the time she was thirty.

Nostalgically, Draco remembered the days when he daydreamed that he was the father of her children. That they were married. That they would grow old together, as tacky as that notion was.

Though he was loathe to admit that he was jealous of Potter...

No. He was not jealous of Potter; none of this was that idiot's fault. It was hers. Why wasn't he completely and utterly pissed off at her for ruining what little hope he had had of a normal life?

He had to just keep reminding himself... If he kept on reminding himself, perhaps he could live in something comparative to peace.

You hate her...


She was at his front door.

It was several years later; they were both in their late thirties, no longer the young adults they once were. His hair was long, now, and he wore it in a ponytail, like his father used to. The only thing that was different about her was that she had a couple of grey hairs. Apart from that, she was just exactly the same. No different. Just as gorgeous.

There were no tears in her eyes as she gave him the news. She was looking straight at him, her head held high, though he must have had about a foot on her. “Harry died.”

A previous Death Eater, still crazed and devoted to Voldemort, somehow believed that the Dark Lord would come back if Potter was dead. The culprit was in Azkaban now, but Draco doubted it made things much better for the widow left behind.

Draco was surprised at how much Potter's death pained him. Granted, it was probably because the man's death was hurting the woman that he admired more than any other, but still. Perhaps Draco wasn't such a lost cause.

He invited her into the sitting room and conjured them both a cup of tea (he conjured himself one with a little firewhiskey in it).

“I knew you two had gotten married. I recieved your, ah... your invitation in the mail,” he said soothingly. He didn't have an inkling as to why he mentioned it.

She furrowed her brow. “Invitation? I never send you an invitation.”

Potter, you incorrigable bastard.

There was a lull in the conversation that was more than just a little tense.

“So,” she said, clearly trying to make small talk. “Where's Pansy?” He looked surprised, and she grinned wryly and sadly and looked broken. “I'm not the only one who's been following up,” she explained.

“Pansy's gone,” Draco responded bluntly. “I suppose she became bored, or something of the sort. Anyway, she left a year ago and I haven't heard from her since.”

Her hand covered his in a sympathetic gesture. “I'm sorry. How's Scorpius been taking it?”

“Scorpius...” Draco faltered. “Scorpius was never overly fond of his mother. He's a very severe boy, and he thought her rather senseless. After everything that's happened, I must say I agree.”

She nodded, undisputing.

“Speaking of children,” he said. “How are yours doing? James and Albus Severus and Lily... They must be devastated.” His voice was softer than he could remember it ever being.

She nodded again, numbly this time. “Harry was James' role model. He was exactly like him... Always wanted to please Dad.” She laughed softly. “And I don't think I've seen Albus Severus cry since he was eighteen months old. He's always been such a strong little thing. As for Lily, she's always been a Daddy's girl. They're all just... destroyed. It's like our family's falling apart.” When she looked to him there were tears falling from her eyes, making dirty tracks down her cheeks. He had never seen her cry, but now she did it unabashedly. She cried for a man whom Draco had detested since the age of eleven. “I can't hold my family together, Draco.” It was the first time, the very first time, she had called him Draco. “Without Harry... I just can't do it!” She sobbed.

Without thought, Draco went over to her and wrapped his arms around her torso. He felt his robes dampen with her tears, but he didn't mind. Then, when he pulled away only slightly, murmuring, “Ginny, listen...” she kissed him.

It was when he was lying on his sitting room floor with her, his arm curled around her waist and her head on his chest, that she said Potter's name in her sleep and shattered everything good and pure and beautiful about the moment.

Merlin, he hated that woman!


He woke up the next morning, still naked, lying on the thick rug of his sitting room. He momentarily forgot what he was doing there, but when he found a note next to him instead of her deliciously perfect body, it all came flooding back.

You're right, you were there first. You were always there first, and you'll always be there last.

But he was there longer.

- Weaslette

It was that day that Draco vowed to stay away from her forever and ever and ever, because she made all those dreams of her and her children coming to live with Scorpius and his mother and him and them getting married and having children of their own and having a life together all evaporate, and if she wanted dead fucking Potter, then she could have him, because he was pretty sure he hated her more than he did that idiot anyway.


It was several years later, when Draco was eighty-seven years old, that he learned that she was dead.

Her children allowed him to come to the funeral, albeit hesitantly – he supposed that they'd inherited their father's hatred, and their mother's grudging acceptance. He told them so, and they gave him the kind of broken smile that he knew all too well.

He stayed for many hours after everyone else had gone home, with his black robes and his white hair that was pulled back into a ponytail like always, and his grey eyes that were the only things that hadn't changed, because they were as clear and sharp as ever. They were the one thing that he was sure she had actually liked about him, because she had told him, once. Long ago.

Here lies Ginevera Molly Weasley Potter

Daughter, wife, mother, sister, friend

May she rest in peace

It was rather simple, in his opinion, but also absolutely perfect. It screamed in its simplicity, and she had been rather like that too.

Very calmly, he wished to whatever higher power there was in the Universe that he would die at that very moment, because he finally realized the truth that had eluded him for years and years and years.

Draco Malfoy loved Ginny Weasley.

Back to top Go down
View user profile
Acceptance - Harry Potter, DMGW
Back to top 
Page 1 of 1
 Similar topics
» Harry Potter Paper Piecing
» Knight Bus MOC
» What Are You Glad About?
» Inspiration!
» Stamped but unidentified obelisk vase, MJ or JM

Permissions in this forum:You cannot reply to topics in this forum
P.W.N. People Writing Nonsense! :: Fanfiction-
Jump to: