Attention

Chapter Two

Ginny's lips were hard and cold under his own, completely unresponsive. If Draco had hoped that she'd melt into his arms, that her lips would mould to his and reveal her true affections, he was sorely disappointed.

SMACK!

His cheek now hurt, badly. He hoped desperately that it wouldn't leave a mark, because his healing spells were abysmal and going to Madam Pomfrey would be exceptionally embarrassing.

'How dare you?' Ginny Weasley had just spat at him, her voice at full volume.

Her wand was back at his throat, and Draco found the images of great flying bogies hovering at the edges of his memory.

'How dare you?' she repeated, jabbing the wand further into his throat for emphasis. 'How dare you even touch me, Malfoy, you piece of filth!'

Draco stood there, reeling from more than just the slap.

He'd never had anyone focussed on him so thoroughly. Never. His father always was elsewhere, mentally as well as physically, and his mother, much as she doted, was not the warm type. He could easily throw a potato at her during supper, and she would just wipe it off her face and tell him calmly, Malfoys don't throw food, Draco.

Now he had a less than five-feet-tall bundle of energy and fire in front of him, raging at him, angry at him for something he'd done. She had absolutely no awareness of the rest of the library. Her entire world was him at that moment. That sensation burned more than the slap.

'You have the gall to interrupt me rudely, taunt me, and then... and then...' She took a noisy breath.

'And... what?' he asked quietly. He couldn't keep the sneer from his voice--not that he wanted to.

She was saved from answering by the appearance of Madam Pince, who came shuffling around the corner of the shelves as fast as her dusty carpet slippers would allow. 'What do you think you are doing?' Madam Pince hissed. 'I'll not have lovers' quarrels in here. Out!'

'But Madam Pince,' began Ginny, 'it's all his fault, he--'

'Out!' the librarian repeated, waving her wand in the air for emphasis. 'I heard a woman's voice, young lady, not a gentleman's, and unless your young friend here is a castrato--'

A what? thought Draco, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

'--then it was you shouting, and I'll not have it! Out!'

Madam Pince proclaimed all of this in a vehement whisper that, despite its lack of volume, caused every student within a twenty foot radius to lean back in their chairs and make owl eyes around the bookshelves to see who was being lectured.

Draco sneered at a few of them, and they dropped their eyes.

Ginny flashed Draco an incredibly angry glare, slammed the book shut, gathered up her supplies noisily, and stomped out of the library.

'You, too,' hissed Madam Pince, blinking up at Draco over the tops of her glasses. It didn't seem to matter that he was already half a foot taller than she--he felt suddenly small and cowed.

The book lay closed on the table, tempting him to pick it up, but he didn't dare move anywhere other than towards the doors. With a mumbled, 'Yes, ma'am,' Draco left.

Outside the doors, he paused, and saw that at the other end of the corridor, Ginny had run into two of her Gryffindor friends. He fully expected her to begin ranting and raving, gesticulating wildly, but she didn't. The two other girls simply greeted her; Ginny fell into step with them, and the three of them disappeared around the corner.

As Draco gradually made his way down towards the dungeons and the Slytherin common room, he wondered why she had done that. All she had to do was tell her friends that he'd made a move on her, and it would be all over school by breakfast, never mind the curfew. And heaven forbid that the Gryffindors found out: Potter would hex him, Weasley would gibber and rage and drop things, and Granger would say something that she evidently thought was acerbic and witty.

Potter barely needed an excuse these days to pick a fight with Draco--Draco's very existence annoyed him. Draco could possibly put it down to his own resemblance to his father, but he had to admit that he'd never been very amicable to Potter. Why would he, after the other boy had rebuked his offer of friendship? All he'd wanted to do was show Potter around the world, show him true class, especially for one raised by Muggles, and yet he had proven very early on that he was steadfastly Gryffindor: stupidly loyal in a way that others called bravery.

So if Potter got wind of Draco pressing his attentions on Ginny Weasley, Draco would definitely have to leave the country.

Draco allowed himself an annoyed sigh. Well, he'd find out in the morning whether or not she'd told. But if she hadn't told her two friends--and he thought they might be her closest friends, as he could recall seeing the three of them together nearly everywhere--then she might not tell Potter.

Weasley--now, there was another issue completely. Weasley was unpredictable. He wasn't violent the way Potter was (Draco would never forget that fist in his face from the Quidditch match, fifth year), but he had a flaming temper and was probably the type to explode without warning. Draco could only hope that Ginny's independence from her brothers was enough to keep her from running.

Then he snorted. Of course she was independent of her brother. No arm-dangling Daddy's girl would ever be able to focus enough to put so much energy into a single slap.

Draco gingerly touched his cheek and winced. The next bathroom he passed, he graced the mirrors with his reflection. There was the shadow of a handprint stretching from his jawbone to his cheekbone. Damn. How could such a small creature leave so vivid a mark?

He pulled out his wand reluctantly and aimed carefully at his cheekbone; then he paused. He brought his wand down, thinking.

Did he really want to get rid of it? He could see one major advantage to still having the handprint: if Ginny went and told her guard-dogs, it would serve as proof that Draco had, in some way, already been punished. He vaguely imagined that the pink stain might repulse further indignations.

On the other hand, if Ginny didn't tell them, then he'd be walking around the school with the proof of a girl's rejection marked on his face as plainly as--well, as plainly as a handprint. People would talk, would wonder who he had approached, who he had irritated enough to merit a slap. His status might fall because of speculation: if at least one girl found him undesirable, then mightn't others?

Pansy would wonder, too--she'd know that he'd done something to deserve it. Immediately his mind was filled with her shrill voice: Who gave you that handprint, Draco? Who was it, I want to know. Draco, tell me, where did you get that mark? He'd have to be rude to her to get her to back off, and then she might not spread for him.

Whatever, he thought, feeling along the edges of the imprint.

Then he thought of another reason: the handprint was a mark of Ginny's. She would undoubtedly search his face the next morning for traces of it, and when she found it, her eyes would be drawn to it all day. She'd watch him, she'd wonder why he hadn't yet healed it himself.

But then she might speculate that his healing abilities were substandard. They were, but she didn't have to know that. She'd see him as incompetent, and he couldn't have that.

He raised the wand, then paused again.

But she'd see the handprint if she searched; and he knew she would search. She was always watching people, noticing them, cataloguing them in a mental file for future reference. He'd seen her do it before, to Potter, to her brothers, to the teachers. This would become just another line in his file: 'Did not remove handprint. Reason unknown.'

And it wasn't that obvious, Draco reflected, staring at it in the mirror. He tilted his head sideways, then turned to examine his profile out of the corner of his eye. No, he'd keep it, he decided. He'd keep it for a day, and see what happened.