Shame

Shame

I was sixteen when I met him - really met him. And he seemed like everything I'd ever wanted: mysterious, dangerous, dry humor dripping off his tongue...He was everything my family hated, everything I realized I didn't hate, not so much anymore. Not past the outside.

It was outside a classroom, in fact (I forget which one), when he first dragged me into an abandoned closet. I had barely even spoken to him, except for insults, and now he was cleverly trying to make me fall for him. And when he kissed me, I did - so suddenly and so fast, but it was they way he wanted it, so I wanted it that way, too. I suppose anyone would, if anyone felt the way I felt when he kissed me: like there was nothing else in the world, like nothing else was real except his lips on mine.

And there was no real discussion after that. We just were...together. Nothing more and nothing less, at least not to him. But it was different to me. To me, we were so much more. And I guess I should have noticed that he simply didn't feel the same way.

We spent hours with each other, just talking, but mostly making out, because that's what he liked best. And because he liked kissing better, I did, too. Oh, but what a thing his kisses were: breathy and tantalizingly soft, but sometimes hard and powerful, taking control. Those were my favorite.

Weeks passed, and people treated me differently after they realized I was with him. They sort of...respected me. Feared me, even, because they knew how protective he was over me. His eyes would grow dark even if he saw another boy talking to me. And I secretly liked that, secretly loved how he always had an eye on me. It made me feel like he cherished me even more than was obvious.

And I was constantly warned and chastised by Rom, Harry and Hermione for dating "such an impertinent bastard," but I paid no attention. Because really, I wouldn't even call it "dating." We never actually went somewhere as a couple, just made it known that we were a couple. And they were just jealous, too, because I had something they'd never had. So I shrugged off warnings, not really even listening past, "Well, I heard..." It was all jealousy. And half of me couldn't blame them, really. I mean, I had this.

The first three-and-a-half months of our relationship had bloomed, and we were well into the school year and well into second base, him reaching for my bra clasp almost every time we were alone together. But I didn't mind that, either, because he liked it. I never thought to stop and ask myself if I did.

I felt so comfortable with him, like I didn't need to be a certain person to impress anyone. But I guess I was too busy feeling and doing and being that I didn't realize we almost never talked anymore. And that was probably my first mistake.

After six months, we had almost grown completely apart from each other talking-wise, though we were still "together." Whenever we actually were together, we were kissing and taking clothes off. At this point, we also had sex for the first time. And I guess we used sex to try to frantically cover up any holes we were making in our relationship by not speaking. And I sensed something then , some tension, like whenever I tried to talk to him, his eyes would fall dark, frighteningly resembling clouds right before a summer thunderstorm, and he'd just kiss me some more, as if he could take away my questions and my want for normalcy.

I guess he sensed, too, my little longing, so that was also when he started telling me that he loved me. And that kept me quiet for a long time.

Our relationship was eight months old when he first hit me. I remember it so clearly, like the beginning of the end:

We were sitting in his room, on his bed, and we were kissing again. I had pushed him away for a second so I could catch my breath, and I attempted conversation; something I was beginning to quietly miss.

"So," I said, smiling a little. I should have stopped then, sensing the crackle of something not right in the room, in his eyes, which were almost black instead of their usual silver. I should have sensed that he didn't want it this way. "What's wrong?" I asked feebly, and I could feel what seemed to me to be unreasonable fear creeping into my smile.

He just looked at me, obviously not wanting to talk about it. But I was so desperate for conversation that I sat up, smoothing my hair back. "Come on, don't be such a baby," I said playfully, pinching his cheek. "Tell me."

And then his hand came from nowhere below me and collided, hard, with my left temple. A white starburst of pain flooded the whole left side of my face, and all I could do was gasp, tears already in my eyes.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again," he growled, his voice low. I pressed a cool hand to my hurt, and just looked up at him, not quite ready, not quite wanting to believe.

And, as if realizing what he had done, his eyes flashed back to their normal silver, and I was in his arms, and he was whispering to me, telling me how much he loved me and that I was so beautiful. And I cried so hard in his arms, because he was already forgiven ten times over and because I think some deep and quiet place inside of me knew that this wasn't the end of it; that this was just the beginning. Forgiving him, I suppose, was my second mistake.

My third, however, was lying to everyone, telling them that Clumsy Old Me had tripped and fallen hard on the stairs, my hands too full of books to help catch my fall. Everyone believed me, and the whole incident between him and me was never spoken of again.

Two months later, he hit me again. It was because I had been whining to Seamus about Divination, and he had rubbed my back playfully, feigning concern. I thought I deserved it. When he hit me, I mean. I thought it was my fault. And I had lost count of my mistakes by now.

So, when I woke up the next morning with a large blue-black bruise on my right cheek, I told everyone a hex I was attempting had backfired when I was practicing for Charms the previous night. And again, they all believed me.

Lying became so much easier after that. It became vital. Why else would I be getting so many bruises? The last thing they'd ever think was abuse from Draco, because he doted on me so much, buying me beautiful necklace after breathtaking gown after chocolate and candies and love. Or what I thought was love.

I guess I kept his abuse a secret because of the shame, the shame that filled me mercilessly and swallowed me up in its strong grip. His face brightened and haunted my dreams, and I guess I was too wrapped up in that shame and pleasing him that I didn't even realize that I didn't love him anymore.

I suppose I owe my existence now to Seamus. He was the one who found me the night Draco was hurting me for not meeting him on time earlier; a perfectly sensible reason to me. It was all my fault. I was so completely drawn to Draco that I honestly think I would have done anything for him.

The second I walked into the classroom he'd told me to meet him in an hour earlier, I could sense what I was going to get. His eyes were so dark they looked like great black pits and they glittered in the late afternoon light. His mouth was set in a hard line, fists clenched at his sides.

"Oh, Draco," I breathed, taking a tentative step forward.

"Where the fuck were you, Virginia?" he shouted, knocking over a chair with a hard fist. I jumped, and tried to shrink back into the shadows the blinds on the windows were casting into the empty classroom. "I was waiting for you for a fucking hour! Is that how you treat me? I thought you loved me!"

"I - I do," I mumbled lamely, but I knew there was nothing I could say that would help me now. "No, Draco, please don't hurt me -"

His first blow knocked me to the hard wooden floor, and the skirt of my Hogwarts uniform bunched up to my chest as I tried to crawl away. He just strode over to where I was laying, his anger visible, and kicked me hard. "Get up!" he screamed, jerking his thumb to show me which way 'up' was. But I couldn't, and I was so tired. So he leaned down close to me, and I could feel his breath, too hot on my face. My auburn hair stuck to the back of my neck in the cold sweat that had collected there, and my breathing pattern was desperate and shallow. I wondered if he could hear my heartbeat.

"I said, 'get up.'" And he slapped me hard, and my head fell limply to the floor.

And that's when Seamus came in, and I could hear him muttering something to himself about forgetting his books. Draco and I both froze, our hearts flipping in unison at the thought of someone finding out. My face was turned away from where Seamus had come in, but I could hear him drop his schoolbag in surprise, realization hitting him quickly.

"Ginny?" I heard him whisper, but I could not turn my head. And I almost felt the anger rise up in Seamus and, for once quicker than Draco, he pulled out his wand. I kept my eyes fixed on the lake through the blinds in front of me, noticing absently how beautiful the sunset was and trying to push back the shame consuming me, and for the first time since I was with Draco, I wished I was someone else.

And then, suddenly, Seamus was by my side, and I could see the faint shimmer of tears on his cheeks. I wondered why he was crying.

"Oh, Ginny," Seamus said softly, "What has he done to you?" And finally, I turned me head, fully facing Seamus and the shame along with him, and said, "I love him. It's not his fault. It's mine. I was late."

And Seamus shook his head, a tear falling from his cheek onto my forehead and rolling, useless, to the floor. "No," he whispered. "I was."

And then, because I could hold on no longer, I let go, and blackness engulfed me, and the last thing I knew was Seamus picking me up out of my ocean of shame and carrying me away from its harsh perpetual waves.

-End-