the trial ; d.m

30

16th April 2003

When the first few hints of Summer attempt to crack their way through the Spring air, Geneva readies herself for Appleby, wanting to make the most of this beautiful weather.

She pours herself a glass of water before leaving and lets her eyes drift naturally to the gardens. Peering through the kitchen window, she spots Draco lounging on a deck chair, fully clothed, only exposing the pale sheen of his forearms to soak up the warmth of the sun.

She has noticed him in this place frequently when the weather has decided to be pleasant, but never ventures out to join him. She usually just watches, intrigued as he appears to be embracing the light breeze and its calming waves.

A familiar warmth towards him grapples her that she had not felt in weeks before the other night.

After that whole situation, they haven't really spoken again. It was as if it never happened. He returned to barely even looking at her and they were still hardly ever in the same room together. But seeing him here, easily accessible and relaxed, her desire to speak to him returns.

This feeling sends her on a whim, venturing out the back doors that lead to him. Her presence appears to surprise him, jolting him out of his sleepy state, eyes widening for a split second. And then the shock disappears as quickly as it came, his indifference returning.

She clutches her leather bag to her side and takes a breath.

"I'm heading to Appleby. Would you care to join?" Her words feel so forced. Filled with so much discomfort. Asking him this doesn't feel normal.

He doesn't reply for a moment and she briefly questions whether he actually will. But he shakes his head and says, "I'm alright." So blunt. So curt and dismissive, as if he's in third year again and a Hufflepuff is trying to suck up to him.

She just glares at him while he's sitting there, looking like a moron with a flashy pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. She wonders how he's not burning profusely under the sun, due to the sheer porcelain wash of his skin that's glistening like pure snow. Not a red tint to him in sight. Even the sun fails to harm this twat.

"Fine," Geneva replies, feeling dumb. Embarrassed for even considering the thoughtful gesture. She's the one who should be annoyed, not him. "I'll see you later then."

"Don't count on it," he spits, harshly.

She turns back, nearly giving herself whiplash, and stares at him in confusion. Stalls for a few seconds.

"What?"

She waits for his response, but there's nothing. She feels like they're in school and she's attempting to speak to that closed off, melancholy Sixth year that he used to be. The one that never even bat an eye in her direction, who saw her as an insolent, irritating cling on to his friend group.

His sudden change of character stings, she hates to admit. He was still clearly holding a grudge. The other night had just been a momentary lapse.

She huffs, "What is your problem, Malfoy?"

She uses his last name deliberately, in secret hope he will protest to it. But of course, he doesn't. He just sits there, enduring her presence as if it's some form of torture. Her chest writhes in unnatural disappointment.

"There's no problem," he mumbles, now standing from the deck chair attempting to flee from her presence. But she's feeling rather stubborn today. She can't allow him to get away so easily. Can't allow him to make her feel like shell of herself yet again.

She follows him inside, both storming their way through the corridor and finding themselves in the empty drawing room.

"Right, right," she scoffs. Draws a deep breath. "So you're not continuing to ignore me now because of what happened at the party?"