Ginny opened the door to the small apartment and kicked off her sandals, already making herself at home as she placed her bag on the bench and fished out the food and drink she had bought. She approached the blond seated in front of the easel and pressed the cold, slightly damp can to his cheek. Malfoy swore and flinched away from her.

"For you," she said with a grin.

He gave her an unimpressed look and took the can. "You could have knocked."

"It's not my fault you were too off in your own head to notice me come in. Besides, you're the one who left your door unlocked."

"That doesn't mean you should just walk in."

"Yeah, yeah." She waved off his grumbling with her hand. "Just say thank you already. I got you some sandwiches as well; they're on the bench. Figured you forgot to make yourself lunch again."

He got that pouty look that suggested he wanted to stay grumpy at her but was secretly pleased she had thought of him all the same. Still, it took him a few seconds before he mumbled out a thank you. Ginny almost laughed. He was always so grudging.

She leaned on his shoulders and peered over him to look at the picture he was painting: an almost surreal blend of colours that reminded her of being underwater—fluid, beautiful, yet with the potential to be suffocating. The painting was intense, as was his style, but looking at it was oddly soothing at the same time. She recognised it as the same picture that had sat on the easel the first time she'd woken up in his hotel room.

"Still working on this one, huh?" she observed.

"I work on it when I feel like it." He placed the palette down and stuck his brush in the jar of water to join the others. "It's better not to rush."

Ginny made a humming sound and stared at the painting. She remembered what Amaury had said: how art was an expression; how the colours used, the perspective, every little thing depicted on the canvas was a part of the artist's voice. She wondered what this piece was supposed to say. It was so abstract—such a blend of light and dark—but she was inexplicably drawn to it. Much like she was drawn to him, she guessed.

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

He went quiet.

Ginny slung her arms around him and rested her chin on his head. "C'mon," she coaxed. "You might as well tell me. You know I'll just nag it out of you."

"Pain in the arse," he muttered.

She made a show of acting surprised, big eyes and all. "I don't think that's a good title for your painting. You should probably change it."

Malfoy snorted and pushed her arms off him. "Bint."

She laughed, though she sobered a moment later. "Seriously, though, I'm curious. You must have given it a name."

He stood up from the stool and walked to the bench. "Catharsis."

"Hrm?"

"The title," he explained, picking up the sandwiches she had bought for him and opening the wrapper. "It's Catharsis."

Ginny stared back at the painting. "Catharsis, huh?"

She could see how that worked. The painting was a little chaotic and dark, yet there was a sense of order and peace as well. The brewing greys like clouds that crowded and writhed; the blue shades and swirls of teal that burst into ochre and burnt orange—a rupture of colour and emotion. Then there was the warmth of the palest yellows that he had begun to put in to soften the overall image, like light seeping through to calm the storm. It was a purge, a release. It really was a catharsis.

"I like it," she said.

He bit into the sandwich and leaned against the bench, watching her in that contemplative way of his. She had to resist the urge to move closer. The impulse was always there: to touch him, to be near him—not so much sexually; he just made her feel calm. She liked that. The problem was that she was beginning to think she might like it a little too much. It had been a week since that morning she had woken up in bed with him—since he'd let her have her own catharsis against his chest in an embarrassing display of snot and tears—but their relationship had remained frustratingly undefined. She kept coming over to see him and he didn't turn her away, but that was about it. They hadn't kissed again or even done anything remotely intimate.

Were they friends? Was she anything to him at all aside from a woman he'd taken pity on?

Ginny sat on the stool he had vacated. "How long do you think you'll stay here?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Until I've had enough, I guess. I was planning to continue to Italy after this."

"Italy, huh?" She leaned forward on her palms, half-swaying as she lowered her gaze to the floor. "Sounds nice."

Malfoy opened the can of drink and took a sip. "What about you? You were just here on holiday, right?"

"Yeah."

What she didn't say was that she was supposed to have left two days ago. Admitting as much would make her feel too exposed, too vulnerable. He would see right through her. Hell, she couldn't even bring herself to call him by his first name because she was worried she would reveal too much. Ginny was good at enjoying fleeting pleasures; she wasn't so good at handling emotions of actual substance.

She drew patterns on the wooden floor with her toe. "I thought I'd go back and start training for Quidditch. Maybe try out for the Holyhead Harpies next time there's an opening."

"For Seeker?"

She shook her head. "Chaser. I always liked that position more."

He nodded and continued eating the sandwich.

"I don't know if I'll get in," she admitted. "I'm already older than most people starting their Quidditch career."

"Talent is more important than age. You'll get in."

Her eyes darted to his in surprise. His mouth did that twitchy-smile thing.

"I remember you," he said simply. "You were a good player. I'm sure you'll be fine, Ginevra."

Her stomach fluttered. It was like being ten years old all over again: the innocent rush of feelings; the heat that wanted to rise to her cheeks. He kept taking her off guard like this. She bit her lip and went back to tracing pictures on the floor.

"Maybe," she said in an even tone. "I'll give it my best anyway."

Malfoy tilted his head to the side. "Is everything okay?"

She froze. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "You seem different today."

Ginny let out a breath. She flattened her feet against the floor and straightened to meet his gaze. Then she fixed a smile to her lips—a little flippant, no cracks. "Careful, Malfoy. If you keep saying things like that I might start to think you care."

"You think I don't?"

Her heartbeat stuttered. "W-what?"

He met her gaze frankly. "Do you think I'd let you come here every day if you bothered me that much?"

"I dunno." She went back to swaying on the stool, kicking her feet up in the air like a little kid. "You haven't exactly said you like me coming here either."

If she were to be honest, her biggest fear was that he viewed her like a stray cat who'd wandered into his life: he had enough empathy to let her in and give her a bit of attention, but it wasn't like the door would always be open.

Malfoy finished the sandwich and picked up the other one. "You're a pain in the arse sometimes, but you're not terrible company." He held up the bread stuffed with ham and cheese. "And you bring me food, so there's that."

She scrunched her nose. "I'm hoping in Malfoy Language that is actually a compliment, because it doesn't sound all that flattering."

"Relax. All I'm saying is you're not bad."

"Saying I'm 'not bad' isn't exactly a winner either. I mean, how would you feel if we had sex and I said it was not bad?"

He gave her an amused look. "You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

"I'm just saying."

His mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything and continued eating. Ginny was more frustrated by his reticence than she cared to admit. Bastard was determined not to spell out what he thought of her. In truth, though, she was more annoyed at herself for even caring so much. Every day her feelings for him grew stronger, her impulses got that much harder to resist. She worried that she would do something stupid if they continued this way. It would be all too easy to tip the balance. Even now the words she wanted to say gathered on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill.

Will you come back to England? Will you stay with me?

Ginny sighed and stood up. "I might go."

"In such a rush?"

He almost sounded disappointed. Almost. It was also possible she was just hearing what she wanted. She walked over and reached past him to grab her bag from the bench, her body brushing against his ever so lightly. It was difficult not to press closer.

"My world doesn't revolve around you," she said, pulling back to meet his gaze. "You'll have to give me a good reason if you want me to stay."

She said the words flippantly, but underneath her teasing was an honest desire for him to do just that: to tell her to stay a little longer; to hold her in his arms as he'd done; to confess that he wanted her by his side as much as she wanted him. Malfoy's brow furrowed and he placed the half-eaten sandwich on the bench. The mood seemed to shift with that simple gesture, becoming so much more intense. Suddenly, she knew that this was a mistake. She felt too vulnerable, too tempted.

"Ginevra—"

Her heart quickened. No, no, no. She didn't want to hear what he said next. Not when they were this close. Not when he was making her body so hyperaware of his proximity. She needed to back up—to get the hell out now—because all she could think was that it sounded so nice when he said her name; that his mouth was right there, tauntingly soft, and all she had to do was lean up on her tiptoes and—

Their lips touched before she even realised what she was doing. Her eyes widened. She broke away in an instant and lowered her gaze. Malfoy stood perfectly still.

"Want to tell me what that was for?" he asked.

Ginny almost winced. He probably thought she was up to her old tricks again. She shifted on her feet. The silence dragged on.

"Ginevra—"

"What if I said I just wanted to do it?" she asked in a low voice, still not meeting his eyes. "Would you be put off?"

"That would depend." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "I told you I won't be your quick fix."

"You're not."

"Then why did you kiss me?"

Her breathing fragmented. Merlin, he was so close. Her senses were overwhelmed by him: his touch, his scent, his simple presence. It was hard to think straight.

"I like the way you make me feel," she confessed. "It's different with you."

"How so?"

She closed her eyes. His voice was almost hypnotic, edged with a huskiness that made her stomach flutter.

"Warm," she said softly. "Alive. Like I'm all upside down yet the ground under my feet has never felt more solid."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"I think it is." She bit her lip. "Do you think that's bad?"

"Maybe. Most people would tell you to stay away from me. They'd say I'm not a good fit."

A smile tugged at her mouth. "I'm not exactly the poster girl for good conduct."

"But you're not like me either. You don't have to be dragged down to my level."

"I don't see it that way." She touched his arm where the Dark Mark tattoo had faded and scarred. "I don't care who you were; I only care who you are now—how you make me feel." She nudged her cheek against his, lips almost brushing in a graze-like kiss. "I like you, Draco. I really, really like you. Tell me you feel the same."

His hand slipped into her hair. "Idiot," he murmured. "We wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't."

Then he kissed her. He kissed her as if he wanted to awaken every inch of her to him: her body, her soul. It was a rush of tingles, flutters and fire. It felt good. Perfect even. Her blood pounded in her ears and she looped her arms around his neck. She didn't want to let go; didn't want this moment to end when she had finally, finally realised why she was so drawn to him.

All that searching, all that drifting like a ship without an anchor. It had all stopped with him.

"Don't go to Italy," she pleaded in between kisses. "Come back to England with me."

His arm tightened around her waist. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes." She kissed his jaw, his neck. "Yes." Her mouth found a particularly sensitive spot near his pulse. "I like you; I don't want to leave you."

His fingers dug into her lower back. "Do you even understand what you'd be getting yourself into with me? No one will approve—not my family, not yours, no one."

"I told you I don't care about that." She pulled back to meet his gaze. "I don't care what anyone thinks. All I care about is what you think. Do you want to be with me or not?"

His chest rose and fell quickly. She could feel that he was aroused, but that didn't mean anything. It was whether she'd touched his heart that mattered; it was whether he liked her as much as she liked him. Draco took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.

"Alright," he said. "Italy never appealed much anyway."

Ginny smiled. They kissed again—soft like a promise, like there was no rush at all—and then he just held her in his arms. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the embrace. Of course she knew it would not be smooth sailing for either of them from here; Draco was right that their relationship would be frowned upon by, well, everyone. In fact, there would probably be many, many obstacles. But that didn't matter. She knew that they could make it work. They had to. Everything in her whispered that this was right; that the man holding her now was her perfect fit.

He was her spark, the anchor that kept her grounded. She would be a fool to let that go.