AN: Harry and Company do not belong to me. Canon compliant up to epilogue, I believe. If there are some little quirks that aren't cannon, I'm sorry for that. Oh, And Harry and Draco are old in this fic. Oh and this is slash. Drarry. Warning has been issued. Proceed with caution.

Written to help ease my Post Potter Depression.

A Girl Who Doesn't Read

You are in a thinking mood. One of those rare times when you turn in on yourself, and reflect. You are sitting down in your favorite chair, a cup of coffee sitting on the table beside you accompanied by a book whose pages are frayed and worn. You are staring at your long time lover, taking in every precious detail and engraving it into your mind. You wonder how you ever got so lucky, but you decide that after defeating Voldemort a love like this was the least that you deserved. You reach for your cup, and take a sip of the tea, savoring the warmth and taste as the liquid travels down your throat.

"You should date an illiterate girl." You hear your voice inside your head, soft and wispy like a long forgotten memory.

You don't remember where you first heard the words. Or rather, where you first read them. Not in the Wizarding World, that much you are sure of. You believe that you read it on the Internet, that thing that Muggles are always going on about. And you are sure that no matter how hard you search, you will never find those same words again. But they would forever linger on the outer recesses of your mind.

"Date a girl who doesn't read."

And you think of Ginny. Shy, and distant in the Burrow. On Platform 9 and ¾ 's. In the loud, jeering crowd of Gryffindors in the Great Hall as she is sorted into the house of red and gold. In the many bustling corridors of Hogwarts. Lying helpless in the Chamber of Secrets. You think of Ginny. And no matter where you looked for her, in the stands below you during a Quidditch match or in the Room of Requirement for a meeting of Dumbledore's Army, Ginny would be smiling. Unfailingly. And when the people talking to her looked away, her smile lingered on her thin pink lips. How anyone could smile so frequently in those days intrigued you, and so Ginny camped on the outskirts of your consciousness. Her small smile a faint beacon at the end of the tunnel with the message that perhaps after everything was over, life would have something worth grinning all day everyday for.

Years passed, and Ginny's love for you never faltered. Even through the period of time that you yearned hopelessly for Cho Chang, even through your short relationship with the beautiful Ravenclaw. Ginny's love continued long after the abrupt ending. And you noticed.

You engaged her with unsentimental trivialities. Quidditch. School. Anything but the war that was looming on the horizon. Or the madman seeking your demise. You awkwardly fumble with pick up lines, and laugh at you own foolishness. Ginny laughs right along with you. You already have her heart. You don't have to ask. But you continue to anyways, courting her in a fashion that makes Ron approve of you for his younger sister, time and time again.

You take Ginny outside, when nights overstay their welcome. You take her by the hand, and lead her aimlessly in the dark, in silence. You find simple contentment in the company, because even though you're lonely, you aren't alone. You give her your jacket, when the nights are cold and you feel her shivering beside you. You had heard Hermione mention it after reading one of her Muggle romance novels, and the way she fawned over the gesture in a fictional setting tells you that you're doing the right thing. And in the morning, Ginny never questions your actions. And you never question the palpable weight of fatigue. Caused by Voldemort, and the War, and the injured, the dead, and the dying. Your future, or possible lack there of, and your relationship with Ginny. You don't have the resolve to question it. Or the fortitude to face the answers.

You kissed her in the safety of darkness, without anyone around. You promised her that you'd come back. Asked her to wait for you because you'd seen someone do it in a Muggle film. And when Ginny told you that she loved you, you repeated it back to her. You walk away, realizing that her words weighed more than yours, that yours had meant absolutely nothing. But you know that you will come back, and you'll kiss her, and whisper those three sacred words to her. You know that even after the war, the words will still lack significance.

After the War, you continue seeing Ginny. Because that was what you're supposed to do. Marry your high school sweetheart, buy a comfortably sized house with a large yard, have the mandatory number of children, and the optional pet or two. But every time you see the way Ron looks at Hermione or the way Hermione looks at Ron, you know something is wrong, missing. So you put it off. Begin Auror training, because that too is what is expected from the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

And one Friday night, after a dinner date, you take Ginny to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. You take her hand, and lead her to your bedroom. The windows are open, letting moonlight flood the otherwise dark room. You pause by the bed. This will be your first time.

You arms are wrapped loosely around her tiny waist. Her arms encircle your neck. You lean down and capture her lips, soft, supple, and oh so pliant. The next couple of moments blur. First her shirt, then yours, until you are both tumbling naked on your bed. Her touches are soft, undemanding. They hardly arouse you, but she is oh so willing. And you find that soon need overcomes your lack of desire. Your right hand doesn't quite do that job as well as it used to. So you take whatever you can get. You take her.

You climb on top of her, peering at her writhing beneath you. Quickly without thought for her pleasure, and selfish concern for your desire to be sated, you enter her. You dispatch with making love. You fuck her. Roughly sliding in and out, thrusting without regard, like a wild animal. She moans: More, Harry. Oh Gods, just like that. Deeper, Harry, faster. Good God! But you barely register her words, as you pound into her, again, and again. And finally, she calls out your name, louder, more reverently than before. You feel her buck beneath you, feel her toes curl as she climaxes. But you continue to thrust inside her for a minute or two more, before you too finally reach your completion.

You pull out, and roll off her. It barely registers that you didn't use protection. You turn so that your back is to her. You look out the window and think, not for the first time, that maybe this isn't the life that you want. She wraps her arm around you, entwines your legs with hers, and you feel for the first time, trapped. As if, by sleeping with her you've signed a contract that you didn't bother to read, a contract that binds you to her like a slave to its master. And no matter how powerful the Defeater of the Dark Lord is, you know you didn't get the better end of the bargain, and that even if you wanted to it is a bond that you cannot break.

Time moves on. You and Ginny slowly evolve into an uncomfortable relationship. You find shared interests and common ground that you didn't bother to learn back in Hogwarts. Like cooking. She's rubbish at it, and you're slightly better. You spend Wednesday nights trying out all sorts of strange concoctions like noodles in chocolate ginger sauce and butterballs. The dishes always end up in the trash bin, and you always call for delivery afterwards - Indian, Italian, anything but whatever is currently stewing in the trash. Or your fascination with the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. Ginny's never read the books, but she's watched each movie at least four times each. Legolas is her favorite character. Handsome. Strong. Brave. And you concur, especially on the parts about his looks. But you don't tell her. You never tell her. You can't. Because what would she say if you told her that Legolas reminds you of a certain ferrety git?

So you ignore thoughts of blond men with pointy features, and you build your relationship with Ginny on the common ground that you have recently found. You build impenetrable walls, impervious to all types of stormy weather. You make it sacred. When the evenings get too long, and the air gets stale with all the unresolved tension, you retreat back to it. Every time you two fight, every argument, every time the flames intensify as she Floos back to the Burrow, you close your eyes and find solace in the bastion you have built.

The moon sets, the sun rises, and the hours pass. You Floo call her, or you Floo to the Burrow, and you ask for her forgiveness. You say that you're sorry. Although, you don't know what you're sorry for, or even why the argument started in the first place. You don't know why you always have to admit fault, or why you let her have this kind of power of you. But you know that if you ask, she'll give without second thought. She'll forgive you, and she'll forget. And you won't speak of anything of consequence. Like how you have to pretend she's someone else entirely when you fuck her. Or how the way she holds her fork annoys you, and that somehow that must mean something. Something important. But the longer you spend with her, the less you think. And whatever you thought to be important, suddenly isn't anymore.

You go through the motions of life without thinking. At length, you stop thinking all together. The months pass, and you figure it's about time to ask her to move in with you. It is March. And when you do, she readily accepts. Her smile spreads across her face like a virus, and you can't help the dull ache in your chest. You're not nearly as excited as she is, but like most things you ignore it.

You let her decorate. Your flat is suddenly covered in Gryffindor red, and gold accents. She gets rid of your chipped cups and dishes, and replaces them with something more stylish. Your solid fabrics are replaced with patterns that hurt your eyes, and cause you to get dizzy if you stare for too long. You feel as if, she is slowly and methodically erasing you. You don't even protest when she discards your favorite sofa.

But you protest about other things. You complain, and she complains louder. And the complaints always, always escalate into fights. The topics are always inconsequential. You tell her that fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. She yells that there are spells to prevent that from happening. She tells you that you need to put your bloody clothes in the bloody hamper instead of throwing them on the floor. And you tell her that she should remember to put the cap back on the goddamn tube of toothpaste. A year goes by unnoticed. One night you come home to a candle lit dinner of all your favorite foods, and ask Ginny what the occasion is. You can tell by her sharp intake of breath, the way she bites her bottom lip, and her intent gaze on the floor beneath her that you have disappointed her, that you have forgotten something of importance. You can't bring yourself to care. She tells you that it has been 1 year since she's moved in. You finally notice just how fast time flies.

After fucking her senseless that same night, you realize that you should probably get married. You tell yourself that even though Molly doesn't say anything, she disapproves of her daughter living in sin. You tell yourself that Ron and Hermione got married a half a year ago. You tell yourself that this is part of the grand scheme of He Who Wants a Normal Life. But really, you know that if you don't get married you will have wasted a lot of time.

You wait 4 months. In that time you ask Malfoy what the best restaurant in the world is. You figure pretentious, filthy rich bastards would know that kind of information. You subdue the nagging voice in your head that tells you that you just wanted an excuse to strike up a conversation with him. You argue with yourself saying that if you had wanted an excuse to talk to him, you would've brought up Quidditch, or the weather. Malfoy looks at you strangely for a moment, and tells you that his favorite restaurant is La Meilleure in Provence. You thank him, and research the restaurant.

It's in the countryside, on top of hill overlooking a field of lavender. It is completely isolated. There is an apparition point solely for the use of guests with reservations. Reservations are booked until fall, a year from a now. You ring them up, and use your name to book a reservation for August. After confirming the date, you look at the menu. The items on the menu are ridiculously expensive, but you know that your Gringotts vault won't suffer in the least.

When August comes around, you Side-along apparate with Ginny to La Meilleure. You are seated alone on the balcony of the top floor. The glass doors are closed behind you, separating you and Ginny from the rest of the guests - insuring the privacy you had paid handsomely for. The sun is setting in the horizon. The soft shades of pink and purple mixing in the sky like a water painting. The lavender field is a vast sea of purple that goes on forever, and you think for a brief moment that you wouldn't mind if you drowned in it. Ginny is gushing.

The waiter brings in a bowl of bread and sets it in the middle of the table. 15 minutes later he comes back with a plate of hors d'oeuvres. You and Ginny try it out, and strike a comfortable conversation on a topic of no significance. Soon, the waiter brings in two plates of steaming salmon. You sheepishly ask the waiter to bring two flutes of champagne. He nods, and leaves. Ginny praises the cooking.

In a couple of minutes, the waiter brings in two flutes of champagne. He hands you, yours first. Then Ginny's, the modest ring you bought glinting inside the glass. Her mouth drops when she notices. You propose with all the enthusiasm and sincerity that you can muster.

Ginny, we've been together for such a long time ended with will you marry me.

Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! was her answer.

The waiter that had distanced himself, along with another waitress began clapping. You ignore it, allowing it to stagnate. Tears flood Ginny's face. You force the largest grin you can conjure. You've never been happier it says. But you feel as if your heart just leapt through a pane of jagged glass. In fact, you cannot feel your heart at all anymore. You continue with the dinner, and afterwards bring Ginny back home. You fuck her. In hopes that somehow you'll feel something again.

The years pass by incredibly quickly. Your job at the Ministry becomes a career. You are soon head of the Auror department. You and Ginny buy a house with a large yard. Soon James Sirius enters your life. As you hold your little boy in your arms for the first time, you feel your heart beat for the first time since you asked Ginny to marry you. The twinkle in his eyes warn you that later in life he'll be up to no good. He'll perhaps rival his namesakes and his twin uncles with his jokes and overall misbehaviour once he starts Hogwarts. And even though, you'll reprimand him for his actions in the future, you really couldn't care at this moment.

Albus Severus comes next. His moppy ebony hair and startling green eyes shock you. He is physically so similar to you, and you can see James teasing his younger brother in the future. You wonder what else you share in common with your youngest son, and even though you promised not to play favorites, you feel a small amount of bias towards Al. Maybe because you feel he resembles you in more ways than one. Perhaps, you feel as if he'll right your wrongs. Whatever those wrongs may be.

Finally, two years later, Lily Luna comes. Her red hair so similar to her mother's. But the red is more intense, like a fire. And even though, you feel this overwhelming desire to protect your daughter, you know that she'll be able to take care of herself. As you carry her in your arms, you can't help but smile at her strength.

You try your best to raise the three of them. You escort Al to Platform 9 and ¾ 's for his first day of school. James leaves you as soon as he spots a group of his friends. Lily is holding your hand, and you can tell from the interest in her eyes that she can't wait to begin schooling. You bid farewell to your sons. You tell them to behave, and to keep in touch. As the train pulls away, you feel a surge of pride. The smile on Ginny and Lily's faces confirm your thoughts. You raised your sons well. You turn to leave, and spot Malfoy. You both exchange a nod, and you give a small smile.

News of James misdeeds come too soon, and too often. Even, Al does not escape the letters home from the school for misconduct. Apparently, both sons had a penchant for trouble that they most likely inherited from you. Ginny doesn't sound a howler, when she hears that James pulled an embarrassing prank on Al because he got sorted into Slytherin. Or when she hears that James charmed all the toilets in the school to burst at the same time, effectively flooding the school. Instead, she waits until he gets home for the hols. She screams at him, shrieking like a banshee. James screams back. Finally, he escapes to his bedroom, slamming the door shut. When Ginny stalks up to you exhausted, and asks you to please go talk to your son, you feel like a failure. The feeling never really leaves as you continue to raise your children. In fact, you feel as if you are frequently failing at raising your children well. You wish, and hope, and pray that your kids will turn out alright in the end. They do.

As the kids age, you lapse into a bored indifference with life. Quidditch has lost its charm. Auror duty isn't as fun as it used to be. Time moves on. You and Ginny drift apart. You lapse into an indifferent sadness. You have a mid-life crisis. You wonder at your lack of achievement. Yes, you defeated Voldemort. Your name will live on, long after you have died. But you don't care about that. And then you think of your children, and you are content. With them lies the greatest achievement of your life. But still, most days you feel vacant and ethereal.

You start taking walks outside by yourself. Some days, you feel as if you will continue walking forever, and will never return. Other days, you feel as if you will blown away in the wind. On those days, your frailty hits you the hardest. Your weaknesses become blatantly obvious in your head. And as you continue on in your solitude with your silent thoughts of self deprecation, your thoughts turn to death.

You walk into your house with death still lingering on your mind. You see Ginny knitting in the living room. And with startling clarity you realize that Ginny doesn't read. Yes, she read in school. And she reads the letters from the Headmaster of Hogwarts. She reads letters from her children, as well. But mostly, she doesn't read unless it is required of her. And you realize that this old woman who didn't read, never made your heart flutter with any significant passion. You realize that Ginny will die with a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came out of her capacity to love. You never loved her back. And as you sit in your own cushioned chair, watching her, you know you never will. You will die, secretly loving the boy who reads.

And you will regret your cowardice, and yearn for the life you could have had. But you reason that life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Malfoy would've made your life hell. You are sure of that fact. Not because of his cutting witticism, or drawling condescension, but because he reads. And as you continue to ignore your yearning, you and Ginny will die of old age with everyone lauding your fairytale romance.

xxxx

"Harry, are you alright?" The familiar voice pulls you from your reverie, and you can't help the small smile that grows on your lips at the sound.

"I'm fine," you take another sip of your tea, but quickly set it down realizing that at some point through your musings it has gone cold.

"That's good. You were just staring into space for a moment there, I thought I'd lost you."

"Never," you reply and you know that it is true. The silence that settles around the two of you is comfortable, and you are content to merely sit there.

"The sun set is really something today," the familiar voice states. "It's beautiful."

And you take a look at your long time lover, the fading light of day playing off his silver strands of hair, and your smile only widens. You don't take your eyes off him.

"Yeah," you whisper in response, and he doesn't show any sign telling you that he heard you. You return your thoughts.

Draco reads. It is one of the many characteristics that he has that separate him from Ginny. Furthermore, Draco possesses a vocabulary that can describe your vague discontent of a life unfulfilled - a vocabulary that dissects the beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of a foreign, and distant wonder. And as you continue to stare at him, you realize that not only is beauty accessible, but in your possession, as well.

Draco turns to face you, as if feeling the weight of your stare. He smiles, his silver eyes shining. I love you is heard, but the words go unsaid.

Because Draco reads, he is able to distinguish between the false, empty words of someone who cannot love him, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves him too much. And you are thankful for this skill because your vocabulary is limited, and your way with words leaves much to be desired. But he is able to understand your stuttering and your silence, and know just how desperately you need him by your side. And every time, he looks at you with understanding and speaks the words that you cannot articulate you feel like a bumbling idiot, unworthy and beneath him. But you don't care that he outshines you, just so long as he understands.

"What are you thinking about, Harry?" he inquires, tilting his head to the side so that parts of his eyes are obscured by his hair, and you open your mouth to answer. Silence comes out. You should be struggling to articulate a response, but all you can do is think of Draco. You remember the time when you found him reading O'Brien in the Ministry cafeteria, completely engrossed in the text. His food lay untouched, and you found his intensity endearing. You remember Draco after the War, trying his best to make a name for himself separate from the shadow his father cast. He is aloof, and as pompous as ever. Colder than winter, far more deadly, but full of promise. And that hope of promise is what spurred you on to interrupt Draco, so that his gaze was fixed on you and not the inky words of The Things They Carried. It turned out to be one of the best choices you had ever made.

Because now, he is sitting across from you. A book lays closed and forgotten on his lap, as he stares at you, waiting. Draco understands syntax. He learned that moments of tenderness, of love, and affection come in irregular but knowable intervals. Draco knows that life is not planar. He knows first hand that things don't always work out, but he read about it first. And he demands the flow of disappointment to encourage moving on. And he moved on spectacularly, leaving his past behind. He is barely associated with Death Eaters, and is now known for his charity. You know first hand, how much of a changed man he is. And you'll hex whoever dare says otherwise.

"Nothing," you finally answer. But the gleam in his eyes tells you that he doesn't believe you, but he nods anyways.

Draco, also senses sporadic pauses - the slight hesitation of breath - inherent to a lie. It's probably why he is so good at questioning. He perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger, and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after he has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and he has decided that you are an ellipsis and not a period and a run on and run on.

The first, and last time he left you, you fully believed that it was impossible to die of a broken heart. That was when you decided to stop lying to him. You would no longer bottle your emotions about the War, about work, about life and everything in it. You offered to make an Unbreakable Vow so that you would forever stay true to your word, but he didn't want it. He came back anyways. You haven't lied since, but you will lie to him just once more Most likely, you will confess later, but for now your thoughts are your own.

"Okay," Draco whispers. He read up on his syntax, and knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. He will not push you, not now. Later, though, definitely. He gets up from his place on the sofa, and comes up to you. He sits in your lap, and wiggles around until he's found a comfortable position. You arms are wrapped possessively around his waist. His head lays in the crook of your neck.

Draco knows the importance of plot. He can trace out the boundaries of a prologue, and the sharp apex of a climax. He feels them in his skin, beneath the gooseflesh that rise with each heartfelt sentence. Draco, is a man that reads. He is patient with an intermission, and expedites a denouement. But of all things, reading has taught Draco the inescapable significance of an end. He is comfortable with them. He has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a modicum of sadness.

"I love you," this time the words are heard, and you pull him in for a gentle kiss. His lips are soft, and part at the slow lick of your tongue. You slowly enter his mouth, your tongue flicking across his teeth and the inside of his cheeks. His tongue wraps around yours, and your tongues languorously reacquaint themselves. You pull apart. His cheeks are stained a soft pink, and your heart melts at his adorable-ness.

"Tell me our story again," you prompt him, and you let a laugh escape as he rolls his eyes.

"You lived it, Potter," his tone is condescending, but his smile softens his words. "You've heard it a thousand times."

"Please." He rolls his eyes again, and takes a deep breath before starting the story. He starts when the two of you are eleven, nearly 50 years ago. You loose yourself in the deep, soothing timbre of his voice, and are glad that you married a man who reads.

Because men who read are storytellers, like Draco. Draco with Dostoevsky, Neruda, and Wilde. Draco in the library, on the platform of the Underground. Draco in the corner café with a steaming cup of coffee loaded with sugar, and creamer. Draco in the window of your bedroom, in the waxing sunlight. Malfoy, who makes your life so bloody difficult. The ferrety git who has spun an account of his life that is bursting with meaning. The same git that insists that his narratives are rich, his supporting cast colorful, and his typeface bold and underlined.

Malfoy, the man who reads, makes you want to be everything that you are not. But you are weak, and you feel like you have failed him because he has dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than you are. He will not accept the life which you imagined with Ginny. He will accept nothing less than ardent passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. And he deserves that, but you don't deserve you.

You wonder what it would've been like if he had rejected you that day. If he had left the cafeteria, and took his O'Brien with him. But he didn't. He stayed, and saved you life. And for that you are eternally grateful.

"Draco, I lied earlier," you interrupt his colorful rehashing of the time he broke your nose. "I was thinking about you."

He pauses, and turns to look at you. His arms falling limply in his lap. His smile is soft, and his eyes are full of adoration. "I know."

And you kiss him again. This time full of desperation, and wanton need. You make love to him. And you are glad that you dated, and married a man who reads. Because Draco gave you the most colorful life imaginable. He gave you the world, and worlds beyond it.

When you two are done, you cuddle, and you watch him sleep in your arms. You smile so hard you wonder why your heart hasn't burst and bled out all over your chest. And you know, that even all this time you have never stopped loving him. And as time continues, you will continue to love him. Always.

AN: Review please? Thanks!