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Draco, when pressed by curious eyes and sharper tongues about his girlfriend, would only ever reply with a cool shrug and the easy, palatable truth that Ginny Weasley was a pureblood, and what could be more natural than such a match ... though what he would never breathe aloud was that he’d fallen for the fire in her voice, the recklessness in her laughter, and the maddening way she made every shadowed hall feel alive.
Ginny, when teased by her brothers or cornered by her friends about her relationship, would say she admired Draco’s ambition, his intellect, the polished certainty he wore like armor ... yet she would never admit the half-secret longing that had haunted her since girlhood, the quiet hunger to be draped in silk and lace, to be adored as if she were a pureblood princess, to grasp for something brighter, bigger, more dazzling than the weary hand-me-down life she had known.
And though their reasons spoken were different from those whispered to their own hearts, though the world could never quite understand how their lives could possibly intertwine, together they built something special and entirely their own, and it worked, gloriously, because neither wanted it any other way.