Okay, so I have this fic that I've been working on. In fact, I started writing it before I started writing Theories. The problem is that there's a particular tone that I want for each chapter and the story itself is detail oriented.

The premise is that I describe Draco and Ginny's relationship as it develops. But the twist is that each major point in their relationship is marked by the seasons. And as always, I play around a lot with the concept of time, so the seasons are not going to be over one year. I know for sure it's going to be 4-parts, but it might be five. I'm not sure.

Anyways, here's what I have so far. It's un-betaed, but if I could get some opinions, that would be great!

Every Season - Winter

He stood outside.

His scarf rippled in the wind, cracking like a whip at the ends.

His cheeks burned scarlet from the biting gusts of air, cutting through his lithe frame like his rapier wit.

He looked out across the deadened landscape – the grey slush at his feet, the slate sky above him, the harsh blue glow of the ice-covered flora. His eyes flicked to the only trace of colour in this bleak world, the crimson door the lead to a place he detested.

Satisfied that he was the only occupant of the white garden, he pulled a cigarette out of his cloak pocket, lighting it before taking a drag.

He let the smoke release from his mouth slowly, languidly, relishing in the heat spreading throughout his body.

He had always liked winter. The cold, unforgiving nature of the season left nothing to the imagination; only a crystalline simplicity that sliced through questions and left only answers.

He took another drag on his cigarette.

The click of the lock was the only thing that signalled that he had company.

* * * * * * * * *

He had always reminded her of winter.

She sat on a bed that was not her own, gazing out the window.

Below her was the once green-yellow garden, now covered by a blanket of blue-white.

She spotted him amongst the slate of the snow – a slim figure swathed in black, a curl of smoke rising up to meet her line of vision.

He had come to reside with her and her family some two months ago, amongst the battle cries of war and residual hatred by all parties involved with his entrance into her family’s new home.

He was rude, selfish, and cold. Thus, he reminded her of winter. He had tried his best to sequester himself whenever possible – locking himself in his room, not coming down for meals, refusing to coincide with those he was taught to loathe. Yet, she always noticed his absence, but most especially during winter, his favourite season.

She leaned further in to the window, her short puffs of oxygen fogging up the frosted glass.

It was quiet in her room; her eyes flicking from the black-cloaked figure to the lone tree in the garden – a sad sight with its barren, cracked branches; the noise of it all reverberating throughout the small room.

She turned her head, looking at the mahogany door that led to the stairwell.

The bedsprings creaked as she rose from her seated position, the floorboards and door joining in the chorus as she walked out of the room.

Her family was scattered throughout the house, accustomed to the wanderings of others.

She travelled to the back of the house, noticing that the door to the garden was the only one that did not creak.

He didn’t even acknowledge her presence as she stood on the veranda.

* * * * * * * *

After five minutes, he took his pack of cigarettes out, offering one to her.

“Cigarette?” he queried, lifting one out of the flimsy package.

She shook her head, stepping down to stand beside him.

“What are you doing out here?” she posed to him, stuffing her fists into her coat pockets.

“Escaping,” he let out with a sigh, watching his breath dissipate in the frigid air.

“I thought you already have?”

“No. Not really,” he replied with a dry chuckle.

She grinned at the sound of the roughness in his voice. It spread a warm, tingling sensation throughout her lanky frame that she thought she’d never feel again.

Maybe it was hope?

* * * * * * * *

She discovered that he began to stand outside even more during the winter.

Almost every day, after lunch, she could spot the curl of smoke that signalled his presence.

Sometimes she would join him, sharing a few words, the warmth in her body spreading further each time she made him laugh.

“Do you ever think about the what ifs?” she asked him one day, idly making a snow ball with her mitten-clad hands.

“No. Never.”

“Why not? I sometimes do; if there’s nothing else to occupy my time.”

“I like to think that all of the events in my life thus far, both the good and the bad, have made me a better person. Besides, my what ifs are either unpleasant or, at this point, unattainable.”

“I guess you’re right; I like you more now that I did last year. You’re a much better person than people give you credit for.”

He smiled at this. Then suddenly, he began to feel what she felt whenever he smiled or laughed at something she had said or did: that little glimmer of warmth spreading throughout his body.

But he thought it was something else entirely – caring.

* * * * * * * *

She awoke the next morning, Christmas Day, to a strange pressure on her stomach. She lifted her head, eyes aching and threatening to whisk her back to the realm of dreams, to see a book of all things, a bright red bow serving as embellishment.

Dragging an arm out from beneath the warmth of her blanket, she lifted the book up, reading its cover: One Hundred Years of Solitude. Carefully, she took the bow off, noting the author’s name, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Using both hands, she shifted so her back rested against the cold, wooden headboard, grabbing the book and opening it to the first page.

Written on that first page in a familiar cramped handwriting was, Thought you might find this interesting. Happy Christmas, DM.

Immediately, she flipped to the first chapter: Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

An hour later, she awoke from her trance, her mother’s voice piercing through the silence, effectively breaking the spell the fledgling town of Macondo had cast on her.

Still in her pyjamas, she raced out of her room, book in hand, coming to a halt right outside of his room, before banging the heel of her palm against his door, shouting for him to open up. There was no response, and again, she heard the shrill cry of her mother’s voice emanating from the kitchen, telling her to hurry up so the boys could open their presents.

She knocked one last time, hoping for at least an acknowledgement of her presence, but like before, there was none.

Slightly disheartened, she trudged downstairs, coming to rest beside her father, kissing him on the head, a slurred “Happy Christmas” whispered into his hair.

Her father gave a wan smile in return, an effort to brighten a war-ravaged face.

One of her brothers took her by the crook of her arm, leading her to a spot near the fireplace, wedging her into the middle of the organized chaos.

Her eyes flitted from face to face, genuinely pleased to see the elation from those present, but also disappointed with the lack of the one face she noticed the most; the one that almost always stood out from the others.

Her eyebrows furrowed into a frown, the creases marring her skin.

Abruptly she stood, sprinting up the stairs to his room, an everlasting series of whys fighting for dominance in her increasingly befuddled mind.


That's about all I have. I know it's a lot, but there's still quite a bit I have left for this chapter. Any opinions would be fantastic!

The details you include are all very lovely...the creaking of the bedsprings, for example.

I love Draco as a smoker, though I can't really explain why -- but somehow it fits him.

I really like where this is going.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! ^^

Yeah, I don't know what it is either, but I love the idea of Draco as a smoker, too. Maybe it's the whole Draco = Dragon thing? I dunno. XD

And thanks again! I'll try to work on this more.

Well I really liked it. I think it is beautifully written, and your attention to detail is most pleasing.

I love the fact that you explore their relationships in such a subtle way, but at the same time it's so clear for you to see. I think it's because you're taking it the season way, so we see snippets rather than a drawn out story. You know?

Anyway, I liked it, and I hope you plan to continue it.

Thanks! ^^

And I know what you mean. I prefer doing stories in snippets, or in first person, if I'm able to get away with it.

Yes, I plan to continue. I've decided that it's going to be five chapters and I know what's going to be in each chapter. =D

Wow! Wow! Wow! And WOW! That's bloody amazing! The subtleness, the underlying emotion, the beautiful descriptions! WOW it's really really good. The smoking does fit him. In an odd way... It's really great! I was totally sucked in!!!

xoxo
Hana

Yay! haha. Happy to hear that you liked it. =D It's not done yet, but I'll let everyone know on here when this particular chapter is complete. Thanks again for your kind words!

Just a heads up: I posted the completed version of this chapter to Portkey.

Please read and review with your thoughts!

Yay! I'm going over to read it now! I'm interested to see the whole product of it! The idea being very sweet! And the writing spectacular

xoxo
Hana

Here's part of chapter two, Spring.

I'm no where near done with it, but here's what I have thus far.


Every Season – Spring

It was over.

Five months later, the Second War against Voldemort was finally over.

She looked out the window, her breath no longer fogging up the glass, and it hadn’t for quite a while. The window, itself, was no longer frosted, or somewhat hindering her line of vision; now it was crystal clear, with the occasional watermark from where residual raindrops hadn’t quite rolled down the window’s surface.

The garden was full of life. The grass below was a deep, lush, verdant green; no sign of yellow anywhere on the small patch of earth. If there was a glimmer of yellow present in the garden, it was due to the flowers lining the fence – clumps of chrysanthemums, roses, orchids, and other various species of flower bloomed in all sorts of colours, mirroring the elation of the wizarding world as they feted Voldemort’s eradication. The lone tree near the back was reborn, getting stronger with each passing day as new patches of green, silky leaves made themselves known to the world.

It was a sight to behold and Ginny felt she could gaze for hours on end at the glory that was the backyard at 12 Grimmauld Place. Suddenly, a rush of white flew past her window in the form of petals from a neighbouring tree that had released its flowers, allowing them to scatter in the wind. The flurry of creamy white reminded her of the first snow fall from last November, and subconsciously, she began to seek out that familiar cloud of grey smoke making its steady climb toward her window.

Her eyes drifted for a moment, and then, she found it. Cutting through the petals, announcing to her that he was still here, after all this time.

As she walked downstairs to meet him, she thought about that little cloud of silver smoke and his penchant for smoking. If it weren’t for that, she wouldn’t have gone down to see him that first time last winter. She might have to thank Draco for his habit one day.

* * * * * * * *
“You’re going to kill yourself one day.”

“Yes, and when I do, I’ll allow you to be the first one to hover over my corpse as you sing ‘I told you so’,” Draco replied, smirking, as he blew a ring of smoke in Ginny’s face.

She coughed, waving the toxic cloud away from her face, revealing her slight frown.

“You shouldn’t be joking about death, Draco. We just finished a war,” she admonished, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Exactly. No more deaths,” the blond boy next to Ginny said before taking a drag on his dwindling cigarette. “So I don’t see any problem with my joke.” He flicked the cigarette to the ground, laughing as she quickly put the small butt out with the toe of her right foot, shooting him a glare as he calmed down.

“What have I told you about leaving your cigarette butts out here in the garden?” Ginny snapped, cleaning up the smouldering ashes with her wand. “We finally got this garden back to the state that it was in before the war and we’d like to keep it that way.” She ended her speech by slapping Draco on the arm for his mimicking of her the entire time in a ridiculously high falsetto. He had heard her speech more times that he could count. “You’re not very nice,” Ginny said with an even more pronounced frown.

“I never claimed to be nice.”

“Seriously, Draco, I put a lot of time and effort into this garden. My mum did, too. So I’m just a bit overprotective.”

“I know, I know, Mum. Come on, though; the war’s over, Voldemort’s been dead for about two weeks. You need to acknowledge that he’s finally gone. It’s okay to live life now.”

Ginny massaged her temples, sighing as she did so. “I don’t know, Draco,” she began, wrapping her arms around her waist, rubbing her back. She turned away from him, crouching down to sit on the worn concrete steps.


That's about it! Any thoughts would be wonderful! =D