Safety in Fire
Summary: [Draco x Ginny] Such a pretty, pretty girl… She'll be even prettier, lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor in her brand-new robes, dead.
Disclaimer: [insert witty disclaimer here]
A/N: Another one of those "don't ask" stories, I think. I've always imagined Draco as a bit possessive; Ginny really loves him, she knows she does.
Neville/Ginny? Disturbing.
Second-person; my second one ever (and the first was an original fiction). Hope it doesn't suck. Also present-tense.
Safety in Fire
"Fight fire with fire, fan the flame,
Come stir up these coals in my soul, in my soul
'Till it burns out of control…"
-Sarah Groves, "Jeremiah"
They say that you never forget your first love, your soul-mate, the one you wanted to be with forever back when the days were short and the nights were long and anything was possible. They never say, however, that your first love will haunt you, becoming the subject of dreams, fantasies, and so much more until you wish that you had never met her. She's gone now, you tell yourself; I have to move on. She was only a Weasley, after all. Weasleys are worthless; Weasleys are poor; I won't waste my thoughts on the wretch. But you know that you're lying to yourself, something that you've never done before, and that just makes everything worse.
You hear that she's engaged now; to who, you don't know, but it doesn't really matter. He's just another faceless man in her search for someone like you, you're sure. You're positive that she's never truly forgotten about you; that she dreams about you and cries about you and waits for you like you've been waiting for her for so, so long. The engagement must be a joke. She still loves you; she hasn't forgotten. Because, if she has forgotten, then you are nothing. Your soul depends on this. She hasn't forgotten. Never-ever; that's what she promised you so, so long ago, wearing her school robes and smiling like a child. But, if that's true, why do you feel like a part of your being has been torn away? There you go; lying to yourself again. You really must do something about that.
Another day; another night; another red-head lying beside you in bed, with her looking so, so much like your lost love and you trying to regulate your breathing so she doesn't realize that you're still awake and waiting. Your latest find, a pretty, pretty little thing with big blue eyes and flimsy yellow dress-robes, knows that when you look at her you're seeing someone else entirely, but doesn't say anything because she isn't looking for a commitment now. That's what you like about her; the way she doesn't talk when you stare at her, trying to imagine that she's your pretty, pretty Ginevra. The one girl that she can never be.
"Go to sleep," the pretty little red-head says, but you're awake for another few hours, thinking.
It was easy to find Ginevra again, was it not? Wasn't it easy to track her down, especially since her wedding announcement was in the Daily Prophet and her new address was listed? You couldn't believe her reaction when you contacted her; she had said that she would love to see you again. As friends, of course. Always friends; we can only be friends now. What had she said after that? It's best not to play with fire, Draco. Yes, you know that; you understand that completely. You've been playing with fire for years now, and all it's brought you so far is heartbreak. So you had agreed; you would just be friends and you just wanted to talk to her one more time before the wedding and that's all; I swear it. She doesn't know your true intentions; it's best this way. She would never agree to it if she knew.
She arrives at your house at ten PM; your latest red-head has been gone for two hours and you've cleaned away all traces of the petite beauty. She had mentioned having a black-haired friend that you may be interested in, but it has to be red-heads; it's always red-heads. This latest one was particularly dim; she didn't even notice that when you looked into her deep-green eyes, dark-brown ones were reflected back. And maybe that's best.
"Hello?" Ginevra asks, standing in the doorway in brand-new green robes (a present from her new fiancé, no doubt). "Can I come in?" You step aside, giving her access to the house that she used to dream about, so, so long ago.
"So, you're engaged?" you ask nonchalantly. "It's for the best, I suppose; who's the lucky guy?"
"Neville Longbottom," she replies softly; embarrassed. You know that she would have said your name-Draco Malfoy-proudly to anyone who asked, and that makes the situation a little bit better. You nod your head and look away.
The hours pass unbelievably quickly; you haven't seen her in so, so long and she seems genuinely happy to see you again, just like you knew she would. She asks how you've been; you reply that everything's been great and ask about Longbottom. She gives you one-word answers and avoids eye contact and you know that she's ashamed of her, just as she always has been.
"You don't want to marry him, do you?" you ask harshly, and she doesn't reply. You give her a smirk and know that she's yours.
She doesn't resist when you push her up against the wall and kiss her, which amazes you. You thought that she would keep the charade of her engagement going a bit longer, but she's completely willing and that only makes everything easier.
"You don't really love Longbottom, do you?" you hiss, knowing the answer, and she shakes her head 'no'. You see a spark of fear in her eyes and force her to look into yours.
"Tell me you love me," you insist, pulling your wand out of your back pocket.
"I love you," she whispers as you put the wand to the side of her head.
"Say it again."
"I love you!" she shouts, afraid now. "Put it away; put it away…"
"It's too late now," you whisper to her, smiling maniacally. "I loved you, Weasley; do you realize that?"
"Yes," she stutters. "How could it ever work, though? You're a Death Eater."
Ginevra was always such a pretty, pretty girl; you can't allow such a little, little girl to hurt you like that. If you can't have her, no one can. Avada Kedavra works so quickly; a flash of green light and it's all over; she's lying on your living-room floor, eyes still open and terrified. Her lipstick's smudged and you sit down on the couch and wait for the next girl to walk through your door. You know it'll never be the same again, but the fact that she's yours forever now consoles you.
She was such a pretty, pretty girl; it's a shame that she had to die so early.
{End}