Ron.

She will not remember him tonight, and nor will she care when she wakes.

When finally she remembers him, she will feed him false promises and lies, and she will not care.

She has never cared.

She lives only for the stolen moments, hidden in abandoned rooms and dusty stairwells. It is for these moments that she waits with bated breath, eager to be delving further into the carelessness of it all.

Life has bruised her, yet the bruises are not black and blue. They are red and gold, blemishes that burn her flesh. They suggest Ron, yet she cannot care.

Will not care.

She will drown herself in silver, black and green. She will drink in empty promises, and feed them back to him.

She will remember this, but only for a while.

Draco.