Draco looked down. The sky was grey, the sun never shone anymore. Smoke and fire were all that existed in Draco's world. He- and his memories- were all that existed: all else had been destroyed. His hair was the grey smoke. Hers was the dancing fire.
He remembered the last time he had seen her. He never saw his wand shoot the curse all he could see was her hair, dancing in the wind one last time before she drooped, graceful as ever, towards the grey ashes below. Around them red bolts of fire shot through the air in arcs and grey figures fell towards the ground.
Draco disliked the grave: it was as grey as his hair had become. It was like him, not like her. And she deserved nothing to do with him. Grey was such a dull color, drab and cold. Not like her: hot, spicy flames.
But she had deserved her fate. She deserved to die. She had teased him, been lighthearted and gay. But then she had mentioned his father, and he remembered the man, so far away in Azkaban, who would hate him if he were to damn the family name for all eternity by loving a blood-traitor. He had been sleeping: but then he awoke. She should have remembered: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
He used the green curse one last time. The green snake of Slytherin had damned her, now it would claim him as well: the smoke and the fire, having both been sacrificed on the alter of tradition, at long last had been finally reunited.