Bitter winds nipped at pale skin, bit at the stooped frame, blew platinum hair, dull and unwashed, into empty silver eyes tearing and stinging from the cold. Draco took another few steps, only to be forced backwards once again by the strong gale. It took several more attempts before he was standing precariously close to the parapet of the bridge, squinting down at the raging dark waters. Their hue should have matched that of the sky, but darkness was the difficult to find in London. All around Draco, the city lived on, muggles and wizards alike, in harmony: bright, flashing lights blinded passers-by; cars and lorries blew their horns obnoxiously; drunkards stumbled into the night, yelling, shouting, chanting and cursing.

All around him, the city lived on, but there was no room for someone like him anymore. He and his family had done enough.

He hadn't always been so set on launching himself off the rickety collection of stones beneath him. There had been a time when he'd been okay, sometimes happy, others content. That was before the Dark Lord had invaded his family home. The torture that came with living under the same roof as two maniacs (Voldemort more so, but his father hadn't been exactly sane, nor kind) had been bad enough. People knew not to question the cuts and bruises on his skin; and besides, he'd learnt a vast array of glamour spells to take care of the bulk of them.

Barely anyone had the chance to see them. Those who did so fell into one of three categories: if they were like his Aunt Bellatrix, they yearned to add to the pain; if they were his mother, they had bigger issues to worry about; and if they were anyone else, a particular anyone else, they clearly didn't care to do anything to help.

He supposed he wasn't too hard to forget, in the middle of a warzone.

That was the root of Draco's problems, he thought, shuffling a little closer to the edge of the wall, wind urging him on. Everything began to get too much when he finally realised that no one f****** cared.

So the torture had continued, the war grew worse, and Draco had been ordered to kill, rape, do to others, to innocents, what had been done to him. And when he couldn't, he was hurt until he begged they just kill him instead.

They never did though.

Then he had turned sixteen. He had entered sixth year with a task more daunting than ever before. It wasn't the job itself (he was comfortable with death now, more comfortable than was natural, though he'd still yet to take a life himself), but rather what was at stake that terrified him. His own life was worthless. His mother's? She'd always tried to do good by him. She didn't deserve punishment for his weaknesses.

A bitter laugh escaped through Draco's chapped lips, stolen swiftly by the raging winds, disappearing into the haze of a London night. There was no justice in this new world, of that he was convinced. If there was any justice, how could someone like his father exist? How could justice allow that such a vicious, soulless monsters could have the chance, between court hearings for Death Eater activity, to kill his angel of a mother. The new, 'good' Wizarding order had defiantly turned their backs on the monstrous and the demonic men, and in doing so left innocent men, women and children to suffer at their wrath.

Draco had remained strong, resolute that he would see everything through until his own court punishment – two years community service, wandless outside work-hours, filing at the Ministry under the scrutiny of a beady-eyed Auror, Tinkerson – was completed.

Legally, they would have no right to watch and follow and judge him once he'd finished the sentence.

But it was hard, so hard, to keep finding strength in his tired tiny body to walk through the lobby everyday, through the glares and the curses and the occasional muggle-style punch-ups on his lunch break; he'd used up all his reserves and was running on empty. As a particularly sharp gust of wind staggered him, causing him to shuffle once more to the forefront of the stone bridge, Draco recalled all the people who had meant something to him; there weren't many and, by the time he had regained his footing, he'd already ticked off each of their names.

First there was his mother, and maybe, he'll admit, his memories of her were distorted by the love a child is born with for their parents. She was a sweet woman really, despite the icy demeanour he knew she wore in public, and most importantly she had loved her only son dearly. The image of his mother saving the Wizarding world by brazenly lying in the face of a most dangerous evil was far prettier and far more noble than the much more real and recent memory of coming home to find her laid bare and twisted against the cold marble floors of the Grand Foyer, slashed and very obviously burned by a dozen dark curses Draco could recognise (and two dozen more that he couldn't). It hadn't taken long for Draco to figure out what had happened. Within a week, he was trying in vain to anger his father into repeating it all on him.

Needless to say that had failed. This time, there would be no failure. He was taking matters into his own hands. Muggle means, of course; the Aurors had his wand still.

The second person he considered to mean something special to him was Blaise Zabini, a boy who had been his best friend throughout their childhoods, who had still remained close for the first few years of Hogwarts. They had drifted apart, though, once Blaise had found other friends, better friends, friends who weren't being branded with the Dark Mark. Draco figure Blaise had probably by now forgotten all about the good times they'd had together, probably didn't realise that the memories of having snowball fights with the house-elves on Christmas Eve had kept him fighting during the initial months of his 'initiation'.

A sob left Draco's lips at this final thought, and another, and another. They were coming thick and fast now, clawing up his throat, pouring out of his dulled eyes, mingling with and weaving between the droplets of rain attached firmly to the sallow greying skin of his pinched, boyish face. He was still a child, really, though his heart would beg to disagree. Deep inside, so deep it could barely be seen anymore, Draco Malfoy had remained a child this whole time and, as the force of his cries contorted his fragile frame, he looked it too.

He was on his knees now, weak and powerless and pathetic, leaning over the side of the bridge, giving the appearance of either praying, or retching into the brutal waters rushing beneath him. The roar of the river was almost calming to the shaking boy, the distorted reflections of the cities lights twinkling near hypnotically. It was enchanting. He felt himself transported to another world, where there was no pain, no tears, no angry shouts and frightened whimpers, no mocking stares, no fierce glares. The sensation was taking over his whole body.

Without realising, Draco had once again stood up on the crumbling stone parapet. He couldn't feel the tempest blasting through him, trying again and again to unbalance his wiry frame. He was deaf to the whistle of the wind around his ears, the drumming of the rain as it lashed against the bridge, and against his body. He was oblivious to the heaviness of his clothes, drenched and clinging desperately to his skeletal form.

All he was aware of was the water and the lights and the freedom he felt in his bones. One step and the freedom would take him over eternally. One step and he could feel as weightless and invincible as he did at that moment. One step.

Still mesmerised by the twinkling of the lights in the rushing current, he raised a foot, edging ever closer to the edge. He could almost taste the exhilarating release that awaited him. Eyes fluttered closed. Muscles relaxed ever so slightly. He was giving himself up, giving into the allure of what was waiting for him below the water. A contented sigh was let out – his last breath. He paused, savouring the moment, nervous and excited, almost, almost happy again, feeling the anticipation, remembering for the last time the good times.

"Draco Malfoy?"

No, he shook his head, he wouldn't let himself be deterred, distracted.

"Draco?"

The voice sounded familiar, though he remembered it being far less frantic. In his mind, he had always associated that voice with peacefulness and a fiery attitude. A fiery person. Still, he reprimanded himself, he shouldn't let himself lose focus.

"Pretty Boy?"

A shiver ran down Draco's back that had next to nothing to do with the chill slowly developing beneath his chest. Any doubts he might have held before as to who the voice belonged to disappeared immediately at the use of his nickname. Only one person had ever said that name, ever said anything of him with such obvious affection.

He was losing his concentration, he could feel it. The magnetic pull of the captivating swirling waters was weakening as his mind battled his heart.

'Should he respond to the voice, the pleading voice, and see what its owner had to say?' questioned his heart.

'Why was it pleading in the first place,' argued his mind, 'when she was the one who walked away? She doesn't care at all, never has, never will.'

Hiss senses were returning to him now that his focus had shifted from the river and the lights to the argument he was holding with himself. He could now taste the sharpness of the salty tears as they reached his mouth. He could now feel his hair plastered against his forehead – he slowly, carefully, painfully raised an arm to brush it away. This was the first time he noticed how soaked he really was, as his arm passed in front of his now wide-opened eyes, white shirt close to invisible and hugging his thin wrists tight.

He blanched as his hearing suddenly returned in full too. He could hear faintly, over the howling of the wind and pounding of the rain, the splash of footsteps in puddles, the voice frenziedly repeating his name, over and over, shouting it, screaming it, still with its pleading tone. He could hear, and feel, the laboured breathing of the owner of the voice; it tickled the skin of his neck, though he was too numb from the cold to fully feel it.

"Pretty Boy," the voice repeated, "Please."

That was all. The owner of the voice could say no more, for suddenly Draco could hear the sound of someone, a young, female someone, choking on tears, coughing, spluttering, struggling to salvage some composure.

"Red," Draco whispered. He didn't know if the owner of the voice would be able to hear him, but that wasn't a pressing issue right at that moment. He straightened his back, correcting his posture, standing strong, tall, untouchable. That was his aim anyway – to discourage the girl behind him from reaching out to him. Any contact and his resolve would collapse into pieces.

He opened his mouth to say more, but all that came out was one hoarse word, bitter and sad and too curious to be passed off as casual. Not that either of them would be concerned with thinking about looking casual.

"Why?" He asked. He knew the girl behind him would know to what he was referring, and the girl behind him knew that he knew she would know.

The silence that hung between them was suffocating.

"Scared," said the voice.

Draco considered the answer he'd received and, upon deciding that 'scared' was nowhere near a good enough excuse for what he'd been put through, tried to refocus his attentions on the river.

The owner of the voice had noticed the shift in his concentration and searched her mind, tore her mind apart trying to find suitable words. But she wasn't a wordsmith – that was Draco's forte, not hers. All she was good for, or so it seemed, was messing everything up.

"You were so vulnerable at that moment," announced the voice, sparking a small flame of anger within him. "You were fragile and I've always been too careless. I'm the bull and you're the bloody china shop, and to Merlin if I was going to let myself add more cracks. I was scared of breaking you even more when what you needed was rebuilding." The voice hesitated, giving Draco time to try and make sense of the words he had just heard.

"Ginevra," he began, his tone harsh, "You were my friend. I... You couldn't have broken me anymore than your leaving did. Do you know what it feels like... loving someone who cares for you so little they can just leave you on your own again? Do you know what it's like to have a friend one day, your only friend at that, and having no one the next? To have a taste of what it's like to be loved, liked even, after such a long drought... when the entire world would rather you'd never been born... you couldn't know. You don't know..."

His voice faded to a whisper and his frail arms wrapped around his waist.

"Draco... Pretty Boy, please..." The voice behind him faltered. He could almost hear the girl's lips quivering, the tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know." Draco could hear the girl behind him shaking something brutal, could hear the defeat in her voice. "I can stay away, Draco, if that's what you want. Or I can stay? Just, don't jump off, please. Don't. I couldn't take it and I know that's selfish of me, but it's the truth." It wasn't good enough, both knew that. Words were meaningless at this point, but actions were beyond each of them. Actions would only make things worse.

As Draco took another tentative step forward – his foot now hung half over the edge – the terrified girl behind him took one last chance.

"I care about you, Draco Abraxas Malfoy. Always will."

It was said with such conviction, there was such raw emotion in the voice, that Draco stopped dead. His mind stopped whirring, his feet stopped moving, his eyes stopped blinking, his lungs stopped breathing. Everything stood still, held its breath. For one moment, the world, it seemed, had halted in its tracks and centred on the two broken souls on the bridge's parapet.

"Thank you." The rough murmur sent the Earth back into movement. He took a step off the side of the bridge and turned, at last, to face the owner of the voice, the girl with red hair and those huge, tender eyes. The eyes that, in that final, horrible year, had given him hope. The eyes that had looked to his and vowed they'd do everything in their power to get him out of that whole disaster alive.

It was the mark of a man who had nothing to forgive the one who'd promised it all and then left. But Ginevra was something special. And if there was one person out there believing in him and caring for him, he might have a chance. Maybe she had some of that raw, defiant fire left over for him.

"Thank you, Red." There had been too many tears that night, thought Draco, as he struggled to hold back more. Ginny pondered on that same thought, but only fleetingly as she unashamedly let fat tears roll down her cheeks. Slipping in the puddles formed down by his feet, Draco made his way haltingly to his former friend, his former confidant, his former everything in that unspeakable seventh year of school. Timidly, he fell into the hug Katie offered, melting against the girl.

Exhaustion overtook him as they walked together down the cobbled streets, Draco leaning against Ginny, her acting as the rock for this moment.

It felt strange, he determined, but it felt sort of right. Ginny was the third person who had meant something to him, somewhere along the line. She had always meant something to him, even when it appeared she had left his life for good.

Reaching down, Draco took one of her shaking hands in his own, interlacing their fingers and squeezing it slightly, just to assure the girl beside him that he was still there, still hers. Ginevra Weasley, Merlin save them both, would most probably be the person who meant the most to Draco Malfoy for the rest of his days... however long that may be.

A/N If you've read and enjoyed this, please review it? You could also send me ideas for other one-shots to write, if you liked how that went? Conversely, if it was awful, you're putting others at risk by not telling me - tell me I'm crap and I might not peddle this defecation at you again :)