The sunset exploded over the quidditch pitch in brilliant hues of orange and pink, casting long, dark shadows. What would be a normally bustling stadium (it was a Saturday night, after all, and what would have been the last weekend of summer holidays) was a vast expanse of silence. The silhouette of a lean, tall man wearing Muggle clothing---a collared shirt and casual slacks, no robe--- was the only suggestion of sustained human life on the pitch, as he leaned against a hoop. The silhouette gave the illusion that he was patiently waiting for something; his hands were casually crossed over his chest and his left foot propped itself against the giant pole.
It was curious that this man was standing in the middle of the pitch, his back facing the radiant sunset. He was surrounded by unkempt grass and the stands had not been sustained--- they were rusting and still littered with programs from a match nearly three months ago. The man knew this not only because he had already leafed through the program several times that evening, but he had been to the aforementioned match. It had been a marvelous show of sportsmanship, especially for Puddlemere, who'd not only caught the snitch, but also turned the score around after losing a devastating 160 points.
His mental recap of the match was interrupted when he looked up and saw what he had been waiting for. A disheveled young witch walked quickly onto the pitch, her royal blue robes singed on the bottom. There were spell burns all over her, and her auburn locks flew freely from the clip that had previously held them back. Her eyes held years of sadness and fatigue in them, years of wisdom and loss that she didn't deserve. And still, she was so beautiful.
"It was you that caught the snitch, no?" He approached her, motioning to the program that he pulled from his pocket.
She traced the program cover with a blackened index finger, musing over the match that seemed as though it was ages ago. She regarded his question as rhetorical; she knew he had been there--- her heart had raised into her throat when she saw his face among the crowded stands on the sunny afternoon. This had been the last of better times--- full stands at quidditch stadiums instead of an empty barren pitch. There had been a full year of peace after the battle at Hogsmeade, a week after her NEWTS exams seventh year. Most of the magic community had returned to normal life, believing that Death Eaters and Voldemort were something they would only mention when telling children stories of their past. She had known it was too good to be true, but she took advantage of the quiet and accepted an offer from Puddlemere United. It had been amazing: she had a nearly normal life again, with no summer being locked up in 12 Grimmauld Place. She'd reveled in that rush of adrenaline, the natural high she got when she caught the golden snitch that seemed to have a mind of its own. The after party had barely been underway—George and Fred were on their way with crates of butterbeer and firewhisky when Harry apparated into the Burrow (only the best place for a team party) and told them it was Hogwarts this time. She had slipped into the crowd and apparated to his place, warning him of the danger, and quickly popped over to Hogwarts before she was missed.
That had been the true beginning of the war. Or perhaps it had been the turning point. Hadn't they been fighting this war all of their lives?
"They have your mother." She whispered, disregarding his comment meant to lighten the mood. Tears glistened in her brown eyes as she waited for a response. "He surrendered her instead of himself. He got away."
The silent air around them rang in her ears. There should have been a loud commotion from their stance on the pitch, but there was only a vast emptiness. "They have her." She repeated in a deadpan tone, as though perhaps saying it again would give the words more meaning.
"I know that already." He said, looking up at the sky, at the grass, into the stands—anywhere but in her overcast brown eyes. "Snape sent Zambini on the recovery task this morning."
There was more silence.
It was so beautiful compared to the loud ugly battles of the war, or the screams heard from medical tents, or the cacophonous noises of mealtime, break time, and every other time of the day with the Order.
"Then why have you come?" She asked, lightly, and not too pressing. Such matters were no longer burning matters. In a time where the death of a school friend was normal breakfast talk, everything was unstructured. As contradictory as it sounded, there didn't have to be a specific reason for him to have requested her presence, despite the danger it entailed. Just being out in the open, on grounds where there were no cloaking spells or protective charms, was asking for a hex. But it all seemed worth it just to see each other, still alive: breathing, blinking, walking and talking, soaking up the other's presence.
A smile graced the face of the young man aged too soon. His pale complexion bore lines men twice his age worried about, and his grey eyes held wisdom and responsibility rather than the mirth and ennui a normal twenty year old might carry. He turned his back to her, looking up at the dusk sky. "Do you remember that evening, Gin?"
She was silent. They had gone over that day more times than she could count; there was no need for her to answer.
"There was no sunset. At the time, I had thought it was a good thing; the clouds blocked enough of the sunlight that I could still see you circling high above the stadium. You have a certain grace about you on that broom of yours, and I wanted that view all to myself. If only we had a sunset that night, Ginny. We could have appreciated it, enjoyed it without dreading what would happen once night fell."
That's what happened now. They all dreaded sundown: once the sun was set, bad things were liable to happen. Most of the fighting, most of the murders and reconnaissance missions were carried out at night. When the sun rose in the morning, each respective side would return to their beds and sleep, or perhaps prepare for the next bloodshed.
"How can I believe that something so exquisite can exist, when I've seen so many horrors the world has for us?" There were tears in his eyes this time, when he turned to her. He swept her up into his arms and kissed her passionately. She was tall, but his towering structure put him a good five or so inches over her, and so she had to stretch to reach his height, putting her hands around his neck. His kisses were short and rough, desperate and pleading for comfort, and she did her best to hold him and give him what he needed. There was a moment when she could not differentiate whether the tears on her cheek were hers or his. He pulled away from her mouth, trailing kisses up her cheek bone to her forehead, where he came to rest.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, which was beautifully sculpted, but too thin for a wizard of his age. It was apparent that, like her, he often got so caught up in his worries that he forgot about eating, but never neglected his conditioning.
"We have beautiful sunsets to remind us of what there is waiting for us at the end of this war, Draco."