AN - This is just something that popped into my head and I felt the need to write it. There may well be more of these little vignettes if people like this one (you know what to do folks ... happiness is just one little click away!) Have decided to post it just like this, ie unbeta'd, so any mistakes are of course mine. Let me know if you spot something! Of course it isn't mine. Sob sob. Anyway, enjoy!(and review!)
Draco Malfoy sighed in the darkness, shifting to find a comfortable position on the mouldering sofa, something he realized was doomed to failure as he was speared by a spring.
"Ants in your pants Malfoy?" The snigger in the soft voice was obvious, even though Draco couldn't make out the face of the room's other occupant.
"Shut it Weasel," he growled, feeling the flush rising through his usually pale features.
This was not how he'd pictured himself spending the eve of his birthday. Granted a dark room, a sofa (or bed, or any other kind of vaguely soft surface – he wasn't choosy) and a girl were all elements of his fantasy, but not this room, certainly not this sofa, and never in a million, billion, gazillion years this girl. The Weasel girl. He was going to kill Albus Dumbledore. Always assuming he lived through tomorrow of course. The thought of what he would have to face tomorrow made his stomach jolt, as for the first time he really thought about the reality of his commitment to the Order, and what it could mean. Tomorrow, he would line up with the rest of the Order, wands at the ready, trying to repel the final death eater attack on Hogwarts. This was the big push: Harry's only real chance to get at Voldemort, and they had to create a diversion while wonder-boy Potter sneaked around the back to cast the killing curse, or whatever it was he was actually going to do. Of course only Potter and Dumbledore actually knew what that was. He wasn't given that information; he took heart from the fact that not even granger appeared to know.
Apparently this was for their own safety. Of course in reality it was to protect Harry's back. The Dark Lord would not stop his games simply because a victim didn't possess the required information. The lack of knowledge merely made him angry, and then he took exquisite delight in keeping people alive as long as possible. That was what had swung it for him. He remembered the screams that echoed through the Manor night after night, the screams of one slowly loosing every scrap of humanity, dignity and, finally, the battle for life. It had gone on for weeks. He later found out that the victim was a new death eater, someone only a few years older than him. He was due to start his seventh year at Hogwarts within the month, and his father was already making noises about robes and initiation ceremonies: it was never that clearly spelt out but it was plain to Draco what he was getting at. The death of the young man opened his eyes. As soon as term had started he had gone to Dumbledore, had told him of everything he had seen in the Manor over the summer, had watched in amazement as two tears had rolled silently down the face of the headmaster, had seen the light in his eyes dim momentarily, had been folded in his arms for a moment. He had been inducted into the order of the phoenix, but had been something of an outsider, although the golden trio had been nicer to him than he had expected them to be. Nicer than he deserved if he was honest with himself.
Still, Dumbledore would pay for this. The youngest Weasley had never warmed to him and seemed incapable of even holding a civil conversation with him, something which after almost six months of trying even Ron had almost managed. Dumbledore had insisted that on this, the last night, they had been split up, but that they were not alone. "Loneliness leads to despair," he had said solemnly in his quiet voice, "and through despair, death and destruction win the day. Companionship and conversation inspire hope, and through hope, life and love flourish and grow. Without hope we are nothing, but equally without each other we are nothing. Therefore I ask that you spend the night with another member of the order. Minerva and I have posted a list on the notice board in the kitchen. You will be located in separate rooms with another order member. Please remember that this is for your own safety. I trust none of you will try and circumvent these requests – I assure you it would be most foolhardy. I will see you in the morning. There is always hope with the new day. Remember that my children. Remember that and fight well." It had been the usual speech, full of rousing sentiments, but delivered so calmly and quietly that you would hardly notice them until afterwards. There had almost been mutiny over the lists in the kitchen. He didn't know what Dumbledore had been on when he had compiled the lists, but he would have dearly like some. The man was clearly mad.
"Malfoy?" The voice of the Weasel jerked him out of his reverie, and he became painfully aware of the sofa again. Her voice was softer now, less defensive. He was suddenly grateful that he was not alone; equally grateful that he couldn't see her in the darkness of the room. He didn't answer her straight away.
"Malfoy are you asleep?"
He snorted at that. "On this? I think not."
"Are you … are you scared."
"Yes." He hadn't meant to say it; hadn't intended for the word to come out. He wasn't scared, not really. Maybe a little nervous. He couldn't think why he was confiding in the dreaded Weasel, of all people. Maybe he might have talked to Uncle Severus, but he could never, ever have seen himself confiding in Ginny Weasley of all people. Once again he was thankful she couldn't see his face.
"Me too." The voice this time was so soft he almost missed it, and her voice caught in her throat. He heard a sniff, followed by a tiny, repressed sob, and groaned audibly.
"Weasel, kindly restrain your tears. I do not want to spend potentially the last night of my life listening to you snivel away in the corner, or wherever you've hidden yourself away in this hole." His voice was a little harder than he intended it to be.
"Oh shut up Malfoy. It's bad enough that I have to spend the last night of my life with you. I don't need you lecturing me as well." Her voice was harsher than he had known it could be; the venom in her voice surprised him.
"You don't seriously imagine they'll let you die do you?" he asked incredulously. "Your brothers would do anything to protect you, as would the rest of the order."
"Do you seriously believe they wouldn't do as much to save you? They might not be your biggest fans Draco, but no one wants to see you die out there."
He didn't know what to say to that. He turned away from her, staring at the wall.
"Draco?" The use of his given name startled him. No one had ever said it like that before, and it unnerved him. He wasn't used to people surprising him, and Ginny Weasley had just done that.
"Draco?" She was closer now, right behind him. He felt arms snake round him, pulling him close. Instinctively he turned into her embrace, burying his head in her shoulder, fighting back the tears that were suddenly threatening to spill down his cheeks. She shifted her grip, so that she was cradling the back of his head with one hand, stroking his hair, while the other hand was firmly wrapped around his waist, effectively clamping him to her. He couldn't fight the tears anymore, feeling relief at finally being able to give vent to his feelings like this. She held him as he cried, rocking him back and forth gently, muttering soothing noises in her soft voice until his tears were spent.
He pulled back, wiping his eyes fiercely on the sleeve of his robe.
"Sorry," he said quietly. He felt her shift, so that she was sat next to him on the uncomfortable sofa, staring at the window. The sky had imperceptibly begun to lighten, and he could make out her face in the half light. She didn't look at him, or acknowledge his words, but when he found her hand and squeezed it, she responded. He clumsily slid his arm round her shoulders, feeling her lean into his warmth as a shiver ran through her.
"Are you cold?" he asked, the concern in his voice more prominent than he would have liked.
"A little," came the quiet reply. She turned to look at him.
"Draco, what's death like do you think? D'you reckon it hurts much?"
"Dunno. Not that you're going to die Weasel, so why fret?"
She shifted slightly, so that he couldn't quite see her face.
"But what about the people we have to … you know … fight." She couldn't bring herself to say kill.
"They're Death Eaters. If we don't fight them, they'll kill us. We might not have a choice Ginny," he finished quietly.
"They're still people Draco. Still human beings. Still lives we might be called upon to end."
"They're not people. They're evil. They have no concept of right and wrong. They deserve to die." Suddenly his head was filled with the screams of the dying death eater, and rage coursed through his veins, the blood rushing dizzyingly to his head. He stood up abruptly, feeling the sofa groaning in complaint at his sudden movement, and made his way over to the window. "They deserve to die. They don't feel any sorrow when they end a life. At least those we kill will die fairly painlessly. There isn't time for torture in a battlefield. More's the pity." His voice was harsh and cold, devoid of all emotion.
"Draco." The sorrow, the pity in Ginny's voice was more than he could bear.
"They killed my father. Do you understand that? They thought he was the spy. They knew I had refused to join, so they waited until I was home for the holidays, and they took my father down to their usual meeting room in the dungeons of the Manor and killed him by inches. Literally. Can you imagine listening to the screams of your father as he is repeatedly tortured to within an inch of his life?" His knuckles tightened on the sash of the window in front of him as he recalled the sounds of those dark nights. He remembered the haunted look on his mother's face; her staunch determination not to discuss the events of the last few nights. The dead look in her eyes had almost broken his heart.
"Draco?"
"No! You're not trying to convince me that that was right, what they did."
"Of course I'm not, but surely if we retaliate …" she paused for a moment, clearly struggling to put her feelings into words, "if we retaliate, we're just as evil and inhumane as them. And we're not like that, Draco."
"Maybe you're not," he whispered, finally voicing the fear that kept him awake at night: the worry that he was just as bad as his father, that one day he would wake up and he would be everything he had striven to change.
"Neither are you, Draco," she whispered back. He snorted at this.
"No Draco, look at me, look at me." He turned his head slowly, meeting her gaze and holding it.
"You're a good person Draco." She smiled up at him. He smiled back, before turning back to look out of the window.
They stood side by side in companionable silence for a few minutes.
"What's Ginny short for? I always wanted to know," he added apologetically.
"Ginevra. Kinda stupid name I know."
"I like it. It's unusual. So when this crazy war is over, do you want to have dinner with me?" he asked casually.
"Yeah that would be nice," she replied softly, a smile playing on her face.
He slid his arm round her waist, and they stood side by side at the window as the sun came up, heralding the first, and possibly last, day of the rest of their lives.