Last Words

Disclaimer: The words are mine, but the Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, et al.
Content Notes: Discussion of death and mourning.

Ginevra,

If this is in your hands, my life is probably over. I hope the war is, too. If nothing else, I hope you're safe because loathe though I am to say it, my reputation rests with you. My parents certainly won't-and can't-ensure I have an Order of Merlin, but you should be able to. It's my last wish, at least as far as I know now and I don't intend for you to watch me die, so if I wanted anything else in my final moments, it is (or should be) a moot point by now. Consider the Order of Merlin a consolation prize, since I shan't have a chance to marry you. A medal isn't as much of an honour as having you at my side would've been, but it certainly doesn't hurt, and you know how hard I try to make the best of bad situations. You had better do the same, Weasley. I don't want you dead for another century, at least, and I want you happy. Obviously, no man can compare to me, but with your looks and charm, you'll find someone to love you like I do. Don't let me down.

Yours,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Not all his dark humour or his consolations could lessen the impact of the first line. Draco was gone. He'd timed the letter to the moment of his death and his spellwork was as close to flawless as any she'd seen. She trusted him—too late now, too late for him to know or for it to count, but she didn't think he'd let her hurt like this if he could avoid it, if he could breathe. Air snagged in her own throat as she tried to read the letter again, but the tears had already blurred her vision and she thought, I can't do this now; someone might come. Someone might see. She should've been able to hold her sobs back because she'd managed it when Fred had died. She should've been able to hold herself together now that Draco had because yes, she'd loved him, but only for a few months. Only since he'd pulled her in close and said, "War makes strange bedfellows, hm, Weaslette?", his breath hot as Fiendfyre against her ear and his hands gentle on her hips. She should've been able to take this blow, like she'd taken every other because she'd known from the moment he'd left Grimmauld Place that he might never come back. There'd been no surprise; they'd been warned. You-Know-Who had suspected Draco of treachery and his life had been at risk when he'd gone back. Ginny hadn't begged him not to, though he'd clearly been terrified when he told Aberforth he had little choice but to return to the Dark Lord, his eyes wide and hollow and the bags beneath them dark as the winter night. His hands had shaken as he'd undressed that night; she'd had to help and she'd tried to say, 'You don't have to,' but the words had stalled in her throat and he'd kissed her like he didn't want to hear anything but the heavy sound of their breathing.

Now he couldn't breathe. He was dead; he was gone from this world like he'd never, ever been there and the only evidence of his love was this letter and these tears, these noises that shook her to the core. Her throat was so tight, she felt like she'd never talk again, never breathe again. She was glad she was alone, as she sank into a chair—alone in the empty, narrow house on Grimmauld Place, alone in her grief because the Order wouldn't mourn like this. Aberforth would be gruff and sorry, certainly, but he'd brush Draco aside the same way he did everyone they'd lost and it would be days before Lucius and Narcissa heard about their son's death. News travelled to Azkaban slowly, even bad news, and Merlin knew she had no place in their grief. They'd never even know that their son had loved her, and a sob threatened to break her in two when she realized that almost no one would. Half the people who'd known were dead, Aberforth would be no good for her, and Neville would have no comment or consolation.

Neville had said nothing about her relationship with Draco so far, though it had been over a month since he'd caught Ginny with her leg hooked around Draco's waist and her skirt hiked up. Sex was easy to overlook in a warzone-and discomfort had no doubt worked as incentive, so she didn't expect him to check if his initial conclusion had been wrong unless she gave him reason to. Ginny didn't plan to: she couldn't take the posthumous analysis, the dissection, the results. She couldn't let anybody find out that her heart was breaking, broken, but in a way, she wanted to. She didn't want to be alone; she wanted Draco to be alive. The crack of Apparition made her gasp and she choked on the sound, coughing into one hand and trying to wipe her face with the other as Neville panted, "He's not dead. Malfoy's not..."

If not for the chair under her, she would've dropped down; both hands fell to grip the seat and she cleared her throat in an effort to say something, anything of what was going through her head. "What? Nev—"

"His heart stopped for-for a while, but he's stable. He explained," Neville gestured to her, to the note crumpled in her fist and the breakdown building in her chest. "I realized—" Despite the circumstances, Neville flushed a blotchy shade of red. "I had to tell you. Malfoy is alive."

Ginny felt her head swim and her stomach clench and she shook, hard, as she tried to process the words, but she found it almost impossible. She had to repeat them, over and over again; had to have Neville repeat them, like a Celestina Warbeck song; and she still wasn't steady on her feet when she understood well enough to follow him from the house. She thought he'd made a mistake when they arrived: Draco looked like a corpse, his skin a greyish shade of white, his eyes shut, and his chest still as glass, but after a frantic look at Neville, at the Mediwitch, the panic died in her throat. This was just how people looked when death touched them as closely as it had touched him tonight. Trembling, she collapsed into the chair at his bedside and so near, she could see his chest rise, just a millimetre. She could see him breathe, see him live.

"Draco..." but the sob stopped her, strangled her. She didn't take her eyes off him at all as he lay unconscious on the bed, his dry, limp hand in her damp one and his pulse a constant reminder under her fingers. When he woke at last hours later, she had a quivering smile in place and she managed to say, "You-you don't have to talk."

At the same time, he rasped, "Gin," and the fear gripped her heart again, but his fingers had gripped hers as tightly as they could. He was alive and safe, and the war was almost over. They had to make it through-they would-and cynical as he'd always been, even Draco seemed to believe it because smiling wanly, he confessed, "My last wish was you."

Author's Note: I've written a similar fic from Draco's perspective, so if you're interested (and if you haven't already), please check out "Danse Macabre." Thanks for reading and as always, questions, comments, and/or constructive criticism are very much appreciated.