Merlin, I can't stand the Order. Everyone staring at me in meetings. Thinking I'm a mole, thinking I'm a spy for Voldemort. I can't handle seeing Hermione bloody Granger in hallways and having to pretend it's casual, I can't handle having conversation with Ron bloody Weasley about battle plans and having to pretend I'm not about to explode.
I can't stand thinking about my mother, alone in the Manor with my insane father. Or maybe by now she's been joined by insane Aunt Bella. Hell, for all I know, they've been joined by the every Death Eater Voldemort ever branded.
I can't stand thinking that and I can't stand this war.
Great. Another fucking Weasley has joined the war. It wouldn't bother me so much but seeing as you're rooming with me…
I almost wish I'd be killed in battle.
"Hey, Malfoy!"
I wheel around, brow arched in premature irritation at the sight of you. "What?"
"No need to be cranky," you mutter. "Look, I just wanted to say that we're planning a strike on one of Voldemort's horcruxes downstairs – Harry, Ron, Hermione and I."
I blink at you, temper giving way to confusion. "And?"
You roll your eyes and it reminds me that you're not as old as this war has made you out to be, a mere sixteen and an innocent. "And?" you repeat, exasperation apparent. "And last I checked you were fighting this war along with us, aren't you?"
"Yeeeaah."
Your hands twitch and I smirk. It's not hard to guess that you're fantasizing about strangling me, although I'd prefer different fantasies.
What?
Before I have time to do more than internally gape at my own thoughts and wonder if this war has truly cost me my sanity, you're talking again. "Then I want you to be a part of planning this with us," you reply firmly, tilting your head towards the opposite end of the hallway. "Come on."
"I – oh, alright," I mutter, momentarily at a loss for words. "Has it occurred to you that you're friends might not be pleased to see me, Weasley?"
"Yes."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Your eyes narrow dangerously and I'm suddenly struck by how intimidating you look, all five feet six inches of you, and why everyone from Longbottom to Lupin to your own brothers are terrified of you. "You are fighting this war as much as we are," you grit out of a locked jaw. "We are not in a position to be turning down suggestions, especially not form someone as well-informed to their ways."
I let you lead me along, but all I can think about is how you're the only person to ever understand how much this war means to me.
There's something almost like hope in the air.
The war's been going on for a year now and as the final battle draws nearer, the Order of the Phoenix just seems to harden in their resolve. There isn't anything more to be done; the soldiers we've lost are gone, the soldiers we have are as prepared as they're every going to be, and the rations we've stored can only deplete.
It's time and it's terrifying.
And yet…
Behind layers of fear, walls of doubt, and shadows of sorrow lies hope. That it might all be over – forever this time. That this might be the end, in more way than one.
Yes, there is terror, but beneath it lies hope.
I love your voice.
It's low and smooth, dark and elegant. More than once I've been distracted in a conversation with you, listening to you so carefully that I forget to actually process what you're saying. It would be embarrassing, but I recover admirably, if I do say so myself, and the amused flicker in your eyes makes my lapse in composure more bearable.
Everything about you makes everything more bearable, from your voice to your sense of your humor to your wit.
You're my friend, but dear Lord, I think I might be developing a crush. How morbid, especially for someone at war.
I dreamt of you last night.
Your face is pale and drawn, and under your hard expression is fear. I want to kiss it away but there's a war to fight and lives to save and kissing you doesn't seem to fit into any of that. And I wish I was brave enough to tell you what I felt but you're the Gryffindor, and I'm the Slytherin who just figured out how to not be an asshole after seventeen years.
It should be sad but instead it's funny. Or maybe it's the other way around.
War has a funny way of turning it all around on you.
This war will have driven me to insanity if it doesn't kill, I swear. And God knows it has turned it all around on us. Blaise is in love with Luna Lovegood and fighting for the Order, Hermione Granger is my friend, Ron Weasley is my fellow soldier.
Oh. And I think I might be in love with you.
But there's a war to fight and lives to save and kissing you doesn't seem to fit into any of that.
It's half past midnight and your head is on my chest as we lay under the stars outside.
It would be romantic is it was anyone but you and I, but since it is, I accept it for what it is; an unusually pleasant night that can never, and will never, be repeated. I tangle my fingers around your tousled curls, massage out the knots of your neck, and know that it can never be more.
And then you shift your weight on my chest, warming the skin of my neck, and I throw all caution to the wind, toss every sensible thought I had just had about you and me and why we can never be you and me and open my stupid mouth. "Ginny."
"Yeah?"
"I – I just want you to know that when the final battle comes…you are the most important person to me. You have been better to me than I ever deserved and you gave me chances I would never have given you and I just want you to know that you – that you…"
Well. In case you were ever wondering what a lovesick moron sounds like, this should give you the general idea.
"Draco."
I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on your voice. "Yeah?"
"I know."
And I just hope that you do because you mean things to me that I'll never be able to put into words, things I'll never be able to explain to you, or maybe even to myself.
It's over and we're free. People are dead. Family is dead. Friends are dead. People are dead.
But we are free. We fought and we won. We have won.
It just doesn't seem real yet.
"If there hadn't been a war, do you think you would have changed your mind about us?"
A beat passes in silence.
"No."
You'll never be more beautiful to me than the moment when I saw you right after we knew the war was over. Your hair, that gorgeous scarlet hair that I hated so much once, was singed, your clothes were torn and scraped, and your face was covered in bruises and cuts, blood smeared across your cheekbones.
You'll never be more beautiful to me than you were in that moment, that moment when I realized you could be mine and I could be yours.
You'll never be more beautiful to me than you were in that one moment, where the world seemed to go silent to my ears, despite the hundreds of people screaming and shouting and crying and laughing, and the only thing in my entire world was you, my heart stopping in my chest.
You'll never be more beautiful than the moment when I realized you were alive and so was I and there was nothing to stop us from spending the rest of eternity together.
You'll never be more beautiful but every day I wake up to your face is a close second.
"You're beautiful."
You toss your head back, crimson hair cascading over your shoulders in waves. And grin. "I know."
"I love you."
Your grin widens. "I know."
A/N: Thank you for reading! I really hoped you liked it and please leave a review. If this gets a popular response, I'll consider adding to it. :)