A/N: Angsty. With a capital A. Believe it.

Disclaimer: I am not lucky enough to be as smart enough as to invent these characters myself. They are not mine. Too bad. –pout-

The Stone Speaks

Chapter Fifty-Five: The War Is Over

DRACO

He did not want to talk to anyone – the only person he wanted to talk to, or to be with, at the moment… he could never have again.

"No," groaned Draco, kneading his forehead with hands. He couldn't think about that. Before he knew anything else, he found that tears were flowing freely down his face now, encouraging by the rain disguising them. Tears, tears and tears. It filled his head, filled his heart, filled his eyes, and he wanted them all to go away, now, and never come back, because if he was empty, then maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

"No…" he sobbed. "No…"

The war was over.

For Draco, on the other hand, it was only just beginning.

It had been a week since what was now known as the Battle of Hogsmeade, and no-one had forgotten it. He doubted that anyone ever would.

At first, everyone had assumed that famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had defeated Lord Voldemort again – this time, the last time. Usually this might have infuriated Draco, but he found that he couldn't care less. He neither cared when Harry stood up during his yes-I-saved-the-world-thank-you-for-the-flowers speech, and said, "I have nothing to say, because I didn't do anything. I was unconscious. I did nothing. The saviour of all of you is Draco Malfoy," and pointed at him, nor when hordes of girls started clumping around him and fluttering their eyelashes, all Sanchia look- alikes and act-alikes too.

Luna had become his spokeswoman, and had stuck up huge posters in every room saying: DRACO WILL NOT GO OUT WITH YOU. HE IS SPOKEN FOR. MOVE ON. He should have thanked her, but he didn't. He barely spoke. Everyone assumed it was 'strong and silent' coming into play, but only four living people knew the truth. And three dead.

Neville knew as well. Luna had told him, in an effort to make him feel better about losing Hannah.

The dead. It hurt Draco terribly to even subconsciously think of anything to do with death.

Draco hadn't seen Myrtle in a long time. He suspected that she was very upset, but he couldn't face seeing her, because she'd doubtlessly want to talk about her, and he couldn't – not after he'd seen her die when he could have saved her.

It was breakfast. What was breakfast? Draco couldn't remember. He wandered through to the Entrance Hall. It was gratefully empty, and he sat heavily down on a step halfway up the stairs.

Spring had truly set in. It was March, and the Entrance Hall doors were wide open, so that the fabulous pink-orange sunrise shed its rays into the castle. Its beauty burned Draco's eyes. The windows were open too, so that 'the scent and glory of Spring' could 'float in and heal us all'.

I bet its just to hide the smell of the dead people.

His heart panged as he thought of Ginny, dead, decaying, and starting to smell – twenty years on, a rotten skeleton, brittle and prone to snapping. He shook the thought away and rested his pointed chin on his knees, looping his arms loosely around his knees.

Deep in thought was Draco when the footsteps approached. He did not lift his head, but he flickered his grey eyes sideways and saw Neville. Great. Longbottom.

There was a thick and terse silence for a few moments, and then Neville said softly, "You don't have to pretend that you're alone in this, you know."

I am alone. You have no idea.

"I…" Neville swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed madly, "I lost Hannah."

Yes, but you found out that she was dead. You didn't have the opportunity to save her and throw it away. You didn't watch the life leave her body. You didn't hold her dead body in your arms. You didn't… you didn't use her life to kill Lord Voldemort.

"I was going to ask her to marry me, you know," Neville continued, his voice thick. "In the summer. I was going to ask her parents first, and then pop the question. Somewhere in Italy. I know that she liked me, and I liked her too. And – and we did… everything, you know. And we dated. And… now she's passed on."

Draco imagined him and Ginny getting married. He could picture her, laughing, smiling, blushing delicately at obscene comments about the honeymoon, but he could not see himself with her. Then the vision of Ginny turned cold. The imaginary redhead pulled her veil down and disappeared behind it, and then she was gone.

It hurt. Draco shut it away, and stared blankly at his feet.

"Everyone lost somebody," said Neville. "Anchee Salil and Colin Creevey both lost Dennis. Professor Sprout lost Professor Flitwick. Lavender lost Seamus. Terry Boot lost Cho Chang. And then, the younger students that we don't even know – they suffered too."

Please, shut up.

"It's okay to talk about her, Draco."

That's Malfoy to you, ignorant fool. I may be a sappy friend-of-Gryffindor but I still detest you.

"D'you miss Ginny?"

I will rip your head off. How dare you say her name.

"I think that-"

"Longbottom!" Draco shouted. He hadn't spoken in ages, and his voice was croaky. He was shaking in anger, and struggled to maintain the tears that he had been fighting all week. "I do not want to talk about… her. I never have, and I never will. Especially not to you!"

The Gryffindor looked shocked, as did the people who had gathered at the bottom of the stairs and were watching interestedly, wondering what was going on.

Yes, tell them all my secret, Longbottom. It's all you want, isn't it? To reveal that Draco Malfoy, the fierce, arrogant prat can actually feel. And a hell of a lot, too.

Before Neville could reply, Draco stood, and, with a swoosh of grubby cloak, stormed up the stairs, away from the people gaping after him.

Where am I going?

Draco did not know. He decided to go to his Quiet Room. He had created it the day after the Battle, as a place to go and hide when he felt totally alone. Meaning every day, in place of going to class, or making any social contact.

Disappearing down a narrow corridor behind a tapestry, he ran into the last person on earth that he wanted to see.

"Oh," said Sanchia awkwardly.

Silence. He tried to sidle past. He was not here for small-talk, or even to see anyone.

"Hi, Draco," she said.

She was standing in his path. He ignored her.

"I'm… I'm sorry." Sanchia paused nervously. "About Ginny, I mean. I know you and her were friends."

How little you know.

"You hated her guts," said Draco. He didn't want to speak, but he forced it out, angry as to why, suddenly, Sanchia was all sympathy.

Sanchia blushed. "Well, I didn't totally hate her," she said.

"What do you want?" said Draco gruffly. She has to be here for a reason.

Sanchia reddened further. She seemed to have lost all of her confidence and flirtatious teasing. "Well," she said quietly, "I was… I was just wondering… tomorrow's Hogsmeade night. And I was thinking if maybe, because of everything… you wanted some company?"

Draco was so stunned that he couldn't find anything to say. I do not believe her. He could barely think anything, let alone speak. Eventually, after a terrible silence during which Sanchia seemed to realize her mistake, he said, "How dare you."

"How dare – what?" she said, looking confused. She was also looking slightly frightened at the lethal expression on the Slytherin's face.

If looks could kill.

Eyes narrowed, lips thinned, grey eyes stormy and tempestuous. At that moment Draco Malfoy was not one to be crossed.

"How dare you," he repeated, his voice cold and dangerously low. "You sick, sick little bitch. It's been a week. A week since I saw so many of my friends fall, and perish. A week since she was murderedin front of me. The only person I've ever truly loved. And a week later, you're asking me out? You spiteful cow – you saw her death not as a tragedy… but as a chance to finally grab me, now that she was gone. You…you disgust me."

Sanchia looked like she might cry. "Draco, I didn't mean it that way!"

"Who the hell said that you could call me 'Draco'?" he snarled. "Because it certainly wasn't me."

"Please, I just-"

"Listen, Corteza. The only way I would ever willingly go out with you," said Draco, his voice so soft that it was barely audible, and stony hard, "is if you find a miracle way to bring her back. And I doubt it."

Sanchia screwed up her face, and Draco could see that she was struggling not to cry in front of him. "What is it?" she finally cried out. "What is it that's so lovely about silly Ginny Weasley? What does she have that I don't?"

The truth. Maybe if he let it out, Sanchia would stop stalking him. He stared down into the Hispanic girl's face. "My heart."

Draco stayed rooted the spot just long enough to see tears well up in her large silver eyes, before stalking past and continuing down the corridor.

A/N: Aww. Poor Draco. I don't actually know how it feels to have someone you love die, so I based it on Ryan losing Marissa, from the TV show 'the O.C'. If anyone watches that. I do, I do! Well duh. Anyway. Review, and you get a hug from a depressed Draco, a sad Neville, a dead Ginny, or – this is for you, SilverXan! – a very sexy but still rather depressed Luna.

Don't we just love angst?