Dead, dead, dead…
The single word echoed around Ginny's head,
repeating itself continually, showing off the full pain of those four letters,
whirling itself through her mind, mocking her. He's dead, gone, dead….
She wouldn't cry. Couldn't cry. Draco had never been hers, she had never been
his, and now the tiny flickering flame of hope that had presented itself before
had died out. Was gone, and there was no chance of rekindling it. If only,
if only…
It had happened so soon, happened before Ginny
herself knew what was going on. It had begun, Ginny was quite ashamed to admit,
at another funeral…
…the funeral of Harry Potter.
Ginny had been nearly a mirror image of Narcissa at
Harry's funeral. She hadn't known why she'd been crying so hard, so long, but
she had. The cold finality of the death of the Boy Who Lived had hit her, hard.
But he wasn't just the Boy Who Lived…he was more. Ginny had known that, always
knew it. She had never, however, dug into that deeper part of Harry. Because he
had never allowed it.
Perhaps, thought Ginny, that was why Narcissa seemed
to be such an emotional wreckage. She had never known her son (like Ginny had
never known Harry) not truly, not in the way that Ginny had…
Narcissa didn't know that he'd always kept his wand
in his left pocket with his hand clasped firmly over it. She didn't know that
he'd liked to have conversations with his household objects like they were real
people. She didn't know that he had always stood with his right foot forward
like he was going to pass a ball when he was about to perform a spell. She
didn't know all those little things about Draco. She hadn't known him at all.
But Ginny had.
Those little quirks, the small idiosyncrasies that
had made up the persona of Draco Malfoy, Ginny was familiar with them all. She
had seen him at Harry's funeral – the only one to see him, lurking into the
shadows, observing from afar. And she had twisted with rage – how dare
Harry Potter's school rival, the Death Eater in training show up at his
funeral? She had watched him, at first with a sense of anger, but soon melting
into thoughtfulness and slight intrigue as she observed the expressions played
on his face. Sorrow, horror, anguish…and a loud guilt ringing out clearly in
his steely silver eyes.
So, grudgingly, apprehensively and hopefully, she
had made an attempt to touch him after the memorial service. Oh, not physically,
of course not, but emotionally, tried to break the infamous rock-hard
core of Draco Malfoy. But his reaction had been nothing short of ire, and she
had realized that his shell was wound tightly around him, and was as rigid and
thick as an Unbreakable Charm. Even now, two years, later, Ginny could recall
his words with a fresh and agonizing vivacity that sent a shock of pain through
her body.
"Er…hello," stumbled Ginny with a sort of innocent
kind of doubt and tentativeness.
No answer. He stared past her – no, through her emptily, as if
she hadn't been there at all.
Well, Ginny figured, that hadn't been the greatest
beginning to a conversation anyway. "How are you doing?" she tried again,
shifting her weight awkwardly. She bit her lip. "Er—if you don't mind me
asking, why are you—"
He had interrupted her, his voice as cold as fresh
snow. "Yes. I do mind. Especially if you're to ask me why in the bloody blue
blazes I'm here. So don't."
A spark of anger and indignation had flared inside
her, but she squashed it, knowing it would never do to cajole him using the
means of rage. One last attempt might do it, thought Ginny. So she had quickly
barraged on, before she lost her nerve, and blurted out the million-Galleon,
unspeakable question, though of course she didn't know it at the time—
"Everything all right with your family?"
That had most certainly gotten his attention, but
not exactly in the way that she had intended. He had jerked, then fixated her
brown eyes with his clouded, piercing silver ones. "You," he said
evenly, enunciating each word very clearly, "have no right to be prying about
my family business." He paused for a beat, then added with a cold, clear
malevolence, "I do think, Weasley, that you should be more concerned about the
future of yours." He had then Disapparated, therefore dismissing the
conversation – and her – entirely.
She had been hurt more than she thought she would
have been. Well, so what? Sod Malfoy, she had thought, but
half-heartedly – as if it were an effort to set the conversation aside so
easily. Ginny had tried, obviously, had made many an attempt to kick that
mysterious character out of her mind, but thoughts of him had apparently made a
permanent home in her head, lurking at the back of her brain. And finally Ginny
had to come to terms with the fact that the only way she could quell them was
to come face to face with Draco again.
Her chance had come quite quickly – the next day, in
fact, and the encounter taking place in her own home.
Yawning, Ginny slipped down the stairs, yanking at
the ends of her too-short white lacy nightdress. She had stayed up much too
late last night (or figuratively, early morning), crying hopelessly. She rubbed
at her eyes, which she knew must be swollen and red.
"Mother, what's for breakfa…" she drifted off and
stopped dead in her tracks when she saw that the figure sitting at the old,
dented wooden table was not the familiar, plump Mrs. Weasley, but rather, the
tall, slim form of Draco Malfoy.
"Oh dear God…" she uttered – under her breath, but
the words did still happen to catch his attention. He turned around silently
and his eyes widened, his eyebrows slightly arched at her sudden presence. He
opened his mouth, (most likely to deliver some sharp, sarcastic remark that he
no doubt found witty, thought Ginny uncharitably), but to her surprise simply
said, "Hullo, Weasley."
Ginny's mouth opened, then closed, opened, and
closed again. Finally she gasped out (while pulling anxiously at the bottoms of
her short nightdress), "What in God's name are you doing?"
He regarded her quietly with his piercing silver
eyes. "Eating breakfast?" he offered, his tone and expression both unreadable.
Ginny scowled. "That is not funny, Malfoy," she
snapped. "I mean it. For Merlin's sake, why the hell are you here?"
Memories of his lost, thoughtful expression at Harry's funeral disappearing,
she felt irritation and exasperation swelling up inside again.
Draco didn't answer for a moment. Then,
"Hiding."
Ginny drew her eyebrows together in puzzlement. "Hiding?" she echoed in
disbelief. "Well, bad luck, I found you. Sitting in the middle of a family
kitchen is a pretty bad hiding place, don't you think?"
"Don't be sarcastic."
"Why not?" she challenged. "I'm not the one abusing
the privileges of its uses every day. So tell me, Mr. Malfoy, what are you
doing here? No cryptic answers allowed." She folded her arms and did her best
to look intimidating, which was quite hard what with her nightdress and small
height of five foot six.
His eyes flickered – in anger, perhaps? – and he
frowned. Paused, as if he were waiting for her to back down. Then a sigh
escaped his lips and he said, "Fine, Weasley, if you really want to know. I'm
hiding from the Dark Lord, okay? I'm hiding from the Death Eaters. I'm hiding
from my father. There you go, three whole reasons. Happy?"
She was taken aback, and sucked in a quick intake
of breath. She studied him for a minute, eating his cereal. Finally she said
quietly, "That's only two reasons."
Draco jerked and looked up at her. Apparently he had
thought that that line of conversation was over. "Excuse me?"
Ginny swallowed. "I said," she repeated, her voice
surprisingly steady, "that's only two reasons. You said that you're hiding from the
Death Eaters and your father. But your father is a Death Eater. So
theoretically, it's only two reasons."
"I've told you before, Weasley. Don't talk about my
family," and now his voice was harder, colder.
"Why not?" Ginny continued evenly, faintly
astonished at her brave audacity. "You talk about mine, don't you? Why
shouldn't I have the privilege of speaking of yours?"
Draco slammed his bowl of cereal down. "Your
family," he stated between gritted teeth, "is far diferent from mine, Virgnia
Weasley." And he had stalked out of the room.
Her anger had gotten the best of her, of course,
Ginny reflected. It was the natural thing to feel. Until later in the day—
"Pigmentila Frasio!"
"Ugh!" Ginny stomped into the kitchen, where she
found Draco Malfoy tapping strawberry after strawberry with his wand, muttering
the same incantation over and over. "What," she demanded, "are you doing?"
He glanced up at her, eyes indecipherable. "Charming
strawberries," he supplied neutrally. "Yellow."
Ginny sighed impatiently. "I can't believe no one's
kicked you out yet," she remarked irritably, mostly to herself.
"Are you going to?" countered Draco.
Ginny chose not to answer that. "Hey," she said.
"You're just enchanting one strawberry after another. It'd be much easier if
you charmed the lot of them at once, see. Let me." She pulled at her wand from
where she'd been using it to hold up her hair and aimed it at the strawberries.
"Pigmentila Frasio eta Mulplace!" she whispered, drawing her wand in a small
circle around the strawberries. Instantly they turned a sickening shade of
yellow. "Ick," murmured Ginny. "Honestly, why must you do that?"
He didn't answer, but simply dropped the
strawberries into his limp, soggy cornflakes. "You ask a lot of questions,
Ginny."
Her lips curved into a slight smile. He had called
her Ginny. Well, that was progress. Her smile quickly disappeared to be
replaced by a small grimace, however, when she saw the…interesting…mixture he
had in his bowl. "My God, Draco," Ginny blurted, wincing. "Couldn't you have poured
the milk until after you charmed the
strawberries? And did you have to charm the strawberries yellow at all? The
soggy cereal…the color of the strawberries…it looks like vomit!"
He surveyed both the cereal and her, a mild smile
playing on his lips. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, it does."
It had been
strange, really, that they had managed to bond over yellow strawberries and
soggy cereal. But then, Draco Malfoy wasn't your everyday kind of person. From
all the weeks on since the Strawberry and Cereal Incident, as Ginny
occasionally referred to it as, she had gotten to know Draco more as a person,
not someone to be hated and despised as a Death Eater in training.
And oh God, despite
herself, she had loved every bit of it.
Laughing, Ginny flopped onto the neatly trimmed
green grass, in the shade of a huge leafy tree. She leaned against the tall,
sturdy trunk, her face shining. "Okay," she chuckled, "so you beat me this
time. But be sure that I'll kick your ass next time we duel!"
Draco dropped down next to her, grinning. Grinning – Draco, the man of few emotions, was
actually beaming back at her. "Oh, really?" he smirked. "I wouldn't be so sure
of that if I were you." And with those words, he whipped his wand out of his
pocket, leaned forward and intoned, "Pigmentila Viald!"
Ginny shrieked. "What did you just do to me,
Malfoy?" she gasped, fumbling for a reflective surface. Snorting, Draco pointed
his wand at a flower and Transfigured it into a mirror. Ginny snatched it up
frantically and peered anxiously at herself.
Draco backed away furtively as she examined
herself, knowing that an angry Ginny Weasly meant certain death. And sure
enough—f
"Draco Malfoy, you horrid prat!" Ginny's
outraged voice
rang out. "Purple hair?"
Those had been the
good memories, thought Ginny, managing a small smile. But they were gone now,
disturbed by the knowledge of his death, her Draco's death…
"You have to go?"
Ginny's voice was strangled, shocked dismay and
horror painted all over her face.
Draco moved to comfort her, but she waved a hand
dismissively at him, brushing angrily at her wet eyes. "No!" she snapped. "You…you can't…no, Draco," and her face
suddenly crumpled, and she fell back against the wall, breaking into sobs. "You
can't…you can't…" she whispered over and over again, her face already wet and
stained with tears.
"I'm sorry, Ginny…I have to go…Dumbledore…"
"Sod
Dumbledore!" she blurted out. "No—you'll get killed, please, Draco, don't—"
"Ginny, come on. You know I have to. Don't make
this more difficult than this already is. I won't get killed. I know it's
impossible to think that I won't be killed, but come on, stranger things have
happened. Like me becoming friends with a Weasley," he deadpanned
half-heartedly, but Ginny didn't heed him.
Friends…friends. The word suddenly seemed so stupid,
so small. Somewhere, back in her logical mind, she knew that friendship was
beautiful, as strong as romance, but right then she didn't just cry to see
Draco going to the fray. She cried because even though that she had a strong
relationship with Draco, it wasn't the relationship she wanted…and she knew,
somewhere deep in her heart, she knew that she wouldn't never get a chance at
it if he left.
"Oh, God, Ginny, please. Look…oh, damn this."
Suddenly he broke off with words, and simply pressed all his emotions into a
soft kiss.
The kiss was sweet and light and intense and
powerful all at once, and at first Ginny was too shocked to react. Then she
leaned into it eagerly, but he wasn't there anymore, she was tasting air, and
she looked up at him, his determined face.
"I'll see you again, Virginia Weasley," he
whispered, and then he was gone with the soft *pop* of Apparition.
It had been the last
time she'd ever seen him.
*
Ginny sat quietly
in her small flat, sitting at the kitchen table in a lacy white nightdress.
The same nightgown
she had worn when Draco Malfoy had first appeared in her house.
And in front of her
on the table sat a bowl of cereal, with strawberries sprinkled here and there.
It lay there untouched, seeming to be beckoning her to eat it.
It was soggy
cereal. And the strawberries were yellow.
And then Ginny
Weasley did cry, great heaving sobs escaping her mouth, her eyes overflowing
with tears. She hugged herself, crying tears of pain and grief and sorrow until
she didn't think she could cry anymore.
But she did.
She wept with an
indescribable pain, not knowing exactly why she was grieving so much for a man
she had befriended for all of three weeks, but knowing simply that it was a
grief that she would never overcome, a numb aching always lurking in her heart.
And the bowl of
soggy cereal and charmed yellow strawberries sat there, uneaten.
