A/N: Oh, dear. I honestly don't know where this little plot bunny came from. I was attempting to leave the fandom, but it seems my muse just won't let me. So. If you got this on Author Alert, I'm terribly sorry. You know. And if not…er…read on, then.
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She was seventeen. She was seventeen, and she was perfect. I was eighteen, alone and skeptical, rebelling against everything I held dear. I taught her Defense Against the Dark Arts class. I should have known all that training would come in handy.
She was seventeen, spending a year without her brothers or her friends. There were two other girls - giggly and girlish - who would often accompany her wherever she was, but she always had that lost, lonesome look about her.
She was seventeen, a child rapidly maturing into a woman. I remember how shocked I was when I was taking roll that first September day and discovered that the shapely, sophisticated redhead in the front row was Ginny Weasley. That was the day I decided I wanted her.
She was seventeen, and she wanted to rebel. So she grinned when I winked at her after class, and waved at me from across the Great Hall at breakfast. And then started doing the little things that she knew drove me crazy, like making sure her homework was bathed in perfume, and licking her lips purposefully before answering questions in class. We were answering each other's overtures in the subtlest way possible. I was playing the part of the good guy and she was playing the part of the bad girl.
She was seventeen, and she was a tease. I can still remember how breathless and flushed she was when I told her that I needed to see her after class. I can still remember how soft and sweet her lips were. And I can still remember the gleam in her eye as she slipped out of my embrace and shook her finger lazily.
She was seventeen, and she was mine. I had her, and I had her everywhere. In her bed, in my bed, on my desk, on her desk, against her dorm wall, on the floor, on tables, in the dungeons, in the kitchen, in the library, under the trees, on the astronomy deck, in the herbology huts, and anywhere else we could find. She was one hundred and twenty pounds of silky skin, luscious curves and red hair, willing to do anything and everything.
She was seventeen, and she was goddess. She played the part of wonton seductress beautifully, from the stolen looks at dinner to the steamy notes tucked in between the pages of her homework. I can still feel her hot breath against my neck as we lay together, tangled in the black sheets of my bed, with her vermilion tresses fanned out on the pillowcase. I can still hear that gasping moan she made at the brink of ecstasy, lost somewhere between reality and fantasy. I think I understood her best when we were no longer Draco and Ginny, but two slaves of the night.
She was seventeen, and she was chosen. She was called from my class that day, taken to Dumbledore's office. I remember the panicked look she shot me that clearly conveyed both of our deepest fears - do they know? But they didn't. No, it was something much more serious they wanted to see my Ginny about. To this day, I don't fully understand the details. For some reason, she was needed in the battle with Voldemort. It was impossible to get all the information between her sobs as she came to see me that night.
She was seventeen, and she was taken from me. Burned into my brain is the expression on her face as I pulled away from our kiss the next morning. She gazed up at me with shining brown eyes, trying to smile through the tears. Three weeks later I got the news.
She was seventeen, and she was dead. 'A real tragedy', it was murmured. 'Such a talented girl... such a pride to her family, to the school. Such a waste.' Yes, it was a waste. It was a tragedy. It was a shock, a horror. It was an absolution that terrified all of us. On everyone's lips was the news that Geneva Weasley, the charming girl rapidly turning into a heroine, was kidnapped by the Death Eaters and murdered.
She was seventeen, and she was gone. I was one of the people whose presence at the funeral was expressly unwelcome. I went anyway. None of them knew her like I did. No one shared what I did with her. Not one of them knew her hopes, her dreams, and her fears. I did my best to ignore the one man in this world who hurt her more deeply than any other, as he silently wept for her. Potter always was a hypocrite.
I was the last person to leave the cemetery that night. I couldn't tear myself away from the place that she lay, covered by six feet of soil. I sat there for hours that blurred into more hours, the rain masking my tears as my memories of her tore though my mind. Such a tragedy.
She was seventeen, and she was my love.
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