I own nothing but Daisy. That's it.
This is for Ginger. She's the best friend I could ever ask for.
~Billie~


She wore boots and a fragile smile every day of her twenty-first year. She treaded lightly on the hearts of broken men and wiped the shit from her shoes on the battered women she cared so little about.

She knew always that he was there, somewhere, watching her. She would often sneak glances over her back to see if she could catch a glimpse of his dark brown hair, the flash of his glasses in the sunlight. But she never did. He was long gone, and she had a feeling deep down inside that she would never see him again.

Brushing her golden brown hair from her face, she walked down Knockturn Alley, the one place she still felt at home. It didn't bother her that the people there were dark and lonely. In the pit of her stomach, she knew that she was, too. It didn't bother her that women watched jealously as her perfectly shaped hips swung back and forth with each step. It bothered her even less that men of all shapes and sizes stared at her hungrily as she glided down the dark, filthy alley. She was used to it by now.

Reaching the rickity wooden stairway that lead to her cramped apartment, she slowly ascended, taking each step as if it were her first, and if it could possibly be her last. Men stood beneath the rotting stairs that would have collapsed by now if they weren't held up by magic, staring up her skirt, mouths open, gawking. Glancing down, she tiredly said, Good afternoon, gentlemen, the smile on her face never faultering. They didn't reply. They never did. She continued on.

When she reached the apartment, she turned the knob and walked in, putting her back to the room and closing the door with what looked like much more effort than was needed. Immediatly, the smile fell, her posture collapsed, and her beautiful brown eyes closed as if she were holding back tears. The facade was over. At least, for the day.

He looked up from the desk where he had been sitting all day, staring at the dark wood with which it was made, and an uneasy smile crossed his face. Welcome home, darling, he softly drawled.

She turned and, reflecting his smile falsely, she dropped her satchel and glided towards him. Hello, love, she replied, letting her cloak fall to the ground. She was tragically beautiful. Moreso every time he saw her. He stood and walked to meet her in the center of the room, wrapping his pale, thin arms around her and resting his face in her hair. Her soft, worn sweater felt good against his hands. He let the smile fade and closed his steel grey eyes.

She loved him, to an extent. She had grown to love the pain he had caused her when they were younger, she had loved the way that when no one else was there, he had been, although it had always been with his insults and hatred. Recently, she had grown to love the way he had acknowledged his feelings for her, holding her for hours and waking her up at night with soft kisses and gentle caresses.

He breathed her in deeply, smelling the musty shop in which she passed her days working, the smell of old books clinging to her body the way her past clung to her soul.

Pulling away from him, she turned to face the fireplace, where a small, blue fire burned. The heat wasn't working again. Let's have dinner, she said abruptly, interrupting the one moment of peace he had experienced in the day.

He immediatly released her, so quickly it was almost as if she had burned him, and walked back to the desk, lighting the cigarette behind his ear and staring into the fire he had started not too long ago. He loved her, or at least believed he did. He gave her what his meager job as a free-lance writer would allow, asking nothing in return except that she would at least pretend to love her. Fake love was better than none. She had agreed years ago, and so, out of respect for her and love for what she was willing to do for him, he pretended not to hear when she called out a different name late at night, even though it was always the one he had prayed he would never hear.

Sometimes, he wished she would die, but more often, he wished he would, so that she could go on living a better life. he said softly, You know I love you, right?

Yes, Draco, she replied, her voice sounding as if she was much farther away than the kitchen. I know.

He nodded, more to himself than to her, and continued to watch as the flames danced in in fireplace.