Draco sat in his room, letting the shouts of his father flood his mind. The Death Eaters sat in the Malfoy's extravagant living room, discussing what was to be done. Draco seemed proud of his nefarious father, but deep down he wished he could be normal. He didn't want to be responsible for so many deaths, so much pain . . . he wanted to be one of the people running from this terror. With You-Know-Who back, Draco was a criminal.
He had no chance. Even if he wanted to escape, he would have to get through hundreds of Death Eaters. And then Voldemort . . . he himself was in that very house. There was no fair shake, if he tried to leave he would die.
Draco continued to let in his father's fierce voice coming from the living room. They were plotting yet another series of murders. The Abbotts, the Creeveys, the Macmillans . . . he listened to the ongoing list of people he knew, doomed to die. The next name felt like a punch in the stomach. He heard his father shout Weasleys.
"The filthy muggle-lovers! They're just as bad as the damn muggles themselves! A disgrace to purebloods, no doubt. Yes, Arthur must go," a sinister voice boomed. The sound sickened Draco.
Yes, Draco was secretly in love with the youngest Weasley. But who could blame him? He rarely saw her now that the school was shut down, but when he did he couldn't help but noticing her beauty. She was brave, smart, beautiful . . . everything he wanted. He needed someone to help him get out of this mess, and he knew that she was the only one. But if she died . . .
He couldn't bare the thought. He taunted the Weasleys, everyone knew that. He didn't know why. Jealousy began to creep up on him. He was jealous of them. They were a pureblood family. They were close, wholesome . . . not evil like his father. They were everything he wished for himself . . . he would choose a good family over all of his money any day.
Draco grabbed a duffle bag out of his closet and began throwing his robes in it. He then snatched his wand off the desk, and opened his window. The cold night air whirled into the room as he began climbing out of the window. "If only I knew how to Apparate" he thought. Draco hit the ground and took off running. He had to reach Ginny before his father . . . he had to warn her. "They can Apparate. All they have to do is blink and they reach her" he thought angrily. He whipped out his wand.
"Accio Nimbus!" he shouted. His broomstick would help him; maybe he stood a chance. The highly polished broom whizzed toward him and he sped of on it. He just had to reach London before his father set out. They were planning to leave in only a few hours . . .
For miles and miles, Draco zoomed through the countryside. Soon, he began to see lights and small houses. "I'm getting nearer . . . I must be" he thought. The houses steadily became more frequent and the trees started to fade away. He could see the outline of the city in front of him.
As he reached the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, he realized that the Death Eaters were already there. Shrieks filled the air as fire engulfed buildings. Draco darted in the direction of Ginny's house. He knew exactly where she lived; he had flown past there many times to catch a glimpse of her. He visited it in his every dream. Faster and faster he sped, and finally he arrived at the little tidy dwelling.
Draco stepped onto the ground. He knew in an instant that they were already inside the house. Voldemort and his father were inside . . . killing the one he loved.
"Avada Kedavra!" Draco heard the spell. He heard the screams from inside. He saw the blinding green light. Then he heard Voldemort's cold, hard laugh. Silence approached. Draco stood in the front yard, horrified by what just happened. He almost didn't believe his senses. Tears started streaming down his face, and after a while he found the strength finally to move his body. He slowly walked up to the door and turned the knob. He walked in the lonely house just after the murderers Apparated, and dropped to his knees at the sight.
There she was. Her slender body lay lifeless a few feet in front of him. Her soft red hair was gently fanned around her face. Her beautiful face did not wear a look of fright like the others Draco had seen; she looked like she had tried to fight. Her cold hand still grasped her wand tightly, and her mouth was open as if she was saying a spell. Draco did not want to believe this . . . this couldn't be real. There she was, dead, right in front of him. He heard it happen.
He lay there on the freezing tile as tears streamed down his face. He didn't even have to strength to cry. Draco just stared at her, immobilized.