The air is cold as Draco slowly makes his way across what remains of the makeshift battlegrounds. It feels as though all of the heat in the air evaporated along with the life that once warmed the bodies that now cover the ground. The air burns his lungs, but he finds it comforting that he can even feel at all. Everything that used to be so important to him is gone. The wealth, the power... none of it matters now, and hasn't for quite some time.
The empty hole in his chest threatens to consume him in grief if he lingers. Grief over lost innocence. Grief over the family he never really had. And most strangely for Draco, grief for his fellow students.
On that thought, he turns to leave, but a flash of long copper hair the color of fire draws his attention. He realizes, with a vague sense of unease, that it is the only color he can see in a vast field of muted grays and blacks. But, that is not what draws him to her. Each step he takes closer to her body only confirms what he already fears. He knows that hair; it can only belong to one person – Ginny Weasley.
He stops just inches from her face and crouches to get a closer look, the cold earth crunching under his boots in protest. Her lips are a still a pale pink, but her skin is turning blue, and he can tell he will find no pulse at the base of her neck. He is stricken with a very strong urge to turn and run as fast as his legs will carry him, but morbid curiousity pushes him onward. Removing the glove from his hand, he reaches out to sweep the hair away from her face. He can't help but notice how beautiful she looks, the light sprinkling of freckles still visible across her cheeks and nose and her white face framed by her red, red hair.
The anger rises up in him so quickly; he is almost startled by it. She was too innocent. Innocent, young, beautiful and full of life. Wars were supposed to leave behind the bruised, battered bodies of old worn out men, not people like her. But, that's not what's really bothering him. What truly makes his blood boil, what's slowly eating away at him... is the fact that he had never noticed. Not once. Not until now, when it was too late. How many classes had he shared with her? How many times had she been one table away from him in the Library or standing in front of him in the hall? All of those years gone by and he had never looked twice. Because she was a Weasley... or maybe because he was a Malfoy. A fat lot of good that name is doing him now.
He hears them coming in the distance. The remaining Deatheaters, those who stood by Voldemort to the gruesome, bloody end, were busy cleaning up the 'mess' – under strict orders to kill anyone who does not bear the mark. He glances briefly at his still bare forearm and knows it won't be long now, but the part of him that would've run from his fate is long gone. He looks back at Ginny and leans forward, slowly brushing a soft kiss to her icy lips. He doesn't even have time to see his attacker as the words meet his ears and a bright green flash finally brings the darkness he'd been waiting for.