A/N: This is, hands down, the most bizarre thing I've ever written. I wasn't in my right mind when doing so (sleep deprivation can do that to you; ha ha). This is quite short, by the way. The italics are Draco and Ginny speaking (or thinking, as illustrated in the third section-thing). And yes, fever actually can make you delusional, though I've obviously taken this to the extreme.
Black Death
Blood is on her innocent hands. Blood and tears and dirt; her best friend is dead and her family is dead and their blood is on her lily-white, virgin hands. She can still see Hermione's pleading, terrified brown eyes…
Stay away from me, Ginny.
No, no, I can't.
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He led her to this. He placed the wand in her hands and the words in her head and the ideas in her mind and watched his plan come to life.
Ginevra, beauty, it's time.
I know.
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The green light was sickly and mordant; she closed her eyes against it, but it was still there. Suddenly, her mouth felt dry. She tried to swallow, but she couldn't.
You're okay, Gin. You're okay.
No, you're not.
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He isn't sure when she's coming home tonight. He locks the door and blows out the candles and waits, nevertheless. She soon knocks on the door, as always, but he doesn't open it.
I want to watch you suffer, Ginevra, beauty.
No reply. Frantic banging, but no reply.
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Knowledge may be power, but ignorance certainly isn't bliss. Ginevra can't remember last night at all, and this terrifies her more than anything else. But when you think too hard, you remember too much, and when you remember too much, everything falls apart.
Let me in, Draco!
Just a while longer.
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Just a while longer. Just a while longer to make her forget. The longer she sits outside in the cold, acerbic rain, the less she can remember and the weaker and sicker she becomes. Fever can make you do peculiar things…even commit murder. Draco's Ginevra, Draco's beauty, Draco's murderess, is so sick that she doesn't realize what she's doing…
Let me in. (Crying.)
Fine. (Salvation.)
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Her clothing is soaking and she waits, shivering, in the doorway as he fetches her dry robes.
I think I did something…
You didn't.
But I remember…
No, you don't.
I-
Obliviate!
Draco, I'm cold…
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She'll lie in bed for a few days, he'll make another casual suggestion, and she'll be gone. The beauty of it all is that she'll neverever know what she's doing. Untraceable, unreliable, unable (unabletostop…). She is his.
Do you love me, Ginevra?
Yes.
How much?
Too much.
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Her headache is terrible and she can barely move without causing the room to spin before her eyes, so she sleeps. And when she sleeps, she remembers. Blood, green light, brown eyes, whispered suggestions, feverish nods, slamming doors. Sheer poetry. Insane, grotesque, macabre poetry, but poetry, all the same. Better than she's ever had it, she figures.
I can't open my eyes, Draco.
Poor dear.
Ginny thinks that her subconscious hates her.
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Red eyes. Green blood. Brown screams. Midnight wails. Gray uncertainty. Black death.
No one is innocent.
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Love. Love is irrelevant. What matters is power…and Draco Malfoy loves power.
Save me, Draco.
You know I can't do anything.
You can; you're lying!
Would I lie to you, love?
Yes.
Close your eyes and sleep.
I won't be able to open them again…
Ginevra's subconscious isn't the only one that hates her.
(the end)