To Marilyn, one of my best friends anywhere. Who lead me to question the depth of a character, and see so much more. And who was always there to make fun of my typos. I know you can't stand the Slytherins I adore, but this one's for you.
And to everyone who has faith in this canon relationship.
They were always perfect.
Two little blonde children, with everything within their reach.
She with her angelic golden curls.
And he with his platinum baby fuzz.
She still has the pictures, looking back and trying to remember.
They were the best of friends, never knowing it was happening.
That they were falling in love.
Their parents were amused, routinely cracking jokes.
Knowing that there was no way they'd stay together "the Service" would make sure of that.
Their first year of magical education.
If He was in fact gone, they would marry.
He was a Malfoy, and she was a Parkinson.
It was that simple.
It was that complex.
But at eleven, they wanted nothing to do with each other.
Girls had cooties.
Boys had more.
Inseparable at twelve, as they begun their second year.
Spats broke out occasionally.
But apologies were never far behind.
And they watched in disgust, as Potter did it again.
"The Golden Trio" was second to them.
The pair had a relationship deeper than that.
Something more subtle, more meaningful.
Her thirteenth birthday came and went.
They sipped firewisky for the first time.
Later vomiting on her new French dress robes.
At school they deny the incident
Keeping it their inside joke.
Both of them still drink just that, trying to get each other of their minds.
The Yule Ball came next.
She barely let go of him the whole night.
They had danced together on various other evenings, society balls and the like.
But, now it seemed official.
They were together, without ever dating.
He hasn't danced with her like that and so long.
And he'd kill for that night again.
Fifteen, they were growing up.
It was a hard year, though a long time coming.
Nothing had prepared them for this.
As they pretended to be faithful to the ministry.
Though they both knew where their loyalties lay.
And deep down it scared her.
This wasn't the fairy tale she had envisioned for their lives.
A year until qualification, as they began their sixth year.
Fun and games were long over.
She knew what he had to do.
And blamed herself for getting in too deep.
There was no time for conversation now, no long evenings by the fireplace.
She watched him leave in June.
And he apologized, just once.
She knew how much it meant.
The war waged on and he was gone.
She went home to life as usual.
But God, how she missed him.
Years past with no ending in sight.
She read about deaths in the paper, held in shaking hands.
But no tears.
She was beyond tears.
Parkinsons don't cry.
And so she sat at home one evening, in the house she had grown up in.
Older now, but not all the faith she had in him gone.
A knock at the door.
She was almost reluctant to answer it.
Thank God she did.
For the first time in so many years, he was standing in her doorway.
Alive.
And the tears came, harder and faster than they had ever before.
He held her closer and tighter than she needed to.
As if holding onto something that really wasn't there.
An illusion.
But, those where her thoughts as she clung to him.
How cruel it would be if it was merely a dream.
And he whispered to her, directly in her ear.
Maybe just for his own benefit.
I'm sorry
Words that before had such little meaning.
But they came from his mouth.
Apologies spilled out faster than either of them could handle.
For all the "I love yous" that had gone unsaid.
For all that he missed.
For that June night.
For their choices.
He managed to apologize to her every morning.
Not one was missed.
She would laugh occasionally.
Though neither of them found anything funny about it.
And they were never married.
They didn't need a certificate, a ring.
For something they had always felt.
It made no difference.
They overcame the skeptics in their lives.
The teachers who were convinced they were too young to be in love.
Their parents who never really knew love.
And themselves, who would have no idea what love really was without each other.