Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the burrow or the references to the Death Eaters. All I own is the plot, to some degree… so do us both a favor and don't waste your time suing innocent little me. I'm harmless, really.
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She clutches her hand into a hard, shaking fist trying to control her fear. His shadow is long casting darkness before the both of them. She shouldn't be this intimately close to the enemy. It's downright stupid, she was not stupid on any level. Her feet are glued to the ground they rest on, and she's stuck fast; immobile.
She clenches her fist tighter, and her knuckles go white. Any normal person would have started the yelling, screaming, and hysterics by now. But, she's too stunned to form a coherent sentence.
Should I really be this stunned though? It's the question hovering in her mind. After all, he told her it was coming, he'd even planned and calculated it. She recognizes that gesture as kindness, and that kindness seeps into her mind, clouding her thoughts. There is no remedy for her problem; her problem is him.
She can feel the tension heavy between them, as obviously as she can feel the heat from the flames. He keeps giving her sideways glances; she can sense that he wants to touch her, hold her, make it all better even though he's the one that made it all worse.
His eyes burn a whole in her cheek. Little beads of sweat cling to her forehead, she's never been this close to fire before. However, she goes unfeeling, disconnected from it all, listening to the steady, cruel crackling of the flames.
He's a terrible person. He's malicious and cruel, and he's strategically making his way under her skin, poisoning her mind, into her dreams and nightmares, her heart even beats his name.
She resists the urge to drag him forward, and then push him face first into the wild flames. It would be nice to see him kick and scream and for once be the one who has to suffer. There were no rules to the twisted game they played.
She casts him one involuntary, sideways glance. The black of his jacket is silky, there's a certain sheen to it- it creates the illusion he's glowing. Maybe he really is, she doesn't know, she doesn't know much of anything now that he's standing next to her. He wears no expression at all, his features a careful mask as he absorbs his attention in the light of the flames.
It's times like these she wishes she could read his lies.
Both their chests rise and fall at the same pace, with the same erratic heartbeat. Eyes are locked on the scene unfolding before them, horror twisting her features, his mask white and blank.
The dark mark glows high above the burrow in front of them, the burrow itself being eaten away by flames that reach high in the sky, curling and biting and burning away the little place that is (or was) her home. The wind whips locks of hair around her face, for a moment the hair in front of her becomes a part of the flames engulfing her home; the same furious red-orange tearing into the sky.
Why did he do it? Again, the questions making her thoughts fuzzy. Couldn't he have resisted? He bloody well should have resisted, but maybe he couldn't, all analyzing him does is give her a headache. She hates him and she hates how ignorant she is to everything that goes on in his life. It was hardly fair, she was the last person who should be blindfolded.
Hatred is on her mind, jumbling her thoughts. Her frantic heart is telling her to kill him violently, her stomach flip-flops at the thought of his name; Draco Malfoy. She busies her self taking deep, controlled breathes, so she doesn't do something she'll regret, but what she's breathing in is the thick smoke from the fire turning her house to smoldering ashes, and it just fuels her hatred.
They turn to one another, she's looking at him with fury, and he has regret etched into his stone face. A terrible ache for her pain resides in his eyes, the pain he caused. She feels herself weaken a bit more and she fights a war inside of herself trying to get her anger to come back. There's an inexplicable annoyance in his steel eyes. He can't wear his masks when he's looking at her; she's the one and the only exception.
She takes a deep breath, her chest heaving and falling noticeably. She's ready to scream at him, or kill him. Or both. Probably both.
Then comes the quiet realization falling off her lips, her voice is disbelieving and small, and she's speaking to herself as well as to him. Her eyes focused, again, on the dark mark glowing bright in the sky, (how could something so evil and cruel be so undeniably intriguing?):
"I still love you."
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A/N: Err. I hate it, I don't like my own writing style (lol, sad isn't it?). I'll have to work on improving that. As I'm sure you've realized, if you've read this story, I like my angst. Do me a favor and review, please, if you read. Which I'm assuming you did read if your reading this authors note right now.