Being

She held his hands between hers, thin and freckled. Though it was summer and the air was thick and warm, he was ice cold. He did not shiver, he stood still and erect, though his posture had been beaten down with struggles she had never known. His brows were raised and for the first time she saw emotion in his eyes. If she was reading them correctly it was either fear or defiance, maybe both.

***

He had forgotten when she had become more than a Weasel. If, indeed, she had. Maybe it had been in the wake of Voldemort's rise. Even Death Eaters needed solace. Since she had come to him that night, he was no less a Death Eater, and she was no less a member of Dumbledore's infamous army. When they were together, it didn't really matter.

They were not good, he told himself.

They were not evil, she told herself.

They just were.

Alone in his room, stone and as cold as the ice that frosted the window, they were all skin and moonlight.

Afterwards, she would push back the silvery hair curling with sweat out of his empty grey eyes, and he would not snarl and call her "Weasel," nor would he smile. He would simply grab her hands and kiss the palms and feel her shudder against his lips. Then, he would bury his face in her chest, and when his hair became too long it would tickle her throat. She would not giggle at its feather light touch, she would moan. Leaning over, she would kiss the messy part in his hair, and her own hair, long released from its plaits, would fall and blanket them with scarlet.

They did not sleep in the same bed for fear of being caught in the uncontrolled time they slept. She simply slipped away from him, his fingers lingering lightly on her narrow hips. Sometimes she would kiss him, but most of the time she wouldn't.

One particular night, when she had left but the scent of her still lingered, he lay in his bed thinking about the very first night.

Everyone at Hogwarts knew he was a Death Eater. When so many of his friends' fathers were thrown into Azkaban, they cowered, but not Draco Malfoy. He went to the Dark Lord and pledged his allegiance. He hated Muggles, he swore. He did not buckle to the threat of Azkaban, but rose to the aid of his father's master, his master. He was constantly shouting death threats to Harry Potter. "The Dark Lord is back," he said once from across the Great Hall. "Should I start sending invitations to your funeral? Not that there will be anything left to bury." Then he had smirked his special smirk saved especially for Potter.

The smirk had quavered slightly when a mass of red hair peeked through the crowd and told him to do something most unpleasant with himself. The lightning above him was simultaneous with his anger as the entire Great Hall -even some of the Slytherins -giggled.

At first they may have thought his constant mentioning of the Dark Lord had simply been to perturb Harry. However, when he would sneak off of Hogwarts' grounds and come back, his grey and green tie loose and his white button-up soaked with blood, everyone begin to suspect he may be dealing with something considerably darker than bullying.

In fact, it had been after one of these escapades that he was back in his prefect dormitory washing blood off of his face and neck at the basin by the window, when he heard the door creak open behind him. He glimpsed her first in the window, and through the dirty reflection wasn't sure if the castle had caught on fire or if it was really who he thought it was. He spun around and yelled many rude words at her, but she remained unfazed. Instead of recoiling, she approached him.

She looked similar to a fallen angel. Her hair was the color of hell, freckles peppered her face and throat and the crevice of her breasts, and in her thin white nightgown he realized for the first time that they were quite ample. Dark hollows encased her eyes; her cheekbones looked delicate, like they might have been made of glass instead of bone. She grabbed the left sleeve of his shirt and forced it up, the Dark Mark, still black from the call earlier, glowered at her. Her eyes were full of some sort of triumph mixed with anger and hate and passion.

He wanted to hit her, to kill her. Instead, he kissed her. Her mouth opened unwillingly under the force of his teeth and his tongue, but soon, her hands were fumbling the buttons of his shirt and groping the fine bones of his ribs. His normally pale skin was flushed with what she thought might be simply lust and the heat of her fingers on his waist, or it may have been every bit of hate he had for her and the world that gave him a color that looked unnatural on him.

They were both bruised the next morning.

And the next, and the next, and the next.

For the longest time their nights together had simply been the releasing of pent up frustration. It wasn't love, or even lust.

"Draco," she said softly to him. It was a peculiarly warm fall night, at the very beginning of it all, the moon was gone, but its absence made the stars shine more brightly. The floor was cold and sprinkled with bits of silvery light. She silently mused that he looked much like the stone floor and the starlight. He was cold and hard and grey and white and silver.

He didn't speak back, but simply turned to her. Her hair was piled up messily on her head, the heat making the fallen pieces fray. She looked thinner than ever in her one, threadbare nightgown, slipping off her shoulder and shadows defining the bones in her chest.

She waited for him to reply, and when he didn't, she finished, "Dumbledore knows."

He shrugged. "Is he going to do something about it?"

"I don't think so."

He had passed her in the hall and ever so nonchalantly said, "Dragons are quite dangerous things to sleep with, Ms. Weasley. If they wake up, you could be seriously hurt." Then, he had continued whistling the Weird Sisters' latest song with her gaping after him.

"He's an idiot," he spat, tugging at her hair and watching it fall.

"He's brilliant," she came back at him, and pushed him slightly away. His eyes looked at her, cold and steely grey as usual. When he advanced again she moved out of his grasp again.

"Stop it!" he growled, lunging for her, but she dodged him. She looked very lax and innocent as she lay on the bed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "We don't talk about those things," he said, very annoyed, with a hint of the growl still in his voice. He reached for her, but she locked her hand around his forearm and he let her fingers trace the glowing skull.

"He calls for you," she whispered, and, as he grabbed his cloak and wand rushing out the door, that ended that.

It was mid-winter, that night. The night that changed it all. He was rushed and distracted and in the heat of their passion, he moaned, "They're next." She hadn't thought anything about it, after all, she was quite preoccupied, but when she had left him and was lying in her bed, smelling like salt and obviously a boy, more particularly Draco, the words came back to her. Who had he meant? He had never, ever said anything that related to the missions the Death Eaters were asked to perform, but last night she was sure he had. He had warned her.

The next morning at breakfast, the enchanted ceiling was a foreboding black, and she saw him staring at her. His eyes widened when she looked back and he smirked, his goons smirking, too. Her anger began to boil until she saw his eyes dart over to the end of the table, and then went back to his normal activities. She followed his glance and realized for a horrified instant who they had gone to. Ron. The hot anger turned to lead and dropped into her stomach. She fumbled with her books, dropping papers and quills and, shaking madly, ran as fast as she could to Dumbledore's office. She had no idea what the password was, but was screaming as loud as she could, hoping and praying with every fiber of her being he would hear her. She didn't know if he had or not, but he soon came out, looking tired.

"What, Ms. Weasley, are you hollering about?" The twinkle that had played with his eyes that fall day when he had warned her, more or less, not to tickle a sleeping dragon, was gone.

"My family, Professor! The Death Eaters are going to kill my mum and dad and Bill and Charlie and Fred and George and Percy and Ron!" Her voice trembled and so did the hand she brought feebly to her lips, like she would be sick.

"You're sure?" He asked, brows furrowed.

She nodded. She had never been surer of anything in her entire life.

"Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, even though he knew. The lead that had turned into molten lava of fear returned. Ever so slightly, she nodded again.

The last night they were together was the coldest night she could ever remember. Not only was the window frosted and laid thick with snow, but an ice slick had covered the floor. He moved lightly over it, and had to catch her when she almost fell. Even the warming pan the house-elves had placed between the sheets did not help. Through the sweat and his warm skin and beating heart pressed to her, she was still ice cold and shivering. He was gentler than she could ever remember him being, and the only bruise left on her was one that no one could see.

***

"Dumbledore let me come," she whispered. He nodded, apparently at a loss for words. Though he had always been thin, the months in Azkaban melted away every bit of fat on his body. The grey rags he wore did not hide the bones of his hips or his collarbone or ribs. He no longer lacked color. Black circles were deeply engraved under his eyes, his vacant eyes. He had lost his will to hide what he felt. Fear suddenly become more prominent than defiance. She wondered if her own eyes were as empty as she felt.

She looked past him and saw the minister of magic standing with two other wizards she did not know. Behind them, dark shadows loomed. She damned him to this. She looked down for an instant, and when she met his eyes again, hers were shining with tears. She didn't know why. He was not innocent, he deserved this. Her mind reeled. She was not innocent, she deserved this. Why did she come? Her heart pumped faster and faster and the two wizards drew closer to them. Was there something she wanted to say to him? Nearer, nearer... His eyes were grazing her face, the one he knew so well, but he did not see her. When the wizards locked their arms around his, he screamed, a frail, hollow noise. He pulled away and grabbed for her. She grasped his arms, just bones, and he pleaded with her.

"Don't let them take me! Ginny, Ginny!" The wizards had him and they were pulling him away. "Why did you do this to me, Ginny?" he asked softly. Her mind went blank, and again she was empty. He was soon over taken by the shadows in the distance. She buckled, and fell to her knees, sobbing.

Lying in bed, hot and empty, her mind wanders. They were not evil, she told herself. They were not good, she continued. They were not in love, they were not in lust, they were not angry or hateful. They were not in a world of black and white. They just were.