Fire

She was always so vibrant, so radiant, so full of life. The very mention of her name would brighten a room; her smile brought the sun. From the moment I first saw her, in my thirteenth year, I knew there was something different about her. Yet she was far beneath me--there could be no further sentiment on my part.

The first year was a time of uncertainty and ruled by darkness. The flame I had observed in her flickered and faded, reduced to a small spark. I attributed it to a strangely effective sensitivity, undue reactions to the fallen Mudbloods. She was, after all, lowlife traitor scum. I admit that I scorned her for feeling such kinship with the victims. I myself couldn't have cared less.

The attacks continued for the better part of the year. As the Malfoy heir, I was expected to be smug and exuberant about it. To fit into a role that has been carved for you with no second thoughts is shockingly simple. Strange to think what a puppet I was then: Sit, Draco. Stay, Draco. Laugh as the unworthy fall, Draco. I gloated with every new casualty. Her glowing cheeks grew paler every day.

When I learned why, after the end, after Courageous Harry Potter saved the day again, I was shocked. A Weasley, under the sway of the Dark Lord? Impossible. At least, until my father told me the story. The impression she had made upon me deepened, and I resolved to know her better, somewhere deep inside.

As I reigned as Death Eater Incarnate my fifth year at Hogwarts, I witnessed a change in her. Her looks had improved--she had grown taller, more graceful, and more rounded. It became common knowledge that her acumen rivaled Granger. She stopped fawning over Potter and became somewhat of a flirt. I was captivated.

Love, they say, is blind, and I loved Ginny Weasley. She was so different from all I had known, a glow of light in the cold, dark tunnel that symbolized my life. I tried to deny it at first. I told myself that she was common, that her fire was merely the impression given by her vivid hair, that her rather promiscuous lifestyle showed that she had no love to give. I knew I was wrong.

But a forbidden desire! Those who have never hungered for a fruit that is denied them can have no idea of the agony of being robbed of a chance at happiness. There were times, as I watched her from afar and made caustic remarks about her friends or her robes, when I could swear that she was watching me, too. There were nights when I stayed awake wondering whether she had ever truly loved someone, whether she could ever love me. I hid this uncertainty in my exceptionally biting humor, and this pain in the pain I caused others.

The next year, she became a prefect, and I met with her on the train. We were the only students in the prefect's compartment for a good bit. It was the nearest I had ever been to her, and something came over me.

"Weasley," I said, adopting a bored tone, though my heart was racing faster then my new Firebolt 500, "if you could afford some decent robes, you might not look half bad, you know." I stared at her pointedly.

She glared. "Look, Malfoy," she spat, "none of your friends are around to watch you embarrass me, so what's the point?"

This threw me off guard. She had spirit, as well as fire. I shrugged. "It's all part of the game, love," I whispered, and a strange feeling ran through my veins at calling her that. I really don't know what possessed me, but I walked over to her, put my arms around her, and kissed her.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

That year opened up my eyes to a whole new world. The fire I had seen in her shone brighter than a thousand candles, gave me more warmth than hundreds of robes. She was my first love. She was my soul mate.

I was a coward, though. I was always a coward. I told her I loved her. She admitted that she had feelings for me. I was overjoyed! But to share this love with a world that would not understand.... I met with her in the Astronomy Tower that first night, to try and let our love survive.

"Don't you see, Ginny, we can't let them know! They wouldn't understand. They would kill us before they would see us in love."

She shook her head. "For centuries the world has declared that love between enemies is not possible. We can show them that it is! Light and darkness have nothing to do with love."

"Ginny, maybe some people would. But they wouldn't understand. My father wouldn't understand. He'd kill you and disown me. Your family wouldn't understand. They'd try to turn you against me; they might even turn against you. We have to keep it our secret."

"To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead," she told me.

"I don't fear love. I fear loss," I replied.

She smiled. "There is no true loss, Draco. Death is nothing if one can approach it as such."

"But what if I can't?"

"Then you must remember that love is stronger than death. Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori." (Love conquers all things: let us too give in to Love.) She kissed me, and I did not pull away for several moments.

"I can give in to Love, but not to death."

So we kept our love a secret. We met at night. We shared only moments where we might sneak away unnoticed. Now they seem so very few. I cherish them, I hold on to them as though they are all I have, as indeed they are, yet they slip through my grasping fingers like sand in a sieve.

Throughout the year, the armies of the Dark Lord wreaked havoc on the wizarding world. My father was among them, and I admired him. I was supportive of their work. Purge the world of those unworthy, I thought. Let the Muggles and Mudbloods die, we would be better off without them. She disagreed, unsurprisingly, and we argued bitterly on the night before we left school.

"People who never gave them any cause for hatred are dying! Thousands, likely millions!" she cried. "And you don't care!"

I shrugged. "Muggles. They're a lower form of life, aren't they?"

"Well, yes, but, that doesn't mean they deserve to die, just because some twisted man says they do! That's sick!"

"Cows are a lower form of life. I suppose you didn't eat any of the delicious steak we had tonight?"

"It's different, they're people too. They look like us, they talk like us, they think like us. You can't say anything about that!"

I sniffed. "They don't think like us. Not only do we have magic, we are of clearly superior intellect. You don't see wizards going around declaring war on each other, do you?"

"That's what Voldemort is doing right now," she hissed, spitting the name like it was a curse worse than any imaginable. "He's fighting a war with justice and democracy and killing millions of innocent people! It's a tragedy!"

"One death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic," I countered.

She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "I honestly thought you were better than that, Draco," she said, and stormed off. I didn't see her again before we left.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I couldn't bear thinking that she was angry with me, that she thought I was heartless. I had learned to Apparate long ago, of course, and it wasn't a fortnight after the train ride home when I knew I had to see her. To apologize, even, if that was what it would take to win back her fire. My father had left on a raid that morning, and my mother was ill. Somehow I chose that exact moment to go to her.

I was always a skilled Apparater, I am proud to say, and I arrived at the Weasley's hovel without difficulty. There was an odd quiet about the house, and, following the visions of my worst nightmares, I looked up. The Dark Mark hovered above the house.

For a full minute I stood, damning to the depths anyone who had allowed this to happen and praying that it was a mistake. Then my senses rejoined me, and I dashed inside.

The kitchen was where most of the fighting had taken place, it seemed. Several of her family lay dead, amidst broken furniture and shattered keepsakes, clearly by Avada Kedavra. Ginny, however, was not there.

I was begging for a miracle, though I never believed in a God, when I saw the clock. I had heard of the clock--rather a remarkable charm it seemed. It had once marked the whereabouts of every Weasley, but now many hands had fallen off. I picked them up. Percy, Fred, George, Charlie, Ron, Bill lay on the floor. I counted six bodies in the kitchen. Yes, there they were. I looked anxiously at the clock, scanning it for Ginny. MOLLY was shopping, Arthur was at work. Then, at the very top, I saw Ginny's hand. Mortal Peril.

I cursed as I sped up the stairs, hoping to find her, frantically searching for the only girl I had ever loved. It didn't take long to find her.

The room next to where she lay was obviously where the struggle had taken place. Broken furniture and--my heart rose to my throat at the sight--blood lay everywhere. I had given her up for lost when I heard a small sound in the next room.

This room was tidy, save for the trail of blood leading to where she had fallen. She must have crawled there, after the Death Eaters had gone. The blood was still warm, there was still hope, I told myself as I hurried towards her. She lay at an odd angle, her sparkling eyes dimmed.

"Ginny! Ginny, it's me, Draco. Ginny, are you all right? Speak to me, Ginny!"

She tried to smile. "Draco," she whispered, barely audible. "I knew you'd come. I knew you'd come for me."

Tears welled in my eyes. She was failing fast, with a vicious gash in her head and evidence of abuse clearly visible on her now-broken body.

"I'm here to save you," I said, my voice cracking. "What do you need? What can I do?"

She slowly shook her head. "It's too late, Draco," she said, the first tear rolling slowly down her cheeks. "I'm dying."

"No! No, no, you're not! You're fine, Ginny. Everything's fine. You'll be all right, you'll see."

Another tear came, and I noticed with shock that she had not shed one until my arrival. Her face was dry, free from any puffiness or redness, yet full of pain and fright.

"Don't argue, Draco," she said. "It's too late for me to live, and even if you could save me, I don't think I want you to try." Her voice was growing steadily weaker.

"I can't lose you!" I cried. "Don't leave me!"

More tears followed from both of us, intermingling and flowing freely down the path left by her blood.

"Muggles say," she whispered, so faint I could hardly catch the next words, "that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

"I can't live without you," I told her.

"Non omnis moriar," she murmured. (I shall not altogether die.)

Her breath was shorter now, and I knew that she had but moments to live.

"I love you," I told her, and this time she did smile.

"And I love you." She spoke her last words, gazing into my eyes, and a sigh escaped her lips. Downstairs, I heard one more hand fall from the Weasley clock.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I knew who had killed her, and I vowed vengeance, then reunion with my love. Revenge triumphs over death; love slights it; honour aspireth to it; grief flieth to it. I knew where my father kept the poison in our mansion; I withdrew a subtle strychnine from his stores, and placed it in his favorite wine. A blow for a lost love. The coward's weapon, poison. Well, I always was a coward.

Poison has never appealed to me. I always swore that when I died it would be quick, not drawn out, as poisons tend to do, and I have seen too many curses worked to have an appetite for them myself. After my assassination plans were complete, I went to a Muggle village. A pistol is easily obtained, and now I sit, stroking it, listening to my father call for wine as he returns from his latest killing spree. And all my calm is in that balm--not lost but gone before. One shot, and it will all be over. One shot, and I will finally be free.