Nihil

She was a Gryffindor. He was a Slytherin. In this world of fierce house rivalries, this doomed his infatuation before it could even begin. She was a friend of Potter's, too, and thus doubly damned. His father would have taken his head had he even mentioned the idea. So he did nothing. Just waited. Waited...and watched.

His eyes were on her everywhere she went. As she walked down the halls, as she ate alone in the Great Hall, as she sat in the library, poring over some ancient tome. She knew she should be offended by his stare, frightened by the scrutiny in his hooded gaze. But she wasn't. Even as she felt herself being weighed, measured, and found somehow wanting, part of her rose to meet the challenge posed in those icy silver eyes.

Then... the murder.

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Gryffindor she may be, but she is different. Though she wanders the halls with them, and listens half-heartedly to their light-hearted conversations about Quidditch, her mind is elsewhere. Where has her spark gone? He asks himself this question whenever he sees her. She used to be so vibrant, so... alive. Now she wanders the halls like the undead, head down, the light in her eyes extinguished. Perhaps she has followed her parents down to the lower world. Â Her brother seems to have recovered. But he has strong friends to lean on. Friends like Potter. Of course, she has always seemed a Potter groupie, but she has no close friends to turn to. No one has every really trusted her. Not since first year, when she could have killed the whole school in the blink of an eye.

Of course, he would like to think that he would be her close friend, her confidante. If she would seek him out, he would come, ready to dry her tears, to tell her that someone in this god-forsaken world loves her. He would hold her until she ran out of tears, and then he would never leave her side again.

Or so he tells himself. He thinks love would make him brave, make him the hero that he wishes he could be. But he doesn't dare find out. Because he fears rejection, because he fears the look in her eyes, as she spits at him Get OUT!! and then hiss, with venom in her voice, Malfoy.... But most of all, even above these fantasies gone sour, he fears his father. He fears his father's heavy hand, coming down with a crack on his cheek, as he screams at him, in blind fury, Get off the floor, Muggle Lover! He fears his father with a passion. Like he fears death. Indeed, in his mind, his father has become synonymous with the reaper of legend. Cloaked in night, and carrying in his hands a scythe that cuts fast, hard and true. He knows, almost as certainly as he knows his own name, that his father will kill him. One day.

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She will play his game. She knows he is watching, of course. Watching, and reckoning. Yet she pretends oblivion. And as he watches her, so carefully, so she watches him. She has seen him change. They have all changed this year. When she looks in the mirror, she hardly even recognizes herself. Once, she was the baby of the family, loved by all, happy and bright and pretty. She is not so pretty now. Hatred has aged her face far beyond its sixteen years. Loss has made her eyes lackluster though sometimes they burn with a fierce loathing, when she remembers The Night.

At least it was over quickly. None of her brothers know about this. No power on Earth could get her to tell what she knew. They were all out at a Quidditch match when the Death Eaters came, here to kill the new Minister of Magic and his influential wife. She had been upstairs when they arrived, but had snuck slowly down the stairs when she heard the front door bursting open in a shower of wood and brass. She had hidden under a table when they stormed in. Out of sight, out of mind, she thought to herself, hardly daring to breath. If only it was so easy. She may have been hidden from view, but the sounds of her parents' screams were all too clear. Two whispered words, and then, suddenly there was silence. The Death Eaters were gone, and so were the bodies of Molly and Arthur Weasley. Only blood stains marked where they had taken their final stand against the Dark. She wakes now, the sounds of Avada Kedavra still ringing in her ears. And then, silence. The silence is even worse than the nightmare. In silence there is too much room to think. It brings back painful memories of the last night. The boys, at least, had left the house with goodbyes, and I love you's. She had never said anything. There was no reason. She had gone to bed that night, expecting them to wake up in the morning. But, of course, they never did.

She should cry. Everyone tells her that it's all right to cry. Only, of course, it's not. Crying is weakness. She must not be weak. But she is tired. So goddamn tired. Of everyone. Expecting her to pick herself up and get on with her life. But how can she do that? She heard her parents murdered. Heard their screams as they thrashed on the floor in pain. How can she get on with her life? How can she forget her parent's screams?

It's too much. I am not strong. I have never been strong. Tom was able to control my every deed with only a few kind words. He made my kill. He made me a weapon. Deep in my heart, I knew I should fight. But it is too hard, and I am so tired. I am not like Harry. He has been a hero from birth, always fighting. I don't want to be Harry. I don't want to fight. I just wants the pain to go away, for the leaden weight on my heart to disappear.

So it is, in the dark of night, she lets herself out of the Gryffindor common room. Silently, moving like a ghost. Her white nightgown in the darkness gives her the appearance of one of the many specters that haunt the corridors of this castle. She drifts aimlessly, up countless stairs, down still more corridors. Finally, she finds herself in the Astronomy Tower. It is strangely empty. How ironic, she thinks, that I should end up here, in the destination of all emotional children, when I do not, cannot, feel any emotion. The cold night air hits her in icy blasts, making her shiver underneath her thin white gown. The cold is a welcome feeling, but even that is only skin-deep. She unbinds her hair, looking like the heroine of a romantic novel, and steps onto the sill. She looks down at the ground, hundreds of feet below her, then closes her eyes and prepares herself for the long drop into oblivion.

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He cannot sleep. Woken, shaken from a dream of blood and fire, where his love was pulled away from him, by demons who dragged her down to hell. He sits up in bed, twitching slightly when his bare feet touch the cold stone floor. Something feels terribly, terribly wrong. He cannot place the feeling, but something feels not right. He swings himself up, standing slowly. He slips out of the dungeons, forcing himself to follow this leaden lump in his heart. Strangely enough, it leads him to the Astronomy Tower.

There is a shape at the window... fluttering in the breeze. Like a ghost, or a beautiful white moth. Or am I the moth? I am drawn to her flame-colored hair, like a candle. Her vibrancy. Gone. But she is still beautiful. Standing in the window, numbering the stars. No. Looking at the ground? The pain... must be so fresh in her mind. I know the feeling. But would I be strong enough to do anything about it? I know I would not. I admire her bravery... her beauty. It should not be lost. I am a coward... but am I brave enough to do as I must? I am...

Quickly and silently, moving like a fox, he comes behind her. Before she can protest, he hooks an arm around her waist. Pulling her off the sill... onto the ground. Saving her. She turns to him. He is waiting for the outpouring of rage, the flashing eyes, the hands planted hard on her jutting hipbones. But there is none of it. Her eyes are dead, devoid of emotion. She doesn't yell, doesn't cry. He turns to go, but she stops him, with a hand on his shoulder. When he turns back, his eyes are quizzical. She looks at him, deeply, searching, and whispers, quietly, Why?

He is not sure how to answer. Why? Â The one question he was not ready to answer. So there is only one thing he can say. The truth.

Because you're beautiful, he answers solemnly. Such beauty doesn't deserve to die. Â She nods, seemingly with understanding. But she is not done. Not yet.

 Do you love me?  she asks. He looks at her, deep into those golden eyes. He doesn't know what she wants from him. In one moment, all his dreams have come true. And he doesn't know what to do.

I don't believe in love, he answers. Unexpectedly. Whenever he tries to reason with himself, love always comes into the picture. Of course he believes in love. What else could he believe in? Hope,  he says, quietly,  I believe in hope. But not love. Never love. Because love is like treading on broken glass. The farther in you go, the more deeply you cut yourself. He listens to himself with surprise, and realizes that every word he has just uttered is spoken from the depths of his heart, and therefore, is true.

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She nods, satisfied. She knew what he would say. She always has. Always will. And, just as surely, she knows how she will respond. She leans in close to him, and whispers, Do you believe in lust? Before he can answer, she seals his mouth with hers.

 I am oddly detached... I feel his lips on mine, his tongue exploring my mouth. I know I have reached up, tangling my hands in his fair, silvery hair...yet through all of this, I watch with a dispassionate eye. He is beautiful, a perfect male specimen, and he truly feels for me, though what I do not know... and, as I kiss him, I feel, too. Deep within my soul, I feel the vestiges of an emotion stirring. It is strange to feel, after all these months. It is strange, and painful, and addictive. I am becoming addicted to this beautiful boy, who can make me feel, as no one else can. I am reluctant to end the kiss.

When she breaks away, he breaths in her ear, yes. Oh yes. I believe in lust. She smiles, and moves to plant a row of butterfly kisses down his neck. When she breaks away, she looks at him, her expression oddly intense. Can you make me feel? she asks, moving her hands away from his hair, to unbutton his shirt. He drags her down on the floor, and they surrender to lust.

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They keep it a secret, of course. There is too much standing in the way. Neither of them want a companion, someone they can talk to, laugh with, flirt with, argue with. She is too distant, too cold, and he is too scared, frightened of what his father would do. All they want is someone to meet in abandoned rooms, to fuck up against a wall when lust takes hold. It is not much, but it is enough to hold them together, at least for a year. Then he leaves the school, forever. He knows what he will do next. There is none of this silly planning for the future, no wishy-washy decisions to be made. He knows exactly where he will go. Following diligently, slavishly behind his father. Doing exactly as he commands. She knows this, of course. Sometimes he thinks she is the omniscient. The all knowing. She does not pass judgement, of course. She is too high for that. But, in her deeds, her actions, all indicate that whatever they had is coming to an end. She will forget all about him. She seems to have already done so. When he leaves to go meet his destiny, she is not even there. Doesn't even give him a good-bye kiss.

He cannot forget her though. Her kisses, as fierce as an eagle, and as distant as an iceberg. He hates it that this memory has such an affect on him. His father notices that his son is weak, but he cannot place the source. So he leaves his son's emotions alone, hoping that, like his humanity, they will fade with time.

They don't, of course. Memories are not nearly as easily banished as ghosts, and have a habit of popping up, uncontrollably. For five years, he remembers the girl he thought he might have loved. He dreams about her, thinks about her. Prays she has not died. He would like to see her one last time, before she or he dies.

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She has faded from the world. Though, she lives and breaths, she has not felt emotion since him. The only thing that had ever made her feel. She kills the agents of the Dark. It is not a job, more of a twisted exorcism. She hopes, irrationally, that if she can purge the earth of Darkness, then maybe she can clear her mind of the ghosts of the past.

When she is taken, she doesn't even murmur. It's a relief, really. It gives her life a sort of sick direction. A routine. She thrives on routine. The mindless day-to-day repetition leaves little room to think.

She cannot allow herself to think. Invariably, her thoughts drift back to him. Her mind continues to dwell on the first night they met. He said he didn't believe in love. She had agreed, then, but now, after such a time, she wonders if she was right. There must be a reason that his face still hangs in front of her eyes when she sleeps. Lust doesn't last. Love is like treading on broken glass. His words are branded into her memory. Maybe love is treading on broken glass, she thinks, but sometimes we need to cut our feet a little bit.

When she wakes from a dream of rose fields, and sunshine, she can smell his scent in her cell. The juniper and jasmine scent that is uniquely him. It is not her dream, because even though she dreams in technicolor, it is always silent, without any sense but sight to guide her. A rough hand yanks her upwards. She staggers to her feet, to find herself looking into the silver-gray eyes of Draco Malfoy.

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 She is even more beautiful than when I last saw her. She is careworn, and though she is only twenty-one, there is a hint of a line between her fine eyebrows. Her eyes are as dead as they were when I first kissed her. Her hair is dull too, and she is painfully skinny. Yet she is achingly beautiful. I long to take her in my arms, and kiss away the tears that lurk imperceptibly in the corners of her eyes. As I move to hug her, I hear my father's voice echo jarringly in my ears. Draco, he says, and I know what he will say before he finishes. The Cruciatus Curse. Use it. I look into her eyes. She refuses to plead, even mutely. I will not torture such beauty. I must use the last vestiges of my strength to do what I could not do, my entire life. I raise my wand, point it at her, and watch as her mouth opens slowly in shock. I look at my father, hate clear on my face. Then I whisper the two words that can set her free. The only gift I will ever be able to

give her. Avada Kedavra. She falls back, slowly, a small smile quirking the corners of her mouth. In death, she looks almost happy. My love. I look down at her, and I whisper what I have wanted to tell her for five long years. I told you that love didn't exist. I was more wrong than you could ever know. I love you, Ginny Weasley.

Then, I turn the wand to myself.