A Chance To Mend

            I hate this room. This bed. She is still here, in many ways. The faint scent of vanilla still lingers on the emerald sheets. Her cloak is in the corner where she left it that last night. And when I lay here –as I am now– with my eyes closed, I can hear the soft echo of her voice. That, coupled with her scent, and I can almost pretend that she is here. Almost. The bed is far too cold without her next to me. Too large. Too empty. Funny, I never thought I would lose anything worth missing. Then I lost her.

 

            I rarely ever sleep anymore. My eyes are rimmed with shadows, my skin even paler than usual. But I cannot sleep. When I do, my mind is filled with ghastly images. Don’t get me wrong, I have seen many things. Done many things. The hideous mark on my arm is proof enough of that. But nothing could have ever prepared me for the sight that awaited me that night, just outside the dungeons. Potter hovering over her, his hands bruising her delicate throat. Her once sparkling brown eyes now blank and unseeing. Her ivory skin tinged with blue. Her fiery hair fanned out behind her like a river. I can see it so clearly, even now.

            I should have done something. Anything. I have told myself this a thousand times. Dumbledore tells me not to dwell on regrets. But how is it possible not to? This is a new feeling for me, this guilt. I think she is perhaps the first person to have ever made me feel it. I don’t like it at all. Yet I am flooded with it. She deserved to live. Not I. But it seems that life and death have no capacity for fairness. That is one thing that all the money and power in the world cannot change.

*

I am still awake when the sun rises. When the first rays of light dance across the dark room. I cross to my wardrobe, trying not to look outside. The crimson color of the sky reminds me far too much of her amazingly soft hair. I pull out a pair of black trousers, a black shirt, and my school robes, and dress quickly. Purely out of habit, I examine myself in the mirror.

"Well, don’t we look happy today?" the mirror remarks sarcastically. "You really should tidy your hair a bit, dear."

"Bugger off," I mutter angrily, even though it is correct. My pale hair is sticking up in every direction. It hardly looks out of place, though, next to my ghostly pale skin and haunted eyes.

"Well!" the mirror exclaims. "You don’t have to be so rude. It was only a suggestion."

I sigh heavily and turn away. I am exhausted, as usual. I throw my cloak over my shoulders, my eyes flicking to the heap of black fabric in the corner. Another harsh reminder of her absence. With heavy thoughts clouding my mind, I leave for breakfast.

*

Crabbe is talking to me. Well, making guttural noises in my direction. But my eyes and thoughts rest on the Gryffindor table. It is a rather odd scene. The boy with the camera – Colin, I think his name is – doesn’t talk much anymore. There is an empty space beside him where she used to sit. A few seats down, Granger is eating in silence, watching Weasley– no, Ron– with worry in her eyes. He is looking down at the table, his expression one of stone. He could not handle losing his sister, much less finding out that it was the fault of his best friend. Guilt and anger drove him to seek refuge in silence, leaving Hermione to cope on her own. No one sits near them, as if the very memory of what happened is enough to damn them all. But he other end of the long, rectangular table is bursting with energy. Girls huddling together and whispering the newest gossip into eager ears, their giggles loud and obnoxious. Boys chuckling at their own jokes and stuffing their faces with food. Attempting to balance out the melancholy atmosphere. And failing miserably.

            No one in my house says a word about Ginny. They know, of course, the reason for my distant behavior. When first she died, and I entered the common room with tears staining my face, they all gaped at me in shock. Draco Malfoy, crying? Marcus Flint had the nerve to approach me.

"What’s the matter? Did the little Weasley slut turn out to be bad in bed?"

I must say, blood did not match his complexion well at all. His nose was broken, his ribs bruised. I think it pretty much got the message across. After that, it was an unwritten law within Slytherin house not to say anything even remotely degrading about the late Ginny Weasley. Crabbe and Goyle, coupled with the threat of my well proven combat skills, kept them quiet. And, miraculously, my father seems to be still in the dark. Which is a very good thing for me.

"Draco?"

Blaise Zabini’s tentative voice breaks through my reverie. I look at her, then back at the Gryffindor table.

"Morning, Blaise."

She follows my gaze, sliding down to sit beside me. "It’s really very sad, isn’t it? What happened to them, I mean." She frowns slightly, sympathy shining through her sapphire eyes. Blaise and I became friends shortly after Ginny’s death. Unlike the others, she was understanding.

"Yes," I agree.

She looks over at me. "You really miss her, don’t you?" she asks gently, almost a whisper. She is so nice, it sometimes make me wonder how she got into Slytherin.

I sigh and nod. There is silence for a moment. I watch as a grin slowly creeps over her round features, a glint in her eyes. In that moment, she reminds me of Ginny. I wonder what she is thinking.

"Draco . . ." Her voice has a certain lilt to it.

"Yes?"

"What if I told you that there might be a way?"

"A way to what?" I ask.

She simply grins at me, that gleam in her eyes bordering on maniacal, and says, "You’ll see."

I push down the wave of irritation rising within me. "You know, I sometimes wonder, ‘How did someone as nice as you get put into Slytherin?’ And now I know why. You’re planning something, I know it."

She rises to her feet. "Maybe I am. You’ll just have to wait and see."