Diseased

=====

I remember what seems like yesterday

Couldn't hear your voice but I knew you were there

You were always listening, listening to every word I'd say

Your heart was fading and I wasn't there

You were at the other end

Couldn't speak, but I knew what you'd say

Couldn't hear your voice but I could hear you say:

'I'm gonna see you in a little while'.

When I die I'll see somethin' beautiful

Come and see me sometime

May the heavens hear all I have

I'm countin' down,

Countin' down the days.

You're the one who taught me how to listen, how to listen

Now I'm waiting for the day, the day to come

When I, when I will be with you

I know where you went; I know where you are

I know who you're with 'cause you're just like Him

I'm gonna see you in a little while

When I die I'll see somethin' beautiful

Come and see me sometime

May the heavens hear all I have

I'm countin' down,

Countin' down the days.

Echo in me, echo in me,

Every day, every day

that by without you, echoes by without you.

Goodbye, I love you

Come and see me sometime

Goodbye, I love you

Come and see me sometime

- Countin' Down the Days by Pax-217

You never appreciate what you have

Til it's gone.

=====

Remission

This time, he started off with a smirk of the lips, reminders of how he had always greeted her. Cocky and arrogant, knowing and lazy, like he had been so many years ago.

"You must think, Weasley, for some reason, that I am a heavy sleeper," he said, his sneering mouth growing wider as he talked to the headstone that he had visited just yesterday. He could see his reflection on the gleaming stone in front of him and a slight blur behind his picture, framing his face. "As a matter of fact, I am not. I rarely sleep anymore anyway, and find my strength in resting or meditation." He narrowed his eyes and the corners of his mouth fell into a semi-scowl. It added years onto his handsome, twenty-three year-old face.

"You think I can't hear you, Weasley; that I'm not listening when a ghost speaks. You must think that I have no six sense. You're wrong; horribly, horribly mistaken. Some of my best spies are ghosts, I won't tell you which ones, since you might be spying for Dumbledore.

"I heard you last night, every letter of every word of every sentence that you dared to speak." He paused and took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the fact that she could hear every word that he said as well. "You're very lucky that no one caught you when you came, or no ward alarm sounded, but you were always one step ahead when you had a plan." He finished and took a breath, looking from side to side of the long row of headstones. He was the only one in the row. Satisfied that no one else was listening, he began to speak again.

"The Forbidden Forest was a mysterious, foreboding place - the perfect place to die. It instills fear in the first years, myths, legends, and stories springing from the eleven-year-old's infinite imagination. The creatures that make their home in that dark forest are fearsome and ferocious. They are cunning and wise, to be feared and revered. There are forces in that forest that are not to be reckoned with. Creatures that even Death Eaters avoid.

"We apparated into Hogsmead and walked up from there, hidden - of course - by spells and cloaks. A spy on our side had said that Harry Potter would be there, and that night was an opportune time to try to finish him off. Most of us were able to walk right into Hogwarts' doors; we had been students up until a year ago. From the aroma that wafted from the castle, we could tell that you had just eaten, and we were tempted to sneak into the kitchen for a spot of food, although, no doubt one of the house-elves would alert the headmaster of our occupancy. We assumed the majority of you would either be in the library or in your common rooms, which you were, basking in the false security that Hogwarts offered. It was almost disappointing, the way that you had simply let us walk in. The lack of challenge made us weep.

"The names of the Mudbloods, Muggle sympathizers, known members of the Resistance or those who had relatives in the Order were handed out. This was the List of Death. Another list with the names of people whose children were loyal to the Dark Lord was also handed out, and I instructed that these children were to be taken from the school and not to be harmed.

"Nobody noticed the suits of armor stirring behind us, one disappearing from its spot, and the others nabbing Death Eaters in the rear of our procession until seven had gone missing. Nobody noticed the empty portraits and frames until it was too late. They had alerted the Headmaster, each house, the Ministry, and the Order, all without the students' knowledge or our knowledge.

"We followed the mudbloods around, waiting until they were alone, not wanting to alert the other students of our presence. We took them from the behind, caught them by surprise. We took their wands and robes, their jewelry and their school supplies. They went without a fight, without protest, without looks of hatred or fear. They lined themselves up and stood tall - proud, I suppose, of their filthy background. Their faces were blank; they did not respond or retort when we insulted them. Their leaders were obviously a tall Gryffindor boy with a camera around his neck and wavy blonde hair, a seventh year, who faced me with such a glare that even I took a step back. His brother stood next to him at the end of the row, and together, they gave the rest of the prisoners a calm and strengthening aura. They were not fun toys to play with, manipulate, and then disposed. We killed them, and they did not beg for mercy.

"Don't be naïve, Weasley and don't play me for a fool. A Mudblood would not last a moment in a house of such prestige as ours. There are no such things as a Mudblood in Slytherin, such a thing does not exist - and if it does, it will not for long. Slytherins are pure and pedigreed, with a reputation - a threat of sorts - in their name. No Slytherin that has ever been born was a mistake; each child carries a purpose, an expectation to further their family's name to other wizards. Every Slytherin youth was paired up with another Slytherin child early on in their life, in order to produce, from them, the perfect child, one with specific traits and appearances. Each Slytherin family is to be devoid of silly emotions like love, want, hope, or pain, loyal only to the Darkness and the Dark Lord, forsaking their spouse, children, lifestyle, house, and name, if necessary. This is what is expected of every Slytherin. There are no exceptions.

"There are no Mudbloods in Slytherin.

"There were, however, those without pedigree in the righteous Hufflepuff, the learned Ravenclaws, and the brave Gryffindors. They were mistakes. Their magical abilities were an error. They were a glitch, trash needing to be disposed of. They should not have been allowed to study at Hogwarts. They should not have been allowed to live.

"So... they did not." Malfoy shrugged, as if their death couldn't have been helped. He took a breath and closed his eyes, his senses sharpening, trying to find Ginny. What he would do to see her...

Her presence was near, a warm, peaceful feeling, like a breeze across his face. It stung, though, when it passed him. He could sense her emotions as if the wind was her aura. He knew that he had gotten her attention, and that she pined to see him as much as he did.

"The choices we make... how much they affect our life. Wouldn't you say, Weasley? You chose to die, I chose to live. Yes, I'd say that these two, very different choices affected whether or not I would live to breathe my next breath."

The area around him became much colder, and Malfoy wrapped his arms tighter around him and buttoned the jacket beneath his cloak. Even though he wore several layers, he had dressed lightly because of the change in season, and her anger and hatred chilled his very core. He knew who was responsible for the sudden change of temperature.

"Now don't be childish, Weasley, you're not three. Does your infamous Weasley temper remain in you even as a ghost?

"No, the paths we choose never did meet up at a final destination. Yours and mine had an intersection however, and yours sadly, ended abruptly, while mine continued. You might compare mine to the fallen, wide road that many chose, destined for failure that you talked about so much."

He paused to think, crossing his arms and encircling around his bent knees.

"I must say that I was less than surprised and more than disappointed when it was your turn to decide publicly which side you would be on. Your Gryffindor nobility, your daring nerve and brash stupidity really shone through when we asked you.

"Though I have to admit. Your lack of emotion impressed me as much as your articulate words did. I could sense the Death Eaters behind me shaking, muttering. They could see, as I already knew, that you were not afraid to die. And you were not afraid to let us know," he praised her, remembering how she had stood with unmoving pride and conviction, her beautiful face, set in stone.

"You looked stunning in the setting sun, Weasley, you really did. It took my breath away, to see you look so lovely in the face of death. You made the angels sing.

"The golden light from the sun illuminated your face and made you shine like the cherubs, glowed around your head like a holy halo. Your rich red hair, down for once in a blue moon, fell in layers around your shoulders, trailing over your back, down to the hems of your short sleeves. It dazzled like red gold. Missing your darned gray sweater vest, your red and gold tie fell across your chest to your midsection, emphasizing unspoken words. It told us the story of the Chamber, how you had been manipulated, used, abused, drained, and left to die. It told us how scared you had been, how hopeful you had been, how strong you had been. It told us that you had recovered, had healed, bearing your scars with pride and dignity. It told us how you found comfort in your house, your strength and your accountability in it.

"You stood tall and proud, unafraid and not the least bit scared. You gave the others strength, and you hadn't even chosen yet," he said, admiring her as he would a deity or a noble hero - two things that she most definitely was to him.

" "A life with forgotten values is no life at all," " he said, repeating what she had said a day and four years ago. "The way you said that did not condemn us, did not glorify yourself. You said it simply letting it speak as your decision, no 'Yes' and no 'No'. No, you were never satisfied with a simple 'Yes' or 'No'. You supplied reason and logic and evidence to back your answer, letting the testimony speak for itself." He felt his hand fall to the ground as a fist without his noticing. Only when it hit the ground was he aware of the sting of pain. But it was nowhere as big of a pain as the pain inside his heart, squeezing it as if in a fist.

"And then I realized something so important, that it revolutionized my life more than becoming a Death Eater has.

"I didn't want you to die.

"I didn't want you to leave this world. Even if you weren't with us, I wanted to know that you were well, breathing and eating and being happy.

"I didn't want you to leave me here, without you." He paused to clear his throat quietly, but froze when he heard a sound. A sniffle, a silenced sob. Then... stillness.

So small was the sniffle and so quiet the sob that he could have confused it with a rustling of the trees or a hiss in the wind.

Ginny.

And she was crying.

'Even now, she cries,' he thought, amazed. His fallen hand, now free from his fist, felt warm, warmer than he did, and he picked it up and looked at it. The tips of his long, pale white fingers were wet, and he could see a cloudy stream run down his fingers into his palm. A ghost tear, he assumed. He brought his hand up to his nose and inhaled it.

Her scent lingered on it, a smell so heavenly and so beautiful that he had to smell it again to make sure it was there, and that he was not hallucinating. It was not musky, like Blaise's, it was not heavy like Pansy's, it was light and intoxicating and distinctly Ginny. It smelt of spring flowers and warm like the Fall. It was as comforting as a mother's hug and as mind-boggling as a lover's kiss. It held love and affection, sadness and pain, promise and hope.

It smelt of everything that Ginny was.

"I flipped my hood down and stared at you, shocked anyway. You stared back and the air between us crackled, but you looked at me as if I was a stranger, or worse, the enemy. Every moment I had stolen, pleaded, and pulled strings to be with you, to be near you, led up to this point. I prayed that you would, just once, change your mind. By the look on your face, I knew my prayer had been unanswered.

" "We came for the students, weeding the weak from the strong. We did not come here for a lesson, Weasley," I told you, trying to sound bored and disgusted. I was neither. I could hear my heart sink as I said it, stalling for you. Even then, you still managed to surprise me with your wit.

" "This is still a school, Malfoy. I thought that you walked away knowing at least that little bit," you replied bravely. You talked like your brother, sarcasm and ridiculing laced in your words. Behind me, I could hear someone sniggering. Hurt, I turned and looked at our 'school', or what was left of it. By then, we had taken Hogwarts, setting fire to portraits and flags, stealing the rare tapestries and books as spoils. Chaos reigned as prefects sent messages from house to house, teachers trying to instruct the students to remain calm, though it was hard enough trying to keep the fear off their own faces.

" "Not for long," I answered amused, the thrill of victory dimmed by the thought of losing you. A gust blew past our faces, cooling my face off, but making you look immobile like a statue. It moved your hair and it swayed with them as if in a waltzing dance.

"I finally asked you, Weasley, blatantly of your choice, a disguised plea to reconsider. You replied with the words that sealed your fate, and Pansy, bored at how long I had managed to stall, stepped forward and killed you as soon as the words flew out of your mouth.

"She hit you and your head flew back as your mouth flew open in a silent scream. You fell to the ground with a thud, your back arched and knees tucked under your body and we moved onto the next student, though my eyes always seemed to find themselves back to your body.

"Afterwards, they moved forward to light the damned on fire. I stopped Pansy who had bent down to your fiery hair, flame lit on her wand. She knew that there was something inside me, something connected to you, and she wasn't happy not knowing what it was or why it was there. I wouldn't let her burn you. I couldn't think of your body disintegrating into nothingness, your ashes scattering in the wind with nowhere to land.

"I took your body in my arms. It was cold and the skin was clammy. Your face was pale and gray and you had lost weight. Your arms fell downward and your neck lolled back like a puppet's. Your legs dangled over my arms and they swayed sickly. It smelt of death. I Apparated to a funeral home, and bought you a coffin to hold you, a dark mahogany one, with a deep red color, deeper than unoxygenated blood, under a brown and shiny glaze. But there was nowhere for you to rest. So I bought the lot in this cemetery, they can be rather expensive on a short notice, but I didn't care. I told your parents in a letter of your death, and how you had stood tall and proud, an example to the rest who had to Choose. I told them not to be saddened but to be strengthened by your example, and sincerely wished them safety, comfort, and happiness, and offered to pay for the headstone and burial costs. It was the least I could do, even though it was next to nothing compared to all that you had done. They accepted graciously, not knowing it was from a Malfoy. I have no plan to tell them, either." Malfoy finished his story and thought for a moment, wondering what to say next.

"It's not enough to just say that I bloody miss you," he began finally. "It's not enough to say that I'm bloody sorry for all those times I acted like a git to you. It's not enough to say that I bloody wish I could have gotten to know you better, instead of just obsessing over you. It's not enough to say I'll bloody always miss you up until the day I die. Nothing's enough to bring you back.

"I loved you, Weasley. I never knew it up until you said you would rather die than live being a Death Eater. I never knew how it would feel knowing you weren't here until you left. I never wondered when I could tell you how I felt about you until it seemed like it was the most important thing to say.

"Understand this, Ginny Weasley. You were my damn heart. You felt for me. I felt through you. You made me feel. I stopped being numb and you stirred my heart to start again. It was remarkable, the way I felt. It was like being able to breathe after being caught underwater. It was like being able to move after being frozen solid. It was like being able to dine at a feast after a fast.

"And I loved you. I loved you from the beginning, even though I thought it was disgust. And I loved you always, even when I wasn't aware, and I didn't want to. I loved you up until the end, when I knew that if I didn't have you, I would die.

"No one chooses who they love. No one gets a say in who they love. Love disguises itself as a great many emotions, each are great and powerful. We are jealous because we love; we can become angry because we love.

"Love is the contradicting voice in our heads, speaking with admiration and affection of you. It hides the flaws, plays off the good in the other. It looks past names, faces, genders, relations, and history, to the very person. Love sees us for who we are, not who we appear to be. Love cuts to the core of us, bringing out the best or the worst.

"And it kills me, knowing you're dead. This is what you wanted, right? Forgiveness, but punishment, just as we hated and loved each other. To have me become alive, only to die again. To have this feeling of utter calm and complete joy, only to have it stolen away. I lust for it, long for its return in the same way I wish and want for you. This - this is my justice, my punishment.

"And I welcome it because the pain - the longing, the wanting, the emptiness, the guilt -they make me feel." He looked up at the tree branch above him. It was April first, springtime, and small blossoms were beginning to bloom on the branches. They were no more than a centimeter long and an inch high, tightly clenched, each petal holding on to the others. He wondered what kind of plant they would produce.

"Did you kiss me, Weasley, when you came to visit me last night?" he asked the cloudless, endless blue sky. "Because I've never kissed you."

He turned and looked back to the gravestone and ended up looking at something very unexpected but welcomed. He blinked once, then shook his head, strands of short white hair falling in his face.

Ginny Weasley sat on her gravestone, her red hair fanned around her shoulders in tendrils. Only that it wasn't as red as it had been, its intensity growing dimmer. Her long legs were crossed, one over the other, one toe touching the ground. He could see not only around her, but also through her, and he could read the inscription on her gravestone through her one leg.

She was still in her Hogwarts uniform, minus her sweater vest, her Gryffindor tie as proud as ever. She still wore her gray knee socks and her black-heeled dress shoes adorned her feet. Her skirt fell over the upper half of her legs and was firmly tucked under her bottom that rest on top of her gravestone. In her hand, she held a white rose and smelled it, a peaceful, placid expression on her face. If she was happy to see him, as he was, she did not show it.

She seemed washed out and faded, and he realized that all color was beginning to waste away, and she would, eventually, turn silvery white like the Hogwarts ghosts, shaded only by the different intensities of white.

She looked at him, her almost colorless lips turning up into a smile, touching her brown eyes. 'So she is happy to see me,' Malfoy though, relieved. He looked at her the same way he had when they had attended school together, with the same smile that had always made her feel lesser than him, the slight upturn of his chin as if he looked down on her.

Her smile widened, one corner higher than the other, turning her small smile into a smirk. She held out her hand and Malfoy looked at it, unperturbed about seeing a ghost appear in front of him. She held a snow white rose, the same rose that he had given to her two years ago, as an penance for soiling her own.

"When you first gave this to me, Malfoy, I could not hold it. And then it died."