Diseased

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Draco gave Ginny a level stare, and she stared right back. He could barely believe his eyes, and blinked several times, breaking his line of vision.

Ginny Weasley sat on her gravestone, she looked exactly like she did four years and a day ago and not a day older than eighteen, but unearthly different. 'Perhaps,' he noted detachedly, 'it's because she is not of this earth anymore.'

She looked faded and worn, and pale; much paler than the characteristic light peach colored skin traditional of a Weasley. Her auburn hair had paled to a dusty rose, her skin was almost as white as his was, and he could barely distinguish her trademark freckles. She was still wearing her old Hogwarts uniform, a wrinkled and well-loved white short-sleeved blouse and a long, stretched-out gold-and-red tie and a pleated light gray skirt. Her gray knee socks fell just under her kneecaps, and she had on scuffed black shoes that were most likely men's and several years old when she had received them.

He ran a hand through his silver hair. It parted in the middle but barely split to either side of his head. For the most part, it remained slicked back, the ends of his hair touching the nape of his neck. A gust blew through the barren graveyard and played with small strands of his hair on either side of his head, close to his ear. It passed by Ginny - or was it through? He couldn't tell - and not one strand moved from her head.

He watched her, mesmerized, as she ran her hand through her hair, pausing when she reached her nape to gather it in a ponytail secured only by her hand, and then released it and let her hand run through it until it reached the ends of her hair. It was not any longer than he had remembered it being, and it fell over her shoulders, almost to her elbows, to the ends of her short-sleeved polo shirt. Her hair was straight and long, curving in with a slight wave and curl at the end. She smiled at him, and Draco swore that she blushed. He blinked and the faint coloring that he might have seen in her cheeks was gone.

The rose in Ginny's hand was not crushed or fragile or browned by the lack of water; it looked exactly as it had when he had laid it down on her grave two years and a day ago. The only difference that he could see was that the white color of the flower, and the forest green of the stem, were paler than he remembered it being.

"Do you want me to get you a new one, Weasley?" he asked, glancing up to look at her. He spoke in the voice that he had used at school, slightly superior, slightly amused. But he knew that if she requested, he would have bought her a dozen more bouquets of a dozen of snow-white roses each.

Ginny shook her head. "This one's fine," she responded. Malfoy smirked at how, even as a ghost, she was content with what she had.

"It's bloody dead," he said forcefully. He raised his eyebrows and placed his hands behind him, leaning back on the ground.

His posture gave off an air of calm composure, belying the mixture of raging emotions he felt inside - excitement, yet confusion. He felt like a giddy little child on Christmas morning admiring a stack of boxed, bagged, and bowed presents, with his name on each parcel.

Of course, that's how Christmas was every year back at the Manor, with his name on every package.

"Is there something wrong with being 'bloody dead'?" she questioned, faint red eyebrows rising above her eyes as if she was uninformed about something. Her words mocked him, almost, though they were cleverly disguised as an innocent question. His words had offended her, and he was not apologetic about them. The air around him became cold, though Ginny did not appear to be doing anything but smelling the rose. Malfoy locked his arm and stiffened his back, but his appearance never wavered, and Ginny's placid expression never changed.

"It certainly doesn't smell dead," she continued, inhaling it deeply. She closed her eyes and a pleased smile crossed her faint pink lips in bliss. Malfoy took a sniff, but he didn't smell anything that smelt remotely rose-scented. "If anything, death only intensified its sweet smell." She looked up from the rose with a slight smirk. "The same way death intensifies other things."

'Like feelings,' Malfoy thought, looking at up at her eyes. 'Like my feelings for you,' he wanted to say. 'Like the words I say to you and the memories I have of you. Like my fears and my hopes and my dreams; they all become more real when you're not here to be in them.'

He avoided her comment and did not add anything to it.

"Whatever you say, Weasley," he said airily, as if she was a small child whose adolescent games bored him. "I can't smell it, and," he said nonchalantly, playing with a piece of grass. "It's still dead," he finished pointedly. He bent it over and it broke. He tossed the broken tip aside.

He glanced up at her, pretending to be bored, and was pleased when she looked annoyed and the slightest bit hurt. But he found himself squirming. He still didn't like it when she looked annoyed and more so when she looked hurt.

"Just because you can't smell it doesn't mean that the rose has no scent at all," she reasoned patiently, though her tone suggested the opposite. "Since when have the laws of nature abided by the ruling of Draco Malfoy?"

He smirked at her cockily and she looked at him, apathetic and emotionless. Malfoy inwardly cursed; he had forgotten that charm and suave didn't work on Ginny like they worked on other girls.

Ginny had looked for sincerity over charisma and authenticity over appearance. She didn't care if he was flawed or if he was perfect, if he was rich or poor, famous or notorious; she looked for honesty in a boy, and when he finally told her why he was so keen on her, did she finally regard him.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked her, jerking his head to the side, trying to fling a loose piece of hair behind his ear.

"What you said just now?" She looked up from her rose, and Malfoy blinked again. "Before I appeared?" He nodded and blinked again when he heard her voice. It sounded more... real. Not so distant, and more human. "Yes."

The air around him had become more fragrant, smelling like her tear had. And Ginny - he swore - Ginny looked almost solid. Her hair became more red; her skin, more flesh colored; her blouse, more white; her skirt, more gray. Her body became almost complete and filled in, almost. She still looked...

... Fuzzy.

"Everything?" he asked. "Everything I said?"

She looked up and met his eyes. Her eyes, which were dark brown when she was alive, looked so real. But they were no longer brown like the bark on the north side of a tree; they were brown like dried grass, tanned, soft, and light-colored.

She smiled again, but it was not gentle. It resembled his, cunning and superior. Malfoy's stomach churned uneasily at what she would say.

"You must think, Malfoy, for some reason, that ghosts have mouths but no ears," she said in a haughty, arrogant tone, her smile growing wider. It touched her eyes and they sparkled mischievously. She was mocking him. "As a matter of fact, we don't. We have ears and mouths, and can listen as well as we speak.

"You think I can't hear you, that I don't long to hear your voice. You must think that I don't want to hear you speak. You're wrong; horribly, horribly mistaken. I've heard every word of every sentence since you've come and visited me two years and a day ago."

"Someone needs a hobby," Malfoy muttered, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

"Ghosts don't exactly play cricket, Malfoy," Ginny reprimanded sarcastically. "And we see all the latest cinemas on Starz for eternity."

"Why don't you play weather man or something?" he asked, waving one hand lazily at the sky. Ginny crossed her arms and held her rose limply in one arm in disgust. "Weather woman then, if you want to be politically correct about it." He grinned acidly at her.

"Honestly Malfoy, you're the same stupid, moronic prat that I knew in Hogwarts! You think you know all there is to being a ghost, to being dead, when you really have no idea whatsoever! I can control the weather around you, because I am emotionally attached to you!" she hissed at him, her pretty face contorted in anger.

"Oh great," Malfoy muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment at being so ignorant, "I'll have a little gray rain cloud following me around. How kinky," he said, his voice heavy with loathing, making Ginny flush in anger. "It'll look great when I call meetings with fellow Death Eaters."

In a flash, a wave of ice water passed through his head and chilled him instantly. He touched his face numbly, and it burned like dry ice under his touch.

"What the bloody hell did you just do, Weasley?"

Ginny floated in the air above him, her nose close to his. Her face was blank but her eyes were sad. And Malfoy felt sad, sadder than she did.

He was at fault for her discomfort.

Again.

He looked away, but she took one of her hands and grabbed his chin. It was too solid to be a ghost's and too effervescent to be a human's. She brought his head to hers and rested her forehead on his.

"Do you want me to leave, Malfoy, is that it?" she hissed angrily at him. If she could breathe, Malfoy thought distantly, she would be panting breathlessly. Being angry always made her pant breathlessly. Being angry, for Ginny, always involved more than words, as being anything consisted of more than just words for Ginny. To her, being angry involved intellect, much thought, emotion, words, actions and promise.

"Do you want me to tell you that I want you to walk away from this grave and never come back? You don't want me to visit you anymore? Because if it is, go, just go, but don't talk to me," her voice quivered and dropped. "Is that why - because you don't like me - is that why you're speaking to me like I'm... like I'm... I dunno what you're speaking to me like, but the only person who's ever spoken to me like this is..." she paused, and he lifted his eyes to hers. They were captivating and held such immense sorrow that Malfoy found it suddenly very hard to breathe. He watched the corner of her right eye, as a small tear formed and rolled away. He followed its trail until it fell off the curve of her cheek and onto his.

'She thinks I want her to leave,' he thought. Grief flooded through him, pounding over him like an ocean wave, and he drowned, not thrashed, in it. The tear on his cheek trailed down and traced the curve of his jaw.

"- Is Tom," she finished, looking frightened. "Malfoy, if you want me to leave, tell me." Her voice was barely audible.

Malfoy struggled to find his voice.

"Smile, Weasley. You look less ugly when you do," he said grudgingly. Ginny looked at him, her lips slightly parted and eyes narrowed a bit, but one corner turned upward a little. "And quit being so damn daft."

"It's 'Ginny', Malfoy," she said, gathering her hair back up in a ponytail then letting it loose.

"It's 'Your Highness', Ginny," he retorted, his head cocking to one shoulder. She shook her head. "Did you slap me?" he asked, touching his face gingerly. He didn't know how he looked, but he certainly didn't feel good.

Ginny nodded.

"Damn, that hurt," he cursed.

"Well," she said, biting her lip. Malfoy felt his heart flip uncomfortably. "I did concentrate a bit when I hit you."

"And you concentrated because... because... you got really mad and... you were afraid that... you were going to miss my head with a wide swing?" Malfoy asked slowly and ending hopefully, piecing the words together sluggishly as they came together in his head.

"No!" she laughed. Malfoy's breath became stuck in his tightened chest when he heard her and he froze, just listening to the sound. Her laugher was like a symphony, a musical masterpiece, to his ears. "When I concentrate, I can become... more solid than I am. The longer I've been dead the harder it becomes to concentrate. I can become almost solid if I tried really hard, but not a lot of ghosts like to 'concentrate' because it taxes their brains. Or... er... their heads, if you want to be picky about it," she said, glancing at Malfoy with rolling eyes.

Malfoy snickered at the thought of ghost brains. "So what passed through my head was a semi-solid, ice-cold 'hand'?" he asked, using his hands to make little quote marks in the air with the curve of his fingers.

Ginny nodded. "You can't say that was undeserved," she pointed out. "And it felt bloody good to slap you and see the look on your face!" She giggled and drew her crossed legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, tucking the loose folds of her skirt under her.

"I can sense a massive headache coming on," he said, pressing two fingers up on the sides of his head and messaging his temples.

"You can't say that will go undeserved either," Ginny said.

"It was so damn cold."

"I'm sorry. We ghosts don't exactly come with a central heating system. I have to apologize for the lack of body heat."

He looked up at her, amused and proud. "For a ghost, you're awfully sarcastic," he said, almost sounding impressed.

"Why should we lose our sense of sarcasm when we lose our sense of existence?" she asked.

"Good point. Why?"

"It's a rhetorical question, Malfoy."

"Of course," he agreed gracefully. "What are you?" She looked at him in confusion.

"It's a good think you're really specific when asking questions, or answering that would have been really hard," she said sarcastically.

He glanced at her in annoyance, but wasn't really annoyed. More like puzzled. "You don't have brains, yet you think. You don't have a body, yet you move. You don't breathe, yet you exist. How?"

She bit her lip, thinking.

"My image was preserved in my soul, which never dies. You see me as I saw my soul," she explained to him. "Without a soul, Malfoy, one cannot love, think, move, or exist."

"But the Dementors, their kiss steals a soul, yet the person goes on living," he stated, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Living and existing are two different things. Living means that you eat, drink, and breathe for another day. Existing means that you thrive, you enjoy life, you smile."

"Ahh. That clears up a lot in a very Dali Lama way."

Ginny rested on her headstone and was silent. Malfoy fidgeted on the ground, wondering about what she was thinking.

"Did you ever hate me, Malfoy?" she asked finally in a faraway voice. Malfoy cocked his head and thought.

Of course he had hated her. He had hated her when he had first seen her in Flourish and Blotts, more than ten years ago. She had qualities about her that were so likable that they were hateable, so pleasant that they were irritating, so sweet they were sickening, so attractive they were nauseating. Hatred and annoyance and jealously of her had come naturally for him.

Before he had even met her, he hated her. He hated any of the tall, lanky, red-haired and brown-eyed Weasleys simply because that was they were, Weasleys. He had always been taught that the Weasleys were a disgrace to the name of wizards, a shame to the whole magical community. Their acceptance, tolerance, and even fascination of Muggles disgusted Malfoy, and he had been instructed at a very young age that he was higher than any Weasley, no matter how old or distinguished because he was a Malfoy.

He had hated her hair. He hated her smile and her good nature and her pure intentions. But he was surprised when he found himself admiring them, and that he loved them and was attracted to her admirable traits that he was born to hate. They were the things that defined a Weasley from a Malfoy; the differences that they both held that made them despise and desire the other. He loved her eye-catching hair and her divine smile and her pleasant nature and her honest intentions. And he hated that he loved them because they were what she was, and if he loved them, then he loved her.

And so he loved and hated her.

And he both hated and loved that.

Such was the contradiction that he had developed when he saw her, the liking and the loathing of such an impish angel.

Of course, he did not voice what he had reasoned and concluded. Instead, her counter-questioned her.

"Why don't you make a questionnaire that I can take home, fill out, and bring back when I visit you next year?" he asked, eyeing her huffily.

"Why don't you answer the question?" she shot back, "Instead of answering a question with another question?"

"Yes, I hated you. Why do you care?"

"Do you hate me now?"

"Yes, Weasley, I hate you so much that each year I come, on the day you died, to talk to the headstone that I bought you so I can spill my guts out and tell you just how much I hate you."

"Don't be sarcastic, Malfoy."

"Then don't be stupid!" he said angrily, his hands forming fists. "I don't hate you anymore! You know that! I told you! Were you not listening? I do not hate you Weasley, I -" he broke off.

"You what?" she spoke with ridicule and disbelief.

Was what he felt more than just words; did it involve his entire being and not only his heart and head. Did what he felt feel involve more; did it involve intellect, much thought, emotion, words, actions and promise?

Would he be willing to put her before himself, her comfort above his needs and her wants above his? Would he be willing to jeopardize his safety to insure hers? Would he be willing to forsake his health to see that she would be kept safe and healthy? Would he be able to never look at another woman, be able to stand by her side even when she was wrong, be able to hold her accountable, and be able to keep this promise for forever?

Even if she didn't deserve it?

Because wasn't that what love was all about?

He glanced over at her. She sat on her headstone, one leg crossed over the other and a bent arm resting on the raised knee. Her chin was cradled beside a fisted hand and a look of thoughtfulness and contemplation was on her face. However, Malfoy was also surprised to see uncertainty cross her beautiful features and doubt etched across her face. Her eyes weren't focused on his face, and they had lost their anger that they had previously held. Her face was turned so that Malfoy could only see one side, and she was looking off somewhere to his left, and the seemingly endless row of gravestones.

'Yes,' he thought firmly. 'I said I loved her and a Malfoy does not go back on his word - ever. It's her choice that she chooses to question it.'

"Forget this," he said, shaking his head. His hair splashed around his head, and he ran a hand through it to keep the fine white strands back.

"No," she said, stubborn and childish.

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Why are you so damn scared to tell me?"

"I'm not scared. I fancy it's you who's scared."

"Can't you - can't you just let your guard down, Malfoy?" Ginny asked. Malfoy paused; Ginny's question was not the one that he had anticipated. He hadn't even expected he would ask a question.

"Why don't you stop asking questions, Weasley?"

"There you go again, Malfoy! Stop it!" Her hands were balled in fists and she bit her lip.

"Why? Does it bother you?" he asked, sneering, standing up and brushing himself off. He tried not to show that he cared whether it did or not.

"Yes! It makes me question your sincerity!" she answered as she stood up, coming up to his chin. He flinched as if she had slapped him again. Her words stung.

Her feet floated off the ground a few inches and her hair floated behind her as if she was underwater. The air around Malfoy seemed to sizzle and it became very heated. She was emotionally connected to him, and her anger surrounded him. He could almost picture what she would look like if she was really, truly angered, her vision becoming almost red and her face almost white, like a demon.

"You think too much, did you know that?" he asked, avoiding her comment.

"And you don't think enough, Malfoy!" she snapped.

"What's wrong with that?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Nothing, and at the same time, everything!" she flustered, banging fisted hands on her knees. She exhaled a breath and floated backward to her tall headstone, slouching on the top of it. Malfoy grinned at her frustration; she looked so adorably cute, with her pink cheeks and scowl, her eyes pinched in frustration and arms crossed stubbornly. He liked her like this, when she was at her worst, almost as much as when she was at her best. He liked her in any state really.

"Besides, there's nothing wrong with thinking too much, either," she reasoned. "Nobody's ever died because they thought too much, but millions have died from not thinking enough."

Malfoy had to grudgingly admit that she was right. It seemed to always be like that, leaving him feeling stupid and incompetent.

This is something that had intrigued and baffled him greatly when they had attended Hogwarts together. She had a great ability to speak and reason, but had always masked it when around Harry or her brother, almost as if she wanted to appear uneducated. But when she wasn't around them... she was a different person. She unmasked herself and let her tongue flow with the poetry of her mind, smarts beyond her years, and a comprehension of everything, from the function of a rubber duck to why bad things happen. She always had an answer on hand, a response or witty reply on the tip of her tongue, and a reason for everything.

"What are you thinking?" she asked quietly. He looked down at the ground and shuffled his booted foot, trying to remember what he had been thinking before she had spoken. He looked up at her with a smirk.

"I was wondering what the purpose of a rubber duck is, exactly?" She smiled at his childish question that she had heard him ask more than once before. "Seriously! I mean, it's yellow and so small, and it's rubber -"

"Nowadays, the rubber ducky is usually made out of plastic, but continue."

"And it has no apparent purpose at all. All it does is float around in the tub with that stupid grin on its face, like it likes seeing the bather naked."

"It's to keep the bather company."

"It is, is it?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows. A corner of his lip pushed into his cheek in a half-smirk.

"Yes," she said simply. "Humans long for company, each one of us does. And sometimes having that ducky float in the water, grinning at us, happy to be with us, is all it takes to feel loved."

"Not all humans long for company. Some people are better off on their own, doing their own thing their own way," he said stubbornly.

"Some people are better off on their own, doing their own things their own way," she agreed. "But I didn't say that. I said all people long for the company of another, to be loved and accepted and wanted by someone, and in turn, love and accept and want them.

"Even you, Malfoy."

Malfoy glanced up at her, wishing every bit of his face said "I do, do I?" instead of "Oh shit".

"Must be lonely," she said in a voice that wasn't quite pity. She didn't supply a reason why he would be lonely.

Malfoy shrugged, wishing that he could think of something intelligent and clever to say.

"C'est la vie," he said, quoting a common French saying. "I'll live."

"Even if you're lonely?" she asked.

"What am I going to do about it?"

She nodded in agreement. "Does it hurt?" she asked, "To be lonely? I've - I've forgotten how it feels," she explained. She blushed suddenly. "I mean, I get lonely, but it doesn't hurt because I can't exactly feel much."

"Yeah, it hurts. A little," he said, devoid of emotion. He looked up at her with a blank face, like a mask, hiding whatever he was feeling. Ginny felt sad and disappointed when she saw it; it meant that even now, he could not be honest to himself with his feelings and therefore could not be honest to her about his feelings.

Ginny always worked like that. She always liked to know what others were feeling, whether it be anger, happiness, pain, indifference, anguish, fear, sadness, or love. It helped her relate to them better when she could understand what they were feeling, where they were coming from, and what they were thinking.

And right now, she felt as far away as the moon was from the earth, simply rotating around the bigger, more important and more radiant planet, alienated from it, foreign and distant. She was like the moon, small and dinghy, only shining in the night when few would see her reflected light. She was unimportant and dismissed.

And knowing this came great sadness and disappointment. The fact that he had deliberately avoided her probing questions and provoked her to the point where he almost seemed amused; only added and multiplied the growing ache and agony of rejection inside her. She raised a hand and rubbed one side of her nose, her fingertip rubbing the corner of her closed eye, furiously brushing away the little sphere of salt water that threatened to fall. She would not let herself cry. Not now.

"What about you?" Malfoy asked her, and she turned her head and looked at him. A sharp pain, rare for a ghost, shot through her like an arrow and lodged itself inside her body. The boy who sat in front of her was beautiful in a god-like way, almost perfect, and yet he had characteristics about him that were so ugly and so vile that she had hated him.

Hate. The ugliest, cruelest, and strongest of all emotions.

The boy had silver white hair, bright like the sunshine, that was brushed back away from his face, and had sharp, handsome features. He had mesmerizing gray eyes like swirling storm clouds and a thin face. His appearance screamed 'Aristocrat', and it did rightfully so. Everything about him, he did with grace, even and especially when he fell. He was calm under any circumstance, talented in everything, and always had the best. Just like a nobleman's son, or a prince.

And in some ways, he was a prince. Sitting high-and-mighty on his throne, he was, self-righteous and self-seeking. He was cruel and selfish, and manipulated and downsized anyone with no regards to their feelings or circumstances.

And if he was the prince, then she was the beggar, who had looked oppression, poverty, and despair in the eye and still was able to find hope for a better day. She was the one who wandered the streets, listening to stories and helping anyone whom asked. She had been taught that no matter how mean or nasty a person could be, they were still a person like her and deserved to be treated with dignity and respect for that simple fact.

He sat on the ground looking up at her, his face blank and his eyebrows raised in question. Ginny couldn't tell if he was sincere or merely asking to pass the time. His words hung unanswered in the air.

"I do get lonely," she confessed, the dull throbbing of pain inside her expanding like a latex balloon filled with human's breath. "But I - I've gotten used to it quickly. I do have all eternity to be lonely." She tried to sound strong but found herself drawn into Malfoy's impassive face, trying desperately to chip away, or even dent, the surface of his mask.

"Oh," he answered, then frowned in thought. "Do you ever think you'll stop being lonely?"

She shrugged, her left ear touching her right shoulder blade. She took a hand and brushed a piece of loose hair back behind her ears. "I might. I don't know." It came out as a whisper.

Malfoy's eyes bore into Ginny's, and she felt as if an invisible hook had reeled her in, stopping herself from turning away.

"I'm sorry I died." These too, came out as a whisper, like a rustling of the trees or the faint crunching of grass. Malfoy cocked his head and looked at her through half-closed eyes and a smirk.

Without missing a beat, he responded, "You should be. You forgot me."

"Well, It's not like you'll never die," she pointed out huffily, but with a reluctant smile, grateful that he had not questioned her previous comment. She could never tell if she would regret the words that she said around Malfoy, sometimes he forgot her comments and they passed without a big deal, and sometimes he embarrassed her and teased her. More times than not, he embarrassed and teased her.

Perhaps he was sorry she died too.

Perhaps he missed her too.

Perhaps she was being too hopeful.

"Is it scary?" he asked out of the blue.

"To what?" she asked back, confused.

"To die," he said simply. She shrugged.

"I guess it's the way you die," she said. "Some people are put through so much agony and torture that they beg to die. Some people's deaths are painless and quick." She didn't add on 'like mine', but was tempted to. "There's no time to change your mind or plea for help. But there's no thinking to it, which is probably better.

"After the Chamber of Secrets incident, my father told me to never mistake ignorance as fear - you know, not knowing what the future will be like. So I never did, and wasn't afraid to die."

"So that's your secret?"

"It was," she corrected him, almost automatically. "That's why I wasn't afraid to resist the Death Eaters. It's why I wasn't afraid to resist you." She looked at him and his back had stiffened, becoming almost rigid. His eyes, however, had darkened considerably.

"You chose to die, so don't blame your death on me, Weasley." He shook his head in a threatening manner. She nodded.

"You're absolutely right. I chose to die because I could not bear living with the decision to join your cause. I could not bear the disappointment of knowing that I had failed my parents, siblings, and Harry and Hermoine, and all the people who had spent eighteen years telling me that every living thing was to be treated with the honor and care that you would expect of yourself, whether they deserved it or not.

"I could not live with the satisfaction and mirth of Voldemolt, the man who Tom Riddle grew up to become. I could not endure his baneful smirks and snide comments as I took commands from him, killing off the very things I love.

"But most of all, I could not live with myself. I would not have withstood the fact that I had turned on myself and everything that I had become. I could not stand knowing the fact the actions I would commit were the very ones that I condemned, and that I would become a murderer. I would find no satisfaction, take no pleasure. I'd be miserable.

"And for what would I do this for?" She laughed coldly. "To preserve my life for one more day and forsake everything I had ever known to be morally right?

"My choice was cut out for me. I do not hold you at fault."

She looked at Malfoy, who was staring at his hand. She wondered if he could not bring himself to meet her eyes or if he was just staring at his hand.

"Damn," he said, flipping his head up and looking straight into her eye. "I told Pansy that we should compose a five page survey with multiple choice answers and several essays, but noo, she had to go and say that we had to keep with tradition and raid the castle by surprise..."

"Malfoy!" Ginny screeched with an expression of amused disbelief.

"What?" he asked innocently, recoiling as if she might slap his arm.

"You go and crack a joke after I gave that brilliant speech that I've been meaning to tell you for ages... how utterly classless of you!" she tisked.

"It was beautiful, Weasley, just as beautiful as you." 'And she is very, very beautiful,' Malfoy thought. She was as breathtaking as the crisp, snow covered Swiss Alps, as gorgeous as a blooming flower in spring, and desirable as the full moon hanging just out of reach from a child's outstretched arm.

"Coming from you, I can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment," she said suspiciously. Malfoy decided against telling her what he had just thought.

"No, seriously, I think you should win a Tony award, it was a great speech."

"Malfoy!" she said, offended. "I was absolutely sincere when I said that. I'm no thespian!"

"Well then, what award is given for good speeches?" he asked irritably.

"The Pulitzer, I think," she said, "Though I'm not sure."

"You should get that too, and the Noble Peace Prize for being so damn irritating during school, being all happy and that."

"I was not irritating!" she exclaimed. "You really think so?"

"You want to know what I think?" he asked her. She bit her lip. "I think that you are the loveliest woman to ever walk the face of the planet. I think that you are an angel from heaven. I think your red hair is not in the least bit ugly and is rather attractive, and I think that your heart is good and pure. I think that you were secretly born perfect and just made mistakes so that nobody would catch on. I think that Tom is a bastard for deceiving you, and my father was wrong to make you experience what you had to in your first year. I think that the short time that I spent with you were the happiest times of my life. I think that it was very noble of you to refuse the Death Eater - to refuse my offer to join the Death Eaters.

"I don't think that I'll ever get over you until I am with you. I don't think that I'll ever meet a woman as smart as you were, or as witty or as sarcastic or as funny as you. I don't think that I'd even want to. I don't think that I'll ever see anyone who can dull your beauty, or whose heart is as big as yours is. I don't think that I'll ever find someone who will treat me like you did, or who will accept me like you did.

"I think that I'll never feel this way for anyone ever again.

"I don't think I'll ever be lonely again.

"I know, however, that I love you."

'There!' he thought triumphantly. 'I said The Words. Now she can't give me any Thestral shit about not loving her.'

Ginny, filled with glee, jumped off her headstone and hugged Malfoy, her arms floating slightly above his neck and her body floating slightly above his. The curve of her head fit perfectly in the curve of his neck to his shoulder.

"You prat, why couldn't you have said that before?" she asked into his cloak. Malfoy shrugged.

"I don't really understand why you made such a big deal out of it myself," he confessed. "If you heard me speak before you appeared, then you would have heard me say it then."

"Yes, but there's a certain thing about hearing those three words - and they are a big deal, Malfoy, you can't just be saying those to whomever you please - that makes it so special that you just have to have them said to your face."

Malfoy ran a hand over her head, barely touching the top of her hair. He did not cringe when his hand slipped into her frigid body, because he did not feel the sudden chill. He shook his head and smiled crookedly, one corner higher than the other.

"Women," he said in mock-disgust. She lifted her head and raised her spirit body so that she floated a foot above him, her forehead less than a centimeter from his.

"Hey," she said, "I happen to resemble that particular remark."

"I know," he said quietly as he raised his head to meet her pale pink lips. They were surprisingly soft and semi-solid; Malfoy assumed she must have been concentrating. Ginny's head tilted, and her body followed suit, lying sideways in mid-air. Her mouth fit perfectly on top of Malfoy's, just as she had fit perfectly in his arms when she was living.

And they just sat there, or in Ginny's case, lay there, enjoying their moment where only the other mattered. Their kisses were innocent in nature and wholly satisfying, each one not wanting to devour the other but to know them better.

Inside Ginny, swelled a warm feeling, it burst, and flooded her like a great sweep of water, consuming her entirely. Her cheeks began to blush and her ears became red, but not in embarrassment. No, she was not in the least bit embarrassed. She was perfectly happy, perfectly content, and perfectly in love.

And there would come a day when time could be forgotten and names discarded, and they could be in each other's company and enjoy each other's presence until eternity came and passed.

And it was that thought, the mere envisage of the experiences they would share, that helped the two to endure the days when they could not be with the other - the hopeful anticipation for The Day.

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