My December

This is my December
This is my time of the year
This is my December
This is all so clear

He stared out the window.

The sky outside was a murky shade of gray, the sun hidden behind a menacing darkness that was creeping slowly towards him. Below him, he could see the dark, hungry waters churning in the near distance as they crashed upon the white shores.

He shivered, but he made no move to pull the blanket around himself again. It was too thin anyway, the fabric the same dirty gray as the sky. It had fallen from his shoulders some time ago, but he did not reach for it.

It was snowing already, much earlier in the evening than they had predicted. He could see the people outside, calling each other indoors to the warmth of the fires. His keen eyes lingered on the weary but bright smiles on their faces as they left the cold, relishing in the few moments he caught of their laughter before the door closed after them.

Beneath the heavy cloaks of one of the figures, he thought he caught a glimpse of fiery red locks. He felt his heart give a little jump at the thought, but he snuffed the flame just as it sparked.

How many days had he thought of her?

How many days since he had last seen her?

This is my December
This is my snow covered home
This is my December
This is me alone

He turned away from the window, oblivious to the snow as it thickened against the glass. He sighed, lying back on his bed. This time, he pulled the blanket close to him, but instead of covering himself, he clutched it to his chest almost tenderly.

"You snore, you know," she said with a laugh. He growled back in response.

"I'll have you know that Malfoys do not snore," he retorted, grabbing the blankets from her. Her bare body was left exposed to the cool air of the dungeons, but she did not seem to mind. She laughed, crawling over to him, playfully hitting his arm with one hand as she tried with her other to steal the blankets back. He arched his eyebrow at her antics.

"Rather pathetic, Gin," he smirked, leaning back against the pillows, the blankets firmly tucked around him. Try as she did, she could not get him to let go.

"Give up?" he asked finally, as she sat back on her knees, glaring at him. The glare suddenly turned rather mischievous, and he had a sudden feeling of foreboding before she dove.

She was tickling him, her fingers finding his weak spots that she alone knew, and her lips leaving a trail of butterfly kisses along his collarbone.

He growled once more, but it carried with it a different kind of emotion. The playfulness had disappeared, replaced by something more urgent. All of a sudden, she was in his arms, the blankets wrapped around them both as they moved together. Outside, the snow had become a gentle flurry, the feathery wisps glistening in the light of the moon.

He gripped the blanket hard, his fingers almost boring holes into the worn fabric. In a fit of sudden fury, he hurled it aside, his entire body shaking.

Five hundred and eighty two days.

He let his body relax, his breathing deepening as he stood and walked back to his window. He rested both palms against the glass, watching the warmth of his hands rise as steam against the cool surface. The cold felt refreshing. It affirmed what he already knew, despite what he had hoped and longed for.

He could still feel.

He wanted to be numb. To forget. To stare blankly out of the window and see nothing, to rest his eyes upon an emptiness that could somehow make up for what he was actually feeling.

He wanted to burn away her fire.

"Are you just going to leave then?"

"That's right."

There was silence between them. He could feel his body tensing even as she stepped closer. She was shaking; he could feel it from where he stood.

"Please don't," she whispered. It killed him to hear the fear and grief in her voice. It killed him and hurt him and made him wish he were a stronger man, a man who would have agreed and taken her into his arms without question, without another thought of the dangers and trials ahead.

"It's over, Ginny," he said coldly, steeling his voice as he felt the walls close in around his heart. "This is what I was born to do." She let out one tiny sob, and stepped closer.

Don't touch me, he thought to her desperately, his fists clenched by his side. Don't try to make me stay anymore, Ginny, he begged her. Don't come closer.

And to his great surprise and sorrow, she didn't.

She seemed to break in front of him, but she was not crying anymore. It was as if she had heard him, and with a kindness he could never and would never truly understand, she had obliged his silent request. She took one step backwards, her eyes never leaving his.

It would be easier now, he told himself, easier to walk away. Just turn.

But before he could make himself walk away, he let his mind linger on this image of her, his eyes tracing every line of her beautiful, wonderful face, from the tear-stained cheeks to her bright, brilliant eyes. It was that image that he carved into his mind and his heart, hoping it would never fade.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but he knew what it would be before she could utter the words. Quickly, like a coward, he turned away from her, and a moment later, Disapparated.

Maybe she wasn't going to say it, he thought to himself now bitterly, his whole forehead resting against the window. Maybe he had built this all up into something it never was. Maybe she had been ready to tell him to go to hell, her eyes flashing in the heat of her temper.

Maybe she had said it. And he had missed it.

And I just wish that I didn't feel like
There was something I missed
And I take back all the things
I said to make you feel like that
And I just wish that I didn't feel like
There was something I missed
And I take back all the things
I said to you

He paced the room. Today was a day where he was restless. The sky outside was already very dark, the only light being that of the moon above and the few fires below. The entire place was quiet, save for his own breathing and the occasional crash of the waters below.

Five hundred and eighty two days.

She was still in the corner of his mind, and to both his relief and fury, the image of her had not dimmed in the least. He had tried to beat it back, to push it away, but it was still there, everything still so bloody clear.

Like the terrible pain he had seen in her eyes when she realized what he had become.

She looked so angry...so shocked.

He scoffed. She should have known better than to be shocked, he thought to himself. This was who he was, and she should have known. He had never pretended, never tried to show her something that he wasn't.

But why the hell wasn't she moving?

"Get out of my way," he snarled, his wand at the ready. She was still staring at him with those large, beautiful eyes of hers, eyes that seemed to pierce through the walls he had worked so hard to build up.

"It's not too late," she murmured, her own wand drawn. "I'll stop you if I have to."

Was she going to duel him? He thought wildly, shaking his head. Stubborn to the end, if not stupid. One of the things he lo-

He shook his head again. "Get out of the way, Weasley," he spat out.

She visibly flinched and lowered her gaze, and he felt a pang of guilt. She deserves better that that, you bastard, he yelled at himself. In the very least, she deserves to hear her own name from you, not that blasted name that's been at the root of all of this. That damned name that created the endless rift between them.

"GINNY! GET AWAY FROM HIM! GET BACK!"

He tore his gaze from her for a moment to settle on her brother, who was racing towards them, howling furiously. He frowned; he did not want this to go any further.

"Listen to him, Ginny," he said softly, and at the sound of her name, she looked back up at him. "Just back away."

"Draco," she whispered, her wand still pointed at him. "Please...please just stop."

He'd resisted her tears before, and he could do it again. She was still standing there, her body the only thing between him and his goal, between him and Potter, who was lying wounded on the ground.

He raised his wand.

"Would you really do it?" she whispered, unbridled tears washing over her pale cheeks. She lowered her wand. "Would you make the pain go away?"

Her wand cluttered to the ground and rolled a few feet away, and he watched it move, his eyes drawn to it with some kind of strange fascination.

"GINNY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Potter was yelling at her. Her brother was still running towards them; he was almost there. Behind him would be Aurors, and perhaps even Dumbledore.

It had to end now, he thought to himself, but suddenly froze.

He was here.

Dammit, he thought to himself. His arm burned, the pain throbbing as it signaled his arrival.

It was too late, he thought to himself. Too late for all of them. He had not wanted this, had not wanted her to have to face him, because he knew that he would break her. A cry choked in his throat; she would be broken at last.

But perhaps...

He swallowed, instinctively straightening. He saw her brother rushing towards them, but he would never make it in time. Not for her.

Take my wand, Ginny, he pleaded with her silently, holding out the wand to her. He did not dare to speak as he felt his master creep behind him. Take my wand and run, Ginny, he begged her again.

And for the second time in his life, he was blessed by her incredible understanding.

In one quick movement, he tossed her his wand. She caught it deftly, and as she ran towards her brother, he saw the sickly, dark hand take aim towards his own chest.

He closed his eyes, stretching out his arms.

"You would let her go," the Dark Lord whispered, but his whisper was more of a rumbling thunder than a soft sound.

"She was never a part of this," he replied.

"You have failed me then."

He would not shudder, he told himself. He would take this like a man, like the man he should have been.

"Just get it over with," he replied with the same practiced, lazy arrogance in his voice.

"You disappoint me, Draco," the Dark Lord said, shaking his head. He raised his wand.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

He clenched his fists, closing his eyes on the memory.

Why?

Why did she have to do that?

Why didn't she run when he told her to?

And I'd give it all away
Just to have somewhere to go to
Give it all away
To have someone to come home to

Stupid Gryffindors, he cursed angrily. Stupid, damn Gryffindor bravery. Stupid, damn girl.

Was he worth that much?

Was he worth anything?

He slammed his fist into the window, knowing full well it would not break. It had never broken, not for the five hundred and eighty two days he had stared out of it and beat it and hoped to break it with all of his will.

It was as rigid as ever. Cold. Unmoving. Uncaring. It mocked his blows, laughed as his skinny, tortured body fell against its cool surface repeatedly.

This is my December
These are my snow-covered trees
This is me pretending
This is all I need

Had she said it to him then?

He wondered now, trying to picture the way her lips had moved just before she had left him, just before he had been ripped away from her by her brother, whose eyes had been so wild and dark. There had been a grief unlike anything he had ever seen before in those eyes.

What had she whispered? For him? For only him?

It seemed so long ago.

And I just wish that I didn't feel like
There was something I missed
And I take back all the things
I said to make you feel like that
And I just wish that I didn't feel like
There was something I missed
And I take back all the things
I said to you

Had he ever said it to her?

And I'd give it all away
Just to have somewhere to go to
Give it all away
To have someone to come home to

"I love you," he whispered to the window, to the snow, to the darkened sky. "I love you."

This is my December
This is my time of the year

Through the frost-covered window of the tallest tower of Azkaban Prison, Draco Malfoy watched as the world changed around him, and he, like a tiny, stuck child, could only sit and cry and burn for the one memory he could never fully erase.

This is my December
This is all so clear

The End