Terrible Thing

A terrible thing, war is. He was scarred, ashamed to even mutter his own name in case people recognised him, and laughed at his misfortunes, laughed for they knew who he was, what he was, what he had been.

She saw him from across the ward, and something made her want to care for him, nurse him back to health, and not look after any of the other patients again. He had that about him. A certain expression, his bravery and pride coming before his anguish and pain.

She lay him in the bed, the blood pouring from his arms staining the fresh, white sheets, the burns on his face shocking, his hair burnt to a cinder, leaving him bald; a young man grown old. An unrecognisable wreck of a man. No, a boy, barely her age, yet aged by war, by trauma, by other people's mistakes.

He clutched a book. She wondered why a man who had just had his life destroyed would clutch a book.

He felt her presence, felt her cooling hand touch her skin as she set to work, healing him with her magic touch, felt each particle of his body align correctly as she made him whole again.

She stopped. He was too tired, it wouldn't work tonight.

She reached for the book.

"May I?" she asked, smiling at him, although she knew he couldn't see her, he was blinded by the intense pain of his burns.

"Yes," he muttered, attempting not to call out in pain as he spoke.

She opened the book, and turned each page graciously. It was a notebook, filled with beautiful images, page after page of pictures of a young woman, a smiling, wonderful young woman, filled with life and love with each line gently eased by the artist's loving hand.

"Who is this? She's beautiful. You're a very gifted artist, Sir."

"A girl I once knew. I never had chance to tell her how I felt. Our families...we just couldn't."

His face seemed sad, saddened by the pain, perhaps, but more likely by the thought of this girl, his sweetheart, and the fact he never had chance to tell her how he felt.

"Ah, the Romeo and Juliet complexion. There'll be time, young man, don't you worry."

"No, there'll never be time. It's all over now."

"What's all over?"

His face relaxed a little, although it was hard to tell what he was actually thinking, what his expressions really meant, his face was so badly damaged by the fire.

"Everything."

A new figure entered the cubicle, a tall, lean, masculine figure.

"Ma'am, I do believe you have other patients to attend to."

She stood, and walked out of the cubicle, worried slightly, but assured by the fact that the young man was to be treated by the finest Wizarding Doctor available during these hard times.

All day long, she thought of the man in cubicle four, thought of his sincere expressions, his soft tone, hardened by the brutish look of his horrific face. Yet beneath it all, he seemed so beautiful, so young, so alive, probably a looker underneath it all. Before it all. Before the war.

"Miss Weasley?"

Ginny shook her head, and opened her eyes. She must only have been asleep for a few minutes. It felt that way, yet it was already dark, there was no longer any light streaming through the windows, and she had been left in the lonely staffroom whilst the sun had slowly gone down.

"Yes, sir?"

"The patient you were attending to in cubicle four this morning just died."

Ginny felt her heart fall, felt her body crumple, felt her entire mind break up.

"Why? Was there no sufficient treatment? I could have healed him, I have the powers.."

"He was too far gone, Miss Weasley. We found a letter on his body, a letter addressed to you, Miss Weasley."

"To me?" Ginny was shocked, and utterly confused. She had never met this man before in her life, and he didn't know her name. It must have been a mistake. Yet she was too confused to utter a word, and took the letter from the doctor graciously, pulling it gently from the envelope.

My Love,

You do not know how hard it is to live without you, without confessing my love to you. Everyday I think of you, everyday I think of how my life would be if I could be with you, just for one minute, one second.

I know back then it couldn't have worked, but we are adults now, we have the power and the understanding, and most of all, the free will, we can do what we wish, not what our parents wish for us to do. The point is, I love you, and if I ever get around to sending this letter to you, please, my love, consider my proposal, and always remember that I love you.

I do not believe you know the whole story. You believe you were another of my enemies, yet I yearned for you from the moment I saw you. A year younger, yet years more mature, more beautiful than any girls I had ever known. You moved gracefully, with a certain air. You were unaware of your beauty, yet it did not bother you, something only truly beautiful people can understand.

You were forbidden, a fruit too glorious for me to taste, too sweet for me to touch with my impure hands. You were a good girl, a sweet, loving family girl. You were on the side of the light, your family fighting against the evil that was my family. My family, well, we were rude, obnoxious and treated all others as though they were servants of ours.

Yet you were different. I looked into your eyes and saw compassion, as though somewhere in there, you understood, you understood what it was like to have a family who treated you with disdain, who wished you to be something you were not.

I never forgot you. I left school, and you carried on there for a year, yet I never saw you again. I dreamt about you, night after night, and I still do to this day. I dream of you, your auburn hair, gleaming red in the sun, your brown eyes, alert with a life mine would never be filled with, your ivory skin, creamy white and soft to the touch. I think of you always, and keep you in my heart as my own.

Love always and forever,

Draco Malfoy.

Ginny finished reading, and found that she was breathing heavily, tears falling with great weight down her cheeks, pattering hard onto her skin.

If only she'd told him when she had the chance. If only. A terrible thing, love is.