Author: Amethyst (AmethystJackson@hotmail.com)
Summary: A look at Draco, three months after the death of his wife.
Spoilers: None, really.
Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. I'm not J.K. Rowling. Never will be, as
much as I may wish.
A/N: This was written for (on LiveJournal) heinous_bitca's Fifteen Minute
Ficlet challenge. This one ended up totally finished, so I'm posting.
It's very angsty (don't ask where it came from; I've no clue), and it has
pretty much the same plot as Death, except this version is intelligible.
Go now. Read and be depressed!
Light poured into the room from the cool morning sun in the west. It
drifted over the man sleeping in the bed in that room. At one time, the
sunlight would have served as a refreshing wake up call. The sun had
become kind in the mornings after Ginny Weasley had come into his life.
The man began to enjoy waking up, and he would smile each morning when he
found the redhead fast asleep in his arms.
He had nothing to wake up for now.
The last battle had torn them apart. It had been so fast, so simple, and
it had destroyed him.
It was his father's way of punishing him for stepping into the light.
Malfoys were meant to dwell in darkness. No, there was no room for him in
the light, and he should have known that. He learned that when, with one
quick thrust, his father's sword slid into Ginny Weasley. Draco had
watched the blood run, watched Ginny turn pale. He had held her and
watched her die. And in that moment, after her last words had drifted into
the air with her last breath, when her eyes glossed over, he knew his own
life was over.
In a burst of rage, brief insanity, or perhaps logic, he had taken the
weapon that had killed his wife and used it to kill his father. The small
amount of love that he had still harbored for his father had become the
brightest, burning hatred he had ever known, and it never slept, even as
his father bled away. The hate was the only thing that could fill the
space Ginny had once occupied. Without it, he would have nothing.
As the sunlight warmed his skin, his cold heart had the same debate with
itself that it had had every day for the past few months. Why not give up
that hate and fall into the emptiness with all the others? Why go on with
life when there was nothing to live for? Why? And still, his heart held
fast to the hatred, or perhaps the hatred clung to his heart, and he got
out of bed, just like he had every day for the past few months.
It was senseless, yes, but then again, Draco had lost all sense a long time
ago. It might have been the moment his father died or the moment that
Ginny died or the moment the sword had cut through her, or even the moment
he had fallen in love with her. And without any sense of warmth, the light
could do nothing but watch him and wait for the day when he would wake.