Disclaimer: The marvelous J.K. Rowling all characters and settings. I own only the plot and my own typed/written words.
Summary: War is something to lose to, no matter who wins.
As a defeated Ginny Weasley emerges, her hair brushing against her bare shoulders, where her clothes are skinned and her face is ashen, there is nothing to do but walk. Walk among the ground that has forsaken her, walk among the world that has betrayed her. Her knees threaten to buckle underneath her. Her family is dead. Her friends are dead. And she is, as well.
Blood seeps out of her kneecaps, trickling down into her ankles and into her feet and to the tips of her toes. Her feet bear no shoes. The clothes that fit around her are ripped, torn in several places, her face set like stone. There are bodies all around her, on top of each other, bloodied and severed, and there is nothing to do but wait. Wait for countless hours to pass by until someone finds her, and whoever finds her must take care of her. Because she is only sixteen.
Because she is only sixteen.
And countless hours do pass by. Priceless time has gone by without anything to spare.
And then it comes.
The word, spat like the name of hell coming from his mouth.
Why did it have to come from him?
She turns around, not surprised at the sight before her. She knows it is him, walking over to her, sitting beside her on the ground, sitting next to her, with nothing to do but wait.
With nothing to do but wait.
"You're alive," he says finally.
"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," she wants to reply curtly, but refrains herself from doing so.
Because it's not the obvious.
Because she's not alive.
Ginny is decapitated, something dripping into her saliva and dissolving into her mouth.
It must be blood.
It must be blood.
What she says back, she tilts her head until the hair falls out of her face and onto the back, staring at him. He looks as bad as she does, his eyes scratched around the skin, his clothes shambled, disoriented. "So are you," she responds softly, her voice like bitter ice.
"Who won?" she asked, feeling the tremor of her stomach and the quiver of her chin. "Who won, Malfoy?"
He pauses briefly before answering, his silver-blonde strands almost gone from his head. The only ones that are left are burned at the ends, like crisps of black.
It hardly seems real.