~~~

It all started with a rose. A single white rose with a little note.

Let me show you romance, let me sweep you off your feet, just remember
who I am.

It was the elegance of his script and words that led her to agree.

~~~~

She hadn’t stood a chance, and between a whirlwind of dinners and dancing he had won her completely over. She loved him, and he told her he loved her as well. It was perfection.

~~~

She hadn’t stood a chance, between love and ambition she was on the losing side. Still, she stayed with him, what choice did she have? She’d let him become her everything. It was too late to let go.

~~~

“You’ve forgotten.” He said it not as a statement but as a reprimand. “I warned you not to forget who I am, and you’ve forgotten.” She could practically here the “tsk-ing” in his voice. “I told you that forgetting would be a dangerous thing.” He moved himself from his reclined position on the wall, approaching her, stalking her like a predator stalks its prey. Each step was cold and calculating, much like his eyes. If anyone would put coldness into a movement it was him, he seemed to radiate the feeling, his silvery eyes glimmering, and glowing as untamed magic swirled around him, toying with his black robes and long blond hair. He was powerful, he was deadly, but he was oh so beautiful and to her touching him felt like touching the moon, only she could no longer reach.

~~~

It all ended with a rose. A rose on her grave, red as her spilt blood. It could be said it was his enemies that killed her. It could be said that it was his friends. In actuality it was both. It was he, and a member of her family that killed her; the older brother closest to her; they would never forgive themselves. It was a slicing charm fired by her brother, and a killing curse fired by him. It was too painful for her to see either of them hurt or dead, and so she dashed into the crossfire. No one would ever know for sure which curse hit her first, it may have been simultaneous, but she was dead before she hit the ground, the remnants of his Slytherin green spell blending with her Gryffindor Scarlet blood and hair. Ginevra Weasley Malfoy died at the age of twenty-three at the hands of her husband and older brother, but it was only he that knew that. He would be the only one to ever know that, her family believing he had been out of town on business for this battle. Her family believing he was a member of the Order, her family believing the lies they had fed them. In retrospect, he realized that love should have outweighed ambition, if it had, she’d still be alive. Funny, that he’d realize it only after it was too late.
~~~

(A/N): I know that this was ridiculously short. Heck this author’s note just makes it touch the second page, but I’d like to think it was good. Originally this was to be the sequel to a story I haven’t even written yet, but I changed it and I like it better now. Please review.