I loved you.

Once.

I’m positive it was love – it’s just like they described in those romance novels that Hermione reads. The funny feeling in the stomach, as if I was going to burst into tears at any second, because I were just so, so happy. The sadness whenever you were upset, and the desire to make you happy, even if it meant letting you go. The sweet certainty that you were feeling the same about me. It wasn’t hard to feel like I was in a living romance novel.

I’d have done anything for you. I’d have walked away if it were good for you. I watched you when you were sleeping, amazed at how boyish and innocent you looked. Your blonde hair, falling over the pillow when it wasn’t slicked back. All defences abandoned you in your sleep, and I remember feeling oh, so privileged that you would allow yourself to be relaxed when I was there.

It couldn’t last, I knew that. But I was happy while it did, and I didn’t want to think about it ending. You were a Malfoy, though, and I was never in your class. I accepted that. I never dreamt of marriage, or children, or even of a house together. I dreamt of pretty lights, and dancing in the rain and snow with you. There was never any doubt in my mind about how good you were, how sweet and innocent you were underneath your façade.

Dear God, you were everything I ever wanted. I suppose it was partly to do with my ‘bad boy’ complex, my need to change the bad ones into good. That was part of the reason I fell for Tom, because he was so evil, and I, being the little fool I was, listened when he spoke of wishing to be like everyone else. In my mind, he was as good as Harry. And so were you.

You hid it well. You hid the ruthlessness as well as you hid the tenderness, if not better. In the end, you came across as a snide prat, and nothing more. I know that Ron cursed you often, but I never thought any more of it. Just like I never questioned Tom’s jokes about Muggles and Mudbloods. I guess it’s almost harsh to compare Tom with you – you never had plans for world domination. But I can’t help but feel wrathful sometimes, especially about the way you took me from Harry.

Now, I’m not blaming anyone, you must recognise that. After all, I loved you more than anything. I haven’t felt that way since I met you. But I’m married now, and I can’t help but feel remorse about the way you shattered my illusions, especially about Harry.

I never loved Harry, not the way I do you. But, he’s secure, and safe. He won’t hurt me the way you did. Of course, if anything happened to him, I’ll certainly be upset, but nonetheless, I wish you were still with me. I dream of marriage to you now. Ironic, isn’t it? But that’s just the point – life is ironic.

As I said before, I’m not blaming you. I’d never blame you. I loved you. Once. It has to be once. I can’t still love you, not after all these years. Not when I’m married, not when I have commitments to other people. But I just can’t help but think that perhaps you knew what you were getting me into. That perhaps – just maybe – you understood what you were doing to me. What was going to happen.

Sometimes it happens like that. Flashes of insight, some people call it. You never believed in that, though, did you? You’d just call it logic. You were a strong believer in logic.

It still hurts that you believed logic more than you believed me. I know that perhaps I wasn’t the best choice at that point in time, but I was pregnant with your child. You never knew that, did you? I never ended up telling you. It doesn’t matter now though. She died in my arms, a week after she was born. I called her Elisabeth, after your grandmother. She was so beautiful. My only regret is that I never got to announce her to the world. She was like a shameful little secret.

We had lots of those, didn’t we? Secrets. Our affair. Our love. Our friendship. And, of course, we lied to each other. Almost every night. Do you remember that?

Promise me you’ll never leave.
I promise you.

Yes, we were quite the Romeo and Juliet. Perhaps you haven’t heard of the story. It’s about two star-crossed lovers, with families who hate each other. We could have been them. Of course, they both die in the end, and they never had children. Or sex, for that matter.

Do you remember the night when it rained? You fulfilled all my dreams that night. I think you must have read my diary, because you did exactly when I’d written. I didn’t mind, though. It started raining, and you looked outside, then smiled slightly and pulled me off the couch. We ran through the corridors and out the gates. There was a large beech tree near the lake, and you pulled me along, then started to twirl me, as if keeping in motion would keep us together for longer. You’d have known your fate by then, and it’s bittersweet to realise that you didn’t tell me, that you wanted to protect me.

You were like my brothers, only, you were much closer to me. I loved you, after all. Oh, I loved them, but I was in love with you. It made all the difference. I can’t be anymore. Now I’m in love with Harry. At least, I should be. I don’t know if I am. It’s so tame, so mature. There’s no laughing and playing in the rain. It’s about security. I suppose there might be different kinds of love, but I loved you so much then that I don’t think I could accept Harry’s love if you were here.

But then, you aren’t. You could have been. Do you remember when your father found out about me, and threw you out of the house? You came to me then, and I accepted you with open arms. It must have been nice to know how much I loved you. I took on my whole family for you that night, but it didn’t matter. Not then.

It sort of hurts now, though. I was so close to alienating my family that I honestly think I could have ended up on the street too. It’s almost possible that they only put up with you because they didn’t want a repeat of what Percy did to my family. And so they kept the peace.

Do you remember, in the beginning? I used to stare at you, fascinated about you. The way you moved to gracefully, the colour of your hair, how pale you were? They all served to make me completely besotted. I remember you catching me at it, how you used to raise your eyebrow and look away, and look back when you thought I’d been distracted.

It hurt so much when you stopped looking back. I never told you about the baby. It’s always possible that you read my diary again. Actually, it’s more than possible. But when I found out about the baby, all of a sudden, you stopped looking back at me.

I caught you when you fell...where were you when it was my turn?

According to my brothers, you were off screwing Pansy Parkinson. But then, you’d told me that you couldn’t stand the sight of her, and the disgust on your face was not the kind that could be faked. I know where you were now, of course. And I almost couldn’t forgive them for lying to me. But...I was three months pregnant, and I doubt anyone would have minded if you didn’t go and get yourself killed. Except perhaps Voldemort.

I didn’t believe it when they’d told me. I thought there should be some sort of flash of insight, some sort of emotion. I didn’t even realise until the next day that you weren’t beside me in bed. Then Professor Snape came barging into your bedroom, to find me asleep in your bed. He was wild with grief. It’s the only time I’ve seen him show anything but disdain to a Gryffindor. At first he was surprised to see me there, but then he told me.

You’d run off in the night; confronted Dumbledore and then Voldemort. You’d gotten yourself killed.

And all of a sudden, I was sinking so low that not even seeing you could have helped me. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. And then, I had Elisabeth.

I nearly died having her. I almost haemorrhaged. But I was so pleased, so alive when I saw, all of a sudden, that you weren’t gone. I had part of you there with me. And then she left, too.

In the end, I married Harry. I don’t love him as I should, but I’d grieve if anything happened to him. I just wouldn’t grieve like I did for you.

Because once upon a time, I was a little girl, who was in love with a Dragon.

Only, my happily ever after never came.

All I got was a tombstone, and the knowledge of what could have been.

And I loved you, once. It has to be once. Because betrayal and death is remarkably easy to turn into hate.

So why is it I still cry when I think about you?

You never did get it, did you, Ginny?

You always believed in the goodness and light of everything. You always thought that everything would turn out just peachy. You were so sure that I was a good guy, so positive that deep down inside me there was a tenderness that was longing to get out.

Just because you were right once doesn’t mean that it was true for everyone.

I remember when I told you about Crabbe and Goyle and their marks. You were so shocked that a sixth year, not even finished school, would be a member of the Death Eaters. You never really understood that Voldemort wasn’t Dumbledore, that the Death Eaters didn’t mind if they used children, as long as it furthered their goals.

In a way, I’m like them. I didn’t care about anything, except having you and keeping you safe.

Do you remember how we started? I ran into you in the corridor, and you spoke to me with language that would turn my mother’s hair blue. I remember walking away from you without saying anything, simply impressed that you would be able to stand up to me like that. You were all anger and passion, your chest heaving, eyes flashing, lips rosy and pink and ever so kissable. That was the first time I ever noticed you as a person. I was in sixth year, then.

You probably thought that we started at the lake, but I had been planning on winning you over for a long time by then. The day you swore at me was the day I fell in love with you. I planned for months afterwards. At first I just dreamt and fantasised about the different ways I would tell you I loved you, about the ways I would make you love me. Then I started plotting. I thought about ways of abducting you and forcing you to admit you wanted me.

You drove me absolutely insane, did you know that? Those months were the most confused I’d ever been.

I was a Malfoy, and, not only did I not hate Mudbloods, I was in love with a Weasley, of all people! I was disgracing the name Malfoy. It only made it worse that you never seemed to return the attraction.

But then came the lake. Dumbledore had organised a batch of your brothers’ fireworks for the Christmas Eve. You stood outside, staring up at them with all the wonder of an innocent getting her first taste of sin. You were irresistible. I walked up next to you, then sat down underneath the beech tree. You seemed to understand what I wanted, because you followed me. I think it was then that all my fantasies started coming true.

We were so different but at the same time, so alike.

And we were so in love.

You probably hate me for what I did. If you had died on me, I doubt I’d have been able to forgive you. But you didn’t. I left you. It was the hardest thing that I’d ever done. It was the most honourable thing that I’d ever done.

You always believed I had honour, though, so you wouldn’t have understood. Never once did I have honour before you. Even when I loved you, my honour was not your kind. I was loyal to only one person, and my honour equated with whatever kept them safe.

I honoured you.

I think perhaps that should mean something more to you than my love.

I loved you enough to die to keep you and our baby safe. The only honourable thing I did was to leave your life that night. I shouldn’t even have entered it, being strictly truthful. What honour was there in seducing an innocent (or not so innocent, were you, Ginny?) teenage girl? I couldn’t care about honour, though. I just wanted you, at any cost.

I wasn’t prepared to pay it, though. Not when I fully understood what that cost was.

It was you.

You. My love, my life, my honour. My precious baby girl who loved me more than anyone else in my life had. The price of loving you was losing you. And I couldn’t let that vitality, that energy and hope you sent out die.

Yes, I read your diary. I longed for you, and you always left it underneath your pillow. I asked you about it once. Do you remember?

What’s in it?

Words, mainly. Sometimes drawings, sometimes sketches or diagrams.

But what’s in it?

Words, mainly. My hopes, my dreams. My fantasies and my theories.

I remember grinning at that. Your theories were always so bizarre. You always believed in everything. And you were a great believer in ‘intuition’, when common logic was sufficient. It was a point of ours, to argue over which was better. Neither of us ever won, though, did we?

Your brothers always tried to poison you against me, didn’t they? They told you stories about Pansy and Millicent and every other Slytherin. But you never believed them.

I always wondered at that. You were so loyal. Such loyalty had never been so freely given before in my life.

In return, I gave you as much love as a human could give, hoping all the time that love alone would be enough to suspend us in our cocoon of ‘Happily Ever After’ moments.

Three months before I left you, some information came to me. Before my eyes, I could see our entire future narrowing to a pinpoint in time. My imagination supplied the gruesome details to your end. I fought it for three months, unconsciously trying to fulfil all your dreams and hopes before I sacrificed the one thing I loved. My life with you.

And then I saw your diary.

Pregnant, the words screamed. You were pregnant with my child. I was going to be a father.

And there you were, a sixteen year old girl; pregnant. I could hear the whispers in my brain. Just like her mother. Another Weasley. They start young, don’t they? Polite society would forgive you in time, I knew, as long as you were married. But you didn’t belong to polite society. You belonged to the world of the Weasleys, and the decent people. What would they say? Child of a Malfoy. Bad to the bone, of course. Death Eater’s child.

I knew that wherever you went in life, people would talk. And you’d always cared so much about what people thought of you, after that Tom Riddle incident.

How could I do that to you? To our child?

A week later I left your bed in the middle of the night. I visited Dumbledore, left him all I thought you would need. I spoke to him about you, told him of how you weren’t just my love, you were my honour.

In return, he told me the one thing I never expected to hear. In coming to him, I had been given not only a choice, but your honour.

There were two paths of my involvement, he said. It was my decision. I could choose the first, or the second. I asked about the first.

You stay here, safe. I can perform the Fidelius Charm, and you and Ginny will be safe for the duration of the war.

And the second path?

You confront Voldemort. You won’t be able to beat him, but you will make a severe dent in the Death Eater forces.

Logic told me that I should take the first option. Your beloved intuition told me that if I took the second, many lives would be saved. And alone the way, you would get your honour, and our baby would grow up the son of a hero, not the son of a coward.

So I left you with a heavy heart, knowing I wouldn’t return.

Knowing, too, that our child – a girl, I hoped, with my eyes and your smile – would be safe and would grow up with the love of all your family.

And your family would live. They were everything to you, and I couldn’t bear to be the cause of their death, knowing I could have stopped it. And you would be kept safe. And our baby.

Our baby. Even now, the thought sends a course of pleasure through me. Our baby.

You always believed in fairytales, didn’t you Ginny? Always believed in honour, and in love and tenderness and gentleness. You always believed in the happily-ever-after ending.

Well, Ginny, I believed in logic. And in you. I couldn’t bear to lose you; my honour.

So I left on a suicide mission, and thought of your life and the life of our baby every time I was wounded. Everything would be all right, I knew. Our child would grow up and you would watch. And every time you saw her, you would think of me and smile.

So I’m sorry, Ginny. You may not have gotten your fairytale ending, with your white wedding and your Happily Ever After, but at least they all lived.

At least you all lived.

She still loves you, you know.

Despite everything, she loves you in a way she could never love me. I was her hero, the one who would protect her. You have always been so much more...real to her than I am. You were what I wasn’t. What I can’t be. She doesn’t say it, but I know.

Sometimes I have to wonder exactly what it was that made her cling to you so. Merlin knows her brothers and I tried to poison her against you; something I’ve oft regretted in hindsight. A weaker woman would have just caved in and believed everything we said, but not our Ginny.

She stood by you. Still stands by you.

Oh, she doesn’t say anything. Never would. But I can tell.

I may have lived, but you got the girl.

I’ve never really understood how you two came about in the first place, but I remember when we first heard about it. We had no clue until one night, when Ginny stood up in the Common Room, a look of decisiveness and apprehension on her face. She drew herself up to her full height, her face set but wary. “Ron,” she said. There was no quiver in her voice to tell that she was scared or nervous, just a quiet sort of pride. “I’m dating Draco Malfoy.”

The room fell to a complete hush. Ron slowly turned a mottled sort of purple, and Ginny seemed to think it best to continue. “I have been for three months.” She raised her head. “I just thought you’d like to know.” And she turned and walked up to her dorm in the quiet before the storm raged. Ron’s bellow could be heard throughout the tower.

From that moment on, Ron had tried to convince her that you weren’t worth it. He’d have done anything to stop her getting hurt, and in doing so only hurt her more. Love can be like that.

I should know.

She loves me, and she’d never want to hurt me, but sometimes the best intentions hurt the most. I love her. I have done for years. But the grief is for you, and so are the sudden smiles when she stares at nothing in particular.

Ginny loves me, of course. But to be honest, it isn’t the right kind of love. We’re both so mature. She’ll smile at me and I’ll return the smile, and we’ll be content in the knowledge that we’re together.

You two, though. You were so...passionate. So like teenagers.

I saw you once, dancing in the rain. You had whirled her around and her face was alight with joy. You were dancing with so much abandon I don’t think either of you much noticed or cared about steps, but there was such grace. You moved in unison, like each knew what the other was thinking. You were soaking wet, and probably freezing, too, but you were laughing.

That was the first time I’d seen you laugh, Malfoy.

Looking back now, though, you must have known your fate by then. Or known something about it, at least. I wonder if you were really laughing on the inside, or if your stomach was tight with fear and your heart was sinking as you saw her face look up at you with such trust.

You would have known by then that she was pregnant. She probably wouldn’t have told you, but I could tell by the way you moved together that you knew each other so well that you’d know everything. Even if she hadn’t said anything, you’d have noticed the changes in her body.

I remember the owl you sent me before you left. I don’t think anyone but I knows of the existence of that note. Four simple words, scrawled and signed with your usual flourishing signature: Take care of her.

And I have. I was there for her when Elisabeth was born. In the period after, when she was struggling to deal with the losses of two people who meant so much to her. I sat with her when she was trying to accept them, when she couldn’t cry because crying would make it so much more real to her. And I was the one who broke her cage of denial and made her accept the world around her. I was the one who took the brunt of her anger, who let her scream and rage at me and the world. And I was the one who held her when finally the tears broke loose and she sobbed her agony out onto my shoulder, crying so hard she couldn’t even stand up.

We became friends and grew closer. I told her how it felt when Sirius had died and she finally felt like she wasn’t alone in this. She told me how she’d always felt closed off from Ron, Hermione and I, and how she’d just wanted someone to connect with, to know what she was thinking as soon as she thought it. She spoke about how you had done that, how you had seemed to know everything about her.

And slowly, we became more than friends. And then more than that. The day I proposed to her was the most nervous day of my life. I knew I couldn’t give her what you had, but I could give her myself, and surely that would be enough? It was, to some extent. She said yes, and we married.

But at the same time, I was never you.

What we have together is sensible. We don’t dance in the rain; we sit in front of the fire and read. We don’t make snow men or play with Christmas trees; we cook for each other and snuggle up on the couch.


She deserves better than that, though. She should have had the kind of husband that would dance in the rain and would be forever in love, not just loving. She should have had you.

But at the same time, if she’d had you, I wouldn’t have had her.

Three lives affected by one decision. It wasn’t exactly a fairytale ending, but then, life never is.

A fairytale ending would have given me my family, would have spared my friends. It would have given Ginny to you, and I would have found someone else. Elisabeth would be alive and well, and we’d all live happily ever after. But they didn’t. It didn’t.

And we all have to accept that.

We are both heroes now, Malfoy. I may have killed Voldemort, but you saved hundreds of lives. You managed to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. You gave it all away, just to keep her safe.

She still loves you, you know.

Despite everything, despite it all, she loves you.

Well, Malfoy, I guess the best man won, after all. Pity it wasn’t me.

I’m just thankful that Ginny got an ever after, never mind the happy.