Draped across her bed, staring aimlessly out of the window, Ginny watched the low moon rising over the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. She was so in the habit of thinking about Draco as hers that she occasionally forgot that he no longer belonged her, that he had never belonged to her. The only bloody thing that would ever own Draco Malfoy, that would possess him until the moment he exhaled his last breath from that exquisite body of his, was Lucius Malfoy, the Malfoy legacy, and all the billions of Galleons that went with it.

Bloody, gutless prat, she thought, turning over and rolling on her back for a better view of her crimson canopy. Screw the moon and screw him, she thought bitterly. It had been twenty-nine days, seven hours, and thirty-seven minutes since she had flooed out of his room at the Manor. I'm seventeen years old, she thought desperately; it's going to be a long goddamn life.

It had been a grand exit, that much she knew. Now she would have to figure out how she was going to live with her decision. The vacant emptiness of that night returned to her, fluttering above her heart and clouding her mind. He was her heart, her soul, and her whole damn world. She breathed for him. When she found herself reduced to hiding in his closet, watching him interacting with his supposed almost fiancée, it had broken her. She had been reduced to a shell, humiliated beyond comprehension, realizing the position that she really had in his life was a sham. She was a Weasley, and he was a Malfoy. She was of a family which belong to the Order. He was of the Death Eating variety. Oh, there was also the War. That damn War which was escalating ever so slowly and would soon break out into an all out civil war, the likes of which had not been seen for many years, not since before The Boy Who Lived had been given his scar.

The War had taken certain choices and decisions and forced them on both. They didn't have the luxury of falling in love in a time when differences could be set aside indefinitely or swept under the proverbial carpet. Choices had to be made. She stepped over to the right, to the light of the Order, to the ways of her world. He stepped to the left, to the dark of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, to the ways of his world, the only world he had ever known. The chasm now dividing them was so great it could never be breached.

She once believed that their love was greater than the War, than their families, than the entire wizarding world. She believed he would cross over to the Order, forsake his family and his legacy, for her. What a fool she had been. She saw that he had a choice. He saw no choice. She called him weak, a fool, and a slave to his family's fortune and incestuous belief in superiority and destiny. He had fallen silent. In the end, she thought he truly believed he had no choice. When his weakness, his blindness finally encroached upon their relationship, when his Slytherin-like sword had pierced her heart with its forked tongue, she had spurned him. Then she left him to die her own painful, solitary death. Now she lay on her bed counting the days of her death, from the moment she left him.