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The Colour Red
Red was the colour of many things.
It was the colour of the wine that spilt over the polished mahogany of the table, reaching with long fingers towards the edge, yearning to fall onto the lush carpet.
It was the colour of the fire that crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing and twisting on the hot, glowing embers, consuming and devouring.
It was the colour of the blood that splashed hot and sticky on the cobblestones as the colour faded from his opponents face. One hand reached out in desperation, but by then, he had already turned away.
It was the colour of her hair; a deep, red, silken curtain that fell against his pale face, tickling his cheeks and neck, a whisper of a smile on her face as she drew closer to him.
And it was the colour of her bloodshot eyes as he walked away, heedless of the tears that fell, one after the other, a torrent of sorrow and anguish as she screamed his name into the heavy rain, her words swallowed by the fierce wind that blew her hair into a glorious mess and snapped at the coat around him.
Long, pale fingers touched the wine that he had so negligently tipped over. He felt the cold, dark liquid and remembered the taste of wine on her tongue and her kiss-swollen mouth.
“Draco?” she had said, that small smile playing on her lips.
“Yes?” he had whispered into the quiet darkness of the room.
“Do you love me?”
He remembered that the silence grew heavier from her words. He could hear the deafening roar of it in his ears as it permeated the room thickly. He could still feel the small smile on her lips, and the glittering of her brown eyes in the darkness.
“Yes.” He had answered, and then, at that moment, he had meant it.
Draco poured another measure of wine into his glass and watched as the red liquid swirled in his glass, the smell of it rich and heady. The fire warmed his hands and feet, but as the cold liquid slipped down his throat, warmth spread through his body and rose to flush his pale face.
She had always preferred the warmth of fire to wine though, and somehow, even through she was gone, he still kept the fire dancing merrily in its grate.
“Fire, you know,” she had said one night, “is the life of all things.”
He smiled indulgently, “Suddenly decided to take a leaf out of Trelawney’s book?” He said softly against her hair and pulled her back onto his chest.
She let her head fall back onto his shoulder, looking at him from the corner of her eye, “It’s true. Fire is one of the greatest things in this world. But we take it for granted. Fire,” she continued, “can create life.” She had paused then, her eyes growing clouded, glittering with unshed tears, “But it can also take life away.”
Draco had brushed her hair behind her ears and gently kissed her long pale neck, “Are you afraid of fire, dearest?”
She had smiled then; the smile that took his breath away and told him to hold her close. “No if you’re here.”
There had been much fire in that final battle. The flames had leapt green and eldritch, giving off an alien sort of heat, burning Diagon Alley and devouring the glory it had once been. It would be built in a matter of months after that fateful day as people would slowly pick up the pieces of their lives and try to put them back together, but Draco would always remember in his minds-eye the complete and utter destruction. The air was thick with smoke and blood, the streets littered with bodies and the cobblestones slick with blood. Draco remembered seeing Potter run up the street, a shadowy figure obscured by the smoke, in pursuit of the Dark Lord, in pursuit of that final sliver of essence. And Draco and the others had faced the Death Eaters; tall hooded figures with masks of death over their faces, standing in a mass of ranks, their black cloaks billowing in the thin wind that came down the street. Above, it had been death from the skies, with hundreds of dementors waiting hungrily for the kill.
He remembered Ginny standing next to him, her face a mask of determination and courage, even though he could feel the shivers in her hand as he gripped it in his. She had looked up at him and grinned. “See you at the end,” she had said before letting go of his hand and running into the thick of it, screaming at the top of her lungs, casting with a ferocity he had never seen before.
Somehow, he had found his father; just another faceless Death Eater but for the blond strands of hair that were teased out of the safety of his hood and shone pale and bright in the light of the flames, betraying his identity. Lucius Malfoy had pulled off his mask then and studied Draco with a smirk on his thin mouth. And Draco had steeled himself under such a familiar scrutiny, reminiscent of when his father had looked at his grades, when his father had trained him in the dark arts, when his father had heaped praise on the only Malfoy heir.
“So, it was you.” Lucius Malfoy had stated with a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, Father.” Draco had replied, trying to still the quiver in his voice.
“And here I thought I had raised you to be a loyal son and Death Eater.”
“You made your choices, Father. I made mine too.” Draco said, lifting his chin a margin higher, ignoring the way the wind blew strands of hair into his eyes, ash and smoke making them dry and painful.
“Ah, yes.” His father had smiled, showing perfectly straight teeth. “The Weasley girl.” Draco watched as his father’s demeanor suddenly changed; his eyes hardened and the smile grew cruel. “No matter,” he had continued, “after I am done with you, I shall find the little blood-traitor and dispose of her as well. Don’t fret, Draco, the two of you will even be together in de-.”
It had been no more than a whisper of his lips and a gentle flick of the wrist. Draco had watched with an odd curiousity as the red stream of light had cut through the smoke and heat, hitting his father across the throat, blood splattering hot and wet onto the stones.
His father’s face had been one of shock. He had looked up at the back of his son, grey eyes beginning to cloud over with a milky film as he reached out a hand, the sigh of a name dying on his lips.
Potter had staggered out of Gringotts some hours later, covered in a mixture of ash and gore, the strange grin of an idiot plastered on his face and the broken wand of the Dark Lord in the other. Draco had almost expected the head of the Dark Lord, but perhaps he had overestimated Potter’s brutality.
He had scanned the staggering people for a mop of vibrant red hair, his heart beating loudly in his ears when he couldn’t find her.
“Draco!”
He had heard his name yelled across the street and he had spun wildly to see her walk towards him, covered in cuts, dirt and blood, a smirk across her pretty features.
“Thought you’d get all the glory without me?” She had smiled.
He hadn’t said anything in reply, simply pulled her to him and held her as if the world would end, not caring that she was filthy and dirty, not caring that she was a Weasley and not caring that everyone could see them.
“Thank Merlin.” He had whispered into her hair, and at that point she had broken down into tears.
Draco shook off the ancient memory and took another mouthful of wine. Perhaps he should make himself so drunk he couldn’t remember anymore. Wine would never do. Slowly he rose from his armchair and fished out a bottle of fire-whisky from his cupboard. The terrible stuff always did the job better.
He remembered she had coughed and spluttered the first time she had tasted the stuff. Red hair had spilled over a naked shoulder and down her pale back. She looked an image of decadence, half-covered in silk sheets, silver shaped ‘G’ around her neck and red hair tumbling around her. She passed the tumbler back to him, grimacing at the taste left on her tongue.
He had laughed and risen from his chair, walking over to bed and gently brushing her hair behind her ear.
“If it tastes so terrible, I don’t see why people drink it so often.”
“People drink it often for the potency, Ginny.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
He raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug, “I fancied a change,” he lied.
He almost didn’t catch the flicker of sadness in her eyes before she pulled him down to her and the tangle of silken sheets, lifting her mouth to his and tasting the whisky on his tongue.
Secretly, he knew that for that small moment she had grieved for him, but at that point in time, he simply pushed it to the back of his mind and lost himself in her.
He couldn’t remember when his thinking had suddenly changed. Whether it had been when her brother had rejected her for deciding to fraternise with Death Eater spawn, or when the Wizarding World still didn’t accept him because of his heritage, people screaming for punishment, but held at bay by the one and only Harry Potter.
Perhaps it was the time when they had targeted her instead of him. They had been walking down the rebuilt Diagon Alley, his arm slung over her shoulders, her laughter the only sound in his ears until it had been cut short by a splatter of mud against her face.
“Traitorous bitch!” A voice had yelled from somewhere behind them.
Her face, shocked and angry, eyes wide, would be forever etched into his memory. He had turned to chase them, but was stilled by her hand, a soft touch against his arm.
“Leave them, Draco.” She had said in a voice so tired and weary that it broke his heart.
Remembering that moment had always brought him back to that final parting. Mostly, he guessed, because that time in Diagon Alley had really acted as a catalyst for what was to come.
It was his fault, really, that she had been excised from the Wizarding community. After all, he had been Death Eater Spawn, he was a Malfoy and he was their last link to the Dark Lord. But Ginny, no, she didn’t deserve the scorn and cruelty they directed at him. But she was linked to him, and it was because of him that they rejected her and she suffered.
So, he had taken her back to where it had all began. To those windswept hills where she had still called him ‘Malfoy’ and he had still called her ‘Weasel’, and she had been his reason for turning against all that he had once believed in and all that had once been familiar.
He could feel the panic rising in her as they had approached those hills and his silence towards her continued.
“Draco, where are we going?”
He hadn’t answered then, just as he hadn’t answered before in the early hours of the morning when he had woken her from her slumber and she had thought he meant to surprise her with something.
“Draco, why won’t you answer me?”
He had left the carriage and headed towards the hills on foot, and she had followed a few feet behind, the wind picking up her hair and blowing it about her shoulders.
“Draco, please, tell me where we’re going.”
He had stopped then, his back to her, and she had placed a gentle hand on his back.
“Draco?” she had said softly, her voice, always so strong, faltering.
He had hung his head and looked at the polished surface of his shoes.
“Let’s end this.” He had whispered, his voice almost inaudible, but he heard her sharp intake of breath and knew she had heard.
“Why?”
Draco had swallowed the lump in his throat and somehow, he forced out the words he had rehearsed over the past few weeks. “I cannot love you.”
She had laughed shakily, “Draco, what are you talking about?”
“I cannot love you.” He had repeated, hoping she would stop asking him, hoping she would just accept it. In the deepest recesses of his mind, no matter how he hoped, he knew she would not.
“Whatever problem there is, we can work it out together.”
“I can’t”
He could feel her heart break and even though he had his back towards her, he knew that the tears would be running down her freckled cheeks, long rivers of heartache and pain.
“Draco, you promised me.” Her voice was slowly rising in volume and he felt the first splattering of rain on his face. “You promised me!”
“I cannot keep that promise, Ginevra.”
He felt her hand clench the back of his robes, the other clutching his arm, “Please, Draco, don’t do this. You’re all that I have. I love you.”
“We cannot do this.” He had said softly, “I cannot love you.”
His heart twisted as he thought back to that moment, back to when he had walked away and steeled his heart so that he wouldn’t turn around, run back to her to sweep her up into his arms and crush his lips against hers. Draco had promised himself that he wouldn’t do that. He had almost faltered for a moment, the first time she screamed his name after him that afternoon. He wondered if she had noticed it, that slight hesitation in his stride, the way his heart cried out in objection. It didn’t matter now, he had managed to walk away and leave her behind.
The carriage they had taken out that day would return her to the Burrow where she would fall into the arms of her mother, worn out from tears and the sorrow that plagued her heart. It was also where she would find solace in the form of Harry Potter, Hero of the Wizarding world, and leave her life with Draco Malfoy behind.
Draco studied the red wine soaked paper, the splash of the heading: “Weasley Princess to Wed Wizarding Wonder.”
He shouldn’t have felt the surge of anger that had led him to completely desolate his living room. It had been his fault that she had found comfort in Potter, it had been his choice to end it. He should have been happy that she was finally moving on with her life, even though he resolutely refused to move on with his. He shouldn’t have felt the stab of pain that he had long ago learnt to deal with.
Her letter yesterday morning had only made it worse really.
He shouldn’t have replied in the affirmative and he shouldn’t have asked the House Elves to prepare for a guest for lunch the next day. He shouldn’t have felt the surge of happiness and hope when he had seen her name signed on the missive.
Now, it was only 11:45 and he was already making an attempt to become so inebriated he wouldn’t notice when she showed up at his door. She’d be here in 15 minutes. Somehow, Draco was torn between the elation and euphoria to know she was coming to see him and the dread that he would also have to face her.
He heard the House elf come into his study to announce Miss Weasley’s arrival. Merlin, had it been 15 minutes already? He checked his watch. No, she had always been early for anything. He had never quite been able to fit ‘fashionably late’ into her vocabulary, and sometimes it had been endearing, while other times it had annoyed him to no end.
Slowly, Draco rose from the comfort of his armchair and went out into the sitting room to meet his guest.
Lunch was a solemn affair. Between them, they could not reminisce without unearthing painful memories, they could not bring up current events for fear of mentioning her recent engagement and they could not talk about present events in their separate lives. Instead, she spoke of the weather and her current work as a Mediwitch, and he sat in silence, remembering days spent in sunshine and the mess of his study as she studied with an intensity to match Hermione Granger.
“I think you’ve already heard that I’m getting married.” She said suddenly, shattering the tentative conversation.
“Yes,” he replied tightly, “to Potter.”
“Yes.” She replied.
“Why did you come to see me? I would’ve thought you’d prefer to simply get on with you own life.” He said softly.
“I-.” She faltered. “I wanted to tie up loose ends,” she said softly.
“Ah,” Draco said, a slight smile on his lips, “I’m the loose end.”
“Draco, I didn’t mean it like tha-.”
He raised a hand and she stopped, “No matter what you actually meant. I am a loose end, and I am hampering you from going on with your new life.” He smiled at her and continued, even though it broke his heart to do so. “We had something once, you and I, but it is over now, Ginny, and I wish you all the happiness and luck in the future.”
He could tell that she fought the tears that threatened to slip. She bit her bottom lips, and let her eyelids fall and hide the emotions that would be betrayed in her eyes.
Quietly, he rose from his seat and moved behind her, placing a hand in the soft, silken tangle of her hair. Gently, he pressed his lips to her neck, “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly into her ear, “but I will always love you.”
He walked out of the room then, letting the door click softly behind him, and softly telling the house elf to show her out when she was done.
Some time later, he watched from his bedroom window as a figure emerged from the front door and began walking down the path. She turned once to glance up at where she knew his bedroom window was and raised a hand, in either greeting or farewell, he didn’t know, before continuing down the path, her brilliant red hair swept up by the wind.
Red was the colour of many things.
Of life, of blood, of tears, of pain and of love.
Red was the colour of many things.
It was the colour of the wine that spilt over the polished mahogany of the table, reaching with long fingers towards the edge, yearning to fall onto the lush carpet.
It was the colour of the fire that crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing and twisting on the hot, glowing embers, consuming and devouring.
It was the colour of the blood that splashed hot and sticky on the cobblestones as the colour faded from his opponents face. One hand reached out in desperation, but by then, he had already turned away.
It was the colour of her hair; a deep, red, silken curtain that fell against his pale face, tickling his cheeks and neck, a whisper of a smile on her face as she drew closer to him.
And it was the colour of her bloodshot eyes as he walked away, heedless of the tears that fell, one after the other, a torrent of sorrow and anguish as she screamed his name into the heavy rain, her words swallowed by the fierce wind that blew her hair into a glorious mess and snapped at the coat around him.
Long, pale fingers touched the wine that he had so negligently tipped over. He felt the cold, dark liquid and remembered the taste of wine on her tongue and her kiss-swollen mouth.
“Draco?” she had said, that small smile playing on her lips.
“Yes?” he had whispered into the quiet darkness of the room.
“Do you love me?”
He remembered that the silence grew heavier from her words. He could hear the deafening roar of it in his ears as it permeated the room thickly. He could still feel the small smile on her lips, and the glittering of her brown eyes in the darkness.
“Yes.” He had answered, and then, at that moment, he had meant it.
Draco poured another measure of wine into his glass and watched as the red liquid swirled in his glass, the smell of it rich and heady. The fire warmed his hands and feet, but as the cold liquid slipped down his throat, warmth spread through his body and rose to flush his pale face.
She had always preferred the warmth of fire to wine though, and somehow, even through she was gone, he still kept the fire dancing merrily in its grate.
“Fire, you know,” she had said one night, “is the life of all things.”
He smiled indulgently, “Suddenly decided to take a leaf out of Trelawney’s book?” He said softly against her hair and pulled her back onto his chest.
She let her head fall back onto his shoulder, looking at him from the corner of her eye, “It’s true. Fire is one of the greatest things in this world. But we take it for granted. Fire,” she continued, “can create life.” She had paused then, her eyes growing clouded, glittering with unshed tears, “But it can also take life away.”
Draco had brushed her hair behind her ears and gently kissed her long pale neck, “Are you afraid of fire, dearest?”
She had smiled then; the smile that took his breath away and told him to hold her close. “No if you’re here.”
There had been much fire in that final battle. The flames had leapt green and eldritch, giving off an alien sort of heat, burning Diagon Alley and devouring the glory it had once been. It would be built in a matter of months after that fateful day as people would slowly pick up the pieces of their lives and try to put them back together, but Draco would always remember in his minds-eye the complete and utter destruction. The air was thick with smoke and blood, the streets littered with bodies and the cobblestones slick with blood. Draco remembered seeing Potter run up the street, a shadowy figure obscured by the smoke, in pursuit of the Dark Lord, in pursuit of that final sliver of essence. And Draco and the others had faced the Death Eaters; tall hooded figures with masks of death over their faces, standing in a mass of ranks, their black cloaks billowing in the thin wind that came down the street. Above, it had been death from the skies, with hundreds of dementors waiting hungrily for the kill.
He remembered Ginny standing next to him, her face a mask of determination and courage, even though he could feel the shivers in her hand as he gripped it in his. She had looked up at him and grinned. “See you at the end,” she had said before letting go of his hand and running into the thick of it, screaming at the top of her lungs, casting with a ferocity he had never seen before.
Somehow, he had found his father; just another faceless Death Eater but for the blond strands of hair that were teased out of the safety of his hood and shone pale and bright in the light of the flames, betraying his identity. Lucius Malfoy had pulled off his mask then and studied Draco with a smirk on his thin mouth. And Draco had steeled himself under such a familiar scrutiny, reminiscent of when his father had looked at his grades, when his father had trained him in the dark arts, when his father had heaped praise on the only Malfoy heir.
“So, it was you.” Lucius Malfoy had stated with a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, Father.” Draco had replied, trying to still the quiver in his voice.
“And here I thought I had raised you to be a loyal son and Death Eater.”
“You made your choices, Father. I made mine too.” Draco said, lifting his chin a margin higher, ignoring the way the wind blew strands of hair into his eyes, ash and smoke making them dry and painful.
“Ah, yes.” His father had smiled, showing perfectly straight teeth. “The Weasley girl.” Draco watched as his father’s demeanor suddenly changed; his eyes hardened and the smile grew cruel. “No matter,” he had continued, “after I am done with you, I shall find the little blood-traitor and dispose of her as well. Don’t fret, Draco, the two of you will even be together in de-.”
It had been no more than a whisper of his lips and a gentle flick of the wrist. Draco had watched with an odd curiousity as the red stream of light had cut through the smoke and heat, hitting his father across the throat, blood splattering hot and wet onto the stones.
His father’s face had been one of shock. He had looked up at the back of his son, grey eyes beginning to cloud over with a milky film as he reached out a hand, the sigh of a name dying on his lips.
Potter had staggered out of Gringotts some hours later, covered in a mixture of ash and gore, the strange grin of an idiot plastered on his face and the broken wand of the Dark Lord in the other. Draco had almost expected the head of the Dark Lord, but perhaps he had overestimated Potter’s brutality.
He had scanned the staggering people for a mop of vibrant red hair, his heart beating loudly in his ears when he couldn’t find her.
“Draco!”
He had heard his name yelled across the street and he had spun wildly to see her walk towards him, covered in cuts, dirt and blood, a smirk across her pretty features.
“Thought you’d get all the glory without me?” She had smiled.
He hadn’t said anything in reply, simply pulled her to him and held her as if the world would end, not caring that she was filthy and dirty, not caring that she was a Weasley and not caring that everyone could see them.
“Thank Merlin.” He had whispered into her hair, and at that point she had broken down into tears.
Draco shook off the ancient memory and took another mouthful of wine. Perhaps he should make himself so drunk he couldn’t remember anymore. Wine would never do. Slowly he rose from his armchair and fished out a bottle of fire-whisky from his cupboard. The terrible stuff always did the job better.
He remembered she had coughed and spluttered the first time she had tasted the stuff. Red hair had spilled over a naked shoulder and down her pale back. She looked an image of decadence, half-covered in silk sheets, silver shaped ‘G’ around her neck and red hair tumbling around her. She passed the tumbler back to him, grimacing at the taste left on her tongue.
He had laughed and risen from his chair, walking over to bed and gently brushing her hair behind her ear.
“If it tastes so terrible, I don’t see why people drink it so often.”
“People drink it often for the potency, Ginny.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
He raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug, “I fancied a change,” he lied.
He almost didn’t catch the flicker of sadness in her eyes before she pulled him down to her and the tangle of silken sheets, lifting her mouth to his and tasting the whisky on his tongue.
Secretly, he knew that for that small moment she had grieved for him, but at that point in time, he simply pushed it to the back of his mind and lost himself in her.
He couldn’t remember when his thinking had suddenly changed. Whether it had been when her brother had rejected her for deciding to fraternise with Death Eater spawn, or when the Wizarding World still didn’t accept him because of his heritage, people screaming for punishment, but held at bay by the one and only Harry Potter.
Perhaps it was the time when they had targeted her instead of him. They had been walking down the rebuilt Diagon Alley, his arm slung over her shoulders, her laughter the only sound in his ears until it had been cut short by a splatter of mud against her face.
“Traitorous bitch!” A voice had yelled from somewhere behind them.
Her face, shocked and angry, eyes wide, would be forever etched into his memory. He had turned to chase them, but was stilled by her hand, a soft touch against his arm.
“Leave them, Draco.” She had said in a voice so tired and weary that it broke his heart.
Remembering that moment had always brought him back to that final parting. Mostly, he guessed, because that time in Diagon Alley had really acted as a catalyst for what was to come.
It was his fault, really, that she had been excised from the Wizarding community. After all, he had been Death Eater Spawn, he was a Malfoy and he was their last link to the Dark Lord. But Ginny, no, she didn’t deserve the scorn and cruelty they directed at him. But she was linked to him, and it was because of him that they rejected her and she suffered.
So, he had taken her back to where it had all began. To those windswept hills where she had still called him ‘Malfoy’ and he had still called her ‘Weasel’, and she had been his reason for turning against all that he had once believed in and all that had once been familiar.
He could feel the panic rising in her as they had approached those hills and his silence towards her continued.
“Draco, where are we going?”
He hadn’t answered then, just as he hadn’t answered before in the early hours of the morning when he had woken her from her slumber and she had thought he meant to surprise her with something.
“Draco, why won’t you answer me?”
He had left the carriage and headed towards the hills on foot, and she had followed a few feet behind, the wind picking up her hair and blowing it about her shoulders.
“Draco, please, tell me where we’re going.”
He had stopped then, his back to her, and she had placed a gentle hand on his back.
“Draco?” she had said softly, her voice, always so strong, faltering.
He had hung his head and looked at the polished surface of his shoes.
“Let’s end this.” He had whispered, his voice almost inaudible, but he heard her sharp intake of breath and knew she had heard.
“Why?”
Draco had swallowed the lump in his throat and somehow, he forced out the words he had rehearsed over the past few weeks. “I cannot love you.”
She had laughed shakily, “Draco, what are you talking about?”
“I cannot love you.” He had repeated, hoping she would stop asking him, hoping she would just accept it. In the deepest recesses of his mind, no matter how he hoped, he knew she would not.
“Whatever problem there is, we can work it out together.”
“I can’t”
He could feel her heart break and even though he had his back towards her, he knew that the tears would be running down her freckled cheeks, long rivers of heartache and pain.
“Draco, you promised me.” Her voice was slowly rising in volume and he felt the first splattering of rain on his face. “You promised me!”
“I cannot keep that promise, Ginevra.”
He felt her hand clench the back of his robes, the other clutching his arm, “Please, Draco, don’t do this. You’re all that I have. I love you.”
“We cannot do this.” He had said softly, “I cannot love you.”
His heart twisted as he thought back to that moment, back to when he had walked away and steeled his heart so that he wouldn’t turn around, run back to her to sweep her up into his arms and crush his lips against hers. Draco had promised himself that he wouldn’t do that. He had almost faltered for a moment, the first time she screamed his name after him that afternoon. He wondered if she had noticed it, that slight hesitation in his stride, the way his heart cried out in objection. It didn’t matter now, he had managed to walk away and leave her behind.
The carriage they had taken out that day would return her to the Burrow where she would fall into the arms of her mother, worn out from tears and the sorrow that plagued her heart. It was also where she would find solace in the form of Harry Potter, Hero of the Wizarding world, and leave her life with Draco Malfoy behind.
Draco studied the red wine soaked paper, the splash of the heading: “Weasley Princess to Wed Wizarding Wonder.”
He shouldn’t have felt the surge of anger that had led him to completely desolate his living room. It had been his fault that she had found comfort in Potter, it had been his choice to end it. He should have been happy that she was finally moving on with her life, even though he resolutely refused to move on with his. He shouldn’t have felt the stab of pain that he had long ago learnt to deal with.
Her letter yesterday morning had only made it worse really.
He shouldn’t have replied in the affirmative and he shouldn’t have asked the House Elves to prepare for a guest for lunch the next day. He shouldn’t have felt the surge of happiness and hope when he had seen her name signed on the missive.
Now, it was only 11:45 and he was already making an attempt to become so inebriated he wouldn’t notice when she showed up at his door. She’d be here in 15 minutes. Somehow, Draco was torn between the elation and euphoria to know she was coming to see him and the dread that he would also have to face her.
He heard the House elf come into his study to announce Miss Weasley’s arrival. Merlin, had it been 15 minutes already? He checked his watch. No, she had always been early for anything. He had never quite been able to fit ‘fashionably late’ into her vocabulary, and sometimes it had been endearing, while other times it had annoyed him to no end.
Slowly, Draco rose from the comfort of his armchair and went out into the sitting room to meet his guest.
Lunch was a solemn affair. Between them, they could not reminisce without unearthing painful memories, they could not bring up current events for fear of mentioning her recent engagement and they could not talk about present events in their separate lives. Instead, she spoke of the weather and her current work as a Mediwitch, and he sat in silence, remembering days spent in sunshine and the mess of his study as she studied with an intensity to match Hermione Granger.
“I think you’ve already heard that I’m getting married.” She said suddenly, shattering the tentative conversation.
“Yes,” he replied tightly, “to Potter.”
“Yes.” She replied.
“Why did you come to see me? I would’ve thought you’d prefer to simply get on with you own life.” He said softly.
“I-.” She faltered. “I wanted to tie up loose ends,” she said softly.
“Ah,” Draco said, a slight smile on his lips, “I’m the loose end.”
“Draco, I didn’t mean it like tha-.”
He raised a hand and she stopped, “No matter what you actually meant. I am a loose end, and I am hampering you from going on with your new life.” He smiled at her and continued, even though it broke his heart to do so. “We had something once, you and I, but it is over now, Ginny, and I wish you all the happiness and luck in the future.”
He could tell that she fought the tears that threatened to slip. She bit her bottom lips, and let her eyelids fall and hide the emotions that would be betrayed in her eyes.
Quietly, he rose from his seat and moved behind her, placing a hand in the soft, silken tangle of her hair. Gently, he pressed his lips to her neck, “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly into her ear, “but I will always love you.”
He walked out of the room then, letting the door click softly behind him, and softly telling the house elf to show her out when she was done.
Some time later, he watched from his bedroom window as a figure emerged from the front door and began walking down the path. She turned once to glance up at where she knew his bedroom window was and raised a hand, in either greeting or farewell, he didn’t know, before continuing down the path, her brilliant red hair swept up by the wind.
Red was the colour of many things.
Of life, of blood, of tears, of pain and of love.
The End.
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