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“Oh, god. I think I’m going to be sick.”
And she turned and retched onto the ground, fell to her knees and gasped. And retched some more. The gasps turned to choking, bitter sobs, and the sobs left her dry and tired. She wouldn’t look at him. He reached for her but she wouldn’t let him touch her. She was shivering.
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet, pale and quivering, looking helpless. And so tired. In that moment she had aged. And she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there. Alone.
“Ginny.”
Was he calling for her, or was he just trying to hold onto her, to whisper her name for fear he might never hear that word again…
She was laughing, and her laughter was delicious to his ears. It rang clear, high, and free. It soared above him, above them, and he tried to catch it so he’d always have it forever, let it fill him till he rose up, soared…
Capturing her lips with his, he contented himself in this instead. Then she drew back sharply and her eyes widened in panic.
“What do you think you’re doing, Ginny?” Ron looked absolutely livid . “He’s a Death Eater!” His hands at his sides clenched tightly into fists.
“I am not a Death Eater,” Draco spat, grinding his teeth.
“Show me your arm,” Ron commanded, eyes narrowing sharply into slits.
“No,” Ginny said acidly. “He has nothing to prove to you.” Grabbing Draco’s arm she pulled him hurriedly away, and he looked back over his shoulder to see Ron still standing there, fuming, but Ginny…
Ginny never looked back.
”I love you,” he whispered into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. And she gazed up at him, smiling.
“But I don’t deserve you.” And with that her whole face fell, as though he had taken her world from it, dropped it. And now it lay shattered.
And it wasn’t his to break.
“I asked her to marry me,” he told the man who sat hunched in his cell, a mere shadow, a glimmer of who he’d been before. “I love her.”
“She doesn’t deserve you.”
“I know. She loves me anyway.”
“Does she know?” the man inquired, raising his bowed head to gaze up at his son, suspicion leaking from his cold, gray eyes.
And Draco couldn’t bear to meet them with his own. They were like mirrors, cracked and broken. He would see himself the way he saw himself. Personally he preferred her warm, honey brown. Where he would see himself to her as precious, loved. They were the only mirror he needed.
“I said, does she know?”
Silence.
“Show me your Mark.”
Draco winced, but refused to comply. The man darted towards him and before he could protest his arm had been roughly seized and the sleeve jerked upwards. Angry, inflamed flesh, twisted, distorted, stared back at him.
The man cackled. Draco did not. He grimaced.
The Dark Mark still moved, looking less like and evil serpent and more like the skeletal remains of a ruined man, left to his decay as a slithering noose wove around his neck, through his open, screaming mouth, carrying in his fangs his bleeding heart.
“The Dark Lord put a curse on his mark,” the man spoke softly. “All who wear it will perish a most painful death. Tell me, do you fear death Draco?”
I fear losing the one thing I have to live for.
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named feared death. Can you imagine that?” The old crone cackled.
“The man who names his followers after Death is the one who fears it the most?”
He laughed again.
“Son, whoever you are now will die with this mark, the mark of what we truly are. We served a man who feared death, and now death has come to lay claim on all his property. We are a dying breed, Draco. I’m the last of us here in Azkaban.”
It was suddenly very quiet. Somewhere water dripped and splashed into a large puddle. Somewhere she was asleep dreaming of him, of the life he promised for them. And he was here dying, this slowly creeping infestation eating him alive. And it would kill her to know it.
It would kill her to see him for what he truly was.
“Oh, god. I think I’m going to be sick.”
He hastily shoved the sleeve back over the nasty infection, the grisly truth that seared hot ink, twisted and gruesome on his skin.
And she was gone from him.
He hung his head.
“Ginny.”
“Master, the letter you has sent was sent back to us again. Master, she sent it back again.” The house elf fidgeted nervously with her soiled rags. “…Master? Master, does you want to try again?”
He sat and gazed out of the window at the white, placid sky. Cool, gray light poured in over and around him. And he was the ghost. Who sat at the window and waited for the reply that would never come. Again he would write on faded parchment, in staggering script ‘Forgive me’. And again the owl would return. It knew the route by heart. The first time it returned the parchment was tear-stained. The second time the parchment hadn’t even been removed from the eagle-owl’s leg.
“…Master?”
“What?” he asked sharply.
“Master, another note has come. Is it your mother. She is saying that the master’s father has died in Azkaban, that he has been found in his cell just this early morning, Master, and that she would like for you to be present at the ceremony tomorrow.”
He turned slowly to face her. “Tell her it’s too late,” he whispered softly. His voice quivered in the still space between them.
“Is you speaking of your mother...master?” the elf asked, her ears trembling. “Is it your mother I am sending this message to?”
He turned back to the window. His chin was resting in his hand. His hand was shaking, the bones rattling. His skin was pale and clung tightly to his thin, narrow frame. He was the pensive thinker, he had suddenly turned to stone, immortalized in alabaster, and in the pale light seemed to hardly be breathing.
And then there were tears cascading down the white cheeks, dripping off the stone and onto the windowsill.
“There, there, Master,” the small elf said soothingly, staring at her large feet. “Sophie will leave you now.”
And she left.
Gazing down at his tombstone, it was almost impossible to imagine that a month ago she’d held his hand. A month ago she’d sworn to be beside him forever. A month ago he’d been her and she’d been him. And they’d moved together through a world of drear and shadow with only each other and they had been content to spend the silences memorizing the exact color of one another’s eyes.
And now he was cold again. Lifeless in fact.
And she was the Dust Queen, sprinkling dirt and cold, black earth over his gray, empty body. From dust he came forth and to dust he returns…
She tilted her head to the side, and from beneath her black hat spilled a curtain of fiery, red hair. It swung over her shoulder and down her back before rising gently on the current of the wailing breeze and trailing quietly behind her like a brilliant, red veil.
“He loved you, you know,” the woman had told her at the service, and she’d jumped, surprised. Narcissa Malfoy had never spoken a word to her in her life and now she gazed down at her with such a lost, hopeless look in her glassy, blue eyes. And then she had touched the girl softly on her shoulder, quietly regarding her with a look she had not been able to decipher. And then, quite suddenly she had. Pity.
It was like a cold slap across the cheek.
Now she walked through the quiet graveyard, her veil of red swimming behind her as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and hanging limp at her side, clutched tightly in her gloved hand was a single white rose. It had been charmed to live eternally, but she realized it wasn’t for Draco.
It was for her.
“Ginny.”
He knew for sure he was lost. He tipped the drink back and winced as the burning liquid seared through him like acid, consuming every last inch of him. The eagle-owl was sitting at his desk, pecking softly at his slumped-over figure. The parchment was forgotten, lost in the chaos of the bird shrieking for assistance. It fell to the floor and unraveled.
Forgive me…
…but I cannot exist in a world where you no longer love me...
The dark bird’s dark, beady eyes were wild as it cried out, and its wings flapped madly about its master’s head, willing him to wake, willing him to fight the draught of eternal sleep that worked its way through his blood like wild-fire.
…I know you don’t miss me, love. I know I lied and I know you believed…
The house elf screamed. The light outside the window was fading. The man at the desk was staring at nothing and everything at once, his eyes wide and frightened. In his final epiphany, the blood rushing to his head to fuel one last, frantic thought, he saw her face and realized that regardless of her indifference he needed to hold on…because every last minute she lived was a minute worth living for. His labored, raspy breaths racked his entire body and he jerked suddenly upright. He shook violently, falling out of the chair.
…I tried to hold on to you and you tried to keep me close. I wanted to be your world. You were always mine…
His body seemed to fall in slow motion. I don’t want to die, he realized. Not yet. The slow tortured death of the mark on his arm, though it was an almost unbearable agony, would have been preferred to this, this terrible knowledge, the truth that he would rather suffer his last days in complete hell than die knowing he had finally hurt her in a way that could never be forgiven.
…I should have told you. No, not about my mark, Gin. The truth. That I never wanted you to see me as less than perfect…
And then Draco Malfoy was dead before he hit the floor, those cold gray eyes lifeless and broken.
…because that’s the way I’ve always seen you.
Fin.
And she turned and retched onto the ground, fell to her knees and gasped. And retched some more. The gasps turned to choking, bitter sobs, and the sobs left her dry and tired. She wouldn’t look at him. He reached for her but she wouldn’t let him touch her. She was shivering.
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet, pale and quivering, looking helpless. And so tired. In that moment she had aged. And she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there. Alone.
“Ginny.”
Was he calling for her, or was he just trying to hold onto her, to whisper her name for fear he might never hear that word again…
She was laughing, and her laughter was delicious to his ears. It rang clear, high, and free. It soared above him, above them, and he tried to catch it so he’d always have it forever, let it fill him till he rose up, soared…
Capturing her lips with his, he contented himself in this instead. Then she drew back sharply and her eyes widened in panic.
“What do you think you’re doing, Ginny?” Ron looked absolutely livid . “He’s a Death Eater!” His hands at his sides clenched tightly into fists.
“I am not a Death Eater,” Draco spat, grinding his teeth.
“Show me your arm,” Ron commanded, eyes narrowing sharply into slits.
“No,” Ginny said acidly. “He has nothing to prove to you.” Grabbing Draco’s arm she pulled him hurriedly away, and he looked back over his shoulder to see Ron still standing there, fuming, but Ginny…
Ginny never looked back.
”I love you,” he whispered into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. And she gazed up at him, smiling.
“But I don’t deserve you.” And with that her whole face fell, as though he had taken her world from it, dropped it. And now it lay shattered.
And it wasn’t his to break.
“I asked her to marry me,” he told the man who sat hunched in his cell, a mere shadow, a glimmer of who he’d been before. “I love her.”
“She doesn’t deserve you.”
“I know. She loves me anyway.”
“Does she know?” the man inquired, raising his bowed head to gaze up at his son, suspicion leaking from his cold, gray eyes.
And Draco couldn’t bear to meet them with his own. They were like mirrors, cracked and broken. He would see himself the way he saw himself. Personally he preferred her warm, honey brown. Where he would see himself to her as precious, loved. They were the only mirror he needed.
“I said, does she know?”
Silence.
“Show me your Mark.”
Draco winced, but refused to comply. The man darted towards him and before he could protest his arm had been roughly seized and the sleeve jerked upwards. Angry, inflamed flesh, twisted, distorted, stared back at him.
The man cackled. Draco did not. He grimaced.
The Dark Mark still moved, looking less like and evil serpent and more like the skeletal remains of a ruined man, left to his decay as a slithering noose wove around his neck, through his open, screaming mouth, carrying in his fangs his bleeding heart.
“The Dark Lord put a curse on his mark,” the man spoke softly. “All who wear it will perish a most painful death. Tell me, do you fear death Draco?”
I fear losing the one thing I have to live for.
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named feared death. Can you imagine that?” The old crone cackled.
“The man who names his followers after Death is the one who fears it the most?”
He laughed again.
“Son, whoever you are now will die with this mark, the mark of what we truly are. We served a man who feared death, and now death has come to lay claim on all his property. We are a dying breed, Draco. I’m the last of us here in Azkaban.”
It was suddenly very quiet. Somewhere water dripped and splashed into a large puddle. Somewhere she was asleep dreaming of him, of the life he promised for them. And he was here dying, this slowly creeping infestation eating him alive. And it would kill her to know it.
It would kill her to see him for what he truly was.
“Oh, god. I think I’m going to be sick.”
He hastily shoved the sleeve back over the nasty infection, the grisly truth that seared hot ink, twisted and gruesome on his skin.
And she was gone from him.
He hung his head.
“Ginny.”
“Master, the letter you has sent was sent back to us again. Master, she sent it back again.” The house elf fidgeted nervously with her soiled rags. “…Master? Master, does you want to try again?”
He sat and gazed out of the window at the white, placid sky. Cool, gray light poured in over and around him. And he was the ghost. Who sat at the window and waited for the reply that would never come. Again he would write on faded parchment, in staggering script ‘Forgive me’. And again the owl would return. It knew the route by heart. The first time it returned the parchment was tear-stained. The second time the parchment hadn’t even been removed from the eagle-owl’s leg.
“…Master?”
“What?” he asked sharply.
“Master, another note has come. Is it your mother. She is saying that the master’s father has died in Azkaban, that he has been found in his cell just this early morning, Master, and that she would like for you to be present at the ceremony tomorrow.”
He turned slowly to face her. “Tell her it’s too late,” he whispered softly. His voice quivered in the still space between them.
“Is you speaking of your mother...master?” the elf asked, her ears trembling. “Is it your mother I am sending this message to?”
He turned back to the window. His chin was resting in his hand. His hand was shaking, the bones rattling. His skin was pale and clung tightly to his thin, narrow frame. He was the pensive thinker, he had suddenly turned to stone, immortalized in alabaster, and in the pale light seemed to hardly be breathing.
And then there were tears cascading down the white cheeks, dripping off the stone and onto the windowsill.
“There, there, Master,” the small elf said soothingly, staring at her large feet. “Sophie will leave you now.”
And she left.
Gazing down at his tombstone, it was almost impossible to imagine that a month ago she’d held his hand. A month ago she’d sworn to be beside him forever. A month ago he’d been her and she’d been him. And they’d moved together through a world of drear and shadow with only each other and they had been content to spend the silences memorizing the exact color of one another’s eyes.
And now he was cold again. Lifeless in fact.
And she was the Dust Queen, sprinkling dirt and cold, black earth over his gray, empty body. From dust he came forth and to dust he returns…
She tilted her head to the side, and from beneath her black hat spilled a curtain of fiery, red hair. It swung over her shoulder and down her back before rising gently on the current of the wailing breeze and trailing quietly behind her like a brilliant, red veil.
“He loved you, you know,” the woman had told her at the service, and she’d jumped, surprised. Narcissa Malfoy had never spoken a word to her in her life and now she gazed down at her with such a lost, hopeless look in her glassy, blue eyes. And then she had touched the girl softly on her shoulder, quietly regarding her with a look she had not been able to decipher. And then, quite suddenly she had. Pity.
It was like a cold slap across the cheek.
Now she walked through the quiet graveyard, her veil of red swimming behind her as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and hanging limp at her side, clutched tightly in her gloved hand was a single white rose. It had been charmed to live eternally, but she realized it wasn’t for Draco.
It was for her.
“Ginny.”
He knew for sure he was lost. He tipped the drink back and winced as the burning liquid seared through him like acid, consuming every last inch of him. The eagle-owl was sitting at his desk, pecking softly at his slumped-over figure. The parchment was forgotten, lost in the chaos of the bird shrieking for assistance. It fell to the floor and unraveled.
Forgive me…
…but I cannot exist in a world where you no longer love me...
The dark bird’s dark, beady eyes were wild as it cried out, and its wings flapped madly about its master’s head, willing him to wake, willing him to fight the draught of eternal sleep that worked its way through his blood like wild-fire.
…I know you don’t miss me, love. I know I lied and I know you believed…
The house elf screamed. The light outside the window was fading. The man at the desk was staring at nothing and everything at once, his eyes wide and frightened. In his final epiphany, the blood rushing to his head to fuel one last, frantic thought, he saw her face and realized that regardless of her indifference he needed to hold on…because every last minute she lived was a minute worth living for. His labored, raspy breaths racked his entire body and he jerked suddenly upright. He shook violently, falling out of the chair.
…I tried to hold on to you and you tried to keep me close. I wanted to be your world. You were always mine…
His body seemed to fall in slow motion. I don’t want to die, he realized. Not yet. The slow tortured death of the mark on his arm, though it was an almost unbearable agony, would have been preferred to this, this terrible knowledge, the truth that he would rather suffer his last days in complete hell than die knowing he had finally hurt her in a way that could never be forgiven.
…I should have told you. No, not about my mark, Gin. The truth. That I never wanted you to see me as less than perfect…
And then Draco Malfoy was dead before he hit the floor, those cold gray eyes lifeless and broken.
…because that’s the way I’ve always seen you.
Fin.
The End.
rainicloudgrl is the author of 2 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked Unforgivable also liked 1044 other stories.
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