He doesn't know that I'm planning his death.

He sits across the table from me, and he is quiet. But that's typical for him. He is naturally stoic and subtle in his emotions. He doesn't have to say anything for me to know how he feels, and I honestly prefer it that way. It makes things easier. Because if he says he loves me, then my job is suddenly a lot harder. If he says he loves me, then maybe I can't go through with it. And I have to. It's what I do.

He looks up from his dinner. I made him his favorite. Filet Mignon. "Thanks, Gin," he says as he takes another bite of his meat. "This is delicious," he tells me.

I smile in response as I take a sip of my wine, but my smile doesn't quite reach my eyes because I know what I have to do, and I know this can't last.

This isn't how my life was supposed to turn out.

It's morning, and I get out of bed even though I haven't slept a wink. My nights are especially difficult because, if I allow myself to fade to black, I know what I'll see. My guilt will be personified in my dreams, and I won't be able to escape the nightmares.

I get dressed and I look in the mirror. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing me lightly on the cheek. He hands me a single red rose – so bright and so dark that all I can see is blood. His blood on my hands.

"I wasn't expecting this," I tell him, allowing the corners of my lips to turn up just a little. I really do appreciate the gesture, and I can't help but be surprised whenever he does something thoughtful.

"Stay with me again tonight," he says, his grey eyes wide and sincere.

I bite my lip as I nod my agreement. Of course I will stay the night with him. When have I ever said no?

The Ministry is buzzing like always when I arrive. Witches and wizards of all ages and departments swarm through the main entrance as they hurry to make it to their respective offices in time. I don't rush because I'm half-hoping that if I'm late, they'll fire me. Then maybe I won't have to go through with it.

All of the Aurors are away from their desks when I get there – probably attending their regular morning conference – and I walk through to the back. My department is on the other side of the door. I sigh as I enter, my eyes immediately adjusting to the dimmer lighting and my body acclimating to the chilly room. I used to always look forward to working here. It used to be such a rush. Now I just wish that I could be anywhere but here.

My boss is waiting for me when I do get to my cubicle. He lifts up his wrist to show me his watch, and he doesn't look thrilled to see me.

I nod in response. I know I'm ten minutes late.

"Is it done?" he asks me impatiently.

"I'm working on it," I tell him. "I need a few more days with the target."

"A few more days?" he responds with an obvious note of incredulity. "This should have been done by now, Weasley. There is no excuse. Every day that you don't complete this task increases the number of deaths tenfold."

I know he is exaggerating by gross amounts, but I nod. It's at least partly true what he is saying. The target is causing all sorts of chaos, and each day that the target is left unattended to is one more day that the death toll caused by it is at least partly my fault.

"It'll be taken care of, Sir," I say. "I promise."

"You have two days," he tells me, eyes narrowed and glare fixed. "Two days, and then I'm reassigning."

I nod, half-wishing that he wouldn't wait two days to do the reassigning. But that wouldn't solve the problem – not really.

If I don't follow through, I will become a target.

The pressure is getting to me, and I think he can sense it.

His hands press into my shoulders, removing the knots as he massages deeply. I can feel the tension lifting and the metaphorical weight being removed. If only for a moment.

He finishes and I lean back against him with a soft sigh. "I had forgotten how wonderful you are with your hands," I tell him, and I can feel him smile as he presses his lips against the back of my neck.

I turn around, pushing him backwards onto the bed. I kiss his lips and his neck and his throat. My hands travel over his body as my legs straddle his. I love the feeling of his hands on my hips. I love the way his hands feel anywhere on me. They go everywhere. They touch me all over, my bare skin on fire beneath his fingertips.

We finish and I collapse beside him, naked and thoroughly exhausted. For a brief instance, I think everything might turn out all right.

But reality sinks in as I feel his arm across my bare stomach. He holds me tightly, possessively. He breathes in the scent of my hair – something floral and tainted with the distinctive smell of sex. He falls asleep almost instantly, but I don't.

I remain awake for yet another night.

My boss is waiting for me when I enter my cubicle, and I know immediately that he is furious. He doesn't bother to show me his watch this time. I'm over two hours late, and it's not even worth reiterating.

"Has the target been terminated?"

"I have one more day," I say. "It will be done."

He walks away after giving me a stern look. I'm certain that he doesn't believe for a moment that I can get the job done.

I'm not sure that I think I can, either.

I'm holding the bottle of wine when he comes home that night. He hadn't asked me to stay the night again, but I'm sure he doesn't mind if I do. He has never turned me away before, either, and tonight is no exception.

"Ginny," he breathes as he approaches me, as he threads his fingers into my hair. He pulls me close and kisses me soundly.

His hands wander over my body again and, caressing every part of me just like he always does. Like it is our first time again, every time we touch. Like every day is a new exploration. He looks at me like I'm something special, and I melt into his arms. I can't deny him, and I wouldn't dream of it even if I were capable of it.

The wine is forgotten on the floor. It spills onto the carpet, like a pool of blood staining the beige shag, but neither of us pays it any mind.

He holds me in his arms that night.

I know I missed my opportunity. I should have made him take a drink.

The next day, I don't bother going into work. There is no point to it. I know my job is gone. Someone more competent will take my place. Someone who can terminate the target that I was assigned.

And I know that I'm next.

I know that I am the next target.

The end is coming near. I am no longer planning his death. I can't. The thought of not being with him is petrifying and makes me physically ill.

I think I'm in love with him.

Several days go by, and nothing significant happens.

I spend every day with him. I consider moving in. I never want to be away from him.

We make love in every room of his house, and every time and in every place, it feels new and exciting. It feels like I'm spinning in mid-air, floating on the clouds hundreds of thousands of miles high, and I don't want to ever stop because, once I do, I will have to face reality. I will have to remember that I am in danger and so is he.

He never questions why I have stopped going to work, and I never offer up an explanation.

For now, everything is perfect.

His touch is even more fevered this time.

His lips are hot, and this time he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I feel him marking me all over my body, and I don't even care. He can do anything he wants to me, and I won't even call it into question. He's all that I have. He's everything that I want.

He is all I want.

He takes a day off work and cooks me dinner. I am ecstatic.

He sits across the table from me and watches as I begin to cut into the butter and sage roast chicken that he has prepared. He knows it's my favorite, and he smiles calmly as I take in the first bite. He sips on the red wine that he has poured from a brand new bottle. It looks like blood in his glass.

I take another bite and then another. I feel myself growing tired. My eyelids begin closing.

"Tryptophan. It is naturally occurring in poultry," he tells me, justifying my sleepiness as he continues to sip on his wine. He doesn't want me to worry about anything as I continue to drift away.

I don't respond as my head hits the table with a sickening thud.

I never knew that he was planning my death.