Chapter #15
The Final Separation
“Death offers thee rebirth.”

They spent the day in silence. Not the huffy kind Ginny was used to – it stretched, for quite a while, between her and her mother every time she did something Mrs. Weasley disapproved of – but a chilly, steel-like kind that made her jumpy and angry, and her tones cold.

Her conversation with Draco had, throughout the day, been limited to the ingredients he had listed in a cold, rather jeering drawl, and several “get out of my face, Malfoy,”-s when he had come to close. He had only smirked in response every time, making no fancy comebacks as she had expected him to. By the time evening fell, she had collected her share of ingredients, eaten off several fruit-trees to assuage her hunger, and badly needed a bit of sleep. But he was still on his feet, and Ginny held back the exhaustion, determined not to let him guess that she was tried.

“Your ingredients, Malfoy.”

She dumped them on a bit of clear ground, six or seven feet away from him, as she called out the words. Malfoy turned to look at them, smirked at her, and walked over. Ginny took several steps backwards.

“No need to be scared, Weaslehead,” he called out as he bent down to examine a twig. “I’m not going to hurt you... yet.”

“Shut your face.”

“Why? Is it killing you?”

She glared at his stupid sense of witty comebacks, and turned her back to him. Malfoy tapped her on the shoulder with his wand, and she jumped to face him. “I SAID GET OUT OF MY FACE.”

He rolled his eyes. “Listen, Weaslehead, I know my face is killing you –” he grinned at the murderous look on her face – “But I need burnt firewood to add to my potion. Go build a small fire, will you?”

“I’m not your maid,” she spat at him. “Burn it yourself.”

“I know you have a brain the size of pea, Weasley, but I thought you might have enough common sense to know I only have two hands. I can either brew the potion, or attempt to produce an ingredient.”

How had she been supposed to know he was going to commence brewing the potion while she built the fire? Ginny scrunched up her face to say so, but he had already gathered the ingredients, walked off a little distance, and conjured a cauldron. He is SUCH a donkey, she thought acidly as she glared at him – a glare he did not catch because he was not looking her way – and then, muttering swearwords under her breath, marched off a little deeper into the woods.



A little hunting produced a branch or two of good firewood, which she set aflame with the help of her wand. Ginny watched the little flames flicker for a moment or two, before she sat down next to her small-sized fire, trying her best not to think of the git Malfoy was.

She was so immersed in her thoughts, she did not hear the soft sound of footsteps, or the dangerous rustle of cloak – and then someone wrenched her brutally to her feet, twisted her arms behind her. She let out a piercing scream as she saw the flash of shining, silver dagger, felt the sharp blade sink into her arm, and then her attacker had clapped a strong, dirty hand on her mouth that drowned out all voice.



In the middle of awarding his steaming cauldron a clockwise stir, Draco Malfoy looked up. The scream had sounded far-off, but he was sure it was Ginny’s. For a moment, he was unsure and then, extinguishing the small fire that spiraled beneath his cauldron, he rushed off in the direction the sound had floated from, wand aloft, muscles tensed.

Stupid Weasley, nothing but trouble.

But emerging into the clearing, his jaw dropped open. Her attacker was cloaked from head to toe, only mean eyes visible through the slits in his hood, but Draco knew those eyes instantly, knew them without any difficulty: it was the man who had been in Ginny’s cell, the same man that had gone down in the flames. For a second, Draco could not believe what he saw, and that second of surprise cost him much: The attacker caught sight of him, and placed the dagger he carried on Ginny’s neck.

“Drop your wand,” he said threateningly. “Or the girl dies.”

Draco did not. He stood his ground, anger evident in his eyes. “You went in the flames,” he said coldly. His mind was a rush of panic, and yet he felt cool, like he was invincible, or like nothing could defeat him. He felt... like a Malfoy. “I thought you died.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, meaner than ever. “Burned a good deal, didn’t I?” he said, and his tones were bitter. “Have to wear a cloak now, don’t I?” The man pressed the blade closer to Ginny’s neck and, contrary to how Draco had thought he would feel, he felt like his own life, and not Ginny’s, hung in the balance.

The feeling that he cared sickened him.

“Let her go,” he said quietly. Dangerously.

The man held up one of Ginny’s arm, and with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Draco realized it was bleeding. He’s hurt her. The bloody –

“Let go of your wand,” the man said dangerously. “Drop it now, or I kill her. NOW.” He flashed the dagger dangerously at Ginny’s neck, his one-handed grip on her arms loosening as he concentrated solely on the instrument in Draco’s hand, and Ginny grabbed the moment of opportunity to wrench herself free from him. She shoved a fist into his mouth, tearing his hood to reveal a very, very badly-burned face.

Sickened at the sight, she backed off and the man stuck out wildly in his panic, his dagger slashing her madly across the front. Blood gushed out, she gave a scream of pain, collapsed. Draco’s heart turned over, and his wand moved so quickly, the man barely had time to do anything else. There was a jet of green light, and the man lay on the forest ground – dead.

I killed a man. He felt sickened, revolted by the thought of what he had done, but – but he had not planned this, no he had not. It had happened instinctively, the Killing Curse seemed to have just slipped out of his tongue the moment the dagger had slashed Ginny; he had not been able to stop himself. It isn't my fault, it isn't.

The world around him seemed to have blended into a swirl of thick, angry colours and panic and intensity -- for a moment, he stood rooted to the spot, and then he staggered towards Ginny, and knelt down besides her. Her chest was motionless – she was not breathing.

“No,” he said. “No, Ginny, you can’t die, no –”

It was the Dark Arts his attention had always been devoted to – chiefly courtesy his father – and he was far from good at healing magic. Draco had never regretted this but, at this moment, he did.

They say we only learn to care - to really care - for what we love, the moment we realize we are about to lose it. For the first time in his life, Draco found it difficult, not to think straight, but to think at all. She can’t die, no – oh God, she can’t die. His mind was in a state of absolute turmoil, and incantations rolled off his tongue as he traced his wand over her frame. The bleeding ceased, but no relief came – her chest remained motionless, her body devoid of breathe.

Scared – he, Draco Malfoy, scared? But he was never scared! – very scared, he reached out a hand and touched her cheek.

It was as cold as ice.