Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe does not belong to me.
A/N: Several bunnies whispered this in my ear last night. Please review and
show them they're doing their job.
She bandaged his wound, silently. She did not speak as she knotted the white cloth around his chest.
She wondered what she would say to those who asked her why she was doing it. She would explain that she was saving a life, not his life.
She watched as the blood spread quickly, staining the cloth a deep crimson. Was this what this battle was about? Was this what so many had died to keep pure? It was no different than the blood which had flowed from Hermione's wounds, no different from the blood from Ernie MacMillan's slit throat. She watched, entranced, as the redness seeped into the bandage, weaving an intricate pattern as it flowed from thread to thread.
She looked at his hand, at the ornate ring which he wore, and the jewel which encased a bit of the same blood. Pride was what this was about, not the blood. The blood was all the same - red, reeking, and thick. She wanted to smash the gem on his hand, to rip off his bandages now that they had stuck to his skin, so that it would pull away more flesh, and all of his blood would be spilt in just revenge.
She looked at the sword which lay by his side, grand and silver, heavy and sharp. It was stained with another's blood. Likely considered unpure. If he lived tonight, would he clean it from the blade, and wrinkle his nose and attempt not to let it touch him? Was that what he would do? Was this what she saved him for? Should she kill him with it? Stab it through his pale chest? Would it not be righteous, would it not illustrate the phrase he who lives by the sword, should be killed by the sword*?
Still she hesitated, her wand in her hand, not yet uttering the healing charms.
She looked at his own wand, tucked into his waistband. She withdrew it, and marveled at its craftsmanship. It was long, made of the finest ebony, with delicate engravings. As she scrutinized it closer still, she realised these gravings were part of an elaborate design of snakes and thorns. She held it out, wondering who else it had been pointed at. She moved her arm to the left and directed it at his throat. Would it not be poetic justice to kill him with the wand which was so carefully decorated to honor him? Would the irony not be perfection?
She dropped the wand, suddenly breathing too quickly, and it clattered against the stone floor.
She could not kill him. She would not kill him. It would not be righteous, just, or perfect. It would be what he would do. Wouldn't he kill her? Should she not show that she was better than him, elevated above him in ethics, despite her being lower in class?
The room was dark. The torch mounted on the wall upon which his unconscious body leaned only shed light on them. It was the only light in the room.
She looked around. Who would know, if she killed him or if she saved him? Either way both would be done in anonymity, safely shrouded by the darkness of the dungeon. She picked up her wand from the floor, out of a small puddle of blood, likely that which had flowed from his wound before he fell to the floor. She brought her hand up, to look at the blood which stained her fingers.
No, this blood was the same. The same which had stained her stockings as she cradled Colin's corpse the week before. It was not any better than any one else's, and it certainly was fleeing his body quickly. She knew she must make her decision soon.
She lit her wand with a hoarse Lumos and looked around the now illuminated room. There was another body, farther away. She rose and slowly walked over to inspect it. She stood over the corpse in shock, the bloody wand in her hand nearly slipping through her stained figures as she recognized it. This was Lucius Malfoy. He had been stabbed, perfectly through the heart.
She whirled around to look back at Draco's form, hunched near the wall. Her eyes flew to the sword by his side. It was stained with pure blood, it was stained with his father's. He had killed his father. He had-
She ran to his side, saying the healing spells, their Latin words slurring and spilling from her lips, and thus not rendering effective.
She must save him, she mustn't be too late. He had killed his father for a reason, a righteous, just, perfect reason. He didn't wish to be like the others, he wasn't the same, he was not what she thought he was.
What he was now was dead. Too late. Too much pure blood had been lost.
Ginny cried. She should have saved him. But she couldn't save him.
He had saved himself.
Quote is from *Revelation 13:10.
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