The Hero Gets the Girl

by She's a Star

Summary: 'You're probably repulsed by now. Well, too bad. Deal with it. I didn't ask to fall for you. You can't fight fate, you know.'

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling

Okay, Weasley, I'll admit it.

I love you. Ugh. Who the hell would have thought I'd ever say that to someone? Not anyone I know, that's for sure.

You're probably repulsed by now.

Well, too bad.

Deal with it.

I didn't ask to fall for you.

You can't fight fate, you know. But then again, you wouldn't; you're probably too naive to understand that, aren't you, Weasley?

I think that's what's most intoxicating about you; you're so innocent. You've been possessed by the fucking Dark Lord himself, and you still see the world through the eyes of a child.

Believe me, if I could have it my way, I would. If the world went the way I wanted it to, I wouldn't stop in the corridors to watch your hair dance around your face like unruly flames of fire as you talk to your friends. I wouldn't savor the sound of your voice, wondering all the while why someone from the lowest social class could have the soft, whimsical tone of an angel.

And then I have to stop and hate myself for falling in love with you, and then my mind goes off on its own and wonders if maybe you Weasleys can't be so bad after all.

"What if money doesn't mean much?" a little voice in the back of my mind that I've come to damn to hell quite frequently asks. "What if it doesn't mean anything at all? What if you're the lower class for believing it's so important?"

But I don't want to think about it. I'm a Malfoy; we're important, we have more money, we're the best.

Enough said.

I try to distract myself by attempting to fantasize about what it would be like to kiss you, to caress your soft, ivory skin...

And I find that I can't.

I can't, dammit.

Am I a fucking idiot or what?

I want to talk to you and find out what your favorite color is, or your favorite season, or your favorite holiday. I want to hear your voice; this desire is something more emotional than physical.

Hence the fucking idiot title.

Let's not make this longer than it is. I know it's painful for the both of us, Weasley.

Somewhere along the line, I've fallen in love with you, and now I feel like my heart is being ripped from my ribcage and torn to shreds as the rain casts tiny crystal drops in your hair and across your skin.

You're not crying.

How can you not be crying?

The whole reason Voldemort didn't kill Potter was because you jumped in front of him. You jumped in front of the Boy Who fucking Lived.

He would have survived without you, Ginny.

He didn't need you to save him.

And now everyone's out here and Granger is crying and Weasley too as he holds her and there are lifeless bodies all around us, and the rain is falling and the sky is black velvet and the stars are shining like the world hasn't just been ripped apart.

And you're dying.

You're dying and Potter is holding you in his arms, brushing back your hair and whispering through tears that he always loved you and never knew it.

I always knew it, Weasley.

And yet I'm still the one who's standing here in the corner, muttering out the things I've been wanting to say for the last two years with no one listening but the rain.

It figures. It really fucking figures. I'm just the bad guy, and the bad guy never gets anything but pain.

The hero gets the girl.