This day had come for thirteen months. They both knew it; he waited with bated breath, she waited with a steeled vengeance. Their last meeting. Their last meet. She was too good for him. He knew it when he first saw her. She was pure, but weak. He needed her strength. He needed his tearful warrior, not this apathetic veteran. She knew he was too bad for her. It started out as a project, she needed to know if she was strong enough. She chose the hardest, most weathered man in the room and cornered him. She used every tactic she could. She employed an impulse, knowledge, courage, and cunning.

"They were a match made in heaven", everyone said. No, she always thought they were a match made in hell." She was aloof, he took that as weakness. He was demanding, she took that as passionate. He always wanted to drink, drive, and screw. She always wanted to talk, explore, and cuddle. They were never right for each other. She gave more than she received, he thought everything already belonged to him. He thought that she belonged to him. Their meeting place was ironic; they were both in the war, but they didn't fight. They were on opposite sides, both rooting for the same thing: destruction. They both needed a filler, something to satisfy those gaping holes in them. Something to cure that emptiness. They needed purpose. They needed hobbies. In the end, they destroyed everything; the world, their lives, each other.

She watched everyone around her fall, one by one. She watched the light leave their eyes and she saw them smile as they fell limply from the reigns of war and hate. They got to move on, she found herself stranded in some sick purgatory. She stopped watching. The setting around her had disappeared as she cast her disillusionment charm. A notice me not, she cheated death. She cheated war. She wandered around the castle. She caressed every wall in the corridor with a loving touch. Her tears left tracks on the floor. She cried for Cedric, for her parents. She cried for Marietta, spread out on the floor with a phantom phrase on her lips. She sobbed for what happened to her life. Her hair scorched. She was so pretty, with her sleek, raven locks and slim figure. Her clear skin the colour of sunrise. Look at you now, she chided herself. Blood mixed with tears, streaking down her face. Her once waist length hair burnt. Her fingernails, mangled and caked with dirt. She felt like this war had raged for years, not hours. This once Cold War was now burning, passionate. Everything vibrant red and green, with sparks of yellow and blue. This was a war centred around two people, that spread to two houses. Now, it involved everyone. All walks of life. Acromantulas, centaurs, giants, ghosts and a poltergeist, house elves, death eaters, order members, Dumbledore's army, mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives. No one was safe. Everyone fighting for a different future, for a different fantasy. Some wanted peace, others wanted power, groups seeking freedom, cults for revenge. It was chaos. Pandora's box reopened. Hell raised. Over and over and over. No one had control. She finally stopped when she heard voices. She recognised the sounds. One of them was Malfoy. His parents had looked for him outside. The other was foreign to her. She moved towards them, but not close enough that they could feel her presence.

She snuck into the Room of Hiding Things just before the door slammed behind Goyle. Oh, she knew about this place. Or, at least she had heard of it. Ravenclaws were not as brave as Gryffindors, her House proclaimed, but that thirst for knowledge is the cousin of that infantile thirst for excitement and danger. She wished she had been there before, as she looked upon the trio of Slytherins and Gryffindors, wands pointed at each other in their duel stances. Those poor children. Poor clowns. They had no idea what was waiting for them outside of the secure walls of this room.

They could kill each other in this room and it would be years– centuries– before anyone ever asked for this particular room, before anyone ever needed to hide again. Whether it be from some dark force or from themselves. Oh they could all kill themselves and she wouldn't even bat an eyelash. She had lost everything. For a second, she debated throwing the first curse, sparking the duel, so a stray curse would hit her and remove her from the hell; the one raging inside of her and the one waiting for her, right outside of these walls. She would have to bury her parents when she left this room. She would have to bury her parents and Marietta because her parents never really cared. That's why they got along so well: Cho's parents cared too much for the wrong reasons; but, Marietta's parents never cared. It didn't matter now; they were all dead and she was next.

Honestly, it was just a few words. A few Latin terms thrown together and she could finally leave. Be free of the War and its reign of terror. It was no longer about Voldemort and Harry; it was about who's next to have their life stamped by death. Who gets rang up next in this mad queue to the afterlife? She wanted her place next. Oh, she wanted to go next so badly. Maybe she could kill them all. Kill them all and then finish the job, finish herself out of madness when she saw the blood splattered everywhere. What a glorious death!

But, no.

She couldn't.

She couldn't bring herself to say those words. Those Latin terms.

She thought about Harry and his parents. His parents who fought in the First War and started the Second War. She thought about that damned story; how Lily Potter cast herself between the scrawny little kid before her and the man who killed her parents outside. She thought of how James Potter died. Or, at least how she thought he died. Maybe he stood at his front door, chest puffed out and hair messy, standing before Voldemort, no fear in his eyes, knowing that he could buy Lily sometime to get the hell out of there. She thought of how much he must've loved her, to stand flat-footed in the face of death with that fierce Gryffindor look on his face, and say "You may take my life, but you can never touch my pride." She thought of Lily and how Lily was probably too heartbroken after James died to even leave. Lily did what she could for Harry, but gave herself up to Voldemort because the thought of life without her husband was too harsh for her so she surrendered her life to death, hoping in vain that young Harry would follow. Maybe that's what it was like.

Cho lowered her wand.

If James and Lily Potter died for something as honourable as love, Harry should at least die a warrior's death; not be caught up in some disgusting bloodbath because some unhinged 20-year-old couldn't get her shit together. Then, she imagined Ginny Weasley. Stupid Ginny Weasley. Too young for involvement with someone so vulnerable to danger, someone with a prize over their head. Cho always thought that the Weasley girl and Michael Corner were a good couple. He was reliable. Harry could never be reliable. Either he's on some dangerous mission or he's living thrill to thrill, only enjoying his life when it's almost taken from him. The Weasley girl wasn't strong enough for that.

But she didn't deserve for her boyfriend to die. No one deserved that. Not even Cho.

So she left.

As much as Cho hated everything, she hated Voldemort most. Voldemort- he killed her parents, her Cedric, her childhood. She didn't get to graduate, she attended a funeral. She didn't get a 7th Year Ball, she got Warrior Training. Her mum would never place their family's Goblin-made tiara upon her crown on her wedding day and her father would never give her away and Cedric would never be waiting for her at the altar with that stupid crooked smile gracing his face. She would never get to see her parents grow old or have Cedric's children. And Voldemort was the reason. And Harry was the only person that could stop him.

So she left.

Twenty-three. Cho Chang- tearful Cho, Cho the confidante, intelligent Cho, witty Cho, faithful Cho- killed twenty-three Death Eaters that day.

She had killed sixty-seven by the time she sat with Blaise Zabini on the terrace.

The Malfoys were her last targets.

She was the perfect assassin, with her billowy dresses and her long, dark hair and her watery, trustworthy eyes and that smile that could bewitch fifty men in the same second. She could bat those long eyelashes and they would hand over their wands; their Gringott's vaults; and their lives.

She always looked the part; whether she act as a pastry chef or a librarian or a professor or an escort or a Quidditch player or just a kind stranger. Or a journalist. It wasn't a lie: she always wanted to become a pastry chef or a librarian or a professor or a Quidditch player and she was escorting the men (and sometimes women) to their deaths and she was a Ministry journalist- they paid her to execute those that could not conform to the new laws and she recorded their death certificates. She made a good living doing it, too.

The Malfoys were her last targets.

And it was a job well done.

"Why?" He had the nerve to ask.

It wasn't revenge; she got her revenge long ago.

It wasn't anger; she always got the job done with a smile.

It wasn't pent-up aggression; she barely tortured them, but when they got cheeky and begged for punishment, she happily obliged.

It was because of the way of life. We live, we hurt others, we get hurt, we die. She just took it into her own hands that the bad guys died a bit quicker than everyone else.

"Why do you sleep with everyone you meet?" She spat back.

It was because of revenge; he never got enough of it.

It was because of anger; he hated this world.

It was because of pent-up aggression; they asked for it, and he willingly obliged.

Only they never saw daylight, no matter who did it.

They were both sadists.

Both predators and prey.

He thought that he broke her.

She thought that she could fix him.

He was the only Death Eater she couldn't kill.

She was the only one that ever saw daylight.

She showed him how to manipulate.

He showed her how to make it better.

She changed the rules to his game.

He showed her a better sort of pain.

She played lamb to his sadistic lion.

He played the lion to her masochistic lamb.

They would never live happily ever after.

Would they even live?


4/2/14: I fixed it so hopefully everything makes a bit more sense. I would hate for anyone to give up reading before they got to the end. I'll still be doing maintenance on this story and, maybe one day, I'll do a complete rewrite. I hope you've enjoyed this ridiculous ride. I promise; no more multi-chapter fics until summer.