Her. There she goes again. He scowled, his line of vision blurred just
as she had once blurred the lines of good and evil for him. He laughed
at himself for ever thinking such a thing. Lines? There were no lines!
There was only one big gray cloud hanging over everyone's lives, no
matter be they good or evil. There was no good or evil anymore. There
was only power, power that corrupted him, drained him of every human
feeling he once enjoyed. Gaity. Laughter. Hope. Light. Happiness.
Love... He would never experience them again. All he knew was despair,
pain, suffering, numbness, power, darkness. There was the darkness
that took over him. He remembered when it started. The day he heard a
loud, unearthly scream coming from the dungeons of his cold marbled
manor. His blood ran cold, colder than ever. It would eventually come
to be replaced by ice; the ice he had in his veins, coursing through
his unmarred pale body. He remembered seeing a body, tangled up and
sobbing in the darkness, filthy and almost covered in a putrid smell
that seemed to envelope it. And there was his father, standing beside
the body, tall and malicious, eyes glinted with the giddiness of blood
that flowed in pools and rivers on the ground. Yes, he was proud,
proud of what he'd done. Draco felt the pit of his stomach drop for
once, allowing him to feel remorse and guilt. An emotion he hadn't
experienced again until he'd come to the fabled school of witchcraft
and wizardry. Until he met Her.
The guilt was soon replaced with disgust and anger. Why should this person have gotten themselves captured?? It was their own fault! Every night, before he went to bed, he heard the same blood curling scream that pierced the night like a thousand iron daggers. He remembered wanting to be numb, sedated against those screams. Well, he laughed cruelly at himself. You got what you wanted, you're numb, cold, unfeeling. And you wish you could have Her. She was the embodiment of everything he could never have. Would never have. She was the light, the tangible joy that he lacked and desired. She was a fire in his otherwise frosty mind. Her eyes were warm and steaming with laughter as she entered the cold dungeons with her two friends. He growled and muttered under his breath. Potter and Weasley. They were always around, they never let him near her. Yet he longed to steal a few moments away from her, away from the world, where he could just be himself. He wanted to tell her how he felt, yet he knew he could never do that. Himself? He chuckled sadistically. What was he? Everytime he looked in the mirror, a cold hollow persona stared back at him, with stone cold eyes. His eyes, his stormy silver eyes, like those of a cat. Once filled with emotion, now reduced to writhing in pain and torment from never being able to feel again. How he longed to feel It. It; love. He knew he wanted to love Her, yet all traces and knowledge of how had vanished from him. It was gone in a wisp of smoke.
Now he sat there, alternating between scowling and staring longingly at the girl before him. Each chocolate brown curl he wanted to tuck in place with tender hands. Each freckle he wanted to kiss with kindness. He gazed at the corners of her mouth, tucked and curled into a smile or a laugh from one of Potter's jokes. He wanted to be the one to make her smile, to take her delicate hands in his and whisper his love into the well of her ear. But he never would. All he could remotely feel was passion; desire. Never love, never kindess, never humor or laughter. The only kind of humor he knew was the cruel irony of his life.
And so he sat there, half listening to the words that flowed out of the mouth of the potion's master. The heat of the summer day never bothered him. He couldnt' feel heat, only ice and cold. The cold that he felt deep down in what used to be his heart. He sat there gazing with lust at the girl in front, two tables to the left with the sparkling eyes. And he knew what he felt. Disgust. Disgust at the fact that underneath it all, she would always be beautiful, kind, and smart. And underneath it all, he would always be cold and evil. Dark and hungry for power. He thought of the blackness that was sitting atop his skin at the very moment. It burned and stood out against the stark white flesh of his fore-arm. The Dark-Mark. The symbol of the death of all good that once struggled to stay alive inside him. He knew that once this class was over, he would go about his daily life. He would pass Her in the hallways, but never make a move to help, never utter a kind word. He would only spit insults at her, but she would just ignore him; walk away with her head held high in a kind of triumph. As if she knew that she was victorious over him. She had what he would never have. Love. Acceptance. Friendship. He longed for those things. He longed for her. Yet he could never have that which he so desired. He wanted her more than anything. More than the power he thirsted for, or the blood he was brought up to lust after. He knew that after they graduated, she would go off and fight evil. All the evil he felt. And he would go and join his family, his ancestors and become a dark one. A Death Eater. An evil shadow of life, devoid of feelings. Eventually, he would have to face her in battle, and win. Yet he knew he couldn't' win. He would meet his end at the hands of his beloved, and she would never know. Yes, for once, HE would get to be the silent hero. Not Potter. They would all cry for him, for letting her win. For letting her live. They would praise him.
He shook his head. No, nobody would ever know, nobody would care about the boy. Did he even have a first name anymore? Malfoy was all he knew. He'd grown accustomed to it. Malfoy. That name, the name of his father who had so horribly murdered hundreds of innocent people. That was a lie. There were no innocents. There was no one but Her. And for once he wish he could throw away his name, his proud legacy, to be with her. He would meet his end at her hands, and she wouldn't' care. She would be happy to get rid of him. The boy that taunted her and called her "mudblood" all these years. His cold lifeless body would lie there for days, wracked with sobs that would come seeping out. All the tears he had felt but had never cried would come pouring out. He would drown in his own sorrow. Life is funny like that.
All he had were his bittersweet memories. And he would sit there, while his soul withered and rotted remembering a time that never happened, in a place that never was, in a situation when he was with Her. A situation that would never be. That was all he could do. Wait no! His face lit up in a jeering smirk of mocking. He mocked himself. That wasn't all he could do. He could hate her. Yes, he hated her. For being so youthful and full of life. For being happy. For being everything he always wanted but could never have. But above all, he hated her for not noticing the darkness in him, the pain he carried in his eyes before every emotion was grabbed roughly from him. For not saving him from the fate which he carried now, burned on his arm, blackened by his heart. His was a life destined for agony, and he hated her, for leaving him alone.
"The fates were against us," he whispered into the darkness.
The guilt was soon replaced with disgust and anger. Why should this person have gotten themselves captured?? It was their own fault! Every night, before he went to bed, he heard the same blood curling scream that pierced the night like a thousand iron daggers. He remembered wanting to be numb, sedated against those screams. Well, he laughed cruelly at himself. You got what you wanted, you're numb, cold, unfeeling. And you wish you could have Her. She was the embodiment of everything he could never have. Would never have. She was the light, the tangible joy that he lacked and desired. She was a fire in his otherwise frosty mind. Her eyes were warm and steaming with laughter as she entered the cold dungeons with her two friends. He growled and muttered under his breath. Potter and Weasley. They were always around, they never let him near her. Yet he longed to steal a few moments away from her, away from the world, where he could just be himself. He wanted to tell her how he felt, yet he knew he could never do that. Himself? He chuckled sadistically. What was he? Everytime he looked in the mirror, a cold hollow persona stared back at him, with stone cold eyes. His eyes, his stormy silver eyes, like those of a cat. Once filled with emotion, now reduced to writhing in pain and torment from never being able to feel again. How he longed to feel It. It; love. He knew he wanted to love Her, yet all traces and knowledge of how had vanished from him. It was gone in a wisp of smoke.
Now he sat there, alternating between scowling and staring longingly at the girl before him. Each chocolate brown curl he wanted to tuck in place with tender hands. Each freckle he wanted to kiss with kindness. He gazed at the corners of her mouth, tucked and curled into a smile or a laugh from one of Potter's jokes. He wanted to be the one to make her smile, to take her delicate hands in his and whisper his love into the well of her ear. But he never would. All he could remotely feel was passion; desire. Never love, never kindess, never humor or laughter. The only kind of humor he knew was the cruel irony of his life.
And so he sat there, half listening to the words that flowed out of the mouth of the potion's master. The heat of the summer day never bothered him. He couldnt' feel heat, only ice and cold. The cold that he felt deep down in what used to be his heart. He sat there gazing with lust at the girl in front, two tables to the left with the sparkling eyes. And he knew what he felt. Disgust. Disgust at the fact that underneath it all, she would always be beautiful, kind, and smart. And underneath it all, he would always be cold and evil. Dark and hungry for power. He thought of the blackness that was sitting atop his skin at the very moment. It burned and stood out against the stark white flesh of his fore-arm. The Dark-Mark. The symbol of the death of all good that once struggled to stay alive inside him. He knew that once this class was over, he would go about his daily life. He would pass Her in the hallways, but never make a move to help, never utter a kind word. He would only spit insults at her, but she would just ignore him; walk away with her head held high in a kind of triumph. As if she knew that she was victorious over him. She had what he would never have. Love. Acceptance. Friendship. He longed for those things. He longed for her. Yet he could never have that which he so desired. He wanted her more than anything. More than the power he thirsted for, or the blood he was brought up to lust after. He knew that after they graduated, she would go off and fight evil. All the evil he felt. And he would go and join his family, his ancestors and become a dark one. A Death Eater. An evil shadow of life, devoid of feelings. Eventually, he would have to face her in battle, and win. Yet he knew he couldn't' win. He would meet his end at the hands of his beloved, and she would never know. Yes, for once, HE would get to be the silent hero. Not Potter. They would all cry for him, for letting her win. For letting her live. They would praise him.
He shook his head. No, nobody would ever know, nobody would care about the boy. Did he even have a first name anymore? Malfoy was all he knew. He'd grown accustomed to it. Malfoy. That name, the name of his father who had so horribly murdered hundreds of innocent people. That was a lie. There were no innocents. There was no one but Her. And for once he wish he could throw away his name, his proud legacy, to be with her. He would meet his end at her hands, and she wouldn't' care. She would be happy to get rid of him. The boy that taunted her and called her "mudblood" all these years. His cold lifeless body would lie there for days, wracked with sobs that would come seeping out. All the tears he had felt but had never cried would come pouring out. He would drown in his own sorrow. Life is funny like that.
All he had were his bittersweet memories. And he would sit there, while his soul withered and rotted remembering a time that never happened, in a place that never was, in a situation when he was with Her. A situation that would never be. That was all he could do. Wait no! His face lit up in a jeering smirk of mocking. He mocked himself. That wasn't all he could do. He could hate her. Yes, he hated her. For being so youthful and full of life. For being happy. For being everything he always wanted but could never have. But above all, he hated her for not noticing the darkness in him, the pain he carried in his eyes before every emotion was grabbed roughly from him. For not saving him from the fate which he carried now, burned on his arm, blackened by his heart. His was a life destined for agony, and he hated her, for leaving him alone.
"The fates were against us," he whispered into the darkness.