Good people, and I mean really good people, like headmaster Dumbledore, are prone to saying that being good is a black and white sort of thing that anyone can be fully aware of. I'm not going to say that I completely disagree - I'm going to have to think about that some more before I take an official stance. All I'm going to say is that things that others would find obviously bad I don't see as quite so bad - others like that blighter Potter, I mean. Well, that didn't make any sense. All I'm trying to say is that if Potter were here right now, he'd say that I am doing a bloody awful thing, and maybe I am... but it just doesn't feel like I am.
Am I making any bloody sense at all?
She is actually beautiful. I have become increasingly aware of this of late. It's not there when you're not looking for it. She has this internal sparkle that you really have to dig for - a diamond buried in her rough personality.
And why am I here? Really, because it's what my father wants. I'll bet Mr. Potter was never put in a position where he could either disobey his parents (or the headmaster, or his muggle family, or whatever) or, well, kill someone. It's whole new twist on that old phrase, 'lesser of two evils'. And, while to my dear Mr. Potter's comprehension, disobeying one's parents may seem to be the lesser, Mr. Potter would have no idea of the consequences for disobedience in my father's world.
Merlin, I am such an insecure bloody child, vaccilating between what my father's going to do to me, and what Harry Potter the Great would think of me. Bloody hell.
Doesn't wear much to bed, does she? She seems to be wearing a white shift of some sort. She's pushed off her comforter, and the shift doesn't hide much in the way of details. She has a pretty little face, and sleep wipes away the intensity that clouds her features by day. I study her face briefly, but my eyes are drawn magnetically to the peaks of her chest.
Her eyes flutter open . I can see a brief recognition dawning in her eyes after just a sleepy second or two. The intensity flickers back on like a light. "What in the worl-"
I panic and run. I scramble into their filthy common room and duck behind a wing-back chair like a child playing hide and seek. I crouch there, trying to catch my breath.
Minutes pass that seem like hours. She pads softly down the stairs into the common room, looking nervously around. "Is-is there anyone there?"
I pull out my wand and point it at her slender form. Something primal wells up within me - something that reminds me all too much of my father. My wand arm falls to my side, and I creep out behind her. As I suspected, she is lugging around a well-worn copy of of 'Hogwarts, a History' - her bludgeoning weapon of choice. Even pursued, she's afraid to use magic between classes. I swiftly wrap my wand arm around her middle section, and wrench the book from her grasp with my other hand. "Don't move," I hiss.
"Draco Malfoy! What's going on? Why-"
"Shut up, mudblood,"I spit. "Your life depends on it!"
"Are you threatening me?" she asks, voice trembling, but loud with a false bravado.
I admire her spunk, but this is my moment. "I-" why can't I make the bold words come? "Of course not, Granger," I mumble reluctantly. "Actually, I'm bloody saving your life, so please, please just shut up."
"Draco, I will scream, and Ron and Harry will hear me, and-"
Thud.
Stupid mudblood. I had to knock her out - she practically bloody forced me to- with that bloody book she relies so heavily on. Ironic. I hold her up for a second, then she slumps to the floor.
So far, I'm not feeling any guilt, but what am I supposed to do now? I'm not sure I can stick my father's knife in between her pretty mudblood breasts like he wanted me to. I- just can't. In some weird way, I think she of all people would understand what I'm going through.
Maybe I'm more like those other guys than I thought.
Plus, she really is too pretty to stain with blood or sully with bruises.
I lean over, pick up her senseless form, and carry her away.