Disclaimer: I used a line from Kurt Cobain's suicide note. You know the drill, characters not mine, neither is anything you recognize.

Dear Hermionie Granger:

You wrote me a letter, asking why I was the way I was, and why I kept 'picking on you and your friends'.

Just for this once, I choose to answer, but the substance of this letter is for your eyes only.

I once thought that my life was perfect. But as I grew up, I realized that it was everything but that, my father was no longer an idol through my eyes, and I became afraid.

I don't know what I feel, sometimes I don't know if I feel at all. Nothing seems to matter any more- it's better to burn out than fade away- and that's exactly how I feel, I think, I didn't burn out, I had no reason to. Just nothing mattered anymore. I was spiteful, because I was afraid that people would understand how I feel, I wouldn't let anyone in.

Words of affection and disgust seemed to bounce of my skin, as I felt the fire burn out inside me, the light fade away in my eyes. I could find comfort in nothing and no one. I became depressed by this, but when I lost all expression in my face, people noticed, and they tried to help and make things better, they never realized how useless it all was.

Soon, I didn't care how I felt and I rose out of my depression. Everything was normal around me, but never inside. Then I entered Hogwarts.

I acted like everything was alright, and it worked, nobody seemed to notice. I picked on you because your lives are perfect. I was jealous. I guess I am still. You had all the things I always dreamed of, money isn't everything you know; I may have more money than any of you could ever gain in a lifetime, but I was never loved, by anyone.

So, I was just a mean little rich boy. Soon even twilight faded from me as it turned to a weary darkness. A darkness of mind and soul that blinded me.

I don't have a space where I can just let go, I have to keep straight, hold my head up high and just lock myself inside the deepest part of me. Just keep acting, and be 'me'.

Nobody really likes me, just the person I pretend to be, and even then, few like me. I realized this, and began to want my feelings back, even if it would only make me cry. But my feelings have been locked away too long, and now I can't find them. They're deep inside a safe, and I've forgotten the password.

I've tried to become addicted or a fanatic of some things, perhaps to drive my mind away from it's sheer emptiness. 

I wanted to feel happy, to find something I liked to do. Something I could hide behind, but this too was just useless. I didn't feel sad, and that is just the problem. I didn't feel.

Any feeling now was worth it. So I had one last effort – pain. So I cut myself.

(Why am I telling you this? You will either tell your beloved Harry potter or just go all "it's all right" on me. I answer that one o previous matter. It is not alright. It never will be. Let me find out you told anyone and I will make you HURT. Remember I know exactly how to do that.)

 I watched a small river of blood run my skin. But that was all it was. Blood, on skin. A different color resting on my too pale skin.

I cut myself again and again, waiting for something, but that something never came, because pain is after all, a feeling. And I do not feel anything. So I have been forced toward imagination, and dreams.

Dreams that again showed someone that wasn't me, someone full of things to give, needing none in return.

I need help. Someone that can help me and accept me the way I am. Someone like the person I am in my dreams.

I don't know anyone with those qualities. That is perhaps why that inexistent person haunts my mind, a dream yet to be accomplished. Also, my name brings but disgust and hatred. You should know. I must say that I am sorry, but know you know the true meanings of my insults.

I know realize that tears were never a weakness but strength. A strength of being able to know how I  felt, and exactly what I wanted. I wish I could be born again, start with a new beginning, but that won't happen, I know. I am surrounded by people, and I feel utterly alone.

I will be even more alone soon. I will take the dark mark in three days. Please tell no one of this. I do not do it by my own will. That I promise.  For now, I know that even if I look into the fire, I will see black. Everything resumes to black.

Next time you see me, I will throw an insult at you, and you will pretend you are highly offended, and throw another insult back.

Burn this letter, or keep it where no one can see.

See you at dinner; I will go downstairs now, with a big FAKED smile on my face. It will do, it always does.

Draco Malfoy.

Should I write a sequel? Review and tell me!