Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, this would probably be canon and that's pretty messed up.
A/N: OK, as with most of my stories, this didn't turn out exactly how I expected. It was originally supposed to be more of a parody/crack!fic with a bit of romance but it became darker than I planned. There are funny moments simply because of the subject matter, it's Draco in love with an apple – or moments that are supposed to seem funny just because they're so ridiculous – but it is definitely pretty strange.
I hope you enjoy!
Allons-y!
. . .
The Drapple Disorder
The following are excerpts from the diary of one, Draco L. Malfoy (patient no. 568019693), and have been reviewed by Healer Polonius Pupillam for veracity and use in treatment of Mr. Malfoy. Use in the medical study "The Drapple Disorder: The Dangers of Produce" has been approved by Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
. . .
6 September 1993
Dear Diary,
I never thought it would happen to me. I thought this feeling was for lesser men, not the son of two prominent pure-bloods. But I can't get her out of my head – her tantalizing aroma, her firm, fresh skin, the taste of her in my mouth. . . . I, Draco Malfoy, am in love. There – I said it.
It was only supposed to be a fling, one bite and I would toss her away like all the others. But then that brute of a hippogriff attacked me – my father has heard about that and is going to the Committee – and, in the ensuing confusion, Goyle brought her up to the hospital wing with the rest of my friends. I laughed at them both at first – Goyle for being such a great fool and her, for being such a fool as to believe she had a chance with me. But when my friends left, even Pansy, she remained behind. Unused to such affection – Mother and Father had bestowed only the most cursory attentions on me as of late – I tried to push her away, hurling insults which I can scarcely bear to repeat. Thankfully, she holds no grudges.
And still she stayed, soothing me when Madam Pomfrey was too busy to pay any attention to my unbearable pain. But I would have endured ten times that just to spend just another hour, another minute, another second, with her. I was infatuated and yearned to tell her so, but what if she rejected me?
The days after were awkward, to say the least. We were in the same year, had all the same classes. Anywhere I turned, she was there. Each of us knew what the other was thinking but was too afraid to say anything. I was not the only one, then, with a fear of rejection.
It seemed ages that we danced awkwardly around each other, but in reality it was only a few days. And then, finally those – pardon the cliché – three magic words, were uttered. We were alone in the common room, Pansy having just retired after incessantly questioning me about my arm. Yes, I may have hammed it up a bit, but it was for her benefit rather than Pansy's. All I wanted was another night like that in the hospital wing when there had been no awkwardness between us but only our love, pure and unadulterated.
I remember sighing, reaching for my quill to finish writing an essay for Transfiguration, left-handed. It was not easy, to say the least and I was not looking forward to doing it. Perhaps it was destiny, then, that my splinted arm tipped over the ink well, spilling ink over the both of us. She looked too shocked to say anything and I began apologizing madly when she silenced me with a kiss. The ink, the common room, even the pain in my arm, all of it vanished. All there was in this new world of ours was her.
"I love you," I told her, when we finally drew apart. I could still taste her sweetness on my lips. "I love you and I can't live without you and all I can hope is that you feel the same way."
She didn't need to say anything, her expression said it all.
I haven't told anyone, I do not wish to be subject to their judgment just yet. I wish to remain in this perfect little bubble we've created for just a bit longer. You, Diary, are the only one I can tell, at least for now. I do not wish her to think I am embarrassed by her and will have to reveal myself eventually. Judgment is inevitable, I know. They will not understand – they will say we are only thirteen, they will tell us that our relationship will never work. It is unorthodox, I admit, but love, as they say, knows no bounds.
. . .
11 September 1993
Dear Diary,
My heart feels as if it may break. She's had to stay out of classes the last few days, she's been so sick. After Madam Pomfrey's callous treatment of my arm, she's refused to go anywhere near the hospital wing. Instead, I have given the professors her excuses and have taken care of her as best I can, but I can only do so much. Brownish patches cover her skin like some bizarre rash and she emanates a foul odor. Pansy even had the gall to ask what that "terrible smell" was; I would have shouted were it not for the fact that she has been so delicate.
It is obvious Pansy's just jealous; her incessant questions about my health have tapered off and instead she has taken to watching us from afar, me tending to my frail lover and she watching me placidly. I wonder if our bliss is so obvious to those around us, if Pansy realizes my heart has been taken or if she believes us to be friends still. Surely if Pansy knew how happy I was, she would not pursue me and add still more pain to my already burdened heart.
I must find an antidote and soon!
. . .
13 September 1993
Dear Diary,
She consented to a Preservation Charm today. It is a fifth-year spell and Flitwick, no doubt assuming I was preparing for my OWL year ahead of time, was happy to help. Surprisingly foolish for a Ravenclaw; I may be a bright student, but I am no Hermione Granger. I do not wish to reveal my true motivation, they would certainly send her to Madam Pomfrey and I could never betray her trust in that way.
The charm has not erased every blemish but the smell is gone. She is ashamed of these dark spots but she looks as beautiful as ever to me. They stand as a testament to what we are each willing to endure for love.
. . .
3 November 1993
Dear Diary,
I am lucky the professors did not come upon you in their search of the castle. I do not know what I would do without you to confide in; surely I would burst with the intensity of my feelings. But I cannot tell – not yet.
Part of me is hoping things will work themselves out and our romantic trysts have become increasingly more risky as that self-sabotaging part of me hopes for Crabbe or Goyle or even Pansy to walk in on us and spread the news like wildfire all over the school. At least then it would be over and done with and I would not have this awful feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
But Crabbe and Goyle are much too thick, they would think I was eating her face, and Pansy has taken to avoiding me lately. No doubt I have hurt her feelings in my spurning of her romantic advances.
Faced with this problem, it now seems unwise to have befriended some Ravenclaws. They would have worked it out weeks ago and saved me the trouble. Granted, they also would have analyzed me to within an inch of my life and asked the Hufflepuffs for help with an intervention. . . . Still, it is a tempting prospect.
All levity aside, it must be me. I do not wish her to think I am ashamed to be seen with her and that the only place we can truly know each other is the inside of a broom closet. Generous as she is, she does not say anything but I can tell. Huddled surreptitiously together in our shared sleeping bag Halloween night, I could feel her shaking. Father had told me that Potter is the only one in real danger – isn't he always? – but, gathered as we were, what was to stop him from killing each and every one of us on his murderous mission? Dumbledore would never give Potter up willingly, he is the headmaster's golden boy.
Even if we remained safe tonight, what about the next time? Or the next? Hogwarts is not the safest place at the best of times – I was sent into the Forbidden Forest with that giant oaf as an eleven-year-old, for Merlin's sake!
I don't know what I'd do if something happened to her. Doubtless, her death would be swept under the rug like so many others and she herself would be thrown out with the rest of the garbage.
I cannot let our love die unsung.
. . .
13 November 1993
Dear Diary,
Well, I did it. I suppose it could have gone much worse, though I am not altogether certain Crabbe and Goyle understood what I was telling them. However, they do point and grin whenever we walk into a room together so I am satisfied.
Pansy, though, was another story entirely. She laughed at first as if the very idea of my choosing anyone but her was an absurdity. When I reiterated my point, her laughter abruptly ceased and her eyes narrowed. Something like worry flashed in her eyes. She asked how I could possibly love "it."
It? How could SHE possibly be an IT?
I felt her curl into herself at Pansy's hurtful words and my blood boiled. I mouthed incoherent words, barely able to hardly refrain from smacking her across her smug, fat face. All that calmed me was her insistent tugging at my hand; I felt outside myself as she dragged me from the room. I knew she wanted a place to break down in private, where we could kiss away each other's tears and pretend the world around us meant nothing.
. . .
12 December 1993
Dear Diary,
Mother and Father have invited me home for Christmas and, for the first time, I am not anxious to leave this accursed school with its blood traitors and Mudblood scum. Not if it means leaving her behind.
I would like her to meet my parents, of course, but since the incident with Pansy, she has – understandably so – been reluctant to make any further contact with my relations. She is terrified they will have the same reaction as Pansy and has made it plain that any attempt to convince her otherwise is a fool's errand. She is only comfortable with Crabbe and Goyle who appear to have forgotten our romantic revelation but still point and laugh whenever she enters a room. It is strange but at least it has led her to believe they consider her a top-notch comedienne.
If they were able to keep her company over the holidays I would not mind nearly as much; at the very least, she would have bodyguards. But they are going home to their families as well, will probably even visit the manor for one of our gigantic soirees. She will be alone over the holidays and the crowded house, filled to the brim with Ministry bigwigs and relatives I hardly know, will seem empty without her.
. . .
18 December 1993
Dear Diary,
Wonderful news! She has agreed to come, but under one condition – we interact solely as friends, even in private. With all the guests that will be coming and going, who knows who – or what – could be watching? Even house-elves will gossip sometimes if they have nothing else to do.
We have decided to wait until Easter to tell my parents. Although I treated the delay as a reprieve on her behalf I must admit, Diary, I am nervous as well. Both Mother and Father have a deep love of status – more so than for each other, it seems – and they would never allow their son to tarnish that. I can only hope that the warmer weather will improve their outlook.
But Christmas is not a time to worry! Difficult as it will be to interact beyond our romantic bubble, the prospect of spending Christmas with my love is more than enough to make up for it.
. . .
27 December 1993
Dear Diary,
I am sure I sound like a child but this was, quite literally, the best Christmas ever! Every time I've so much has looked at her, a bubble of excitement fills me and – if the looks I gather are any indication – a silly smile spreads across my face.
Mother seems to attribute it to my being home for the holidays and she accepted my excuse of bringing a friend home whose parents were abroad without question. I neglected to tell her that the friend was female and so we have had the luxury of sharing a room without overly inquisitive dorm-mates pulling back bed canopies or knocking on bathroom doors. The house-elves won't dare to say anything; they know what happens when Master Malfoy is displeased, nor do they want to end up like Dobby.
Father, of course, is too busy making Ministry connections to pay the slightest attention. His one gesture of fatherly affection was to drag me in front of several members for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures on Christmas Eve night. With his arm clamped firmly around me, I spent several uncomfortable minutes detailing what one old gentleman called the "rogue hippogriff incident." I didn't bother with dramatization – after all, if it were not for that "rogue hippogriff," I would not be as happy as I am today – and I do not think Father was too pleased. His smile certainly seemed more forced than usual as he patted my shoulder and told me to go get some butterbeer.
But it is not my parents I care about right now. It is her. Thankfully, the quantity of guests has worked in our favor and we have been able to sneak away quite often. Not to do anything – she is adamant that we must maintain the guise of friendship – but just be alone with each other. Huddled by the drawing room fireplace with our heaping plates of trifle and cups of hot cocoa, we discuss homework and Christmas presents – I got dozens, she received one, a pair of emerald dress robes that I tell her bring out her eyes – and which of the old ladies looked the most foolish in their jewels and low-cut robes.
And I can hardly believe that I used to care about any of it.
. . .
2 January 1994
Dear Diary,
I feel like I became a new man along with the New Year. It was the visit home, I believe, that helped show me where my true loyalties lie and now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.
They are with her.
Mother and Father's opinion does not matter to me anymore. Blood may call to blood and they will always be my parents but, their approval or not, we will be together.
. . .
3 January 1994
Dear Diary,
We hold no secrets from each other now and I have told her about you. I expected anger but she forgave all. She believes only one thing is missing and has asked me to forever inscribe upon your pages:
DRAPPLE FOREVER
It sounds ridiculous, some teenage girl's scribble. But to us, it means everything. If Drapple is forever then, by its' very definition, we too should last forever.
I do not know what I would do if we didn't.
. . .
5 February 1994
Dear Diary,
I need someone to talk to. She is giving me the silent treatment and I can hardly bear it. It has only been a few hours since that cataclysmic argument and all I want to do is come crawling back and pray she will forgive me.
As if I deserve forgiveness.
It was Flint's idea originally, of course. Lately, his fervor for Quidditch has become more of an obsession. He is like a man possessed and, after our narrow defeat of Ravenclaw, just about burst a blood vessel yelling. I believe he may have murdered me if it were not for my father and his generous donation the year before. How difficult it is to concentrate when you know your love is sitting there in the stands watching your every move. I tried to see if I could spot her in the crowded stance to send a wink or blow a kiss her way and, when I could not, did a few fancy loops on my broom. It was only Flint's hysterical shouting that drew me out of my amorous daze and I had barely caught the Snitch in time, much thanks to my broom's superior power.
How, Flint had demanded, were we supposed to beat those Gryffindorks if we could barely beat Ravenclaw?
"And don't think your Nimbus is going to save you this time, Malfoy!" he had shouted, spittle spraying my face. "Potter has that Firebolt, remember? That's a national standard broom, it makes the Nimbus look like a goddamn antique! So get your bloody head in the game or get thrown off the bloody team!"
Needless to say, I was anxious to earn his approval. I may not have Flint's obsession for the sport but I did genuinely enjoy playing it, fancy brooms or not. Not to mention it was an excellent way to show off as she sat anxiously in the stands.
So I allowed Flint, along with Crabbe and Goyle, to talk me into sabotaging the game. It was always a good laugh to make fun of Potter's accidents on the Pitch and this time we would be a key part of it. If he fell not only would Gryffindor forfeit the game – pitting us against Ravenclaw, a much easier opponent – but maybe Wood would kick Potter off the team, getting rid of our problem for good.
We expected to be hailed as heroes that night but all we received were detentions from McGonagall, a stern lecture from Professor Snape – who made it clear that, if we were playing dirty, we should at least do it less conspicuously – and, for me, the end of our honeymoon period.
I had, she explained in a shaking voice, forgotten our five-month anniversary. She had waited for me in the common room, she said, having planned a whole day of romance that she was sure would wipe all thoughts of the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match out of my mind. But I had never shown – Flint, Crabbe, Goyle, and I had gone down to the Pitch early to hide our robes under the stands and plan exactly what we were going to do.
It seems so childish now and I know I should have apologized then and there. Perhaps we could have spent a few hours cuddled in front of the fire, an antidote for all ills.
Instead, I asked what the big deal was. We had celebrated all of our other anniversaries with small trinkets and five months wasn't as big as six months, either.
"I'll take you out next month, there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up soon," I wheedled, wanting nothing more than to go and collapse on my four-poster. At that point, it didn't matter whether she followed me or not; how foolish that seems now as I sit here alone! "That's alright, isn't it, baby?"
She told me not to be condescending.
I told her not to get on my back when I'd forgotten one lousy day. There would be thousands of anniversaries in our future, I said. What should one matter?
It only escalated from there. She screamed that I didn't care about her and I yelled right back that she didn't care about my career. Why I thought I would have a career in Quidditch, I'm not sure, I would have said anything in the heat of the moment to gain the upper hand.
Either way, it ended with us on opposite sides of the common room, backs turned to each other.
Now that I think about it, she might believe I'm giving her the silent treatment. But I am too afraid to ask, afraid this might be the end.
"Forever" – what a ridiculous idea. No one can stay together forever, there is always something to tear you apart.
I reach for the inkwell, perhaps more quickly than I should, ready to scribble out that silly inscription, erase it from my memories forever. And, just like that first night, I send it spilling across the desk, the floor, even you, Diary. I have tried to mop it up as a best I could but ink still dots the pages, obscuring letters, words, entire paragraphs. Our argument has been wiped away.
I wonder if our own slate can be wiped clean as easily.
. . .
14 February 1994
Dear Diary,
If Lockhart were still here, I firmly believe he would have been floored by the sanctity with which I have treated this glorious day.
Some may see it as ostentatious – if Crabbe and Goyle's incessant pointing and laughing is any indication, I have become the laughingstock of my peers – yet how else can I give voice to these feelings inside me? I wished to pay tribute to her and a simple box of chocolates or a stuffed bear would not do that.
I admit, I may have overdone it a little with the troupe of singing house-elves. I had turned to her expectantly, hoping she would be pleased. I had been exceedingly solicitous of her feelings as of late; since our fight, I now understood how much I had to lose. Her mortified face was answer enough.
Feeling guilty, I endeavored to make it up to her, showering her with gifts that I had picked up in Hogsmeade over the weekend. Honeydukes Best Chocolate, Pear Drops – her favorite, she could eat them by the bagful – a safe selection of Bertie Bott's Beans, even a stuffed bear that sang in a squeaky voice when its' paw was pressed. It reminded both of us too much of the house-elves to listen to it for long.
So we spent a quiet Valentine's Day, the first of many, she reminded me. Perhaps in the future, she teased, I could have a whole choir of singing house-elves. I joked right back that they would have a musical accompaniment and our names up in lights.
And I couldn't help but wonder if that would ever happen, if she will ever be comfortable flaunting – to quote the house-elves – "Drapple's undying love" to the world.
. . .
13 March 1994
Dear Diary,
Easter is almost here and with it will come the end of our secrecy. It is funny how far away it seemed as we sat by the fire, watching the snow fall outside. And, as the weather warms, I find myself mirroring that snow, growing colder with every passing day. I have prepared myself for the possibility that my parents will not accept us, will even disown me, in the only way I know how – detaching myself. Like the snow, I am wiping away all that is past, leaving only room for new growth. I have been skipping most classes – all but Potions, it is always fun to see Professor Snape bait Potter – and in the evenings, she and I are to be found curled up in my four-poster, curtains drawn. She is only too happy to oblige, of course; she has never been a social butterfly and any extra time spent alone rather than within a circle of my peers, is a gift to her. I will hand my resignation in to Flint after the final match. It is best to sever any connections early, I know – once our secret is out Dumbledore may well have me expelled – but I cannot resist ridiculing Potter one last time.
Only Crabbe and Goyle are still allowed into my inner circle. They are too loyal to me to simply cut ties with and they can always take up their useful roles as bodyguards again; after all, there will undoubtedly be those who challenge our way of life. But it does not matter. I will endure anything for her, sacrifice anything for her. Together, we can face anything.
. . .
2 April 1994
Dear Diary,
The worst has happened, we are separated. I am a prisoner in the room that once afforded us such sanctuary while she is locked in another somewhere in the echoing halls of the manor that I used to call home.
How ironic that an unjust injury bought us together and so must one tear us apart again. Once I escape, that Mudblood will get what's coming to her. For her to even touch me was repulsive, but to physically harm me. . . .
Shell-shocked, she and I wandered the castle together, Crabbe and Goyle having lumbered off to Transfiguration. I held a cold cloth to the shiner – fashioned in the boys' lavatory, we both refused to go to Madame Pomfrey still – as she continually reassured me that I had done nothing wrong. The impressions made her laugh, she said, I don't think she had ever really forgiven him for the hippogriff incident so many months earlier. Besides, how was I to know that the Mudblood would try her hand at Muggle brawling on this particular day?
Perhaps if I had known, I could have prevented it and thus prevented what happened next.
Snape passed us in the corridor. He was used to my skipping classes and, for the most part, turned a blind eye; it should have been a simple exchange, a nod or a hello. This time it was different, this time he took one look at me and grabbed my arm in a vise-grip.
"This has gone far enough, Draco," he said and, still holding my arm, began to move down the hall at a brisk pace in the opposite direction from which we had come. I was forced to hold her tighter, afraid of dropping her, and she flinched in pain.
"Professor, please, you're hurting her!" I begged, paying no heed to my own pain. Snape's dark eyes remained emotionless though he did seem to walk a bit quicker. A horrible thought seized me: What if he thought she had done this? I wondered how far the knowledge of our fight in February had spread, how far the rumors had been distorted.
"It wasn't her, Professor!" I babbled, gesturing to my eye with my free hand and nearly punching myself in the process. "It was that Mudbl- that Granger, she attacked me!"
Again I received no response and his only action was to shoot a silvery shape out of his wand that bounded ahead of us to Dumbledore's office. The old man sat behind his desk, serene as ever so as not to inform anyone of what was going on behind those bright blue eyes. A myriad of frightening possibilities flashed through my brain – they were about to expel her, put her on trial at the Ministry, throw her, or both of us, in Azkaban.
We both stood, ramrod straight, waiting for the blow to fall. The old man offered me a seat but I ignored him, staring straight over his head and into the distance. I could feel her shaking and I held her more tightly to me, whispering soothing words. I ignored Snape's wince, we were long past paying any heed to such judgments. It was only our differences that scared them, our differences and how unabashed we were of them. There was no question, whatever happened, wherever she went, I would follow.
But that choice was not left up to me. We were torn apart, as with so many romances, by our parents – well, my parents. I have never met her parents, though she assures me they would like me. Perhaps we can seek sanctuary with them once we have escaped this palatial prison.
I do not remember much of the events that followed, just Father shouting and Mother crying. All I know is that it ended in Father clamping an arm around me – there was nothing fatherly about it this time – and all but pushing me into the fireplace. I had to scramble not to drop her and I turned back to send Father a reproachful look but by then I was already being spit out onto the drawing room floor of the house. I cannot think of it as home anymore.
Home is not a place where your father snatches your girlfriend from your arms and, as you shriek in fury – an inhuman sound it must have been, even my own mother shrank back from me – authorizes the house-elves, the creatures he despises but apparently not more than his own son, to use their own brand of binding magic to drag said son to his room.
My prison had been prepared for me, the doors and windows warded against my opening them. All I could do was press an ear to the door as Father vented and Mother wept, her words barely audible through her tears.
Though I despised myself for thinking it, I hoped my love had already been imprisoned in her own cell, one far away from the room where my parents' battle raged. Better that than to endure my father's tirade, filled with that dreaded word.
"My son is in love with a piece of fruit!" Father yelled. "It would be better if he was a fruit!"
The term was worse than Pansy's "it" if only because Father acknowledged what she was and still considered her to be inferior to him. He, a man who blackmailed and manipulated to get what he wanted. Even comparing himself to her – one of the most loving and generous women I had ever known – made me sick.
I cannot believe I ever thought they would accept us, cannot believe I was such a fool.
I must stop for now, Diary. When my chance to escape comes, I must take it, and cannot be sitting, inactive, hunched over a desk.
Whoever gets in my way will regret it.
. . .
Examiner's Note: This entry is not dated, due no doubt to the patient's emotional distress. The closest approximation that can be made is a few days after Easter, the day on which the "murder" the patient refers to occurs.
-Healer P. Pupillam
The pie, the pie, THE PIE. It taunts me, it calls to me in Father's voice.
". . . in love with a piece of FRUIT . . . in love with a piece of FRUIT. . . ."
Her screams, too. I could hear her screaming as I pounded on the door, scraping at the wood until my hands bled. And still they come from the pie, the pie, that goddamned pie.
I am free to leave, but I hear them no matter where I go. They are my penance, my punishment for letting this happen.
". . . in love with a piece of FRUIT. . . ."
The screams sound again, like clockwork.
I want to die. I wish I could die. I am sure Father would not object. He would stage a lavish funeral and cry manufactured tears but, in reality, would be relieved. No more freak son - in love with a piece of FRUIT – to sully his reputation.
Yes, death would be a mercy. But I cannot face her. I can never forgive myself for this. I have betrayed her just as badly as Father betrayed me. I loved her and failed to protect her.
I know she would say I had no choice, that I had no idea what would happen and how could I possibly hope to prevent it? That does not change the fact that I should have known, should have done something. It does not change the fact that her death – her MURDER – is my fault.
The pie taunts me again: ". . . in love with a piece of FRUIT. . . ."
My punishment will be to live. To live and remember.
DRAPPLE FOREVER.
DRAPPLE FOREVER.
DRAPPLE FOREVER.
. . .
16 April 1994
My Love,
The cold is with me all the time now. We have lost the final but I find I hardly care. Flint is angry but several female Slytherins – Pansy among them – have congratulated me on my foul play. We may have lost, Pansy crooned in a faux seductive tone, but at least it granted us a few extra minutes. In truth, I hardly remember it. Only when I strain can I recall a shadow of the memory and, even then, it feels as if another man is doing it – grabbing Potter's broom, smirking triumphantly as Potter growls in frustration. That final race for the Snitch, too, is a blur. You, my love, are gone now and with you everything I have to give. Nothing I do, good or bad, matters anymore.
I am numb with cold.
. . .
29 May 1994
My Love,
Mother and Father visited today. I play my part well. I tell them how we lost against Gryffindor and even manage to summon a regretful grimace. Father asks if I am studying for my exams. Mother suggests we, all three of us, take a holiday this summer. Somewhere nice and warm, she says.
I say that would be very nice.
Father says that that is a good idea. He says that he might have a few Ministry contacts with summer homes in the Caribbean.
I smile and nod.
They smile and nod.
We pretend as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed our uneasy intimacy.
I shiver.
. . .
5 June 1994
My Love,
It is almost summer. The skies are cloudless and light finds its way through every nook and cranny. Students and teachers alike smile and laugh more easily – even the dungeons are not invulnerable to the infectious cheer that pervades the castle – but my walls of ice remain impenetrable. Even Crabbe and Goyle have deserted me.
How can I possibly grow warmer when all I feel is cold? How can I possibly be happy when all I can see is ghosts of us . . . no, not even ghosts, ghosts are memories, things that have already happened. These are ideas, hopes that have not yet come to fruition.
Us, strolling by the lake. Us, lounging under a beech tree. Us, laughing and playing chess or Gobstones.
You, screaming.
Then I wake and it is just a dream. Or a nightmare, I cannot decide which.
As always, you are the only one who can breach my defenses. You, my love, are angel and demon in equal measure. You rescue me from the depths of my madness and just as quickly destroy me, sending me back down again.
Am I insane for wanting it to stop?
Am I insane for not wanting it to?
. . .
9 June 1994
My Love,
Just like that first day, you are by my bedside again. I wonder if this will be our last day.
I hope it will.
I hope it will not.
Mother is crying again. Father is shouting again, this time at Madame Pomfrey. Again, she is paying little attention to me; it seems that placating my father has taken priority over my throbbing head.
I feel like Potter. A headache, the hospital wing. . . . All that's missing is some great, ugly scar.
The red-soaked rag at my side begs to differ. I touch my temple and feel nothing but a turban of bandages. Not that I'm surprised, Lupin's idea of an exam was just an accident waiting to happen. The hinkypunks, the Red Caps, the boggart. . . .
The boggart. The tree trunk. The screaming.
My head splits open.
And then she is screaming, screaming, SCREAMING, louder than I have ever heard. She takes up the whole of the hollow trunk – do not think that this is an aspersion on your weight, my love, I am being quite literal – and I am afraid I will fall.
Dimly, I hear Father yelling that I need to be locked up, that it is for my own safety. But I am already locked up, I am trapped within this fantastic nightmare. Now she is handing me a knife and suddenly she is a pie – that horrible, taunting pie, ten times the size – and I am taking the knife and stabbing it into her – into you, into IT – and I am clawing at the pie, shoving the horribly sweet concoction into my mouth, but I am clawing at my face too, making noises more befitting a wild animal.
I have killed her.
I have killed her.
Outside myself Mother is screaming – or is it me? - nonsense words that are choked with tears. I wonder if we will still be taking that holiday. I could use someplace warm. The cold, it is unbearable.
I am shaking, stumbling away from the pie, my stomach distended. I can feel her in me. Voices are calling out for me – Lupin's, Father's, Mother's, Madame Pomfrey's, yours. But I am impenetrable. All I can hear is you, in me.
I will see you soon, my love.
DRAPPLE FOREVER
. . .
A/N: Just a fun fact, Fudge says in Goblet of Fire that Lucius Malfoy got tickets to the World Cup by donating generously to St. Mungo's. Why would he have done that? To keep them quiet about having his son committed there to recover from his illness! Conclusion: Drapple is canon, people! ;)
I will be working on the next "chapter" in The Sorting Bucket next, starring Rufus Scrimgeour and Horace Slughorn.