1The Problem with Draco Malfoy
To Ms. Hermione Jean Granger,
I understand if this post comes as a surprise to you, being who I am. Indeed I considered sending this under a nom de plume, as the French say, but I came to realize that my information is only useful because it comes from me. Please do not take this the wrong way. Implications are somewhat of a second nature to me, and I do not mean to give any such idea. Again, I must beg of you, do not be confused as to my intentions; petty House rivalries are the least of my concern. I must confess myself to be utterly honest and, if anything, begging your forgiveness for seven years of horrific (and inexcusable) treatment. Had I the chance to reverse my actions, I would, and I believe we would have been great friends, had it not been for our different beginnings and subsequent controversies.
To speak candidly, Ms. Granger, I believe that you know very little of me, if any at all. I suppose you would define me by the company I keep (or rather, the company I kept, past tense is of the utmost importance here). And so, forsaking any attempt at politeness, I shall just plow forward without any regard for propriety (my mother would disown me had to any idea of this letter, but I suppose that is for the best).
What you are doing is wrong.
I suppose that is what you expected of me, am I correct? I pride myself in accurately evaluating people, and I am positive that you are sitting – most probably in some library somewhere – reading this letter with derision. Then laugh, Ms. Granger. Laugh. Put down this letter for a moment and ignore it, and when you are ready to take it seriously, I implore you to continue reading.
So I shall repeat myself, assuming you have taken a break: What you are doing is wrong. Do not insult me by misconstruing my feelings as jealousy. Although, when I was twelve, perhaps those were the feelings I had towards you: misdirected, unabashed jealousy. Indeed, I spent many of my Hogwarts years listening to him talk about you. He would relay your sentences (mockingly, of course, and with what he deemed were offensive nicknames). All his attention was diverted to you.
And yet what you are doing is still wrong.
No, Hermione, I do not pretend to care about your heritage. If anything, the Second Great War has done nothing but distance me from my family, those sixteen well-documented generations of Pure Bloods. Thus, this letter is completely without any of that politically incorrect snobbery that my parents and fellow Slytherins content themselves with.
Here you may be confused, Ms. Granger. Indeed, I would be. What possible excuse could I have, if not with your heritage, if not with my own feelings of inadequacy.
It is the opposite, Ms. Granger.
It is his inadequacy that I must focus on.
You have no grasp on what you are doing, what mistake you are making. I know, because I have been there, and I know, because I know him.
Perhaps it was an exciting idea, while you were still at school, to fantasize about him. Perhaps you have actually convinced yourself that he will change for you.
But he will not.
He cannot.
Do not make the mistake I made, I beg of you.
It is only after that war, after removing myself from his control that I am able to write this letter, with the meager dredges of self-respect and maturity that I have remaining.
You need to believe me, Hermione. You cannot see it, not when you are that close to it. You cannot understand what he is doing to you until you step back and look at yourself in the mirror, three years later, and realize just what he has taken from you.
Seven years of my life. That is what he took, and I am grateful every day that that is all.
Perhaps you are thinking about him right now, even as you read this. You are imagining him in your mind's eye. And you are lying to yourself. You think that you can change him. You are making inconsequential arguments in your mind, siding with him against yourself.
I have been there, Hermione. And all those moments that you looked at him and said, "This is why he likes me. This is real."
Those were lies, Hermione. Stop believing it.
And that's the problem with Draco Malfoy.
He makes you believe that you are special. For a moment, you think to yourself, I can save him. I can make him different. He has a heart.
And perhaps that is true. He is human, after all. But pause, Hermione, and think. Does he have a heart for you, or for himself? When you last snuck out to see him, when you last left your fiancee waiting alone, at home, what did he say to you that made it okay? What did he say that made him worth risking everything for?
I know how it is. He asks you for something, and you are powerless to say no. You are watching his perfect face and you are making a picture in your mind of what is in his mind. You are dreaming about what his motivations are, and giving him excuses. He doesn't even need to apologize, ever, because you are doing it for him, you and his compelling eyes. You know everything about him because he has become your life, and he is consuming everything slowly. A month ago you had a reason to live and now all you can think about is when you will see him next. All you can imagine is what he is doing now.
Focus, Hermione. Think of yourself. There is always time to be selfish. Why be selfish for him – he is selfish enough as it is!
Be rational.
I was his for seven years. I spent those hours listening to him talk about himself. He never once asked how I was doing, so in my mind I would have entire conversations with him, as he droned on and on about Quiddich and Harry Potter... and you. Do not fool yourself into thinking you are anything to him, Hermione. You are not. You are nothing to him but another flashy toy, another reason he can give himself.
You are attention. You were that unattainable thing and once you cease to be unattainable you will be nothing.
He does not love you, Hermione.
He can only love himself, if you call that twisted infatuation love. Narcissism at its worst, he doesn't even admit his own egosim. I shared a Common Room with him for seven years; do you know how he sees himself? I would wager that you assume that the way he acts is some facade, that beneath it he is misunderstood and secretly loveable. He is not. His facade is himself. And he loves himself for that.
I suppose you believe that you love him. Have you admitted it yet? I hope you have. Denial will only make you want him more.
What I am trying to say, Hermione, is this: see the world as it is. Ronald Weasley will be a finer husband, a better man, than Draco Malfoy will ever be able to be.
And perhaps I am still jealous of you – but not for him, never for him. Take your life, Hermione, and don't let Draco take it from you.
Marry Ronald. Do not spend your days dreaming of Draco. I promise you, he has already forgotten about you.
I do not expect a response; I do not expect us to ever speak again.
But I am simply trying to give you the advice I wish someone had given me.
Be smart, Hermione. Be smart for yourself.
From Pansy Parkinson