Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, just the plot. Yada, yada, thanks JKR.
A/N: It's just a one shot I wrote when I was particularly pissed off.
~*~
This was an accident.
Well, maybe not so much an accident as an impulse of my emotions. I was blinded by rage. By envy. Father told me never to show my emotion. He told me feelings were for the weak, and no Malfoy was such. That was simply not acceptable. But I let my emotions consume me like tidal wave over the helpless shore. I burst from the rigid, emotionless exterior my father built like a river from a punctured dam. I was weak. Father never knew of my pain, my despair. He would not have cared. My mother would not have done anything to bring me solace. If it was not an order from my father, my mother did not do it, in fear of his wrath. I could not tell her anything. As far as spineless jellyfish go, she was the perfect mother. I don't think it would have mattered if they knew or not, for they would not understand matters of the heart. They did not love each other. It was only a marriage out of convenience and social gain.
Not that the lifeless heap at my feet didn't deserve his doom. He had it coming. Did he have any idea about the malice he made boil within me? Any idea that his mere existence fueled the fires of my eventual murderous rage? Oh, did he ever have an idea. That smug bastard took advantage of every opportunity to break my spirit. To slash at me with a cruel and twisted knife. Ever since he stole the only thing I ever let past the iron gates of my external being. She was the only warmth to ever melt the thick ice that so enveloped my heart. She reminded me what the heart was there for; not just some throbbing organ brining life to my body, but the origin of a once unbeknownst emotion-love. I loved her. Little did I know that I was only a placeholder until the real object of her affection took notice. After I had so painstakingly opened myself to another, to love, it was all taken away. He took notice. She chose him. My heart was ripped from my chest and thrown to the floor. Then stomped on. He made sure I knew that I was ultimately defeated. He obliterated every sliver of feeling in me. As if the destruction of my heart wasn't enough, the prick felt the need to demolish my mind as well. She did not help either. There was never even a trace of sympathy or regret on her face. I was forced to see them together, most of the time engaging in their nauseating public displays of affection. Each time I saw him, or her, another log was tossed into the furnace of my malignant soul, heating up the anger and hostility within me. I tried to play the role of the unaffected ex-lover, searching for the trashiest bit of rebound material I could get my hands on, but I couldn't. With every arrogant look from him, with every sickeningly happy scene, with every giggle emitting from her lips as he whispered unmentionable things in her ear, a new thread was woven into the rope about my neck. When rumor got around of their engagement, the floor dropped out and the rope tightened its fatal grip. If only that had been my fate.
Instead, all the rage burning inside me exploded. My blood was on fire, searing through me with sheer hatred. I found him quickly. They were together, of course, just outside of the school. They were having a happy little picnic by the lake. That was the last time I would ever see her smile. That was the last time anyone would ever hear him breathe.
For now I stand over his body. The hands of a seventeen-year-old boy should not be stained with the blood of another. But mine are. The thick, sticky blood covers my hands, my chest, and the gleaming dagger I still clutch with fury. The same blood that used to pulse through my victim's body. She is on her knees, screaming, pounding the ground. He, of course, is not moving. He will never move again. A sick satisfaction is swelling up within me. The doors of the castle swing open. They must have heard her screams. Dumbledore and several teachers are coming my way. When they see what I have done, they fall to their knees. McGonagall is weeping. Weeping like a pathetic servant kicked to the corner by their master. Now students have come to see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't take them long to figure it out. They cry. They scream. They look at me in horror. Dumbledore grabs me by the shoulder and looks me straight in the eye, the former twinkle gone. Quelled by my deed of acidic loathing. I just smile. A cold, heartless smile. I have my bitter revenge. Revenge on the one who stole Hermione Granger from me. I have killed the Boy Who Lived.
~ Fin.
A/N: It's just a one shot I wrote when I was particularly pissed off.
~*~
This was an accident.
Well, maybe not so much an accident as an impulse of my emotions. I was blinded by rage. By envy. Father told me never to show my emotion. He told me feelings were for the weak, and no Malfoy was such. That was simply not acceptable. But I let my emotions consume me like tidal wave over the helpless shore. I burst from the rigid, emotionless exterior my father built like a river from a punctured dam. I was weak. Father never knew of my pain, my despair. He would not have cared. My mother would not have done anything to bring me solace. If it was not an order from my father, my mother did not do it, in fear of his wrath. I could not tell her anything. As far as spineless jellyfish go, she was the perfect mother. I don't think it would have mattered if they knew or not, for they would not understand matters of the heart. They did not love each other. It was only a marriage out of convenience and social gain.
Not that the lifeless heap at my feet didn't deserve his doom. He had it coming. Did he have any idea about the malice he made boil within me? Any idea that his mere existence fueled the fires of my eventual murderous rage? Oh, did he ever have an idea. That smug bastard took advantage of every opportunity to break my spirit. To slash at me with a cruel and twisted knife. Ever since he stole the only thing I ever let past the iron gates of my external being. She was the only warmth to ever melt the thick ice that so enveloped my heart. She reminded me what the heart was there for; not just some throbbing organ brining life to my body, but the origin of a once unbeknownst emotion-love. I loved her. Little did I know that I was only a placeholder until the real object of her affection took notice. After I had so painstakingly opened myself to another, to love, it was all taken away. He took notice. She chose him. My heart was ripped from my chest and thrown to the floor. Then stomped on. He made sure I knew that I was ultimately defeated. He obliterated every sliver of feeling in me. As if the destruction of my heart wasn't enough, the prick felt the need to demolish my mind as well. She did not help either. There was never even a trace of sympathy or regret on her face. I was forced to see them together, most of the time engaging in their nauseating public displays of affection. Each time I saw him, or her, another log was tossed into the furnace of my malignant soul, heating up the anger and hostility within me. I tried to play the role of the unaffected ex-lover, searching for the trashiest bit of rebound material I could get my hands on, but I couldn't. With every arrogant look from him, with every sickeningly happy scene, with every giggle emitting from her lips as he whispered unmentionable things in her ear, a new thread was woven into the rope about my neck. When rumor got around of their engagement, the floor dropped out and the rope tightened its fatal grip. If only that had been my fate.
Instead, all the rage burning inside me exploded. My blood was on fire, searing through me with sheer hatred. I found him quickly. They were together, of course, just outside of the school. They were having a happy little picnic by the lake. That was the last time I would ever see her smile. That was the last time anyone would ever hear him breathe.
For now I stand over his body. The hands of a seventeen-year-old boy should not be stained with the blood of another. But mine are. The thick, sticky blood covers my hands, my chest, and the gleaming dagger I still clutch with fury. The same blood that used to pulse through my victim's body. She is on her knees, screaming, pounding the ground. He, of course, is not moving. He will never move again. A sick satisfaction is swelling up within me. The doors of the castle swing open. They must have heard her screams. Dumbledore and several teachers are coming my way. When they see what I have done, they fall to their knees. McGonagall is weeping. Weeping like a pathetic servant kicked to the corner by their master. Now students have come to see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't take them long to figure it out. They cry. They scream. They look at me in horror. Dumbledore grabs me by the shoulder and looks me straight in the eye, the former twinkle gone. Quelled by my deed of acidic loathing. I just smile. A cold, heartless smile. I have my bitter revenge. Revenge on the one who stole Hermione Granger from me. I have killed the Boy Who Lived.
~ Fin.