Remember When?
Tinsadisaster
Summary: Remember when you loved me? DMHG
Words from the Author: I finally had time to update my stories so here goes my second update of the day:D Check out The Love Connection, as well. I just wanted to say this chapter was possibly an orgy of all my thoughts, feelings, emotions, whatever from the past several months. It may be a mess but I hope it's a very beautiful mess.
Disclaimer: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for some of the concept in creating this fanfiction, though not all of it. JKR for the characters and the magical world. To HIM, the boy who never fails to inspire me to write stories for the moments in which he does not love me the way I want him to.
There's
so much more about you that you never let them see
You turn
away
But not to me
And I know how they tried to take you
Held
you up and meant to break you down
But you can't be
"Become" Goo Goo Dolls
You told me you loved mint-chocolate chip ice cream and walks along the school lake. You told me you disliked Quidditch but loved the nooks and crannies of the library. You told me you secretly read romance novels with bronze, brawny men on the book covers catching, holding, rescuing voluptuous, beautiful women.
You told me many things and I haven't forgotten.
Not a single word.
You said I was cursed with the anti-hero complex.
I said I just really hated Potter and his holier-than-thou personality.
(But secretly, I wanted to be him.)
You said when you were six years old, you fell from a cherry tree and that is why you are afraid of heights, of Quidditch, and of airplanes (I still don't know what those are).
You said on the first day of Hogwarts, you saw me and fell in love with my hair; just my hair, not me. You said it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen and felt. I said you were crazy and you should get away from my mane.
You told me you feared mirrors, talking or not. You said they told the truth and though you were strong spiritually, you could not stand their judgement. You avoided the mirrors in the Heads' Bathroom at all times. You said you didn't like the girl you saw because her hair was too bushy, her teeth too crooked, her thighs too jiggly, her skin too pale.
You told me so many things and I have failed to forget them.
Every thing that my mind associates with you and the memory of you, haunts me in my daily life. The hair brush, the bathroom mirror, the toothbrush, the cat hair on the bed sheets, the everything.
And I speak like you're dead but you're not; not really. You're just gone from my life and that speaks volumes enough.
With your absence lingering in every corner, every stone of my house, I feel the weight of silence and loneliness tear at my soul till there is barely enough of it left. With your ghost turning corners while I chase it, I find myself lost within my own home. With your voice singing me a lullaby every time I close my eyes to sleep, I want to open my eyes and see you there, singing to me, physically there.
And I think I'm going crazy without you here.
And I grasp onto the memories, the singular theme that you were mine once, that I had you in my arms once, that I woke up to you in the morning once, that I felt the touch of your caress once, that I loved you and you loved me once.
And I remember the fear – that imminent fear, always chasing us like we were doing something wrong. The fear of society eternally on our tails, the fear of my father's cruelty continually following us down the hallways, the fear of reactions at every corner of our lives.
But that is all we are now. We are a memory, a memory to be stored in a box hidden behind the box of Christmas decorations rotting in a broom closet somewhere.
We are of the past, only the past. We are not of the present or of the future.
But I am forced to live in the present, always fearing the loneliness promised in the future. Because I am stupid, stubborn and still in love with you.
I did not make a big commotion at your wedding.
I did not scream "I love you, please don't marry him!" at the right time, at all.
I did not make a single, fucking sound.
I did not smile, because my smiles are only reserved for you, not for the whole public magical world.
And I did nothing at all to hint that I had feelings for you.
It was the fear – the consequences of the actions that I had planned to take were too scary for my limitations of bravery.
I almost believed you would stop in your tracks, run towards the altar, push Ron away and climb into my arms, showering me with kisses and "I miss yous."
But you didn't. You never. You smiled at him, that special smile that you promised was only reserved for me. You liar.
I thought I knew true suffering when I was forced to witness my own mother's execution. The woman who gave me life – executed by the man who "loved" her, my father. But when I witnessed your wedding, the wounds ripped open all over again, bleeding and bleeding still, down my robes, puddles of it surrounding me, flooding the church floor, touching the high heels of the witches, licking the boots of the men. It was everywhere. My pain was everywhere, my pain flooding, my pain stinking up the ceremony.
Ron said, "I do." The knife inserted itself, right in my gut. You said, "I do." The knife twisted, the pain it emoted nothing compared to the simultaneous moment in which my heart shriveled up and shrunk.
The minister pronounced you husband and wife. The mouth of hell opened up beneath us all, swallowing the pews, the unsuspecting guests, the candles, the ribbons, the fire, the altar, the minister, the other groomsmen, everything and everyone. Even you.
And I saw myself in total blackness. Black in all directions, no sign of light anywhere, no grain of light guiding me to the exit. Never, always, forever in darkness.
And my father's voice: "She never loved you. You're just a stupid little boy, with hopes and desires I thought I squelched years ago. You'll die a lonely wizard, my boy. We Malfoys always die alone. It is the Malfoy curse."
And me, screaming, screaming wildly, calling out to you, calling your name, calling for help, calling for Potter, calling for God, calling for Merlin, for anyone who'd just help me.
Potter shook me, saying, "Y'alright, mate? Looking a bit green in the gills. You need to sit down or something?"
The sadistic images fell away, the guests, the settings, the floor repaired itself. The blackness turned into light, into a wedding, into a church, into a sugar-coated hell.
I muttered that I was fine.
Potter and I were the only ones left in the church, I noticed.
The guests had apparated to the reception.
Everyone had disappeared, for real this time.
Potter looked at me, genuine worry in his eyes, always genuine because he was Harry-fucking-pure-Potter. He hugged my shoulders, helped me walk down from the altar, apparated us to the reception.
And I whispered to myself, "When will this torture end?"
Potter heard but decided to keep any comment to himself.
He nodded, a gesture that meant nothing in our current situation, and opened the doors, smiled for the cameras, lied for the occassion, and entered the reception room.
The doors closed and I heard the music, silently, smothered behind the wooden doors.
I wanted to run away, to breathe, but I did not.
Those doors symbolized acceptance that I would not get what I wanted, that what I wanted was never meant for me, that I could try but I would get nowhere.
I pushed them open, entered the ceremony, entered my hell once again.
I remember the light blinding me, the glare of the lights forcing my eyes to dilate, the shock penetrating my whole body, the nervous impulses shooting to every limb of my body, to my heart beating like a drummer on meth.
I remember that I loved you, that I love you still.
But do you remember that you loved me?
Do you?
