I never intended to fall in love with her.
I didn't even know I was capable of loving anything other than myself. Sexual intimacy was the closest thing I had to loving another person. But as much as I tried with Pansy, the part of my brain responsible for connecting with people on that deeper level was corked tight like a potion vial.
And then Erica shattered me.
I didn't love her at first. I had been used and fooled by many others who were attracted to my power and family name. My natural skepticism made me think she was just a nosy witch. A nosy, but stunningly beautiful witch.
I had barely noticed her in previous years. She was quiet, plain. A dormant rosebud that had yet to bloom. Someone who could barely count as a Slytherin. My eyes had probably glazed over her more times than I could count.
But when I stumbled into the common room that night- pissed, wet, bleeding from multiple pin-sized holes in my hand, I don't think it even registered with my stupid, stupid mind that I was in the presence of an angel. When I laid eyes on her, it was like someone had struck a chord within me. Dormant flower no longer. Slender neck, pink lips, eyes like jewels- like a deer waiting to be shot by the hunter.
She might be the first and only time I ever get to see an angel, since I'm going to hell.
Most girls I lusted after in the past were rich and expensive-smelling. Erica smelled of cheap bergamot soap and hospital antiseptic. And yet, I was transfixed by her- I don't believe in stupid things like having a 'type', but if I did have one, it would be her. But like most good and beautiful things in my life, I resisted it. I had a list of things to do and there was no time for distractions.
I was foolish to think I could resist her.
I knew I was a sick fuck who liked ruining every woman he touched. Every time I saw her, it was like tempting a lion with fresh, bloody kill. I could hurt her so easily. And yet she dutifully healed my wounds.
Every time she healed me I was reminded of my carnal desire to be with the virgin angel with daddy issues. And it didn't bother me- because at first, carnal desire was all it was. I could resist that for as long as I had to. But when she kissed me in that corridor, alcohol on her breath, it was like the angel fell from heaven, straight into my arms- and like a brainless sinner, I allowed her to blur the line between matron and mistress.
But still, I did not love her.
Even when she took her clothes off and asked me to make love to her, I didn't know the meaning of the word. I didn't love her, even while she writhed beneath me in the dark. I was living inside my own little dark age, closed off to everyone, unless they served me some use.
I used her for healing. I used her for sex. I used her as an alibi, and I was going to use her and our relationship as a diversion to keep my real objective protected. And I felt no guilt, because she was practically begging me to use her.
Everything was so easy- until I realized I couldn't breathe when I thought about her with another man. I was willing to do anything to make her belong to only me, even if it meant hurting others, or myself.
I realized I had fallen in love when I sliced my hand open just for a reason to talk to her.
Suddenly, her being mine in theory wasn't just a dream, it was all I could think about. I fixated upon her until eventually I thought about her more than I thought about murder.
She was quite possibly the only person who saw past my name, my father's imprisonment, even that God-damned Dark Mark upon my forearm, and saw me for what I was. We had connected on a plane of existence that I didn't even know was on the map of human intimacy. She had an absent father, as did I. She lived to heal others; and I lived to hurt. We were two sides of the same beautiful, chipped coin.
I thought I could easily make her mine. But her refusal stung more than any curse, jinx, or hex, and only made me even more obsessed with her. I was the youngest Death Eater to ever exist; a slave to the Dark Lord, and slave to a teasing, beautiful 5th year.
I must have lost my mind a thousand times over her.
When I didn't see her, I constantly wondered where she was, and what she was doing. It drove me mad. I had never felt this psychologically plagued by someone before in my entire life, not even by that infernal Potter. I had once told Pansy that I could never be anyone's boyfriend- but for Erica, I would be whatever she wanted- her lover, her protector, even her husband.
When the darkness of reality became too much I retreated into a daydream where Erica took my last name, bore me heirs, and stood by my side as my jewel-eyed matriarch in a society of pureblood wizards. But nothing was ever that easy- no, how could I ever live a life of such light when I had devoted myself to the forces of dark?
She just had to be a half-Squib.
My entire life I had known one truth. That Muggles were filth, but Squibs were worse. Squibs were proof of the magical bloodline failing, and that was unacceptable in the eyes of my father, and my father's father, and every Malfoy patriarch before them. If they knew I had stuck my dick in the child of a Squib, my ancestors would curse me in their graves.
With just four words, those emerald eyes of hers set fire to every hope and dream I had for us that I was nurturing in the locked chambers of my mind. It was like the girl I loved had suddenly died, and I was left to mourn her, alone.
I was angry at myself for unknowingly committing heresy. I was even more disgusted with myself that I couldn't seem to let go of her enough to sell her out and expose her. The person I was before I knew her wouldn't have hesitated to do cruel things to a half-Squib. But I wasn't that person anymore. She had changed me into someone I didn't know, and it was like my very soul had betrayed itself.
My grief was arduous and self destructive. I spent long, cold nights smoking Muggle tobacco in the astronomy tower until my throat was raw. I went to war with myself, questioning everything I thought I knew. I hated her for making me feel this way; like I couldn't recognize my own mind, for I was now a starving dog gnawing at its own leg, trying to forget the taste of meat.
Trying to forget the sound of her moans.
Trying to forget the pinks of her lips.
Trying to forget how good it felt to be inside the flesh that was warm with tainted blood.
I wanted to kill her, and fuck her at the same time.
…God, I might be the most fucked up person on the planet.
Eventually I convinced myself that we could live in separate harmony in the castle. As long as she didn't tell my secret, I wouldn't tell hers, and we could continue our symbiotic relationship from afar. I wanted her to remain in the castle. She needed to be somewhere I could watch her. Even though I couldn't have her close to me, I just had to know she was there.
I tried to ignore the emotion I still harbored for her while we were at the Manor, but it was impossible. By then, my feelings for her had festered and bound themselves around my beating heart like rotten ropes of gauze. I was contaminated by her. She had sworn to heal me, and instead she left me with an incurable infection in the core of my very being. My love for her was ingrained in me as much as the Dark Mark was ingrained in my skin. She was my first love- and the only love I wanted, in this life and the next.
The Dark Lord saw that.
The Dark Lord viewed love as a weapon of war; something to be used against people as an incentive to do his bidding. He wanted to kill Erica. But I informed him that she was being used as a part of my plan to distract the students and staff of the castle while I carried out his will. I convinced him that she was essential. I pleaded with him to take my life and spare hers if I failed. He accepted my condition, and smiled as he did so.
I didn't regret trading my life for Erica's. I considered it my karmic gift to the universe. If I died, she would go on to save more lives than I would ever take away.
A wiser, stronger man would have let her leave for America. But it was unendurable to think of the castle without her. No one else understood me like she did- even my own mother saw that. It almost shocked me how easy it was to get over a multi-generational prejudice and allow myself to admit to myself that a half-Squib was the love of my life; but with her uncle now in the picture, he played flawlessly into the narrative we needed to finally be together.
I did consider coming clean to Erica and admitting that she was being used without her knowledge as a cover story. But when I finally had her, I wasn't willing to risk doing anything that would make her run from me. So she and I became trapped in a deadly dance teetering on the fine line of mutual destruction. I wished I could say I regretted it. But finally being with her, even though she was a half-Squib, made me feel whole. And with everything falling into place, I knew I had the confidence to perform the killing curse.
Well. I did, until I saw the life drain from her face when I told her about it.
I thought I had what it took to kill until Erica came into my life and made me question my beliefs about blood purity. The Dark Lord wanted to kill all Muggleborns and Squibs. But how could I put my faith in someone who wanted to kill what I loved? It was a dangerous realization to be had, when I looked inward into myself and realized I was not killing for the Dark Lord. I was killing for Erica. But it was bitter to think about killing when I knew deep down that wasn't what she wanted. So slowly, I lost confidence in myself.
As the months of the calendar swiftly flew by, I found it harder and harder to see myself living beyond Dumbledore's assassination. We endured months of agonized waiting together, clenching our jaws every time the Cabinet was tested. She didn't know that every failed trial meant I got to live another day. I refused to confide in her that I was questioning my intentions because I knew it would only make her more distressed- but god, it was torturous, thinking about when the day would come when the Cabinet would be fixed and I would have to perform and inevitably fail. So I had to secretly prepare myself for the reality of my own demise. I was resolved to die if it meant Erica would live. I'm glad that she at least has the painting, so she will never forget the face of the boy who put a star in the sky for her.
I tried to savor my remaining time with her, but fucking her hard and often was the only thing that made me feel less like a dead man walking. She was like an IV drip of morphine barely keeping me afloat- but the promise of doom was always looming over our heads like a dark cloud that we believed we could chase away if we just loved each other harder.
I wanted to choose her. I didn't want to serve the Dark Lord anymore, I just wanted to exist with Erica in a world with nobody else. If we only had the chance, I would have married her in a heartbeat. But I was a slave to the Dark Mark. If I had just realized it sooner that I never really had a choice, then maybe she wouldn't have had to end things with me like she did today. At least now she wouldn't have to watch me die.
If only I had listened to Blaise and Pansy, instead of stubbornly thinking with my crotch instead of my head. I hated to admit it, but Blaise was right. I had turned into a shadow of who I used to be. I was a weak imitation of a Death Eater, and now I was going to pay for my weakness with my life.
If I was being completely honest with myself in this moment, all I wanted to do was off myself before the Dark Lord could have the satisfaction. She had left for America, and I was stuck here, tethered to the Dark Lord for as long as I lived; whether that be days, weeks, or hours.
But she and I would never meet again, not even in the afterlife.
I was headed to a place now where I had to go alone. So I have to let her go.
...
Fuck. I was crying again.
My father would have given me a stern look of disapproval if he saw me sobbing as pathetically as I was right now, hunched over a bathroom sink. But he was in Azkaban, and I was marching towards Death's door. So fuck it. I was going to cry. And if anyone saw me- I would turn them into target practice, and make them suffer as much as I was.
I lifted my head and looked into the mirror. I wasn't alone.
Damn it. Just the last person I wanted to see.
Potter.
A/N. This chapter took me the longest by far to write (probably upwards of 2 weeks). It's hard to put myself in Draco's shoes and capture just how helpless he's feeling. But essentially, he realizes he has to let Erica go, because he never really had the option to be with her, because he's a Death Eater and she's half-squib.
