Your father told you about the child that my mother bore before her marriage to my father, before they had ever even thought about having Bill. Your father told you that, for a while, my mother was tempted by the Dark Side. And I'm sure that your father told you in detail about his ravishment of my mother, how he manipulated a naïve young girl who was trying to find herself.
In some ways, instead of finding a sense of self, I think she may have been running from that which she claimed she was seeking, sadly. She found your father, and made a mistake. And then she found my father, and made seven mistakes – bearing as many children as it took for her to forget herself once again.
And in the aftermath of it all, you fuck me for those errors in her judgment made years before I was even conceived- before she was mother, or a wife, or a girlfriend, or a strumpet.
My mother gave birth to the child known as Bartemius Crouch Jr. after fourteen hours of labor, she told me. And when your father took the child away, muttering something about implanting a seed of evil inside the Ministry of Magic, she had absolutely no idea what he meant. She was a scared girl at the time, recovering from the trauma and pain of delivery, when your father took her child – he just walked off with her child. I'm sure your father has filled you in on all the details – how he found out about Mrs. Crouch's infertility, and how he Polyjuice'd himself into Dumbledore to present the up-and-coming Wizarding politician with that which he had always wanted – a son.
Like you, he was the consummate manipulator. He knew that the child would look for guidance elsewhere, considering what a distant, militant father Crouch, Sr. would turn into. The elder Crouch became consumed by his career, and his innocent son was suddenly without a role model. Enter the grand, sleek Lucius Malfoy, who played father to his own son, and led him to the Side where the child could be an asset.
There's one thing, though, that you don't know about this child, Malfoy. You know the story, as do I, as does your father, and my mother – but you don't know the whole secret. It is true that many of the Death Eaters had their way with my mother, but when my mother conceived the child, she secretly disobeyed your father. She performed the Paternus Charm on the inhabitant of her uterus – and I know that your father provided the seed for our sibling.
Irony's a bitch, isn't she?
This isn't rape, Malfoy. You need to understand this. You are guilty of violating me – this is true – but to you, in your twisted mind, what you do to me each and every night, as you have me lie down here on my back each and every night, when you touch me and whisper things into my ear as your fingers run up and down me – this is somehow a victimless crime. This has been going on so long that I've just given up pleading. This isn't rape simply because I have never said no. It's implied consent, you bastard, and because I open myself up to you each and every night to preserve my mum's dignity, I will never, ever forgive myself.
I don't feel contempt or hatred or even spite towards my mother, as I lie here, you pushing in and out of my body – my temple - your perspiration falling on me like acid, but the feelings I have for you, Malfoy – that's a whole other story. There is no sexual fulfillment that comes when you order me onto my bed. You taunt me, you call me frigid. Does an involuntary participant in a sexual act ever derive fulfillment? You are a control freak, you are a manipulator, you are the devil incarnate, but perhaps most disturbing of all, you could also be the father of any child I may conceive.
You've done more than spread my legs, Malfoy, you've spread part of the secret. You feign ignorance, but I see Parkinson staring at me in the hallways. Despite the fact that I don't want to be under you right now, she somehow blames me for this – as if I want to feel you climax in me each and every night, to feel like some kind of Saturday night prostitute you picked up on the edge of Hogwarts.
Congratulations are in order, I should say. You've found a new way to degrade me. You've added years to my life, my sweet, when the only thing I want to do is sever them off, one at a time, watch them fall, watch you react as I deprive you of time to ruin me, to tarnish me. And it hurt the first time that you pushed me face down onto the bed and I wanted to die, I just wanted to suffocate myself as you entered me. You chuckled at my screams. You chuckled, and you continued. So add sodomy to your list of tricks for me to perform, and do me a favor, chuckle when you do it.
What is it, Malfoy, that makes you stay? Why do you return to me night after night? What is it about me – what is it about the humiliation you inflict on me that arouses you so? Why? I'm not particularly alluring, I'm no prize to be won: I am simply the daughter of your father's whore, who is now your whore.
And as a good daughter should, I fulfill my mother's penance night after night without question, seeking forgiveness from some cosmic force in which I don't believe and will probably never meet.
Draco, I am paying for those sins she committed so long ago when she was just plain Molly, the girl without an identity.
Those sins that still haunt me today.