Forbidden
For Katie.
"If I only had one wish
Love would always feel like this
Wishin' on the stars above
Forbidden love
If I only had one dream
This would be more than it seems
Forbidden love."
I'm not supposed to feel, to care. I'm a Malfoy, and it's been decided before I was born that Malfoy's do not pressure themselves with human emotions. We do not feel what others do, we don't bother ourselves with such things. It's not considered exactly proper, no not at all. Proper, to my family, is being nothing less then perfection. Perfection is having a sharp, cruel tongue and devilish eyes, cruel and icy demeanor. Power and wealth, respect and fear, all of this is proper. Making those lesser then you cower before you is proper. But loving someone? And feeling what I feel in a Hero's arms…is strictly forbidden, of all things. Is considering a betrayal to everything I've come to stand for. Not even my pure blood can save me, not from this.
I should regret it, I should hate it. And in fact, I did at first. Hated myself for enjoying having you, relishing in the fact that while every person in Hogwarts envied and wanted you, I was the only one who was allowed such a wondrous gift. It was my name you whispered at night, my name you said as you pleaded for me to stay, to be something other then a family title. To follow my own heart, my own path, instead of one so perfectly laid out for me.
My own heart? I remember sniggering at you, at your words, sneering and taunting at the idea of feeling anything more then a lust for you. For your body. I convinced myself I wanted you because I wanted to see what it was like, wanted to taste something I could never truly be. I wanted the light, for once, instead of the darkness. The love and warmth that you offered up so willingly, instead of the coldness and bitter taste of regret which so often plagued me. That's all. I didn't want the feelings of affection that were growing inside of me, the constant need to protect you, to watch over like some love sick muggle.
It was all I could think about, all I could do, to keep myself from loving you.
You really do offer up so much, and without a moment's hesitation, without a thought of what could happen. And it's sickening. You just…you can't be like that! Don't you understand? Don't you see? I'm not right for you, I'm everything black, everything marred and twisted. Something to be feared, to be respected. Something that people will admire from a distance, and tremble before up close. Not something to be loved and cared for…feelings only cause pain. Bothersome, troublesome feelings that make you want to curl up and die with the simplest phrase. I've believed that for so long, shunned the very idea of anything near emotional. So why is it, that you want it all? All of it…you want the hate, the anger, the pain that will come with feeling for me? But most of all, you want the love, the idea that you can tear down this wall I've created, and turn me into something that will love you back. I can see it in your eyes.
Harry…why do you want the impossible?
I don't want to hurt you; I've never wanted to hurt you. Because I sneer at you, because I tease and torment you with words, does not mean I'm pleased at seeing you flush with anger at my taunts to Granger. Because I call her a Mudblood with a devilish drawl and smirking lips, doesn't mean I'm pleased with myself. I'm simply following rules given to me by a decade of family tradition. You would understand, if you had a family.
But it's here, when all these strict and easy patterns, these set of commands I've come to follow in such short years, break. Where suddenly, this line I step upon, trembles and snaps at the weight of my pressure against it. And I'm no longer so sure about things. I can't look in my father's eyes, and tell him that he's right. That he's correct, and Harry Potter should die. Should bleed blood, soul, and tears until there's nothing left but skin and bone.
It's you now, that makes everything so difficult.
How can you stand to look at me, when I'm leaning against the doorway of this room, glaring and hissing words of hatred? Demanding of you something I can never have, proclaiming that there is nothing here I want. That you were merely something I needed, a flame against the ashes. Something to play and bide my time with.
You should be angry…but you look at me with such sadness, such disappoint at me, that I can't stand to glare at you. So I do what I always do, I turn away, and let my head fall down slightly, a bow of forgiveness without a word whispered. You're so understanding. And I've never seen you give up on me.
I don't understand…how you can put so much trust in me. How you can slide from you seat by the fireplace, and wrap you arms around me, head nestled against my shoulder and kisses placed to my neck, murmuring that it's alright. That you understand, that everything is okay, and that you love me. To calm down. To breath. To…understand.
But I can't, because I will never be able to understand you. You, with your emerald eyes of purest devotion, and soft, sadly smiling mouth. Maybe it's because we're so different….had I been raised in your circumstances, I can guarantee you I would not act as you do. I would not be so modest about my fame, nor so careless about who to shroud myself around. Your friends…you choose them so easily, you accept nearly everyone without a moments regard. Except, for me of course.
I'll never forget that…how you could so easily except a Mudblood, a muggle born know-it-all witch, and one of the poorest sons from the Wizardry world, and not except me? I can laugh at it now…how I must have seemed to you. I was such a little bastard then. Still am, though. Certain things just don't change.
I shouldn't have felt that way in your arms, shouldn't have leaned against you and let you hold me. Shouldn't have broken down and cried. Cried as if I were nothing more then a little boy again, stuck inside a Manor of ice with nothing but house elves and animals to pour away affection on. No matter what was running through my mind at the time, I shouldn't have done it. It's just not the Malfoy way.
I should hate you…should hate that you've brought me to this. But instead, I've found myself loving you, loving everything I was raised and told to despise. Your loyalty, your brightness, your warmth and tenderness.
And I can't really say…that it's your body I want, and that I'm feeding away my lust anymore. But that perhaps, this code, this way of living, should be forbidden, and not these emotions I harbor. Because I feel so childish loving you, like a boy who's drank too many butter beer's. Of course, you must imagine how many of those I'd need to have drunk in order to feel like this. So blissfully unaware of these dangers around us.
But in your arms, nothing seems forbidden.
For Katie.
"If I only had one wish
Love would always feel like this
Wishin' on the stars above
Forbidden love
If I only had one dream
This would be more than it seems
Forbidden love."
I'm not supposed to feel, to care. I'm a Malfoy, and it's been decided before I was born that Malfoy's do not pressure themselves with human emotions. We do not feel what others do, we don't bother ourselves with such things. It's not considered exactly proper, no not at all. Proper, to my family, is being nothing less then perfection. Perfection is having a sharp, cruel tongue and devilish eyes, cruel and icy demeanor. Power and wealth, respect and fear, all of this is proper. Making those lesser then you cower before you is proper. But loving someone? And feeling what I feel in a Hero's arms…is strictly forbidden, of all things. Is considering a betrayal to everything I've come to stand for. Not even my pure blood can save me, not from this.
I should regret it, I should hate it. And in fact, I did at first. Hated myself for enjoying having you, relishing in the fact that while every person in Hogwarts envied and wanted you, I was the only one who was allowed such a wondrous gift. It was my name you whispered at night, my name you said as you pleaded for me to stay, to be something other then a family title. To follow my own heart, my own path, instead of one so perfectly laid out for me.
My own heart? I remember sniggering at you, at your words, sneering and taunting at the idea of feeling anything more then a lust for you. For your body. I convinced myself I wanted you because I wanted to see what it was like, wanted to taste something I could never truly be. I wanted the light, for once, instead of the darkness. The love and warmth that you offered up so willingly, instead of the coldness and bitter taste of regret which so often plagued me. That's all. I didn't want the feelings of affection that were growing inside of me, the constant need to protect you, to watch over like some love sick muggle.
It was all I could think about, all I could do, to keep myself from loving you.
You really do offer up so much, and without a moment's hesitation, without a thought of what could happen. And it's sickening. You just…you can't be like that! Don't you understand? Don't you see? I'm not right for you, I'm everything black, everything marred and twisted. Something to be feared, to be respected. Something that people will admire from a distance, and tremble before up close. Not something to be loved and cared for…feelings only cause pain. Bothersome, troublesome feelings that make you want to curl up and die with the simplest phrase. I've believed that for so long, shunned the very idea of anything near emotional. So why is it, that you want it all? All of it…you want the hate, the anger, the pain that will come with feeling for me? But most of all, you want the love, the idea that you can tear down this wall I've created, and turn me into something that will love you back. I can see it in your eyes.
Harry…why do you want the impossible?
I don't want to hurt you; I've never wanted to hurt you. Because I sneer at you, because I tease and torment you with words, does not mean I'm pleased at seeing you flush with anger at my taunts to Granger. Because I call her a Mudblood with a devilish drawl and smirking lips, doesn't mean I'm pleased with myself. I'm simply following rules given to me by a decade of family tradition. You would understand, if you had a family.
But it's here, when all these strict and easy patterns, these set of commands I've come to follow in such short years, break. Where suddenly, this line I step upon, trembles and snaps at the weight of my pressure against it. And I'm no longer so sure about things. I can't look in my father's eyes, and tell him that he's right. That he's correct, and Harry Potter should die. Should bleed blood, soul, and tears until there's nothing left but skin and bone.
It's you now, that makes everything so difficult.
How can you stand to look at me, when I'm leaning against the doorway of this room, glaring and hissing words of hatred? Demanding of you something I can never have, proclaiming that there is nothing here I want. That you were merely something I needed, a flame against the ashes. Something to play and bide my time with.
You should be angry…but you look at me with such sadness, such disappoint at me, that I can't stand to glare at you. So I do what I always do, I turn away, and let my head fall down slightly, a bow of forgiveness without a word whispered. You're so understanding. And I've never seen you give up on me.
I don't understand…how you can put so much trust in me. How you can slide from you seat by the fireplace, and wrap you arms around me, head nestled against my shoulder and kisses placed to my neck, murmuring that it's alright. That you understand, that everything is okay, and that you love me. To calm down. To breath. To…understand.
But I can't, because I will never be able to understand you. You, with your emerald eyes of purest devotion, and soft, sadly smiling mouth. Maybe it's because we're so different….had I been raised in your circumstances, I can guarantee you I would not act as you do. I would not be so modest about my fame, nor so careless about who to shroud myself around. Your friends…you choose them so easily, you accept nearly everyone without a moments regard. Except, for me of course.
I'll never forget that…how you could so easily except a Mudblood, a muggle born know-it-all witch, and one of the poorest sons from the Wizardry world, and not except me? I can laugh at it now…how I must have seemed to you. I was such a little bastard then. Still am, though. Certain things just don't change.
I shouldn't have felt that way in your arms, shouldn't have leaned against you and let you hold me. Shouldn't have broken down and cried. Cried as if I were nothing more then a little boy again, stuck inside a Manor of ice with nothing but house elves and animals to pour away affection on. No matter what was running through my mind at the time, I shouldn't have done it. It's just not the Malfoy way.
I should hate you…should hate that you've brought me to this. But instead, I've found myself loving you, loving everything I was raised and told to despise. Your loyalty, your brightness, your warmth and tenderness.
And I can't really say…that it's your body I want, and that I'm feeding away my lust anymore. But that perhaps, this code, this way of living, should be forbidden, and not these emotions I harbor. Because I feel so childish loving you, like a boy who's drank too many butter beer's. Of course, you must imagine how many of those I'd need to have drunk in order to feel like this. So blissfully unaware of these dangers around us.
But in your arms, nothing seems forbidden.