The Dementor's Kiss
AN: I was intrigued by the idea of writing a fic about how Draco would behave in a relationship. I didn't want a story where Mr. Slytherin himself is redeemed, and I really, really couldn't see him with Hermione (she would probably date Snape before she dated him, I reckon). However, I could imagine somehow Ginny Weasley being with him, but I feel that it wouldn't be your average hearts-and-flowers romance – it would be a very abusive relationship. The result is pretty damn miserable, so you'll have to forgive me. : ) There are some oblique references to suicide here, and I would like to say that I am not condoning it. This fic is not about how suicide is the right way out, but about how sad it is that some people are made to believe that it's their only option. Please review.
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Your words were what drove me to this insanity. Every compliment was imbued with a sneer, every insult was cloaked in such elaborate wordplay that I could never be sure exactly of the meaning of your callous utterances. I would agonise for days over why you felt such an innate need to humiliate and threaten and distress me. Sometimes I wondered if you were hoping to suck the soul from me, as a Dementor would. There is no denying that you are as close to becoming a Dementor as human beings come.
And yet, in some twisted way, you are far, far more dangerous than any Dementor could ever be. They are as outwardly repellent as they are inwardly; their appearances warn us of the evil that lies within. But you – you exude none of those signals. Your internal ugliness is concealed by a carefully woven blanket of smooth wit, polished looks and the enviable self-confidence that oozes from your exterior. True, you make no attempts to hide that you are a bigoted, sardonic bully from the outside world, but some starry-eyed idiots of women – like me – tend to overlook such viciousness in their naivete. 'He's obviously the product of an abusive childhood,' they speculate desperately, 'he behaves with this immature vindictiveness because he's starved of love, he's cracking under the strain of putting on this act of invulnerability…' I pursed this fantasy of blunting a hardhearted man's spiked edges, and I have paid the ultimate price for my recklessness.
Dementors bring with them a cheerless sense of a complete lack of well-being and faith. You do, too. I have grown to truly dread the thought of you, because when we are together I feel helpless, worthless, used. Funny, how I once thought that your frostiness would prove the perfect foundation for our relationship. I somehow came to believe that my character would complement yours. I let out a bitter laugh as I marvel at how ignorant I could have. I almost miss that ignorant side of myself; it was only after I met you that I was overcome by this need to know everything, to be as sickeningly cynical as is humanly possible.
In my naturally romantic mind I entertained notions that my warmth would be able to melt your coldness. As my flaming hair would suggest, I am – I was – a warm person by nature. I preferred to smile than to frown, I hated ill feeling between people, and until I met you I believed that everyone shared those preferences.
You are so cold it's a wonder that your skin doesn't chill my fingers. I imagine your heart to be a beautiful ice sculpture, pumping malignant poison through your veins. It is your venom that is killing me and I have no doubt that it will one day be the death of you as well. No one can be so irreversibly destructive and hope to live a healthy life.
You find no joy in anything; you are comprised solely of anger and monstrous hatred. You are only able to find joy in others' misery. You can only laugh at something if you are confident that it is hurting someone else. It disgusts me and yet I envy you. You may be cold, but at least you seem to enjoy your heartlessness. I can find no pleasure in mine. I hate that when I look out of the window, I see bleakness and hopelessness where there should be colours. The browns and oranges of the autumn leaves that fall from the trees no longer enchant me. All I can see is the pale blue of your eyes and the startling whiteness of your skin.
Your kiss is every bit as damaging as that of a Dementor, and yet I have grown to anticipate it. Even now, as I lie at my lowest ebb, I harbour a wistful fantasy that one last kiss could save me. In my heart, I know that it would only serve to make things worse, but still my longing continues. How sick must I be? What kind of person yearns to be tortured, for their soul to be devoured? I am the worst sort of glutton for punishment; I am hurting the people around me as I hurt myself.
I am hurting everyone except you.
I could never hurt you, no matter how much I may want to. You are immune to any pain that I might intend to cause you. You have made me into your victim and anyway, I haven't the courage or energy to fight. Not as I had with him, the last man who controlled me. He could manipulate me as easily as you can, but you don't need a magical diary to do so. All you need are the acid words that roll off your tongue and burn into my skull. I could fight Tom because I had people I could rely on to help me, but I don't have that luxury this time. I drove them away so that I could be with you. And now I am more alone than I have ever been. You have left me with scars that will never heal and an unsound mind. I cannot summon the strength to live like this any longer.
People may say that I am giving in, that I am giving you what I want. I, however, know that I am doing the opposite. You have always craved my pain, you have always done all you can to ensure my misery. Now I will be gone, and your threats will be empty, your scorn will fall on deaf ears.
You won't be able to hurt me anymore.
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