Author's Note: This is the first fan fiction (or any form of original writing for that matter) I've ever written, so it has its flaws. I hope I will be getting constructive criticism to help me improve in the future. I was only good enough to make a very short, somewhat plotless one-shot thing, but I hope you'll enjoy it. =D
----
A Written Confession
Draco stared at the blank piece of parchment lying flat on his desk. He was holding a quill on his right hand, a freshly-opened ink bottle sat close to his left. He dipped the tip of the quill into the ink bottle for the fourth time in the last half hour.
"Why am I doing this?" he huffed, brushing his pale blonde hair back with his hand.
He tried to recall what he was doing here in the first place; sitting in the Slytherin Common Room all by himself, while everyone else was outside enjoying themselves on that bright Sunday afternoon. He even demanded Crabbe and Goyle to let him be.
"Yo Draco, I thought you wanted to jinx Potter's broom today."
"I changed my mind. Leave me alone."
"But the match will be on—"
"I said leave me alone."
But why did he want to be left alone?
He wanted to write a letter, that's it.
But what to write?
"Everything," said the little voice in his head.
He wanted to write about the moment he met her five years ago, how he was entranced by her presence; how he was taken aback by the raw emotion that would trickle down his body every time she looked at him, how a mere word emerging from her mouth could mean so much, how...
How he despised her.
Draco grasped the ink bottle with fury. Finally settling down, he placed the bottle back on the table and tried to recall the purpose of the letter—he wanted to come clean. He did not know how to do it face-to-face, so he considered putting it in writing instead. He finally decided to let out the thoughts and feelings he had been concealing all these years. This was a tough decision to make since he did not know what the outcome would be.
Would it relieve him? Would he finally be able to live with himself; a man of dignity whom he was born to be, instead of a spineless coward? Or would it make matters worse? Would she hate him? That is, hate him more?
The thought of that made him thrust his left hand towards the ink bottle by accident, which caused the dark green ink to spill on the once spotless parchment.
"Damn it!" he muttered. He crumpled the stained parchment into a wrinkled ball and chucked it into the bin.
Draco rested his forehead on the edge of the wooden desk. He was breathing hard, frustrated...—defeated.
How could he let himself get so worked up? How could he let his feelings for her swallow him whole? He's stronger than that, he knows it. He was Draco Malfoy; son of Lucius Malfoy, proud Slytherin, pureblood wizard...
And to be associated with someone like her was pathetic. The highest aspect of being a Malfoy is pride, and this feeling; this wretched, juvenile feeling could destroy that.
But why? Why couldn't he just let it go? Even though he recognizes the consequences, why does she still visit him in his dreams? Why does every taunt, every ridicule, every harassment he had thrown at her eventually come back to haunt him? Why does knowing he had made her cry or furious bring an unpleasant numbness in his stomach?
All the same, why does he continue hurting her? He would smirk coldly at the sight of her anguish, despite the fact that he was suffering behind that heartless mask.
Draco's left hand made a tight fist; it was trembling rapidly out of rage. He hated his guts at that moment; he was exactly like the Mudbloods and half-bloods and Muggle-lovers he was taught to hate. His head was still resting on the desk with his right arm burying what's left of his face, as if to cover up the shame.
----
Draco lifted his head from the surface of the desk. He rose from the chair which he had been sitting on for over an hour to get a new piece of parchment from the shelf nearby. He obtained it, sat back on the chair, laid the parchment flat on the table, dipped the tip of his quill into the ink bottle, and started writing.
His arm moved swiftly and squiggles of dark green ink were taking form on the parchment. What was being written he had no idea; it was as though his arm was moving at its own will. He kept writing, until there was only a small space left at the bottom of the parchment. Finally, with his heart heavy as lead, he wrote;
Signed,
Draco Malfoy
He grabbed an envelope and stuffed the letter into it violently. As he was writing the name of the recipient, he had the sudden urge to throw the letter into the fire. He sighed; giving up, and shoved the envelope into his robe pocket. He was going to burn it. Well, after he jinxes Harry Potter's Firebolt for the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.
As Draco scurried out of the Common Room to find his dim-witted accomplices, he bumped into a person slightly shorter than him.
"Watch it, Mudblood!" he uttered. "What're you doing down here, anyway?"
Hermione's face turned to a rosy pink. "I was, umm, you see..."
"I've no time for this," Draco groaned, and walked out of sight.
Hermione noticed the envelope that ended up on the floor after the collision and picked it up. "Hey, Malfoy! You dropped—" She paused to read the name on the envelope written in dark green ink.
"Hermione Granger."
----