I can't help missing you. You don't miss me, but I miss you. So badly. But
I don't want to miss you—Malfoys don't feel. They don't love. But I did. I
disgraced my family. I abandoned them , just for you. And you just left me.
Left me for him.
The way you said it. The way you just walked away. A simple, "Goodbye Draco. I can't love you anymore." And you walked off, into Harry's arms. He kissed you, and smirked. Potter. Smirked. At me. For once, I wasn't in charge. Wasn't cold, wasn't evil.
I cried. For the first time in my life, I felt tears in my life, and didn't hold them back. I wonder if you knew that your cold, mean, rich Malfoy had cried, you would have come back. No. Because you couldn't love me anymore.
I never told you that I love you. When you left, you left me, and my love, behind. You walked straight into his arms, and that nightmare relays itself to me day after day, night after night. I gave you all the emotion I could, but they weren't enough for you. So you went to him. And he took you away. And now you're married.
It was yesterday, when I found out what my father had done. And now Potter's dead. So you're a widow. At twenty-seven, you're a widow. I am actually sorry, for what my father did. At least with Potter, you were happy. If someone could let you enjoy your life, even if it wasn't me, you shouldn't have had that taken away from you. But it's my family that took him from you. And it's me that took you from me. I wish you were still here, in my arms.
I wish I could see those beautiful gray eyes, just like moons themselves, that long, pale brown hair, those crazy radish earrings. And I lost them all. I lost you, because I couldn't say I love you. The moon in my nighttime of loneliness is gone from the sky. As effectively as if I had hurled it across the galaxy.
It's been five years, since I saw that absurdly beautiful face. And now today, I saw it again, so much older, so worn, so sad. Tears in your eyes, blood on your face, your robes dirty and patched. Barefoot, stumbling through the snow that poured from the sky, lips blue from the cold. The way you fell onto the stoop, weeping like a child, curled up by my feet. Watching your bloodshot gray eyes pour, and watching your dirtied hair pool into the snow, like some poor child, exiled from home. So I picked you up, light as a feather, and took you inside. You couldn't even speak, you were so cold. You huddled close to the fire, and I wrapped you in a blanket. You just cried.
Since then, it's been a year. And you've not said a word, until this morning. And I cried again, when I woke you, and you whispered, "Thank you Draco." Not a word for a year, and you can hardly even whisper. But you don't hate me, even though it's my father's fault that Harry died. But then, you always were forgiving, just as no one could be mad at you for long. Because you are truly the spot of brightness in my world of dark. I love you, my Luna, and I will tell you so.
The way you said it. The way you just walked away. A simple, "Goodbye Draco. I can't love you anymore." And you walked off, into Harry's arms. He kissed you, and smirked. Potter. Smirked. At me. For once, I wasn't in charge. Wasn't cold, wasn't evil.
I cried. For the first time in my life, I felt tears in my life, and didn't hold them back. I wonder if you knew that your cold, mean, rich Malfoy had cried, you would have come back. No. Because you couldn't love me anymore.
I never told you that I love you. When you left, you left me, and my love, behind. You walked straight into his arms, and that nightmare relays itself to me day after day, night after night. I gave you all the emotion I could, but they weren't enough for you. So you went to him. And he took you away. And now you're married.
It was yesterday, when I found out what my father had done. And now Potter's dead. So you're a widow. At twenty-seven, you're a widow. I am actually sorry, for what my father did. At least with Potter, you were happy. If someone could let you enjoy your life, even if it wasn't me, you shouldn't have had that taken away from you. But it's my family that took him from you. And it's me that took you from me. I wish you were still here, in my arms.
I wish I could see those beautiful gray eyes, just like moons themselves, that long, pale brown hair, those crazy radish earrings. And I lost them all. I lost you, because I couldn't say I love you. The moon in my nighttime of loneliness is gone from the sky. As effectively as if I had hurled it across the galaxy.
It's been five years, since I saw that absurdly beautiful face. And now today, I saw it again, so much older, so worn, so sad. Tears in your eyes, blood on your face, your robes dirty and patched. Barefoot, stumbling through the snow that poured from the sky, lips blue from the cold. The way you fell onto the stoop, weeping like a child, curled up by my feet. Watching your bloodshot gray eyes pour, and watching your dirtied hair pool into the snow, like some poor child, exiled from home. So I picked you up, light as a feather, and took you inside. You couldn't even speak, you were so cold. You huddled close to the fire, and I wrapped you in a blanket. You just cried.
Since then, it's been a year. And you've not said a word, until this morning. And I cried again, when I woke you, and you whispered, "Thank you Draco." Not a word for a year, and you can hardly even whisper. But you don't hate me, even though it's my father's fault that Harry died. But then, you always were forgiving, just as no one could be mad at you for long. Because you are truly the spot of brightness in my world of dark. I love you, my Luna, and I will tell you so.