Chapter Twelve

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You said everything was fine. You said everything was okay. You said you loved me and that you weren't angry. You told me I was that I was overreacting, you bloody bastard, and then you flinched when I touched your arm and you blew me off. Is this some kind of sick revenge for all the times I wouldn't let you touch me!

I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and more importantly, I hate you. I can still feel your fingers on my skin, and I can't stop craving the feel of yours under mine. I've spent all of ten minutes with you in the last two weeks and I am going mad for want of you. Where are you and why haven't you dragged me into a closet and had your wicked way with me by now?

The answer is simple, but I find that I do not have it in me to admit it. You never loved me, or you never forgave me, but either way you are a liar and a cad and I hate you. You break my heart a little more every minute that passes that you do not come to me and hold me and kiss me within an inch of my life. Please love me. Please come back to me. Please don't leave me like this.

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I don't know what to do. You have to tell me what to do, because I simply do not understand. You say you love me. You want me, but you won't touch me. I know you want me. I can feel it, not just in some twitter-pated, love sick, could-be-nausea-but-I-choose-to-interpret-it-as-excitement, touchy-feely, Hufflepuff kind of way, but in an 'I can feel your erection pressing against your pants if I brush into you in a pathetic and desperate plea for contact' kind of a way. You've cum down my throat, sucked me, fucked me, stroked me off in a public place, bruised my body and my ego, messed up my hair, and kissed me breathless, and now you won't even hug me! You won't even hold my hand, not that I want such a disgusting public display of affection in the first place.

You didn't want every tabloid-reading freak in the Wizarding World to know about us. Fine. I don't want that either. You thought it would be best if the Death Eaters did not become aware of our relationship. Well, I want that even less than you do since I have to live with them and all, so I don't bloody well mind if the general population of the school remains in the dark for the rest of time and eternity. But Granger and Ron? What possible reason could you have for not telling them! At the time I bought your little 'Oh, Draco, it's so much more romantic if it's a secret' routine because I was blinded by the near constant orgasms. But now that there won't be any of that, and you never particularly wanted to be my friend in the first place, I am left with the truth of the matter. You didn't want anyone to know because you didn't want there to be any fuss when you were done with me.

Well, fuck you. I can't believe I fell for your love bollocks again. I admit it, I was completely fooled. Congratulations. You pulled the wool over the eyes of a Slytherin. You must be so proud. I never thought you had it in you, but apparently I underestimated you. You took what you wanted, all the while stringing the Weasel bitch along to make a proper match with when you were through with me. I bet she is picking out a china pattern right now while Ron, the bloody traitor, watches on with smiles from ear to ear now that Granger is officially the future Mrs. Weasley.

Fine then. I don't need you or your filthy friends. It's not like I need you. It's not like I can't imagine my life without you. It's not like the thought of never touching you again makes it hard for me to breathe. I'm sure the pain in my chest will go away any day now and has nothing at all to do with you, probably a bad potion or something. I was fine before all this nonsense with you, and I'll be fine after.

I love you, but I'll get over it.

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It was my birthday today. Obviously you knew that, already, or you wouldn't have sent a gift. I had completely forgotten. Blaise and Pansy made a party for me, but I don't really remember anything past opening the tiny little box wrapped in silver paper. There must have been cake or tea or more likely firewhisky since Blaise put it on, but I really can't recall. It was my birthday and you couldn't just leave me alone in peace, could you? I was fine. I hadn't thought about you in days, well, hours at least. The place in my chest where you ripped my heart out was scabbing over nicely and pleasantly numb, but you couldn't have that. No.

A ring. You sent me a ring. Was it some kind of sick parting gift? Are you still trying to drive me mad? Why would you send me something like that? I know you aren't trying to reconcile with me as you haven't so much as looked at me since that last day we spent alone, not touching. You act as if I am simply part of the background, as if I somehow have the same relevance to your life as a table or a tapestry or one of the nameless hordes of Potter worshippers you can't be bothered with. And then you send me this. Do you even know what the runes etched into the metal mean? How could you send me a promise to love me forever not a week after you discarded me? Why are you doing this to me?

Can't you just let me go?

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A/N: I know this is a lame excuse, but I don't have time to respond to your comments today, but I love allof them. Thank you!