I really hope you guys like this :) Please review because I love knowing what people think of my writing, even if this is my first fic on this account. I'm rather ashamed to give out the link to my last account, but believe you me; you'd be rather embarrassed if you had written even remotely like I had.;) Anyway, that's all from me. Here's the story.
Home of Hypocrisy
By Carwatcit
I stood at the large double oak doors, having slipped in unnoticed, and stared beyond the sea of heads that sat before me. Men and women were weeping openly, and some even seemed to be clinging to each other for support, as though they would fall off the chair beneath them if they did not hold tightly to the nearest thing. I thought that I might have been one of those people if things had not changed so drastically when Voldemort had fallen to his demise at the hands of Potter. No longer had we had a common goal to destroy that which was destroying the wizard populace, and in my ignorant ways I had turned my back on her and our unborn child. A fool I was, I had finally admitted to myself that day as I listened to the rain beating against the building. 'How fitting,' I had thought, and still think, 'God is crying for her, as the wizarding world cries for her.'
I had since walked to a dark spot at the side of the packed room so I would remain unnoticed for I knew my presence was not welcome. I tore my eyes away from what held the attention of every other being in that room and scanned the crowd for the familiar group of red heads. I found it with ease as the Weasley's were exactly where I had thought they would be; at the forefront of everyone. At the very end of the first row of seats, near the aisle, sat themost beautiful littlegirl I had ever seen. I glared enviously as the unfortunate new widower, the youngest of the male Weasleys, lifted the blonde girl into his lap and hugged her as any father would do. As I should have been doing as I knew the girl was mine, the unmistakable mark of the white/blonde Malfoy hair in a loose ponytail on her small head. Even now, as I think back to that moment, I recall how I had loathed that red-head like a boy would loath another for having a newer broomstick model than he. I had loathed him because he had loved what should have been mine and what was mine.
My heart began to pound as the girl twisted in his lap and he let her wrap her arms around his neck, hugging him to herself in an attempt to comfort her own pounding heart. Somehow, through all the faces and the darkness that surrounded me, my five-year-old daughter's eyes gazed at me, deep pools of brown that wrenched at my heart. They were her eyes. My daughter, whose name I didn't even know, stared at me with red-rimmed eyes and I knew that she understood what had happened to her mother. She understood that the bushy-haired brunette would no longer be tucking her in at night, nor would she bring her to the park to play with the other children that lived in their neighborhood. My daughter, so smart already, knew that her mother had died to save millions of lives and this understanding moved me so deeply I had wanted to do nothing more than take her home with me. But I could not, for she was a bastard child whose parentage would forever remain a taboo subject. Everyone knew that she was ours, but no one dare to speak of it in front of us. A Pureblood extremist such as me and a Muggleborn as she was would never be able to be understood by all those that had not taken part in the war.
I smiled at the girl and was pleasantly surprised to see her smile back - when she smiled it had reminded me of a porcelain doll that my mother had owned - before her step-father turned her towards a large podium that stood at the very front of the room and faced the mass of people; the Potters – The-Boy-Who-Lived had married the Weasley girl – had stepped up to it and were probably the reddest-eyed people in the room, with the exception of the widower.
As I lifted my eyes towards the Potters, who had began to give an eloquent speech about how much they loved and cherished the dearly departed; my eyes once again fell to the open coffin. That long, wooden box was the home of my hypocrisy. It held what I hated and loved; what made my heart wrench in sadness and pound with joy. That box held what made me feel safe and afraid; it held had felt so right to me for so long and had felt so wrong. It held a love that was amazing and a hate that was awful. And as I had stood there, staring in confusion at what the box held, I felt the worst pain that anyone had ever inflicted upon me. But the worst of it was the pain was from nothing but a mere corpse.
Slowly, like a small child reluctant to be torn from his favorite television program, I had turned my back on the tearful speech that Potter was reciting from a paper that lay before him about his friend. No. I had thought. No. She is mine. Nothis. She was mine and would always be min.I turned my back on the coffin that held the body of the beauty I had once loved. I turned my back on a past that had the entire wizarding world clicking their tongues in disapproval. But, as I sit here writing about this, I realize that the thing I had turned my back on that hurt me the most, was a knee high girl that was staring with watery eyes as I left the building; as unseen as I had been when I entered but for those sad brown eyes; her mother's eyes.
I sit here, staring at the large portrait of Pansy, our children, and myself that hangs on the wall adjacent to my desk, and the whisper of a thought of what might have been passes through my mind. What might have happened if I hadn't selfishly walked away from her and our child; what might have happened if I hadn't cared that she was a Muggleborn and had stayed with her when the darkness that had spread across the land had lifted. But no, to write about my foolish actions is not something I feel the need to do at the moment. Instead I shall return to my bed and think about her; think about what was mine.
I will think about a certain Muggleborn witch that I had taunted for six years. My mind will not be on my wife, Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy, but on Hermione Granger; who belonged to me.
Fin
I suppose, if I get enough reviews mind you, I'll do a bit of a prequel to this about Draco/Hermione and how little baby Malfoy was born. If I don't… well I'll write one anyway.
With Love,
Carwatcit