Disclaimer: I own nobody. What would happen if I claimed to own all of the Harry Potter characters?

NB: Sorry I took so long to update. I was going to wait until Moony posted the teletubby fic but I couldn't wait. DAMN YOU MOONY!

NNB: Draco's 'journal'.

Harry's 'journal'.

Chapter 3: Vulnerability.

21st December.

I can't sleep, and Harry isn't here to listen to the pain I'm in -the pain he caused- so I've resorted to writing it down, although I know from the days before Harry that this doesn't help.

I wish I could say I hate him but I can't. It hurts even to think it. I still love him, but I don't want to. I should be able to turn my feelings on and off as I please, it's only fair. But instead they just seep slowly through the pores of my skin to allow me some relief before I breathe them back in again.

It's not Harry's fault. It's mine. It was my choice to admit my love (in my bitter state 'love' sounds cheap and tainted) for him, and in doing so I made myself vulnerable. I gave him part of my soul and I can't get it back, but he can twist it and use it against me. He has a hold over me that I'm powerless to overcome. It used to be just an emotional one, but telling him the two things I have never told anyone (or even thought loudly) allowed him to hurt me like he did today.

Monday. 21. December.

I'm sitting in the dark writing this because I can't stand to see myself in the mirror across from me. I need to write this down, although I'd rather not, because I need to face what I've done.

I hurt Draco today. I didn't mean to. Or, at least I don't think I did. I don't know. I t happened too quickly. My instincts tell me that I meant to do it, that I needed to do it even, to test the power I have over him. But my head tells me that I just lost my temper, that I didn't mean to do it.

I think my brain is trying to protect me.

When I started I meant to write every last detail down, but now I realise that I don't even remember why I hit him. There I said it. I hit him. I can't remember what we argued about. It was more of a debate than an argument. I remember that he laughed (was that it? Did he laugh at me?) and then I saw the shock on his face and the growing red patch on his pale cheek, and that's when I realised that I'd actually slapped him. My hand tingled, like pins and needles, and I knew that I hit him hard.

He looked so hurt. I saw it in his beautiful eyes. He put his hand to his face, as if to assure himself of what had happened, and then looked at me with those amazing, wounded eyes. He told me to stay away from him. I don't blame him, but I can't stay away.

When he left I was so confused. I still am. I can still feel the tingling in my right hand (just my imagination, of course) but it feels strange. It feels good. Why? When I hit Draco I felt appalled at myself. Ashamed. But not regretful. And I felt so powerful! I felt like I had the whole world under my control. I felt that I had control of Draco.

Why shouldn't I have control over him? He said he loves me. Unless he was lying, he still does love me, but Draco doesn't lie. Not to me. Yeah. He should be mine. Anything that feels so good must be right, surely?

I know that it's wrong to hurt him, worse to want to, but I need that power. It's like a drug, or my nicotine fix. I need it. Who's he to deny me that? No. He's going to help me get it, whether he likes it or not. I just have to tighten my control on him. He will be mine.

Later

I'm scared. It's dark now and I have no one to keep me safe. Oh, shit. What's wrong with me? Safe from what? Even if there were something waiting for me, death would be a sweet release from the pain he has lowered me into. I hate myself for making me so open to these emotions. What if I take him back? I can't let him back into my life.

But I can't keep him out either.

Bdbdbdbdbdbd

I cover the scars with the plain blue shirt He bought me last year. He said that he just felt like treating me but I know that it was to say sorry. Not for what He did the night before, or the fading bruises of the previous week, or any of the other scars. It was for the first time He hit me. For that He's still apologising.

As I put on the fingerless black glove I use to cover the rose petal scar on the back of my hand I hear the clock in the dining room and count the chimes. One, two, three, four, five. He'll be home in half an hour. I know that I won't be able to do all of the things He asked me to in that time and wonder vaguely what He'll do to me. It'll probably just be a few bruises, maybe a new cut, but if He's had a bad day I may end up back in the hospital. Not the one we started using two months ago though. The doctors are getting suspicious.

I stay where I am.