p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;" /p
p class="p2" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; min-height: 12px;" /p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Harry stares at the dark liquid ooze out and pool out on to the back of this hand as he swore to the piece of parchment that he would no longer tell lies. 'What a brilliant red' he thinks. Serenity, what an odd feeling. He finally feels it for the first time as he finished scribbling his first line. Not even the revolting gaze of Dolores Umbridge could take away this cold refreshing feeling; absence of numbness. He stares at his hand, but why serenity? How could something as horrible as pain make someone feel so serene?span class="Apple-converted-space" /spanHe was taught to save people from pain, that it is horrible to feel it. He could feel this new revelation clash against the things he used to know. Is Harry even here at the moment? Yes, he is. He is alive, just like the rest of them. The proof is right on the back of his hand. The coppery smell invades his nose in quick succession and his hand trembles in result. Why can't everyone else see that he is just like the rest of them? Where do they see a saviour? He knows that the wizarding society sees him as a figure to be worshipped. Worshipped figures don't bleed, do they?/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" He keeps scribbling and his brows start creasing. He writes a bit faster, just to make sure. He lets out a raspy sigh, what a bliss. 'But she shouldn't see this, pretend that you are mad at her' he thinks, he contorts his face and snaps his head towards her, heart-clenching at the thought of her catching his pupils dilating for any reason other than pain. 'I'm sick, I have to be'. Professor Umbridge smirks. The chair scraping the floor as she pushes back on it to stand up, the lumps she considers legs shaking as she did. She makes a remark about when she would be coming back before wobbling out of the room, making the floorboards creak and moan./span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" As the door clicks, another sigh slips out of his lip as he tilts his head back, leaning against the chair to relax the straining muscles of his back. His hand gained its own heartbeat now, the warm pulsing stronger than his own heartbeat. The itch of it makes him sit up straight once again. He scribbles another line. He whimpers. Another line. He sees people. Another line. Those people have faces. Another line. Those faces have names. Another line. Those people, with faces, with names, are now hurt, just like him. 'Maybe then, they'll feel something. Maybe then, they'll feel reality.' His eyes are wide now and his fast-paced breathing sounds like it's coming from another person. The cold refreshing feeling from before was gone, and in its place is a sweltering heat. But the lines that used to connect his hand to the sane parts of his mind were now cut and he keeps writing. He keeps thinking of new people to hurt. Maybe he was sick, a freak, but what could he do? He is their saviour, and saviours are perfect. Saviours don't get sick or lost. They heal and show the way. Now, there is even a reminder etched into his class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"Saviours don't class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p2" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; min-height: 12px;" /p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"*/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Draco isn't his father. For as much as he wipes his face of all emotions, his bones refuse to stop resonating an unimaginable amount of emotion that constantly threaten to drown him. His skin was probably harder than his bones, to be honest. He felt like water on the inside, his emotions swim through him and prick at his mind. His body on the outside is completely displaced from these feelings. He wasn't like this when he was younger, rage lit him as if he were an oil lamp. However, the years started eating on him, as they do to everyone. Though, perhaps a little faster with him. His home is a diamond cell, and the other high profile pureblood witches and wizards have one too. However, many fall in love with these cells or just come to peace with theirs. Draco refuses to be his father. He doesn't want his inevitable heir to be stuck in one either, or the one after. And that monster his father follows, fuck him. Harry Potter has too much of a hero complex to ever kill anyone, don't they know that? Why is the Dark Lord even trying to get rid of him? Out of everyone, it's probably that old coot Dumbledore who even possesses the guts to actually kill class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Friends. Draco hasn't ever had one. Maybe his mother, but that wasn't really a friend relationship. It was just the unconditional love mothers get burdened with as soon as their child starts growing inside them. He only has allies, people that are only close because of the information you have can be used to destroy them and vice versa. Harry Potter has friends, or so it seems at least. He might not have the unconditional love of a mother, but the love of many others. He sees the gleaming eyes people have when gazing upon him. Like he was their god or something. So from this diamond cell, hanging up somewhere high, Draco promises himself, that he was going to escape from it. He'll probably have to leave Hogwarts, leave this country. Can anyone really stop him? How about his mother, can he really leave her?/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" He glances up from the textbook on his lap he's been staring at for the past 10 minutes. One of his…'friends' looks up with a questioning look. Draco merely stands up and rigidly walks to his dorm. His supposedly comfortable bed felt like a slab of rock tonight. When sleep finally prods at him, he gives in as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. He could finally escape reality. He finally stopped having nightmares after he convinced himself that he was going to leave. He had dreams of where he would go, what he would do, and who he could be. Not his father, anyone but his father is fine. He's pretty sure that even being a prostitute is better than being his father. So he dreams./span/p
p class="p2" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; min-height: 12px;" /p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Harry stares at the dark liquid ooze out and pool out on to the back of this hand as he swore to the piece of parchment that he would no longer tell lies. 'What a brilliant red' he thinks. Serenity, what an odd feeling. He finally feels it for the first time as he finished scribbling his first line. Not even the revolting gaze of Dolores Umbridge could take away this cold refreshing feeling; absence of numbness. He stares at his hand, but why serenity? How could something as horrible as pain make someone feel so serene?span class="Apple-converted-space" /spanHe was taught to save people from pain, that it is horrible to feel it. He could feel this new revelation clash against the things he used to know. Is Harry even here at the moment? Yes, he is. He is alive, just like the rest of them. The proof is right on the back of his hand. The coppery smell invades his nose in quick succession and his hand trembles in result. Why can't everyone else see that he is just like the rest of them? Where do they see a saviour? He knows that the wizarding society sees him as a figure to be worshipped. Worshipped figures don't bleed, do they?/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" He keeps scribbling and his brows start creasing. He writes a bit faster, just to make sure. He lets out a raspy sigh, what a bliss. 'But she shouldn't see this, pretend that you are mad at her' he thinks, he contorts his face and snaps his head towards her, heart-clenching at the thought of her catching his pupils dilating for any reason other than pain. 'I'm sick, I have to be'. Professor Umbridge smirks. The chair scraping the floor as she pushes back on it to stand up, the lumps she considers legs shaking as she did. She makes a remark about when she would be coming back before wobbling out of the room, making the floorboards creak and moan./span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" As the door clicks, another sigh slips out of his lip as he tilts his head back, leaning against the chair to relax the straining muscles of his back. His hand gained its own heartbeat now, the warm pulsing stronger than his own heartbeat. The itch of it makes him sit up straight once again. He scribbles another line. He whimpers. Another line. He sees people. Another line. Those people have faces. Another line. Those faces have names. Another line. Those people, with faces, with names, are now hurt, just like him. 'Maybe then, they'll feel something. Maybe then, they'll feel reality.' His eyes are wide now and his fast-paced breathing sounds like it's coming from another person. The cold refreshing feeling from before was gone, and in its place is a sweltering heat. But the lines that used to connect his hand to the sane parts of his mind were now cut and he keeps writing. He keeps thinking of new people to hurt. Maybe he was sick, a freak, but what could he do? He is their saviour, and saviours are perfect. Saviours don't get sick or lost. They heal and show the way. Now, there is even a reminder etched into his class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"Saviours don't class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p2" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; min-height: 12px;" /p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"*/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Draco isn't his father. For as much as he wipes his face of all emotions, his bones refuse to stop resonating an unimaginable amount of emotion that constantly threaten to drown him. His skin was probably harder than his bones, to be honest. He felt like water on the inside, his emotions swim through him and prick at his mind. His body on the outside is completely displaced from these feelings. He wasn't like this when he was younger, rage lit him as if he were an oil lamp. However, the years started eating on him, as they do to everyone. Though, perhaps a little faster with him. His home is a diamond cell, and the other high profile pureblood witches and wizards have one too. However, many fall in love with these cells or just come to peace with theirs. Draco refuses to be his father. He doesn't want his inevitable heir to be stuck in one either, or the one after. And that monster his father follows, fuck him. Harry Potter has too much of a hero complex to ever kill anyone, don't they know that? Why is the Dark Lord even trying to get rid of him? Out of everyone, it's probably that old coot Dumbledore who even possesses the guts to actually kill class="Apple-converted-space" /span/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" Friends. Draco hasn't ever had one. Maybe his mother, but that wasn't really a friend relationship. It was just the unconditional love mothers get burdened with as soon as their child starts growing inside them. He only has allies, people that are only close because of the information you have can be used to destroy them and vice versa. Harry Potter has friends, or so it seems at least. He might not have the unconditional love of a mother, but the love of many others. He sees the gleaming eyes people have when gazing upon him. Like he was their god or something. So from this diamond cell, hanging up somewhere high, Draco promises himself, that he was going to escape from it. He'll probably have to leave Hogwarts, leave this country. Can anyone really stop him? How about his mother, can he really leave her?/span/p
p class="p1" style="margin: 0px; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000;"span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;" He glances up from the textbook on his lap he's been staring at for the past 10 minutes. One of his…'friends' looks up with a questioning look. Draco merely stands up and rigidly walks to his dorm. His supposedly comfortable bed felt like a slab of rock tonight. When sleep finally prods at him, he gives in as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. He could finally escape reality. He finally stopped having nightmares after he convinced himself that he was going to leave. He had dreams of where he would go, what he would do, and who he could be. Not his father, anyone but his father is fine. He's pretty sure that even being a prostitute is better than being his father. So he dreams./span/p