OkaysoIfeltsobadsooosooobadbecausethatchatptersucked.

So here's another one!

But it's not much better so I'll probably update another one and another one and another!

...maybe. Bonnie's playing animal crossing and this shit's addicting.

All this angsty stuff- I promise you it will pass! Please be patient-I don't like it all that much either!

Pansy sighed.

Was she the villain?

If she took him in and let him sleep and not talk, let him pour it all into her to escape the girl they thought he'd chosen, does it make her the whore?

He didn't talk to her. Either of them, she guessed. All she had to run off of was that after he had left her for Hermione the other night, he had now shown up at her dorm twice.

Brooding, sulking, he had not asked to come in. And when he awoke he was calm. Maybe not happy, but calm.

And she knew her Draco. Being level-headed was more valuable that vulnerably emotional.

-

He swung his legs over the windowsill. Holding onto the frame with numb fingers, he looked to the ground fall below him and remembered, just a week ago, that he had chosen to save her from her drop from the library window.

Ungrateful bitch won't remember her fall.

Malfoy was blessed with an idea, that seeing himself as the protagonist, knowing that he had done everything to love her and save her and that it was she that said no, this degree of rejection, that he had put himself out on a limb for her, would generally disturb him for humility's sake. As if he had chased after her.

His dignity.

But if he could just recognize that he was humane and that it had been she that had instigated such hatred, he could continue living as he had before. As he was supposed to, with typical Slytherin friends and typical, typical Gryffindor animosities.

He had had Pansy that night and he had chosen Hermione instead.

With his new found determination, he was free to return to Pansy's unquestioning embrace, without mentioning why he had changed his mind.

Why his enemy had been able to change his mind for him, as if she had influence, a power in his life, something he was sure she would crave for. For if Hermione was able to chastise Draco and ergo cause him to change out of his need to be respected by his equal, she would have the power to change him from her quite divine enemy to a simpering lover.

And Malfoy was sure she would make that choice. From the past two weeks of everything she'd shown him, she'd made no sign of conserving their destined hatred. It had been Draco that had not allowed them to fall in love, surely.

Surely.

Hermione, emotional, despondent teenager that she was, had surely treated him as a crush, a boyfriend, and finally as an ex-boyfriend.

These trivial definitions were nothing to strive for, and it brought a relieving sneer to his thoughts that he could define her as pathetic.

She was no longer his rival. He had no reason to find any significance in her. He was better off.

Surely.

And of course this lovely girl, his pure-blooded destiny, who must have never stopped loving him, could make him happy.

She did not produce trills in his heart, nor did the sight of her crying threaten to break the world he had formed around her, and her drama never seemed to affect his ability to act as his father wanted him to.

And why would he want her to? Love was not his life's purpose, there were a million things that were supposed to come first.

That do come first, he reminded himself.

He could marry this girl, and he would not have to spend a lifetime perfecting their typical marriage.

She was simply meant to be his partner. His companion. His support.

As compared to the love of a counterpart that he would have to fight for alone. And had he surely succeeded, like Draco only could, in taking her heart, had he wasted his time dividing himself into a singular character just perfect for her, he would only accomplish a relationship that would surely define him as codependent.

And as the prince of Slytherin and the Malfoy heir, he was a leader fighting a cause. It was undeniably irrelevant whether he believed in it or not.

All these thoughts occurred to him as he had finished up another night in Pansy's grip, letting her ego-boosting moans fabricate any thoughts of a girl that would never put out anyway.

Returning to his dorm, he had indulged in pills his mother had taken to dull her pained hatred of herself and, upon trying to quiet her screaming addiction to a gentle murmur, had let herself die anyways.

Malfoy was not on his way to suicide. He was, in fact, about to be on his way to fall to his father's orders.

Hoping that a burning throb on his arm would remind himself not to think of her, that they had given up anyways. A long, gruesome pursuit that teased him, to no end, with the idea that he could be over her once and for all. And not even sedatives, not Pansy, not the welcoming of his father's and his housemates' appreciation, could advance his attempts to forget about her, his pursuit to see her as insignificant.

So he was hoping that by devoting this one action to hating her would be so tangible that he could rely on it and not the memories, so obviously weak, considering Muddy's recent loss of everything he had been relying on for reality, if he could remember something real and not something that almost was, he could return to a much simpler life.

He wanted to snort in disgust that he had said circumstances changed him.

And he wasn't sure if it was his new determination or the fact that she had found value in his moral that he was now convinced his mantra was foolish.

He was Draco Malfoy, and he was going to be what he was privileged to be. He had been in luxury for seventeen years. Abandoning his foolish father, who could die and be out of their misery anyways, would be selfish.

So as he gripped his broom, he knew that he sent that last look at his library door as if it would be his last.

Why hadn't he just destroyed the door?

It wasn't that he was giving himself a reason to stay.

For even though he knew that to leave it there, within temptation, and never ever reach for it again would make him the better wizard. Stronger.

But he did not trust himself, for he knew that in these days of relapse he was surely too weak to know that he was better off.

He would remove temptation and distraction.

And try not to think that every single thing he did to pass the time, just so he wouldn't think of her, was just a distraction from her, as if she was his destiny.

Nonsense.

But as he raised his wand, he wished that he could not have gone blank at just that one moment. That surely, surely if he had been able to destroy their link just one second earlier, he would not have heard her knock.

Refusing to hear it, he gripped his wand tighter and it shook as his lip was ripped by his canines, wishing he could be even more determined now, now that she had the audacity to come to him. That he could scream a harsher curse to eliminate and maybe even hurt her in the process.

That if she could know that he had finally given up the one thing that bound him to her, she could break and he could never care.

But nothing came out.

And as silence encompassed them both, he was sure, he knew that if he could open that door for the last time and shout every obscenity and will-be-truth at her broken face, he could get over her even faster.

Ecstatic at another chance to perfect a memory that would serve to hate her, he rushed to the door and tried to enhance a face that would show, immediately, just how welcome she was.

And so anticlimactic it had been to open the door, prepared to break her, and have her gone already.

He was sure his mouth must have hung open, and he snapped it quickly, breathing in and looking round, half hoping to see her lurking, crying with her head against the wall or something else characteristic of the weak girl he thought her to be.

But she really was gone.

She hadn't waited for him.

And he refused to believe that this action made her any less pathetic, desperate.

But as he failed to see how it could make her more antagonistic, he let himself fall, his head against the doorframe and gazing idly at an aberrantly dark shadow on the opposing wall.

Lifting his head very very slightly, he realized that it was her. She was staring at him with blank features, and suddenly he had flipped.

He had been open of his reaction to not finding her.

He steeled his face, hoping it would keep her from thinking it was dismay that had crossed his features upon realizing she had not waited.

"Are you a masochist, Muddy?"

She did not move. She did not flinch.

Nor did he allow himself to. Instead he stood up with all the swift grace he possessed, striding angrily towards her.

She was further from the door than he had thought, and he stopped a meter from her, smirking.

Until he realized she was crying. And not for herself.

Her body imperfectly petrified, her clothing ripped in her most obscene privacy, her hands were bound as she watched him fall, suddenly concerned-for who?-faster than any of the tears she faked.