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“Why are you with him?”
It was a whine, a wheedle, a sneer, reminding her unpleasantly of his much younger self, and she turns away with a tight frown.
“Because he's good and brave and true.”
“I could be.”
She snickers, intentionally cruel, and throws a glance over her shoulder at him.
“No, you couldn’t.”
He doesn’t argue, a frown marring his pale and pointed face, and she wonders absently, why she thinks he’s handsome. His eyes flash up to her own, narrowing as if he senses her thoughts, and she leans backwards against the windowsill and plays with the collar of her robe.
“I’m going to do bad things, terrible things, unforgivable things,” he drawls suddenly, halting her teasing fingers with nothing but a glance, “and because you will do nothing to stop me, you are covered in the same blood.”
She glares at him.
“Stop you? I don’t even know what you’re talking about! How am I supposed to stop you?”
He smirks cruelly, silver eyes lit with bitterness, and behind that she senses fear.
“Why are you doing it then? Because Daddy told you to?”
His eyes sharpen, hard as diamonds, and she knows that she has gone too far.
“Because I must,” he bites out, instead of revenge. She is surprised, but holds it inside.
She goes to him then, pressing her warm mouth against his neck, breathing deeply of expensive cologne and silk shirts, before his arms slip tightly around her and his lips reach hers.
--
But later, when Harry sits stoically by the fire with Ron and Hermione and they talk of playing hero’s, she begins to hate a small part of him… A small part of them all.
She hates Ron for his fickle devotion. She hates Hermione for her unintentional superiority. And she hates Harry for being as good and true as she claimed him to be, while at the same time he’s nothing but a boy.
It’s easy to be the hero, she thinks, when the world adores you in the end. How much more difficult it must be to play villain, when all despise you no matter what step you take.
And this is unfair of her, and close-minded, for Harry has shouldered more than his share of unkindness from the world, while the other has done nothing to dissuade it. Harry lives with the promise of an early death, while the other lives with the fear of it. Harry is guided by the light of a hundred worshiping hands, while the other is led further into shadow by the one man who should have shielded him at all costs. They have everything and nothing in common.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, knowing that the gesture infuriates him and enjoying it even though he can’t possibly see her. She imagines him brooding in front of the green Slytherin fire, shielded by his less effective Ron and Hermione, Crabbe and Goyle.
While in her place, she thinks with tightened lips, sits Pansy.
---
“Why are you with her?”
“Because she’s rich, of good blood, and obeys orders.”
“Great reasons for a girlfriend,” she snorts, so unrefined he winces slightly.
“I suppose you’d be better?”
“Of course!” she crosses her arms and taps her foot.
“And what would Potter say if I walked into the Great Hall with you in my arms? He’d immediately accuse me of mind control and hex me. Not to mention you’re oaf of a brother and their frazzled mouse.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” she says fiercely; ready to defend him against the world in one moment, ready to condemn him to hell in the next.
Her anger makes him smirk, fondly, and he touches a pale finger to her jaw in a barely there caress.
“We cannot. My house… My father… My lord… You are my enemy.”
“Are you really a death eater?” she whispers, paling.
“Soon. Soon…”
He rubs absently at his forearm, but he will not meet her gaze.
--
Later, stunned by Dumbledore’s death and as Hogwart’s is grieving, she receives another blow. Harry promises he’ll come back to her, that they’ll pick up where they left off, and she can’t help but laugh inside, because he’ll be coming back to an unfaithful heart torn in two by a boy who does nothing but destroy and desecrate. She feels as betrayed as she is betraying, deserted by the boy she loved and the boy she loathed to love.
She casts off his silver eyes and platinum hair, the fear in his gaze and the shiver in his stance, his lips against her neck and the feel of his palm against her own.
She resolves to forget Draco Malfoy, the boy who thumbed his nose at her family, her friends, her life, and mocked her for the things she could not change.
She knows she can’t do without Draco Malfoy, the boy who smirked at her whenever he tangled his fingers in her hair to pull her closer.
She’ll never forgive Draco Malfoy, the boy who stunned them all with his cunning while surprising none of them with his treachery.
She’ll try to understand Draco Malfoy, the boy trying to save his family from a fate they deserved and proving he had a heart after all.
And in the end, she will choose green eyes over gray, black hair over blonde, the surety of what she knows over the potential of what she doesn’t. In the end, she will not see him again until they are sending their own children off to school, and she has lost the vivacity and audaciousness of youth to the comfort and tenderness of motherhood, while he has lost his cockiness and cruelty to the security of frigid arrogance.
For a moment she sees him as the boy she had known, as pale and lovely and sad and sly as ever he was, and her heart clenches with the fierce knowledge that she made a mistake, everything was wrong and it was too late for either of them. He knows it too. He had always known it. She can read it in his gray eyes as they narrow imperceptibly.
Then the moment passes. He looks away and pats the head of a boy exactly his image. She turns back to her husband and her beloved children, shaken and confused.
She will not think of him again.
It was a whine, a wheedle, a sneer, reminding her unpleasantly of his much younger self, and she turns away with a tight frown.
“Because he's good and brave and true.”
“I could be.”
She snickers, intentionally cruel, and throws a glance over her shoulder at him.
“No, you couldn’t.”
He doesn’t argue, a frown marring his pale and pointed face, and she wonders absently, why she thinks he’s handsome. His eyes flash up to her own, narrowing as if he senses her thoughts, and she leans backwards against the windowsill and plays with the collar of her robe.
“I’m going to do bad things, terrible things, unforgivable things,” he drawls suddenly, halting her teasing fingers with nothing but a glance, “and because you will do nothing to stop me, you are covered in the same blood.”
She glares at him.
“Stop you? I don’t even know what you’re talking about! How am I supposed to stop you?”
He smirks cruelly, silver eyes lit with bitterness, and behind that she senses fear.
“Why are you doing it then? Because Daddy told you to?”
His eyes sharpen, hard as diamonds, and she knows that she has gone too far.
“Because I must,” he bites out, instead of revenge. She is surprised, but holds it inside.
She goes to him then, pressing her warm mouth against his neck, breathing deeply of expensive cologne and silk shirts, before his arms slip tightly around her and his lips reach hers.
--
But later, when Harry sits stoically by the fire with Ron and Hermione and they talk of playing hero’s, she begins to hate a small part of him… A small part of them all.
She hates Ron for his fickle devotion. She hates Hermione for her unintentional superiority. And she hates Harry for being as good and true as she claimed him to be, while at the same time he’s nothing but a boy.
It’s easy to be the hero, she thinks, when the world adores you in the end. How much more difficult it must be to play villain, when all despise you no matter what step you take.
And this is unfair of her, and close-minded, for Harry has shouldered more than his share of unkindness from the world, while the other has done nothing to dissuade it. Harry lives with the promise of an early death, while the other lives with the fear of it. Harry is guided by the light of a hundred worshiping hands, while the other is led further into shadow by the one man who should have shielded him at all costs. They have everything and nothing in common.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, knowing that the gesture infuriates him and enjoying it even though he can’t possibly see her. She imagines him brooding in front of the green Slytherin fire, shielded by his less effective Ron and Hermione, Crabbe and Goyle.
While in her place, she thinks with tightened lips, sits Pansy.
---
“Why are you with her?”
“Because she’s rich, of good blood, and obeys orders.”
“Great reasons for a girlfriend,” she snorts, so unrefined he winces slightly.
“I suppose you’d be better?”
“Of course!” she crosses her arms and taps her foot.
“And what would Potter say if I walked into the Great Hall with you in my arms? He’d immediately accuse me of mind control and hex me. Not to mention you’re oaf of a brother and their frazzled mouse.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” she says fiercely; ready to defend him against the world in one moment, ready to condemn him to hell in the next.
Her anger makes him smirk, fondly, and he touches a pale finger to her jaw in a barely there caress.
“We cannot. My house… My father… My lord… You are my enemy.”
“Are you really a death eater?” she whispers, paling.
“Soon. Soon…”
He rubs absently at his forearm, but he will not meet her gaze.
--
Later, stunned by Dumbledore’s death and as Hogwart’s is grieving, she receives another blow. Harry promises he’ll come back to her, that they’ll pick up where they left off, and she can’t help but laugh inside, because he’ll be coming back to an unfaithful heart torn in two by a boy who does nothing but destroy and desecrate. She feels as betrayed as she is betraying, deserted by the boy she loved and the boy she loathed to love.
She casts off his silver eyes and platinum hair, the fear in his gaze and the shiver in his stance, his lips against her neck and the feel of his palm against her own.
She resolves to forget Draco Malfoy, the boy who thumbed his nose at her family, her friends, her life, and mocked her for the things she could not change.
She knows she can’t do without Draco Malfoy, the boy who smirked at her whenever he tangled his fingers in her hair to pull her closer.
She’ll never forgive Draco Malfoy, the boy who stunned them all with his cunning while surprising none of them with his treachery.
She’ll try to understand Draco Malfoy, the boy trying to save his family from a fate they deserved and proving he had a heart after all.
And in the end, she will choose green eyes over gray, black hair over blonde, the surety of what she knows over the potential of what she doesn’t. In the end, she will not see him again until they are sending their own children off to school, and she has lost the vivacity and audaciousness of youth to the comfort and tenderness of motherhood, while he has lost his cockiness and cruelty to the security of frigid arrogance.
For a moment she sees him as the boy she had known, as pale and lovely and sad and sly as ever he was, and her heart clenches with the fierce knowledge that she made a mistake, everything was wrong and it was too late for either of them. He knows it too. He had always known it. She can read it in his gray eyes as they narrow imperceptibly.
Then the moment passes. He looks away and pats the head of a boy exactly his image. She turns back to her husband and her beloved children, shaken and confused.
She will not think of him again.
Author notes: End
The End.
Glass_Mermaid is the author of 6 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked Perfect Imperfection also liked 201 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked Perfect Imperfection also liked 201 other stories.
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