“Who do you think you are?
Runnin' round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Who do you think you are?"

“Jar of Hearts” - Christina Perri

Watch

You watch the way he refuses to shield his face from the reporters as they swarm around him after the trials. You see how the too-sharp features of his face are carefully arranged into a haughty, unfeeling façade that fools everyone... Everyone but you. You realize that the expression is just a mask. It does not reach his eyes, those dark and hollow pools that were once likened to ice or the clouded sky that are now nothing but dull, murky waters of the abyss.

You watch him pass you in Diagon Alley, his cool gaze meeting your own as he gives you a nod. Almost three months since your last encounter after the Final Battle and he nods at you. You know how it is, how it has to be, but it doesn't help the dull ache in your chest. It doesn't give you any comfort when you lay awake at night, wishing for more than what you have. Wishing you were back in the dungeons of Hogwarts with his arms around you, comforting you as your mourn for so many. Wishing you could feel those strong, sweet lips on yours again.

You watch the slow, casual smile as it blooms when he notices the paparazzi following him, snapping his picture with the date on his arm. You see his mouth, that gorgeous mouth, moving in mute black and white as he coolly answers their prying questions. 'What is this, Draco, the fourth girl this week?' 'How old is this one, Mr. Malfoy?' 'When are you going to settle down, Malfoy? Isn't it about time for an heir?' His mask is painted with calm and confidence now, but you see his eyes and you know that it's burning him up to have his dirty laundry aired out.

You watch the quick glances he gives you from the corner of his eye as he dines a few tables away from you and your friends. It's supposed to be girls' night out, but you only listen with half an ear to the giggly chatter around you. It's your best friend's wedding tomorrow, but your head is full of thoughts of platinum hair and quicksilver eyes. You can't stop yourself from following behind him as he heads to the coat check counter while his date is busy in the loo. You can't stop your hand from brushing his as you pass by. You can't stop yourself from looking up into those eyes, finally in color again after a year of looking at them in black and white. You can't stop the chaste kiss you give him before rushing to catch up with Luna and Hannah. You can't stop the smile that blooms as you think of his stunned expression for the rest of the night.

You watch a familiar woman with a decidedly pug-like nose screech at him in the middle of Diagon Alley. The photographer really captured the moment well, you have to admit. His anger isn't especially well-disguised, but it's barely discernible from mild annoyance. He looks like a parent dealing with a petulant child rather than a man having a very public, very vocal breakup with his on-again-off-again girlfriend. It makes you smile because you know he's absolutely furious at her for making a scene, for landing them in the paper yet again. You think he ought to know better by now, that Pansy has always been a dramatic cow, but he's a bit thick at times, so you chalk it up to that and laugh at the description of the argument.

You watch the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for you to answer the door. You can't decide if it's a bad idea or a terrible one, but you hate the way your peep-hole makes it look like he's in a fishbowl so you open the door and say hello. He says something about his thoughts (which always revolve around you, apparently) and about the Daily Prophet (which you're always in these days, it seems), but you can't stop watching the way his lips wrap around your name. Your arms are somehow around his neck and you're kissing his lips, those sweet, strong lips.

You watch Draco and yourself in the photograph, sitting on a bench and having a chat as your fingers twine together. You look up into the photographer's – into Dennis's eyes, so much like his brother's, and you don't have the words. You want to say it's not what it looks like, to continue your secret-keeping and hide your relationship with Draco away from the world. But Dennis is your friend and you know he's showing you this for a reason. You know he is risking his career by not turning this into the Prophet. You listen when he tells you how lucky he is that it was him and not that horrid Romilda Vane that snagged this shot. You thank him, you say it won't happen again, you say it's over... And you mean it.

You watch his eyes, not his face, as you tell him about Dennis. You know by now that his eyes hold the truth, not those painted-on expressions. His eyes say that he understands before you even say the words. You don't really have to explain. He knows it was too close and you both know what that means. You both knew already how it was when this started, that you're supposed to end up in Harry's arms and he in those of some elitist snob with Neo-Nazi looks. He kisses you one last time before he goes and you can't help thinking that this is all a mistake, but you don't stop him.

You watch him parade his latest girlfriend, a woman with feline eyes and an up-turned nose, all over every bit of the Prophet. Through the gossip columns, across the headlines, over the society pages... And finally, their journey stops on the wedding announcements. There he is, all sharp angles and charming smirks and you can't help how it makes you feel. You can't help the stab of betrayal, the sting of jealousy, the burning fury. You can't help the love that is still there, in your heart, for the boy with hopeless eyes that first kissed you one night in your fourth year.

You watch Harry as he reads the article, his jealousy plain as day. Then again, perhaps it's only plain to you. It makes you miss Draco's masks. His eyes didn't always betray his feelings and it had become a test of skill to distinguish his moods. Harry says he feels sorry for the woman that has to put up with Malfoy for the rest of her life. You feel quite envious of the cat-eyed cow, but you'd never tell anyone, Harry especially. So you just nod and say it must dreadful to wake up to that face every morning. He doesn't catch the sarcastic edge to your voice and you aren't surprised. He's always been a bit oblivious with you. Then again, perhaps it's you who's been oblivious. You wonder this as you look down into his fresh-pickled-toad eyes from where he is before you on bended knee. He asks and you respond with the prepackaged reply. Afterward you wonder if it was just to spite Draco that he asked. But you decide it doesn't matter because it was just to spite him that you answered.

You watch the image of you and Harry smile and wave up at you from the next day's paper. The photograph, however, is not on the announcements section alone. Your faces are plastered on the very front page with the headline, 'The Boy-Who-Lived and The Girl-Who-Loved'. A bit cheesy for your taste, but the Prophet has quite lost its edge these days, so you cut them some slack. Though they have still managed to transform your tasteful interest piece into a full scale media event, so perhaps a corny header is the result of working tirelessly to include the upcoming nuptials in every section of the paper (even the obits are sporting a mock necrology for the hearts of every girl in the Wizarding World, you note, knowing Harry will hate that they mention Malfoy in it as well).

You watch all of your friends and family cheer as you exchange a kiss with your newly-wedded husband. You watch cool, unnerving eyes watch you in return. You watch him give you a small nod from across the Great Hall, his platinum hair the only thing (you tell yourself it's the only thing, anyway) helping you tell his face apart from the sea of people around him. You watch as he ducks out of the door. You watch the emotions, so many emotions, flit through his eyes as you look up at him. You watch his long, piano-player fingers reach up to play with a loose curl of your fiery hair. You watch his lips as he gives his congratulations. You watch him place a slow, soft kiss to your palm before he turns away. You watch him leave and your heart, what's left of it anyway, follows him out and doesn't look back. You watch your chest rise and fall with gentle breaths (how was it not heaving with heavy sobs?) and expect it to rip open at any minute and show the world the great crater he's left you with.

You watch the joyously happy smile on his handsome face as he holds his son, beaming and proud. You hate that it's all in monochrome again, that you can't seen his brilliant eyes sparkling as you hand him his son. But you chose your path already, the path laid out neatly before you, just as he had. You knew, you both knew it had to be like this... That knowledge never helped the hole in your chest close up, though, and it's been five years since you wore white and felt his lips on your skin.

You watch him watching you from across the platform and you want to say it's been sixteen years since you last saw him, but it's more like nine years and nine months. He observes your daughter, your precious girl, chatting animatedly with Hugo. You suppose the duo are plotting against Dominique and Louis again (the four have had a prank war going all summer, much to your annoyance). But as Lily gives Hugo a smirky little smile, you see that carefully composed mask of Draco's falter the slightest bit. You have no doubt that he knows now. That even though the rest of the world sees a Mini-Ginny, the two of you see a touch of Malfoy in her as well. In her pointed little chin that makes her face look peach-shaped, in her sweet little up-turned nose and arched brows that are all Narcissa Malfoy, and in that mouth... her father's mouth.

You watch him as he looks up at you from the newspaper, the mask back in place. Black and white and so very cold, it makes you frown. The headlines read divorce and you stomp down any hint of joy that tries to blossom. He hasn't said a word to you since that day at the platform, but you know it's coming and you seriously doubt it's going to end with you and him and white picket fence. You do let the pity you feel for him rise in your chest, though, because your divorce with Harry may have been public and complicated by having a confused five-year-old and a fussy almost-two-year-old, but at least you hadn't had any infidelities to deal with. You and Harry had more respect than that. "All-Access Astoria," however, was not so faithful.

You watch his face and you know the masquerade has finally ended. His feelings are as plain as Harry's were on any given day, but you know that this only means that you're in a great deal of trouble. There are so many emotions it's like a sensory overload as you look up at him. Fury and betrayal and sadness and a small bit of happiness. You argue for hours, you scream and cry, and finally... you talk. You explain that it was easier if the Wizarding World thought Lily was Harry's, but that your friends and family know (how could they not?). You watch his mouth, that gorgeous mouth, as he smiles, genuine and free. You kiss him for the first time in ten years and it washes away every bit of hurt from your body, making your toes curl and your hands fist in his robes. You feel like you're flying after years on the ground.

You watch the picture of you and Draco sitting in the park while Lily and her cousins play. You're all smiles as you watch Lily pull a particularly clever trick on Louis. Dennis asks what you're doing with him again, and you laugh. You toss the picture on his desk and walk out with your head high. You're done hiding. You want to be happy.