It could have been like this: your heart is made of glass, and such a stupid thing it'd be, Malfoy, because I can see so clearly through you anyway.

It could have been like this: your fingers are curling around a little golden ball, a snitch, curling and you can feel its wings your pulse fluttering, and such a shame, Malfoy, because you'll never.

This is how it is. You can't sleep in your mansion stinking of secrets and blood and dirty dreams. You'd rather die than admit to yourself that you dream those dreams. You sneer and you writhe and you can still feel my fist in your stomach, and the wineglass smashes to the floor, and I break your heart, break you, over and over and over again.