Wallflower

I’ll make you write my name in blood. I’ll make you tear open my heart with your bare fingers. I’ll make you dig those six feet and throw yourself into the casket beside me. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you remember me. DHr

Disclaimer: Don’t own HP.

I wrote this when I was sick, screwed over for a test the next day, and with a pounding headache. Translation: Not the best of quality. Found it though, and decided to post. Enjoy!

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Mudblood –

You’ll scoff at me, but I beg to differ. There’s nothing more affectionate than the word “Mudblood.” It doesn’t affect you at all, and I can almost see the reasoning: it doesn’t take much of an amateur to throw the words “mud” and “blood” together for a purely pureblooded insult, and those that personified the term – the true Mudbloods – were not brought up with it. For them, it was a ludicrous, foreign word to be laughed at, and not to be taken offensively. But for purebloods, it proves that you are important enough for him to shoot the derogatory term at. That you’re worth something – albeit not flatteringly – in his life.

Not that you prefer it this way. You’d much rather that I ignore you, so you can pretend that insignificant little creature nipping at your heels doesn’t exist.

But that is precisely my point: if I hadn’t been provoking you as I was (and as I am), I would blend into the background in a blur of faces. I want to be prominent. I want to be visible, to be seen. When you turn around and catch your eyes with mine, I want you to think, “That’s Draco Malfoy.”

It’s okay if you accompany that phrase with a “God damn it” and a clenched fist. It would have never worked any other way – you’ll get married to Weasel, and I’ll get married to some pureblooded princess from France. I’m not a bloody Gryffindor. I’m not bloody brave enough to stride outside of the intricately marked borders set down for a Malfoy to pursue some god-forsaken yearning that would only end in destruction.

I wish I was more than a coward on a few occasions – that I could fight for what I believed, and not fight you. You’re one of my biggest regrets I hold true to this day.

But I got what I wanted, didn’t I? You recognize me. You always will.

Maybe we’ll meet in some sort of bizarre reunion one day when we can push away the past as mature adults, when you won’t see me and think, “That’s the bloody coward who bullied me but ran away from the Final War.” You’ll offer me a constricted smile and greet me by my surname. “You remember Ron, my husband?”

I’ll grit my teeth and manage a grin. “Naturally,” I’d say, as if I didn’t care. I’d pull my arm around my own wife’s waist and introduce her to you and notice how hearing her name doesn’t affect you in the slightest.

But maybe then I wouldn’t mind. Maybe then I would have gotten over you, as unlikely as it seems now.

Laughable, isn’t it? How utterly disgusting I am in my thoughts. How weak they are. How ridiculously romantic and sappy – traitorous, even.

Maybe this letter will cure me from this poison you’ve slipped into my soul. This evil is all your fault, and you should be a Slytherin for it. It’s all your fault. All your fault, and I can’t stand it.

And so I can only punish you. I’ll make you write my name in blood. I’ll make you tear open my heart with your bare fingers. I’ll make you dig those six feet and throw yourself into the casket beside me. Your unwarranted torture, my bittersweet delight.

Because I’ll do whatever it takes to make you remember me, since there’s nothing better I can do.

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