Inescapable

Inescapable.

In my prison I write on the walls. Draco doesn't know; or if he does he doesn't care. The ramblings of the mad wife in the attic. Who would have thought that it was so easy to conform to literary stereotype?

Black ink on white plaster. Black ink on white skin, running down bare, white arms and blending invisibly with black, satin robes. What does he tell them? That his wife is sick? Poor Pansy, they think. At least she has Draco to tend her in loving devotion. I attend parties on his arm, beautiful and empty: his charms keep my tongue in check, my movements passive. Only when he releases me into my prison, binding my door and walking away can the anger come. My thin hands are darkened with more than ink: bruises form so easily and I no longer feel the pain. Beating fists on stone brings no relief. Release is only in words.

Once, I had a diary that was charmed and locked. He knew the spells; he could have read it. Once, I had a diary in which to confide my secret thoughts and fears, to pour my soul into his waiting hands.

Now there is no lock. There is only ink on walls for all to see. But no one sees because no one looks. Now there is no soul.

Once there was a boy and a girl. Once the girl had a heart. Draco broke it, binding the girl to him and preventing her from seeing the boy. Now only his green eyes remain, seared into her memory: green flames of hatred that might once have flickered with love had things been different. He never knew they were different because she never told him.

I never told him.

Maybe I'm going mad. I tell my story in the third person. What story? What life? It all ended that day the week before the end of school. That look of disappointment, of consequent rejection, in his green eyes.

If only he had turned back once to see the devotion in mine.

Once it was all about power. He didn't know that it had ever been more, that it had ever changed. It was not in my nature to tell him. Love was not a word in my vocabulary. We were conditioned to be heartless, once. Is that what has driven me to this? My heartless lover binding me in a loveless marriage and all the while, through that frosted tint that he casts, I can see happiness - out of reach.

Harry was happiness.

Warm, fiery emotion. Exposed to his passions even my frozen heart could melt. So they pulled me back. No time to thaw. Packaged, sold and married off into a palace of ice. Locked in a tower of indifference to be the queen of all I survey. From my small window I can see the gardens where the sun never comes. Consort-wife to the king of pain, of loss and of hoarfrost.

I used to know what summer was.

Draco comes to me sometimes and talks to me as he used to. He is still painfully, breathtakingly beautiful and when he is standing in front of me, when he takes me in his arms and kisses me, I can almost forget what he did to me. I can almost feel grateful, privileged to be married to this powerful, beautiful wizard. I can almost forget that smirk of his when I can't see it. I can almost forget how he reacted when he discovered how I felt about Harry.

How could I have been so stupid as to write it down? Especially when I knew that Draco would return any minute.

His horror. His anger. He didn't expect me to be faithful to him - just discreet - and NOT with Potter. I'm not sure whether he was more hurt by the fact that it was Harry, or by the revelation that I did have a heart and that he could never have it. It damaged his pride, I suppose.

He's far too cruel to spurn me. He'd come too far. He couldn't break it off, abandon me. Not only would he have been admitting defeat, but it might have allowed me to go to Harry. Then Draco truly would have been a laughing stock. Why Malfoy? You've lost your little woman. And to the Boy Who Lived. Well, it's understandable, really. No shame since it's him.

Oh, to Draco, quite the opposite.

He could never let that happen.

I had one chance to speak to Harry before I left school. It was the week before the end of term and everyone was getting ready for the leaving ball. Draco had been called away by Hermione to attend to something or other than needed the attention of both the Head Boy and the Head Girl. I crossed the room hurriedly. Harry? He turned and the disgust was evident in his eyes. What do you want, Parkinson? Maybe he hadn't noticed my use of his first name.

Can't I just talk to you for a second?

Maybe he thought that I had been sent by Draco. After all, I'd been kept pretty close to my fiancé's side for the last few weeks. I could understand Harry's apprehension. This is not about Draco! I began again.

No? Of course not! Haven't you already proved my weakness? Surely you don't need to rub it in? The poor darling actually thought that I'd come to gloat over the bathroom incident. Part of me was thrilled that he remembered, part of me was disgusted at the memory of my treatment of him.

It's not like that, I began, but got no further. Draco was back and he saw me and wrapped his arms around me, his eyes dangerous. He nuzzled into the side of my neck possessively. Well, well, Potter, he drawled, his eyes on Harry's the whole time. They should have been on me. Admiring my girl? I hear she got you quite hot and bothered a few weeks ago. Have you thought about her since? From the flush I rather suspect that you have. Have you imagined your hands doing to her what you know that mine have?