Marionnette

She has been sitting there for days.

Tom is not quite sure how she manages, but she has not moved an inch and he is almost sure she hasn't even breathed. Why won't she look at him? Why does she just stare at a spot on the wall that is not really there? He is right there in front of her but she won't look at him. Why won't she look at him?

It is an early morning in December and Tom goes to see her again because he still believes she may look up one day. He remembers how she was before; he remembers the faint smile hovering at the corners of her scowl when she set eyes upon him. He never thought he would miss that.

Draco Malfoy is sitting on a chair in the corner. He has been there the whole night because he is still weak to such human emotions and desperation. Tom is not weak. Staying the night with an immobile, stupid little girl is not going to change anything, but that doesn't stop Tom from darkening her doorway every morning.

Draco does not look up until Tom snaps at him to leave. The boy jumps toward the door and inclines his head to Tom muttering my lord under his breath and staring at him with hateful grey eyes.

Tom watches him go and knows he has lost one of his own. Draco still bows to him, but he does not leap onto the floor as if he would like the kiss the dust. He is slower in his movements and holds Tom's gaze defiantly. Give me another reason to hate you, his eyes say, give me a reason to betray you.

Draco Malfoy does not matter. Draco Malfoy was never his concern and neither is she, but he is here and he is not quite sure why.

She is still there, sitting against sheets that are so horribly white and clean and free of blood, that it makes Tom shiver. She is propped up against the overstuffed pillows like some sort of grotesque puppet with her hair in ringlets and her blue eyes blinking only when necessary.

He sits at the end of the bed and turns to face her, reaching out to grip her hand. She doesn't flinch and some part of Tom hates her for it. It is hard to imagine she was ever more than this soulless little doll; that her dull eyes once held fire and spite and hate.

He had dreamed about it, fantasized about it in so many different ways. He would trace the arch of her back with his gaze and imagine what it would be like to shove a knife through her spine. When his hands were on her shoulders, holding her still as he kissed her, he pictured moving his grip just a bit higher and closing his fingers around her throat, not letting go until she has no breath left in her. Then there was always how easy it would be to throw her into a stone wall when he had her in his arms. He could see her crumpled, broken form behind his eyelids and wanted it to be real.

It was one of so many sick, twisted fantasies that Tom indulged on a regular basis, but it was just a fantasy and part of the fantasy was that it would never happen. Tom had more control than that.

But there she was, not moving and barely breathing. She might as well have been dead. He might as well have killed her but he didn’t. He didn’t kill her. She is like this because she chose to be and it isn’t his fault.

All he ever wanted was for her to behave. For her to be perfect. Don’t speak so loud, your voice annoys me. Don’t be so silent, what are you thinking? Stop struggling against me. Don’t be such a docile whore. Come here and kiss me. Get away from me, you stupid girl.

He wanted her to worship him. He wanted her to realise that she was beneath him and thank every God she knew that he had taken an interest in someone as base and fragile and pathetic as she was.

She had been in his bed the night it happened and Tom couldn’t sleep. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. An odd feeling that made itself present whenever she was laying with him like this and he wanted it to go away.

Tom shifted onto his side, tracing the hollow of her bare neck with his finger, and the veins beneath with his eyes. She opened those dark blue eyes, and tilted her head to look up at him. What do you want? she said. I was sleeping.

Obviously. I have something to ask you.

Well ask me so I can go back to sleep.

Tom hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, but he did and a small part of him said to just go back to sleep and go on ignoring this infuriating feeling.

Do you love me? he asked and her eyes widened. She slid out from under his touch and sat on the edge of the bed slipping on her nightgown and dressing robe. Tom glared at her back, enraged by her silence and repeated himself.

Answer me! Do you love me? He hated repeating himself.

She remained silent momentarily, turning to look at him. There was laughter in her eyes that made his blood run cold.

Love you? A halfblood? She laughed. A high, cruel laugh that made Tom cringe inside. The feeling disappeared then, masked by the burning need to hurt her. He was on his feet in a second, pausing only to slip on his trousers and pick up his wand, pointing at her. She fell back with every step he took and he screamed the word Crucio.

She collapsed on the floor screaming and it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. He almost forgot to remove the spell listening to it, because she could not scream that beautifully if he killed her.

Finite Incantatem. She fell over shaking and whimpering, trying to crawl away from him. That only fuelled his anger and he kicked her hard in the ribs, knocking her over.

He saw her face then, and something shocked him backward. In her eyes, perhaps, there was something different. Tom dropped to his knees and gathered her in his arms. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please say something. You shouldn’t make me angry like that, please say something.

She was silent. Like a corpse that seemed to have forgotten to stop breathing and she wouldn’t look at him. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

She is still silent and Tom visits her every morning, hoping for her and always finding a living doll, because that is all she is now.

He sits with her and takes her hand in a grip that is bone crushing, whispering her name with a tone that is demanding and not desperate, never desperate because he does not need anyone and he never needed her.

Pansy. Why won’t you look at me?

[Fin]