Save Yourself

Remember what he did to you. Remember the glint in his eyes as he wounded your spirit and pride, feigning victory for the first and last time. Remember what he called you, and unjustifiably so. No one deserves that sort of treatment, even you, you fat, lazy, ugly, idiot, cow. Remember the taunts, remember the names, but most of all, remember the exact way revenge will take place: perfectly planned and incredibly painful.

I was eleven years old when my life began; finally, I was allowed to socialize without the threat of family dishonour hanging over me like a black cloud of doom.

For the first eleven years, I was molded into my parents’ idea of what a model child, especially the only daughter of one of the most proud, pure, and extensive Wizarding families in Britain, should be: beautiful, smart, funny, polite, but most importantly, ruthless and unforgiving. To fail one of Mother’s tests or to gain one pound over the limit Mother set for me, was fatal. My parents had high expectations for me, and as a Parkinson, I was fully expected to meet these expectations with full confidence, ease, and grace.

Don’t get me wrong; I was in no way the apple of my parents’ eyes. That title was bestowed upon my older brother, Zachary. He was perfect; gorgeous, impossible to ignore, and Head Boy. When our parents die, he would receive the Parkinson inheritance, leaving very little – if any – to me.

I was told from the first day I was born and on I had been a mistake; my family already had an heir, and the sole reason Mother kept me when she discovered she was pregnant was because she thought I was going to be a boy. A boy would be needed in case the impossible happened; in case something happened to Zachary. Who else would carry on the family name if Father didn’t have a son to pass the family name on to?

As was custom, I was betrothed within a day of my birth to the son of another rich, prominent Wizarding family. I didn’t meet the boy until my first day at Hogwarts – even then I’m sure our parents hadn’t expected us to put the obvious pieces of the puzzle together. I was told I was to marry Father’s best friend’s son, while he was told similar. Each time Lucius Malfoy entered the Parkinson estate, I hoped against hope he dared to bring his son with him.

I didn’t know the boy’s name, nor what he looked like, but I was a little girl back then; full of naïve hopes and dreams that one day, my Prince would come and take me away from the awful, dreaded estate I was imprisoned in. We would ride out into the country on a white stallion to his castle, where we would fall in love and live happily ever after.

It took me eleven years to realize there was no such thing as happily ever after, especially with my betrothed being Draco Malfoy. I had read far too many fairytales by then to believe someone I had been promised to wouldn’t be perfect, but despite all of the flaws I later noticed, my first impression of the blonde boy on Platform 9 ¾ the day we were to leave our families and attend our first year at Hogwarts was an astonishingly simple one.

If I had the faintest idea of what sex was at the time, I would have jumped his bones right then and there.

I kissed Mother and Father goodbye and promised to listen to Zachary – a blessid Seventh Year by then – and climbed into the train to find an empty compartment where I might have caught up on the sleep I missed the night before due to my excitement and anticipation.

It wasn’t long after I set my head against the window when I saw two redheaded boys – twins, perhaps? – step right under my window. I saw them call to their family in excitement as I strained to hear what they were saying.

”… just met on the train?”

A tired, plump, redheaded woman – presumably the twins’ mother – sighed and started to open her mouth to speak, but the twins didn’t wait for her answer.

”You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?”

This time the woman responded; “Who?”

With chorused excitement the two twins exclaimed, “Harry Potter!”

I sat up with a startled expression, my tired mind suddenly racing.

Harry Potter was a name both praised and feared, adored and loathed throughout the world. Not a witch or wizard in the world didn’t know his name, but unlike those who had rejoiced with the demise of Lord Voldemort which an infant Potter had caused, I had been raised to detest the name. It was the equivalent of the most horrid curse word one could imagine within the Parkinson Estate, and when it was uttered, it was only to teach my brother and I exactly who the enemy was.

As I pondered this new revelation – Potter was obviously a First Year, why else would the twins be so surprised by this news? – I heard the compartment door slide open, revealing the one person I would spend the rest of my life loathing and loving, never anywhere in between; my blonde prince, Draco Malfoy.