Grey

There's something about you that I cannot understand.

I don't know what it is. It's something that used to repulse me and attract me, and make me feel privileged and weak and probably any of what I am saying is making sense.

But I'm used to it.

Where I am, everything is grey. Grey is worse than black; black absorbs all the light and all the colours, grey just remains the same. White reflects all the light, not absorbing any colour, but grey simply remains the same, light doesn't change it.

Your eyes are grey.

That kind of grey, which seems silver when I look at your profile.

It is said that eyes are the windows of the soul, but in your case the windows are obscured by deep thick velvet curtains. Something difficult to move, that hides perfectly everything behind it. But when the curtain will move, there will be an entire new world to explore.

The first time you showed interest in me was in our fifth year. You still weren't the person who captured me, but interesting, more intriguing of what I liked to admit. I knew you were a Malfoy; you came from an ancient pure-blooded family and everybody who could look beyond prejudices could see it. It was in your way of walking, with your head held up high, not showing-off, but simply proud of who you were.

You still grace the halls of where I am now, but your head is not held up as high as you used to. You aren't ashamed of who you are, yet, but you're doubting. I can see it when you come to me. You hurt me, and I bleed, and you seem to enjoy my blood, you touch its redness, while its metallic essence fills your lungs. I look at you, coughing and trying to breathe. And I still can't see you. I think not even you can see where your mask, the one you've worn for so long, ends, and when your real self start.

I won't say that you're not really evil, that you've been hurt in the past, poor tormented little boy. I believe you're a man who made his choices, and who is living them fully. Here's where I respect you. However, I can't help but relish when I see your eyes dull. When your silver becomes grey like dust. It's because you doubt. You're doubting how you live, and, sometimes, when you're alone in your ancient perfectly furnished manor, in front of a fire, you gaze at the flames, lost in thoughts that are getting you every time further, and getting back is more and more difficult every time.

In moments like these I don't care whether they'll ever come to save me, I'm seeing you blindly walk towards your end, and I indulge in this vision, and I pray because I want to see when the curtain will open, revealing to you the absence of colours.

And then grey will be everything.