Left For

Left For

~

An angel

That was her

To every bit of her body

Fallen from the stars

That's what I said,

Exactly what I called her

She was mine

For all the dark times

When I thought I'd lose control

She kept me sane

In a love made from a deep running pain

She never knew

Why I stared to her,

Why I looked onto her face

Like she'd bestowed some awful grace

On me, the deathly boy

Who could not hold an ounce of goodness

In his damned heart

I took hers as mine,

The minute I saw who she was

I forgot in my head, deliberately

What it was that meant she couldn't be

That stopped me from ever telling her

I only wanted to stay as I'd grown accustomed to

Yet she showed me a light, blinding as it was

In it I focused on her, not what was above

And I came to be, different

Somewhere between what I was before

And what I should have been to her

An angel

Saving me from damnation

She lifted me up, graciously;

Unknowingly

I am no longer forsaken

All for her

And now for me

I need to stand

Free from all

Even her

Taking my first defiant steps

If I wish to do so

And turning to her possibly

I might just walk that direction

Yes, maybe

Depends if I can take

What's reality

I still have the face of a demon

Can't expect a hero's welcome

I'll get not a drop of respect for any of this

The question is

Will I carry on regardless

Can I get over the bodies behind me

And the legacy

Of the years

~~~

That was her. I dreamt of her even as I scowled at her with my sly face across the potions room.

I thought for a second I might see a small tear in the corner of her eye. But I reminded myself it didn't matter.

Because however much I had to hurt her to keep up such a pretence, to still be able to adore her, the price I'd pay for such a betrayal on my honour was far too great for a pretty little Mudblood.

It helped for me to refer to her as that. To keep in character with what I was meant to be, my heritage, my legacy passed from all the hateful Malfoys before me. An ambition I had to succeed in.

I was the fearless impenetrable Draco Malfoy. I didn't let Mudbloods or Mugglelovers into my mind, let alone my heart.

So she was just a lust, if anyone was to know. Just some thing that I wanted and hated at the same time.

A bit of something denied, that was the only way I could ever justify it to my father.

I was the living inferior model of him after all.

He at both moments expected from me, the utmost and irreproachable manner suitable of a Malfoy (and greater than himself) and too he saw me as the weakly wretched son he wished he'd never had.

I was only really his possession at all points. One to be moulded into another him perhaps. Being better than the previous and still not towering over enough to crowd his ego.

It was a hard job. I'd failed enough in the past.

Perhaps you'd see from my past, that's why I'm not a goody-two-shoes Potter or know-it-all Granger. I don't have time to learn everything, I have duties I can't deny for fear of what would happen and I cannot shirk of my family for morality. It too was a matter of survival.

In my world things are grey, good or bad in so far as they kept me out of real trouble - my fathers disapproval.

Good only came in the brief parts of the year when I could have fun, have only schoolwork to do and not having to directly answer to my father.

I always indirectly had to explain my actions to him. If I did wrong, he'd know, I'd know too by the time I found myself in the drawing room come holiday time.

I did all he said and as he said because there was no option not too. I didn't have the luxury of choice. I did his bidding and his masters bidding without question.

I'd only hoped that it would never be anymore than had been so far. I'd not yet been asked to kill but I feared someday I would have that task.

And maybe then I'd be ended in my existence. Facing the great Potter, who'd win of course, if only because he was doing the brilliantly white righteous action.

Harry Potter appeared to operate in black & white. He'd break rules but he'd get away with doing too because it was for the good cause.

I on the other hand did what I did, and nothing so greatly bad at that, merely name-calling and acting in a befitting manner so not to be tortured by my father. Yet I got no benefit of the doubt.

I'd known since I'd met him he'd been like that, he'd not been able to see past my fathers words as they crawled out of my mouth. Right then and there I'd had no hope of him as a friend. If I had it would have been doomed I know, he would have been true to me as he is to his happy trio but if he had accepted he'd be in Voldemort's grasp, by blackmail or by my doing.

It was better for his life to be out of my hands, or of my father's manipulation.

And the chances of him ever saying yes that day were so remotely slim anyway.

Sometimes I wished to be him. To be close to her mainly. So I would have no questions of blood, pure or tainted. If I was him things would be easy, I'd just do what was right.

That wouldn't be me. I wasn't raised that way but it's tempting to imagine for a second.

What I would be if I could let that dream materialise.

Most likely I'd die. Lucius maybe. Voldemort possibly. My own hands even as they'd still doubt my intentions.

No one would trust me. Never. For I am a Malfoy.

They however know the truth, better than I, for I hold delusions of a grandeur.

But no, I could never be anything else. Trying would get me worse than everything is.

Right now I have an excuse for being bad because I lack any control, everyone but me knows what I will do. There are those giving the orders and those who think they see my character, they only see what I am asked to commit - misinterpreted as my own.

Still they do know me.

I can't change.

And worse even than death or doubt or pain.

There would be that slap on the face or the tears on hers for my incredibility to suggest that I, the cruellest boy known to earth and to her, could possibly ever like Hermione Granger.

I went back to my almost over bubbling cauldron. The potion was a sickly green. I smiled at the mixture suggestively and wondered if Weasley would appreciate a new set of warts or maybe even more disastrously roots!... at that I reached to my left and picked up the bowl of crushed ragwort.

Ah, yes, father would be proud.