Nothing Could Come Between Us

You're right on time

So invite me in

This is where your trouble begins

But I like you better than the other ones

I remember when my eyes first settled upon it, the cool harsh treason that your body threw at mine. It wasn't so much the antics you managed to pull, but rather the steps in which you took to do it. A touch, a kiss, a feeling simply elicited from a single glance, even one lacking passion. But it wasn't even the physical aspects that I missed as much as the human mentality that I now no longer posses. It's true, Potter.

It's no longer within my human nature to have compassion. You so easily squirmed your way into my body, flicking switches and tearing apart and replacing my attributes that I truly began to believe I had, in some sense, inherited everything that was true and whole of you. They say that nothing will come unless it's called and those that come will do as they're told, but what if the theory only works on those of sound body? Would that now work on someone, for example, such as I?

And you say I'm right

When you know I'm wrong

We could never just get along

I can hear the moans coming from the other room and they shake my very soul, Potter. My knees are clutched to my chest in a way I feel they may never come down. My fists are white and my breath is coming out in harsh, ragged gulps. It is your entire fault, you ever proud Gryffindor. And what does that make me? The ever pompous Slytherin? It suddenly seems you have false standards about what makes right and wrong, Potter. I only pray that one day someone will be able to snap your head around and show you the correct path, what you've missed, and what you may never have again.

You're so damn relentless

And you will find

The two of us are like two of a kind

I hate you with a fierceness I thought was only reserved for my father. You're cool, collected, confident and believe me, Potter, I know the stigmas that are attached to the Slytherin name, characteristics such as those. But in my case, the creator seems to have made me weak, forgotten to rid my desire for love and compassion. And judging by the sounds escaping the other room, you seem to have forgotten me as well.

What's it like, Potter, to break somebody's heart? Does it feel good, satisfactory, to know you have just crushed someone's soul, someone's very existence into a simple and broken nothingness? Because that is exactly what is occurring within in my soul and I don't know how to stop it.

It's happening, it's true, and you're the one who broke me.

But it hits you harder than the other ones

And you said it loosely

When I'm just sitting here with myself

You must not remember how it used to be. When I was perpetually sardonic and sarcasm ran quicker in my veins than blood? You showed me it didn't have to be like that. That it was possible, but difficult, to experience myself on much different grounds, and all I needed was the will to do it. Well, I had wanted to do it, for you, Potter, because you thought it would be best for me and I wanted what was best for me. Now I can laugh, sing, cry.

All for you.

And look what you've done.

Don't you hate

When it gets stuck in your mouth

And those words get in the way

I curl around myself more tightly as the moans cease and footsteps are coming towards the alcove near the door where I am hidden. I place my hand on my chest, feeling, for the first time, the irregular heartbeats beneath it.

The latch unlocks and the door opens, two bodies stepping delicately out into the hall, looking in both directions down the deserted corridor. I glare selfishly at your clasped hands. My eyes travel up your body and into your own eyes as once again, as so many times before, I am lost in the emerald sparkle of your personality. You are hesitant as you pull yourself further into the corridor, bracing yourself for the unexpected and, with a startling realization, I discover that you can't see me. In that moment, my breath quickens to hurried, uncontrolled gasps and your astonishment at the sound sends shards of pain throughout my body.

"Agh," you mumble quietly, willing yourself to remain unruffled and turning to me with a raised eyebrow of confusion. "What was - "

You turn your body and your head follows suit before settling on a mask of shock and surprise. You peer into the darkness, closing the space between us inch by inch, until I can smell the sweetness of your breath and almost taste the salty remnants on your face. I press my back against the wall in an attempt to make the space between us bigger.

"Potter."

You wretch your head back at the familiar sound of my voice, as though you have touched fire, and stumble backwards slightly. You do, however, have the decency to drop Ron's hand.

"Malfoy?" I shudder at the unfamiliar use of my last name, so foreign to my ears. When was the last time you said it . . . when was the last time you meant it?

I slowly rise, and it is though time has stood still. Nothing moves. The windows at the end of the corridor are open and even the crickets outside elude us of our moments trapped indoors.

I step out of the shadow and you can finally see my tear-streaked face. Yes, it is in fact a miracle, Potter. Through all the time spent wallowing in self-pity, I have finally mustered up enough emotion to cry. Should we rejoice?

You head reels back slightly and you swallow, hard. You're shocked and I desperately try to hold back a smirk. Good.

I turn on my heels and take lazy steps in the opposite direction, the final click of my boots on the stone floor giving me a wave of sudden and immense satisfaction.

"Draco - " A strangled cry all but escapes your throat. I'm far enough gone where I can pretend as though I don't hear it.

"Let him go." Ron's soft, caressing voice feels my ears and rids me of the small about of satisfaction I have. It is nothing compared to my internal rage, but I still the words as my own.

Let him go. When I am out of sight, I race down the corridors and through open and closed doors. Past people and teachers and ghosts. Individuals calling my name and screaming to be heard.

Let him go. I trip and fall and scramble and fall again, tearing my clothes in a mad rush to escape this school and its disgusting habits.

I spit on the ground as I run. Let him go. "No running in . . ." calls a teacher, but I run past him, sweat and tears making trails down my face. Let him go.

The outside feels amazing, but it is still unlike me to experience its potential, so instead I crumble on the ground by the lake, sobbing uncontrollably into my cloak.

Let him go.

Don't worry, Potter.

I'm gone.