Punishment Fit for a King

More maiorum nobiles semper utamur, sed hoc non iam ferra possum.

-We nobles always follow the customs of our ancestors, but I cannot take it any longer.

They honestly don't have any idea. How the fuck could they? I am perfect, the Slytherin King. Yes, about as perfect as a shattered mirror, and twice as sharp. Like a beautiful rose that hides its thorns behind its beauty. Silence is golden, but screams make so much more of an impression. But they will never know, they cannot ever know...no, never.

They see me: perfectly powerful, delightfully charming, suavely cruel, and more influential that many of the high ranking authorities at the Ministry merely at seventeen. I see myself: a screaming tortured soul, never receiving reprieve, never given a chance or choice, with a golden halo of hair. I was born into this hell hole we call life and I would give it all away in an instant with no regret.

Pureblood. What a humongous joke. Sure, you may have pure blood, but what about your soul? It's black, filthy, and you know it. Black from the lies, black from your hidden mistakes, black from your hatred. You have never felt, and you never will feel. It's so funny how naïve someone can be; I thought you loved her. I guess when you laugh when you hear of her death I couldn't really continue to think that you may have actually felt for her. No, you loved the fact that she could produce an heir to the insanity and cruelty of your world. The Malfoy line stops here with me.

Yes, you heard correctly. Are you daft, father? There will be no heir after me. I'm taking upon myself to put an end to the insufferable life that is bound to follow anyone being our name. And don't lie; you know I am the only true heir. And you know who I love, and the screaming and beating won't change it. But I often wonder: Do you hate the fact that I love? That I can feel? Or is it because I love him? Because you never could? Because you wanted to so long ago? You know he looks just like his father...

Days and weeks go by unnoticed. Or is that because I am unconscious most of the time? You hide the scars with a flick of your wrist. No one will ever know, he will never know as his flingers glide across satiny, flawless skin.

I want to tell him of the traumas I have been through, the nightmares I have lived in, but I am scared he won't understand. I could not bear for him to look at me any differently, and I would never want to add this to his mountain of worries. Or what if he never talked to me again?

I'm holding on, barely making it, but I'm living for the day I go back. Back to school, and back to him. There I am loved, there I am respected, there I am feared, but only because they don't and will never know of my silent anguish. I am the Slytherin sovereign. I guess this punishment is fit for a king.