Three Fics + Two Birthdays + Me = Very Late Presents
Well, Marisol, you asked for it :P
I'm sorry that I didn't post it yesterday - there wasn't any chance for me to, as I was busy traveling from Washington, D.C. to Ohio (more about that later, possibly).
That sounds like a pitiful excuse . .
I'm really sorry again; can you forgive me for being late? :x
And for those who read this entry, this is the "almost Draco/Hermione fic" that I was talking about.
So without further ado, here it is . . hope you like it, Marisol. :S
I honestly don’t understand why nearly every girl at Hogwarts swoons over Narcissus Incarnated himself, Draco Malfoy.
I honestly don’t.
The one person he loves is himself - and himself only. Everyone else doesn’t matter. Those who live “beneath” him, are “below” his class, he doesn’t care about, and aren’t worth a damn whatsoever.
Take me, for example. I’m Muggle-born, and Malfoys - especially him - abhor Muggle-borns.
In fact, I would go as far as to say that if the Malfoys had control over the wizard world, they would mimic Adolf Hitler and kill all Muggle-borns - also known as Mudbloods. Then only the so-called “purebloods” would be free to reign and ravage the earth as much as they pleased.
And that’s the truth.
Why everyone turns a blind eye to Lucius Malfoy and his deeds, including those of his son’s, I don’t know.
I want to know why everyone considers themselves worthy to be Draco’s friend/acquaintance - or even in his presence.
Most importantly, why Draco deserves nothing but respect and worship. As if he’s a hero, when anyone who bothers to see knows that he’s a coward, and nothing more than a coward.
Now, some people might think that I would give him the benefit of the doubt, since he “can’t help who he is” and “how he was bought up.” And of course, “it’s not his fault he has to listen to his parents. He’s just being a good bloke.”
Excuses, excuses, excuses. Nothing but excuses. Everything’s not his fault, my foot!
Sometimes, though, I’ve got to wonder what’s so “enchanting” about Draco Malfoy, and what makes him so “irresistible” - the man cares about no one except his own self, and the only person he would look after is, of course, himself.
Constantly I see him grooming his floofy and perfect blonde hair, and bragging about his many attributes. The bloke’s in love with himself, it’s easy to see.
It makes me ashamed at what mankind cares about now; only looks, social status, and in the wizard world, what kind of blood you have.
To me, Draco Malfoy’s the very epitome of what makes manhood so revolting - selfishness, greediness, prejudice, hate, and thinking so highly of oneself. And for him and him only, the ever present narcissism. He embodies all these qualities together to make what man is today. And it’s a disgusting sight to see. Absolutely sickening!
Still, besides his many faults, every senseless girl at Hogwarts throw themselves at him, and will do anything to keep him on a leash. As if he’s someone valuable whom they can’t possibly bear to lose.
That sounds cynical and generalizing, but it’s true. Every word of it; after all, those who have working sense would take a Granger’s word over a Malfoy’s word, any day.
So when I’ve said all this, why do I find myself wishing he would - just once, one time - that he would see beyond the surface, what’s beneath the superficiality he’s been brought up with, and find the inner beauty within. Maybe even within himself.
Why do I find myself wishing he would actually see what’s always been there? And not to judge others automatically, as if they were machinery, instead of human beings?
To judge to see what type of quality we “human machines” have, and putting us under a label - “poor/Mudblood,” “excellent/Pureblood”? And for him to realize that he’s not the most important person in the world; nor a V.I.P. among magical society.
Why do I find myself wishing for all these things? Have I gone mad? Or worse -
Have I started thinking he’s more than what he seems?
I don’t know what to think . . one second I’m disgusted by him, the next minute I’m forgiving his countless sins, like his fangirls.
What am I thinking? I can’t stand him and his narcissism - Draco Malfoy will remain nothing more than his superficial, egoistic self. And that’s not going to change, ever.
So why do I wish for it to change? Maybe he’s hiding a part of himself no one else sees - except him. That’s too cliché, plus it’s a desperate excuse. But I find myself believing it . . he could be sensitive, he could be gentle, not cruel; he could be actually human -
But no. I’m wishing for too much. Hoping for too little. That will never happen in a million years - I’ve got to face the truth.
Narcissistic people like him, will never, ever change. He’s too much in love with himself and his superficiality to notice anything real; that everything’s not what it seems. In this case, not everyone is whom he thinks they are. They’re more than what the invisible label that’s sticking on them tells.
Maybe I just feel sorry for him. Because he’s never felt love for anybody except himself, and doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved by someone else - maybe that’s why.
Or maybe I’m just imagining things. I must be; because I’ll never feel anything for a Malfoy, not even sympathy. It’s the impossible - and it will never happen.
I am imagining things. It’s everything I’ve ever known playing tricks on my mind - because all I feel for Draco Malfoy now, is only disgust. And nothing but.
At this rate, nothing will make him able to love and actually care for someone either than himself - he will always love his reflection and his beautiful self. And that, I know, can only - and will - lead to his downfall.
Maybe one day he’ll find out the truth - and like his name, be noble and brave like a dragon.
But for now, Draco Lucien Malfoy will remain to me - the boy who loved his own reflection.
I've prolonged this enough already - so here goes . .
Happy (Very Belated) Birthday, Pen and Romy!!
Now for the presents (I know you've been waiting for that :p):
I hope you like your present, Pen. *bites lip* Just a note - during the first part, they're 16, and during the second part, they're 25.
He can still feel the scars, one year later.
They burn into his skin, reminding him every day of what happened in the past.
They’re there, invisible, taunting him, teasing him - to the point where he can break easily.
They are his silent tormentors, waiting when it’s night to remind him of all his mistakes. Finding his weak spots and attacking.
And he’s mad at himself for being so defenseless and weak. He’s not supposed to be helpless - he’s supposed to be strong. Everyone’s protector - the wizarding world’s savior.
But he can’t be strong - he knows he can’t be the savior. He’s not strong enough - he’s weak.
And very unsure of whether he can save the world or not. After all, how could he, a scrawny, wide-eyed bloke, be powerful enough to defeat the Lord of Darkness himself?
He has something that the Dark Lord doesn’t have - and never did have, but would that be enough to defeat him? Would it even help at all? His mind’s full of questions, none of which he can answer.
And worse of all, his scars remind him of his guiltiness. All of the countless things he had done in the past - and now - that endangered everyone he cared about, he’ll never forgive himself for.
And he relives the painful memories that will be always fresh in his mind - and he blames himself for every attack and invisible mark of the war that was inflicted on everyone who had gone with him that night.
He had never foreseen the danger that they would be in, all because of him, and now . .
He sighs. He hates the way his scars make him feel - he’s reduced to feeling worthless and pathetic. Impulsive, stubborn, and like a coward.
That’s who the scars tell him he is. He’s a coward, not a savior. And he will never be a protector - because he can’t even look out for his friends and make sure they’re safe. All because of his stupid impulsiveness and vulnerability.
There’s no point in berating yourself about it, he thinks. What’s happened has happened. You couldn’t do anything about it then, you can’t do anything about it now. Even wondering about if you had done this or what if you could have done that won’t help at all.
Besides, if you keep on blaming yourself . . what are you going to do the next time when you and your friends are in danger? Are you just going to stand there and do nothing?
Or are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything and do something?
He realizes what his scars have done to make him think this way, and he hates himself even more for letting them take control of him, and making him feel weak and powerless.
Utterly weak and powerless . .
But it’s not just the visible scars that have changed him, he knows - it’s also the invisible ones. The scars he can’t see, but feel all the same, as if they were truly visible, branded there on his skin.
And the reason why his scars have so much control over his feelings . .
. . is because he let them control him.
He knows this - it was another mistake that he hadn’t taken charge of, and tried to rectify.
Instead, he had let the self-inflicted blame wash over him and send him downward into a spiral of darkness that he couldn’t get out of. He had let it overpower him . .
Now all he can do is make up for all his mistakes and learn what his scars mean - if he lets them overcome him, they will be his tormentors and make his life a living nightmare . . filled with guilt, pain, blame and sadness.
It won’t be easy . . but he will try - so this pain and blame won’t envelop him. It’s better that he stops blaming himself and does what he can to save the world - because that would help.
It would help everyone, not only him. He owes it to himself and the wizarding world to make sure it’s safe and everything’s brought around full circle.
He gazes out the window - already the world’s blanketed in snow . . wiping out the ground and what little life there is this season. Then he senses a presence by his side - it’s her, holding two cups of hot chocolate.
“Thanks,” he says quietly when she hands over one cup to him and then sits next to him on the window seat.
“No problem,” she replies, and after that they both look out the window, not saying anything.
He takes a sip, savoring the searing taste of the cocoa, and speaks a second later. “You don’t think scars are anything to be shameful of, do you?”
Even though he can’t see her, he can sense her surprise. “No,” she says at last. “To me . .” She pauses. “Scars are something to be proud of. They’re like badges of honor. They remind you of the experiences you survived through - and how strong you are.
“So no,” she continues, “they’re nothing to be ashamed of. They may hurt, but they will heal. And someone would be proud to wear them forever.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while; just keeps on looking out the window at the bleak, cloudy sky and snow-filled world.
“Why?” She asks, tired of his silence.
His mouth twitches, forming a small smile. A faint one - but it’s there.
“Huh,” he laughs shakily, “so even if you didn’t mean to get them . . they’re a sign of your bravery? Or ‘badges of honor,’ as you said.”
“Yes,” she replies. “Scars, you can say, define what kind of person you are - brave, intelligent, ruthless, fearless . . .” She trails off.
“Even the invisible ones?” His question catches her off guard.
She ponders for a moment. “Yes. Because although you’re suffering so much . . you’ve endured through more than any of us have. And that’s what makes you strong. That’s what gives you strength to survive . . and fight to live.”
He takes it in, turning over each bit slowly in his mind. Turning away from the window, he looks at her. Really looks at her. She is gazing at him steadily, her gaze never wavering.
Somehow, she seems different to him - very different. It’s like a light has been switched on his brain, making him see her in a different way than he had seen her before.
He smiles wistfully and looks at the floor, not sure what to say. He’s facing something he’s never faced before, and he is scared to take the first step.
Her words echo in his mind: “And that’s what makes you strong. That’s what gives you strength to survive . . and fight to live.” She understood what he was asking, he realizes . . and gave him the best answer she could give him.
And he knows she’s right . . and that makes him more determined than ever to fight, to defeat the Lord of Darkness . . and to prove to himself that he can do this. He just has to believe in himself.
. . Like she believes in him.
His eyes leave the floor to look at her in the eye. “Thanks,” he says finally. “I’m sorry that I can’t say any more . . I’m not good with words . . but thank you.”
A warm smile lights up her face. She knows what he means, and nods at him, letting him know that she does. “You’re welcome.”
After a minute, he finally gathers all his courage and goes for it, ignoring everything that’s going to stop him - even the possibility of rejection. “Want to go for a walk?” He tries to ask nonchalantly, failing miserably.
She grins. “Sure,” she answers, and gets up, offering him her hand.
He takes it, and together they leave the common room, the portrait hole swinging shut after them.
- Nine years later -
Nine years later he still feels the pain, but now it’s healed away, leaving only a faded memory. He doesn’t let himself drown in it, and has learned to forgive and forget . . but not let the memories take over him.
Memories that would leave him regretting and feeling guilty, placing all the blame on himself. In truth, when he had been fighting, he had done everything he could, and more, to make sure that everyone he cared about, especially her - were safe and not in evil’s arms.
He can still feel the scars, but they’ve only made him stronger, instead of weaker. They’ve taught him to be strong himself, and not let the darkness overpower him.
The pain he endured, to teach himself that he could and would be strong, as long as he let himself be; and the regret he decided to let go of, knowing full well that’s what the Lord of Darkness had wanted him to be defeated to - his scars had taught him that.
And she had taught him to let his scars tell him the truth; and live and learn from them.
He looks at the sky, sensing her beside him, and reaches for her hand. He gently traces the curves and small scars that can be seen; all this, she went through for him. And had ended up being the strong one in the end, instead of the darkness.
The scars are marks of what had happened in the past - his fighting, the endless pain and darkness that threatened to consume him - and they’re also badges of honor, telling him that what he endured though, he should be proud, not shamed, of it.
He wears them proudly - no longer his silent tormentors, teasing and taunting him. Never reminding him of his weaknesses and mistakes - instead reminding him of his strengths and accomplishments.
“Hermione?” He says after a while. “Do you remember what you said a while ago - that my experiences, not my scars, give me strength to survive . . and fight to live?”
“Yes,” She raises an eyebrow, wondering where he’s going with this.
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “You were right . . I learned from my scars, but not as much as I did from my experiences. The scars are . . . reminders of what I went through. Marks of what I have done - and they teach me to learn from everything I’ve dealt with in my life.”
She nods. “And it’s true,” she says quietly. “Your inner strength made you able to survive . . not your scars.”
“You do know you’re repeating what I just said,” he teases her.
She swats at him; he ducks, laughing. Shaking her head, she allows herself to laugh along with him.
“I never did thank you for helping me realize that about my scars, did I?” He muses.
He turns to her, a serious look coming over his face. “Thank you, Hermione - for saving me from the darkness.”
She offers him a smile. “You’ll always be welcome.”
He returns her smile and then looks at his watch. “Blimey! Is that the time?” He exclaims. “It’s past eight, Hermione - we better go back inside.”
“Right, let’s go,” she agrees. Then suddenly, he sweeps her into his arms. “Harry!” She laughs. “Put me down!”
“Sorry, no,” He quips, and carries her into the house, her laughter, mingled with his, echoing the whole way.
- Later that night -
She gazes at him; he’s sleeping on his right side, facing her, breathing deep. Somehow, watching him sleep calms her.
She could call it her personal therapy - just watching him sleep makes her relax and want to sleep herself; to be lost in dreamland and peaceful like he is at this moment.
She smiles to herself at that thought and takes his left hand that had been resting by his side. So rough and callused it is, and his fingers are short but skinny, skilled at so many things, including magic and . . She blushes hotly at that train of thought.
She traces over the slight curves and lines; looking at his palm, she’s happy to note that he has a long lifeline.
At his heart line, there’s a faint scar - jagged and healed, shaped like a lightning bolt. Identical to the one on his forehead. She finds herself looking at it for a while and then lets go of his hand.
Scooting closer to him, she rests her head against his.
In response, he hugs her tightly to him and she fights down the urge to grin.
She sighs quietly and relaxes. The last thing she sees before falling asleep is a jagged, lightning bolt shaped scar - like its twin, a mark of love.
And here's your present, Romy! *grin* Hope you like.
She really was a brat.
Stomping through the woods, and causing every single living creature to shrivel away and flee deep into the darkness, he huffed and flew up high to rest on a branch of a tree.
Once again his temper had gotten a hold of him, and his fury knew no bounds when it came to her.
She really tested his patience - what patience he had left, he reflected.
He huffed again and closed his eyes. And that showed him how different she was from Kikyo. She and Kikyo were not the same person - even if they looked alike and acted the same (in some ways). In the end, both would stand out on their own.
Kikyo was Kikyo and Kagome was Kagome. That was what he had come to realize. Now if only he could remember that, he wouldn’t have to suffer from Kagome’s wrath a hundred times over.
But still, he couldn’t help comparing them. They were so different in vast ways that he didn’t even know how he saw them as one and the same person.
Kagome looked eerily like Kikyo, but that was probably because of genetics and her being Kikyo’s reincarnation, thanks to destiny and fate and all that garbage, he thought irritably.
Yet he saw Kikyo in her. In those defiant, stubborn eyes burning with determination, in those moments of teasing/abuse she gave him, and in the way her eyes clouded over when she was deep in thought . . .
But that didn’t make her a brat. Well, it did. Sort of. Oh, he didn’t know! He huffed yet again and crossed his arms, scowl fixed firmly on his indignant face. He just couldn’t figure her out.
That was the problem - he couldn’t figure out how one minute she was approachable and the next minute she was a rotten little devil, dead set on making him trip over and fall. Kagome was an unpredictable enigma to him.
And their similarities ended there. He shook his head and frowned. How could he confuse them with each other? They were not the same. Looks deceived him too well, he had learned. Maybe that was the trick of females.
He rolled his eyes at that. Unlike Miroku, who - ahem - worshipped females and their nonsensical wiles, he didn’t find them even mildly amusing, unless one of them gave him food and 24/7 attention.
“That’s so chauvinistic of you!”
Geez, he could hear her in his mind now. He could never escape from her. Mentally groaning at the thought, he tried to think about something else. Anything, as long as it took Kagome off his mind and out of his head.
He was on the edge of desperation. He had to get her off his mind. Now. No matter what. He firmly resolved to himself that. It would be good - very good - for his health.
Yes, that would be it. It would be superb. He told himself that, and forced her out of his mind.
But still something niggled in his brain. After he had realized that she wasn’t Kikyo, no matter how badly he wanted for her to be - even a little similar to his past love - and she never would be Kikyo, he also realized that he was happy that she wasn’t.
That was what had been niggling at him just now. She wasn’t, and never had been Kikyo, and he was fine with that. More than fine.
Why was he okay with it? Was it because he accepted her for who she was, not the person whom she had been before? Or was it because of something else? Because - because he loved her?
He swallowed at that. It was hard to believe; before, he had been resolute that he wouldn’t like her, that he wouldn’t love her, but all that had fallen to pieces.
He just didn’t know what to do now. He didn’t know what to do when it came to her. She caused him to feel like that, to feel this, and also feel unbearably lost, as if he was drifting somewhere, waiting for her to find him in the impalpable blackness.
An ache filled his heart, one he knew only she could fill, and he sighed heavily. There was no use in doing anything about it now. He had to accept it -that he loved her, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could only watch while she was happy and loved another person. Someone who was so far from him. The exact opposite.
A smirk appeared on his face - it figured that she would always go for guys who were unlike him. They weren’t arrogant, rude or lost in the past. They were the bloody epitome of perfection . . or at least, how close a Perfect Guy would be, if he existed.
He scowled for a moment, and then shook his head. What good would it do him to pine for her like this? If or when she realized what she truly felt for him, if she didn’t know what it was already, then it would be a better end for the both of them. More so if she accepted it.
Maybe he was hoping too much.
At that last thought, he jumped off the branch, being careful not to make a sound, and stomped off somewhere in the forest darkness, riding his mind of all thoughts about her.
So this was how his life was to be from now on. He flew up above the night sky, glaring slightly at the merrily twinkling stars. It was as if they were mocking him, teasing him to no end.
With a silent whoosh, he landed back on the ground and began walking . . to where? He didn’t know, or cared. As long as he was going somewhere, somewhere far away from her, he was fine.
Looking around him, he felt, for the first time in a long while, at peace. He still felt hopeful, frustrated and resigned, but now he felt . . . happy. His emotions weren’t confining and all the angst he had was gone, fading quickly. As if it had never been there before.
Maybe he didn’t feel happy. No annoyingly bright smile was on his face. And he wasn’t chirping giddily like a fool. So what then did he feel? Nothing . . .
. . . Was it nothing? It had to be something - it just couldn’t be nothing. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. And sighing heavily, he told himself to forget about it and just go home.
. . . But he couldn’t forget it. Not something like this. Something that had changed his life, like she had changed his. Her and everything he felt bunched up together. He squeezed his eyes tightly and told himself to face it. This was the way his life was meant to be. He couldn’t change anything about it, and he doubted he ever would.
All thanks to her, he shook his head in disbelief and amazement. All the countless times she had yelled at him, told him to “sit” and worried/cared for him . . . he just didn’t know what to say or think about her anymore.
She left him at a loss for words . . . and he knew that wasn’t in a bad way. Everything she had done for him had made him mesmerized and astounded by her. The way she was forgiving, a tad bit clueless, loving . . .
He had to stop all this gushing before he went mad. It had gotten him nowhere - and would never get him anywhere.
Feh. He kicked a stone and looked at the stars once more. Now they weren’t teasing him . . they were just there, granting people’s wishes and being beautiful so that they could be gawked and wondered at.
He scoffed at his train of thought, and continued walking.
Then after a few minutes, he looked back in the direction of their house. So she was impossible to deal with, he decided, but that was a good thing. It was something that made her Kagome, not Kikyo. Just like being a brat made her uniquely Kagome, not anyone else.
She may be a brat, but to him that was the best thing in the world that she could be.
She was the best thing - or to be politically correct, the best person - in his world. Brat or not.
I'm sorry that I didn't post it yesterday - there wasn't any chance for me to, as I was busy traveling from Washington, D.C. to Ohio (more about that later, possibly).
That sounds like a pitiful excuse . .
I'm really sorry again; can you forgive me for being late? :x
And for those who read this entry, this is the "almost Draco/Hermione fic" that I was talking about.
So without further ado, here it is . . hope you like it, Marisol. :S
I honestly don’t understand why nearly every girl at Hogwarts swoons over Narcissus Incarnated himself, Draco Malfoy.
I honestly don’t.
The one person he loves is himself - and himself only. Everyone else doesn’t matter. Those who live “beneath” him, are “below” his class, he doesn’t care about, and aren’t worth a damn whatsoever.
Take me, for example. I’m Muggle-born, and Malfoys - especially him - abhor Muggle-borns.
In fact, I would go as far as to say that if the Malfoys had control over the wizard world, they would mimic Adolf Hitler and kill all Muggle-borns - also known as Mudbloods. Then only the so-called “purebloods” would be free to reign and ravage the earth as much as they pleased.
And that’s the truth.
Why everyone turns a blind eye to Lucius Malfoy and his deeds, including those of his son’s, I don’t know.
I want to know why everyone considers themselves worthy to be Draco’s friend/acquaintance - or even in his presence.
Most importantly, why Draco deserves nothing but respect and worship. As if he’s a hero, when anyone who bothers to see knows that he’s a coward, and nothing more than a coward.
Now, some people might think that I would give him the benefit of the doubt, since he “can’t help who he is” and “how he was bought up.” And of course, “it’s not his fault he has to listen to his parents. He’s just being a good bloke.”
Excuses, excuses, excuses. Nothing but excuses. Everything’s not his fault, my foot!
Sometimes, though, I’ve got to wonder what’s so “enchanting” about Draco Malfoy, and what makes him so “irresistible” - the man cares about no one except his own self, and the only person he would look after is, of course, himself.
Constantly I see him grooming his floofy and perfect blonde hair, and bragging about his many attributes. The bloke’s in love with himself, it’s easy to see.
It makes me ashamed at what mankind cares about now; only looks, social status, and in the wizard world, what kind of blood you have.
To me, Draco Malfoy’s the very epitome of what makes manhood so revolting - selfishness, greediness, prejudice, hate, and thinking so highly of oneself. And for him and him only, the ever present narcissism. He embodies all these qualities together to make what man is today. And it’s a disgusting sight to see. Absolutely sickening!
Still, besides his many faults, every senseless girl at Hogwarts throw themselves at him, and will do anything to keep him on a leash. As if he’s someone valuable whom they can’t possibly bear to lose.
That sounds cynical and generalizing, but it’s true. Every word of it; after all, those who have working sense would take a Granger’s word over a Malfoy’s word, any day.
So when I’ve said all this, why do I find myself wishing he would - just once, one time - that he would see beyond the surface, what’s beneath the superficiality he’s been brought up with, and find the inner beauty within. Maybe even within himself.
Why do I find myself wishing he would actually see what’s always been there? And not to judge others automatically, as if they were machinery, instead of human beings?
To judge to see what type of quality we “human machines” have, and putting us under a label - “poor/Mudblood,” “excellent/Pureblood”? And for him to realize that he’s not the most important person in the world; nor a V.I.P. among magical society.
Why do I find myself wishing for all these things? Have I gone mad? Or worse -
Have I started thinking he’s more than what he seems?
I don’t know what to think . . one second I’m disgusted by him, the next minute I’m forgiving his countless sins, like his fangirls.
What am I thinking? I can’t stand him and his narcissism - Draco Malfoy will remain nothing more than his superficial, egoistic self. And that’s not going to change, ever.
So why do I wish for it to change? Maybe he’s hiding a part of himself no one else sees - except him. That’s too cliché, plus it’s a desperate excuse. But I find myself believing it . . he could be sensitive, he could be gentle, not cruel; he could be actually human -
But no. I’m wishing for too much. Hoping for too little. That will never happen in a million years - I’ve got to face the truth.
Narcissistic people like him, will never, ever change. He’s too much in love with himself and his superficiality to notice anything real; that everything’s not what it seems. In this case, not everyone is whom he thinks they are. They’re more than what the invisible label that’s sticking on them tells.
Maybe I just feel sorry for him. Because he’s never felt love for anybody except himself, and doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved by someone else - maybe that’s why.
Or maybe I’m just imagining things. I must be; because I’ll never feel anything for a Malfoy, not even sympathy. It’s the impossible - and it will never happen.
I am imagining things. It’s everything I’ve ever known playing tricks on my mind - because all I feel for Draco Malfoy now, is only disgust. And nothing but.
At this rate, nothing will make him able to love and actually care for someone either than himself - he will always love his reflection and his beautiful self. And that, I know, can only - and will - lead to his downfall.
Maybe one day he’ll find out the truth - and like his name, be noble and brave like a dragon.
But for now, Draco Lucien Malfoy will remain to me - the boy who loved his own reflection.
I've prolonged this enough already - so here goes . .
Happy (Very Belated) Birthday, Pen and Romy!!
Now for the presents (I know you've been waiting for that :p):
I hope you like your present, Pen. *bites lip* Just a note - during the first part, they're 16, and during the second part, they're 25.
He can still feel the scars, one year later.
They burn into his skin, reminding him every day of what happened in the past.
They’re there, invisible, taunting him, teasing him - to the point where he can break easily.
They are his silent tormentors, waiting when it’s night to remind him of all his mistakes. Finding his weak spots and attacking.
And he’s mad at himself for being so defenseless and weak. He’s not supposed to be helpless - he’s supposed to be strong. Everyone’s protector - the wizarding world’s savior.
But he can’t be strong - he knows he can’t be the savior. He’s not strong enough - he’s weak.
And very unsure of whether he can save the world or not. After all, how could he, a scrawny, wide-eyed bloke, be powerful enough to defeat the Lord of Darkness himself?
He has something that the Dark Lord doesn’t have - and never did have, but would that be enough to defeat him? Would it even help at all? His mind’s full of questions, none of which he can answer.
And worse of all, his scars remind him of his guiltiness. All of the countless things he had done in the past - and now - that endangered everyone he cared about, he’ll never forgive himself for.
And he relives the painful memories that will be always fresh in his mind - and he blames himself for every attack and invisible mark of the war that was inflicted on everyone who had gone with him that night.
He had never foreseen the danger that they would be in, all because of him, and now . .
He sighs. He hates the way his scars make him feel - he’s reduced to feeling worthless and pathetic. Impulsive, stubborn, and like a coward.
That’s who the scars tell him he is. He’s a coward, not a savior. And he will never be a protector - because he can’t even look out for his friends and make sure they’re safe. All because of his stupid impulsiveness and vulnerability.
There’s no point in berating yourself about it, he thinks. What’s happened has happened. You couldn’t do anything about it then, you can’t do anything about it now. Even wondering about if you had done this or what if you could have done that won’t help at all.
Besides, if you keep on blaming yourself . . what are you going to do the next time when you and your friends are in danger? Are you just going to stand there and do nothing?
Or are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything and do something?
He realizes what his scars have done to make him think this way, and he hates himself even more for letting them take control of him, and making him feel weak and powerless.
Utterly weak and powerless . .
But it’s not just the visible scars that have changed him, he knows - it’s also the invisible ones. The scars he can’t see, but feel all the same, as if they were truly visible, branded there on his skin.
And the reason why his scars have so much control over his feelings . .
. . is because he let them control him.
He knows this - it was another mistake that he hadn’t taken charge of, and tried to rectify.
Instead, he had let the self-inflicted blame wash over him and send him downward into a spiral of darkness that he couldn’t get out of. He had let it overpower him . .
Now all he can do is make up for all his mistakes and learn what his scars mean - if he lets them overcome him, they will be his tormentors and make his life a living nightmare . . filled with guilt, pain, blame and sadness.
It won’t be easy . . but he will try - so this pain and blame won’t envelop him. It’s better that he stops blaming himself and does what he can to save the world - because that would help.
It would help everyone, not only him. He owes it to himself and the wizarding world to make sure it’s safe and everything’s brought around full circle.
He gazes out the window - already the world’s blanketed in snow . . wiping out the ground and what little life there is this season. Then he senses a presence by his side - it’s her, holding two cups of hot chocolate.
“Thanks,” he says quietly when she hands over one cup to him and then sits next to him on the window seat.
“No problem,” she replies, and after that they both look out the window, not saying anything.
He takes a sip, savoring the searing taste of the cocoa, and speaks a second later. “You don’t think scars are anything to be shameful of, do you?”
Even though he can’t see her, he can sense her surprise. “No,” she says at last. “To me . .” She pauses. “Scars are something to be proud of. They’re like badges of honor. They remind you of the experiences you survived through - and how strong you are.
“So no,” she continues, “they’re nothing to be ashamed of. They may hurt, but they will heal. And someone would be proud to wear them forever.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while; just keeps on looking out the window at the bleak, cloudy sky and snow-filled world.
“Why?” She asks, tired of his silence.
His mouth twitches, forming a small smile. A faint one - but it’s there.
“Huh,” he laughs shakily, “so even if you didn’t mean to get them . . they’re a sign of your bravery? Or ‘badges of honor,’ as you said.”
“Yes,” she replies. “Scars, you can say, define what kind of person you are - brave, intelligent, ruthless, fearless . . .” She trails off.
“Even the invisible ones?” His question catches her off guard.
She ponders for a moment. “Yes. Because although you’re suffering so much . . you’ve endured through more than any of us have. And that’s what makes you strong. That’s what gives you strength to survive . . and fight to live.”
He takes it in, turning over each bit slowly in his mind. Turning away from the window, he looks at her. Really looks at her. She is gazing at him steadily, her gaze never wavering.
Somehow, she seems different to him - very different. It’s like a light has been switched on his brain, making him see her in a different way than he had seen her before.
He smiles wistfully and looks at the floor, not sure what to say. He’s facing something he’s never faced before, and he is scared to take the first step.
Her words echo in his mind: “And that’s what makes you strong. That’s what gives you strength to survive . . and fight to live.” She understood what he was asking, he realizes . . and gave him the best answer she could give him.
And he knows she’s right . . and that makes him more determined than ever to fight, to defeat the Lord of Darkness . . and to prove to himself that he can do this. He just has to believe in himself.
. . Like she believes in him.
His eyes leave the floor to look at her in the eye. “Thanks,” he says finally. “I’m sorry that I can’t say any more . . I’m not good with words . . but thank you.”
A warm smile lights up her face. She knows what he means, and nods at him, letting him know that she does. “You’re welcome.”
After a minute, he finally gathers all his courage and goes for it, ignoring everything that’s going to stop him - even the possibility of rejection. “Want to go for a walk?” He tries to ask nonchalantly, failing miserably.
She grins. “Sure,” she answers, and gets up, offering him her hand.
He takes it, and together they leave the common room, the portrait hole swinging shut after them.
- Nine years later -
Nine years later he still feels the pain, but now it’s healed away, leaving only a faded memory. He doesn’t let himself drown in it, and has learned to forgive and forget . . but not let the memories take over him.
Memories that would leave him regretting and feeling guilty, placing all the blame on himself. In truth, when he had been fighting, he had done everything he could, and more, to make sure that everyone he cared about, especially her - were safe and not in evil’s arms.
He can still feel the scars, but they’ve only made him stronger, instead of weaker. They’ve taught him to be strong himself, and not let the darkness overpower him.
The pain he endured, to teach himself that he could and would be strong, as long as he let himself be; and the regret he decided to let go of, knowing full well that’s what the Lord of Darkness had wanted him to be defeated to - his scars had taught him that.
And she had taught him to let his scars tell him the truth; and live and learn from them.
He looks at the sky, sensing her beside him, and reaches for her hand. He gently traces the curves and small scars that can be seen; all this, she went through for him. And had ended up being the strong one in the end, instead of the darkness.
The scars are marks of what had happened in the past - his fighting, the endless pain and darkness that threatened to consume him - and they’re also badges of honor, telling him that what he endured though, he should be proud, not shamed, of it.
He wears them proudly - no longer his silent tormentors, teasing and taunting him. Never reminding him of his weaknesses and mistakes - instead reminding him of his strengths and accomplishments.
“Hermione?” He says after a while. “Do you remember what you said a while ago - that my experiences, not my scars, give me strength to survive . . and fight to live?”
“Yes,” She raises an eyebrow, wondering where he’s going with this.
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “You were right . . I learned from my scars, but not as much as I did from my experiences. The scars are . . . reminders of what I went through. Marks of what I have done - and they teach me to learn from everything I’ve dealt with in my life.”
She nods. “And it’s true,” she says quietly. “Your inner strength made you able to survive . . not your scars.”
“You do know you’re repeating what I just said,” he teases her.
She swats at him; he ducks, laughing. Shaking her head, she allows herself to laugh along with him.
“I never did thank you for helping me realize that about my scars, did I?” He muses.
He turns to her, a serious look coming over his face. “Thank you, Hermione - for saving me from the darkness.”
She offers him a smile. “You’ll always be welcome.”
He returns her smile and then looks at his watch. “Blimey! Is that the time?” He exclaims. “It’s past eight, Hermione - we better go back inside.”
“Right, let’s go,” she agrees. Then suddenly, he sweeps her into his arms. “Harry!” She laughs. “Put me down!”
“Sorry, no,” He quips, and carries her into the house, her laughter, mingled with his, echoing the whole way.
- Later that night -
She gazes at him; he’s sleeping on his right side, facing her, breathing deep. Somehow, watching him sleep calms her.
She could call it her personal therapy - just watching him sleep makes her relax and want to sleep herself; to be lost in dreamland and peaceful like he is at this moment.
She smiles to herself at that thought and takes his left hand that had been resting by his side. So rough and callused it is, and his fingers are short but skinny, skilled at so many things, including magic and . . She blushes hotly at that train of thought.
She traces over the slight curves and lines; looking at his palm, she’s happy to note that he has a long lifeline.
At his heart line, there’s a faint scar - jagged and healed, shaped like a lightning bolt. Identical to the one on his forehead. She finds herself looking at it for a while and then lets go of his hand.
Scooting closer to him, she rests her head against his.
In response, he hugs her tightly to him and she fights down the urge to grin.
She sighs quietly and relaxes. The last thing she sees before falling asleep is a jagged, lightning bolt shaped scar - like its twin, a mark of love.
And here's your present, Romy! *grin* Hope you like.
She really was a brat.
Stomping through the woods, and causing every single living creature to shrivel away and flee deep into the darkness, he huffed and flew up high to rest on a branch of a tree.
Once again his temper had gotten a hold of him, and his fury knew no bounds when it came to her.
She really tested his patience - what patience he had left, he reflected.
He huffed again and closed his eyes. And that showed him how different she was from Kikyo. She and Kikyo were not the same person - even if they looked alike and acted the same (in some ways). In the end, both would stand out on their own.
Kikyo was Kikyo and Kagome was Kagome. That was what he had come to realize. Now if only he could remember that, he wouldn’t have to suffer from Kagome’s wrath a hundred times over.
But still, he couldn’t help comparing them. They were so different in vast ways that he didn’t even know how he saw them as one and the same person.
Kagome looked eerily like Kikyo, but that was probably because of genetics and her being Kikyo’s reincarnation, thanks to destiny and fate and all that garbage, he thought irritably.
Yet he saw Kikyo in her. In those defiant, stubborn eyes burning with determination, in those moments of teasing/abuse she gave him, and in the way her eyes clouded over when she was deep in thought . . .
But that didn’t make her a brat. Well, it did. Sort of. Oh, he didn’t know! He huffed yet again and crossed his arms, scowl fixed firmly on his indignant face. He just couldn’t figure her out.
That was the problem - he couldn’t figure out how one minute she was approachable and the next minute she was a rotten little devil, dead set on making him trip over and fall. Kagome was an unpredictable enigma to him.
And their similarities ended there. He shook his head and frowned. How could he confuse them with each other? They were not the same. Looks deceived him too well, he had learned. Maybe that was the trick of females.
He rolled his eyes at that. Unlike Miroku, who - ahem - worshipped females and their nonsensical wiles, he didn’t find them even mildly amusing, unless one of them gave him food and 24/7 attention.
“That’s so chauvinistic of you!”
Geez, he could hear her in his mind now. He could never escape from her. Mentally groaning at the thought, he tried to think about something else. Anything, as long as it took Kagome off his mind and out of his head.
He was on the edge of desperation. He had to get her off his mind. Now. No matter what. He firmly resolved to himself that. It would be good - very good - for his health.
Yes, that would be it. It would be superb. He told himself that, and forced her out of his mind.
But still something niggled in his brain. After he had realized that she wasn’t Kikyo, no matter how badly he wanted for her to be - even a little similar to his past love - and she never would be Kikyo, he also realized that he was happy that she wasn’t.
That was what had been niggling at him just now. She wasn’t, and never had been Kikyo, and he was fine with that. More than fine.
Why was he okay with it? Was it because he accepted her for who she was, not the person whom she had been before? Or was it because of something else? Because - because he loved her?
He swallowed at that. It was hard to believe; before, he had been resolute that he wouldn’t like her, that he wouldn’t love her, but all that had fallen to pieces.
He just didn’t know what to do now. He didn’t know what to do when it came to her. She caused him to feel like that, to feel this, and also feel unbearably lost, as if he was drifting somewhere, waiting for her to find him in the impalpable blackness.
An ache filled his heart, one he knew only she could fill, and he sighed heavily. There was no use in doing anything about it now. He had to accept it -that he loved her, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could only watch while she was happy and loved another person. Someone who was so far from him. The exact opposite.
A smirk appeared on his face - it figured that she would always go for guys who were unlike him. They weren’t arrogant, rude or lost in the past. They were the bloody epitome of perfection . . or at least, how close a Perfect Guy would be, if he existed.
He scowled for a moment, and then shook his head. What good would it do him to pine for her like this? If or when she realized what she truly felt for him, if she didn’t know what it was already, then it would be a better end for the both of them. More so if she accepted it.
Maybe he was hoping too much.
At that last thought, he jumped off the branch, being careful not to make a sound, and stomped off somewhere in the forest darkness, riding his mind of all thoughts about her.
So this was how his life was to be from now on. He flew up above the night sky, glaring slightly at the merrily twinkling stars. It was as if they were mocking him, teasing him to no end.
With a silent whoosh, he landed back on the ground and began walking . . to where? He didn’t know, or cared. As long as he was going somewhere, somewhere far away from her, he was fine.
Looking around him, he felt, for the first time in a long while, at peace. He still felt hopeful, frustrated and resigned, but now he felt . . . happy. His emotions weren’t confining and all the angst he had was gone, fading quickly. As if it had never been there before.
Maybe he didn’t feel happy. No annoyingly bright smile was on his face. And he wasn’t chirping giddily like a fool. So what then did he feel? Nothing . . .
. . . Was it nothing? It had to be something - it just couldn’t be nothing. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. And sighing heavily, he told himself to forget about it and just go home.
. . . But he couldn’t forget it. Not something like this. Something that had changed his life, like she had changed his. Her and everything he felt bunched up together. He squeezed his eyes tightly and told himself to face it. This was the way his life was meant to be. He couldn’t change anything about it, and he doubted he ever would.
All thanks to her, he shook his head in disbelief and amazement. All the countless times she had yelled at him, told him to “sit” and worried/cared for him . . . he just didn’t know what to say or think about her anymore.
She left him at a loss for words . . . and he knew that wasn’t in a bad way. Everything she had done for him had made him mesmerized and astounded by her. The way she was forgiving, a tad bit clueless, loving . . .
He had to stop all this gushing before he went mad. It had gotten him nowhere - and would never get him anywhere.
Feh. He kicked a stone and looked at the stars once more. Now they weren’t teasing him . . they were just there, granting people’s wishes and being beautiful so that they could be gawked and wondered at.
He scoffed at his train of thought, and continued walking.
Then after a few minutes, he looked back in the direction of their house. So she was impossible to deal with, he decided, but that was a good thing. It was something that made her Kagome, not Kikyo. Just like being a brat made her uniquely Kagome, not anyone else.
She may be a brat, but to him that was the best thing in the world that she could be.
She was the best thing - or to be politically correct, the best person - in his world. Brat or not.