This chapter contains violent actions and a very destructive mindset—mentions of drugs, alcohol, blood, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm. Please read with caution.

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Draco Malfoy.

Don't look at me. Please don't look at me. I can't do this if you look at me.

Isla stood with her eyes locked in his, her lower lip trembling as he walked closer. Draco took dangerous steps up to her until the tip of his wand pushed into her neck.

''Everything.'' He said, coldly as she looked away, ''I want to see everything.''

Make me hate you. Make me hate you. Make me fucking hate you.

Gulping, she met his silver gaze again.

Why do you have to be beautiful? Why did I give you my heart? Why do I want to break yours?

He never let his sight part from hers. He read her mind, over and over.

He still flipped through the memories she'd shown him, looking for anything that would indicate that this was a lie.

Draco saw her father, how he left her mother and his daughters hidden not to be exposed by the Dark Lord. He watched as Isla snuck behind a door late at night, hearing how her parents argued over the fact that she had been spending time with the Weasley twins.

It will blow your cover, he yelled. Her mother cried. Isla cried too. It hurt watching her go through this.

I want to hate you.

Draco saw how her father merely visited every other year, how Isla stole the magical newspaper that still landed on their doorstep and blamed it on the neighbor cat. She just wanted to read about her father. Isla just wanted to see if there was anything happening to him, why he never came back for her.

You make me hate myself.

Malfoy locked his jaws, swallowing hard as he realized why she hated him when he was the one to walk away from her. It made sense now. Every time Draco had vanished from her, she hated him.

Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me about your pain? I told you about mine.

He never knew why.

He knew why now.

Please make me hate you.

Because her father did, because she had to read about his death in a newspaper, because she had to read about all the souls he slaughtered, she saw it all, and if Draco hated her before that point, he hated her more now.

I want to hate you, my beautiful girl. I need to hate you.

Draco loathed her for making him care, even in a time like this one. Even when he stood there, with his wand to her throat, staring right at her and all the lies she'd ever told him, he cared.

Please, let me hate you. It would be easier, hating you.

Malfoy didn't stop. He narrowed his silver into her ocean, and he kept looking.

Finding the day Cedric Diggory died, and his heart crashed to the pit of his stomach at the memory of her, throwing herself over his numb body. Seeing how Fred and George hunched on each side of her and picked her up.

Don't do this to me. Stop making me love you. Stop making me fall for you. I can't fall for you right now, sweet girl. I can't love you.

Draco was there that day. He sat in the crowds, and he watched as Cedric came back dead, yet he never noticed her. He never remembered how she cried and cried over that cold body, how his father fell to his knees beside them.

I don't think I can hate you. You make it so hard for me to hate you. I hate that I can't hate you. I hate everything else. Why can't I hate you?

Finding the night she found out that Fred had passed away, he had to stop. He had to clench his jaws and draw a hurtful breath at the remembrance of how she was the one falling to her knees, how her father kept her safe from the war, and how she lost everything anyway.

I don't think I want to hate you.

Fred's funeral, she was holding Ginny that entire day, he saw it.

She stayed at the burrow for weeks following that until she had to go home, and when she did — she read the news of her father's passing.

I don't hate you.

Draco never knew. Draco Malfoy never knew how heavy Isla's soul was — because she never told him. Isla never told anyone.

She kept it all inside. She didn't want to bother anyone with her troubles. She wanted the world to be happy, not weighted by her losses.

I'm sorry, my sweet girl. I'm sorry I never knew. I'm sorry I never asked.

He didn't hate her.

He hated himself.

Draco hated himself more than he'd ever done before.

He should've known.

Somewhere, Draco didn't understand that her mind was so bothered, that her life had been cursed. He didn't know because she always smiled. Isla ever so smiled when she talked to her friends. She smiled at the teachers. She held a brave facade in class, at dinner. He never knew because he didn't care enough to see it.

Until now.

I hate that you love me. I hate you for loving me. I hate that I love you.

At that moment, he could see how she believed that he hated her. He could see how tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, how his cold expression was the reason she was about to cry.

Draco saw her lips slightly parting, her shaking breaths hitting his face as she angled her neck, looking up at him. How her brows lightly furrowed at the wand he was pushing into her skin, bruising it.

She believed that he hated her, and he needed her to.

If Isla hated him, it was so much easier for him to hate himself.

I could never hate you.

''Please—'' Isla let out, airily, ''Can you just—''

Don't speak. Don't fucking speak. I don't want to hear you.

She hissed painfully, feeling the wood as it bored into her neck deeper.

You need to hate me. I need to make you hate me. Please hate me.

''Draco, it hurts—''

You hurt me. You hurt me more than this. You fucking hurt me.

Draco tilted his head, gritting his teeth at the pain splayed out over her face. She was in so much pain. He could see it, not only the fact that blood began to slip the wound he was causing, but the torture of what he just watched. All her secrets, all her hidden memories.

I need to hurt you. I don't want to, but I need you to bleed. I need you to hurt for me.

''I should kill you....'' Draco whispered, pushing his wand deeper, ''I should kill you for what your family did to mine.''

I want to kill you. I want to kill you like they died. I want to kill you like you just killed me. I want to rip you to pieces. I want to smash your head against the wall. I want you to die. Then I want to die with you. You killed me. You killed everything about me. Now I want to kill you.

Isla looked at him with so much hurt, so much pain as it burnt through the both of them.

Why did you lie? Why did you lie to me? Don't you trust me? Are you afraid of me? Do you hate me? Is this a part of you? My father killed your Fred, and then you played me for it? Do you hate me for what we did? Like I hate you for what you did?

''I'm sorry—'' She whimpered, nearly stretching up on her toes to ease the pain he was causing her, ''I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry—''

I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that I can never forgive you for this. I can't forgive you. I don't want to forgive you. I want you to die. Die for me, my sweet girl. Die for me like a solider dies at war. Be my sacrifice. Be my savior. Be the death of me.

Please kill me.

Draco stood there, watching as her nails clawed at his arms, seeing how she cried, how the tears wetting her cheeks rolled down, hearing how she whined, listening to her cries.

You're beautiful. You are so sweet when you cry for me. Does it hurt yet, Clarke? Does it hurt to love me? Do you hate me? Do you love me so much that you hate me? Can I hate you now?

''Please, stop—'' She breathed, her fingers grasping at his arms, ''Please, please stop.''

Don't you want this, my sweet witch? Don't you want to die for me? Don't you want to die?

I saw that you wanted to die once. I saw how you had that vial in your hands, that same vial your father had in case he needed to die. In case the Dark Lord found you.

Don't you want that? You wanted it once before. Why didn't you drink it, Clarke? What stopped you? I would be alive if you did it. You wouldn't have killed me. Can you tell me why you stopped? Can you help me stop?

''I fucking hate you,'' He said harshly, ''I fucking hate you.''

''I know—'' She gasped at the pressure being dropped from her throat, his arm falling to his side as he walked away from her, backing up until there were feet of distance between them, ''I know, and I'm sorry, Draco. I'm—''

I don't trust myself around you. I don't know what I will do, Clarke.

I don't know if I will rip your clothes off and fuck you to death or if I will kiss you and pardon you.

I don't know. I can't be close to you. I want to be close to you. I want to wrap my hands around your throat and choke you until you die, but I also want to kiss you and tell you that I forgive you.

Is this what love is, Clarke? Is this what love does to a person? Am I going crazy? Have you made me as mental as you are? Did you break me? Did I let you break me?

Did I break you?

''How the fuck could you do this to me?'' He nearly roared out. His eyes pierced her body to the ground he believed she belonged to, ''After I told you that they died? You just— what? Led me on? Played me?''

You could never play me. I know you can't. Your love is... pure, honest, beautiful. Do you remember what you told me about Theodore? That his love was beautiful? Your love is beautiful.

You are what makes love beautiful. You are beautiful. Why can't I hate you? Why can't your love be foul? Why can't you be evil? Why do you have to be beautiful? You are so beautiful.

Isla was heaving for her breath, tracing her hand up to stop the crimson as it slipped down her neck.

He hurt her.

He hurt her more than he'd ever hurt her before. She was bleeding now. He made her bleed.

''I would—'' She shook her head, ''I wouldn't do that, Draco. I would never play you. If you just listen to me—''

If I did, would you tell me you love me? If I did let you speak, would you confess your feelings and hope that it would make me love you back?

I already love you, Clarke. Why can't you see that? Why didn't you see how much I love you? Am I that cold? That heartless?

Can you hate me now?

''You don't get to justify yourself right now.'' He spat, his shoulders tensing underneath his suit jacket, ''I was coming here to help you, to help your fucking friends, and then I found out that you've been lying to me? That you've been keeping your whole life a fucking secret? How did you think that was going to last? Were you going to lie to me for the rest of your damn life? Where you going to choose him?''

Does he know, Clarke? Did you trust him with your secret? I know him. I know you told him. Why did you trust him more than you trust me? Do you love him more than you love me? Did you tell him you love him?

Have I lost you yet?

''No!'' The panic in her voice took over, ''I wouldn't— I don't—'' Gripping her own hair, she tugged it back, desperately, ''I was going to tell you, that night, on Christmas. I was going to tell you about it, all of it, but you told me first, and I just... I couldn't do that to you, Draco. I couldn't... Not after you said that they killed your parents. I couldn't.''

Are you lying to me now? Was it all a lie? No, it wasn't. I can see it on you. I can see it in your tears. I can hear it in your voice. You were trying to save me, to protect me.

I don't want your protection.

I need it.

''And I—'' Isla stopped in her movements. She stopped, and she stared at him, ''I couldn't do that to you. I didn't want to, so yes. I lied. I'm not going to make any excuses for what I did. It's horrible, and I know that. I hate myself for what I did to you.''

Don't hate yourself. Hate me. I did this to you. I made you scared to tell me. I made you hate yourself. Hate me, Clarke. Please hate me.

Draco couldn't believe this. Didn't want to believe it. He didn't know what to do as she stood there with blood slipping down her skin, fused with the tears rolling from her eyes. He didn't know if he was meant to hate her or love her. Kill her or grant her mercy.

She wasn't making this any easier. She was so graceful, so honest with her way of speaking. She didn't beg for his forgiveness because she truly thought she did the right thing.

Her veins ached as she saw that look on his face again. Betrayal.

He looked away, finally was he able to tear his eyes from hers, ''I will make sure that Theodore isn't charged for what he did in there.'' He spoke so calmly that it had her gawking, ''And then you will attend Leo's trial. You will make sure he shuts up and that he pleads his father for forgiveness.''

Isla frowned through her tears, not understanding where he was going with this, ''What—''

''Then you will stay at Nott's house. You will not go back to school.''

I can't trust that your old friend won't hurt you. I can't live if she hurts you. I don't know if I would save you if she hurts you. Would I save you, Clarke? Would I save you from hurting? Is it wrong of me for wanting you to hurt?''

''Draco,'' She sounded so confused, panicking again, ''What are you—''

''Nott will know what to do about your wound. He'll heal it for you, and then he'll take you back to his house. You will take your friends with you, and you will wait for the rest of the trial there. I don't want you anywhere else, am I clear?''

''But—''

''Am I fucking clear?'' He shouted, roaring and growling at the same time, ''For once in your God damn life, Clarke. Just answer the fucking question.''

''Yes—'' Isla stuttered, ''You're clear, yes, but why won't you—''

''Why won't I what?'' He scoffed. His eyes were back on her. So much hatred, so much despise, ''Come with you? Follow you? You really want to know why Clarke?''

I need to hurt you now, my beautiful girl.

I'm sorry, but I need you to hurt. I need you to let me go. I will kill you if I stay. You said it yourself, once, didn't you? That the thing with perfect matches is that they burn out? I need you to burn out. I need to burn you out before I burn you down with me.

She lowered her sight, nervously tucking her own arms around her. It had only been a few minutes since he dragged her out there. She could still hear the shouts of the guards as they questioned Theodore for what he'd done.

Draco walked closer again, using dangerous steps up to her until her back was pressed against the wall. His raging breaths struck her skin as he eyed her down, ''Do you want to know why I won't come with you? Really? Fine.'' He placed a hand onto the wall next to her head, ''Because I will kill you, Clarke. If I see you again — I won't fucking hesitate to rip you apart.''

Crying. Isla was silently crying.

Cry for me. Please cry for me. You're so beautiful when you cry, especially for me. I love when you cry for me. Are those tears for me, Clarke?

''So no, Clarke.'' His tone could tear a building to pieces. It was so hard, so demanding, so filled with everything they could never be, ''I won't come with you, because I never want to see you again.''

Closing her eyes, she nodded. She knew she couldn't fight this. She couldn't fight him. He had all right to hate her.

Draco took that time her eyes were flickered shut, to study her, to memorize and remember her, to see all of her before he left her.

Leave her. Draco was going to leave her again, for real this time.

''Please,'' She let out as she felt him move back, still with her eyes bored shut. She knew she shouldn't, but she needed to try to make him stay, ''Please don't leave me. I know I hurt you. I know I messed up. I know that, alright? But I—''

I can't let you say that. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear that you love me, Clarke. I don't deserve it. Don't you understand that I'm leaving you? Don't you understand that this is me, walking away from you?

That I am giving you a chance to be happy without me? Do you think I'm doing this for my sake? I'm not. I will stay with you. That's how mental you've made me. I would stay, and I would let you rip me apart. I would let you tear me to pieces. I would let you kill me. I would die for you.

That's how it feels, loving you. That's what you've done to me. That's why I'm walking away. I would burn for you, with you. I would burn the world down if you asked me to.

''What is it that you don't get through your fucking head, Clarke?'' Draco's hands pushed against her shoulders, slamming her back to the wall, ''I don't fucking want you anymore. I fucking hate you for what you did to me, but we knew this would happen, didn't we?''

A little more, Clarke. I need to hurt you a little more, just enough for you to believe me, for me to lie to you like you lied to me. I have been lying to you a lot. Perhaps I can tell you about that someday, but not now. Now I need to hurt you more. Can you do a little more?

''We were doomed. We didn't—'' He paused swiftly before he laughed out, darkly, ''We? I'm sorry — you. You fucked us over. You are the God damn reason we can't be together. I am going to leave you, Clarke. I am going to leave you for real this time, just like you make everyone else do. This is your fucking fault.''

That slammed the air out of her lungs.

Can I break you? May I do that, Clarke? May I crush your soul? Tear your heart to pieces? Drain you of all that sweet blood running through your veins? Bleed you dry? Can I bleed you dry for me?

If I asked you — would you? Would you hemorrhage for me? Cut a scar so deep within yourself that you'd bleed out? Would you do that if I asked you?

I would if you asked me.

Draco ignored that heartbreaking look on her face, gritting his jaw as he stepped back from her again, creating space between them.

He touched her for as long as he could. He held his hands on her shoulders, and he squeezed a little — like he wasn't ready to let go, terrified that it would be the last time he got to hold her, like he wouldn't be allowed to touch her after this.

''You ruined us. You ruined everything, Clarke, and I want nothing—'' Reaching down for something in his pocket, he pulled a key up.

The same key he gave her. The key to a place where he wished they could be together.

''I want nothing to do with you.''

I bought this for us. I know it sounds childish, impulsive, but for me, who had everyone and everything taken away, it felt good, knowing it was ours, thinking it was our little secret.

You fooled me. How is it that you have me so fooled by you? How is it that I would kneel on my bare knees for you? I kneel for no one, Clarke. And now I can't dream of kneeling for someone that isn't you. I couldn't dream of anyone that isn't you.

Can I dream of you? When I'm gone? Will you dream of me? Or will you forget about me? Will you forget about me and be with him?

When you lay there, next to him in bed. His head on your chest and your arms wrapped around him — do you think of me?

Do you think of me when he fucks you? Do you beg him to fuck you? Does he make you work for it? Does he give it to you? Do you cry for him?

I remember how it felt, feeling you cry for me. Feeling the taste of your tears on my lips. Everyone always says that it is supposed to taste like salt, bitter almost. You taste sweet. Your tears are like sugar, and I wouldn't mind getting high on them.

Malfoy threw it right at her, making it hit her chest before it dropped to the floor. He didn't look at it. He looked at her.

Let me tell you about this boy, Clarke. A story about a boy.

Isla's lips parted, shivering by the sound of metal striking the ground.

There was this boy. He hated everything and everyone. He was lonely. It didn't matter where he was, who he was with — he was lonely, always alone.

He lost everyone. He lost everything. He hadn't been lonelier. Do you remember when you tried to end your suffering? When you held that vial in your hand, ready to drink it?

Isla shook her head, refusing to believe him, ''You can't do this. You can't leave me—''

I had a moment like that myself, Clarke. I wanted to die once, twice, ten, twenty times. Did you not wonder what shaded the color in my house? Did it never hit you that a few drops of blood filled the cans of white paint?

Are you scared of me yet? Have I scared you away?

''I'll do anything, Draco. I'll show you everything, I'll do whatever you want me to do, but don't leave me, Draco, please—''

Would you, my beautiful girl? Would you do anything for me? Would you choose me?

If I let you see my mind, like you just showed me yours — you wouldn't stay, Clarke. You would run. I said that you were the one who made me mental, the one who caused me to be insane.

What if I was already crazy?

What if I was ruined even before you? Would you still love me if I was? Would you love me with the weight of my secrets? Would you help me carry them? It's starting to get heavy, Clarke. I could use the help.

Isla stared at him. Her eyes hooded, as empty as his almost. If anything could be as empty as him now, she'd be close.

Do you remember how I treated you in school? How I would sneak up on you out of nowhere and insult you until tears crowded in those beautiful eyes of yours?

I've never thought about that. What would've happened if I didn't? If I didn't hurt you? If I wasn't evil? Am I evil? Do you think I'm evil, Clarke?

Blinking, that was all she did. Numb, she was numb.

I've never thought about your eyes as much as I do now, how blue they are. Everyone always refers to blue as cold, icing, biting, glacial. Can I refer to yours as warm? Loving? Safe?

I'd never seen a warm shade of blue until I saw you.

''There's nothing you can do.'' He said, his voice hard, trying to cover up the fact that it was shaking, ''It's over, Clarke. I don't want this anymore. I don't want shit from you. I want nothing to do with you.''

It looked as if someone had cracked her ribs with their bare hands and dragged her heart out. Hurt. She looked so hurt to him.

I saw how you hurt yourself once. I saw what you thought about it, how much you regretted it afterwards because you cut yourself a little too deep.

You healed it with magic. You didn't heal me with magic when I was hurt. Why is that, Clarke?

Did you care more for me than yourself?

I don't know if you know this, but I kiss that scar every time I am inside you. I think you thought about it once. I think I saw it in your eyes how you looked up as I let my lips run over that pink scar. Pink is a pretty color on you. Your scars are beautiful. Did you ever notice mine?

Swallowing, she nodded. Her sight fell to gaze at the key on the ground. She hesitated to pick it up, but it didn't take more than a few seconds until she did. Isla took it between her fingers, looking at it, then she looked at him. 

Using quick steps until he was the one pressed to the wall on his side of the corridor, Draco stared down at her, ''What the fuck are you—''

''You—'' She sighed, holding up the key, before she bent her arms behind her head, unhooking the chain coating her neck, and she threaded his key onto the silver, ''You say that we're over. That you hate me. That you don't want me—''

Draco clenched his teeth, nearly holding his breath at her closeness.

I want to kiss you.

''You also said that you could never love me, that I could never compare to you, and now you do. You love me, and I am everything to you.''

His eyes flickered, taking in every detail of her broken self.

How is someone so beautiful? How am I ever supposed to let go of you?

You look like something... drawn. Like the world's greatest artists came together and illustrated you. Like the words in the universe weren't enough to describe you, so you had to be penned to paper. Not real.

How are you real? How is someone like you real? How am I allowed to love you?

''I don't care if you never said it because I know you do. I know you love me, Draco. I know you love me more than you ever loved her—''

I do, Clarke. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. How do you know that?

Did I give it up? Did I give myself away? Did I make it obvious?

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I love you. I'm sorry that you have to be loved by me. That can't be easy. It can't be easy, being loved by someone with a heavy soul, someone dark, complicated. I feel like my love broke you. I feel like I broke you.

Did I break you?

''And I'm not going to stand here and listen to you trying to convince me that you're not. You can't lie to me, Draco. Not anymore.'' Isla stared at his chest, seeing how it was rising and falling. She didn't quite dare to meet his eyes yet, ''You don't get to throw this away because I hurt you. If I would've done that — if I would've thrown you away every time you hurt me, we wouldn't have lasted a day.''

Did I really hurt you that much, Clarke?

''You get to be hurt. You get to be mad, and you get to hate me. Okay? You get to question what I've done. You get your space, but I don't want to listen—'' Heaving, she shook her head again, ''I don't want to listen to you trying to hurt me just because you're hurt. I did something bad, and I will take the consequences for it. You're allowed to run away, to hide and hate the world for what I did to you.''

Finally, Isla lifted her pained stare, meeting his, ''But I will be waiting for you, because you are worth fighting for, Draco.'' Placing her palm over the two sets of the same keys, she had tears in her eyes again, ''We are worth fighting for, no matter what you think of me right now.''

How do you do that? How do you make me love you more when I am trying to hate you? Stop being beautiful, stop healing my soul when I keep breaking yours.

She let out a trail of light breaths, taking a step back. His eyes were broad, confused, and angry, looking after her as she backed away, ''I will keep this safe for us until you're ready to forgive me.''

I want you to wait, Clarke. I think you know I do, but I can't say it. I'm so mad at you right now. I am so fucking mad at you. I hate that I love you. I love that I hate you.

She expected him to cave, to meet her brave words, and her heart had never pounded as fast as it did now. Draco stepped up to her, halting close and looking down at her. His lips parted, his brows furrowed. He wanted to say something.

Do you remember the morning I walked away from you? After you bought us breakfast? Do you know why I walked away that morning? Why I left you?

I'm never cold, Clarke. I never freeze, but that morning I did. I was shaking out of how warm you were and how cold I became the second you didn't touch me.

I think I have to freeze for a while now. I don't think you'll forgive me for what I'm about to do. I don't know if I want you to forgive me. I don't think I can forgive myself. I asked you to take a little more. Take a little more of my anger, a little more pain — please.

Draco inhaled sharply as his fingers quickly snapped up between them, closing around the chain coating her throat, and without a blink of her eye, he ripped it off of her. Bending and crushing the metal in his fist before he threw it at the ground.

Looking at her, one more time, He said, ''I don't love you, and you can never compare to me.''

He shut it out. He shut out the whimper fleeing her lips as he tore the silver off her neck. He shut out the cry she let out the second he turned around.

Forgive me. My sweet girl, please be the one to forgive me, because I can't forgive you.

Draco caught how she fell to her knees behind him, slamming her hand over her mouth to muffle the heartbreaking sounds she was making, and he spun back to watch her crumble, ''You really are a fucking Weasley if you think I could forgive you for this.''

Let me burn, Clarke.

Gone.

He disappeared to the sound of her heart shattering, her soul crushed, and her bones dusting.

_____

One thing I've always found quite funny regarding my own home is the structure of it all. There's something bitter about it, isn't it? If you think about it?

How my father purchased a house as enormous as this one, something so guarded and safe, something that would keep all evil out — only for the demons to be living inside it.

It's funny if you ask me. Ironic, almost.

If you would've asked my father, he wouldn't have answered. He'd most likely give a speech about how it's never about good or evil. It's about power and command. If you rule, you can conquer over simple things as good or evil. He would've liked you, Clarke. If he met you.

He was someone who saw drive and power within people. He would've adored that stubborn, decided part of you. Not as much as I do, but he would certainly tell me to stick to you.

If you would've asked my mother — if you would've asked that beautiful soul why she let the evil burn our hearts with the flaming torches of our souls, she'd say that there's something beautiful about that too.

That sometimes, something beautiful rises from the ashes of something cruel, that nothing is as it seems all the time, that the world had a habit of surprising her, and that it would surprise me too when I was ready.

But how could I ever be ready for the world to surprise me, when you said I couldn't surprise you anymore, Clarke? Did you mean that? Were you angry when you said it? Did you hate me? Did you love me so much that you wanted to hurt me?

How can I expect the world to surprise me when I stopped surprising you?

That's what my mother would've said. She would've found a way to see heaven through the eyes of hell. She said I was her heaven in her very own hell.

Do you think she lied to me? Do you think she just said those things to make me feel better while she was suffocating? Hoping that she could save me from drowning too?

I think you would've loved my mother, Clarke. I think she would've been skeptical of you, not because there's a flaw to be found within you, but because she never believed that I was the one to be with someone decisive, someone with both feet upon earth.

She liked Pansy a lot, because Pansy listened to me. She didn't retaliate, she didn't speak against, she listened, and she was there for me like I was there for her. Platonic, I'd call it today. There wasn't a spark. I know that now.

There weren't fireworks as we kissed, there weren't melodies playing when I touched her, there wasn't anything, and when I think about it... Do you think I was scared?

Do you think I liked the way she made me feel? Do you think I liked the safety of that one person always being by my side?

I think it was. I think I was attached to the shelter of being dependent on someone and the feeling of her being dependent on me. I don't think I fell in love with her, Clarke.

Not like I fell for you.

I loved her. I love her. I will always love Pansy more than anyone will understand, and she will love me, but we weren't in love. There's a difference, you know?

If I'd actually say this to you — if I would speak my mind to you right now, telling you how I don't think I was in love with her — you'd take my hand.

You would take my hand, and I would resist it a bit. I'd play bothered like I wouldn't want you to do that, but I'd let you. You'd smile when I do, and then you would bring my hand to your lap, and you'd make me stay there, brush your thumb over my knuckles.

I would tell you how much I hate it when you do that. I would tell you to stop, and you would look at me, squinting a bit like only you do, and you'd read me better than anyone ever has.

You would tell me something about yourself, to take my mind off of it, give me a comparison to something that happened to you before I did. Is that sad?

Is it sad that I see myself as something that happened to you? Like I'm an accident, something that came and interrupted your life?

Do you see me as something that happened to you, Clarke? I hope you don't.

I love when you tell me something about yourself, when you tell me those small stories about your life before me to ease my mind. You do that a lot, trying to ease my mind. You also make me want to rip my hair out most of the time, but that's not the point, Clarke.

The point is that I fell in love with you.

I thought I knew what love was before you. I thought I knew what it felt like, and I hated you for proving me wrong. I despised you for making me realize that I had no clue about love before I met you.

I didn't. I thought love was about safety, comfort, trust, something adorable, warm.

Love is so much more. Loving you is so much more.

I don't know how to explain it, Clarke. I don't know how to explain my love for you. It's maddening.

It makes me... furious. You are the most annoying person I've ever known. Never have I met someone so irritating and provoking as you — someone that doesn't even have to try to get on my last damn nerve. You don't have to try to set me off. You don't have to try to piss me off. You don't have to try to make me want to pitch myself off the astronomy tower, just like you did.

I want to jump, and then I want you to catch me. That's how it feels.

I want to escape your fucking madness, and then I want you to save me with it. I want you to drown me and save me at the same time. It's not explainable, and I don't think it ever can be. I don't understand it, Clarke. I don't think neither of us will understand the hold you have over me.

One month had passed since he walked away from her.

One whole month, thirty-one days, seven hundred forty-four hours, one thousand eight hundred and sixty minutes.

Draco Malfoy counted them all.

For each hour, he carved a straight line onto the wall above his bed. He didn't spend any time in his own room, apart from going in there to mark his wall with that line. It felt better that way, he believed.

Draco felt like it hurt a little less every time he did that, every time he let the now very sharp edge of his wand scratch the wall.

If anyone would've seen him, they would've figured that he was crazy — someone mental that couldn't control himself, and perhaps he was.

Maybe he was insane, wicked, and scarred by that chaos of a girl he couldn't get out of his head.

The rest of his time he spent in the library. He slept, ate, and wandered around in circles that now had left prints on the floor, but he didn't know what else to do.

After her, he didn't know what he could do.

I am so mad at you. I am so fucking mad at you for what you did to me, for what you did to us, and for what you took as you decided to lie.

Why, Clarke? Why couldn't you just tell me about who you were? How could I miss who was hiding underneath all that beauty? Why am I so blind for you?

Draco was battling the thoughts in his head, thinking and fighting his own mind until it felt like it bled. Until it felt like knives were tearing his scalp in two, carving at the tiny piece of sanity that still rested within him.

Was he meant to forgive her, or was she meant to fall for what she'd done?

Was she meant to fight for him, or did he lose her when he walked away?

It hurt him as days following days passed, and she didn't look for him. Isla didn't run after him. She let him go. She never let him go. Isla ever so made her way after him no matter what the price of it was, but not now.

Now he was alone.

Malfoy didn't have a problem with being alone. He never had, but this emptiness was something he'd never felt before. He had left her prior to this, several times, but nothing hurt like this. She let him go this time.

I can't quite understand why I ran away from you all those times. I said that it makes it my choice to come back and that I would always come back for you, but what if I lied, Clarke?

What if I lied to you?

What if the reason I'm always the one to walk away is because I was scared of this? Because I was terrified that you wouldn't follow me? What if I wanted to prove that you did? That you would follow me everywhere?

I was right. You did follow me everywhere until you stopped, just like I stopped surprising you.

What if this is where we stop? What if I stop coming back for you, and you stop running after me?

Was it because I hurt you? Because I hurt you so much that you bled?

A part of me thought you deserved what I did to you. A part of me enjoyed watching you bleed and squirm by the pain of my wand cutting through your neck. A part of me liked it, seeing you cry for what you did. A part of me cherished seeing your pain, watching as your father left you, looking at the memory of Diggory dying.

I love your pain. I love feeling it. I love watching it. I love causing it.

But at the same time, another piece of me has never hated myself more for just that — loving the way I hurt you.

A piece of me wanted to take your pain from you. A piece of me wanted to heal what I caused. A piece of me wanted to comfort you, dry your tears and kiss your pain away. A piece of me hated the way you hurt. A piece of me wanted to die with you. A piece of me wanted to kill your father for walking away from you. I wanted to give my life for Diggory's if it meant that you stopped hurting.

I don't know what you did to me. I don't know what you've done to make me feel this way. To make me love and hate your pain at the same time, to make me want to kill and save you at once.

All I know is that you didn't follow me, and I haven't come back for you. All I know is that you didn't run, and I didn't stay.

Can you hate me now? Do you hate me now? Am I finally worthy of your hate?

I just want to know how it feels to be hated by you, Clarke. You know how it feels to be hated by me.

You've said a hundred times that you hate me. You've pretended that you do. You've tried to convince me that you do, but you never hated me, did you?

When you hated me, you still let me touch you. When you hated me, you still comforted me. When you hated me, you still saved me.

When I hated you, I wanted you dead.

But you could never hate me, could you?

Maybe you do now. Maybe you finally hate me for hurting you. Maybe you're finally ready to let me go. Maybe you're ready to move on with him.

Draco looked down at the ring, coating his finger. Their friendship ring, as the mellow breeze of spring wind, seeped through the blond strands of his hair.

Standing on the balcony, he gripped stone framing it, and he looked down at the ground. He missed her. He missed the moment they stood out there, falling and breaking a bit harder for each other.

Did you know that he was my only friend? That no one ever cared for me like he did?

Did you know that we spent every Christmas together before I started hating it? Did you know I am scared of thunder and that he would stay with me during the storms?

Did you know that his mother used to stay up late to bake me the bread he hated just because I loved it? That my mother used to grow white roses because he loved them even if I hated them?

Did you know he was my first kiss?

Did you know I hid his family during the war? That it was the reason I was too late to save my parents?

Did you know that I told him that my parents fled overseas after the war because I couldn't face his pain of knowing that they were gone?

Did you know that I send him postcards from them once a month so that he doesn't believe that they forgot about him?

Did you know he showed up here three days ago, asking for my help? That he asked me to help you because something happened? Did you know I said no? Did you know that I called you worthless and that I never wanted to see you again?

Did you know he said it had been a month and that your life was falling apart?

I think he loves you more than I do. Have you heard him speaking about you? Perhaps you've eavesdropped? Caught him talking?

He talks about you in a way that even makes me jealous. He talked about you like you were an angel, sent from heaven while I was sleeping with you. When you were mine, he still loved you. He never hated you. I hate you a lot.

I have never heard anyone talk about you like he does. Not even me, Clarke. I don't even speak about you like he does. He loves you more than I'll ever be able to.

I fucking love you. I am so fucking in love with you. I can't live without you. I don't want to live without you, but you can't live without him.

So, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about that, all my secrets I've been keeping. I'm sorry that I'm not strong enough to talk about it, but it hurts, Clarke. It hurts knowing something that could be the death of him but not being strong enough to speak it.

I was going to tell him once, but he sat there, in my house with a smile so broad on his lips because we won. The bright side conquered, and he didn't have to be scared anymore.

He smiled, Clarke. He smiled, and I couldn't tell him. I couldn't be the reason he wasn't smiling anymore. I couldn't be the reason he never smiled again.

You make him smile, and that makes me smile.

The memory of that made him smile as he turned around, looking into the library he once caught her sneaking into the first night she stayed with him, the night they all came here, and he found that key coating the neck, the day he got so jealous of their way of talking to each other that he stormed out.

I should hate you for coming between us. I should hate you for not knowing. I should hate you for not asking, but I don't, Clarke. I love you more because of it.

I love that you love him. I love that you give him the love he deserves. I love that you care for him. I love that he has you, that he can rely on you. I love that he loves you. I love that he takes care of you. I love that you are worthy of his love, Clarke. Not many people are.

I love that your love is beautiful.

But I hate that you don't love me like you love him.

It was with a heavy breath Draco Malfoy lost that last piece of sanity still coursing through his veins.

I have lost everything else. I have lost you. I lost myself to you, and it's time to lose that.

He stormed through his house in what felt like a trance. A never-ending nightmare he couldn't get rid of.

Heading for the kitchen, he fired a spell that ripped through the cabinets and tore everything out. Plates, cups smashed to the ground, porcelain spilled over the entirety of that floor as he fired another spell towards the stove, the kitchen island, the fridge, the freezer, the dinner table, the counter he'd felt her on.

Everything blew up in pieces in front of him as he marched closer, seeing that one thing made it without breaking. The cup she always drank her tea from.

The cup he'd placed far back in the cabinet so he wouldn't be able to see it, to hurt as he saw it, to drown at the memory of her sitting on his couch in the morning, with her legs in his lap and sipping on that hot drink.

He wanted to throw it out the second he got back to his Manor a month ago. He wanted to break it with his bare hands, but he couldn't. He couldn't break anything that belonged to her, knowing that it could be one of the last things he still had that was hers.

Does he know how you take your tea? That you like honey and not sugar? How you don't stir it? That you let the honey linger in the bottom of the cup so you can feel it all when you take that last sip? That reminded me of my love for you. I drank from my cup, and then when I came to the end, something so sweet waited for me. You are my last sweet sip, Clarke. There won't be anyone after you.

He took that cup with him, storming out of the kitchen as he headed for the living room, and he lit the fireplace on fire, too much fire, so much fire that it caught onto the curtains draped over the massive windows next to it.

Draco turned to the couch, staring at it emptily for moments before he flung forward, and he tore his wand through the material. The filling of it filled the floor, along with the bottles of firewhiskey standing on the cart next to it, hoping that the flames would reach it.

That got him thinking. Those bottles of dizziness got him thinking, and he walked over to the cabinet where the rest of them rested. Bringing them with him, he left the place she'd marked him in — the place he'd marked her.

He walked up the stairs, moving towards his bedroom.

I have spent a month, Clarke — a whole month going over what to do with you, and when I do, I always end up here. In this room, staring at the bed I promised to be yours in.

You fucked him here, didn't you? The blood you left on my sheets spoke for it. I never touched that bed after you left, and when I came back — it was a mess.

You created a mess with him in here, didn't you? You fucked him where I fucked you to spite me? To prove something? Did he mark you, Clarke? Did he make you bleed like I did? Do you have his name on your body like I have yours, and you have mine?

Does he have your name? Your full name?

Does he love you for who you really are? Does he love you for what I can't bring myself to love you for? Do you think he would love you even after he knows the truth? After he knows what your family did to mine? To ours?

Draco found himself standing at the edge of his bed, staring out over it. He left it like they did. It was still messy, chaotic — just like he was. The hand that wasn't holding the bottles and the cup dragged frustratingly through his hair.

He didn't falter as he ripped the stopper off one of the bottles, and he poured that drink all over his bed, over the mat resting underneath it.

Forgive me for this, Clarke. Forgive me for everything I ever did to you. Forgive me for every time it hurt when I touched you, for every cruel word I spoke, for every evil act. Forgive me for not realizing sooner that I can't live without you, that I can function or focus if you're not there with me.

Forgive me for being me. Forgive me for loving you. That must be the worst part, right? That I love you? That you can't be with him because I made you love me?

Did I force you to love me? Did I make you fall for me, or did it happen out of nowhere?

I will never forgive myself for forgiving you, but that's the beauty of love, isn't it? That I rather hate myself than hate you.

Because I don't, Clarke.

I don't hate you.

I love you.

He heaved as he stopped in the library, his shoulders sunk at the look of it. He was back where he'd started his storm of rage.

He was back in that doomed, unpainted room. Somewhere he felt like he could seek mercy in, somewhere he didn't have to be afraid. He loved that room more than anything. He adored the way it caused him to feel.

But that didn't stop him. Nothing stopped Draco as he placed the cup on the table still smeared with books and files. He'd been researching again, for weeks.

He'd been looking for every reason he could possibly find to make anyone but the Weasleys guilty of his parent's death.

He didn't. Draco didn't find a thing that spoke for the bloodline he despised, and he locked his jaws in anger, pouring a splash of alcohol from the last bottle into her cup.

He drank it. He downed it in one go before he spun around, shaking his head at all the books standing perfectly across the shelves.

Draco threw the cup against them. He even hated the books now. He hated everything. All of it. Every last piece of his home. He hated everything and everyone but her.

Should I come back to help you?

Should I do as he asked? Even after I saw the scars of your nails over his neck?

Should I save you, save your friend even if you fuck him when my life is breaking apart?

Because it is, Clarke. My life is breaking apart, but from what he told me, so is yours.

Performing another spell with his wand, magically he suddenly gripped a package of matches. Standing over a pool of firewhiskey.

He'd spilled it over the whole library, making the drink stain the books, the couches, the shelves, the mat, the doors to the balcony. Every single thing was drowned in alcohol.

The difference is that you lied to me. You lied to me, and you let me fall for you.

Pushing the side of the box open, he brought a stick out.

Weasley. You're a Weasley. You belong to the people who took mine.

Draco lit the match on fire, his hand shaking as he rose it in the air.

You took me. You took everything about me. You robbed me of everything I am, everything I was ever meant to me.

The tiny flame slightly shifted in the air of the trembling breaths he let out, and he watched it. He studied that blazing spark as it crawled down the match.

You took me, and you made me yours.

His legs felt like they were caving at any second now.

You own me, Clarke. You own me in ways I don't even own myself.

Like I once said, you're the most chronic drug, and I am the worst type of addict when it comes to you. Let me drown in the high of you, my sweet girl. Let me burn in the flames of your love, and let us rise from the ashes of it.

He smiled bitterly as he took a step back from the pool of substance he'd poured across the floors and ripped furniture of his home. It was a harsh smell lingering around him, his clothes stained in his own blood of what he'd done.

Would you do that for me, my beautiful girl? Would you let me burn? Would you burn with me?

With a thick swallow, nearly suffocating him from within, and the image of her cursed to his mind, Draco dropped the ignited match to the ground. 

Let me burn, Clarke. Let me overdose on you, and let us live on forever.

Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of a sea of flames. His childhood home was burning, and all he could think of as the sounds around him muted, only hearing a ringing tone in the back of his head — was his mother.

I'm sorry, mother. I'm sorry that I love her more than I want to avenge you.

The sparks shifted violently. Smoke found its way up through the ceiling, making it crack with a heavy noise.

Because I do, mother. I love her more than I want to avenge you. I love her.

The sound of his home leveling to the ground was something that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He could hear it again.

I hope that you can forgive me, forgive me for choosing her, because I will, mother. I will always choose her, even if she doesn't choose me.

The Malfoy Manor stood in flames, soon to be evened with the ashes he would rise from.

I will choose her for both of us, for both her and me, and I will love her for both of us.

So you can rest now, mother, because I can finally let you go. She will keep me safe, and I will save her.

Like you said, sometimes, something beautiful rises from the ashes of something cruel, that nothing is as it seems all the time.

She is beautiful, and nothing is as it seems. Not anymore, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't be alive without her. I would've died with you.

Pardon me for loving her, mother, because I will never forgive myself for doing so.

_____