DISCLAIMER: Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy and the Dark Mark are all part of the extensive genius of Ms. JK Rowling.
CLAIMER: However, this particular version of their story belongs to me. If you are inspired, please tell me. If you use my exact words or ideas, please credit me. The end.
WARNING: Lowercase everything, super unhappy ending, and that vague writing style that always seems to get me in trouble.
WORD COUNT: 500. Yeah, exactly.
she knows he could've loved her.
---
sometimes their eyes would meet – by accident or design – and it would feel as if their souls were fitting themselves together. but it never showed on his face and afterwards his eyes would just glide on to something else, as if the moment were nothing.
but she felt it. every time.
maybe he thought it would be easier to pretend as if he cared nothing for her, one less complexity in his world. that was probably true, and if nothing else, he was constant. constantly apathetic, but constant. like a cold grey stone. it was nice, in a gut-wrenching sort of way.
---
she knew him. she saw when he was confident to hide his insecurities; she saw when he was disdainful to hide his sorrow. if she had been able to share those moments with him, they would have been silent and honest and instead of having to hide them, he would have let those feelings go. he would have been better if he had been with her.
watching him sometimes was like watching a fatality happen in slow motion. she couldn't rescue him if he didn't put his hand out to her. and he never did. he never did.
---
the façade was a reliable one, her shrieking laughter covering her fears and her tears, his scathing insults covering his. and when she placed her hand on his arm, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, she could half pretend that it was true, as long as she ignored her bleeding heart.
at night, she would try to convince herself to stop playing the game. she knew it was tearing her soul, she knew it was hardening her heart, she knew it was ruining everything. but in the morning, she would see him and know that it was her only chance to be near him. when she thought of losing that, she almost couldn't breathe. she couldn't give it up. she couldn't give him up.
---
those moments, when their eyes met – she could've taken advantage of those. she could've stared him down, and let the feeling well up inside her until she came near to bursting, and then she could've let the words spill out.
it might've worked. malfoys aren't made of stone.
---
she watched him choose the wrong road, out of fear and apprehension. she watched, and was silent. she watched, and drew herself into the shadows. it was too late to speak the truth, too late because her tongue knew only lies.
her hand gripping his forearm tightly, she felt the black tattoo on his skin. she continued to laugh.
---
her bed is luxurious and empty. she wakes up twisted up in bedcloth, her memories seared onto the tips of her fingers like a brand. what does she regret is not the question to ask. it is what does she not regret.
he is gone, and she remains.
---
she knows she could've loved him.
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Oh jah and I'm sorry for the depressingness.
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