Hateful Love

Chapter Fifty-Two

NOTE: I do not own any of the ideas or characters expressed in this story (except Cassie Jackson). All of these belong to J.K. Rowling.

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Draco P.O.V.

          The first thing I hit is the closed door. I slam both palms into it, the wooden door frame shaking dangerously and threatening to give way. I curl my fingers against the wood and let out some sort of a frustrated yell that I hope Cassie can’t hear as she walks away from me on the other side. But this doesn’t relieve my anger enough, so I turn furiously and throw my arm across the small table closest to me. The vase shoots off to the right and shatters against the floor, sending pieces of clay, flowers, and water spinning across the stone. I grab hold of the table with shaking fingers and rip it downwards, one of its wooden legs snapping against the floor in a small spray of splinters.

          I’m not mad at Cassie. I’m really not.

          I hate myself.

          I’m blind with rage as I turn and kick the coffee table by the fireplace over on its side. The table slams down with a loud crash, but I barely hear it. Books tumble to the ground and their pages crumple together, a few loose sheets flying out. The pieces of paper get smashed under my feet as I pause for a moment, standing next to the over-turned table and breathing heavily. I clench and unclench my fists repeatedly, staring down at the array of fallen books but not really seeing them. Cassie’s voice replays inside my head like a broken record, and I find myself quickly getting angrier and angrier.

          “I trusted you, but you lied to me…I’m supposed to be your girlfriend…Bullshit, Draco Malfoy. We’re supposed to trust each other and tell each other everything, but you can’t even do that…Just shut up, I don’t want to hear it—I’m leaving…I don’t know—“

          The candles on the wall suddenly go out in a puff of smoke, a cold breeze ruffling through the room and stirring up the loose papers around me. I look up darkly to see that everything in the room is disturbed by some unknown force, that the curtains by the fake, closed window are billowing up into the air and the pages of the books at my feet are turning furiously on their own. The entire room is dimmed, and I turn to my right to see that the water surrounding the shattered vase is trembling as though there’s an earthquake.

          Then I realize what it is. I crouch down and grip a handful of my hair in each fist, trying desperately to calm myself down. The floor beneath my feet is shaking as I try to hold the magic back, to let go of the anger before this entire room explodes.

          I press my teeth together tightly as the wind whips my hair, a roaring in my ears. It’s harder than it seems to just forget about being furious—especially when I’m trying to forget how furious I am with myself.

          I try to think of anything but the fight we just had, and I do my best just to push the whole thing out of my mind. I force the anger back down as I slowly convince myself that it never happened.

          The wind gradually dies down, the curtains returning to normal and the book pages fluttering to the ground. Cautiously, I let go of my hair and lift my head, the only sound in the room being my heavy breathing. The candles have lit back up, the lighting returning to its original brightness. A few papers are still floating back to the ground as I slowly stand, looking around at the completely devastated room.

          There’s torn books everywhere, loose sheets of paper littering the floor. The water from the broken vase has spread further, and pieces of the flowers were blown across the room. I look over and see that the entire couch has shifted to the right, as though someone lifted one end and failed miserably at throwing it. I glance down to see that my fingers are shaking terribly.