crybaby

3 | cleanse me

His first quidditch match.

Kissing Pansy Parkinson.

Dueling Harry Potter.

Herbology.

Cutting his hair.

Flying over the treetops.

The memories aimlessly poured freely now, the puncture wound streaming his own story. He scoured his mind for any vulnerable memories and clutched them to his chest.

Staring at the sky.

Falling asleep.

In another reality, his hands were still anchored in his pants pockets, his father was staring into his soul- but here there were only memories.

Learning Dark Magic.

Buying ink and quills.

Flying.

Punching a wall.

Getting the Dark Mark.

His head ached with the meak attempts to push his father out. No attempts gave way.

Torturing a girl. He never knew her name-

Legitimacy with Snape.

Snarling at Harry.

Eating at Hogwarts.

Swimming in the Great Lake.

Lecturing Goyle on his broom antics.

His father tore away pages too fast for Malfoy to hide them to him. Chapters spinning feverishly in his head.

Sparing a mudblood.

Darkness licked the edges of Malfoys perception. He could not hide, could no longer cling to the energy he once had. He was hanging onto reality so he would not black out.

Not torturing someone... and killing them swiftly.

Crying over the body of Neville.

No.

Please no-

A rush of tangled feelings.

Rocking her back and forth in his arms.

Quivering.

His lips mouthing "Not Granger..." repeatedly.

The fleeting hope- that perhaps she could escape even if he despised her.

His fathers grasp on his memories loosened and he was tumbling out of his own mind. The room spun widely around him. He crawled away from his Fathers form. Boots swiveled and paced slowly back. The hissing sound morphed into screaming. Sweat poured down Malfoy's face as rain.

"You have the audacity to ask for the mudblood... as your mission when you harbor affections for her?

"It- is not... not-" Words lulled on his tongue faintly. His voice felt distant and parched. "I not....'s not affection! Father you misinterpret-"

The boots still. The floorboards cooled his burning head. Malfoy pushed himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his skull. Fingers clutched a table leg for balance. His left ear was ringing, and the right was quiet. The world was spinning on an axis and he was planted, alone. The floor was the wall, then it was his fathers fists.

"You dare claim I misinterpreted your thoughts?" Hands gripped his shoulders and shook him. "You dare? In my own home..." His voice had lost its soft whisper and each word was a cacophonous grit.