The Healer- A Draco Malfoy Fanfiction

Chapter 44: Draco's POV

Warning: This chapter contains a mention of suicide.

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I never intended to fall in love with her.

I didn't even know I was capable of loving anything other than myself. Sexual intimacy was the closest thing I had to loving another person. But as much as I tried with Pansy, the part of my brain responsible for connecting with people on that deeper level was corked tight like a potion vial.

And then Erica shattered me.

I didn't love her at first. I had been used and fooled by many others who were attracted to my power and family name. My natural skepticism made me think she was just a nosy witch. A nosy, but stunningly beautiful witch.

I had barely noticed her in previous years. She was quiet, plain. A dormant rosebud that had yet to bloom. Someone who could barely count as a Slytherin. My eyes had probably glazed over her more times than I could count.

But when I stumbled into the common room that night- pissed, wet, bleeding from multiple pin-sized holes in my hand, I don't think it even registered with my stupid, stupid mind that I was in the presence of an angel. When I laid eyes on her, it was like someone had struck a chord within me. Dormant flower no longer. Slender neck, pink lips, eyes like jewels- like a deer waiting to be shot by the hunter.

She might be the first and only time I ever get to see an angel, since I'm going to hell.

Most girls I lusted after in the past were rich and expensive-smelling. Erica smelled of cheap bergamot soap and hospital antiseptic. And yet, I was transfixed by her- I don't believe in stupid things like having a 'type', but if I did have one, it would be her. But like most good and beautiful things in my life, I resisted it. I had a list of things to do and there was no time for distractions.

I was foolish to think I could resist her.

I knew I was a sick fuck who liked ruining every woman he touched. Every time I saw her, it was like tempting a lion with fresh, bloody kill. I could hurt her so easily. And yet she dutifully healed my wounds.

Every time she healed me I was reminded of my carnal desire to be with the virgin angel with daddy issues. And it didn't bother me- because at first, carnal desire was all it was. I could resist that for as long as I had to. But when she kissed me in that corridor, alcohol on her breath, it was like the angel fell from heaven, straight into my arms- and like a brainless sinner, I allowed her to blur the line between matron and mistress.

But still, I did not love her.

Even when she took her clothes off and asked me to make love to her, I didn't know the meaning of the word. I didn't love her, even while she writhed beneath me in the dark. I was living inside my own little dark age, closed off to everyone, unless they served me some use.

I used her for healing. I used her for sex. I used her as an alibi, and I was going to use her and our relationship as a diversion to keep my real objective protected. And I felt no guilt, because she was practically begging me to use her.

Everything was so easy- until I realized I couldn't breathe when I thought about her with another man. I was willing to do anything to make her belong to only me, even if it meant hurting others, or myself.

I realized I had fallen in love when I sliced my hand open just for a reason to talk to her.

Suddenly, her being mine in theory wasn't just a dream, it was all I could think about. I fixated upon her until eventually I thought about her more than I thought about murder.

She was quite possibly the only person who saw past my name, my father's imprisonment, even that God-damned Dark Mark upon my forearm, and saw me for what I was. We had connected on a plane of existence that I didn't even know was on the map of human intimacy. She had an absent father, as did I. She lived to heal others; and I lived to hurt. We were two sides of the same beautiful, chipped coin.