Everlasting 2 (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

I, a Writer

Loss can't be understood unless it is experienced. I do not believe so, anyway. To feel the pain of existence as you see it drift away from those you love. Oh, goodness, no. It is not a feeling one can describe, for words do not do it justice. No such words exist in the English language, nor Russian, nor Chinese, nor Nigerian, nor Polish, nor Hindi, nor Korean, nor Greek. I could go on. Our lips are not created to express such pain. We, as humans, are created in such a way that anguish as so can only be experienced and endured. We must suffer through it; that is the most we can do.

A boy I loved once asked me what I want to be when I'm older. Whether I'd stick to the magic side of the world, or drift off into the mundane life of a muggle. I thought, why can I not be both? Why must I strip my identity into two pieces, when I am as I am, who I am. If I am capable of existence, if I can exist with the two worlds merged together, surely it is not forbidden? Surely I can continue to live with one and the other, together.

Writing is beautiful, I've realised. Through writing, I capture the beauty of both the magic world and the muggle world. I'd always enjoyed reading. It is funny, actually. It made up a huge part of my relationship in my younger years. We would randomly quote my favourite books. He even went out of his way to read my favourite books, and soon references would begin to fly back and forth which only we understood. So here I am. I am a writer.

I wish I could say it was hard to recall the events of those nights. It is not. It is all ingrained within my mind like a plague; I remember everything. I remember the tears, the laughter, the screams, the smiles. The way we all held hands to signify we were in this together, and then the way we held hands so that the other wouldn't depart their life on their own. So that they would know that, despite their leave, we were still here. We were still fighting. That their death did not occur in vain. We fought for that, we believed in that.

It's weird now. It was once my entire life. Now, it is only a memory. I remember, he once told me not to lose myself. I had become so obsessed with it all that he grew worried that my entire identity relied on it. I suppose he was partially right. I did grow obsessed with it, and it invaded my life more than I knew at the time. But it was for one reason only - my life had been stripped away from me. It had slipped between my thin fingers. Any attempt to grab it would be a failure, as the villain of the story would pull it away from me.

I do not know what to write. I do not know what to say. I do not know what to tell you. Why are you reading this? Why are you asking this of me - to put my memories on paper again for your entertainment? Why do you want this? Do you enjoy seeing me suffer? I was always known to be quite dramatic, I suppose. They are only memories, after all. So I'll tell you them. I've been telling you them up until now, haven't I? I've told you it all - I've told you from the start. I told you from the very moment I had to clean the house. The moment I picked up the letter. The moment I threw out the TV. I told you it all from that night, didn't I? What a story! What a story ... indeed. Every moment since has been significant, so I remembered it all. And it ended up on paper, as a story, for you and for your entertainment. The way I loved, the way I suffered, the way I laughed. The way I made others suffer. Or did I not get to that point yet? I suppose I'm not quite finished with the story yet, so you haven't fully experienced my memories just yet. But if you knew - if you knew what I know - you wouldn't ask me to relive it again.

Do you know what moment I want to go back to? A night I really enjoyed? Just between you and me, it'd be new years eve. That night sticks in my head a lot. I felt loved yet, loved beyond words. It was a different kind of love then. The immortal kind. I was so young, I felt like I had the world in my hands then. Like I could accomplish anything. I was immortal. We were immortal. Official New Years. Something like that. Or, or! That night at the Yule Ball. We all remember that, don't we? The pin held more significance than I thought it would back then. I was told it wasn't just any kind of pin. It was my pin. What else was there? Goodness, I can't quite think. A long time ago, there was a night where we sat in the kitchen at night. What was it that we made? Bacon, I think. Who knows? It was so long ago.

They are now only memories. So long ago. Today, I sit. Today, I am a writer. I decided to do it, to merge the world of magic and the world of normality together, painting them into one large picture, using the same words, using the same style of writing. They are separate, in a way, but I decided to bring them together with the use of my own vocabulary as I write it on this paper for you, reader. As I have done so from the start.

It's been a while, I guess. I could not bring myself to sit down and write again for a while. I was busy and felt I needed a break. But that is it. You want the story, so I shall tell you the story.

The story of how I fell in love. The story of how I fought for everything and everyone. The story of how I killed more than I should. The story as I lost myself slowly and gradually. One by one, they started leaving me. You would have gone insane too.

But hey, it's better now. Isn't it? After all, I'm sitting here and writing this story, just for you. So that you can experience my past with me. So that you know of the greatness of the little girl who used her name way too often and as an excuse for everything, of the girl who believed she had the world in her hands, of the girl who was befriended by the moon, as they sat together at night and cried endlessly in unison. The girl who had no shame, no self-control, no care for the world. She fought for what she believed in.

It was me.

I dare say, it is me.

I am still the same. As I write for you of these memories, all these years later, I am one and the same.

Where, I wonder, did I leave off? It was at the time where it was still alright, wasn't it? Oh, right! I'd just figured out ... yes ... I'd just figured out that only Jack ... oh, Jack ... only Jack could be trusted and wouldn't be found. Yes, yes! I remember it so vividly! He looked so confused, the poor boy, when I turned up at his door with my pleading eyes. But he was ready for me, he was ready for anything. I told him of the plan. The plan! Yes ... the plan!

You aren't surprised, surely? You must've seen this coming. This is where the good bit starts. I hope my tears do not stain the paper. I used to write letters recklessly, using words such as 'lol' or swearing way too often for my own good. As a writer, I cannot do that so much. Believe me, I've tried.

I keep getting side tracked. I apologise, reader. I suppose ... I suppose I do not want to go back to those memories. I suppose a part of me wants to stay here, where I am, and tell myself that that's all there is to the story. That I figured out a plan, that I went to Jack, and that the moon stuck by my side. I wish, I do. I wish I could tell you that that's it; that that's the story. There is more, unfortunately.

Do not lose hope, I beg of you. I understand my words so far have made it seem like this is a tragedy. That it is another version of Hamlet, or Othello, or Romeo and Juliet (what a disgusting play!). It sounds like it, now that I think about it. But you daren't lose hope. Keep reading, I beg of you. My memories must be heard. My story must be heard. You must know ... you must understand. I did not write those happy memories just for you to avoid the sad ones. By opening this book, reader, you made a commitment to me.

So, yes, I did go to Jack's. I did explain to him the plan. I told him, 'I must die', and he stared at me so shocked. I remember it, all of it, so vividly. This is it. I'll tell you now.

So, this is what happened after,