:::Their Prologues:::
:Her Prologue:
She had been happy once...
She'd lived in a quaint little house situated on the outskirts of London, slept in a quaint little room with clean primrose trim. She'd had parents that smiled in their quaint little way, never stretching too wide, with quaint, expected jobs perfecting the world's crooked teeth. She'd been utterly content in her quaint little mind, full of high hopes and happy dreams... possibilities. The veneer of ordinariness had disguised any wrongs, and when she'd looked at her life, she'd seen nothing out of place: no hangnails; no rug burns; no mosquito bites, no mosquitoes. She had been so innocent then.
But not anymore.
Change flew into her life on the wings of a small brown owl—she'd been accepted into an elite school that she'd never even heard of, a school with an unusual name and an unusual curriculum...
A school for magic. A school for witches.
That owl, with its tiny beak holding tight to that letter, had been the first unusual thing to ever meet her gaze—and, unfortunately, she never sawnormal again. Her mother, once nearby, disappeared completely. Her father, once warm, turned hot—boiled. And it wasn't long before the former's absence and the latter's burning touch killed all the love in her quaint little world.
At Hogwarts, she worked to be the fastest, the smartest, the best—partly to prove to her fatherthat she was worth something, and partly to prove it to herself. She wanted to leave her mark on the world, wanted to make a difference, wanted to matter again.
But she didn't, couldn't. Wouldn't ever again. There was no way to make something out of nothing. And that's what she was, what she would always be.
The mudblood...
And he always lost his temper, always found an excuse to lay hands on her. He seized every opportunity to show her the truth... that she was dirty. That she was worthless.
And on the bad days, violent passion would shift, would turn from bruises on the outside to bruises within. He would show his daughter what she worth, all she was good for—would use her for his personalneeds, ones that were never satisfied, whether his wife was off on one of her business trips or not.
And after he was done, she'd leave him and his empty apologies behind, would walk numbly back to the sanctuary of that quaint little room with the primrose trim. Without a word, she would take up her blade, would run it hard across her skin. She could not feel, so the stripes and scabs would be her humanity. She could not cry, so the drops of blood would be her tears. She watched, silent, serene, as the dark red flowed out of her and down her skin... draining her of the filth within…
And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean...
And not even her friends, Harry and Ron, knew her fate. Not even arrogant Malfoy suspected.
:His Prologue:
He had been bathed in liquid gold his entire life. There was no object he couldn't obtain, no person he couldn't control, nothing and no one he couldn't make his. Even as a child he'd had royal command—a trait he'd inherited from generations past.
His parents didn't hate him, but they didn't love him either. Over time, he'd learned to appreciate the freedom of distance. He could do what he wanted to do and go where he wanted to go—so long as it didn't sully the pristine Malfoy reputation. And as long as he possessed that imperial surname, he could get himself in and out of whatever trouble he desired.
His magical abilities were unsurpassed—his father's harsh lessons and severe schedules had seen to that. But the strict regimens intended to make him dutiful had only succeeded in making him wilder. The rules had only succeeded in teaching him how to break them. And so he did break them—easily, endlessly. He surrounded himself with every luxury, every distraction, a man could want. The parties, the power, the money, the women—they gravitated to him naturally, like planets to the sun. But he knew his freedom could only stretch so far, for so long. Beneath the opulence and privilege, his father's expectations remained. One more thing came with the Malfoy name—a catch in the contract, one he couldn't escape, no matter how many games he played, one he couldn't forget, no matter how much he drank...
The Death Eater...
And he dreaded his duty as if it were death itself. What power was there, to live in fear? What freedom was there, to call another man 'Master'? There was none, and he knew it. He suspected his father knew it, too, probably a minute too late. Once the Dark Mark was melted into your skin, it could never be removed.
And he went through the days as every prince does: with a charming smile and a superior attitude. He hid his dread away and turned his focus to the glitter of life, which only a fortune and bloodline like his could afford.
And he spent the fading nights drinking, gambling, partying, and whoring, trying to forget the dark fate that waited just around the corner. Trying to live his life—and live it hard—while he still had the chance. He would spend the endless hours as a drunk and playboy, bitterly reaping the benefits of being born a Malfoy, waiting for the day when he would have to face the consequences.
And sometimes, amidst the endless noises of the night, he would stare into his drink and think about that time in the not-so-distant future when he would be totally and irreversibly alone.
And not even the great Harry Potter and his sidekick, Weasel, knew his fate. Not even know-it-all Granger suspected.
