Everlasting (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

A Poet's Words

Sitting by the window in your usual seat in the library, you watched the heavy snow fall. The daunting feeling hung about you heavily, and the only way you could at least somewhat divert your attention from Draco was by staring at the moon longingly, pleading to become one with it. Sighing, you pulled out your notepad, alongside a pen, as you stared at it before yourself. Poetry? You liked poetry. Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, John Keats, William Blake, Robert Burns, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, Adam Mickiewicz - ah, to be a Romantic poet! For now, it was all you longed for. To outstretch your hands and feel the nature curl around your fingertips, and to write of it as though it was your only muse. As John Keating once said, There's a time for daring and there's a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for. But which were you to be now? Were you, in your longing position, heartbroken over a dangerous boy, better off to be daring, or was now the time to be cautious? Perhaps you were not the wise man you wished to be, after all. Had you been as wise as you'd wished, you'd never have fallen in love with someone like Draco. A Malfoy, a family destined to fall against yours. But perhaps Lord Byron was right in saying, The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain. Yet, why did you dread your own existence now? Why did the solemn longing for a conflicted boy, who he himself did not know who he wished to be, spark such indescribable pain which inspired wishes of the ceasing of existence? Oh, but Percy! Percy Shelley knew; he understood in saying, Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. For what other reminder of your sincerest love for Draco was there than your ardent pain? Ardent! What a word! A word used so beautifully by Jane Austen, in her construction of Mr Darcy ... I love you ... most ardently. Yes - how many times you wished to quote these words to Draco! In your poetic manner! Springing from the depths of your own soul and your own love of literature, which you wished to pass onto him. A sonnet, perhaps, for none other than Draco himself - were you capable of writing one? Or was now the time to be, as John Keating said, cautious? Was now the time to retreat back into yourself, mask your own love, and go on with your life as though you did not know of it? If that was the case, you were to slam your notepad shut and never write in it again. Never write of Draco again. Never produce words, never let them slip down your tongue, never let them draw letters; never speak of the love you bore for Draco Malfoy. If you were certain to let him go, you were to abandon all your passion for him. But how can one do that? When one loves ... so ardently.

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Or Shakespeare! Had he been sitting before you, listening to your words of your tale of woe with your lover, what advice would he bare? One of love, one of passion. He would instruct you to hold tight, to cling to pain, for hope follows pain, and hope opens love. Poets, authors, artists - they desire pain. Pain is their muse. But you, a mere human being, could not live in pain; live in an artist's mind forever. If clinging to Draco was just equal to living in suffering, pain, confusion and uncertainty, then perhaps Hermione was right. Perhaps, after all, you did deserve better.

How can I possibly think that? You thought to yourself, staring at the lonely moon up in the sky. It was staring back at you, wishing to give you its advice, yet with no ability to. The moon understood you; it understood you and Draco, for it had been there, present, in your most emotional moments. Thus, the moon knew what the right thing to do was. Yet, it hung there, passive.

"You're an asshole," you whispered, staring at the moon. "I want to fight for him, I really do ... but how much of it can I take? I would do so much ... anything ... for him, but would he do the same? Oh, I love him ... I love him, I do! I'm in love with him ... but I love him. I would ... I would do anything for him, had he asked for it."

You sank into your seat, however, for not very long. You jumped up from your seat and grabbed your wand out when one of the books from a nearby bookshelf fell onto the floor. Your heart leaped out of your chest in fear, tears curled in the corners of your eyes as you pointed your wand in the direction of the bookshelf.

"Who's there?" You called out after a pause, your hand lightly trembling.

To be seen in a vulnerable moment, in the darkness, in a library - it is fearful. Your heart was pounding harshly, as you slowly crossed the bookshelves to see on the other side to catch the culprit who'd accidentally, you assumed, thrown one of the books off. Yet no one was present. Alone in the library you were.

Yet, reader, I am asking you to think. Who, in the history of your story, do you know to be a clumsy listener? Who, of all people, could possibly have accidentally dropped the book in the process of listening? Who was the absolutely worst spy of all, who always was caught by one person at least? I believe you know. Thus, he heard.

He knows of your devotion.