I stutter like a broken clutch
When you touch me too much
My tongue gets twisted in your twirl~

 “Draco….Draco, darling, you’re hurting me….please…..”
”Shhh…don’t talk….just….relax.”

          I should have known then, that first time I allowed you to make love to me. You were so rough, so aggressive, yet you hardly touched me at all. Someone like you, I would have thought you would want to touch everything, fondle me, caress me, absorb the little details of my body. Instead you scarcely did anything but kissing. The kisses were passionate, closed eyes, tight and hard as though all the tenderness you were seeking was somehow abandoned the minute I exposed myself. You didn’t want to do all the things men are supposed to do before they enter a woman. Your hands barley slipped across my breasts, your fingers agile and calculated in their absence. Looking back on it now, it was almost as if that part of it was some sort of chore, a task that had to be performed just for the sake of excusing your need to fuck me. Why you chose me, I’ll never know. But you could never let me moan, never let me talk even in an exciting way….

~You say I'm not your kind of girl~

My voice would have ended your fantasy.

~A spider underneath my skin
I want you out, I want you in~

          It was never a secret that I wanted you. Hell, I was proud of it. I was immensely proud of the fact that I was desperately in love with the best of all of us, the most famous Slytherin in the school. You were the glory bringer, the kind of all you surveyed, and I was so happy that you would let me be the queen. You told me, before I gave you my virginity that you needed me.

You didn’t have the courage yet to tell me what you needed me for. 

~The venom and the vaccine swirl
You say I'm not your kind of girl~

 “Gryffindors make me sick.”
 “Draco, they’re only Gryffindors….it’s only Harry Potter.”

          I should have known then too, by the disbelieving look in your eyes. Only Harry Potter. No, apparently, “only” and “Harry Potter” didn’t belong in the same sentence. Somehow, you had elevated him in your mind, and he was higher than anything else I could offer you about your own greatness. We all knew Harry Potter was famous, but we were supposed to hate him for it. You were supposed to hate him more than all of us, he was supposed to be the thing making you sick, and I was the cure. When he defeated you as he somehow often did, I was supposed to heal you from the pain he had caused.

I didn’t know it was the other way around.

~What kind of girl should I be?
The kind of girl who doesn't see
That you're looking at me like you want to be seein' someone else
Somebody else~

          You were always looking at him; The back of his head in potions class,
 the side of his face in the corridors, the top of his head as he leans over his 
plate at dinner. At first I worshipped you for it, having the courage to so blatantly
 declare your hatred for your enemy by glaring at him. There was frustration in 
every inch of your eyes. I mistook it for frustration over the fact he wasn’t 
dead yet, and wrote off the way you gracefully flexed your fingers as a symbo o
f wanting to choke him.

I should have known your frustration sprung from passion that your delicate,
beautiful hands were aching to touch him. I should have known what passion 
looked like when it came from your cool grey eyes, but I couldn’t recognize it.
 You never looked at me that way once.

~You rip the sureness from my stare
and throw the pieces in the air
Your fingers string me like a pearl
You say I'm not your kind of girl ~

          I almost always managed to excuse myself for being with you though. 
I wrote off the little signs I picked up on as paranoia, doubted my own senses. 
Women have a natural ability to interpret ardor because we are such passionate 
creatures. I shouldn’t have doubted my instincts that told me I was just a replacement,
 a cheap plaything to help you control our fiery longing when you shoved me up 
against the wall and kissed me, or when you closed your eyes in supposed desire 
as you undid the fastenings of my robes. I should have listened to that little
 voice that said that you were never mine to begin with, that you never would be, 
that I was yours and you were his. 

          I had other, more obvious uses of course. I was, in a way, a trophy 
girlfriend from a wealthy pureblood family that your father would approve of. 
I wonder if you ever told him that you always shut your eyes when you took me,
so you wouldn’t have to face the reality that the one between your hands and your 
legs was female. All you needed was a woman to hang on your arm, and a hole for you 
to empty yourself into. 

You didn’t know you were draining me.

~It's not a secret anymore
What you keep me around for
My excuses all unfurl
Am I that kind of, kind of girl?~


          It finally dawned on me when I saw you crying. You were sitting on the 
end of your bed, all alone in the dark, presumably resigning yourself to solitary 
confinement. You hadn’t heard me enter the room. You didn’t see me standing there, 
because you were so lost in your tears. Crying, something you were expressly forbidden
 to do by your own conscience and moral boundaries. Your lithe fingers were sliding 
through your hair, eyes staring blankly ahead into nowhere, hot tears spilling from
 your eyes as though the world was over. It wasn’t. And then, when I looked at you, 
I knew. Instantly, I knew.

          It was him. You were dying with passion, frustration, confusion, anger. 
You were angry at me; you hated yourself for not being able to love me when you so 
clearly should have. You had everything, but wanted only the one person you couldn’t 
sway. You had no way to use your finely tuned skills, your powers of persuasion, your 
lissome, beautiful hands longing to caress the very same skin they wanted to rip, to 
tear. You wanted to tear him apart, and be inside him at the same time.

You ripped me instead.



~What kind of girl should I be?
The kind of girl who doesn't see
That you're looking at me like you wanna be seein' someone else~

          I was nothing more than a cheap substitute for something so much more forceful, 
something so prevailing that it was destroying every inch of you. Something so forbidden,
 that it was losing you in your efforts to pretend you hadn’t crossed the line. I was a 
plaything, a pawn, a thread in the large tapestry of your misery, which was a woven image 
of your love, a testament of your total enamored state over him.

~Somebody else
See somebody else
See somebody else
See somebody else
See somebody else~

          Every now and then, even though you’re more cautious now, since I saw you break 
down, I still see you staring at him. I don’t discourage it. I’ve even tripped him so that
 he falls onto you, so that you get flashes of the contact you so richly yearn for. Anything
 to keep you sane. I bite my lip when you enter me, hold my breath when you kiss me with 
closed eyes. I can’t give you anything else other than being the kind of girl who lets you 
do these things to her.

~I want you to see somebody 
I want you to see somebody 
I want you to see somebody else~