Title:  The Way Things Are (Love Ridden 5)

Author: Romie

Archive:  anywhere.  In fact, I'd appreciate it.  Let me know if it's

convenient.

Rating:  PG

Pairing:  prelude to Harry/Draco

Spoilers:  none

Disclaimers:  Rowling is God.  Fiona Apple is my continuing inspiration.  There's also a Shakespeare reference.

Warnings:  This series contains a same-sex romantic relationship; if you cannot accept that, then do not squander your time with reading any further.

Summary:  Draco reconsiders past events in the light of the next

morning.

=============================================

 

People think of me as cold.  I've never really understood what they mean by that.  How can I be cold when I'm so full of passion, of anger, of flame?  When I cry, my tears are as warm as theirs, as salty.  When I flush, my cheeks are as hot.  Take my temperature - it's the same as anyone else's.

 

Maybe they confuse inaction with indifference.  It's not that I don't care - I *do*, deeply.  It's just I reaalized a long time ago I can't have what I want, so there's no point in getting worked up over it.

 

I've had time to think about last night, and I'm ashamed of how I acted.  My only justification is that I wasn't prepared, but that's no excuse at all; I should never have let my armor down, never assumed I was safe.  The bath lulled me into a false sense of security, let me forget that every room is a battle ground.  It won't happen again.

 

Now, in the clean light of morning, I can begin to evaluate what happened.  It's funny how living from moment to moment you don't see yourself change; it takes a mirror and a flash of clarity to show you how different you've become.  I hardly recognize myself, even allowing for distortions of reflection.  I've been accepting the other students' withdrawal from me, blaming it on outside circumstances, when it's *me* that shifted.  If they've forgotten me, it's because I *let* them.

 

Harry thinks that because I've left Voldemort, I must have joined *him*.  Everyone does.  I could laugh at the wonder of it; it seems I'm the only one who sees shades of gray.  (Is that what makes me cold - the ability to think outside dichotomy?  Perhaps if I was "hot" I would choose an extreme and pour my blood into it until I had nothing left to keep my heart beating.)  He should know better; we can Never be on the same side.  Only the weak take a side other than their own, people too stupid to lead instead of follow.  My independence keeps me perceptive.

 

I refuse to become someone's symbol, some twisted ideal of a "love conquers all" happy ending.  Nor will I quietly disappear, (as I have been doing,) unnoticed casualty of a phoney war.  If they want to crush me they'll have to do it with mailed fist, not casual inattention.

 

Harry supposes I'm like him.  It's almost sweet, like shredded orange rind.  I think it's time he learns how crazy I am, how savage.  Just because I've been curled up in his palm doesn't mean I've forgotten how to scratch and bite, tear and maim.  (I don't want to hurt him.  Never hurt him.  Which is why I have to do this - he's gotten complacent.  Anyone could attack him now, and he wouldn't be ready.  He thinks he has nothing left to lose, but he makes himself weaker with each new ally.)  I'm starving for a fight, and I will not let him win; I will not rest 'til I've disproved his faith in men.

 

By the end of today, people won't avoid me because of my father.  They'll fear me in my own right.