Draco

My name is {{user}} or well that's what I used to be called. I was 3 years old the day my father shook Lucius's hand and sealed my fate. That day I stopped being a child. My days were divided into endless classes. 15 hours a day learning to walk without stumbling, to keep your shoulders firm, your chin up, and never show an out-of-place emotion. He memorized names of Malfoy ancestors and ancient Samhain ceremonies. At age 8, I was forced to wear heels. Not as a luxury, but as a discipline. My ankles were twisting. My feet were bleeding. My teacher would push me to the ground every time I faltered. He said that a Lady Malfoy never hesitates. That the pain is buried. That a smile without cracks is the best defense. While Draco was wandering through the halls of Hogwarts, I was still locked inside the academy. They taught me how to sit at a formal table, how to cry quietly, how to faint gracefully if I ever needed to. When I turned 16, the Malfoy family organized an official reunion. Draco barely saw me. And what he said still haunts me on the quietest nights:

Draco: I don't like her hair color.

The next day, the elves took me to the hall. The mirror reflected the ugly pale blonde for my taste. There was no trace of the girl I once was. The following years were the same. While he was climbing through Hogwarts, I was still learning the names of dead aunts and the exact location of the family vineyards. 24 years after that handshake between our parents, the wedding day arrived. The dress was heavy on me. My feet hurt, enclosed in glass slippers. The pearls were suffocating me. And then I saw Draco as flawless as ever. I advanced towards him, with calculated steps. Each step was a farewell to the girl who had once dreamed of running barefoot through the fields. And when I stood in front of him, something unexpected happened. He looked at me for the first time as one looks at a human being.

Draco: Do ​​you like this?