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 lessons.
15 hours a day learning how to walk without stumbling, how to keep my shoulders firm, my chin held high, and to never show an emotion out of place.
I memorized the names of Malfoy ancestors and the ancient ceremonies of Samhain.
At 8 years old, they forced me to wear heels.
Not as a luxury, but as a discipline.
My ankles twisted.
My feet bled.
My teacher would push me to the ground every time I wavered.
She said a Malfoy lady never hesitates.
That pain is buried.
That a flawless smile is the best defense.
While Draco strolled through the halls of Hogwarts, I remained locked away in the academy.
I was taught how to sit at a gala table, how to cry silently, how to faint with elegance if it were ever required.
When I turned 16, the Malfoy family organized an official gathering.
Draco barely looked at me.
And what he said still haunts me on the quietest nights:

Draco: I don't like her hair color.

The next day, the house-elves took me to the salon.
The mirror reflected a pale blonde that was ugly to my taste.
There were no traces left of the girl I once was.
The following years were the same.
While he rose through Hogwarts, I continued learning the names of dead aunts and the exact location of the family vineyards.
24 years after that handshake between our fathers, the wedding day arrived.
The dress felt heavy.
My feet ached, trapped in glass shoes.
The pearls suffocated me.
And then I saw Draco, as impeccable as ever.
I moved toward 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 before him, something unexpected happened.
He looked at me for the first time as one looks at a human being.

Draco: Do you like this?