Poetry For The One I Loved
Chapter 4
Rating: R for right now.
Summery: Draco has received a book of poems from who? He has no clue! Apparently they have loved him since they laid eyes on his beautiful blonde hair and his eyes that are full of despise. But who is it?! He thinks he’ll know by the end of the book. If not then when? POST HBP, SPOILERS!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and crew, the lovely J.K. Rowling does. All of the people and places are copyrighted to her. I just own the poetry and the idea in this story.
Note: I’M SO SORRY! I haven’t updated in FOREVER I love my readers and I know I am not a very good authoress, but please keep reading the story. Remember everything since the first chapter has been the same day.
Finally there was a poem:
I think of you and I wonder,
Are you who I think?
I think you are a King of Kings.
With such an Angelic face you must be.
Light must have created your hair,
And stars your eyes.
But they think that you’re evil,
The spawn of the Devil!
But if a Devil’s Spawn you are,
I have sinned my life thus far.
They say that Lucifer was the most beautiful.
So a Devil’s Angel you must be.
But the Devil they thought you were?
You said yourself that you are not.
I was disguised and in front of you.
One day it will be true.
I’ll be right there beside you and be myself,
No potion to disguise my wealth.
Now, my Angelic/Devil, I must leave.
The disguise will leave as well,
So as I bid thee fare well.
My love for you is the still strongest spell.
Draco sighed and reread the poem. How could anyone compare him with an angel? A devil he thought he could understand. Draco flipped through the pages; apparently the writer had begun not to care what page he wrote upon, whether one line or one poem. Sometimes he’d find just one line that had been left on a completely blank page, never to find its end. “Wondering if I should move on,” was one such line, which filled Draco with disdain at the thought that he is so easily forgettable. There were on other pages that there were little doodles, that he only assumed were himself. This writer was just that, a writer, never an artist.
Draco flipped past more pages until he stumbled upon another complete poem, by now he was half way into the book. He opened the book to that page, smoothing out the paper as he did so. But suddenly, there came an odd sensation in Draco’s senses that he had trained himself to develop. The Blonde Angel threw the poetry/attempted sketch book under his pillow and propped himself up and looked at his nails, as if they fascinated him.
Lucius Malfoy then appeared in Draco’s room.
And he was not alone.