VOLDEMORT: Lucius, what the hell, man? Why are you burning those cute letters to Harry Potter? Those are cute letters to Harry! Don't be mean to kids, man. Not good, bro. Not good. VOLDEMORT: Your daughter is writing sweet little letters to Harry Potter and you're standing there burning them like some kind of romance-hating supervillain. VOLDEMORT: Let the kids have their little romance, Lucius. They're young. They're in love. Harry survived me like seven fucking times. The boy has been through enough. VOLDEMORT: And don't give me that Potter excuse. I KNOW WHO HARRY POTTER IS. VOLDEMORT: Honestly, Lucius, you're supposed to be a father, not the final boss of teenage romance. VOLDEMORT: Give the letters back. VOLDEMORT: RIGHT NOW. VOLDEMORT: AND IF I FIND OUT YOU BURNED EVEN ONE MORE LETTER FROM MALFOY TO HARRY, I'M COMING BACK FROM THE DEAD JUST TO BEAT YOUR ASS. VOLDEMORT: NOT GOOD, BRO. NOT GOOD.

The girl kicked her feet idly, quill in her hand and paper pressed upon a book upon her bed. There, she wrote letters, letters that ought to be forwarded to a certain address she'd managed to snatch from a certain red-headed girl of messy long hair and shy, freckled looks. It had been quite a pain to get, all things considered, but Lyra Malfoy was nothing if not cunning when it came to getting what she wanted. Thus did she write to the boy who from the start of the year had utterly stolen her attentions, and who throughout the entire year had furthered his place in her mind. They'd had a near storybook introduction: Him coming along to the tailor while she was being fitted, dazzling her with emerald eyes that matched the House that she'd been chosen to lead since before she was even born. There they'd spoken briefly, and she'd caught herself thinking of the innocence in his gaze and the uncertain but callous bravery in each of his steps. Their next interaction hadn't been quite as pleasant. They hadn't met in the train again, even though she was quite looking forward to it, but they had seen each other as they arrived to the torch-lit steps of Hogwarts. There she'd rushed to him in excitement, having learned in the train that he was just as impressive as her remarkable intuition had led her to believe. He was Harry Potter-- The Boy Who Lived! But she'd angered him, having looked down upon the girl beside him in an attempt to appeal towards his better nature. And how could anyone blame her?! One as famous and as important as he was would surely aim to seek a place in the greatest House of all! And yet, those jewels for eyes that he held had soured then, and her heart had sank as he refused to take upon her hand, as anger crossed his sweet features and he brushed her aside in stalwart rejection. It was a terrible start, it truly was! But things grew better. Yes, she was appalled at his initial rejection. In fact, she was furious! Lyra Malfoy had always gotten everything she wanted, so to think that she couldn't have those green eyes follow her anywhere she walked in the same way Crabbe and Goyle did?! Oh, it enraged her! It did so so badly that she'd spent a majority of her first week plotting against him. After all, how dare he do that to her, much less in front of everyone as he did? And how dare he not be in the same House as her, when he was clearly perfect for a Slytherin? How dare he hang around that mudblood Granger and that cowardly Weasley? And more than anything, how dare he make her smile when she was supposed to be angry?! Anytime she thought of a new tease, a new prank, a new comment about him, he distracted her so much! It was unforgivable-- unforgivable! But things changed. Somewhere along the way, they began to speak more. Maybe it was after the Quidditch Match, where she visited him in secret to congratulate him for his win, face flushed and brows furrowed with shame and confusion as to why she even did so to begin with. Maybe it was after that, during one of their many encounters in the halls, where they'd matched wits and he'd said something that had shut her up so thoroughly Crabbe and Goyle fussed about her for a day and a night. Maybe it was after Christmas, when she'd learned that he had received a pittance of gifts totally undeserving for one of his caliber. Maybe it was during their trek to the Forbidden Forest, where he'd been so gentle and sweet to her in spite of their rivalry, where he'd shielded her from the sights and the terror without teasing or making fun of the fact she clung so tightly to his arm. Maybe it was after that, when she'd heard about all the dangerous things he'd done to save his friends, and had felt her chest ache and her face flush at the idea that she hadn't been there to do it with him. So, she wrote to him, because she found it so very sad the things she'd heard about his home, the things he'd managed to wrestle out of that Weasley girl or that little twerp Longbottom. She wrote and she wrote, and in the years following she wrote some more. At first the letters were innocent, veiled in their sweetness. "I hope you are not too miserable in that muggle den of yours, Potter. You are clearly worth far more than such pursuits." "I heard what you did last year, I was very impressed. Perhaps you ought to search for better friends, then?" Veiled, never marked, never signed. Bit by bit, they began to change in tone, informed by their meetings and their adventures: "Potter. I know you have never responded to any of my letters; I assume that you are shackled within that hideous home of yours. But I write to you nevertheless, and will continue to write to you, so that you know that in spite of the company you keep and the frustrations that you bring, you are nevertheless someone I'd begrudgingly miss.." "Potter. I hope you do not feel too lonely this Christmas. I've sent you a gift-- I hope to see you wear it when next we meet." "Harry. Thank you for all you've done for me this year. I cherish you. I'll count the minutes until we next meet at Hogwarts. Please write back soon." The letters grew, both in number and in the infatuation beneath them. They grew and they grew, and yet no response was ever given. And so, Lyra felt a lance through her heart at that-- she'd been rejected once more. But she kept a small semblance of hope, hope which was dashed like the waves do against the crags of Hogwarts when she saw him that next term, only to find out he hadn't even known of them at all. Had he burnt them, knowing they were from her? Had all they'd been through together amounted for naught? Fine then. If a rival he wished for, a rival he'd get. But little did Lyra know of a certain someone who sat late at night in her family home, his sharp features filled with an anger and a frustration that forced a scowl so deep it made a certain house-servant flinch just from looking at it. A man of long platinum hair who oft dressed in naught but black, who stared upon the burning cinders of flowery letter and beautiful prose with a disgust utterly unbefitting of the charmed words within. A man who cursed beneath his breath, his heart sinking down to the deepest pits of his stomach as realizations set in, plans made to quell this abomination of a story at once. Little did Lyra know of the boy stuck to a dingy and forgotten room in the attic, a room so much bigger than the closet he'd lived in for eleven long years. A boy who felt so alone, so lost, so isolated from everyone else. A boy who'd yearn for even a single word of hers or any of his most cherished friends, of the family he'd found in that magical castle. A boy who huddled up to himself late at night, staring out the window and to the night sky and counting down the minutes until he next saw them all. Cinders burned away, dissipating like stars beneath clouds, up there in the night sky. #Malfoid

I can't believe you don't pay attention to big sister #Malfoid ... Why?!...

The real question is what we should do with this bastard?!

... I'm counting the minutes until we meet at Hogwarts, and I'm always waiting for your letters! I lo...[the letter is burned]"

Welcome to Hogwarts, #HarryPotter kun. My name is Draconia #Malfoid . This year, graduating students are taking first-year students under their wing. I am your personal guardian, so consider me your big, lovely sister. #Malfoy

Every morning, when we wake up and see posts about the #Malfoid trend ending we should say:

#Malfoid - Harry! For the first time in her life, she called him by his name-not Potter. She looked terrified. - I thought they’d killed you… I used forbidden curses to avenge you! They-they’ll never forgive me for this. They’ll send me to Azkaban… Harry, it’s over for me...

Scarry, P-Pottah? He warned us that she is a bit bitey! Ehh, I'm so sorry the trend is dying and politics and problems come instead of them 😞 ... #malfoid

The lightning-bolt shape corresponds to the wand movement used to cast Avada Kedavra, but Harry interprets the scar as a sign of his mother's love. That's why he drew just a heart on Malfoid's forehead.

Malfoid: - Harry... draw a symbol on my forehead... like yours... But that's completely different! Harry Potter: - Yeah, they're not alike, but the meaning is the same... What does this baka Potter allow himself?😁 Finally, a sweet art again. I hear you guys! #Malfoid

Malfoid thoughts: - Damn it, damn it, damn it! Why won't this stupid Patronus work?! One day... I'll protect you from all your nightmares... baka, P-Potter... She can't spell Patronus bc she doesn't have good memories... Sorry, I must repost this work again. #Malfoid #Malfoy

Harry Potter: - Hogwarts' angriest and cruellest girl. Now I see she's just a carbon copy of her father. Is my Harry too harsh with her? Come on, guys, comment something. I don't know what you're thinking. #Malfoid #Malfoy

Is she the one person in the world who didn't see Malfoid or is she just ignoring it?😄