Perfect

Perfect.

Marcus Flint wanted. He wanted to play Quidditch, and his earliest family memory - the one he cared to remember, at least - was of his parents taking him to see a professional Quidditch match. Marcus rode on his father's shoulders, and his mother held his hand, and the crowd roared whenever a goal was scored. A four year old Marcus Flint sold his soul that day in the hope that one day, he could play just like they did.

A week later, and Marcus' mother left the house, her bags packed, and Marcus never saw her again. But he still wanted to play Quidditch and when he went to Hogwarts, the dream bloomed like a sick flower within him. He trained late at night and early in the morning with special permission from Madam Hooch. He passed his classes, easily, but Marcus Flint was capable of so much more than passing.

He made the House team in his second year, playing Chaser, and it was everything he wanted. The older students gave him some stick, but he persevered. The following year the Gryffindors had a new Keeper; one that supposedly almost made up for the lack of a Seeker who could catch the Snitch, and so Marcus went along to the first Gryffindor match he could, just to watch and compare.

Oliver Wood was lean and agile and smiled lopsidedly to all the right people at all the right times. Besides, good Keepers were hard to find and Hogwarts had always produced good Chasers. He soared above the pitch like he was born to it, never letting anything past him, his eyes relentlessly fixed to the Quaffle. Marcus watched through a pair of battered old Omniculars as Wood made a save that until a week ago he didn't think was possible, Wood's hand just casually darting out to smack the Quaffle away from the goals and back into play.

Perfect.

Terence Higgs dreamed. He dreamed about power, success, the fruits of his labours. Terence had a certain aptitude for learning, knowledge, books and he always dreamed of exploiting it to the fullest. Study was something burnt into his soul from the very beginning. Terence had always sought to find out the why of things, and as a child, drove his family half-mad in the process. He devoured every scrap of information they could give him, and was always asking more questions.

Terence loved information because he recognised the value of it, the power implicit in fact and theory and assumption. He sought to turn knowledge into power, power over others, and he was cunning in his application of it. This lead him to be sorted into Slytherin, naturally.

In his first year, he won every accolade, every prize, every compliment, his teachers unstinting in their praise. Terence was the centre of attention and he revelled in it, already planning his school education with teachers who were more than happy to let him stop by their quarters for unofficial appointments, meetings, and discussions of various points of interest for further study.

During his second year, the praise began slowing to a trickle. His marks were certainly no less than they had been...it was as if he just didn't merit their special interest anymore. He worked harder, studying longer into the night, and managed to pull off an even greater peak during his mid-terms. This earned some fond praise and warm remarks, but they were empty, almost condescending, the academic equivalent of a pat on the head. And then he heard about Percy Weasley, a Gryffindor in the year behind him, who was doing even better than Terence had in first year and so had lifted the standard.

Terence was on his way back to his dormitory after a session in the library when he saw the door to Professor Flitwick's office was half-open. Flitwick had been seeing him at this time every fortnight to go over further study options, advancement, the usual. Last month he had cancelled, claiming he was just getting too busy with marking.

But as Terence watched, leaning against the very edge of the door frame, he realised Professor Flitwick did have time for someone, and that someone was not him. Rather, it was Percy Weasley, taking notes from the professor's impromptu seminar, Flitwick's hands gesticulating wildly as they did when he was demonstrating something. Terence took his own mental note of Percy's obvious interest in whatever Flitwick was prattling on about, the nodding, the keen glint in his eyes, the furious notetaking. As a model student, Weasley was perfect.

Draco Malfoy ached. He ached for his genius to be recognised, his talents to be admired, his looks to be complimented and his personality and wit to garner him the quality of friend that he deserved. Trained from birth to expect people bowing and scraping at his every move, Draco would have been shocked that anyone could steal the spotlight away from him, let alone that anyone would go further still and say no him.

Nevertheless, Harry Potter managed both during their first day at Hogwarts, and Draco's world shattered into a thousand pieces. Over the years, he watched Potter and his friends get away with things he never could, because they were noble and just and good, and broke the rules for all the best reasons, and only lied, cheated, stole or killed when they had to, in order to protect the weak and the slow - or as Potter would have called them, the innocent. Potter did not trust him, so Draco resolved to be untrustworthy. And Potter did not like him, so Draco made sure he was unlikeable. And Potter would only believe him if he was spiteful and petty and jealous, so Draco was, in order to be noticed by the one person who he hadn't been taught how to defeat. Because he was Slytherin, and suspect, Draco played the bully. No-one would take him seriously as a friend, and even if by some stroke of luck he got to play the hero, what could he do? Potter was a saint. Potter was a martyr. Potter held the salvation of the wizarding world in his hand, and no matter what Potter actually did, Draco was sure that it would always, nevertheless, be perfect.

Like many others, they could not match up not because of what they did, but because of who they were. Treated to a double standard, and made worthless for coming second, when harsher and less sympathetic masters called, they followed, because at least then they could do something for which the world would remember them for many years to come, and have their own chance at being perfect.