Blue Skies and Rain

You always knew that she was smarter than you.

From your first Potions exam in your first year when she got a higher grade, seemingly without effort. From every single test or paper from then on, you knew that she was cleverer. It galled you to know that, and when your father mocked you in front of a shopkeeper about getting lower marks than she did you burned with anger. You said it wasn't your fault, and in truth it wasn't. She simply had more brains.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

You knew that you couldn't beat her. You tried first year, and when second year came around you were so angry that you called her a name that you had never called another person.

She had started it by saying you had bought your way on to the team. You had, of course, but only because you were afraid that you weren't good enough to get chosen on talent alone. When she made the remark implying that you weren't capable enough, your insecurities arose and you said the unforgivable dirty word. She didn't seem to know what it meant, but you were sure that somebody would explain it to her later. Then she would be as offended and hurt as you were when she insinuated that you had no talent. But she never seemed hurt, and nothing you ever did from that day forward seemed to faze her.

You knew that you could never matter enough to hurt her feelings

You also knew that you could never have her.

Not her, not the Mudblood whose best friends were the Boy Who Lived and the son of your father's enemy. But still, in third year you started to notice that, despite her big front teeth and bushy hair, she was really getting quite pretty. When she slapped you for making a stupid comment about a stupid gamekeeper, her cheeks were pink and her brown eyes alight with anger and you couldn't help thinking that she really looked good like that. When you saw her hand shoot up every time Snape asked a question, that eager, desperate-to-prove-herself, yearning expression made you realize that you really couldn't help but like her.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

She was simply a Mudblood after all. You pretended those glances in the hall weren't happening, that you didn't crane your neck to find her every day when you came to breakfast. And you squashed down the happy feeling inside your chest when you figured out that she was doing the same.

She was simply a Mudblood. Mudbloods and Malfoys didn't go together. You may not be as intelligent as her, but you were smart enough to know that you could never even have a normal conversation with her. She was a lesser being, not really human. You were much too good to mingle with that kind.

You tried to convince yourself of this fact over summer holidays after third year. Then at the Quidditch World Cup your father and his friends got drunk and rowdy, and began levitating Muggles and searching for Mudbloods. You stood in the woods apart from the campsite, and tried to enjoy watching the action, but you felt rather sick to your stomach. For some reason you kept seeing her in the air, upside down, spinning. You thought that your nightmares had come true when she came through the woods with her friends. You couldn't help but warn her. You tried to sound like you didn't care, but you saw the glint in her eye as she looked at you and you hoped against hope that she understood that you cared. You were trying to help her because you didn't want her hurt.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

Fourth year you accidentally hexed her. You meant to hit Potter, but your spell glanced off his and hit her teeth. You watched in shock as her already big front teeth grew and grew, feeling horrible for what you had done, which was ridiculous because you hadn't meant to hit her and she shouldn't have been in the way after all. When Snape made that awful comment and made her cry you laughed along with the other Slytherins, but you suddenly felt like hitting Snape. She hadn't done anything, anyway.

And her teeth weren't really that large.

Later that year, at the Yule Ball, she showed up on the arm of Viktor Krum. You came with Pansy Parkinson, but you paid no attention to Pansy all night. You were captivated by her. You gazed at her in shock, noticing that her hair was sleek, she was really quite slender and beginning to get a nice figure, and her teeth seemed quite a bit smaller than ever before. You couldn't help watching her all night, while Pansy tried to get your attention, but eventually she gave up and left the room crying. You didn't really notice, because you weren't watching Pansy. You were noticing that same pink flush in her cheeks when she slapped you come back as she danced. You noticed her swaying in Krum's arms during the slow songs, and let go of her inhibitions during the fast ones. You noticed her casual glances at the table you were sitting at, but you could never be sure if they were for you.

At the end of the year, after Cedric Diggory died and everything was going to hell, you found her on the train. You wanted to warn her again, to tell her that she was in danger now that the Dark Lord was back. You wanted to tell her that your father was going to help eradicate Muggle-borns, that you would be expected to help when you were older, but you weren't sure if you wanted to or if you even could.

But of course you couldn't tell her that. Instead, you told them all that they were on the wrong side, telling her in a roundabout way what they were going to do to her. You never got to finish what you were saying. She helped Potter and Weasley hex you to oblivion and you woke up on the cold floor with your father looking sternly down at you and a splitting headache. Miserable, you thought that one way to get over a crush was to have the object of affection let you lay on the dirty floor for hours without lifting a finger to help you. Even better, have her be the one that put you there.

You couldn't stop thinking about her though, and even as you tried to convince yourself that it was hate that had you dreaming about her swimming in the pond behind your home you knew you were only fooling yourself. You felt something much different than hate towards her.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

Fifth year you were both prefects, and the moment you stepped off the train to berate a first year who was blocking your way she came and yelled at you. You just watched the fire in her eyes and wished that it wasn't hate in them, but some different kind of passion. But you didn't think she could ever feel anything other than hate, so you tried to convince yourself yet again that you felt the same towards her.

You couldn't seem to believe yourself, though.

You were assigned to patrol the halls with her by Filch, and though you walked completely in silence you could have sworn you felt the electricity between you too, that wasn't dampened by the rain outside the windows or the storms in her eyes. You didn't say a word to each other, but a secret glance as you parted at the end of your shift let you know that she just might feel the same as you.

You weren't sure, so you didn't put any stake in it. You just watched her in Potions, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy, and tried to catch just one more glance, but she seemed to be avoiding your eyes. She was never alone, but then neither were you, and you could never even get a chance to say hello, or even to exchange a glance.

When O.W.L.s came around you knew that she would be better than you, and the old anger that had surfaced when your father had made fun of you came back full force. You had trouble on the Arithmancy exam, she obviously didn't. She breezed through and went back to check her answers while you labored over the last few difficult problems until the time was called. You left the room feeling horrid, and glared at her back as you pondered how you could love and hate someone so much at the same time.

When she helped Potter put your father in prison you didn't see how you could still feel anything but hate toward her, but you did. You focused your rage on Potter, which failed, and you were yet again left lying on the cold floor wondering why no one thought to help you. But this time your father wasn't there to berate you, and this time your heart hurt worse than your head.

The summer was agony, and when you got your O.W.L. grades you couldn't help but think of her. You had a couple Outstandings, a few Excellents, and one Acceptable, and you burned when you looked up at the clear sky and pictured her with a perfect O in every subject.

Your father escaped from prison a few days after you started Hogwarts, and though you were happy something deep inside of you felt dead. He would go back to torturing Muggle-borns, and once you graduated you would be joining him.

You managed to push these worries to the back of your mind, but you couldn't help imagining what your father could do to her if he got hold of her, You knew she was a Mudblood, that she deserved everything she got for being impure and subhuman and so damn wrong, but you couldn't help but feeling awful as you looked at her looking so drawn and worried in the halls. The killings of the Mudbloods had started, and news of more deaths and torturing came to Hogwarts every day, entire families decimated, small children killed in their beds. You knew it didn't matter, that they didn't matter, that she didn't matter. But still you saw the horror on her face whenever she read the Daily Prophet and suddenly wondered if there was any way you could be different from your father.

You were assigned together for prefect duties more and more, and it seemed to be general consensus around the school that you two would be Head Boy and Girl together seventh year. You didn't understand why they would make the son of an escaped Death Eater Head Boy, but when you asked Snape he said that you were the best choice for the job. You couldn't help thinking that was rather pathetic, but you soon realized that if you became Head Boy you would spend more time with her. And you two had started talking.

It was first just insults. She would make the odd snipe about your father, and you would retort with a remark about the impurity of her blood. But ever so slowly your discourses turned from hostile to almost polite. You found that you could discuss schoolwork without bickering, so Arithmancy and Transfiguration became the topics of your conversations. Eventually, you could even sneak a personal opinion about some issue into your chats without causing a row.

You soon found out about her crusades, how she wanted to free all house elves, and give them better lives. You found this slightly endearing, but also annoying, and you decided not to share with her the game you used to play with Crabbe and Goyle when they stayed over at your house called "Kick the Elf."

You enjoyed your conversations, and you found them interesting, and stimulating, and you were sorry when they were over. You found yourself wondering how a person so vivacious, so lively, and even smarter than yourself could be subhuman. You had the unsettling feeling that the rules you were raised to follow apparently didn't hold true in the real world. In the world your parents had painted for you the purebloods were the beautiful, intelligent, powerful wizards and witches, while the Mudbloods were ugly, stupid, weaklings who only existed at the whim of their betters. You began to realize that in this case the stereotype seemed to be opposite. She was beautiful, clever, and powerful. You were not exactly handsome, not exactly intelligent, and weak in the ways that mattered, such as sticking by what you believed in. You were beginning to think about how she was so much better than you could ever be.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

When sixth year was over you mercifully escaped home without being hexed, and spent the summer talking to your mother, trying to get your new ideas and thoughts to disappear. But what she said about Muggle-borns suddenly seemed so shallow and narrow minded. You wished your father were home, for if anyone could get you thinking straight it would be him.

Your Head Boy badge arrived by owl that summer, and you pinned it on in front of the mirror while your mother cooed, and wished that your father were there to smile his reluctant smile and say you didn't do too badly, and rage about how you had to share the honor with a Mudblood.

But your father wasn't coming home and you didn't hear from him, so you left for your final year at Hogwarts feeling like something was lost and you couldn't find it.

This feeling didn't stop you from seeking her out on the train, if only to taunt her friends as an excuse to look at her. Weasley seemed to notice where you were glancing, and in a loud voice began telling Longbottom how he and she had been a couple for several months now. Longbottom said that Weasley had already told him that as your heart leapt into your throat and you stared at her, looking like an idiot. She avoided your glance and you left, feeling as though the thing you had lost had come back and it was broken. It was like picking a big juicy apple and finding that one side was rotten.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

The first few weeks of term passed quickly, and even though your duties brought you close to her a lot you ignored her the best you could. She tried to start conversations with you, but gave up after your cold glances and stormy eyes showed her that you didn't want to talk to her.

You managed not to kill Weasley, and lived through the entire year not thinking about her bushy hair or her now-perfect teeth, or her lithe body pressed to Weasley as they hugged goodbye before Arithmancy. You didn't think about talking about schoolwork or arguing about house elf rights, or the way her eyes sparkled when she was excited. You just thought about your father, and how much you wished he were home when you went home for Christmas so you could joke about how a Muggle-loving Weasley had hooked up with a filthy Mudblood.

She broke up with Weasley in April, after almost a year of dating. You didn't acknowledge the hope that sprung in your breast now, or the way she was glancing at you in the halls or during class. You didn't think about much of anything until you next had to patrol the halls together.

She led you to an unused classroom, and your heart pounded in anticipation as she said nothing, but wrapped her arms around you and held you close. You didn't speak either, just held her, and the fog that had hung over you that year seemed to lift. And she smiled that smile, her face framed by the blue skies outside the window behind her.

The two of you said nothing for days, but smiles replaced the glances, and you stopped sitting by yourself in Arithmancy and moved to sit next to a Ravenclaw, a desk away from her. The Ravenclaw looked at you in disgust, but she smiled and that was all that mattered. When you took the final exams for the class she scored higher than you, of course, and you were surprised that the bitterness was still there, but it was now overlapped by love and lust and you couldn't really sort out which was which. It didn't matter anyway.

When the term ended you sent a letter to your mother and a letter to your father wherever he was, saying that you didn't think that their opinions on Muggle-borns were completely right, and that you weren't going to join the Dark Lord and help destroy them. You said that you loved them and always would. You received a tearful letter from your mother, saying you were as bad as her sister Andromeda, and that you shouldn't even think about coming home until you had the Dark Mark on your arm.

You received a letter from your father as well. You had no idea where he was or how your owl found him, but it had, and he had replied.

He said he understood you having doubts, and that you should think long and hard before doing anything stupid or even announcing to anyone where your loyalties lay. He said that he would not be able to speak to you again if you if you joined Dumbledore or even sympathized with his side.

He said he loved you too.

You talked to her on the last day of term. She was staying with the Weasleys, and you were using the rather sizable account that was in your name that your mother hadn't been able to touch to get a flat in London, and maybe get a job.

She was fighting for the side of light, and you were fighting for nothing.

You said that you couldn't be with her, that you were too confused, and you weren't sure what you believed. You were telling the truth and keeping her face stoic and emotionless, and you certainly weren't hurting as badly as you had when you heard your father had been arrested.

She said she understood, and said that you would see each other again. She said that eventually you and she would be together. You said that she was probably wrong, and for once you were sure that you were right. You didn't understand why the one time she was ever wrong had to be now. You looked into those clear brown eyes, and she gave you a kiss and left.

You spent the summer looking for a job in Diagon Alley, but being the son of an escaped Death Eater who was believed to be responsible for mass Muggle killings was not a good marketing tool. You looked for months, and by the time that you would have been back in Hogwarts you were still unemployed and lonely. Your nights were spent sitting in your bedroom and staring at the wall, wondering if your father had told the truth when he had said he loved you, and wondering if you could really turn your back on everything that you had been raised to believe.

You thought about her, of course, and the feeling of loss had resurfaced again, worse than ever. You would wake up with tears on your cheeks, wondering if she loved you and if you loved her.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course

She showed up afternoon when you were out on your small balcony, drinking Firewhisky and staring at the white clouds on the blue sky. When you heard the doorbell ring you went to answer the door, and nearly fell over as she launched herself into your arms and kissed you on the cheek.

She said that she was certain that you had plenty of time to think, and that she was certain of what you had decided. You asked what that was, and she just smiled and pulled you close to her. You could feel her heart beating and her soft breasts pressed against your chest, and she told you that you knew.

She had been right, and you had been wrong.

She had always been smarter than you anyway.

Not that you would ever admit that, of course.