Drowning Man

I hate everything about you,
Why do I love you?
I hate everything about you,
Why do I love you?

The first time I met you, it was my birthday. Of course, I didn't know it was you at the time. We were at Madam Malkin's 'Robes for All Occasions' and you and I were both being fitted. I saw you, and I thought, 'Hmmm . . . He looks like an alright sort. Father said to make friends.' So I talked to you, and you got flustered and nervous, and I laughed at you in my head. I thought maybe we could become friends.

The next time I saw you, I was on the train. I'd heard that the great Harry Potter was in the last compartment and I hurried down to meet him. I had the greatest shock of my life when I opened the door and it was you, the small, skinny little boy with crooked glasses and hand-me-down clothes. I offered you my hand in friendship and you rejected it. No one rejects the friendship of a Malfoy.

From that day on, I was fascinated by you.

On my twelfth birthday, I saw you at Flourish and Blotts. You were there, with the Weasel clan and Granger, and I watched as Lockhart made an extraordinarily large deal about you being there. Oh, poor little famous Potter, can't even enter a bookshop without being noticed.

At school, that second year, I watched you more than ever, my school-boy, playground grudge growing into a dark obsession. I had to one-up Potter. I had to.

So I got a position on the house Quidditch team as a seeker. Of course, I got in on skill alone. How could you think otherwise? So I made the team, and then I bought all the team brooms. The best money could buy. You thought I bought my way on to the team. After that, I was aching to play you and prove you wrong.

We played each other and I lost. I was playing well, until you turned and looked at me with such anger and dove down to grab the Snitch. I thought you were attacking me. My concentration just broke at that look; I'd never seen such loathing on your face. I guess your hatred had evolved from just a schoolboy grudge too.

Then, on my thirteenth birthday, Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban. Of course, I knew the whole story. I kept thinking about you that summer, wondering if you knew and how you were going to go about killing him. And, of course, I never ever wondered if you were all right.

But we back got to school, and I learned that you were perfectly fine, that you didn't even know Black was the Potter's secret keeper. You always were so naïve. For this, I taunted you to my hearts extent.

That year, when you found out about Black's little secret, you were so preoccupied. I would do anything to get your attention. I got my arm slashed up. I dressed up as a dementor to scare you. I tried to get that idiot Hippogriff, Birdbeak, or whatever his name was, executed.

And on my 14^th birthday, you somehow managed to get top box seats, and there you were. It spooks me how you always manage to worm your way into my birthday. I saw you that day and you were different. The way you carried yourself wasn't the same. You were happier. And that had to change.

So I tried to make your year hell.

You were the Hogwarts Champion along with Diggory. You somehow always managed to end up in the spotlight. That was the year I realized it wasn't just hatred anymore. I hated those feeling. When you were there, I hated you, I wanted to hurt you; but when you weren't there, I thought of nothing but you. When you're not there, I'm suffocating. Drowning in my own oblivion and helplessness. I'm in an ocean of crimson from my bleeding heart, and when you come near, I can reach up and take a breath of air before I'm plunged in the icy waters of helplessness again. If that makes any sense at all. It never made any sense to me.

Then, on my fifteenth birthday, Father came home and announced he had seen you when he went to the Ministry that morning. My heart stopped dead. I thought - I thought, this year, you wouldn't be able to worm your way into my birthday again. I had told Mother I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want any guests.

But you were still there.

Fifth year, I did my best to harass you, to prove to myself. To convince myself that I didn't want you pressed against the wall, my hands on your chest, and my lips on yours. No, no; I didn't want that at all.

But my best efforts proved to be fruitless. I still wanted you, but it wasn't just lust. I wanted to know you. I wanted to be your friend. The more I saw of you, the more I needed you.

And, now, it's my sixteenth birthday and I hear Mother saying to blow out the candles and make a wish. I'm staring at the chocolate cake and the guests are singing and I feel the tears beginning to build up in the back of my eyes.

You're not here. You don't need to be. You've somehow wormed yourself into my birthday anyway.

So I clench my eyes shut tightly and blow out the candles, wishing for a wish that won't come true.