Contempt

I enter the Great Hall in time for tea. Ron and Hermione are planning some escapade we are about to go on tonight and Ginny keeps talking in my ear. But I don't listen to her. I never notice anything else when he's around. My eyes scan the hall for him, I start getting impatient. I can't seem to find him... Ah! There he is. With that vapid giggling-non-stop Pansy Parkinson. She's so...

Appropriate. That's the word. Just perfect for him. Like Ginny is to me.

As I sit down I take a peek at Oliver Wood. Bloody Hell, I'd do him. Just imagine him in a kilt. That brings a smile to my face, which Ginny interprets as being for her. She's so cute.

Fred and George just arrived at our table. They're in a cheery mood, as always, and I wonder what could they have done wrong to be so happy.

I like being in Gryffindor. Everyone's like family here. You can really feel these friendships will last for the rest of your life. So unlike the atmosphere in Slytherin.

I look at him again. He's looking at our table with an expression of distaste on his features. The one he always accompanies with the attitude capable of snapping the sock's elastics of the most insolent maitre d'. The same he was wearing last night...

...Last night.

*flashback*

"Ah, good evening, Potter," I hear him drawl behind my back. I don't even stop my stride. I have to get the farthest away from him. Too many regrets from these... "encounters". I don't want to add one more.

"Sod off," I answer him.

"Steady on, Potter. Maybe in a few moments." I can hear that irritating smirk in his voice. And as I turn around to face him there it is. Merlin! What I wouldn't give to sandpaper it off his pretty-boy face!

"What do you want Malfoy?" I'm already starting to lose my patience. That's not good. Not good at all.

"Well," he starts. "It is said, Potter, that civilised man seeks out good and intelligent company, so through learned discussion, he may rise above the savage and closer to God," he says with a seductive grin.

"Yes, I'd heard that," I comply. What wrong may come of this, anyway?

"Personally," he says, "I like to end my day with a total dickhead to remind me I'm best." He concludes triumphantly. That arrogant prick!

"It seems to me, Malfoy," I reply, "that in a week from now, after the Gryffindor-Slytherin match you will be less in the mood for being amusing." HA! I win!

His smirk doesn't even falter. "At least when I'm in the mood, I can be amusing." Bugger!

"You know, Potter, I think you take Quidditch much too seriously. One would think that, to you, it's more than an excuse to see other guys in tight trousers." Is he serious? That's not why I... well it's one of the reasons, but it's not... Bugger! Did he ask me a question? Oh, yeah.

"That just shows how stupid you are, Malfoy. If you played even remotely well, you wouldn't have time to notice other people's arses!" Okay, that was low. He's actually a pretty good player. And come on, everyone's checking someone's arse in Quidditch. Why else would we wear those trousers?

He upturns his nose, like he has just smelled something bad.

"Honestly Potter, I think you spend too much time with those mud-bloods. Quidditch is like the circus," he tells me as if explaining it to someone particularly daft. "A reasonable entertainment for the populace. Only tolerable as a hobby for those who cannot read."

Oh, I'm losing it fast! And he knows it.

"That's very clever of you, Malfoy. Did you learn it with your death eater daddy?" Take that!

He seems upset for a few seconds, but quickly recovers. "No Potter, I didn't learn it. This is spontaneous, and it's called wit. Nothing you may have heard of."

"Do you realize you didn't even bother to deny the death eater bit?" I ask him, truly losing it.

"Does it really make a difference who is governing things?" he asks. And I can see he's serious this time.

"You have got to be joking!" I say. "Do you think it wouldn't matter if Voldemort was running things?"

I have to hand it to him. He doesn't even flinch at Voldemort's name.

"Tsk, tsk, Potter. You really have been spending too much time with the mud-bloods. You're beginning to have a peasant's mind! Don't you now that all rulers are good rulers? Because just like those occupations no one of good name will talk about, parasite exterminators, sewer workers, you know the like, someone has to do it. Just like garbage bins have to be emptied, the muggle world has, lets admit it, to be ruled. What really matters is to stay on top."

Does he really mean that? 'Cause I wouldn't put it past him to say this just to make me lose it. Breathe Harry. Breathe.

"I don't see it like that, Malfoy."

He shrugs.

"Which is why you wear glasses."

"You know, Malfoy. I have to admit it, even though you're a worthless prick, it takes a lot of guts not to hide your true beliefs." I must really be losing it if I'm paying him compliments. But I go on. "I must say, Malfoy, I have got to admire your balls."

"Perhaps later," he says. And before I know it I have hauled him by his Slytherin tie and pushed us both into a broom closet.

We frantically start undressing each other. I pause.

"Malfoy, what are we doing? What of loyalty? Honour? Self-respect?"

"What of them?" He answers.

Merlin, how I hate him.

The End