A Forlorn Love

A Forlorn Love

I don't know why I love you.

(I should not)

You're muggle-born. A plebe. Not a drop's worth of aristocratic blood. A Gryffindor.

(I must not)

Your friends with all the wrong type of people: with Potter, with Longbottom...for God's sake, the Weasleys. In Gryffindor.

(I dare not)

So pure. So innocent. Too kind, too caring. Bushy-haired. Not even particularly exceptional. Too kind for your own good. Bossy, fussy, adorable. So very...pardon the repetition...Gryffindor-ly.

(I can not)

But I do.

**

I wake up in the wee hours of the morning with your name on my lips. It's silly, I know. Childish. Romantic. Everything that a Malfoy is not.

But I can't stop it. Even when there's a girl right next to me, kissing and whispering endearments, I can't stop but wish that it was you here instead. It hurts, it is so painful that sometimes I wish I could cry. I won't, I will never, and it hurts all the more.

**

Double potions. I theatrically roll my eyes as I fold my timetable and place it in an inner pocket within my robes, letting loose a dramatic sigh. Not because I want to, but because I am expected to.

'A double lesson with the Golden Trio. Pity.And the day had been going so well,' I say. It's not even witty, but my fellow Slytherins double up in laughter, roaring uproariously and with high pitched giggles.

My posse. The inner circle of Slytherindom. There are Crabbe and Goyle, with their sonorous, bellows-quality rumbling that constituted as laughter, my loyal, dim-witted bodyguards. I can trust them with to carry out any order I give; if I ordered them to kill themselves, the only question from their mouths would be, "When, where and how?"

Then there is Blaise, with his easy laugh, so light and carefree until you realize that his smile never reaches his cold eyes, hard and calculating. Blaise is the odd mystery out amongst an already myriad and confusing Pandora's Box that is Slytherin House. For one, we're not even sure if he definitely is a 'he'. At one point he seemed to have undergone an entire sex change, only to revert back to male form. Not even Pansy knows whether it was mere cross-dressing or...something else. He is a pentultimate actor, and this is high praise coming from myself. He can make a completely convincing persona, whether it be smarmy git or the nanciest nancy to ever nance down the pike. I don't know him well, but his family is pure blood and loyal to father's cause, and he has his uses. However, there are moments where he scares me. Sometimes I can't tell if he's even a person.

And, of course, there is Pansy. Parkinson. The self-appointed queen of Slytherin. The self-proclaimed lover and future wife of myself. Rumor-monger, girly as a girl can be with her frills and dresses and shirts and underwear, high-pitched giggling and incessant squealing; with a black heart and a cruel smile with gimlet eyes that watch and analyze and plan. Bitch to the bone and unashamed of it.

We enter the dungeons and there is silence from the Slytherin quarter, as befits my entrance. Naturally the Gryffindolts double their volume, directing not but a few rude remarks and angry glares my way, but really I don't mind. It is a recognition, a recognition of their immense hate of myself...and their grudging respect. Who else in the history of Hogwarts has managed to garner the amorous attentions of so many young lasses and polarize the vast majority of the male population against him? Only a Malfoy.

It is only as we pass your table that there is anything different. Not Weasley, he's predictable as a sloth. Weasley is yammering loudly, the silly bugger trying to outdo everyone in volume. That's Weasley, all hot air and no brains in between. I could never see what you saw in him, whatever compelled you to date him for those thankfully brief weeks in the third year.

That you did date him at all baffles me, period. What could you ever see in that plebian oaf, that hands-me-down wearing second-hand using penniless, ugly, monkey-like intelligence dolt! It's not jealousy speaking, it's the plain truth. Honest.

Potter just glares at me with hostile eyes, mouth set in a thin line. He doesn't bother saying anything, the look in his eyes is all I need to read his emotions. I return his glare with a cold sneer, as befits a Malfoy and mortal archenemy of all things good, noble, and vaguely Potter-y. Our mutual hatred does not need words, it simply just is.

Then. There you are, with your bushy hair and brown eyes, hands clasped together on the desk, ready for the lesson. It is simply too adorable for words. Amongst a sea of mindless babbling and laughing and flirting you are a rock, a pinnacle of maturity and studiousness.

I find it attractive. Yes, I know, not exactly what you expect from me. I am, after all, viewed as the devil's choirboy, sinned and glad of it, the perfect example of what's wrong with our generation. But that's not me. It's an image. It's an act. It's what I do to survive in my world, the world that you are thankfully apart from. You have no idea how refreshing, how revitalizing it is to see someone so mature, so studious, so...well, bookish. Your what I would really like to be, what I aspire to become in the shadows of my mind.

You don't even spare a glance at myself when I pass by. Playing hard to get, hmm? I turn around, momentarily shocking my posse, with a witty repartee at hand, but when I look at you again, staring straight ahead and determination etched in your normal, pretty face, my tongue seems to just have forgotten what it's purpose in life is.

And you say, still not looking in my direction, 'Got something to say, Malfoy? Cat got your tongue?'

I say something rude in return, something awful and inside I bleed as I say these words but I need to, to get your attention no matter how pathetic it is.

You turn to face me and for a moment, just one pathetic, warm moment I feel a rush of happiness, but the blank look in your eyes dampens my ardor and sends a chill through my heart. I turn and sit at my place and do not look at you for the rest of the lesson.

**

I see you every day. It is one of the things that keeps me going, even though you rarely spare a glance towards me, and only then if I am making life miserable for your friends, or am somehow attracting attention to myself. Which is increasingly more common. Even then, it is a glance of hate, or irritation. Better than your glances of contempt, or forced ignorance. All of those are better than those occasional looks you throw at me that wound me deeper than anything else I have ever felt, even more than my father's disapproval, even more than my mother's dead ignorance. So thankfully rare, but so striking that it's memory is burned into my mind's image: your eyes, filled with not scorn or hate or rage, but pity.

I am a Malfoy. I will not be pitied, not now, not ever.

Now do you understand why I act so around you? I would rather have your amusement, your rage, your annoyance, yes, even your contempt, rather than your pity.

**

Quidditch. If there is anything as exhilarating as sex, than this is it. I don't know what it is that makes it so enjoyable. The feeling of free fall, a strange weightlessness that, while strange, is at the same time completely, unbelievably natural? The sweet, enthralling vertigo of changing depths and sick sensations of variable speed melding into a sweltering concoction of adrenaline? The edge of danger, that fine line between life and death, the sweet thrill of victory and the animalistic drive of competition?

Maybe it's all of them combined into something sinfully delicious.

Whenever I get on a broom it's like a gate that has been holding in all my worries has burst, letting forth all my problems, leaving me devoid of negative feelings. Flying, I am free. All the responsibilities, all the expectations, all the fears disappear, leaving me only with happiness.

And the joy of the chase.

Another Gryffindor-Slytherin match. I hang in the wind as the game plays around me. Occasionally I drift out of the way of an incoming player, or make a loop-de-loop to avoid oncoming bludgers, but otherwise I am an outsider of the chaos ensuing around me.

Across from me is Potter. Potter, who represents everything that I am not. Good, brave, self-sacrificing, Dumbledore's golden boy, poster boy of the forces of Right. A Gryffindor. Not even that good looking, with that disfigured scar and absolutely horrid hair. Nowhere as rich as myself, nowhere as desirable or intelligent or witty. But you're friends with him. Best friends. You've both gone into danger and back, together.

Watching him with you is a dagger to my heart.

So it's life's irony for us both to be Seekers. The best of two completely opposite, rival houses, yin and yang, both striving to outdo one another and seeking the ultimate prize. Believe me, the imagery is definitely not lost on myself. When the nights are cold and the drink is heavy in my head, it provides no end of amusement.

I look down and I see you. You are dressed as you are always, in your school robes and scarf and cardigan, and I know it's nothing special, nothing like the slinky, that is whoreish, low cut and velvet robes that Pansy takes to, and I know all this and you are still more beautiful than all of them.

You look up at me, with that smile that I cannot describe and a pleasant surprise melts my heart and for just one moment, just one, I dream a fanciful notion, of us together. Then your eyes flicker a bit and I turn and there is Potter above me and my heart hardens once again. Stupid, I mentally berate myself, stupid, why should she love you when she can love Potter, perfect Potter, heroic Potter, don't we all wish we could just kill Potter...

That is about as far as that line of thought goes because at that moment I spot a flash of gold. I don't even think and my broom is streaking towards the Snitch. I am not alone, for Potter has seen it too and he is alongside me, face screwed up in concentration, scar clearly visible as his hair whips back. He is already edging ahead of me. Potter is an amazing Quidditch player, and I have to be brutally honest here, better than myself. Always was and always will be.

So any victory against him makes it all the much sweeter.

The wind shears past my skin, whistling through my whipping hair, the cold brazenly assaulting my pale fortress, tears coming to my eyes, the pain, the ice cold, and Potter trying to get past me, competing against me. I can dimly hear the cries of the crowd, muted against the shrieking of the wind and a smile splits my features, a daredevil smile, I am where I belong. Oh, if only this moment could be held in time immemorial, the thrill, the chase, the competition...such a heady rush!

Another flash of gold and we are turning, a deft swing and I see your face blur past, watching with anticipation. This is no longer just about the game. Bugger Slytherin, bugger Gryffindor, fuck, bugger Potter. None of them matter. They never have. It's about you, it is you that matters, it is you that I chase. The Snitch is my dream, the impossible, of love, love with Hermione Granger, mudblood and common born and a golden prize. If I can catch it, if I can take it from under the nose of Harry Potter, I will have you, you will be mine. It is stupid, childish, fanciful, but does it matter? Just a few moment's of your attention, defeating your friend, your hero, your world focused on me, and that will be enough.

Everything blurs. We are going so fast now that when that adorable redhead friend of yours (the female one, honestly) tosses the quaffle we are moving in relativistic speed with it. The Snitch is clearly visible, flitting here, there, but there is no escaping now, we are hot on it's tail. It suddenly dives towards the ground and there's a stomach-lurching dip as we dive. The ground approaches at alarming speed. I spare a glance towards Potter. His eyes are completely focused on the Snitch, burning with determination. No sign of worry. The ground is nearer, much nearer than it was just mere seconds ago. Still the Snitch is diving.

I glance at Potter again; still no sign of worry, no tint of apprehension, no nervous tics. Another few seconds pass. Still nothing. Sweat drips into my eyes; nothing I can do about it.

The ground is a mere dozen metres away and we are still headlong in the dive. I put on a sudden burst of speed and my fingers are almost there, almost touching it, I can feel the rapid, jittery fluttering of it's wings, can almost taste victory, hear the roars of triumph...when it levels off suddenly. I don't miss a beat, flatlining my broom across the grass, but I lose precious seconds keeping my balance when I see him, on his damned Firebolt, level with the Snitch.

No! Not when I am so near!

I throw my broom forward, urging some tiny more iota of power and effort out of it, sending myself into a spiral that nearly wrenches my neck off but it doesn't matter I have to get it I'm almost there God please don't...

He catches it.

As he always does.

The Gryffindors erupt in loud cheering, with more than a fair few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws joining in. Banners unfurl and trumpets blare but I don't care, I just hang in the air, listless, purposeless. What of another Slytherin defeat, what of my comrades who are already sulkily shaking hands with the victorious Gryffingits, what of it? Potter's eyes look down at me, and they are sneering, condescending, laughing at my defeat, crowing his triumph. Worse, he knows what this is truly about. He knows that this is not a game for Gryffindor or Slytherin, this is between me and him for you. And again, he has stolen your heart from me.

He doesn't even have the grace to mutter a 'good game', just flies back to his team members who are already forming a victory ring around him, Snitch raised high for all the world to see. I see you looking at him, eyes shining with wonder and delight, and my heart dies a little more.

**

Wednesday rolls around and I, alone, trudge to Arithmancy. Without Crabbe and Goyle to look after I feel liberated, giddy with freedom because I don't have to pretend to hate you, don't have to sneer and call you 'mudblood', don't have to act but be me.. I know, you wonder what the hell I am doing in Arithmancy in the first place.

Well, contrary to popular opinion, Slytherins are not idiots and only fixtated on world domination and cruelty to cute fluffy animals.

You need an education to do any of that.

However, my compatriots, as much as I adore them (which, to be honest, is not very much) are not necessarily the brightest of the bunch. They enlist in the more traditionally Slytherin subjects, such as potions, seeing them as good, solid classical education for a ne'er-do-well. And this is not to say that they are incorrect. However, in this constantly changing modern world, it'll take more than the classics to get anywhere. You need to know how to move numbers, that's how the modern world is. Thus, Arithmancy.

That, and I like numbers. So I have a quirk, sue me. It is said that all great geniuses have an odd quirk or too, many having much more than just one. You have a penchant for hanging out with exactly the people I would avoid, I have a thing for numbers. And romance novels, but that's something else entirely.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish this could be forever.

Only sometimes. Being prince of Slytherin does have its quirks, after all.

Curiously enough, you are also the only Gryffindor in Arithmancy. Everyone else is of Ravenclaw persuasion.

Surely it could not be fate.

Surely.

I open the door and your already at your seat, punctual as usual. The Ravenclaws natter on about vectors and differentiation; I dismiss them out of hand. They are nothing to me. I begin to move to my normal seat at the back of class, separated from you by a sea of chittering idiots. I lazily glance out at the sky. Autumn is ending, the sun's rays bathing the fields and lake in an orange haze. One last bow before the end of the show.

On an impulse I swerve and make towards you. There are some strange glances shown my way, a look of absolute disbelief from Macmillan. Murmuring starts up. I do not care. Let them spread rumor and scandal and lies, I have my own tricks to ensure that anything they say is discredited. You are so caught up in the textbook that you don't realize what's going on until I'm right next to you.

You look up sharply, surprised. I glance into your hazel eyes and I see shock, annoyance, surprise. Predominantly, anger. I will not be denied, however. Once a Malfoy makes a decision he sticks to it.

Unless it involves self-preservation. There we Malfoys are top class.

'Malfoy! What are you doing?' you hiss with a hostile glare.

'I love you too darling,' I smile, taking the seat next to you. We are the closest we have ever been in a civil situation; we're not counting the fiasco with my cheek and your fist. Well, now that I think of it, not really that much of a fiasco...it did involve physical touch. Hmm. Maybe I should infuriate you more. Of course, that would entail much more physical assault.

Maybe I'm subconsciously into that stuff.

I hope not.

'What are you doing?'

'I would sound more grateful if I were you, dear. I am bestowing on you my presence, in all its alluring and seductive glory. Enjoy it while you can, very few are given this magnifiscent opportunity.'

You roll your eyes up and snort in mock laughter. I put a show of being hurt but inside I am pleasantly surprised. You haven't rejected me out of hand, as I had expected. That's definitely what we would call improvement; especially over the your fist, my cheek incident.

'You know, many young, attractive and Malfoy-addicted girls would sell their souls to be where you are now, the focus of all my amorous attentions,' I say, then send a devastating smile in the direction of some gossiping Ravenclaws. They squeal.

You cock your eyebrow at me (and what an eyebrow, did I mention that?) and reply, 'You know that your charm, or to be exact, lack of it, has no effect other than to cause me to do violence upon you.'

Ouch. That wounds deep. I hurt. Really.

Undaunted I soldier on. 'That's what you say now, but give or take a few days and soon you'll be begging for my attentions.'

You smile icily. Not a good sign. 'Possibly, but I'm not going to test your theory. Now, unless you have a very good reason, I think you should sit...at your usual place.'

Now, at this point, any sensible lad would follow your orders, especially with that gleam in your eyes, and that icy smile. You looked ready to do violence very enthusiastically.

I never said I was sensible.

I smile and say, 'I think I'll stay here.' And to make the decision final, I sit down.

Your reaction is simply classic. Your face heats. You splutter. You form incoherent words and then gape. You alternate between shock, then anger, then indignity, then back to anger, but before you can form a coherent reply Professor Vector enters. Automatically your face closes up and an air of polite attention and avid interest forms. You look ready and eager to be learning, when mere moments ago you looked as though you would enjoy strangling me to death.

It's really one of the most impressive things I have ever seen in my life.

If Vector notices anything different in the seating arrangements, he doesn't show it. He eyes us for a moment, a faintly troubled expression on his face (causing you to go red again, you dear) before immersing himself back into his role.

'We'll be taking notes this class, so I hope you are all prepared,' he says and we are all scrambling for parchment, ink bottles, quills. As I reach for my bag so are you; the collision is inevitable.

We both raise our heads and the angry words die in my throat. Your face is all that I see, with all your imperfections and flaws and that unique beauty. I can count each individual eyelash (no eye liner, somehow I am not surprised, and oddly pleased), I can see the lines caused by joy and laughing forming around those lips (and what lips), can smell your shampoo (something fruity, exotic), the vague whiffs of crackling paper and used ink, and, oddly enough, the tanatanisingly faint presence of...

'Could this be? Hermione Granger, bookworm of Gryffindor if not the entire school, and with the vanity of a beaver, wearing perfume? Good God, the seas must have turned to blood and the skies must be raining fish,' I say, pretending to eye the windows.

You blush and through gritted teeth manage to respond, 'I have worn perfume before. At the Yule Ball.'

I smile. Right where I want you. 'I never said that I found it displeasing. It becomes you completely, darling.'

If it is possible your face becomes even redder. Any more redder and I would have been alarmed that you were undergoing cardiac arrest in a most alarmingly manner, and at a completely inopportune time.

I lean forward a bit more. The tension is palpable. I look into your eyes and I can your uncertainty, I can almost imagine what you are thinking: Do I hit him, do I not? Someone once said that the eyes were the windows to the soul. I am normally not one for such soppy, romantic thoughts; there are better things to do with one's time. But in that moment I want to believe in it, in that foolish, that silly romantic belief. I stare into your eyes and put all my desire, my will, my love into my eyes.

And I am not uncertain, but I think (imagine, believe, wish) your eyes widen just that bit and your mouth opens just a little and I start to lean forward just that much more...

'When Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger are finished...'

We start back, entirely unprepared. Laughter surrounds us. Vector watches on, mouth twitching with the effort not to join in. You try to hide your blush, stonewalling your face as best as you can. It makes you look guilty.

I take another approach. ' We are, thank you sir. Hermione was helpfully explaining how to perform a trigonometric model.'

Jeers greet my obvious lie, and I smile and attempt to look innocent and bewildered. Eventually, bored by our lack of response, the class settles down and we get down to the business of Arithmancy. I see you steal glances of me, making as if to speak, then turning back to Vector. Good. I have you hooked. To your obvious irritation I do not attempt to speak or communicate in any way the entire class.

As soon as the bell rings you storm out the room in a flurry of scrap parchment and bushy brown hair. Whispers erupt in your wake. I take my time packing my bag, smiling all the time.

***

Evening and I am walking down the halls, whistling tunelessly, going through my rounds when I catch sight of Potter and Weasley. They are waiting for me, eyes glaring with an unquenchable fire and lips set into a thin line. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley: professional hitmen? The thought causes me to chuckle.

'What's so funny, Malfoy?' Weasley growls. I almost giggle before stopping myself; giggling is most unbecoming of a Malfoy.

I school my expressions, turning my jaunty smile into a well-practiced sneer and settling into an expression of aloofness.

'Just seeing you two, trying to look so serious. It's simply too cute.'

Weasley blushes. Potter's face grows darker. I might have touched a nerve there...

'Are you implying something, Malfoy?' he says, putting in every bit of menace and terror he can muster into those five words.

I am not impressed.

I've seen a poodle do better.

'Why, I am implying nothing, Potter. I would lose the menacing tone though.' Pause. Reflect. Questioning looks. 'It's like being savaged by a poodle.'

If you could have become any more angry I would be hoping for a burst blood vessel. Artery preferably.

'Now, unless you have a grievance against me, I would advise you to stay out of my way. I am a prefect after all, and have duties that I cannot neglect, which is more than I can say for you, Weasley...'

Weasley chokes with anger.

I make to pass them. They step in the way. A hand alights on my shoulder.

'Release me, Potter,' I say in an utterly cold voice.

'Stay away from Hermione, Malfoy. Stay away or we won't be responsible for what happens to you.'

I raise an eyebrow.

'Potter, are you threatening me?' I question with a tone of complete and utter disbelief.

'Just saying,' he replies in unhelpfully neutral tones.

Arrogant snob.

I shove past him, ignoring Weasley's indignant 'Hey!' I lean into Potter, so close that we are almost touching, and I whisper into his ear,

You will not have her

We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, and then he nods his head. Not of assent, but of understanding.

Our war has only just begun.