Definition

It had started out simply enough. Well-placed jibes, a constructed euphemism, cool hatred, and boiling rage. A taunt here, a remark there- all designed with one purpose in mind.

Destruction.

The total, absolute, comprehensive, unquestioned, categorical, unmitigated, utter destruction of one Harry Potter. Not that he would have defined it as such. If asked, he would have said it was simply animosity, or perhaps a rivalry that had gone a little too far. Never would he have admitted anything else, although there were other reasons, far more important ones that kept him singularly focused on his mission.

He had started with just looking. After all, it was the easiest way of obtaining information, and the one that required the least amount of work. He saw how Harry walked, straight through the halls of the school, parting the crowds with his mere presence. He watched Harry in class. That faint, far-away look came onto his face on more than one occasion, and when it did, his quill would clatter to the parchment, effectively gaining his attention once more. He saw Harry's smile. It was small and lopsided, to be sure, but it made everyone passing feel slightly better. Even he was not immune. He saw the broken glasses, the famous scar, and the scathing eyes. And he learned.

Then he had listened. Harry's voice was rough, constantly changing. It could be smooth and level, soft and unassuming. Just as easily it could turn violent, cutting, and cold. Harry's voice was often lower than that of his friends, as if he was either thinking or hiding behind them. He listened as Harry laughed. It had been hard, hearing that. It wasn't laughter the way most people define laughter to be. It was different, lower somehow. It said things in a monotone voice that people did not want to hear. Yet he listened. And he learned.

The next step was interaction. It was unaccountably easy for him to say something cruel, and the reaction was well worth it. The fire in Harry's eyes, the venom in his voice. A quick turn of phrase had the hero of the wizarding world acting like a vicious savage. Insults were thrown back and forth, casualties in the face of the war between them. Hypocrisy and idiocy were used just as often as ridicule and debasement. Each word was chosen with extreme thought, yet not chosen by them at all. Every syllable was pulled from their lips by something neither could identify, nor did they even want to try. So Harry fumed and raged and seethed and glowered and spat, comical in his anger and righteousness. And he learned.

Next was touching, actual physical contact. This would prove to be even easier than interaction had been. He had thought he would have to be satisfied with the occasional brush of hands in the hallway between classes, the accidental collision of shoulders in an over-crowded classroom. Yet Harry took it even further than that. The occasional brush turned into being pushed against the wall, Harry's wand pointed threateningly at his throat. An accidental collision became throwing Harry on the ground, muttering a hex before the chance was gone. He discovered that Harry had an excellent right hook. His fist would close tighter and tighter, and then it was over so fast he would never have known what had happened, except for the faint metallic taste in his mouth. Another punch would be thrown, this one caught expertly by unfamiliar hands. The hand squeezed tightly around his own. And he learned.

He learned what it was to hate. What it was like to simply want to kill someone else, or, failing that, to kill yourself so that the hatred would be over. What is was like to live constantly with the knowledge that you were superior, and without the means of showing everyone how true this statement was. It was simple, hating him. It was the easiest thing he had ever done. It was as natural as breathing, as commonplace as blinking. It was always there, at the back of his mind. And he loved it.

He learned what it was to need revenge. That it was harder to dodge glares than curses, and that sometimes dodging simply wasn't enough. That no matter where he went, the stares would follow him, the whispers would echo, and he would be unable to escape. It was beautiful, revenge. It was taking the sword that had always been at his side and finally putting it to use, plunging it straight through someone's heart. Someone who really deserved it. Someone who would never forget it. And he loved it.

He learned what it was to rage. What it felt like to have an ache in his body so intense that he could only let it grow for fear of losing it. What a small pain felt like- one that wrenched him out of mundane life into a new world, a world where he could seethe and rage without restraint. A world where he could scream himself hoarse, scream until his lungs burst and the blood trickled out of his mouth, and still scream even then. He would scream until his lips fell off, until his tongue shriveled up, until his teeth cracked with the intensity of it. He would scream until Harry would hear him. He would scream until Harry understood. He screamed and he screamed. And he loved it.

He learned what it was to want. The slight twisting in his gut told him the way things were was different from the way things should be. The casual once-over left him tight and uncomfortable. A shallow feeling, this want. Shallow and wholly unnecessary. It was unnecessary to follow Harry with his eyes, mentally pleading and physically unable to move. It was unnecessary to hone in on his presence whenever he entered the same room, to know without looking what he was doing, where he was going. He knew whenever Harry was coming or going. He knew when Harry was coming. And he loved it.

He loved being able to look. Watching as Harry walked towards him, a small bounce in his step that was distinctly amusing. Watching Harry in class, the same far-away look in his eyes, only now directed at him instead of the quill on the parchment. He looked at Harry as he had never been able to before, with admiration and affection and perhaps the smallest amount of respect. He saw Harry's smile as he never had before, huge and achingly sweet, filled with the promise of more to come. He saw the mended glasses, the infamous scar, and the gentle eyes.

He loved being able to listen. He listened to shouted curses across the Great Hall, whispered promises in the moonlight, and heartfelt denials on a rainy afternoon. He heard a bashful announcement with happiness, a confused whimper with desire, and a silent plea with acknowledgement. Listening as Harry laughed, heartfelt and pure, shimmering just in front of him, out of reach. Listening to the voice in his own head, telling him it was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong. Listening to his own response, but oh god it's so right. Listening to Harry sigh his name. So he listened.

He loved being able to interact. It was unaccountably hard to say soothing words. The reaction was worth it, though, to be the one to comfort, to console, to confide in. There was a swift exchange in the Potions dungeon, followed by a lengthy one in the Quidditch broomshed. Voices shouted behind silencing charms, voices so low no charms were needed. Each word was carelessly thrown into the fray, chosen with something akin to nervous anticipation. Every sound was categorized, catalogued, and memorized. So Harry worried and hated and needed and wanted and loved, comical in his desperation and loyalty.

He loved being able to touch. A physical admission of everything he had known for too long to admit. A brush of hands promised of meetings in secret, the collision of shoulders was anything but accidental. Then he was being pushed against the wall, Harry's mouth over his, silencing his moan. He threw Harry on the ground, kneeling over him, biting his neck. He discovered that Harry liked being touched just so on his chest, and even more so lower. His fist would close tighter and tighter, and then it was over so fast he would never have known what had happened, except for the faint salty taste in his mouth. Then it would be longer, slower, gentler. Familiar hands gripped his own and squeezed tightly.

It had started out simply enough. Casual glances, a defiant glare, direct cynicism, hidden emotions. A smirk here, a grin there- all designed with one purpose in mind.

Completion.

The total, absolute, comprehensive, unquestioned, categorical, unmitigated, utter completion of one Draco Malfoy.

Not that he would have defined it as such.