The Light behind the Clouds

I know what he thinks I am. The pitiful daughter of an equally pitiful weasel. An idiot. I am nothing to him, nothing at all but an object to torment, a thorn in his side.

But once he smiled at me, that insufferable git. It was little more than a ghost of a smile, and I could tell he didn’t mean to do such a thing. He seemed to barely know how to do it, for it was much different than his habitual smirk. But it was still a smile, however bitter it was, and such things should be treasured as platinum-the color of those taunting, miserable eyes.

It happened in the Great Hall. Malfoy was staring off into the distance with no particular expression inhabiting his face. No, there was expression-that is, the absence of one that might as well be counted as one his many masks. It was a blocked look, like a rat in an adamantine cage. He looks like a rat- the son of Lucius Malfoy is none too attractive. His face is too pointy, his hair too pale.

He seems a bit misplaced, if you ask me. Oh no, he belongs in Slytherin, that’s not what I meant. I mean, well, I don’t know quite what I mean. But I hardly ever see him carry any expression other than bleakness or decided distaste. He shouldn’t be so bleak, so unhappy all the time. But he is. It has become a part of him.

The Slytherins hate him, you know. He is constantly destroying their ambition of winning the house cup, and they detest the way he makes the other houses detest them more than they ordinarily would. He lashes out at anyone who dares to speak to him that is not affiliated with his house or challenges him, and the vicious circle continues.

I foolishly followed him out of the Great Hall that night. I thought… well, I hate to admit it, but I thought I could strike at his weakness. He was a step ahead of me, and threatened me. If I tell anyone what I saw, he’ll get me, I know. But he’ll only verbally torture me-he doesn’t have the strength to physically hurt me.

So sometimes at night I wish to break the promise, to tell him what I saw. A person who did not know where to go. A person who was lonely, but would viciously attack anyone who suggested it. He’d sneer and reply bitterly and sharply. But I don’t hate him anymore. I still detest him, though, for he has given up. The day he tries one more time will be the day he earns my respect. I don’t think he ever will, though, and I’ll keep the façade of hatred until he does. I find nothing more despicable than a person who has stopped trying, who won’t try again until someone forces them to.

But sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told him what I saw. Would he look at me with those platinum eyes for a moment? Would he wonder for a second if what he is doing is right? Would I see why he is the way he is? His father pampers him; he has the intelligence and ambition to be great, so why doesn’t he accept it?

That idiot. My brothers detest him, and so do I. The miserable wretch of Slytherin is a disgrace to all the school, to his family. He is cunning, he is clever, and he misuses it all to benefit himself. But it does not really help, does it? He is as low on the hierarchy is the day he came to the school, a scrawny, whining first year. The only reason the Slytherins tolerate him is because he is one of them, so they keep the pretence of fellowship and adoration in everyone else’s company.

Do you wonder how I came to know all this? I couldn’t have learned this all from one bitter smile. Let me describe to you what planted the seed that shattered all of my preconceptions.

Now I wonder if it was right to hate the Slytherins. After all, none of them ever supported anything Malfoy had to do. They were merely keeping their twisted honor. But was Malfoy really deserving of such a thing?

I’ll never know, but he will always haunt my dreams. I’ll come to know those eyes like frosted platinum. And maybe I’ll find it in myself to forgive him.