Another Word for Hate

Another Word for Hate

-A work of Fanfiction-

By

Nightmarish

You hate him.

And he hates you back, but hate isn't the right word for it. Not a strong enough word for it. A better word would be 'loathe', or maybe 'abhor entirely,' but it isn't that either. It's so much more than that. (So much deeper.)

You're not exactly sure when it began; this "other" feeling, this other layer of your relationship. Perhaps it's always been there. You suppose you'll never know.

You don't know when it began, exactly, but you remember noticing the difference. It was a gradual change - practically invisible, if you weren't looking for it. And you doubt if anyone else noticed anything amiss, in the beginning.

It wasn't as if it was blatantly obvious to you, either.

-

It starts out small. Accidental jostling no longer results in full out duels, you spend far less time complaining about his (obvious) quidditch skills than is usual, and sometimes, you forget to glare at him in class.

It's annoying, in all honesty.

But you can tell it's bothering him as well, so that makes things slightly better. You make a comment about the headmaster's robes, and you swear he starts to laugh before realizing, quite abruptly, whose joke it is he's laughing at. His expression (utter confusion) almost makes you laugh. Almost.

You're constantly catching his gaze - accidentally, of course - and he's almost always catching yours. Every time you turn around, you bump into him. It's completely unnerving, and if he didn't look so damned panicked, you would think he was stalking you.

You wonder, idly, if your own obsession counts as stalking.

You don't follow him on purpose; despite Hogwarts' size, the student population is relatively small, and your year has less than forty people. Using that as a general average, there are less than 300 students in the entire school. Even in your younger years you shared some of the same classes, and now, with both of you taking advanced courses, he's impossible to avoid.

Not that you really want to avoid him.

You do, sometimes. But not really.

-

-

-

You're watching him. You realize it, but can't tear your eyes away. He's so focused on his potion - it's like you're under some sort of a thrall. An, impossibly pink tongue darts out to wet his lips as he adds the salamander scales to the bubbling cauldron. Exactly 17 seconds, you note absently. His timing is perfect.

Immediately, you scold yourself for paying such close attention. You quickly scan the room. Nobody noticed. Thank god.

Your eyes (unintentionally) flick back to Potter. He's finished now. You realize, belatedly, that you've missed the bell signaling the end of class, but make no move to hurry. You've got lunch next, anyways.

You watch as he packs up, ever so carefully capping off a vial of his rapidly cooling potion (he actually seems to be trying this year), and then shoves his ingredients higgledy piggledy into his bag. He glances up; face flushed from the heat of the cauldron, and catches you staring. The red deepens. He's blushing. You store this new information away to analyze later.

You're sitting closest to the door (you came in late), so he has to pass you in order to leave the room. That is, unless he wants to go through Snape's office, which most would consider suicide. A flicker of doubt crosses his still pink tinged features, and he actually glances behind him, as if he's considering the option. But then he comes to his senses.

Squaring his shoulder, he tries to act natural, but that's just it. It's all an act.

He's flustered - that much is obvious - but he's good enough to fool most people (not you) and would have gotten away with it, too, had Hannah Abbot's text book not been lying directly in his path.

He trips, catching himself just in time. His bag slides to the floor as he tries desperately not to overbalance, gripping the edge of the table for support. It falls open, and the supplies he's jam packed into it are struggling to burst free. A single goose feather quill flutters to the floor at your feet.

You pick it up.

He's still distracted; brushing off his robes (as if that's going to help), trying in vain to repack his overstuffed bag. Finally, he gives up, and removes one of his larger books to carry. He straightens, and heads for the door. A pause. His hand goes to his pocket. He's remembered the quill.

Turning, he scans the classroom. He opens his mouth, no doubt to ask if anyone's seen it, when he spots you, twirling the feather around your fingers.

-

You lock eyes. Silver versus Green.

-

For one single moment, you toy with the idea of keeping it - making him work to get it back. You open your mouth to say something nasty, but the words get lost halfway there. You can see it in his eyes.

-

He's not going to fight you.

-

Startled by this revelation (Potter always wants to argue), you close it again, nasty remarks forgotten. Numbly, you hold out the quill. He takes it suspiciously, inspecting it as though it's a potential bomb, before returning it to his pocket, and turning to leave. He pauses in the doorway, and glances back over his shoulder. Maybe it's your imagination, but you swear he gives you the smallest of nods, before disappearing into the busy corridor...

You stare after him for several long seconds before realizing, with a jolt, that you're the only one left. You haven't even begun to pack up, and Snape's watching you with a faintly amused expression.

-

Bastard.

-

You send him a fierce glare, daring him to comment, and stalk out of the classroom with your head held high...

-

-

-

And it continues.

You still fight. No question about it - people would worry if you didn't. But even that aspect of your relationship has changed. It's...different, somehow. Less venom.

You've stopped insulting his parents.

You're honestly not sure if this is a good or bad sign.

-

-

-

Watching him is your latest past time.

At your next quidditch match, you're so distracted by watching him, you nearly collide with the Slytherin stands, only swerving out of the way in the nick of time.

-

Yes, quidditch is the worst.

-

It would help if he wasn't such a bloody fantastic flyer. Though you'll never admit it out loud, he's better than you. You truly believe he was born to be in the air.

And when Gryffindor wins the match, as was inevitable, you hold back the snarl that rises instinctively to your lips, because in this moment, he looks so damn happy. He hardly ever smiles anymore, and you can't bring yourself to ruin this.

-

Later, you punch the wall.

-

Blaise raises an eyebrow at your scraped up knuckles (who would have thought punching a stone wall would hurt so much?) but doesn't comment. Parkinson fawns, and offers to bring you some soup. You wonder, absently, how thick it is possible for one person to be.

And then, of course, you remember Crabbe and Goyle.

-

-

-

At meals, you have a system. You both sit with your back to the wall, at the end farthest from the head table. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are sandwiched in between, but it's still fairly easy to see across. It's an unspoken agreement. When he sits with his back to you, you scowl.

You both come down to breakfast at roughly the same time; you, around 7:00, he, ten minutes later, so you don't risk walking in together. Another unspoken rule.

Lunch is usually too chaotic, but during dinner, you take your time eating. You study him.

And then he stops showing up.

-

-

-

You remember that night so well. You found him, lying on the bathroom floor, staring up at you out of those bloody beautiful eyes, deep scarlet ribbons seeping unashamedly over his slit wrists. You remember staring, open mouthed and horrified, and him asking, in a hurt sort of voice, barely above a whisper, if you followed him. You want to slap him across the face.

Instead, you scream (What were you thinking?) and rant (How could you be so stupid?), and drag him to the hospital wing, ignoring his feeble protests. You finally just pick him up (amazed at how light he is) and carry him, yelling all the way for someone - anyone - to help.

And it's only after Madame Pomfrey whisks him away, and Dumbledore is beside you, awarding 50 points to Slytherin for quick thinking, that you realize. You realize why you did it. Why you followed him, why you yelled and screamed and shouted.

You care.

-

-

-

The headmaster stands in front of you, gripping your shoulder too tightly with one gnarled hand. He wears a grim expression, and his face is a chalky white. Even his lurid yellow robes seem washed out. You realize (astounded) that he is frightened. And that, in turn, frightens you.

-

-

-

"I do not doubt that you saved Harry's life," he says quietly. You feel a small surge of hope.

"He'll be alright then?" you ask breathlessly, and even in light of everything that has happened, you are ashamed by the tone of your voice. So damn weak.

Dumbledore tries to smile, but it turns into a grimace of pain. He glances across the ward, and stares forlornly at the stark white curtains hiding Him from view. You are glad. You don't want to see his body, limp and broken, or his wrists, blood red on creamy white.

You turn your attention back to the headmaster, and are astounded to notice a single tear rolling down his withered cheek.

Numbly, you spin away, overwhelmed and confused, and race out of the ward as fast as your legs can carry you. You knock into Snape in the corridor, and stare up at him blankly. He's paler than usual, you notice, and he now he fixes you with an inquiring expression, but doesn't say anything, for which you are grateful. You push past him, and run all the way back to the dungeons.

-

-

-

It's only back in the dormitories, hidden behind your velvet green curtains that you allow the tears to fall. They cascade down your cheeks unhindered; twin waterfalls dampening your pillow and the collar of your shirt.

And sometime between midnight and dawn, you slip out, past the hulking forms of Crabbe and Goyle, and back up the winding maze to the hospital wing.

You are surprised to find Snape still holding vigil, sitting in a stiff backed chair that looks entirely uncomfortable, but suits his personality to the T, beside a sleeping figure with coal black hair, a dark halo on crisp white linens. One pale hand clutches the sheets; the other entwined in the boy's tousled mane, twisting the messy locks around and around tapered fingers until they curl.

You stand, frozen, feeling as if you've intruded on something deeply personal, something private. You wonder, not for the first time, what sort of a relationship they truly have.

Snape looks up, and stares at you with an unidentifiable expression. You feel as though you're on display, and are painfully aware of the mess you must look with your wrinkled uniform and unkempt hair. But you return the gaze defiantly with your red-rimmed eyes, and something akin to pity flashes behind those bottomless onyx pits.

He rises with the fluid grace you so admire, and, not saying a word, stalks past. His black robes billow out behind him, and you are strangely comforted by the familiarity of the sight. You glance back down at the pale figure on the bed, and in a sudden surge of desperation, you reach out, and catch the sleeve of the Potion Master's robe. He looks down, and gently uncurls your fingers. He begins to walk once more, but stops in the doorway, and turns slightly, tilting his head to get a better look. He holds your gaze for one final moment, nods, and disappears into the shadows.

You breathe a sigh of relief at the implications of that nod, and collapse into the vacated chair. Snape already forgotten, you turn your attention to the injured teen, and promise his unconscious form that if he ever gets better, you'll break his nose.

You miss. He spends the next week and a half sporting a black eye.

-

-

-

Transfigurations. The only class (save for arithmancy, which he doesn't take) that you don't have with Potter. McGonagall asks you to stay behind, and you do, albeit impatiently. You want to sneak back upstairs to check on Potter. Inconspicuously, of course.

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall begins, voice trembling ever so slightly. The corner of a handkerchief pokes out of her pocket, and you can tell she's been crying. Probably wearing a glamour. Well, so are you.

"Mr. Malfoy," she says again, and draws a shaky breath. "I-" She stops, and closes her eyes. She seems to be having trouble coming up with the words. "I think it would be best, in light of - well, of course you're aware that..." she trails off, and you can't help but stare, surprised at this new side of Minerva McGonagall, the usually stoic, unflappable professor. "Oh, dash it all," she mutters under her breath, and then does something you never expected in a thousand years. She sweeps you into a bone breaking hug.

"I know Albus has already, but...twenty points to Slytherin," she whispers, before releasing you and taking a step back. She looks slightly surprised at her own actions. She collects herself, and nods curtly. "Good day, Mr. Malfoy." And before you can form a coherent sentence, she's gone.

-

-

-

Everyone wonders, of course, how Slytherin managed to earn 70 points in two days, but no one thinks to ask you, and you don't tell.

-

-

-

He hates it how you watch him. How you follow him around, or at the very least, make sure he's never alone. You tell him it's his own bloody fault, and he glares at you.

McGonagall watches too. She offers him tentative smiles at the end of class, and praises him for every question he answers correctly, as though she's worried he'll break down at a critical word.

-

He hates that, too.

-

Granger, as well, knows something's up. He doesn't tell her where he was last week, or how he got the black eye, and she doesn't like to ask, hoping instead that he'll come to her on his own. You know, deep down, that he never will.

-

He doesn't want to worry them. But most of all, he doesn't want their pity.

-

Potions, ironically enough, is the only class he seems comfortable in. Snape is as nasty and unreasonable as ever (no sign of the tender - was if affection? - he displayed in the hospital wing), and Granger's too busy making sure Longbottom (how the hell he got into NEWT potions, you'll never know) doesn't blow up his cauldron to pay Potter much attention. You suppose the normality of it all soothes him.

Even the Weasel notices something's afoot. He shoots him suspicious glances during History of Magic (he's actually taking notes) and reminds him to eat his vegetables at dinner.

-

-

-

Roughly a month after "the incident", he confronts you.

He waits outside the Slytherin common room (you wonder how he knows its location) under that bloody cloak of his, and pulls you around the corner and out of sight before Pansy even notices you're gone. He yanks off the cloak, and immediately you can tell he's angry. His face is flushed and his too-green eyes are flashing. You wonder, absently, how long your stay in the hospital wing will last.

-

-

-

"Why are you doing this?"

You stare him straight in the eyes, and say, calmly, "Because I care," even though what you meant to say was "Doing what?"

He blinks. Takes a step back. "You...care?" he falters, astounded. "About...me?"

"Yes," you reply simply. After all, things can hardly get any worse.

He scowls, mask back up. "Just leave me alone, Draco!"

It's your turn to blink stupidly. He notices, and you know by the way he tilts his head ever so slightly to the left, he's curious.

"You called me Draco," you explain quietly, mind reeling. You wonder what this might mean. His eyes widen.

-

You never slip up. And neither does he. It's another one of the unspoken rules of the game. First names are too personal.

-

"Oh," he says finally, taking another step back. You immediately wish he hadn't, but brush that thought away. "Oh," he repeats, and runs a hand through his already untidy hair. "What...what does that mean?"

You shrug, watching him closely. "I don't know."

He looks so damn helpless standing there. "Why do you follow me, Draco?" he asks you quietly, and you note the deliberate use of your first name.

"Because I'm worried." You refuse to release his gaze. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," he says sharply. "Just...don't, okay? I'm fine. I'll be fine. I don't...don't need anyone." He turns to go back inside, but you dart forward, catching his arm in an iron grip.

"Don't do that," you hiss through your teeth. "Don't pull away. God damn it, just let me help you!"

"I don't need any help," he insists.

"Yeah, right, and I'm the Minister of Magic. You fucking need my help, Potter, and I'm going to give it to you whether you like it or not."

He tries to jerk away, but you hold fast, spinning him around so you can look him in the eye. "Tell me," you sneer, "how long has it been since you got a decent night's sleep?"

"None of your business."

"I'm making it my business."

You're done with games; this is more important than that. This is a time for action, and you've made up your mind.

"Why do you care? I'm not your friend! I never was! I don't need your help!" he shouts.

"Pardon me." The sarcasm is unmistakable, thick as custard. "You're the savior of the wizarding world. How could I forget? Of course you don't need any help. But tell me, Harry, how does that explain why you were slashing your wrists, trying to commit suicide! Right. You're completely fine."

-

And in the blink of an eye, the fight goes out of him. He sags against the castle wall, and lets out a strangled sob.

-

"Why do you do it?" you persist, pressing your palms against his shoulders, forcing him to look at you. "Why do you put on a brave face? Why can't you sleep at night? Why the hell did you do it!"

"Because I can't take it any more!" he snarls, trying to force you back. You refuse to budge an inch. "They all expect me to be a hero. Well, guess what? It gets old!" He slumps again, and you can just make out the tears coursing slowly down his cheeks. "I can't do this," he whispers. "I can't...can't help them."

"You already have," you say quietly. "You can't save them all. You're only human."

He snorts. "Not according to them."

"How about according to you?"

He looks up, and you almost lose yourself in those liquid green orbs. His hand grips your elbow, and you're suddenly aware of how close you are.

"I'm scared." You can barely hear him, and immediately, he turns away, hiding his face. You bite your lip.

"Then let me help you."

"You can't help me."

"I'll find a way." He turns back, and fixes you once more with that penetrating stare. "How am I supposed to save them, Draco? How am I supposed to save the world? Again?"

You shake your head. "I don't know," you answer honestly. "But I promise we'll find a way."

You hesitate, and very carefully, reach out a hand to trace the lightning bolt scar emblazoned across his forehead. His brand. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a small sigh. Slowly, you lower your lips to his. He doesn't push away. He doesn't have the energy to protest.

His mouth slides open, and you slip your tongue between his frozen lips. He responds softly. Gently. There's nothing passionate about it, but somehow, it just feels right. Better than right. It feels like home.

After what seems like an eternity, you break away. Afraid to speak. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of what he'll do next.

-

The match is nearly over, and you're a space away from winning, or from losing everything, depending on the way things go. The next move is his.

-

Emerald eyes crack open, and he blinks. "So that's it, then?" he whispers, sending shivers racing down your spine. "That's your idea of help?"

He looks almost amused, and you marvel once more at his ability to change emotions at the drop of a hat. You nod, feeling the beginnings of a smirk playing about your lips. "You pretty much got the gist of it."

He leans his forehead against yours, and you catch your breath at the intimacy of it all. He closes his eyes once more. "Why are you doing this?" he asks again, softly, pleading.

And you smile. A soft, secretive smile that belongs solely to him. "Because I can," you whisper, sliding your numbed hands down his slender arms. "Because someone ought to." You grasp his hands tightly. "Because I believe we can win." You thread your fingers through his own. "And most of all, because I care."

And it's then that you realize. You realize that no matter how long it takes, you're going to see this thing through. You realize, perhaps for the first time in your life, what drives people to sacrifice themselves for those they hold dear. For the causes they believe in. You realize that you'd follow this boy to the end of the world without a backwards glance.

Maybe there is something special about Harry Potter. Maybe everyone's been right all along. You don't know if he possesses superhuman powers, but you do know one thing. You don't know how long it will take, or how many battles you'll have to fight to get there, but you know it instinctively, like you know how to breathe.

-

One day, everything's going to be alright.

-

-

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-fin-