Jealousy

I wasn’t supposed to have any sort of feelings other than hatred for Harry Potter, but somewhere along the way, that changed. Maybe when I saw that it wasn’t a schoolboy rivalry anymore, they actually wanted him dead.

They meaning my father and the other Death Eaters.

I agree with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on most things. I am a Pureblood. I am better than Muggles, Mudbloods, and Halfbloods. But I am not a killer. If you look at me, you’d realise that. Even casting Avada Kedavra is a little too messy for me. I’m immaculate. I’ve heard the whispers that other Houses pass along, about my effeminity, how pretty I am. And, the worst part is, they’re right. Years of pureblood breeding, and my pretty-boy look is the result.

Then, last year, I realised something.

I was lusting after another boy.

Not just another boy – the boy. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. My rival and nemesis. My father’s enemy. You-Know-Who’s enemy. Everything I have ever been taught goes against this attraction.

But I’m a teenage boy, and teenagers of either gender don’t exactly have much control over their hormones, their attractions. A single incident can trigger an obsession. Bigger incidents, that should have more meaning, can be cast off easily at times.

So I suppose it happened sometime during fourth year. Yes, while I was busy making buttons that said “Potter Stinks.” One day in potions, something about the way he took off his glasses to clean them, and then pushed them back on, running his hands through his hair as he did so... I was caught, inevitably, like the feeling around your navel as the PortKey pulls you off to your destination. I saw those brilliant green eyes unhidden by lenses, and something about them... Well. I hid it, of course, but he’s my rival in just about everything, for Merlin’s sake, so I still had to see him. Insult him, fly against him, occasionally work with him in potions. After Father’s Master returned, and I heard what the plans were for him, I had to hide it even more.

I contented myself with reminders that it was highly unlikely that Harry Potter would be the Boy Who Prefers Boys. This helped greatly, until today.

First thing on Monday morning, we have double potions with the Gryffindors. He was late, as usual, but this time the Weasel was late, too. We all found out why a few moments later.

He walked in, and that Muggle-loving redhead had his arm around Potter’s waist. I was seething. No matter that the Weasel had one of Potter’s arms around his waist, it was clearly All. Weasel’s. Fault.

There were titters on the Slytherin side of the room, and I gathered that the pair had come out previously to the Gryffindors. Professor Snape looked disgusted. But me, I couldn’t hide it. I know the Weasel saw it. I was burning with jealousy, and he saw it, because he smirked. Smirked! There was understanding on his face, and gloating.

Potter didn’t see it, thankfully. So now I am trapped, with an attraction that has gone on too long, I realise now, to merely be hormones any longer, and Harry bloody Potter really does fancy boys, but now the Weasel has him, and I do not.

Later that day...

Malfoys do not lose to Weasleys. I must steal Potter from the Weasel. No matter what it takes. Weasley may be happy now, but he will cry, broken, by the time I am done. Potter is mine.