Hatred

Harry Potter.

The name was innocent enough. The face, too, looked not as evil as he would’ve liked. The mussed hair and thick glasses did not suggest the appearance of a serial killer, and the scar seemed disgustingly more heroic than sinister.

Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter.

“Hey, Potter!” he yelled, and Harry Potter turned around, his expression instantly changing from faint surprise to loathing.

“I’m late for class, Malfoy,” he said icily. Draco kept grinning.

“Just thought I’d ask if it’s true,” he said in a mock-wounded tone. “It’s all over the newspapers, you know.”

“What is?” It was Weasley who said it, spitting it out so that it sounded more like a witty retort than a question. Draco figured that “What is?” was the closest thing to a witty retort that would ever come out of the mouth of a freckled, Muggle-loving git like Weasley.

“Sirius Black’s death,” Draco answered, keeping his eyes on harry. “I thought you could tell me if it’s true. After all, you two were so very close.” Potter stiffened, looking somewhere to the left of Draco’s head. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Draco amended smoothly, leaning in closer. “Do you not want to talk about it? Did Ickle Harry love his murdering godfather?”

“I heard they got your father, Malfoy,” Potter said loudly.

“You leave my father out of this,” Draco snapped. “They’ll - he won’t - his trials soon, anyway.” It was a pathetic comeback. He knew it was pathetic, but his father’s imprisonment hurt to think about, and he hated Potter even more for bringing it up. You have no weakness, he reminded himself fiercely. You are a Malfoy.

Granger was tugging on Potter’s sleeve.

“Harry,” she said under her breath, “Harry, come on, Professor Flitwick will be angry...”

“Yes, Har-ry,” Draco said in a high-pitched voice. “We wouldn’t want to get a teacher angry.”

“Good to hear you’re behaving yourself so well these days, Malfoy,” Potter said dryly.

“Oh, yes, I’m an absolute saint,” Draco agreed, smirking. “You know, it’s funny about your godfather dying. I always expected he would rot to death in Azkaban. But no, I guess he followed in the footsteps of your father -”

“Don’t you talk about my father, Malfoy, I’m warning you -”

“ - followed in the footsteps of your father, getting himself killed, for the incredibly stupid reason of protecting you -”

“DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT MY FATHER, YOU SLIMY LITTLE -”

“Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut in sharply. “What is going on here?”

“Professor, he just started shouting,” Draco said, looking as innocent as possible. “I think he’s hearing things. I’ve always suspected he was a bit barmy.”

“I did not ask you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said pointedly. “Ten points from both your houses. Get to class.

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused, and Potter, followed by Weasley and Granger, quickly ducked around the corner before Draco could catch him again.

---

That night, Draco dreamt he was in a room.

It was a large room, with a very low ceiling, yet nonetheless so large that the walls were out of sight in the distance, hidden in shadows. The floor and ceiling were coated with metal, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that the unseen walls were metal as well. It looked as though someone had painted molten metal on with a paint roller, although maybe it wasn’t so much metal as glass. Whatever it was, it had been polished so thoroughly that Draco could see his reflection in it.

“Hello, Draco,” said a familiar voice. Draco whipped around, and his jaw dropped. There, striding slowly towards him, was Potter. Potter, who wasn’t wearing any clothes.

“What are you doing here?” Draco demanded crossly. Or, at least, he meant to demand it crossly.

“I’m going to have to report you,” he heard himself say instead, in a silky voice. “Being naked in the halls is against school rules.” What? he thought, then, Where did that come from?

Potter was far closer to Draco than Drao could remember Potter ever having been before.

“You won’t report me,” he announced, with absolute and infuriating confidence. “You wouldn’t dare,” he breathed, and now he was close enough that Draco could feel his warm breath. “Because you...” - he reached out and traced the structure of Draco’s cheekbone with two fingers - “...are completely...” - there was a smirk playing around his lips - “...under my control.”

What on earth are you talking about? Draco wanted to shout, but he couldn’t, couldn’t even push Harry away - Potter! Draco thought wildly, Potter, not Harry! Dammit, I hate him!

Then it was as though he were two people, and he watched himself lean in towards Potter, and then the other him was kissing Harry, kissing Harry passionately and hungrily, and Harry - No, Potter, I hate him - was kissing him back, if “kissing” was the right word for something of this intensity. Draco saw himself pull away for just a moment, panting for air, putting a finger ocer Potter’s lips.

“I won’t report you,” the other him said in a soft, seductive voice. “But you’ll have to do a lot more for me first.”

Draco ran.

He ran and ran, and still the distant walls were not to be seen, but he kept running just to get away, but it didn’t help because he was two people and he could still feel Harry’s lips pressed against his - Potter, he reminded himself for the third time, but it was hard to call him by his last name after watching him - watching him -

Draco woke, so suddenly that it was as if someone had opened a door he had been leaning against, and he had fallen through. He lay in bed for a minute in the dark, gasping, drenched in sweat. Then he squeezed his eyes shut.

Damn it, he thought. Damn it damn it damn it. Then just for variety, Damn it all to hell.

He took his pillow and threw it on the floor in frustration, then picked it up again, slammed it down in front of him, fell face-down onto the bed and screamed into it.

He lay there, face buried in the pillow, shoulders shaking. I hate you, Harry Potter, he thought violently, and it was true. He completely and utterly loathed and despised Harry Potter.

But there was nothing he could do to keep himself from falling in love, all the same.