notes: J.K. Rowling owns it all. All I do is wish I did. For Rhi, because she asked.
This is how it
goes:
There's a boy, and he belongs in a 1800s novel about gothic castles and
corruption within the royal family. He knows a lot of people who think he's
their friend, and sometimes he lets them. There's never been anyone quite like
him.
There's a boy, and he belongs in a timeless story about loyalty and pride. He
has a lot of people who love him more than anything, and he loves them back so
much that sometimes it hurts. There's never been anyone quite like him.
If you looked at them together, dueling in the corridors and getting points
taken from their houses (because that's against the rules, not that they've
ever cared), you would say you saw something like hate.
It's something that would be there whether they were both in the same house or
not, or if they were brothers, or had grown up together since babyhood.
They can't stand each other. And that's the way it goes.
//
Weasley was an idiot. Draco had known that since the moment they'd met.
He wasn't even a paradoxically brilliant idiot, the kind you could have a
secret, embarrassing sort of respect for. He was just Weasley. An idiot.
Just that.
Granger, he thought, was the opposite. She was clever to be sure, but so stupid
about it that the thought of her deserving respect was so ludicrous that
it was actually laughable.
(Draco rarely laughed.)
When it came right down to it, Draco thought he would probably prefer Granger
to Weasley (though he sincerely hoped that if he absolutely had to decide, they
would not be the only two options). Granger, after all, was insufferable in a
way that could be stifled and forgotten about after a few minutes.
Weasley was insufferable in that he was plainly insufferable, and would
go on being the same stubborn, undignified, bumbling mess of red hair and
freckles until Draco went completely insane.
Weasley was an idiot.
Just that.
//
What was the worst thing of all about Malfoy was that he was just that: Malfoy.
A spoiled, conceited, rude sixteen-year-old. A prat.
He wasn't "really a kind boy at heart, once you get to know him," as Molly said
about a lot of boys, who you might become friends with. He wasn't a diabolical
mastermind, cunning and sharp as anything, who you'd almost be honored to call
your enemy.
He was Malfoy. He was better than most (he thought) and was sickeningly
obnoxious about it. A prat.
Just that.
And Ron should be able to ignore him, he knew. Look at Harry, after all, who
fought the worst evil there was. You-Know-Who, compared to Malfoy?
It was embarrassing, come to think of it.
He should ignore him.
But there was just something about Malfoy. There was that mocking laugh of his,
and the way he played Quidditch: like it was a death match, and not a school
sport. It was all Ron could do to stop from hexing him all the way into the era
of the next Dark Lord.
Malfoy was a prat.
Just that.
//
This is how it goes:
There are two boys, and when it comes down to it, they aren't as different as
they might think. If you saw them together, hands sliding under thin fabric and
teeth clashing clumsily against chapped lips, you would say it was almost like
they had a score to settle: like they were forcing something from the other, a
kind of revenge. You would say that you saw something like hate.
They can't stand each other. And that's the way it goes.