I watch you on the platform. Your red-haired brats surround you, snivelling and clamouring for your attention.
Potter looks over and catches my eye. We nod curtly at one another.
He thinks I'm watching him. He always did have an inflated opinion of his own importance.
But I watch you. I've always watched you.
Filthy little Mudblood.
How I loathe you…
First Year:
I knew I'd love potions! I've always been brilliant at it, and Professor Snape can already tell I'm the best in the class.
Even better, Potter clearly doesn't know anything! Stupid half-blood. Just goes to show, only Purebloods have real intelligence. Like Father said.
That girl keeps jumping up and down! Bushy-haired show-off…
I remember: she's a Mudblood!
Look at her jumping – like a dog that's been taught a trick. Disgusting that filth like that gets to have a wand.
Disgusting Mudblood.
Second Year:
Ugh. Father is angry with me.
Of course I still got everything I asked for this Christmas – thanks to Mother – but he STILL won't tell me anything about the Chamber.
Now he's shouting my grades aren't good enough.
I try again to explain that Granger's the teacher's pet, but that only makes it worse: she's a Mudblood and she's beating me! It's almost like she's better at spells than me… But Mudbloods are no better than animals! How is that possible?
I'm burning with shame. I cannot look my father in the eye. This is her fault! I hope Slytherin's heir gets her next! I hope she dies! Her, Weasley, and Potty.
I hope she dies.
Third Year:
I'm deliberately smirking as I remember his expression. Stupid half-breed! So attached to a savage, dumb creature. Of course, the same description could be applied to Hagrid himself, so I suppose it's only natural he feel some affin—
WHAM!
My eyes are streaming; my nose is on fire.
She hit me! The Granger-bitch hit me!
I'm so shocked all I do is stand there and watch her. Genuine incredulity holds me stationary.
What right? What right does she think she has?
Does she really not know her place?
Fourth Year:
The front doors open and the Durmstrang students stride in.
Whoa! Who's the stunner in blue?
I'm not surprised Krum's done so well for himself – fame always makes up for so many—
Merlin! It's the Mudblood!
I can feel a flush rising on my pale face; equal parts rage and shame. Quickly, I cover it with a sneer.
On second thoughts, it's a cheap-looking blue.
Fifth Year:
Potter has just insulted me – some toothless Muggle insult, which those idiot Weasley siblings and Longbottom laugh at.
I let my lip curl in disgust. Amateurs.
I'm slightly surprised that Granger is laughing, too. She's supposed to be intelligent.
'Tell me, how does it feel to be second-best to Weasley, Potter?'
Unlike them, I know how to wield words to wound.
That gets a knee-jerk reaction from Granger. Good. At least she's capable of an occasional intelligent comeback…
Those last two notwithstanding.
Skilfully, I twist the knife further, knowing she'll understand:
'I seem to have touched a nerve. Well, watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.'
Granger is screaming at me to get out. I'm laughing as I leave – I more than won that round.
It's only now I'm outside I realise she gave a command and I obeyed it without question.
Sixth Year:
I can't seem to stop crying. I'm too frightened to even be ashamed.
I've let down my father. I can already see the contempt in his eyes. But worse than that is the fear I see lying just underneath: the fear of what the Dark Lord will do to him – will do to all of us – if I fail.
A sudden swipe of damp cold causes goose bumps to prickle down my arm.
'Don't cry!' says a voice that is meant to soothe as she attempts to stroke my arm.
Myrtle. Moaning Myrtle. Opalescent eyes gleaming with concern.
I close my own again, trying to imagine the comforter's hand is flesh and blood.
Something real.
In my mind's eye the silvery eyes are darkening to a warm brown.
Know-it-all eyes.
Infuriating eyes.
She'd know what to do… She always knew what to do…
'Malfoy?'
The hated voice cuts across half-formed intentions like acid on my soul. Potter!
I lash out in fury, burning my thoughts away:
'Cruc—'
'SECTUMSEMPRA!'
Seventh Year:
I can tell it's Potter right away, of course. Even with his face so swollen and distended, I can tell it's him.
Father is demanding a response:
'Is it Harry Potter?'
I look at Granger and Weasley. I look at Granger.
Professor Burbage flashes into my head again, only this time it's Granger floating upside down, begging to be released.
Once I would have sworn nothing would make me happier. So when I open my mouth, I'm surprised to hear what comes out: not quite a denial, but not quite the truth either.
From the corner of my eye I see Granger gazing at me. But I will not look at her.
I've learnt to look at her only when she doesn't see it.
I watch you on the platform.
I've always watched you.
Filthy little Mudblood.
How I love you…
