"Pansy Parkinson simpered."
The days bloom like flowers and you eat every single one. You're a madman and an idiot and I'm in this house with this Pureblood mutt, you're a dog, Draco, and you fight Harry so hard that sometimes I wonder if you're just a little bit in love with him, and I mean that. I promise myself that I hate you, but my name is Pansy, for Merlin's sake: I'm a little too in awe to hate you to the bone, I'm a bit too scared to run my nails down your face when you sneer at someone else with those snowflake-shadow eyes. You're a conman and a brute and a coward and I'm a little scared of you, because what am I, to be in the same House?
And here you are again, in the common room, in your little dungeon cowering under your father's attitude, arms and legs tossed about on the chaise longue like you're the King of England. Smirking, but never comfortable, you look like the Emporer With No Clothes and I'm the little boy who wants to tell you that you're a git but the problem is that you know you're a tosser; you know you're Naked and you're still lying there like a boy pharaoh. And I'm smiling at you, you idle wanker, because you're never a snake, you're never a snake like I am: my name is Pansy, like the word for coward, taken from the name of a flower, and I'm in the same House as you because we're both scared shitless and hiding it, but I'm better at it than you.
But then you crook a finger as long as a whip and reel me in and I'm sitting next to you and you're touching my wrist, and I want to throw up because it's like you're trying to feel my blood, my pulse, beating out a national anthem of purity that I won't ever sing but which you exalt, so eager to crow Mudblood and freak at that curly-topped Hermione, so fervent and glorified that I wonder if you're a little in love with her, too.
Because you don't love me; I'm perfect for you and yet you don't, just out of helpless spite. You touch my wrist and curve your hand up to cup my elbow when I lean away, and sometimes I wonder if you do things like that just to remember what human skin feels like. Or to get used to it; when you first tried to hug me I hit you across your precious face and you looked like murder and I thought that we were awful, I was awful for being so enamoured and therefore so cruel. We're just a tad too dismissive of each other, Malfoy, because if we're together then we're admitting everything our parents told us was right. And that's so scary, Draco, I'd rather you stay malevolent and I stay silent because we're better at hurting what we want than being sweet.
You're a coward; a tyrant; a statistic: someone had to be like you.
But I look at you now and I'm a little bit sad that someone like you had to be Draco Malfoy.
–but I can't talk. Snakes don't talk.
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