Most likely a one-shot. If anyone takes interest, I may continue.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter.
Sentinel
I watch him. I see him smirk and laugh and make people cry...but everyone sees that, don't they? I know how his left eyebrow raises slightly when he smiles and that when he laughs, the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes. I know that he idolizes his father and his father expects him to be ruthless.
I see him reading sometimes in the library, tucked away in a back corner where he thinks no one will see him. He glances up from time to time to make sure none of his friends see him and if they do, he rolls his eyes and says he couldn't find someone to do his homework. I know that isn't true. I always take careful note of where he places his books and read them when he's finished. They aren't schoolbooks and no, I won't tell you what they are.
I know that he has a scar on the palm of his hand and he rubs it when he gets nervous. Someone asked him last week how he got it and he got angry, angrier than I've ever seen him. No one else has dared to ask him, but I know they're curious, as am I. I want to know what would provoke such a strong reaction out of someone who makes an art out of masking his emotions.
I watch him discard girls carelessly, flitting quickly to the next and the next, until I can no longer keep track. Most think he's just a heartless bastard, like his father, but I know better. He's afraid to love, you see. He's afraid of getting too attached to someone, too dependent. The things he loves always tend to disappear. His father doesn't allow such…weakness.
I caught him crying once in one of the spare classrooms. No, he wasn't sobbing or anything like that. He was just slumped dejectedly against the wall, eyes closed, a few lines of moisture streaking down the aristocratic planes of his cheeks. In his hand was a letter. I stood outside the doorway for a moment, staring at him, wondering what that letter could possibly contain – and thinking with more than a little tremulation that I already knew – and then quietly shut the door. The thought of someone else seeing him so vulnerable made my stomach twist unpleasantly. Later, I saw him lounging at a table with his friends. Outwardly, he looked utterly relaxed, his eyes half closed, a lazy smile gracing his face, his feet propped up on a chair. His hands were restless though and when I looked closely enough, I could see something of panic in his eyes. He knew someone had seen him. I wanted to tell him to stop worrying, that I was the person who'd seen him, that I'd never share his secrets. But I couldn't. I couldn't.
Malfoy. I'm supposed to hate that name – hate everything associated with it. Death Eaters, my mind hisses. Who knows what atrocities his father's committed in Voldemort's name? What he's done? …But there's something seductive about him that has nothing to do with his looks. What kind of iron control must it take to accept the life you were born into when the very thought of it terrifies you? To convince the world that you are a person to be feared and respected because you are your father. Because if you stopped the façade, the Lord you serve would ensure your early descent into hell. It makes you wonder what's really lurking beneath that cool exterior, what you'd find if that iron control was to shatter.