The Harry Potter series belongs to J.K.Rowling. This fanfic belongs to Mikku. 2004
Draco Malfoy and the Questionable Joys of Being In Love
My life has always been disturbingly exciting, and it seems that it's not going to change anytime soon. I was born in the Malfoy family, and while I admit that it is the best family in the whole world for many reasons – one of them being the fact that we do have the purest wizard blood – I must say that it is also the biggest bunch of crackheads known to humanity. I've never had the pleasure of meeting my noble grandfather, which is a pity, because I'd absolutely love to find out what exactly possessed him when he decided to name my father after a fish – even though anyone who knows my dear dad would agree that it turned out to be a rather fitting name. My father is normally just as kind and affectionate as a pike. Not that I blame him for not being overly sentimental – the Lucius Malfoy I know can be quite hard to get along with, but at least he's not a blond clone of Arthur Weasley or anything like that. He is, I repeat, a crackhead, but not an emotional crackhead. Holy Merlin on a stick, that would ruin my childhood.
Speaking of emotions, they scare the hell out of me – certain types of emotions, I mean. Take Severus Snape, our teacher and the head of the Slytherin House. Overall, he's an awesome man. Calm, collected and surprisingly intelligent for someone who works in this school. A great potions master, a decent teacher – the only teacher in Hogwarts who doesn't make me want to howl in despair – and he also seems to have his brain in the right part of his body. What a guy. I was half in love with him by the time we learned how to make the simplest potions. Then, all of sudden, my precious father felt like visiting me – and whoosh, there went my sweet childish crush on Professor Snape. You see, the peculiar trait of Lucius Malfoy's personality is that whenever he comes to Hogwarts to say hello to his little son, he always ends up somewhere around Professor Snape's dungeon, as if he cannot remember the way to the Slytherin dorm to save his life – and since his aforementioned little son doesn't spend days and nights in the aforementioned dungeon, even though he loves potions as much as the next person, he hardly ever gets the chance to exchange greetings with his father. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the reason behind my father's frequent visits to our school, but that, of course, is just a random idea that has no basis in reality. We all get those from time to time.
But I digress. The point is that I did manage to meet dad during one of his visits to Hogwarts, and that was quite a surprise, too – during that very period of my school life, he was the last person I expected to see, especially during the lunch break, especially in Professor Snape's lair (to think that my father couldn't possibly show up in any part of the world just because he wanted to – how naïve I was). Before you ask, my own reason to spend the lunch breaks in the dungeon on a regular basis is a whole another story, so allow me to let this slide and go on. Anyway, my father was there, and he was busy discussing something with Professor Snape – the topic of their discussion is still a mystery to me, but apparently it was quite important, seeing how dad was wearing his best black cape. Words can't describe the spiffiness of that outfit, and that's saying something. Then he kissed Professor Snape. The way they do it in the muggle movies and such. On the lips. Not having much experience in love and kissing, I was impressed. So impressed that it was quite hard for me to keep pretending that I was an invisible nonexistent something so that my father and teacher wouldn't notice me and tell me to get lost. Or worse yet, blush and say that I misinterpreted their actions. My father's anger I could live with, but embarrassment was so unnatural for someone like him, I was afraid to even think about it. I may not look the type, but I have my own ideals, too.
Then I saw Professor Snape's eyes. His cold, piercing black eyes. Well, actually, at that very moment they were neither cold nor piercing, and that was exactly what broke my sensitive heart into a bizillion of pieces. I saw Professor Snape giving my father a 'lost puppy' kind of look, and it was only my rather sensible inner voice that kept me from spitting a frustrated 'Holy Morgana so-and-so!' and attracting their attention. Yes, our potions master. A lost puppy. Thanks to him and his total lack of dignity in my father's presence, my introduction to the real life ended up being very unpleasant – then again, that's what real life is supposed to be like. That, and it was the bitter end of my long journal entries focused on Professor Snape's thrice-damned cold, piercing eyes, and while my life did not become less of a crazy circus on that fateful day, my diary became infinitely less poetic. Still eventful, but far not as descriptive as before. Perhaps it was quite a loss for our modern literature.
As you can see, my first romantic experience was a big disappointment and nothing more than that.
My other attempt at getting myself some sort of a personal life wasn't much better, either.
I wouldn't say that my self-esteem felt that bad when I failed to seduce a certain Harry Potter with the help of my beautiful grey eyes (them being beautiful is a well-known fact, and it's not that I need his approval). My self-esteem is just as tough as I am, and it can bear a lot – and besides, we weren't really supposed to seduce each other, at least not during our first year: I think I remember Dumbledore saying something about 'unacceptable behavior' or whatever it was. Still, I was brave enough to approach the famous Potter (you'd expect that from a Malfoy, no?) and suggest that he, being a famous figure in the world of wizards, should choose friends properly – I still consider that a good advice, but you know how people treat you when you tell them something useful: they frown, snort and call you a snob. A snob, for Merlin's sake. Lack of desire to talk to mudbloods and poor wannabe-wizards is suddenly the biggest crime one can think of. What a world we live in.
As a result, Potter refused to befriend me – or rather, his red-haired faithful follower decided that I was unlikeable, and Potter figured out that an obedient minion was better than a good-looking partner with a sky-high IQ. Sure, I'd like to believe that he was just too shy to express his true opinion in front of that obnoxious Weasley offspring, but I'm afraid that he underappreciated me, and shyness had little to do with it.
Ah, the hardships of being better than just about everyone else.
The problem is that I, with my level of intelligence and all, can't even begin to understand Potter's taste in people, and thus my relationship with him is still… laughably underdeveloped. You'd think that he would admire my witty criticism of Neville Longbottom – but no, he just glared at me and muttered something about me not having a right to insult people. Insult. Hah. That Longbottom himself is an insult to my pride, and I should treat him with respect. Yes. In a million years. That guy is a walking nuclear bomb, less complex yet more dangerous, for Merlin's sake.
And Hagrid? That man has more fleas than my father's bloodhound, and Potter can't even appreciate my sincere wish to protect him from those insects. Yes, protect. Fleas are the last thing I want to see on my partner, but in this school, nobody seems to value hygiene anymore. The evils of democracy. Who'd think that my youth would be this hard, just because I'm slightly conservative when it comes to health and body care?
Overall, my life has always been a Our-Lord-knows-what, and unless I improve my knowledge of the Dark Arts, and improve it soon, our wonderful society going to get even more insane. I know it – no, I can feel it. My instincts say so, and they hardly ever make mistakes.
Being quite possibly the only sane person out there is not simple.