COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET

By deja noir

Chapter One

I don't know why I am acting like this, sitting and wondering whether they know of my reality—my pretense—which I denied from both myself and my society. Of course, denial was without further doubt the most rational decision to choose. It was in fact my only decision otherwise my fate will be handed to eternal shame and damnation especially since I am who I am—with blood so pure running smoothly and perfectly within my veins—a Malfoy. But the feeling, the ever so wondrous and amazing feeling, can not be merely contained and hidden in my heart. It's much too massive of a feeling for my heart to encapsulate it; much too massive that denial seemed to have met its match.

Months and months before, Professor Dumbledore had announced our inclusion and participation at the Interschool Quidditch Competition. Everyone, including our mentors assumed that only one house would comprise the players included on the match; however, we all assumed wrong. With the help of Madam Hooch and a hand full of Quidditch experts, Professor Dumbledore chose the deserving Hogwarts players. Fortunately and unfortunately, I was apart of it.

It had always been my dream to live life in fame and I was certain, if the gods favor so, that upon victory, fame would not be a question. However, because of that dream I'm currently caught up in two worlds: a lie and reality.

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"I hate to admit it but, you were great out there, Malfoy" Harry complimented sheepishly after winning themselves the Golden Cup.

"I know," I responded confidently. "For parallelism, I commend your performance as well."

Harry snorted. "Why don't you just confess we both did well?"

"Well, yes, apparently we did. That's why I'm holding this," I gestured toward the cup I was holding, "However, I believe so that my agility was incomparable to yours"

Another snort, "L'emme guess, yours was better?"

"Yes, good thing that big head of yours can figure that out"

"Right." He paused for effect, "Well, if my head's big then yours is probably… more than colossally huge."

"Ah, so you admit that you're ego and pride's—and I quote—colossally huge"

"Oh, do yourself a favor, Malfoy, and stop acing like a total ass"

"Whatever, Potter."

Harry started to retreat and I, despite myself, realized that he did deserve a little congratulations—and maybe a sprinkle of camaraderie at the side—but I decided not to for he was correct, my head is utterly big and I can not let a simple circumstance of hard work and teamwork destroy the fabrics of what I am known for—what I've become: I do not associate with anything or anyone who deals with stupid mudbloods. I am the Draco Malfoy and I do not give a rat's ass about the famous Harry Potter.

But, if that's so, why am I even thinking this?

A day has passed—that means two more days to go before returning to Hogwarts—and stupid ole' Harry Potter's been bugging the hell out of me. Why the hell is my conscience so insistent on befriending a long established enemy? Why the hell am I suddenly like this?

My thoughts were interrupted when the devil himself, Harry Potter, appeared in front of me, as if on queue to the turmoil within me, favoring my conscience.

"Malfoy," acknowledged Harry.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"This is a kitchen and I'm fairly certain I have every right to cook myself a meal."

"Well can't you see I'm here?"

"So? I don't see your name written anywhere—and besides, I'd rather be vexed by your airy presence than starve to death."

"Right," I said, pushing my plate to the side, "but to me it's otherwise: I'd rather starve to death than have you here in front of me."

"Fine by me."

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Who in his right mind would have thought that at that same night something deeper than camraderie would transpire.

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A/N: Do review.

Mwah! deja noir