AN: Some Malfoy angst for you all.
Warnings: SLASH, dammit!
Feedback: is flame free, hopefully.
Thankies: Zo-bo again, for being my fellow HPDM lover. You rock! We bad. We bad.
Friendship Not Began
The moment I saw him walk into the robes shop that day four years ago, I knew he was innocent, nervous, uneducated, and had no friends. I wanted to be that only friend, the one who stood up for him, the one who laughed, cried and smiled with him. I wanted to be his friend, and I wanted him to be my friend. I tried to start conversation, I tried to be friendly. But all the types of conversational skills that a Malfoy is taught made me dig my own grave. So I got drastic, and decided to show off. That was a bad idea. It seemed he favored neither the aloof, smug type nor the wealthy, well-bred type. Then I asked where his parents were, and down the toilet went my damned chances.
"Where are your parents?"
"…they're dead."
"Oh. Sorry."
Damn the Malfoys, damn my father, damn my whole bloody family for training me to talk in this manner! Thanks to the drawling, bored way I have grown accustomed to speaking, he got the impression that I didn't care whether his parents were dead or had run away to be the bearded lady and the strongman in some crackpot circus. I blew my chances then, and finally when he was finished being fitted for his robes, I silently cursed myself, him, and my family for the misfortune they had brought.
A few more times throughout that year I tried to befriend him. Every time I was rejected. It was my family's fault, my fault, but above all, I taught myself that it was Ihis/I fault for not understanding that I really cared. So hurt grew into irritation which finally grew into hate. For years I hated him, despised him, loathed his very presence. Until I began to notice the spark in the emerald eyes, the glossy sheen of the unkempt ebony hair, the waterfall laughter, the grace of body movement, and the flush of anger on smooth china cheeks. It was the very thing I had been dreading. Hate, the most terrible, fiery hate and Ienvy/I, had blossomed into what every Malfoy was taught to fear to feel.
It had grown into love.
End
AN: So? You like? More? Ehh?
Warnings: SLASH, dammit!
Feedback: is flame free, hopefully.
Thankies: Zo-bo again, for being my fellow HPDM lover. You rock! We bad. We bad.
Friendship Not Began
The moment I saw him walk into the robes shop that day four years ago, I knew he was innocent, nervous, uneducated, and had no friends. I wanted to be that only friend, the one who stood up for him, the one who laughed, cried and smiled with him. I wanted to be his friend, and I wanted him to be my friend. I tried to start conversation, I tried to be friendly. But all the types of conversational skills that a Malfoy is taught made me dig my own grave. So I got drastic, and decided to show off. That was a bad idea. It seemed he favored neither the aloof, smug type nor the wealthy, well-bred type. Then I asked where his parents were, and down the toilet went my damned chances.
"Where are your parents?"
"…they're dead."
"Oh. Sorry."
Damn the Malfoys, damn my father, damn my whole bloody family for training me to talk in this manner! Thanks to the drawling, bored way I have grown accustomed to speaking, he got the impression that I didn't care whether his parents were dead or had run away to be the bearded lady and the strongman in some crackpot circus. I blew my chances then, and finally when he was finished being fitted for his robes, I silently cursed myself, him, and my family for the misfortune they had brought.
A few more times throughout that year I tried to befriend him. Every time I was rejected. It was my family's fault, my fault, but above all, I taught myself that it was Ihis/I fault for not understanding that I really cared. So hurt grew into irritation which finally grew into hate. For years I hated him, despised him, loathed his very presence. Until I began to notice the spark in the emerald eyes, the glossy sheen of the unkempt ebony hair, the waterfall laughter, the grace of body movement, and the flush of anger on smooth china cheeks. It was the very thing I had been dreading. Hate, the most terrible, fiery hate and Ienvy/I, had blossomed into what every Malfoy was taught to fear to feel.
It had grown into love.
End
AN: So? You like? More? Ehh?
