I can't exactly put my finger on what makes me hate him so much. The reason is elusive, like holding water: no matter how hard you try it slips between the cracks and is lost forever. It is something self contradicting; tangible but intangible – able to be touched but not grasped – like the mist that settles across the grounds on a humid morning late in spring.
I am looking across the grounds now, out of an abandoned classroom full of leaky cauldrons and broken quills and spoiled parchment and (from what I've observed) a secluded family of mice. It is cold and, because it is pouring outside, rather damp, but it is quiet (aside from periodic shuffling). It may not be as roomy as the dormitory or the common room, but I am willing to accommodate for private accommodations. At least here I am sanctioned access to my thoughts. They are something I must guard when I am around him, because my mother has imprinted into my eyelids that men like Lucius Malfoy don't want to marry smart girls (independent women), and until the documentation is official, I'm supposed to keep my trap shut, or else.
I really do wonder about Mum sometimes. It's not as though our social status is pivoting on this marriage, although I admit it will strengthen family ties (although, isn't he actually related to me somewhere along the line?) which will make for good business. And Lucius is kind enough, a little boring at times, but kind and generous and wickedly handsome – but I loathe him with a startling passion. I think passion is an interesting word choice on my part, although I must admit it is appropriate.
He consumes my thoughts. I am standing here, watching the rain fall outside in a damp abandoned classroom (occupied by mice) with a run in my stocking that I am too lazy to mend because I hate Lucius Malfoy with every fiber of my 97 pound being. Am I judging too harshly? I wonder. Perhaps I do not hate Lucius so much as I hate the fact that marrying him will, once and for all, close all the other doors of opportunity I didn't have a chance to examine. And I will be stuck with him, closing the door to our bedroom on our wedding night, knowing that when morning comes, I will legally and physically be his wife.
Wife is such a strange word, at least when it is applied to my name, or when I think of myself as Mrs. Lucius Malfoy. I give the word such a negative connotation; I look down on it, I look down on him, and what he'll expect of me, and how disappointing I'm going to purposely be in order spite him. Oh Christ I don't want to get married at this age.
It's still raining, but not as hard, and it's still damp, but I don't notice how cold it is anymore because I've gone rather numb all over. I think it is possible for happiness to be relative, and I wonder if I'd be happy if I was stupid. Is that even possible? What kind of genuine happiness does a person have if they are not able to comprehend what makes them happy? (What does a stupid person live for?) A stupid person does not observe what is around them; they don't understand the purpose of other things, simple things, much less their own purpose. But are stupid people happier than other people? Are they content simply not knowing – and is that contentedness simply what makes them stupid to begin with?
Moreover, if I were stupid, would I mind being Lucius Malfoy's wife? Maybe that is what Mum meant, but honestly, the idea of my mother being right is more depressing than thoughts of marriage. On a side note, the mice have decided I am not a threat and have come out from behind an abandoned muggle phonograph. There is a large male and a slightly smaller female (but only because she is sleeker and more feminine that the rather effeminate male) and a, from what I can tell, genderless offspring that looks a bit overfed compared to it's parents.