Beneath
Hate makes a Malfoy.
And everyone knows it. Those who hate the Malfoys, those who love them, and the Malfoys themselves... Everyone knows that the Malfoys don't run on love. Not anymore. For the youngest Malfoys just entering the entire process, they grow into the frosty habit of being superior and inhumane, and they grow to share the concept with their own offspring. Because it wins them superiority. It's a cycle; it's a law.
It's a curse.
Once, on my way back from Transfiguration, I knew love. I mean, knew what it was, what it felt like: a heavy swing between the eyes, a breathlessness that somehow overwhelms the pride. Brown eyes that held all the warmth in the world, red hair that dizzied and intoxicated, red like fire, red like blood... and a smile like a child, the child not unlike the one I had been before I fell to believing love was weakness.
For a moment, our eyes met; cold, loveless silver with warm, loving brown. Yearning met fear, and she looked away, turning pink but not glancing over again. And that's when I knew; perhaps such things weren't meant for Malfoys after all. Perhaps we're meant for duty, not happiness. Perhaps being superior asks for loneliness in exchange. Perhaps we...
red, red, red, so red, so warm, so right, and so far away.
I dwell on it sometimes. On the colors, on the warmth, and people tell me I get a faraway look in my eyes, like I'm unhappy or somewhere else, or angry, or even sad, or...
But then I give them one glance, one hateful glance, so cold and empty and in its own way hungry, and they look away, and remember that we are superior and not quite so human. Not quite so weak.