With general hatred, one assumed the worst of another human being, or creature, with vivacious thrill. For example, if someone- let's say a complete stranger, were to mug an old woman. Collectively, people would hate the man. No one would admit it, but it was all within the very nature of mankind.
With general likeness, one assumed the best, or that another was wronged in one way or another no matter how the situation truly went. Let's say again, that the man mugged the old woman. This time, we know a little bit more about her because we are family. She'd stolen the purse of which the mugger had taken. The picture is then distorted completely, dependant on the amount of information you possess. She had loved that purse, you'd think. I feel bad for her. I hate him. And on the other hand: It was that man's purse. He was simply taking it back. I hate her.
It all came down to one ugly thing. Love.
Love, by many other names, was hatred wearing a poor disguise. You hate others. You hate others who are opposed by your loved ones. It was all very sarcastic; it was all unserious. And yet, it remains, the pinnacle of human discovery, the thing everyone searches for. Because, truly, what is Love if the one who you claim to love is surrounded by hate? Is Love not a form of hatred in of itself?
For Draco Lucius Malfoy, now eighteen years old, and with an unapologetic cynical outlook on life, this was his philosophy. Growing up in a strict household as he did had taught him, through actions rather than mere words, that Love includes hurting others around you, including, but certainly not limited to, the one(s) you claim to have affection for. This much was taught to him, as well as the fact that you earn Love through obedience.
When he was younger, growing up seemed impassible. He was older, more mature in his mind's eye. He knew he was getting into Hogwarts. He knew he'd be in Slytherin. He even knew, eventually, that he'd proceed his father in serving Voldemort. Growing up felt only a biological restraint. That all changed the moment he locked eyes with none other than Harry Potter himself.
For years, he'd tried to deny his gravitational pull, this inward obsession towards the raven- haired boy, but it proved futile in Year Four when Death taunted Harry with each task he did for the Triwizard Tournament. Simply, Draco couldn't stand the idea of Harry dying.
Four years later, on the train back to Hogwarts to finish his education, he contemplates if he'll feel the same way anymore. They hadn't so much as read about each other in The Daily Prophet. Oftentimes, both of them make headlines for ridiculous and futile reasons. Harry more so than Draco, of course. Draco muses at the train's platform from his compartment on the train, spacing out unbeknownst to those looking in.
Harry's status, already famous as The Boy Who Lived, and even more so as The Chosen One, had now risen exponentially going from The Chosen One, to The Saviour of the Wizarding World. Of course it was only doubled by the fact that Harry was only a baby when he got his first title, fifteen when he got his second, and seventeen when he got his third. He wasn't even an adult. To any other witch or wizard or magical folk, this was impressive; swoon worthy. To Draco, this was not. He didn't hate Harry as much as he used to, but he was still adverse to being in the same general area his name was mentioned, which often came up when the topic of his father did.
Lucius Abraxas Malfoy had been tried and sent to Azkaban for life. It was a pitiless and concise trial, much adorned with anger and hostility. Draco almost got sent to that torture chamber, but got out on nothing more than a technicality. Both sentences were largely courteous of Harry himself.
As the Hogwarts Express whistles, signaling a minute before departure, his compartment door slides open. Standing in the doorway are three people who he really wished to avoid.