✞ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 ✞

i

draco didn't like to think about his first night off to hogwarts. it wasn't exactly a pleasant memory. that feeling of complete and utter shame which sunk into him on the unsettlingly silent drive to the train station made him want to hurl. he felt too exhausted to cry, but he needed some sort of release from that urge-that ache in his throat screaming at him to let
his pain out. to let go of his drastic feelings instead of bottling them up.

draco didn't like to think about the fact that there was something about potter which he truly hated. he didn't know exactly what it was but the thought of harry potter as a person just made him so god awfully mad. not only was there that constant rage, but there was also just this feeling. this disgusting, tingly feeling he got in the pit of his stomach and he hated it. he hated how that tingly feeling was something he craved-longed for. how good it made him feel. was it jealously? no, it couldn't be. he wasn't jealous of parentless potter-he could never be jealous of him. but then again, if it wasn't jealously, what the ever-loving fuck was it?

that was another thing draco didn't like to think about. his true feelings for potter and what they really meant. he was having a bit of an existential crisis with his constant "who am i? who do i want to be? who do people want me to be?" it was quite the struggle. with his knowing that he had some sort of attraction towards the male gender, and his father's consistent want for him to be absolutely perfect, draco felt distressed, overwhelmed, and exhausted; emotionally and physically. he wanted to be perfect, yes, of course, he did, but he also wanted to understand himself. to understand his want-his desire for potters' attention. why did he want harry to know he existed? to prove he was better than his peers? that he wasn't some stupid attention-seeking queer? but then again, what if he was exactly what they were saying? all those things, what if they were true?

draco absolutely hated to think about what the other slytherins had called him. it was bad enough that the other houses had ridiculed him, but the fact that his own fucking house had belittled him and made him feel incompetent was borderline unbearable. it reminded him of his father-of home. with the shouting about how draco was going to grow up to be a worthless malfoy. a no-good, low-life, disgrace of a malfoy. he could hear his father saying it now, telling him off for embarrassing their family, making them look abnormal. he hated his father, he hated slytherin, he hated all the other houses, he hated harry potter with his stupid group and well, if he was honest; he hated himself the most.

draco didn't like to think about his father-and that was okay because it was mutual. his father disliked draco and everything he did. and draco disliked his father and his constant needling of draco's personality.

draco didn't like to think about when he was eleven and he had his first encounter with one harry potter. although it isn't what he was hoping for, it was more along the lines of what he had expected. he'd been rejected in front of the whole school-a god awful first impression that was-and then he was mocked for trying to make friends with the harry potter.

'just a measly old malfoy,' he wrote sarcastically to his journal that night. 'a measly old malfoy trying to befriend harry potter. oh, how grand he is with his stupid scar, and his stupid hair and his stupid glasses. what's so great about him anyway? he's got a dumb-looking face with big green eyes and he apparently killed you know who.'

draco, terrified of someone finding out, refused to ever use his proper name when writing. come to think of it, he never used it when speaking, either.

'he's already got himself a gaggle of fans following him everywhere. some stupid mudblood girl and another weasley. he was chanting something while he was being sorted. i think he cheated the system, cast a spell so he could get into gryffindor. i bet the little prick was supposed to go in hufflepuff, but felt as if he were too good for it because he's harry fucking potter. everyone loves him, and everyone loves everyone else for loving him. i can't-i refuse to love him. there is nothing special about harry potter, and there will never be anything special about harry potter. he's just some stupid boy, with a stupid scar and stupid glasses. i hate him and i hate that everyone calls me a queer for it. i don't know what the bloody hell that is, but it's something i'll never be.'

he signed his journal that night with watery eyes, and wrote to his mum about it; staining the paper with a few scalding tears. he hated to cry-to show any emotion besides anger, especially while other people were around. but he couldn't stop them-they'd been building for so long he was afraid he would just explode with all of his pent up feelings.

his brain went wild that night, thinking about things he didn't even understand.

what would happen if i hurt myself? would i feel better? worse? somewhere in between? would i feel nothing at all?

how would i hurt myself? rope burn? candle wax? a knife? the options are endless it seems.

who would care if i hurt myself? not my father, or the slytherins, not harry fucking potter the golden boy. does he care about anyone except himself? he's an arrogant arsehole who has people bowing with the snap of his fingers. and what am i? apparently a lowlife queer who's a disgrace to an entire name.

there's nothing he has that i don't.

except he's got people who care about him. he's got people who love him.