He hated me for a long time. I don't blame him, now that I am old enough to realize my flaws and look back on my imperfections. I had misconceptions about him from the start, and he of me, but they were my own fault.
Looking back now, I realize that I was an arrogant little bastard and all because I let my father's opinions become my own just because he spoiled me rotten. However, I eventually grew to have my own mind. But, it took a while.
Everyone has flaws. Mine are numerous enough that I'd rather not take the time to name them all. Instead, I'll talk about the person I know who is closest to flawless: Harry Potter.
Harry Potter is a half-blood. He is not the smartest person, nor the bravest, though he might come close to either or both. He has messy hair and knobby knees, a goofy smile, and ears that stick out jut a bit. One of his eyes is greener than the other. When he takes his glasses off, there are little indentations on his temples that show where they sit. He has a mole on his right shoulder, a large, but neat, scar on his right knee, not to mention the horrible abomination that is his trademark: that jagged scar on his forehead.
But he is beautiful all the same.
I realized a bit as to why I hate him. It is for two entirely unconnected reasons, but they each seem to be factors.
The first reason is that he initially refused my friendship. We met in Madame Malkin's shop and I happened to insult the Hogwarts groundskeeper, someone he'd obviously already grown loyal toward. At the time, I didn't know who he was, so I never thought to apologize. It didn't help that I met him next on the train to Hogwarts where he'd been sitting, chatting, for a while with a boy I needed no introduction to: Ron Weasley. I'd never met him before, but he was obviously a Weasley. He looked very much like the picture of the man on my father's dartboard. My father hates Weasleys and I was taught to, as well. A moment after that encounter, the foot I should have been starting off with was in my mouth. Harry Potter did not want me, so of course I didn't need him.
But, there is a second reason. I hate Harry Potter because he is happy. Well, not really happy, but happier than me. The littlest things make him flush and grin. It takes a lot to make a boy happy when he has everything. From what I hear, Harry Potter has nothing. He has no family, few actual possessions, and yet he gives. How does a boy with nothing give so much when I have so much and feel that I have nothing to give?
I hate him for being better than me at everything, too. If he's not better, one of those Gryffindor no-good friends of his is or will be. Mudblood Granger is the only one who can top me in Potions. Weasley seems quite able to mop the floor with me. Potter is just all-around good and wholesome and can always beat me to the Snitch, even if I'm closer. I heard mention that he must want it more. Whoever said it never had a man like Lucius Malfoy for a father.
And so I hate him. I don't, really, but I say I do because it makes things easier. If I didn't hate him, then I'd have to ask myself just how I liked him.
I'm old enough now to realize that it is not normal to stop and admire the view in the showers. I'm not the only one, but I'm probably the least discreet about it. Last semester, all but one of the Quidditch changing rooms flooded after it rained for several weeks straight. For a week after that, all of the players had to share one locker room.
Besides stinking quite badly by the end, it was also an eye-opening experience. In the locker rooms, there are two separate showering areas, each spelled so that only members of a certain sex may enter. Because of that, no one was afraid to shower. But, when Slytherin played Gryffindor, I was afraid. I knew I'd lost before the game started, but I still tried my hardest, even though the thought of seeing the boy I hated without his clothes on unnerved me a bit.
In the showers, I tried to stare at the wall as I cleaned off the layer of sweat that had formed as I'd tried again to beat The Boy Who Lived. It worked fine until he chose the showerhead next to mine. He seemed uncaring of the fact that he hated me. He simply lathered his skinny body, full of angles, up with soap and rinsed, then scrubbed his hair, rinsed, attempted conditioning, rinsed again, shut off the shower and walked off, drying himself with a maroon towel.
While he cleaned himself, I felt myself soiling him even more with my gaze. He was beautiful in an awkward way, asymmetric like flower petals, and I wanted, more than anything, to touch him and taste him, and set aside a chapter in my catalogue of senses just for him.
But it was after that when I realized that he *didn't* hate me. He didn't like me, but he also didn't really have a reason to do so.
I hate him. He is the bane of my existence. However, if he can get over hate, so can I. If I need to overcome the past, I will. I will becaue I see the error of my ways and I now have the knowledge and tools to fix them, and fix me, and fix us.