I like to sit in front of my mirror and criticise my reflection with words that don't mean a bloody thing, telling myself all of my problems and figuring out what I should do about them. It's a terrible thing that I have roommates now. I can only spend so much time in the bathroom before they become worried or some such nonsense. Bloody prats.
Luckily, I was paired with that lousy Neville Longbottom in Potions yesterday. He didn't add enough crushed fairy wing to the truth serum we were told to make. I was a fool and drank the whole bit and got sick to my stomach. So, I've got off of class for the rest of the day while the rest of the Slytherin boys are enjoying a romp with Magical Creatures that will likely bite them because I'm not there to bite.
The mirror calls. I walk in and sit down on the closed seat of the pot and pull my knees up to my chest. It was rather hot in here earlier, so I took off my robes. I'm sitting here in only boots and khaki pants feeling awful daft for pairing up with Neville earlier because most of the members of Slytherin had been pulled from the class to go see Dumbledore about having opened all of the cages in the Owlery. But, my stomach still hurts and it didn't do to yark all over Snape when he came by to inspect the results. At least he didn't take any points away.
My reflection is currently gazing back at me. If I stare at it long enough, I'll look malformed. Hah. Malformed Malfoy. My eyes will take on the colour of storm clouds and my hair will turn into white gold and I'll imagine myself as somebody precious. Oh, I'll imagine myself as somebody precious, all right. I'll pretend I'm Harry Potter.
The mirrored image of my Slytherin face does not look amused, so I begin to speak. "I hate Harry Potter."
The boy in front of me doesn't look convinced. "Really, I hate him. He's a bloody prat, an innumerable twit, a facetious git, a... Why does he have to be so wonderful, huh?"
My reflection shrugs. "Draco, Draco, Draco... Harry's so wonderful because he can beat you at every game you play. He's the grandest Quidditch Seeker ever no matter how much I indulge in my own illusions. He may not be able to do Divination but that's for fools, anyway. His potions are often a bit screwy, but I doubt they'd make me sick like Longbottom's. And, Potter's a great wizard. How else could he beat Vol... You-Know-Who. At least he can say his name. I'm even afraid to do that."
Leaning against the counter now, my reflection looks quite interested in what I have to say.
"Potter always seems to be losing points for Gryffindor, but then he just gains them back and he always performs some amazing feat under pressure at the end of the year that makes Slytherin, I mean us, lose the cup. He's so dreadfully wonderful and everyone loves him."
I look down at my feet suddenly, pulling my arms away from leaning against the bathroom counter. I don't want to admit the last bit out loud, but it feels like it's being pulled from me. "I'm in love with Harry Potter, too. He's just got to be *that* wonderful, doesn't he? He still does things wrong, but he corrects it all. I used to think I just wanted to be Harry Potter. But, what would be special about being Harry Potter? I'm already in love with myself. As Draco Malfoy, I get to love him and me. If I were Harry Potter, I'd just love me and I'm not making any sense. Why am I in love with Harry Potter? Why must I love him? The stupid little prat! He ruins everything and then he just wins and wins and wins! I'm supposed to be the winner, I'm the one who everyone is supposed to look up to and adore and shower their love upon!"
My reflection looks shocked at my outburst. I pull my knees back up to my chest and stare back at myself over my knees, mouth hidden behind the creases in khaki pants, arms tightly looped around the tops of boots I'll probably take off in a minute or two. My eyes are peering back at me, eyes fading to a dull, misplaced grey, my white-gold hair too bright in the bathroom light, my pale skin too lifeless and chalk-coloured, despite my hours out on the Quidditch field. I whisper words against the fabric on my knees, knowing my reflection doesn't need to hear them, but I do. "I used to hate Harry Potter. Then, I used to want to be Harry Potter. Now, I just want to be *with* Harry Potter."
The dull grey eyes gazing back at me light up suddenly. "Maybe I've got a chance..." But I know it's hopeless. Potter has no interest in a boy as pale as the spirit of someone after The Dementor's Kiss, someone who treats him like a god fallen from his pedastal. I just want him to fall to me. On his pedastal, I can't reach him. I'm not a god. I'm just a wizard. Not even that... just a wizard-in-training. And, my broomstick can only fly so high...
He can beat me at every game I play... except for the game of loving him. Maybe I can beat him at that... Maybe if I can figure out the rules, I can win. Harry Potter is a boy who doesn't follow the rules, though. What if there are none? I'll have to make it up as I go along, and... "Why does love have to be so complicated?"
I pull myself into a standing position, my torso overextended and unconvincing as something strong on my reflection. I feel better having talked it out with myself, but talking isn't love. But what do I know about love? I'm in love with Harry Potter.