What are you?

I like it

    Draco wasn't exactly sure when it started. When he began stealing glances at Weasley during breakfast, and lunch, and, evidently dinner. He stared at his hair and the pinkish hue of his skin during their sessions together.  Even his stupid, Weasley-centric smile he couldn't get enough of. It was exceedingly disturbing, and, in all honesty, it shook Draco to his core. 

 What was he to say? How was he to act? He asked himself this constantly, yet, never came to a definitive answer. Despite everything though, he thought it was an amazing distraction.  He didn't expect the cursed necklace to work so well. 

 He thought, just maybe, that it could be a dud, and absolutely no one would have gotten hurt. But, of course, it didn't, and he was left with a sick, guilty feeling swimming around in the pit of his stomach. He would never say anything, it would likely kill him, but sometimes he wished he could just run. Infinitely, on and on, until the sun when down and the words of the dark lord were but a distant memory in his head. The thought became repetitive, the idea of leaving, of running away. He spent his free time musing over different scenarios, different ways his life could have played out.

 What if his father was better? What if dark magic didn't exist? What if this, what if that. He wondered if it would be possible to get away, maybe change his name and move to America. He could pretend to be a muggle, and live in some backwoods town, one where everyone was friendly and happy smiles.

No one would know about his past, or the dark mark, or the ridiculous pure blood ideologies which funded his childhood. Things would be different, better. But, Voldemort would find him, and he would kill everyone that he loved (though sparse), of that there was no denying.

___

"I hate this bloody school," Crabbe said, in a voice that sounded like a combination of anger and murderous glee. "Right there, can't wait to see it gone," Goyle was trailing beside them, bumping into every possible person that he could. A pair of first year ravenclaw's fell to the ground, their bags sliding off to the side. Draco felt a pain in his chest as he stared at them, purely stunned. They were on their way to divination, with which Draco had no idea why he took.

The class was boring, if not entirely fake, and he swore that you could say positively anything to Trelawney and she would give you a good grade. It was an easy course, and, at that moment Draco found a class where he hardly had to do anything all too rewarding. They walked into the class, and almost immediately Draco spotted out Weasley. He was talking with Potter and Granger, laughing possibly at some in-joke. His elbows were placed gently on the table, and his back was arched ever so forwards.

His hair was in his eyes, it was especially messy that day, like he had just rolled out of bed. Crabbe must have noticed his staring, considering that once they sat down he leaned close to his ear and whispered: "bone to pick with the Weasel ay?" Draco was shocked by this, so much so that he let out a flabbergasted "what?" He hadn't thought about tormenting Weasley, (or anyone really) since the year had begun. He was too tired, too dreamy to argue with people outwardly.

So, he was quiet most of the time, nothing but passing remarks and smug smirks. He guessed, although moderately, that it had surprised some people. But he found it perfectly natural. "The way you were looking at him then, seemed like you were planning something," he said. Damn, he thought to himself, wracking his brain for something quick and snappy to say. "No, I was just admiring the dull idiocy and inferiority that is Ronald Weasley," he said, mentally patting himself on the back.

"Got that right," said Goyle, "Hey Weasel!" He said, cupping his meaty hands together to make the sound travel farther. Weasley looked over at him, hazel eyes widened, and smile completely dropped. At that, Draco was fuming. "Don't you own a bleeding comb?

Your hair looks like that of a rat's nest," Crabbe chuckled, holding his stomach as if he were Santa Claus. "I think you mean his face," Crabbe said, together they crossed their arms, nudging Draco as if he were meant to say something also.  "I guess that's what happens when you're Weasel, no sense of personal hygiene." Draco wanted to punch one of them, and he was somewhat nervous that the vexation he was feeling inside was becoming visible on his face. Thankfully Granger cut in, saying "I hardly understand how that is even an intellectual insult, his hair, really?

Have you no better things to come up with than that? Seems rather idiotic if you ask me." They both shut up, leaving Draco to deal with the conversation-like eye contact which brewed between him and Weasley after. He looked sad, Merlin, he looked almost hurt. More than he ever had been when Draco legitimately insulted him, like a kicked puppy. For the first time in what felt like months, Draco felt genuinely angry, enraged even. But not for himself as he so typically was, for Weasley.

There was this hot, red fire that seemed to take hold of him, slithering through his lungs and throat. He had to talk to him, he had to.

____

The class was just as Draco had imagined it, boring and deceitful. Trelawney had spent the better half of class talking about a very interesting dream she had (something about dragons and goblins . . . he didn't really care to know) and for the rest of the class they were given time to study for the upcoming exam. However, seeing as Draco had already gone over his notes on dream interpretation considerably, he sketched silly hymns that he deemed as utterly ridiculous. Things like:

Sweetness of your kind is upmost

and divine

I love the way you look at things

And

Could something have always been there?

Could I have not known?

A serpent, an axe, a rule otherwise thrown

To what do I owe the honor?

He stared at his paper, at the scribbled words on the parchment, trying not to ponder what made him write them. He dared not to let Crabbe or Goyle see, for that, that would have been a fate worse than death, and he was not up for accepting such liberties. After class ended he followed behind Weasley, watching his footing against the ground, the pace that he kept. Once he was abandoned by Grander and Potter, and the hallway was nearly empty, he pushed Weasley into the nearest empty classroom, shutting the door as quietly as possible from behind them. "What the hell Malfoy!

What are you doing?" He went to grab his wand, eyes darting across the lines of desks and empty cauldrons with bewilderment. "Shh! I'm not going to hurt you, put the sodding wand away, Merlin." Draco said without haste, showing his empty hands. Reluctantly, Weasley nodded, crossing his arms.

"What?" he said, not meeting his eye.

"I-" Draco found it hard to force the words out, it was like swallowing poison. "I'm sorry," he finally said, Weasley's face grew to be a faint pink color. "For?"

"You know what," he said, "Crabbe and Goyle earlier."

"Did you tell them to say that?" Weasley said, his face cross.

"No, I was quiet, I said something to get them to sod off but I never said anything about your hair," We-Ron thought about this for a moment, looking deep in thought. "Okay," he said, Draco was stunned.

"Okay?

You're not upset?"

"I believe you, but you didn't have to pull me into an empty classroom to tell me that."

"Oh," they looked at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, Ron more so than Draco. "Well," Draco said, his confidence seemingly growing tenfold, "if it's any consolation, I quite like your hair today." Ron's face reddened to the shade of a rose and the expression on his face was purely uncanny.

"I have to get to lunch, bye," he said, scampering out of the door as fast as humanly possible. Draco watched him leave, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, he really did like it.