My First Hate

Penthesilea

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/08/2003
Last Updated: 14/08/2003
Status: in_progress

Draco's feeling run deeper than blood, pain, torment, and even hate. She tries to save him, but all he wants to do is hurt her. (Warning: Involves lots of violence and blood - rating will go up!)

Chapters

1. Like a California King

1. Like a California King

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~MY FIRST HATE~

PART I: Like a California King

I see you have made yourself a brand new life,

Such a cool blue star with a bright new shine.

I see you wear your checkered past just like a shining suit of gold,

I know you think you look so special.

I must have loathed her more than any one person on the whole planet. If there was one person I wanted to see fail, one person I wanted to see hurt, or one person I wanted to see ashamed, it was her. I must have hated her for years; gods knew I’d hated her family since I was old enough to know the difference between the wizarding families. Her mere presence grated on my nerves. Her very voice made me homicidal with hatred. Even her eyes made me want to erupt with such hate and rage I often thought she was some sort of demon controlling my mind. It was completely irrational, of course, but I hated her just the same.

She was just too much. She always had that certain spark, that one thing that makes you notice. She looked like a modern day Venus, her perfect, rose-colored hair and pool-like amber eyes. She had the body to match, ‘a goddess among girls’ some of the boys called her. It didn’t matter she was a Weasley, beauty was admired in all houses by Slytherin, not that they’d care to admit it, of course. But hers was not a beauty they were permitted to sample. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I hated her with such passion, one of the reasons I wanted to see her suffer.

It wasn’t the only one though. No, her looks might have been the start of it though. Maybe it was because I could never have her, because that Potter faggot got to her first. Oh, yes, they were perfect together, a beautiful couple, and it only served to fuel my hatred further. She looked so happy, so serene. It hardly seemed fair that one person could be so bleeding and completely blissful. It hardly seemed fair that someone’s life could be so fucking perfect. And it certainly wasn’t fair that she was so supremely content.

I can admit (to myself) that I may have been jealous. How could she, living in her stupid little shack of a house, be happy? Why would she, lower than dirt and more insignificant than an anthill in Africa, be satisfied? After all the pain she’d been put through in her first year you would think she would be scarred in some way. You would think that she would be unstable, or insane, or depressed, or angry, or in pain, or violent, or something other than happy. You would think she would hold pain in her eyes when she walked down the hall. You would think she wouldn’t be able to look people in the face out of shame. You would think that she would have scars or something.

But somehow she just continued. She lived as though nothing had happened. I was never ignorant; I knew what my father had done to her; I knew who she was. She was the fucking Heir of Slytherin. She was a bleeding daughter of the Dark Lord’s soul. She had the more promise of evil in her fingernail than the whole school combined. And did she let it bother her? Did she show her fear and rage against those who had wronged her? Did she even acknowledge my existence? Did she have the bloody sense to fear who I was?

No.

No to all of it. She lived like she walked in a dream. She played Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She excelled in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. She could beat the knickers off most people older than her in dueling club. She helped the younger years with their Charms homework on Wednesday evenings. She sat with the popular Gryffindor crowd at the meal table. She wrote for the school newspaper as the Chief Editor. She received mail every day, presumably by different people. She was up for a modeling job at Madam Malkin’s Paris base. She even found time to spend with her boyfriend, Potter.

No girl could possibly be that perfect. And yet she was. I hated her for her perfection. She should have been dark. She should have been wounded. She should have been unstable. She should have been depressive. She should have been a thousand things but not perfect. She should not have been able to wear her past proudly on her sleeve. She should not have been able to live with herself. And yet she did. And it confused me to no end how she could.

She was always so proud. She stood tall, though she could barely reach my shoulder. She seemed tall though; perhaps it was just her attitude. She acted out of her cast, the mold I placed her in when I first saw her. She had the looks of a fighter in her, some one who survived and came back punching. But when you get down to it, all Gryffindors had that. No real child of Godric was placed in the ‘noble house of Gryffindor’ unless they were true-blue, grit-in-your-teeth-and-heart-on-your-sleeve diehards. Yes, she would be proud until the day of her death. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that pride covers a great multitude of sins. Like Virginia Weasley is capable of sinning.

I know you think you look so special.

What makes you think you are so special?

What makes you think you are unique?

I see you smile and I get angry,

As I watch you go colossal.

Even now she is defiant. Even now she is proud, a true Gryffindor. Another reason why I hate her with all I am. Even now she stands selfless. Even now, though she bleeds (I had to see if she was truly human), though she struggles in the ropes (I had to make sure she could not escape), and though she grits her teeth in pain (I had to reassure myself of her humanity again), she stays proud. She never once cried out, she never once spoke to me, and she never once looked at me as if I were anything other than scum beneath her feet.

I turn my lips up as I look at her. Her flesh is still pink from heat, her cuts still flowing freely with her noble, Gryffindor blood, and her eyes are still sharp and cutting. I run my fingers down her jaw, feeling her stiffen under my fingers, her very body rejecting my touch. She seems not to fear me, nor does she seem to be weakening. It is unfortunate, for the torture will have to last longer her way. I don’t mind.

She is my first, assigned by my father and charged to me by the Dark Lord himself. Not her specifically, but anyone. I chose her as my first. It only seemed natural; after all, she was a Weasley. She was Potter’s girlfriend. She was a Mudblood and Muggle sympathizer. She was a Gryffindor. It couldn’t have been any more perfect. She, my first true hate, would be my first true torture.

I had watched tortures before, watched as people screamed out in pain, watched as they bled and eventually died. It was an initiation of some sort, a right of passage, if you will, into the Death Eaters. All who were in the top ranks of the Dark Lord were required to present their broken specimen to He Who Must Not Be Named himself. It was a sort of present. My father’s present was Peter Pettigrew. Mine would be even greater. For what could possibly be greater than the Heir of Slytherin?

I trail my fingers down her throat, my eyes never leaving hers. Still there is no fear, still she stays silent, and still she shows nothing. She confuses and infuriates me still. No one can possibly be that strong! No one can be that righteous! No one can be that great! So I smack her, watching her head fling to the side and her cheeks flush immediately. No sound!

“Why,” I seethe quietly. “Why do you not cry out? Why do you not yield, Weasley bitch!?!”

It makes me even more enraged that I cannot break her. Nothing I do, nothing anyone can do could break that infernal woman! I have done everything. Physical pain seems to not faze her. Psychological pain is child’s play in her eyes. Even the Unforgivables get no utter of word from her. I am on my last thread! Forty-nine hours of torture and she has not so much as breathed differently. Forty-nine hours of torture and she has yet to show signs of needing rest. She was like a stone. And what is worse, I am beginning to suspect she is breaking me.

No, I will not let her break me. Not ever. I am the one in control here! I am the one with the instruments of torture! I am the one who holds her life in my hands! …So why does this seem like a battle? This should be like a game of cat and mouse! I should not be questioning myself, especially not in front of her. But gods…why does defiance have to be so beautiful on her face?

She just turns her head up at my questions, not bothering to respond to my insults. Her long, gracefully curved neck is white against her blood and the black, ripped shirt she wears. She looks above her, perhaps as though some god or deity, or, perhaps, for her precious Potter to come and save her. And yet there is nothing pious about the way she looks. Nothing in the way of mourning either. No sign of her ever giving up.

“Why?” I repeat. I hate it, but my voice jumped as I asked it.

She takes a breath, her eyes still focused on a point above and behind me. And then she looks at me. I take the full force of her amber-sugar eyes, but I cannot find it in me to turn away from her. She does look like a martyr right now, beautiful, strong, and proud. And there is something else.

“Do you truly wish to know?” she asks. Her voice is gravelly and uneven. That is to be expected, for she has not been given water in too long and she has not used her voice once in my presence.

“Yes,” I whisper, hoping I sound as dangerous as I feel, or at least want to feel.

For a moment it seems she is teasing me with the answer because she does not speak. She turns her head and focus on that point above and beyond me again, her eyes growing distant and soft. It is the first time that she has shown any sign of letting her guard down, or letting me into her defenses. And yet she has not let me so far in that I can sabotage them. Smart girl.

“Because,” she said slowly, her voice leveling out. “I have survived Hell, Draco Malfoy. Do you truly think that this,” she looked about her, and then into my eyes, “this child’s play can break me when I’ve walked darker and more dangerous paths? Did you actually believe that your pathetic attempts to subdue me would work after I’d been broken and tossed aside by Satan?” And here she scoffed a demeaning scoff, a chillingly familiar smirk on her lips as she bored into my eyes. Gray seemed to be a very weak color when assaulted by amber. “And I thought you were a Slytherin. Gods, aren’t you supposed to be clever?”

And then she does something I never expected from her. She throws her gorgeous head of hair back and laughs. It is a deep, throaty, courtesan’s laughter, as though it came from deep in her chest and reverberated its way to her fleshy lips. She was laughing at me…right in front of my face. She was laughing at me as I tortured her, as though I were tickling her, not threatening her life.

“Stop it!” I command sharply, my face, no doubt, contorting in rage. “Stop it!” I yell again, pulling my wand out and waving it around dangerously. She just keeps laughing her stimulating laughter. “I command it!” And yet she continues.

“Alohamora!” I yell. The shackles that were holding her suspended in the air let her down as the charm unlocked them.

I will find you in the crowded room.

I will knock you off your feet.

I will burn you just like teenage love.

I will eat you just like meat.

I will break you into pieces,

Hold you up for all the world to see.

I watch her fall to the ground, her lithe little body folding on itself, her arms weak from being held above her head and her legs limp from straining to reach the ground and relieve pressure from her arms. She just kept with her evil, manic laughter, her eyes quite clearly watering when she looked up at me.

“Stop it!” I screeched, kneeling down and shaking her by her shoulders. She just kept looking at me with her tawny eyes, never breaking contact. It was as I feared, she was winning the battle. I could not let her win! I would master her! She would not master me! I stopped shaking her, and though her laughter had died down to a low chuckle she seemed to mock me with just her eyes.

“Don’t you see?” she whispered. She sounded so dark, so tarnished…had I judged her so wrongly? “Don’t you see?”

“See what?” I whispered in demand. She wasn’t looking at me again; her eyes were far beyond anything material. She had that distant, unreachable look to her again. “See what?” I asked again, shaking her, trying to cut her from her thoughts.

“What I was. What you are. Don’t you see any of it?” she replied, looking full-force at me now.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“…still doesn’t know… …still hasn’t managed to figure it out…” she muttered to herself. “You pawn,” she said spitefully. Her voice was full of anger, though I sensed that it wasn’t at me. She felt nothing for me. And for a moment I hated her for it. I had tortured her. I had almost killed her. I had been ruthless to her during school. I felt something for her – hatred deeper than my own blood. And she felt nothing for me!

I recall my father once said the worst type of hatred was indifference. I now know what he means. She didn’t hate me. It was worse than that; she didn’t even acknowledge me. She didn’t see me as anything more than perhaps an annoying bit of dust on her shoulder. That enraged me beyond all comprehension.

“What do you speak of, Weasley bitch?” I ground out.

She looked at me, snorted and shook her head slightly. “You’re his pawn. He owns you…and you don’t even see it!”

“You forget your place,” I growl. How dare she say things like that!? I could kill her with my two bare hands!

“No,” she replied coolly. “Actually I know my place quite well. You see, I’ve been where you are now. I know what it feels like. And believe me when I say you’ve already lost. Do you think you shall receive riches? Power? What has he promised you? What has he told you?” She looked at me hard and snorted at what she saw. “Do you really believe he will share his power if he wins?”

“No,” I deny, not in answer to her questions, but to block her out and make her quiet. I cannot hear the blasphemy. I won’t listen to her sacrilegious rampages! She cannot profane the great and powerful Dark Lord like that. Does she know who he is? What he could do to her?

And then it hit me. Yes. Yes, she does know. And what was worse, she knew that she knew. She was, after all, the Heir of Slytherin. She’d seen the Dark Lord to his work. She’d felt his magic flow through her. She’d tasted the tinge of regret when he took her over. She had been his complete pawn, doing whatever he said without question. Of course she knew what she was talking about

“You lie,” I deny again, willing it to be untrue.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly, her amber eyes glinting with some mad joy. “The truth always hurts. And you know what I say is the truth. After all,” she added, as though it were an after thought. “I am a Gryffindor. We don’t lie.”

It did hurt. It was the truth. And she was a Gryffindor; they didn’t lie.

I felt as though a world came crashing down on him. Perhaps it wasn’t even mine. Perhaps it wasn’t even real. Whatever it was swarmed around me, spiraling wickedly. It seemed to laugh at me, taunt me for not seeing it earlier. A pawn! All I was in the eyes of my master was a pawn. I would be killed as soon as the Dark Lord had what he wanted.

What makes you think you are the only one immune to falling down?

Why can't you see?

I see you fall and I get happy,

I will watch you burn like fire.

And before I knew it I was filled with such a supreme hatred and a will to lash out with it upon the red-haired, tawny-eyed, full-lipped Weasley woman. Oh, how I would love to rip off that torn little shirt of hers and cut her deeply with a knife. Or better yet with my very own nails so I could feel her skin peeling into my claws. I would relish in her blood and pain, relish in her suffering. I would make her cry out in agony before it was all over! I would ravage those lips until they bled under my pressure and terror would fill her laughing eyes.

All I wanted was to make her feel my pain in confusion. All I wanted was a reaction, a feeling beyond indifference from her. I always got what I wanted. No matter the costs and no matter the consequence, Draco Malfoy got what he wanted, and I wasn’t going to be stopped by some poorly bred Weasley bitch. Her days of superiority and pride were over and done with.

But before I could exact my revenge she said something that made me think. Her eyes met mine, and a whole new world was opened to me. It barely mattered that she had killed his illusions. It hardly replaced them, but it also made me curious. I remember some proverb that curiosity killed the cat. But I wonder, will it kill the dragon? That light in her eyes, no matter how brief it was, caught my attention.

“But you don’t have to be,” she said softly. “A pawn, I mean. You don’t have to be. If there was one thing I learned, it is that you never have to do what you don’t want to. You don’t have to be controlled. You don’t have to be demeaned. You certainly don’t have to die for him. I thought I did and I was wrong.”

The words hit me like frigid water. ‘Not doing it’ was never an option for me before. Actually, I had never even thought of it. And I realized at that moment that it was because it had never been programmed into my mind. Choices? Those were for my father to make. Those were for my master to make. Surely…surely she lied when she spoke of choices.

But then…

The words reverberated in my head. But then she’d made a choice. I could do anything a Weasley could do. I could probably do it better. If she had choices then I certainly had choices. I did not want to be a slave to a man that would kill me without a second glance. Truth be told I never had wanted that. My father wanted that. Why was it so hard to tell the difference between the two?

“Do you see now?” she asked, looking at me calmly. Her eyes were guarded and closed again.

I stayed silent for a while. “Yes,” I whispered. I did understand.

It seemed as though a wet cloak had been lifted off of me and I could finally stand up straight and free. It seemed as if I could do anything at that moment, and right then, I felt like leaving and never coming back. Yes, that sounded very good.

“Get up,” I command.

But she stays, not moving. Her eyes are on my face, as though she were reading an open book. A fit of rage comes over me and I stand violently, tugging her up. How dare she presume to read me!? She seems unperturbed, unashamed, and untouched by my flaring of emotional hatred.

But for now I will ignore it. I grab my wand from my pocked and watch her carefully. She sways, looking slightly ill. No matter, I will have to carry her then. She can’t weigh much, the waif. I pull her up harshly as she sways again and her eyes shoot me an unreadable expression. I hate how she can read me so easily and I can’t begin to comprehend her. Just who does she think she is?

“Where do you live?” I ask. It took me a while do decide where I wanted to go. I couldn’t go back to my home with her. I couldn’t take her to any of my relatives. I couldn’t take her to the Ministry or Mungo’s. I couldn’t very well take her to Hogwarts. So unless she lived in her parents’ house, we were going to her house.

“In Hogsmeade,” she replied after a moment, giving herself a few seconds to study my face. “A small house on the outskirts of town, northern quadrant, the farthest from Hogwarts.”

I nod and grip her and my wand. I’ve never done double Apparition. I suppose it is much like normal Apparition, only perhaps harder. So I Apparate. It works, of course, and she and I stand in the pale moonlight, a small cottage-like house is thirty feet from us. I don’t know if it reflects her or not. People say that you can learn a lot about people from where they live. It applies to me I suppose. Her house is small, though neat. There is a large garden in the front of the house and it is surrounded by a white fence. The house itself is a beige color with white shutters and a large red door. The house screams poor suburban life, but that is until she leads me in.

She is limping, weary, probably from lack of sleep. I’ve had very little sleep too, but the call for her blood is less now. Right now, the call for sleep overrides all the violence and hate I feel for her. Right now, the only thing I want to do is escape the lies of my father and my master.

The house is dark inside, but as soon as she turns the light on I see flawless décor. Rich, dark rugs cover the wooden floors and artful couches. She lights her fire and I see more. The house is larger than it looks on the inside, the ceiling’s higher, and there is a staircase next to the kitchen door that I expect leads upstairs and to her sleeping rooms. I vaguely wonder what her rooms look like.

“You have my wand,” she says quietly.

“I left it,” I reply.

She sighs, giving me another guarded look and heads to a door underneath the stairs. She pulls out a thick blanket embroidered in gold. I find myself wondering what she does for a living. Her parents surely didn’t give her any of these things. Perhaps her boyfriend Harry bought them for her. The thought makes me sneer. Of course Potter would have bought her these things. They were practically married, weren’t they? In fact, he would probably be here.

I was so stupid! I played into her little plots once again. She had truly broken me. No! I will not go down without a fight! I must act fast. As soon as she puts down the blanket and pillow on the couch I am on her, my wand sticking into her throat mercilessly as my other arm holds her arms down.

And for some reason she doesn’t struggle. Potter must be here for her not to be so scared. Her bloody protector was no doubt right up the stairs and waiting for her to come home to him. “Where is he?” I hear myself growl.

She doesn’t struggle again, merely looks ahead of her. It is as if she is used to violence. It crosses my mind that she probably is. “We are alone,” she says calmly. “I live alone.”

The words run through my mind and I find myself letting go of her. She tells the truth. Gryffindors don’t lie, they find it despicable. If anything I’ve learned that. “Where is Potter?” I ask. Of course I am suspicious. Slytherin are always suspicious.

She steps away from me, facing me and crossing her arms. “I thought you would have heard. It was a big scandal. He married Cho Chang and ran off with Hermione Granger. Ron was happy of course, already married to that Veela-bitch, Fleur Delacour, and up to his arse with children. He never liked Cho Chang much. Come to think of it, I never did either.”

To my surprise I snort. It is mildly comedic, her representation of what happened. I had always figured her for the type that would marry and have a truckload of red-headed, squalling brats. At (well if I was twenty-four she had to be twenty-three or -two) her age I would have suspected the growings of a regular tribe of red-headed, screeching Weasley children. But then, as I was learning, she wasn’t exactly as she appeared. And as I looked at her, the more her indifference intrigued me. Another mystery to solve.

“I always thought that you would marry Harry fucking Potter,” I said snidely, seeing if that prod would hurt at all.

She snorted, turning her back on me and sitting on her couch. It didn’t seem to hurt, but then, she was a master of controlling her emotions…outwardly at least. She looked on at the fire as if it would give her some answers and I had the sneaking suspicion that I’d missed something rather important.

“Everyone thought it was sunshine and daisies, Harry and me,” she said quietly. The fire crackled for a moment then settled down. “I see you were fooled too. Funny, at times I could even fool myself. I could make myself think that I was something other than…than whatever I was. I don’t even know any more.”

A game? Gryffindors played games like that? I am intrigued. I was almost certain the game she was describing was a Slytherin one. My parents played it very well. All except the roles were reversed. Most people seem to think that my father controls our house. If you’d ever seen him you would know why. But in truth it is my mother. After all, she was the sister of Bellatrix Black – I mean Lestrange. Auntie Bellatrix is the master of that game, she had learned from the best, my master. It appeared that Potter knew a few interesting games after all.

“I suppose it wasn’t hard to fool most of them,” she said quietly. “Everyone wanted it to happen anyway. Everyone wanted it more than I did.” Then she turned on me, giving me an unreadable look. I hated that look. “Even you wanted it; that is why you believed it.”

Yes, I had believed it. But now I understood.

“Isn’t it funny how things like that happen,” she said without an ounce of humor in her voice. She sat there for another moment or two, staring off into the fire. Then, abruptly, she stood. “I’m going to bed.” And she left.

She left me standing, watching where she was sitting and not sure what to do. She’d given me blankets and a pillow, but she was going to make me sleep on the couch? A Malfoy, sleep on the couch? That was ridiculous. I snorted, looking disdainfully at the couch and then up the stairs. But I gave in. I was too tired and I needed sleep. Perhaps tomorrow I could find somewhere I wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.

I see you fall and I get happy,

I will watch you burn like fire.

I will watch you burn like a California king.

(Author’s Notes: I really don’t know what got into my head when I wrote that. It’s really weird, so I don’t know if I’ll continue on with it. I kind of like it though. Maybe when Elemental is done I’ll take another look at it.

Also, the lyrics I used were from Everclear’s Like a California King.)