You look at him, as always, from a distance. He is there, on the other side of the room, sitting at the long table of his House, in the company of his friends, those lucky ones who has the right, the privilege of converse, laugh and joke with him every day, every hour. However, you don’t have that privilege: that’s funny, in a certain way, how much could be easy to stand up from your seat, cross the Great Hall, greet him and sit next to him.
Yes, it could be easy, but it’s not. If the distance between you and him could appear, to an external spectator, as some meters, you know well, as he knows that this is not the case at all. That between the two of you there are more than a few meters of floor to divide you; between you and him there are years of silence, digs, mockeries, gratuitous cruelty, mutual dislike.
And you perfectly know another thing, that it’s all your fault. Because that damn day of many years before, at Madam Malkin’s shop, when you haven’t already known the identity of that short and tiny child, with black messy hair and definitely a loser look, you didn’t keep your mouth shut. And you couldn't even do it when, a month later, you two met again on the train, after you had looked for him in all the carriages, because you knew you would find him, somewhere, and you couldn't wait to talk to him.
Harry Potter.
A name, a legend. Since you were a child, you have been used to hearing that name spoken from mouth to mouth in various ways, some with admiration, some with contempt, some with fear. You knew that story by heart: adults often told how that child had mysteriously managed to defeat He Who Must Not Be Named, the most powerful dark wizard the world had known since Gellert Grindelwald.
All sorts of things were said about the child who, just over a year after his birth, had triumphed where the most gifted wizards of entire generations had failed: how had he survived the Killing Curse? And why, immediately after that, had he been so harshly removed from the magical world, without any explanation? Perhaps, he was a dark wizard destined to become even more powerful than He Who Must Not Be Named, or perhaps he possessed some unknown special ability.
You found that topic extremely fascinating, you’ve read everything about it, and you felt ready to meet him, to talk to him, to become his friend. You couldn't miss that opportunity: you were lucky enough to be the same age as the great, famous Harry Potter. You wanted him by your side, you hadto have him by your side.
You never expected that the Boy Who Lived, responsible for the fall of the Dark Lord, was the same child you had met a few weeks earlier in Diagon Alley: that little boy who was wearing clothes three times his size and who certainly wasn't aware of the existence of hairdressers.
He had seemed so anonymous and ordinary, and yet you remembered well his face, his unkempt appearance and shy attitude that had seemed adorable in their own way. And now he was in front of you, again: the famous scar, a month earlier hidden by a tuft of rebellious hair, was now clearly visible, confirming the fact that, yes, he was Harry Potter, a legendary name engraved on the paper of the history books that finally took shape and became incarnate in an ordinary little boy, just like you.
And then, once again, you couldn't hold your tongue: you had insulted his friend, a carrot head, clearly a Weasley (really, what was someone like Harry Potter doing with a Weasley? You didn't understand), and he had coldly rejected you, letting your outstretched hand fall down your side, still cold.
If you hadn't made a good first impression at Madam Malkin's shop, that time you obviously twisted the knife in the wound and ruined everything. Of course. Of course, Harry Potter had to be a saint, a defender of the Mudbloods and beggars! And he had refused friendship with the Malfoy heir – a Malfoy! – preferring a Weasley instead of you.
Well, choose for yourself your friends, then! I really want to see what kind of people you’ll become friend with, you thought as you returned to your cabin, even though a heavy sensation of disappointment was slowly beginning to overwhelm you and, looking out of the window, you thought of those beautiful green eyes that you hadn’t notice during your first meeting.
Over the years, nothing had changed: you had kept to act like an asshole, while Potter sometimes chose to react, sometimes to ignore you, now used to the daily teasing.
So now, you find yourself looking at him from a distance, admiring him while pretending to despise him, following his every single movement, staring at his handsome face, his raven hair as unkempt as always, his enchanting green eyes.
And you know that, no, you could never cancel the distance between you two, you could never sit by his side, because he would reject you bluntly, and he would be right. Just as you know that that sweet smile will never be directed at you, now or ever.
Because he hates you and you, for some reason, have done everything you can do to make him hate you.
What was it at the beginning? Envy, desire to excel, annoyance at his rejection? You are not sure either.
You can say, however, that at some point you got to like it: you can't help but take pleasure in his reactions, in those blazing green eyes filled with rage, hooking into yours and piercing you. You love that gaze on you, you yearn for it with every bit of your soul: you love the fact that it is so intense, so alive and that it is only on you and no one else.
Look at me, look at me again, please. No matter if I only see hatred in your eyes, I want to see that beautiful green, I want it only for me.
So, this will be a day like any other, you will bother him in every possible way in order to get his attention, in order to draw his gaze upon you, and he will growl at you, he will answer back, with that fervour that you like so much.
You will enjoy that bit of attention he reserves for you, it will remain in your thoughts until tomorrow, when you’ll wake up and need it again. And, in the meantime, you will ignore that other desire, which is growing more and more as time goes by, while you are not able to do anything about it: the desire that something else might be born in those eyes instead of hatred.
But it is useless to hope, you tell yourself, it is too late now. Today will be like yesterday, tomorrow will be like today. Nothing will ever change between you two, nothing can ever change. You and him are on two different planets, and perhaps it is better that way.
Even today you misbehave with him, you make some stupid jokes about him and his friends, you giggle behind his back and he gives you his attention, he gives you one of his best dirty looks, and you feel that familiar warmth sprout up in your chest.
Then he turns away, and you see him smiling to his friends, who are walking alongside him.
You look at him and that feeling of warmth gradually fades, like embers slowly dying in the cold wind.