Oh Shit
It was hard staring at him all the time. Knowing there was no way in hell you had a chance with him but at the same time never being able to look away. Like his whole bloody existence was some shitty train wreck, you can't look away, but at the same time you don't want to.
You could see him and his stupid platinum blonde hair all the way across Diagon Alley. There were so many beautiful girls that flirted with him, talked to him, and even dated him. But he never seemed happy. Or satisfied... if you know what I mean.
He acted like his entire, privileged life was so miserable he had to take it out on other people. And to be honest, it probably was. But no one ever cared to look past the bully, the narcissist, or the racist shit head who couldn't keep his mouth shut. No, all they saw was a Malfoy, through and through.
What they failed to see was an abused child who had seen more horrendous things by the age of 10 than Voldemort himself. They didn't see the abuser of a father he had. They didn't see the letters sent to his father that were from his classmates, or the detailed discriptions of how he had failed to bully any Gryffindor he saw at every waking moment. They didn't see through the glamours to see the bruises and cuts the boy always seemed to have after he came home from the holidays. Nobody noticed that the more he leaves the muggle born students alone, the worse they got.
Except for one person. Someone who had a temper to rival the famous blonde's on any day, yet someone who could make sure he knew he was loved. Of course they didn't read the letters themself, but they knew something like that had to be going on as it was a tradition most purebood families exploited, from what their parents told them.
And that someone is Fredrick Gideon Weasley, believe it or not.