Metanoia

It started with confusion.

He didn’t know why he noticed Weasley’s hair was more auburn than orange these days. Then startlingly, why he found it nice.

It was insignificant enough that he could ignore that he ever thought that.

Then it grew. Got worse.

He liked that Weasley’s cheeks flushed for every little emotion. It made him wanna seek it out, prode her into reacting just to watch. It distracted him, how she would sometimes fall asleep during class. How soft and guileless her face. Weasley tried not to cry by digging her nails into her palms, he discovered accidentally during one of their fights. He noticed a dozen little things like that. Things he shouldn’t be noticing.

So the confusion grew into self hate. He tried to escape it by avoiding her, but she was everywhere so he doubled his efforts in antagonising her. None of them worked.

And like that, he was stuck with attraction. A shameful, hate-filled attraction, one he’d take to the grave.

It was the last class before the weekend. People had stopped putting in effort to pretend like they were paying attention. 

“When’s detention Draco?” asked Pansy Parkinson, leanings annoyingly close to him.

“In two hours.” 

 “With Weasley, right? Poor you.” She added a look of disdain in the redhead’s direction.

Weasley was saying something to Potter, a complaint by the look of it. He caught words like Quidditch, cancelled and stupid Malfoy. 

A little smirk curled up his lips.

They had been arguing over who would get the Quidditch Pitch for Saturday. Started off with that at least. But then he’d had the brilliant idea of riling her up to the maximum just before Mcgonagall spotted them, so she’d tried to hex him just as she had turned to look at them.

It had backfired because she had seen more than he expected and now he was stuck in detention too.

Binns’ droning along with whatever rubbish Pansy was spouting was making his eyelids heavy with sleep. He rested his head on arms folded on the desk. In his exhaustion, he freely let his eyes wander over to where Weasley was suppressing laughter at something Potter said. Her lips kept twitching up, eyes crinkling with a private warmth. For Potter only. 

The bell rang before he could reflect on why that made him want to punch a wall.

Consciously, Draco hated her. It’s been that way since the day he met her. He was seven then, bored at Borgin and Burke’s while his father discussed Important Things with a fat, balding man.

Through the clear window, he’d seen a family of redheads walking by. They were incredibly interesting to look at, with their vivid hair colour and how much space they took up in the street. There was even a girl about his age. She kind of looked lost in the crowd and was hurrying to keep up with everyone.

His fathers voice demanded his attention. “Those are the Weasley’s, Draco,” he said coldly, a sneer forming on his face. Immediately Draco knew that they weren’t people he should think were interesting and tried to quash it. “Theyre just as bad as those mudbloods, those blood traitors.”  

He didn’t fully understand what he was talking about but the disgust in his tone imprinted on his mind, made him feel disgusted towards them too. And as the years went by, he finally understood his father’s words from that day.

Weasley had only ever proven what he thought about her family true. Her friends, her house, her personality, everything about her added fuel to the fire that was his loathing for her. It grew into something uncontrollable. Extreme.

So this fucked up lust he had for her killed him inside. 

He’d reached the trophy room by then. Weasley was already there. Mcgonagall nodded at both of them sharply. 

“Alright then. Polish all the trophies in this side of the room. Try to avoid bickering and losing even more house points.” Mcgonagall looked intently at both of them, lingering slightly more on the girl. “Get to work then.”

It was a huge room. Illuminated only by lamplight and smelling faintly of metal and oil. The other side of the room held freshly polished trophies. He supposed it was the second detention of the day.

Mcgonagall went to the adjacent room to correct papers and they both got to work sullenly. It was weird to be silent around Weasley. He couldn’t remember them ever being in such close proximity and not insulting each other. She wasn’t looking at him but seemed kind of on edge. 

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he asked snidely. “Can’t bear to be away from Saint Potter for so long?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” she snapped. A light flush pinked her cheeks but she didn’t look up. She was covering way more compared to his languid pace. The light of the lamp brought a gentle golden glow to her features, emphasizing the redness of her lips. 

“Did you curse me?” 

This finally got her to look at him. “What?”

He internally debated brushing it off but this was something he really needed to know. “Did you curse me, Wealsey? Hex me or poison my food?”

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion and the beginnings of anger. “Why would I do that, Malfoy?”

“Because you hate me.”

She frowned. “I don’t just go about hexing people for no reason. Why do you think that anyway?”

He didn’t reply to that. She quickly got frustrated with the silence and moved closer to him.

“Why do you think that?” she repeated. Her eyes scrunched with exasperation and when he still gave no reply, she forcibly moved into his line of sight. 

“I just feel the effects of a curse. Figured it would be the work of you and your little group.” 

“That’s more up your alley, Malfoy,” she scoffed, walking away. 

McGonagall came in to announce that they were free to go now. She looked unimpressed with the amount of trophies polished. 

Weasley paused at the door. She glanced back at him strangely just before she left, brows pinched in curiosity. 

He’d fucked up.