Serpentine [Drarry]

Serpentine

In the eyes of his mother, he was a gem. In the eyes of his father, the perfect heir. He was loved, loved so much by not only his family but everyone else too. Someone such as him who had grown up in wealth and privilege would have everything he pleases, everything handed down on silver platters. People in his social circle would dote on him, all begging for his attention, secretly hoping to elevate their statuses if the boy in question—more of a prince, were to even glance on them. In short, he was perfect, from the glistening silver hair to his porcelain skin, sharp angles and lean body. He didn't ask to be, but he was, he was his father's son after all, and with the way he was raised he couldn't help but carry this belief to the years he had lived— before the fall that is.

But deep inside his heart, all he had ever truly wanted was nothing his money could ever buy. It couldn't par with all the toys he had owned, the latest broomstick, the rarest book in his family library, or even the vaults of his family's assets, both his mother's and father's sides. The only thing that he desired the most— he would never say it out loud, never would admit it— was a handshake. An acceptance, a recognition, perhaps even a small smile. He would deny it, would take this fact to the grave, but every so often he would look back to that day—so many years ago already— of what could've happened if he didn't say what he had said, if the man with bright emerald eyes, uncontrollable hair, and fierce smile, the man who was loved by the world, loved more than he could ever be, shook his hand.

Despite how everyone treated him like he was perfect, he was raised in the environment that was full of prejudice, traditional ways and pureblood values ingrained at the back of his mind, suffocating him, never refusing to let him go, tightening even harder on the times when he would question them. Since then he did not even bother any longer, stopped questioning altogether, and letting those values blind him as he grew up.

He knew this was why that handshake was refused, but back then, he hadn't a clue. With someone as perfect as him, with his status and his charms, who in their right mind would ever turn him down? Because you are a bigot. Present him would tell his younger self.

It all began on the train. (It started at Madam Malkin's— Hullo, Hogwarts too — but they hadn't the chance to introduce one another at that time. He wonders what would've happened if they got one. Would things be different, or would it be the same? He knows not to entertain these thoughts, he'll just get miserable again.) His younger self thought, seeing as I am me, even the Chosen One would want to be my friend. There was a lingering uncertainty there, however, a nervousness he was successfully hiding from everyone. He was a prince, his father's son, after all, and his family— both the mother and father side— is never nervous. But he was also just a boy, a boy who grew up with Harry Potter on everyone's lips, who grew up dreaming of being his friend, having play dates and running around playing quidditch on sunny afternoons, sleepovers and wishing they'd be in the same house, same dorm room together.

Perhaps he shouldn't have said what he had said, back in the robe shop, back at the train. Perhaps if he had known how wrong he was, if the boy gave him a chance, it would all be different. He could've gotten that handshake. They would probably even be the best of friends. Perhaps. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

For the first time in his life, he had been rejected. Covering his hurt, he had resorted to bitterness and jealousy, constantly bullying the boy with the lightning scar, craving for his attention. He was the prince, everyone begged for his attention. Why is he the one begging for it now? He hated admitting it, but he was— still— one of them, one of his adoring fans who wanted his emerald eyes to look straight at him, only him.