An unpleasant man.
That was my first impression of Draco Malfoy, as seen through the eyes of me, Astoria Greengrass.
When I saw him once at a party long ago, the first things that caught my attention were his slicked-back hair stiffened with wax and his pale face. He might think he looks cool, but frankly, it was questionable. His affected way of speaking, his constant boasting about his family background, and the way he looked down on everyone around him simply because he was pure-blooded. Everything about that upperclassman got on my nerves.
Having said all that, I suppose I should admit that I have always taken pride in being more hardworking than most. Rather than relying on family name or bloodline, I honed my magical skills through my own efforts alone. That was something I was deeply proud of.
I have to protect myself.
Those were the words I had repeated to myself ever since I was afflicted with the "Blood Curse." My parents and my older sister were kind to me, but they could not always be by my side.
In fact, when they were not around, I was sometimes bullied because of my weak constitution.
Naturally, when I was still small, I cried again and again at the unfairness of the world.
But after thinking about it calmly, I came to a realization.
Wasn't I really not at fault at all?
Wasn't it wrong of them to look down on me just because my body was weak?
And so, as my anger gradually built up, I desperately studied physical combat techniques and struck back at everyone who mocked me, defeating them all at once. I punched those who pulled my hair using empty potion bottles, bit others like a wild beast, and used every possible means to defend myself.
Of course, it was not just about responding to fights that were picked with me. I also worked hard to become someone no one could complain about, someone who would not be looked down on in the first place.
In the end, you cannot survive in this world unless you are strong.
So I decided that I would become strong, no matter what.
I would not fall in a place like this.
Even in painful moments, I spurred myself on, telling myself not to be weak.
Even when it hurt so badly I felt like crying, I kept walking.
Without borrowing anyone's hand.
Without leaning on anyone's back.
Believing that even alone, I could become strong.
That belief became my strength.
It always supported my heart.
And so I kept walking.
Experiencing many things. Living through many moments.
So that I could fly ever higher. So that I could walk ever farther.
And yet.
When I looked back, there was almost nothing left in my memories.
What I did remember were countless spells and test papers scored a perfect hundred. Things that were extremely rational and practical, things necessary to survive in this world.
So with just those, having become a strong and intelligent witch, I should have been able to live happily.
But when I looked back, the smile of my older sister, whom I had once been so close to, was far away in the distance.
Even the Carrow twins, who used to follow behind me all the time, sometimes blurred together until I could not tell which was the older sister and which was the younger.
Before I knew it, I was all alone.
(It is only the natural result… isn't it?)
Believing that all one needed to live were spells and perfect scores, I barely ever looked back. I did not even try to see the hands extended toward me, throwing them away together with the fists that struck me.
Of course I would not remember. There was no one in my memories, and nothing left behind.
The reason I could not properly form a Patronus was exactly as Malfoy, my upperclassman, had said. Once you opened the lid, the answer was obvious.
Because all I ever thought about was becoming strong in order to survive. Because I stripped away everything unnecessary and judged the world around me solely by efficiency.
For example, wearing a composed expression as if to say, "I alone am different from the rest," and taking a detached, cynical attitude toward boys my age who were absorbed in Quidditch, saying things like, "That sport is full of loopholes in the rules," while indulging in a sense of superiority, as though I were somehow wiser than them.
All the while, I pretended not to notice that this was nothing more than an excuse to retreat into my own shell.
That was why a Patronus would never appear. I had deemed happy memories inefficient and discarded them as useless.
And yet.
"This time, the championship cup is ours."
The one who said that with a smug look on his face was the upperclassman I had found so unpleasant.
"We're taking the Quidditch Cup, Slytherin!"
If I were to see the moment Slytherin seized the cup, I would surely feel happy, he said.
How wonderful… ♡
As if I would be moved like some shoujo manga heroine.
On the contrary, my mind, sharpened by study, immediately began spinning in the most twisted direction possible. If it were that easy to produce a Patronus, I would not be struggling in the first place. I was in full-on cynical mode.
Still, since the entire house was wrapped in that kind of atmosphere, I at least read the room and went to watch the Quidditch Cup match together with my older sister.
What we saw there was not Slytherin claiming the cup, but rather a truly pitiful sight. The Slytherin team crumbled under pressure, resorted to rough play, and ultimately self-destructed in a disgraceful defeat.
Far from winning and lifting the cup, they were being utterly crushed, leaving me gaping in disbelief, torn between disappointment and exasperation.
"That's too much for Malfoy to handle,""Well, he was never a match for Potter in broom skills to begin with…""Even the broom performance they had going for them last year is worse than this year's."
Even among the Slytherin students cheering them on, the initial enthusiasm had faded, and the stands were on the verge of booing. In fact, there was almost a sense of "Just end the match already before this gets any worse."
People say "hard to watch," and this truly was.
I had not expected much from the start, yet for some reason, frustration and embarrassment welled up inside me, making my irritation grow uncontrollably.
(In the end, it was all just talk…)
At a hundred steps removed, perhaps claiming "we'll take the cup" would still hold water up until a fifty-point gap. But now that even that gap had been closed, with Harry Potter outperforming Malfoy both in skill and in broom performance, and with the team's morale and the crowd's support both dwindling, there was no rational reason to cling to a losing battle.
If I were a player, I would have cut my losses long ago. Giving up on what cannot be changed and devoting time, stamina, and intellect to something else would be far more rational.
(…Or so I thought.)
Despite the crushing score, despite being unable to find the Snitch at all, despite not being exceptionally good at Quidditch like Elaina or Potter.
(Why are you making that face…?)
His expression kept shifting, somewhere between pain and enjoyment. If it looked like he might win, he was immediately delighted. If it seemed like he might lose, he instantly looked frustrated.
You are two years older than me. Are you a child?
(But still…)
Just a little bit, I envy him.
Malfoy, reacting with pure joy and sorrow to each fleeting moment before his eyes.
Perhaps it is bravado, or vanity. But it is not just that.
He likes Quidditch. He likes playing together with his teammates. He likes showing his cool side to the friends cheering him on.
That is why, even without dazzling talent, even if he sulks after losing, in the end, he comes back.
There is probably no grand reason behind it.
No matter how small it is, as long as there is even a single reason to keep going, that is enough. By continuing like that, someday you can become serious about it. You can come to feel happiness not in the result, but in the act itself.
Malfoy has that now. I do not.
Eventually, when the golden Snitch is spotted, his previously affected expression shifts into something plainly serious. His usual thin, ironic smile vanishes without a trace, replaced by the face of a Seeker earnestly chasing victory.
It was like a shooting star glittering in the night sky.
His movements were sharp and beautiful, like lightning.A raging gale, his speed like a meteor.
As if he had been born solely for that single instant of brilliance, the moment of grasping the Snitch. Beautiful, yet somehow fleeting, his back drove forward single-mindedly toward victory.
With such a wide gap, how can you still fight? How can you still want to hold on? Is there any meaning in it? Is it fun?
Watching his retreating figure, I found myself wanting to hurl those questions at him.
The answer is something I have to find myself.
But still.
The journey to search for that answer surely will not be made of pain alone.
That was the feeling his back seemed to give me in reply.
(End of chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09