Fucking Potter

The Hardest Word

Author’s Note: The lyrics to Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word are written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin.

Author’s Note: I would especially like to thank MystressXOXO for all her help as a beta and hand holding working on this story.

What have I got to do to make you love me?
What have I got to do to make you care?
What do I do when lightning strikes me?
And I wake to find that you're not there?

Fucking Potter.

I’ve heard the name “Harry Potter” since the time I learned how to walk. It’s been hissed out, spewed like venom, from Father’s lips and murmured in disdain from Mother’s mouth. His name is revered and spoken sanctimoniously by ministry officials and sometimes even whispered in awe by idiots like Longbottom or Loony Lovegood.

Lovegood. Ha! She looks at him with those great big doe eyes like some sort of lovesick fool. I’ve seen Potter talk to her sometimes. I can feel my teeth grind whenever they’re together in the halls, whispering to each other, smiling, laughing. Every time I see him talking to one of the girls in his fan club, I want to go over there and punch him in the stomach. How dare they talk to him, fawning all over him as if he were everybody’s wet dream. The worse part is, of all the people he could associate with, he has to be with Loony Lovegood. What the fuck?

Over the last year, he’s gotten to be rather cosy with her. He must be getting hard for her. He’s even invited her to old Slughorn’s Christmas party. I didn’t believe Blaise when he told me he had overheard Potter invite her, or rather, he had heard Peeves cackling, “Potty asked Loony to go to the party!” I couldn’t believe it and told Blaise as much.

”Jealousy doesn’t become you, Draco.” Blaise replied. I laughed in his face. Zabini was always a romantic. “Why would I want to go to this pathetic party with her?” I said. Nevertheless, I told him I had to gatecrash the party to find out if it was true. He just shook his head and chuckled. What did he think was so bloody funny?

I was pacing outside of the Room of Hidden Things, trying to figure out how to get into the party without anyone noticing me, especially Slughorn, when Filch, that useless Squib, showed up and dragged me to it by my ear. I was furious, that mangy prick shouldn’t be allowed to lay his hands on me. But when we got there, Slughorn, that fat blob, was trying to be jolly and magnanimous when he said it was all right if I stayed. I was so humiliated because it was all in front of fucking Potter. So much for trying to go unnoticed.

I was getting ready to turn to Potter and ask who let vermin like him into a respectable soiree like this when Snape snatched me from the social affair, dragged me down to some empty classroom, and proceeded to lecture me, trying to get me to let him help me with the Dark Lord’s task. Who the hell does he think he is?

I rushed out of the room, away from Severus, as soon as I could and eventually decided that it might be entertaining to go back to the party to ridicule Potty Potter and his bug-eyed date Loony Lovegood.


What do I do to make you want me?
What have I got to do to be heard?
What do I say when it's all over?
And sorry seems to be the hardest word.


By the time I got back to the party, Potter was gone. I don’t know where he went, so I left. If I can’t mock him for his horrible taste in women, then there’s no point in attending a function I wasn’t invited to in the first place. I ended up wandering the halls. I gave a few detentions out to some late night stragglers. Everybody was so damn happy just because it was the end of term, so I showed them what happens when you look like a giddy idiot. Fuck happiness. It’s overrated.

Fucking Potter and his fucking date. I didn’t get a chance to see if they looked happy together. She’s such a freak; I hope she makes him miserable.

After awhile, I felt like I had walked a few miles through the drafty halls of this dank castle. I was feeling restless, alone, and isolated. Maybe it was Snape asking to help me that was making me feel this way. But no matter how much I wandered the corridors, I couldn’t shake this feeling, as if a giant had reached into my chest and was squeezing the life out of my heart. My heart was rapidly palpitating, and I could feel each heart beat pound against my chest as if it was going to be the last one. It hurt so fucking much. I began to feel as weak as a woman.

What does he see in her, anyway?


It's sad, so sad,
It's a sad, sad situation.
And it's getting more and more absurd.
It's sad, so sad.
Why can't we talk it over?
Oh it seems to me,
That sorry seems to be the hardest word.


Potter caught me in Myrtle’s bathroom last week. I am so humiliated by the situation. I was a pitiful man, pathetically crying into a disgusting basin with none other than the most annoying ghost around trying to comfort me. I’ve been trying for months now to fix that damn cabinet, but I can’t get the magic to work. Worse yet, my feeble attempts to kill Dumbledore via the necklace and the mead have ended with the unsuccessful near deaths of two Gryffindor Quidditch players. Even my failures are failures.

At least Potter wasn’t one of them. I am loathe to admit it, but I would be sorry if Potter were to die now. He’s been such an excellent source of taunting entertainment. Behind those spectacles, the way his eyes seethe with fury whenever he glares at me. They flash like an emerald fire and it’s intoxicating in effect to behold. I find I want to mock him for his self-righteousness and infuriate him just to make those embers flame higher. Sometimes looking at him staring at me, eyes narrowed showing all of his emotions, as if he could kill me with just a look, it really takes my breath away.

Potter use to think he had cause to be so angry with me for all the petty teasing I have done to him over the last few years. Now, after he almost killed me last week, he can no longer look me in the eyes anymore. Now, he looks away with regret whenever he sees me. It’s almost as if the bastard had the audacity to admit, even to himself, that he’s made a mistake.

Besides, I don’t know what I would do if he ever admitted that he was in the wrong and had made a genuine mistake. What would I do if he came up to me and said that he was sorry? What would I do then? What would I do if he stuck out his hand then and asked for my forgiveness? What would happen to all the tension between us when the animosity is gone? Would he still look at me with such fervent passion that a part of my heart would soften from his gaze?

I guess that’s the closest I’m going to get an apology from that pious, pompous ass.


What do I do to make you love me?
What have I got to do to be heard?
What do I do when lightning strikes me?
What have I got to do?
What have I got to do?
When sorry seems to be the hardest word.


I can’t get that damn thought out of my mind. What would happen if Potter and I weren’t on opposite sides of this battle? What if we didn’t have a reason to hate each other as much as we do now? If there had been no Dark Lord and he and I had met as children, what would have become of us? Would we still be enemies, or would we have been friends? Maybe we’d have been something in between, or something else entirely, or something more.

Oh, well, I don’t have to worry about that. If I know one thing, it’s that Potter will never ever admit to me that he’s sorry. I know I wouldn’t do such a pathetic thing. What have I got to be sorry for? I’m obedient and do what I’m told. I want to make sure that Mother and Father are proud of me. I want the Dark Lord to be proud of me, giving me praise for a job well done.

Well, tonight is the night.

I owled Father and told him that I want to test the cabinets tonight. I think I may have finally fixed the one here, and I want to test them out before term ends. If I can bring in the other Death Eaters to help me, then I can use them as distraction to get to Dumbledore. I found out from Rosmerta that the old man was in Hogsmeade having a drink, so I’ll have to cast a Morsmordre to bring him back all worried about his precious school.

Then, after I’ve killed him, I’ll leave this castle for the last time with my head held high. Then the Dark Lord will hold my family in honor and gratitude again. Then Snape will have to admit that I was the better man after all. Then Mother will stop worrying about me all the time. And then, Potter will have a reason to stare at me again with those emerald fires in his eyes again.

But that’s the beautiful future, but for now, Potter can go on living his disillusioned life. He’ll wake up one day and find out all he thought was right and good, and all he thought he knew about pure-bloods, was completely wrong. Everything that the Chosen One, with his sacred name, ever knew about me was nothing more than wrong fucking thinking.

Fucking Potter.