I don't own anything you might recognise.
It's quite easy being hated. Or despised. Or detested. Choose a term of your liking, it's all – more or less – the same to me. I could write a list of people who actually do feel this emotion – strong dislike – shall we call it that? – about me.
It would probably be shorter if I wrote a list of the people who do not feel that way. It would contain – approximately, precisely 3 people.
But let me tell you – and yes, I do have some time on my hands now that I'm forced to lie here by those three people (it was just fifteen minutes of the Cruciatus – nothing to worry about, I'm as right as rain, actually) – that being hated, despised, detested, is not the worst thing in the world.
On the contrary.
Poor woman. No, really. What I want to say is that she is deeply worried about me (make no mistake, I do realize that. Just because I like being hated does not mean that I have no heart – but more about that later). That leaves me – somehow – indebted to her.
How – you might ask. Simple, ladies and gentleman.
She is worried – I feel some form of gratitude – she worries more because, one of the Gryffindorish traits is to do anything in one's power to help people – I feel more gratitude (or, shall we call it appreciative?) - she does even more for me (and that might be something simple – like a pain potion brought to my bedside – or an arm when I cannot walk straight on my own) – and I feel that I should give something back to her. Ergo: indebted.
I know this debt will not leave me until my dying day. Which, by the way, should not be in the all too far future.
Sad little existence, mine is, if one is grateful for such small things – but yes, such is my life and I don't mind. It is good. Do you know why?
Because so many others hate me.
(Oh, I forgot: the gratitude is not there with A.D. and P.P. Why? Simple. Again, simple. [Can't you think for yourself?]
There is a form of contract between me and A.D. He shows me kindness and a safe place in exchange for information about his nemesis.
And P.P.'s job is it to keep me healthy. She gets paid to do it.
Speaking of which: I'm not sure why Minerva does it. Quite strange, isn't it?)
But, back to the subject of the matter.
So many other hate, despite, detest me. I forgot loathe. Add that to the list.
The list would be around 12 ft long, I guess. Maybe even longer. If your handwriting wasn't as cramped as mine.
And still – it does not bother me at all.
Because it simplifies things.
Longbottom sits in his class with the rest of the Gryffindors and Slytherins. His potion – as usual, no news there – is quite, pardon my French, fucked up. Instead of, shall we say, bright blue, it's vomit-greenish-yellow. Longbottom, without a doubt, hates me. Which leaves me to save my classroom and my sanity and vanish the potion (or – and I'm mean like that – let him hand it in and hand him a lovely, wonderful T). I will snarl at him and I will tell him that he's no good (which, let's face it, he isn't) and he will expect that. Why? Because I am this way. He hasn't learned it another way. And he will not really get angry. Why? Because he strongly dislikes me (add any of the above mentioned verbs that might fit better in your opinion).
Same scenario, a minute later:
Granger, bloody girl-who-thinks-she-knows-it-all, glares at me because she thinks (and let's face it, she thinks too much!) that I treated him wrong. She will probably complain.
And – five seconds later (you can use a stopwatch, if you like), her sidekicks Weasley and Potter (don't even get me started) get their two pence in and glare as if I was evil incarnate (which I might be – in their opinion).
If they only glare, I can react in two ways, both infinitely simple:
If they complain, I can react in one way, even more infinitely simple:
Take away points and hand out detention (which, let's face it, makes my own life simpler because I absolutely dislike scrubbing cauldrons and the elves are no good).
But: they expect this kind of behaviour. They willingly enter the entire despicable-evil-Slytherin-Potions-master-routine.
Because I can only react so that they can hate me. And hate me even more.
For me it makes this easier. They have their way to act – I have my way to react.
Do something, and you'll get something back.
Nothing to think about.
Scenario A a:
Same as above, only I don't vanish Longbottom's potion but instead stand behind him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder and tell him that everything will be alright.
Result: Longbottom learns nothing – Granger has nothing to complain about – Weasley and Potter will have nobody to defend.
And worst: they won't hate me anymore. Won't fear me. And will begin to be slack in class.
And suddenly, I will have I-don't-know-how-many Longbottoms in every single class.
What a great job that would be (and yes, sarcasm is an art form).
Dinner. The Great Hall. Everyone is there.
As I said (and you did listen, didn't you? I don't have to repeat myself?), there are only few (three! Have you forgotten?) who like me amongst my fellow teachers (and, of course, Madame Pomfrey – though, come to think of it – I wonder if I'm not a sort of guinea pig for her – trying out new spells on me – but that is, for the moment, a point I do not want to think about).
So – dinner (or breakfast, or lunch, you pick), I can only swoop in (and yes, the robes are charmed, make no mistake), eat and then leave again. Infernal, incessant chit-chat, I don't have to endure that.
Why? Because a) nobody wants to talk to me anyway (hint: because they hate me) and b) because infernal, incessant chit-chat is boring.
Scenario B a:
Minerva sits next to me and asks me about the potion I'm working on (because she doesn't dislike me).
a) I can be mean
b) I can answer her honestly.
for a) She will tell me to stop being such an arse and I have to answer her.
for b) She will listen interestedly and will ask the right questions at the right time.
Now: Imagine everyone doing that – it would be hell on earth (mind you, sometimes I want to sit next to Minerva – but not very often).
I'm being called by the Dark Lord.
Maybe I'm not hated there. But strongly envied (which can, as we all know, lead to being strongly hated) by all the others who are not that close to that damn Snake-Man (and he doesn't like me either – but that's because he likes nobody).
No, really – what would happen if people there liked me.
Scenario C a:
If I were liked, people (meaning. Death Eaters) would want to invite me to their soirèes (why does everything have to be French, for the love of...well, not France?), their dinner parties, their God-only-knows-whats. And I would actually have to go. And behave accordingly (can you honestly see me behave accordingly? Thought not.).
Sooner or later, in that (dreadful) scenario, I would be bored to bloody tears, to bloody death (anyone ever tried to Avada Kedavra himself? No? Let me know if you did.) and it would show.
If it did show, it would show that I am not really enjoying myself.
That would show that I'm maybe not really their kind of people.
That would show that I do not enjoy torturing muggles and muggle-borns.
And that would show my true allegiance. (and trust me – that would show that even Severus Snape can die – which, believe me, he can and he will soon).
Yes – and that would be a good thing why?
So see? Being hated is good.
You don't have to pretend anything, can speak your mind (if the situation is such), and can safe your own life (and maybe that of a few other people).
And why is that good?
Are you really that dumb?
It is relaxing. It is absolutely devastatingly relaxing not to be expected to act in a certain, pleasant way. You can be brutally honest. And this is so much simpler.
And there is another advantage. Most of the time, it just so happens that you dislike the people back who hate, loath (you get it, right?) you.
And that is where the real fun starts.
Lucius Malfoy. Hates my guts. Wants to kill me because I took his place as the Dark Lords most trusted follower (was it my fault that those teenagers had one up on him? Certainly not!). Wants to kill me.
Now I can upstage him every time. Every single bloody time I can be better than him.
But if I want to be better than anyone, I have to try harder. And harder.
Honestly, I found being hated and (yes, I understand, you got it, you're no dunderhead – that quite surprises me, actually) is a great motivator in all the aspects of life.
A Potions Master (who shall remain anonymous) absolutely loathes me because I was a tiny bit quicker than him with the Wolfsbane (definition of tiny bit: Lupin had taken my version for four moons already).
He tries no, desperately, to come up with a better solution. And as a result, I do as well. Because seriously, you can't let that Potions Master (who shall remain anonymous) be better than me. Right?
So, after all, and to end this little arguments (P.P.'s coming, or maybe Minerva. I'd prefer the latter, actually), I can truly and happily (if I were happy, I'd feel just that right now) say that I do love it when people hate, despise, detest, loath me. Makes me freer, makes me better. Makes me achieve more. Makes me be myself more often.
Being hated – a fundamental pleasure, I'm sure, is absolutely, devastatingly, perfectly, marvellously wonderful.
Please leave a review if you don't hate this!