A/N: Two new paragraphs since I decided to put this on The Dark Arts and it came up short… exactly 500 words, now. A bit angstier than before, a little more furious… fun, fun. Now it really is double angst for a reason.
Hate, my friend, is Relative
If you're reading this, Harry, you want to know the truth. You want to know why I hate you so much.
I'm expecting that Neville will have shown you this by now, Harry; I expect today is the 24th? Yeah, that's what I thought. I made sure he got it, risking reputation and limb to do such a thing. He really is impossible.
I hope you know, first of all, that hate is relative. Relative, for example, to what and whom others love.
I know you love her, Harry. And so do I.
It's not hard to notice things like this, I suppose. Both you and I are a bit obvious.
Lately, whenever we've spoken, it's come to insults, to blows, to dueling, to silence. I hate it, I really do; but then again, I hate you. My hate for you, and my hate for hurting you; all relative.
We were best friends, best friends, Harry! Do you even know what that means? Best friends support each other, help one another; they don't steal the girl that their best friend has pined for since he met her. There's still something called courtesy.
I love her, Harry Potter, and that's the truth. But it's not like it matters to you. You'll take what you want anyway. That's the truth, and that is why I hate you.
I want to see your blood. I want to see your nose bleeding, your head bleeding as I throw you out the window... but no. I'll never do that. I've always been the sidekick, and the sidekick is never the courageous one. I came to Hogwarts thinking I could escape being the littlest brother; but no, Harry, you could never let me be anything more than your sidekick.
I don't want to hurt her, or I would. She would never love me if I killed you. You know it as well as I. I have no chance, now. I never have, really.
Famous Harry Potter. Stumbling through life, relying on luck, blundering like an idiot through the carefully laid plans of others. You're not powerful, clever, brave; you're just lucky. You're no hero; you're a gambler. And soon, you're going to lose.
Here's a bit of math for you, algebra I'd suppose; give it a shot.
(My love + My hate) x (Your love + Your hate).
What does it equal, Harry? I'll tell you, because I know you're no good at math at all. My little section equals nothing in your lucky streak of a life, so the answer is that your feelings are the only true thing in this life, and I am nothing.
Whenever I speak to her, she ignores me, yells at me, snaps at me. It's all because of you, Harry James Potter. You can have her; you already do. Remember? I am nothing.
Because of you, Harry Potter, I am nothing.
With loathing from the top of the Gryffindor tower, your friend,