[Verse 1- light airy high pitched female vocals] Father taught me, from the cradle, That blood is the only measure that matters. A half-blood with a scar and a tale of survival Is hardly the sort one invites to the manor. He said the name with a curl of the lip, As though it left a stain on the air: “Potter,” he told me, “is fortune, not talent- A child who simply refused to die there.” [Pre-Chorus] Yet every year the papers arrive With another absurdity printed in black. A troll in the bathroom, a stone in his pocket, A chamber he somehow managed to crack. I read them alone, when the house is quite still, And I fold them again with my hands very neat. One does not discuss such things at the table. One does not admit that the timing was… neat. [Chorus] He raised me to hate him, and I have been diligent. I have practised the sneer and the proper disdain. But how does one loathe a boy who keeps living When every dark thing tries its hardest again? I cannot say “brilliant.” I cannot say “brave.” Father would hear it, and Father would know. So I call him a nuisance, a reckless upstart- And I mean something else, and I hope it won’t show. [Verse 2] In third year I watched him on the Quidditch pitch And thought, quite against my own better judgement, That the way he flies is not merely lucky. It is precise. It is almost… elegant. I told Crabbe and Goyle he was showing off. I said the broom was better than the rider. They laughed, as they ought to. I laughed as well. I did not mention the drop of the stomach, The one that arrived when he nearly fell. [Pre-Chorus] Father writes letters about purity and order, About keeping one’s place and one’s name. I answer in Latin and perfectly measured Replies that say nothing of shame. I do not write that the boy in the common room Looked tired, and still managed the spell. I do not write that I stood in the corridor And watched him succeed, and said nothing at all. [Chorus] He raised me to hate him, and I have been diligent. I have practised the sneer and the proper disdain. But how does one loathe a boy who keeps living When every dark thing tries its hardest again? I cannot say “brilliant.” I cannot say “brave.” Father would hear it, and Father would know. So I call him a nuisance, a reckless upstart- And I mean something else, and I hope it won’t show. [Bridge] One is not supposed to admire one’s enemy. It is vulgar. It is common. It is not done. Yet when the castle shook and the lights went out, I found myself counting the steps he had run. I counted them twice. I counted them thrice. I told myself it was strategy, nothing more. Father would call it weakness of character. I call it… inconvenient. I call it… a bore. [Final Chorus] He raised me to hate him. I have been obedient. I have kept my opinions precisely in line. But every time Potter does something impossible, Something in me notes it, and files it, and sighs. I shall not confess it. I shall not write home. The Malfoys do not keep company with fools. So I’ll pass him tomorrow and offer an insult That is perfectly civil, and perfectly cool. And if my voice softens a fraction too much- If the insult arrives half a second too late- Father need never know what I almost said. He need never know that I almost called him… great.
