Sometimes...

By Nayanya

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the non-existent plot and... Well, lets just say I don't own anything.

Summary: A one-shot, almost-a-ficlet, piece of non-romance, non-fluff, non- interesting nonsense I wrote at two o'clock in the morning. Read it if you'd like...

Authorette's Note: I don't even know why I'm posting this, other than the fact that I have'd updated anything in a while. Anyways, I decided to leave the "she" anonymous for now, since I kind of like it that there isn't any clue as to her identity. The "he" that she is w atching is Draco Malfoy, just to make things clear. This is not a romance, there will be no second chapter, I just wanted to write this. And here it is.

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She doesn't try to watch him, not exactly.

Mostly she doesn't even notice if he's in the room or not, but sometimes he can't escape her notice. Sometimes, her eyes are simply drawn towards him, and so to keep from going crazy trying to pay attention to something else, she watches him.

At first, she watched for weaknesses.

She would notice how he never ate all the food on his plate. How sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, he wouldn't eat a single thing, and simply picked at his food until his friends were ready to go, then he stood and left with them.

She noticed that sometimes he wouldn't speak at all, even when those around him were having animated conversations. He would sit, silently, pale hair falling softly around his face. Sometimes it was hard to believe he was a real person, not a statue. Sometimes, he was so very still she thought he had been trapped in that one half-second of time, that he would forever stay that way.

At times, he looked as if he were dead.

She never could find any weaknesses. Not obvious ones, at least. Nothing that would destroy him, nothing that would make him cry. Nothing that would keep him in her power, if he found out she knew.

And so, she continued to watch.

It became almost a pastime, of hers. She would sit down at breakfast and notice immediately that he was already seated, and his plate was still full. No matter how early she got up, he was always down for breakfast earlier than her. Sometimes, she wondered if he even went to sleep at night.

Another thing she noticed is that he never got tired. Never yawned, looked sleepy, or dozed off in class.

She began to notice other things, like the way his shirts all draped over his shoulders, loose enough around the shoulders to give ease, yet fitted enough to show off the smooth muscles underneath.

Or the way when he was flying, his eyes lit up and he looked so happy, so brilliant, so wonderful and radiant she wondered why no one else seemed to notice.

Of course, she realized it was because no one bothered to watch him, except for her.

He was always quiet. Quiet, and he never showed any emotions. Not happy, not sad. Not angry, not peaceful. His emotions were always held in check, except for the rare times when he thought it was appropriate to show his emotions.

When he fought, and when he flew were the only times that happened.

She noticed other things about him.

He was left handed, unlike most wizards. His wand was always in reach of his left hand, although he preferred to write with his right.

He hated cotton, and nothing he wore was made of it. Everything he owned was silk or linen... She didn't find this out from watching, specifically. She overheard it in a conversation his housemates had about him, and she tucked the information away in her memory.

He got dizzy sometimes. She didn't know if they were dizzy spells, or migraine headaches, but he got them often. Twice a day, most times, and every time it was bad enough for him to have to sit down. That was why he always had someone with him, because if he were to have one of his attacks he could fall down a flight of stairs, and not be found for a while.

She thought that was smart of him.

She also thought it was strange that she didn't consider this to be a weakness, because he did always have someone with him.

However, she did think it was interesting that he trusted his friends with this knowledge, and didn't think they would use it against him. Was it because they were really trustworthy, she wondered, or because he had something he could use against them?

She liked watching him when he flew, that was the only time when he looked alive.

When he flew, colour rushed into his face. The wind whipped through his hair, and he didn't bother tucking it back into place like he normally did. His eyes would light up, no longer a stormy grey, but silvery, and liquid.

He smiled when he flew. Not the usual, signature smirk that made everyday life a living hell for so many students. Not even the sneer that had come to be just as common. This was a little, knowing half-smile that was nothing like what he acted like in school. When he flew, that smile seemed to say that he was happy, happier than he had ever been in his life, and he wouldn't share the secret of that happiness with anybody.

Every so often she saw him close his eyes when he flew. In that moment, the smile grew wider until it was a full-smile, and his face lost its flushed look. The wind even died down and barely ruffled his hair. He seemed frozen, then, for a millisecond, frozen and perfect and happy.

She wished, at times, that he would share with her the secret to being happy like that. Even if it were only a half second... Her own life had so little happiness in it.

She started to daydream, and began to remember things about him she hadn't known she'd seen.

Like the way his hair fell in front of his eyes when he leaned forward. Or the way his eyes darkened when he was angry. Even the way his shirts stretched across his chest when he stretched after class.

The way he walked, it was not an exaggerated swagger like so many of the other boys his age. He walked upright, never slouched, and always looked confident. Even when he'd done something wrong, when he was insulting someone, or when he had just lost a game of Quidditch, he always seemed confident. Nothing could ruin that confidence.

She didn't have the usual daydreams. She didn't care to wonder what it would be like if she dated him, or if he were to confess his undying love. That wasn't interesting enough, and she knew it wasn't likely.

She would wonder other things, like what he would look like when he slept.

Did he sleep?

Or what he would look like by moonlight, if his hair would have that dull gleam that sunlight reflected off of it, or if it would glow, brightly, standing out like a beacon of light.

Now and then she would daydream what it would be like if he didn't hate her. Still, not confessing his undying love, just maybe encountering him in the library. He would look up and see her and not smirk, not sneer, and not insult her. He would look up at her, and she would say hello. Of course, he would not acknowledge her, and then continue reading.

Those were the best dreams.

Sometimes she wished, that things were different and she could be his friend. Then, she could ask him why he loved to fly. What it was that made it so special, and made him so happy.

Most of the time, she didn't care.

She merely watched him.