Morning, Noon, Night


A glooming peace this morning with it brings

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

He was watching her again.

There was nothing more frustrating than her being within his reach but at the same time, out of it. He smiled grimly, lowering his quill as he continued to stare at her form. Why does it have to be her? She was the embodiment of all things he despised, of all things beneath him. She was supposed to mean nothing to him.It was an abomination, whatever it was that he was feeling. It was a sacrilege.

Which made her all the more tempting.

When their paths crossed it was usually an explosion of animosity and anger, released through well-chosen words and double-edged glares. It was already an established ceremony; he would start with a scathing remark about her lineage and she would retort with words belittling his worth. It was a ritualistic dance that they had been indulging themselves in, in a long time, where each would find delight on the damage inflicted to the other.

And yet, beneath those exteriorities lay hidden depths, a cornucopia of emotions that were as unwelcome as they were distractions. Soon, he was finding excuses to insult her. Camouflage. Soon, he was deliberately provoking her into anger. Façade. Soon, he was sending her heated glares and meaningful looks. Pretense.

But, hell - he knew he wasn't the only one in trouble.

When she thought he wasn't aware of them, she would sneak glances at him that were as tangible as holes through his back. And when he caught her doing it, he'd smirk at her and watch in sadistic satisfaction as those brown eyes flare and those cheeks flame. Then he would continue watching her as she buried herself in a book and pretended that nothing out of the extraordinary happened between them.

Then there were those times when he would watch her without her knowledge. Of course, a sea of students would always divide them, but to him they were non-existent, unimportant. He had practically memorized the way lines would form between her eyebrows when she was in deep thought, or the way paleness would seep around her mouth when she was disagreeing with one of her imbecile friends. Then there was that rhythmic movement of her two fingers as she twirled her quill between them, and the impatient tap-taps of her feet as she waited for their professor to arrive.

Sometimes, just to spite and test her, he would purposely catch her eyes and stare at her then.

This was one of those times.

Their professor had been called to the Headmaster's office, and as the others became restless and edgy they stood and roamed around the room. Suddenly, the sea dividing their seats lessened in number, until his vision of her was not barred by untamed hair or tattered robes. He willed her to glance at his direction, and when she did he was prepared to not let go of her gaze.

It was a power play, a challenge issued by him to her. It was reckless and impossible to resist, and she obliged him. She gladly returned what he gave her: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He widened his smile at her gall, and she jutted her chin at his audacity.

Then the professor arrived, and their rivalry was unwillingly broken.

After class, he noticed that she was deliberately slowing her pace, waiting for the room to empty. He thought nothing of this, until a warm hand grabbed his arm on his way to the door and he found himself impaled by her famous glare.

"Stop," she hissed, tightening her grip on his arm. "Stop it."

He looked at her hand and said, "Someone might see."

"We're alone," she stated firmly but also drew back, immediately knowing what he meant. After all, he was a Pureblood, and she was a filthy, stained Mudblood. Her kind was not supposed to touch his kind. Ever. "I want you to stop it."

"Stop what?"

She stood straighter, bringing the tip of her head in level with his chin. "Stop watching me."

He chuckled, watching in pleasure as she turned red but remained firm in her stance. "Only if you stop watching me."

Her mouth dropped at that, just as he knew it would. He flashed her the grin she loathed and said, "Don't think I don't notice, because I do." He added with a touch of malice, "I notice a lot of things about you."

"Why you arrogant, egotistical prat, I ought to—"

And then he grabbed her arm, and she was silenced. Then he trailed his fingers down to hers, and she was stunned. And then he threaded his hand with hers, and she was speechless.

He no longer wore that insulting, defying look on his face.

She still had that doubting, unbelieving look on hers.

And, in a small voice she asked, "What do you want from me?"

They both knew the answer to that.

And he had made the first move.


Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished;

He was watching her again.

Biting down on her lip, she followed his gaze and was unsurprised at the object of his scrutiny. After all, she knew what was going on. Had known for the last couple of months.

But in her blind adoration, and in some ways stupidity, she had chosen to keep silent about it.

He was watching her again, and never mind that her table was far from theirs, and that her kin was the enemy of their own. Never mind that their bloods were never supposed to mingle, that he was way above her station in society. Never mind that she might as well be a forbidden fruit dangled in front of his face, forever tempting but untouchable.

But he had touched her.

And this she knew.

She knew.

She had stupidly stumbled on them in the library, and in their ardor they never noticed that she had eyes and in fact, had seen them. Tears immediately came to her and at first she tried to convince herself that he was just with one of his whores, one of those random sluts that he tempted and took because he wanted to, not because he cared for them. Denial, naturally, was her first line of defense. After all, she was the person he was meant to be with, the one everyone thought he loved. After all, she was rich, beautiful, and most of all – a Pureblood like him.

But there was no denying the identity of the other woman.

And there was no denying the unhealthy obsession he had had with her.

He had always watched her, and the expression on his face then was bare, naked – it was a glimpse to his soul, and what she saw was enough to make her hurt and cry and damn them. Because his soul was already stained, filthy – her blood had already corrupted him, made him impure.

It was all her fault, the Gryffindor whore. Damn her, for beneath that pristine image lay a disparaging, disgusting disease!

She watched him bow his head and smile, and when she transferred her gaze at the other woman she saw that she was also bowing her head and blushing.

Closing her eyes, she pretended that nothing was wrong and tried to gain his attention. As usual, she was dismissed as a whimpering, wailing woman: an unneeded accessory clinging at his side. He released well-chosen barbs that cut deep to her heart, because she knew his intentions: he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her to go away. When she couldn't take any more of his insults a sob escaped from her, and he stood, looked down at her in aversion, then walked out.

He had given her the role of the unwilling conspirator in his quest to keep his hidden affairs a secret. Hers was the task to play the faithful but dim-witted wife, the one that society would always think of as the love of her husband's life but in truth was nothing more than a stringed puppet.

She swallowed hard, then followed him with her eyes. A movement made her turn just in time to see that she had also left her table and trailed the steps he had taken.

Pain pierced her again, but with it came an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

He had underestimated her cunning; they both did. And for that they would pay.

They would pay.

Every snake had its venom, and she had the deadliest of it all.


For never was a story of more woe

He was watching her again.

They agreed to meet outside of Hogwarts, for the risk of someone seeing them inside had already become too high. He had cajoled her into seeing him tonight, and reluctantly she agreed, but not without threatening him with his life if they were caught and expelled. He had taken her hand and planted on it a tender kiss. "Not tonight," he said, looking at her eyes. "I have everything planned."

He watched her as she approached, that almost-shy smile present on her face. He met her halfway and handed her a bouquet of flowers that she would later shrink and hide. But now, the flowers were pressed to her closely, and she gave him a smile that she would only bestow on him whenever he did something good.

He expected to see that smile appear even more when she saw what he had planned for tonight.

"What's this?" she asked, stopping in her tracks as she spotted the wide blanket. Candles, flowers, and fruits of the season garnished the cloth, and when she looked at him in awe, he smiled.

"Celebration of spring," he answered, indicating with a sweep of his hand the feast he had prepared for them. "You once told me that spring had always been your favorite season. Now I'm giving you the opportunity to commemorate its arrival - with me."

She had smiled and kissed him then, a long, passionate kiss that held the sweet promise of tonight.

They talked and argued and laughed for hours. The scent of the different wildflowers surrounded them, giving an untamed ambiance. The fire of the candle suffused them, radiating with incandescent light. After supper she had ridiculously made a crown of leaves and flowers and placed it over his head, before he tackled her and forced her to wear it.

"But I look ridiculous," she said, lifting a hand to remove the crown.

He automatically reached for it. "Don't," he said. "I like it on you."


He smirked. "You made it."

"I made it for you." She sounded uncharacteristically petulant.

He grinned. "And I want you to wear it."

"Prat," she threw at him, along with a few flowers from her bouquet.

"Know-It-All," he mouthed.

But she did wear it – for he did wish it.

A few more minutes elapsed, and it was almost time to go. He reached for her hand, and she squeezed his, telling him with her touch how much she appreciated his efforts. He was just about to ask her to show him just how much, when a clear-cut sound caught their attention.

Footsteps. Coming their way.

They were about to be discovered!

Seconds passed with them unmoving, their limbs frozen in fright. She grabbed his arm, an automatic response. He bent to put off the lights, then swallowed and cursed silently. No one was supposed to know where they were! Nobody should be here except the two of them!

"I thought—"

"Hush!" He glared at the darkness, hating the feeling of not knowing what was to come. He was hot and cold at the same time, and aware of the dampness of her palms. Automatically, he felt and extracted his wand, ready to do what needed to be done.

Something crunched on the grass in front of him, and he decided to investigate – then realized his fatal mistake when a curse froze him literally on his tracks.

"Draco!" she called, her voice frantic. He could see her whisper an incantation to light up her wand, and she rushed to him, her eyes hysterical with worry. "Draco?" She reached up and touched his face. He tried to tell her to run, but he couldn't do anything – not with him being completely immobile. So he watched as she moved away from him and sought to see who had invaded their night. He watched as the intruder stepped out of the shadows, stealthy enough not to alert her. He watched as a wand was raised, its deadly tip pointed directly at her.

He watched as the intruder whispered triumphantly, "Obliviate."

She fell forward on the blanket from the impact of the curse.

He tried to yell out her name, but couldn't.

Then, he watched as the intruder – with her face now revealed – smiled sinisterly at him, and whispered, "Obliviate."

A glooming peace this morning with it brings

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

He was watching her again.

And when she turned to him he mouthed scornfully, "Filthy Mudblood."

She pursed her lips, her face filled with contempt. She then threw at him, "Arrogant bastard!"

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished;

He was watching her again.

But she had nothing to worry about. After all, the two were back to hating each other, their affair nothing more than unrecognizable specks in their memories. The baleful glares the two exchanged earlier were proofs of this fact.

She placed a hand on his arm, and he turned to kiss her fully on the mouth.

Triumph was intoxicating, and she smiled at the headiness of it.

She had won.

She had won.

And this time, she would do everything in her power to never let them fall in love with each other again.

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Author's Notes: Title is from a Sidney Sheldon book bearing the same name. These six lines from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet can be found at the end of the play. This fic is for the one who made the request that I include a Romeo and Juliet passage in the story. I hope I did you justice.