by RowanRhys

He's watching me again. I can feel it on my skin, like tiny invisible fingertips softly running from my ankles up to the back of my neck. The first time I became aware of his covert glances, back in my fourth year, I felt as if I needed to go wash, to scrub the taint from my flesh. Horrible.

But now, although I'm still, after two and a half years, preternaturally aware of his regard and I can't ignore the sensation, it doesn't make my stomach churn--or at least not for the same old reasons.

Here we are, with only a few months to go until we sit our N.E.W.T.S. and leave school for the last time to wait in anxious anticipation for the sealed parchments announcing if we have done well enough to pursue our various dreams, or not. I wonder if he is as nervous about leaving this place as I am?

Three years ago, I would not have cared. Three years ago, all I wished was that when I returned to these halls and towers, he would not have come back--that he would have, instead, gone to Durmstrang just as his father supposedly wanted him to do originally. Three years ago, he was a skinny, short pointed-faced ferret, with cold grey eyes and a smirk that I wished I could hex from his lips.

Now, though... He really hasn't grown that much, only an inch or so taller than I am, and his face is still somewhat pointed, but his eyes aren't icy anymore. Instead, the times I dare lift my gaze to meet his, I find fire in them--and something else that I haven't been able to identify. He still has that smirk and there are days that I'd gladly toss a hex his way to remove it. But, you know, I can't remember the last time he called me "Mudblood." It's been quite some time since he roamed the halls, spouting off his father's pureblood bigotry, now that I think about it. And I don't recall seeing Pansy Parkinson hanging all over him much this year. She's actively avoiding him, as a matter of fact, partnering with Goyle in Potions this year. I wonder why I never noticed until now. Probably because I've avoided looking in his direction as much as I can, whether it's in class or in the Great Hall.

This really has snuck up on me. Gods, I hope Ron and Harry haven't noticed anything. They'd never understand. Ron would be calling St. Mungo's to come take me away for certain. I've hated him for so long, I can't figure out how I've come to be obsessed with him, with his appearance, what he does, what he says. Wondering what it would feel like to really have his slender, elegant hands brushing against my cheek, or combing through my hair. Wondering what it would be like to waltz with him at the Yule Ball... Wondering what it would feel like to have those lips against my own...

I must be off my nut, to quote Ron, to be crazy about him.

Crazy for Draco Malfoy...

"My only love, sprung from my only hate..."
--Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare