"I hate you, too." - Draco Malfoy Fanfic

Chapter 9

You are not mine,

but sometimes

I pretend that

you wish you were,

I create this idea 

that you secretly

want me,

and I often forget

it's just something

I've made up.

You do not want me,

and you are not mine.

- Shooting Star by Madisen Kuhn

----

Eden was the insignificant and overly bland girl who sat at the back of the classroom with her nose inside a book--as if, if she pushed hard enough, the pages would swallow her whole. She probably wished that they would, Draco thought.

She was the stubborn and arrogant witch who had dared to defy Draco. Who had dared not grovel at his feet and plead for his mercy. She should have admired Draco, thrown herself at him-- Or she should have feared him, hid from him. She should not have stood before him, hatred burning in those awfully beautiful green eyes, her tongue as sharp as knives as she dug her claws into his mind and drew out his secrets to lay bare for all to see.

Come back when you've stepped out of Lucius's and Vincent's shadow---Unhealthy attachment to Levi's brother due to your lack of fatherly affection--It's unfortunate that the worst of people somehow manage to snag the best of friends. Her words had stung more than she'd likely anticipated.

Even during the party in the room of requirements when she had--strangely--been kind and encouraging towards him. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. She had told him. She had dared to try and understand him, to sympathise for him, but her pity was just as bad as her resistance.

He had to find a way to make her surrender, to force her to yield--- to cower at the mention of his name. He wanted to make her kiss his shoes and plead with him for his forgiveness, but instead.. He had painted her. He had started with painting her eyes one evening, and then he had painted her whole self on another day. He had painted the anger she made him feel. He had painted her with a book in her hand, he had painted what he imagined her voice would sound like in the form of art, and then he had painted other things that she had made him feel.

When he'd finally set his paintbrush down one night, and made his way back to his dorm room to sleep, he had dreamt of her, too. He pondered on the curve of her neck, the thick darkness in her hair, the richness in those lovely eyes.

He dreamt of her slender fingers turning the pages of a book, her inky black eyelashes each time she blinked and the odd way she sat on a chair with her knees tucked against her chest despite the lack of room. He had dreamt of her whispering in his ears, her voice in song form and what he imagined she'd dance like.