Hidden Feelings - A Draco Malfoy Love Story

Chapter Twenty-Two

"This is ridiculous!" Harry exclaims, turning the page of the paper with such force it almost tears. "My eyes were not 'glistening with the ghosts of my past'!"

"I'm not 'overly defensive when asked about my family'!" I add, glaring at my own copy of the prophet. "I'm not hiding anything! She's making it sound like I yelled at her."

"It gets worse," Hermione groans. "Read the last paragraph."

My eyes flicker to the bottom of the page, and I let out a small gasp.

Finally, when asked about who she thinks put her name in and why, she becomes quiet and slightly distracted. She says she doesn't know, but her hesitation to speak suggests that maybe she does have an idea of who did this for her. Perhaps her secretive demeanor throughout the interview wasn't first-interview jitters, but possibly her fear of revealing something she knows she shouldn't reveal. Learn more about this mysterious teen on page 9, including the story behind her scar.

"She's crazy," I breathe out. "And who told her about the ordeal last year?"

"It was probably someone looking to get in the paper," Harry grumbles. "That lady would do anything to get more information from someone."

I flip to page 9, seeing bios of the champions. Harry's and I's appear the longest, and I skim over mine, searching for a name in the section about the accident last year. My eyes freeze on one name, and a sudden rage fills me. I stand up, searching for someone across the room.

"Elizabeth, what are you-" Hermione starts, pausing while reading Harry's interview.

"I'll be right back," I interrupt, slinging my bag over my shoulder and walking away from our spot. I ignore Ron's glaring eyes for once as I pass our table, then the two in between Gryffindor's and Slytherin's. I storm over to where Malfoy is sitting, clearing my throat loudly as I take my place behind him. He turns around, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yes?"

"Can we talk? Alone?" I ask, forcing my eyes to stay on him as to ignore the countless people now staring at me.

"Only if I can have your autograph," he jokes, smirking as I narrow my eyes. He stands up and I walk toward the door, not checking to see if he follows me until I'm out in the corridor. I turn around, crossing my arms.

"Why did you tell Skeeter about last year?" I ask slowly, trying to stay calm as he grins at me.

"She was walking through the castle the other day after your interview. I recognized her from the paper and introduced myself. She started asking me questions, ones she knew you wouldn't answer, and I responded."

"Did you not ever stop to think that maybe I didn't want the world to know how I got this scar?" I scoff, yanking my hair back from my face. "It's bad enough having to explain it to everyone who sees me in real life."

"Oh, I thought it would make a cool backstory. You know, beside the whole mysterious facade you've taken on," he says. "One of the youngest champions ever, divorced parents, survived a werewolf attack? It's a pretty nice title, don't you think?"

"I don't," I tell him, pulling my hair back over the scar. "You know, I thought you were different for a while. You've tried to talk to me, you helped me in the forest that night of the World Cup, then ignore me for months and then back into a jerk. What is wrong with you?"

His balloon of confidence quickly deflates as he listens, his smile faltering. It takes a moment of silence for him to respond.

"You interest me, Medlor, and I'm not sure why," he says, his voice suddenly a whole new sound, careful and soft. "One moment I think I've gotten to you and the next you're snapping at me and...almost making me feel bad."

I let out a small laugh. "That's no excuse for telling the media about my personal life."

"You say that as if I have an excuse for anything I've done to you," he says.

"You don't."

"You cry, and then you're fine minutes later. That night you were chosen, I could hear you sobbing," he tells me, making my cheeks flush red. He heard me? "Yet when you walked out of there your face didn't show any evidence that you had just broken down. How can you hide your feelings so well?"

I bite my lip, averting my eyes from his. "I don't exactly like people seeing me cry."

"So you get it out on your own and shut everything down the moment you're with anyone else."

"I don't do that," I defend, but part of me realizes he's right. I cross my arms, shifting my gaze back toward him. "You do the same, except you let people know you're upset. You just won't talk to anyone."

"You're right," he admits, grinning slightly as if it's no big deal. "Maybe that's why I kind of like you. You remind me of me."

"I'm in no way like you," I laugh.

"How so? Haven't we just clarified that we hide our emotions from everyone?" he asks, taking a step toward me. I instinctively move back. "I'm going to assume you're not going to change your mind about hating me. You've managed to make that clear enough."

"I won't change my mind," I assure him.

"No worries. I kind of hate you, too," he says before walking back into the great hall. I stand there for a moment, watching the door close where he disappeared. He hates me, but he likes me? What's that supposed to mean?

I step toward the door and go back inside, seeing my friends at the table immediately. Hermione and Harry wear expressions of concern, whereas Ron from his new spot (having not talked to Harry or I at all recently) continues to glare with a new anger that seems to have grown.

"What did you do?" Harry asks as I sit back in my spot.

"Just talked to him," I respond vaguely. How had I not even continued to get mad at him for sharing last year? He starts...analyzing me and I just forget that I hate him. How does he do that? Distract me from why I'm upset and surprise me once again?

"He deserves more than being talked to. You should punch him again," Hermione jokes. I smile, but don't respond, leaving the prophet to the side as I pick up my fork. I see Malfoy across the room, his back to me, and suddenly he turns his head. Our eyes meet, despite the distance. He offers a small grin.

"He deserves more than being punched," I sigh, stabbing my fork into my eggs.