There it was, the depression, the boredom.

Each day stretched on endlessly, like reading the same page, over and over again.

Each day, I stared at Draco Malfoy, and he looked at me and gave me that look – that look that said I was nothing more than the dirt under his beautiful shoes. And yet, he was so ravishing.

Piercing, mercury eyes. Silver hair that shimmered enticingly. That slow, vain smile in his perfectly handsome face.

At least he looks at me, I’d think.

I shook my head, trying to zoom out of my daydream. I looked at my watch; the one Fred had given me for my tenth birthday.

Shoot.

I was late for Potions – again. Maybe it wasn’t just reasonless gloom, it was just rotten luck – reasons for depression were lining up this year, with one thing or the other.

The only thing I wasn’t depressed about, yet, was my art. I loved drawing, and it hadn’t failed to cheer me up these last few months. I usually drew something that made me happy, and as I looked at it, I felt a bit better.

Oh, great, I had started daydreaming again. I determinedly picked up my bag, swung it on my shoulder, and stomped off towards the Potions dungeons, hoping fervently that Snape would be in a good enough mood to forgive my lateness to class for my hopefully-well-done homework.

Of course, I was only fooling myself – I might as well hope that Snape would give out chocolate frogs for his birthday.

I broke into a run, my hair billowing around me.

I stopped at the doorway to the dungeon, and slowly pulled open the thick, creaking iron door. Snape stood inside, his black cloak whirling around him as he ‘taught’, which, in effect, meant ‘terrorized’, and he turned to look at me with chilling black eyes.

“Well, Weasley. Thought the correct times for lessons are beneath you, did you?” Snape’s lip curled in disapproval.

Oops. Why did I even allow the image of Snape in a good mood form in my head? It would only make it harder for me to keep my temper now.

“I'm sorry,” I said shortly. If I had continued, I would probably have said “I'm sorry I even came now, you greasy git,” and that, however exciting, would have been disastrous.

But Snape seemed to hear my thoughts, and his eyes flashed.

“Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness – and insufferable insolence.” Snape stated flatly.

I muttered a string of profanities, hopefully unintelligible. I was exasperated to the point of almost throwing a Weasley tantrum as I strode in and took a seat.

I noticed with more irritation that the person sitting next to me was fidgeting uncomfortably. I threw a glance at him – Ugh. Blech.

The boy sitting next to me was Colin Creevey. His face was a brilliant red, and as he caught my eye, he gave me a delighted, nervous smile.

Can I say, “just my shitty luck”? I tried all through the year to avoid Colin – who thought obsession was ‘perseverance’ and ‘perseverance’ would help him get me – and in the class I most hated, I sat with him. Now he’d think it was actually working.

I sighed, and looked down at my feet, looking for some distraction in my old shoes to dream away this class.

X

I walked to lunch, hardly noticing my friend Rosaline chattering to me at my side. I wondered idly how I’d ever found friendship in such a ditz – all Rose thought of was fashion and members of the opposite sex – and then decided I didn’t really care. She was friendly, and to be honest, that was all I counted on.

Because, to tell the truth, I only want time to fantasize about a certain platinum blond Slytherin.

Okay, I’ll admit, the said Slytherin was easily comparable to a disgusting ferret crawling in the mud when he did and said the things he sometimes did. Like that time when he’d pushed me into the lake, or the time he’d turned my hair green. It was like he was living to humiliate me. Or living to ignore me, which was more painful.

I quickly sat at lunch. I realized Rose had stopped talking. I glanced at her, marveling at this unexpected happening.

I saw her wide blue eyes latched on the handsome form of Terry Boot at the Ravenclaw table, and prayed for his soul – as he was the latest object of Rosaline’s devotion.

I gobbled whatever it was that I had dumped on my plate, hardly noticing what I was swallowing. I only paid attention as I later took blissful bites of apple pie. In my book, even general gloom was not a good reason to ignore dessert of any kind.

Then, I trudged off to the common room – we had a free period now.

As I chose my favorite chair next to the window, I took a determined decision to not take a single glance at the piles of homework in table in front of me. Believe me, I did not need Vanishing spells and Diets of Bowtruckles to lighten my mood.

Instead, I picked up my little sketch book, running my fingers lightly over the dark brown leather on it. I opened it, pausing for a minute to look at the last sketch in it – the one of Hogwarts – something I had not been brave enough to attempt for the last four years due to the stunning beauty of those tall towers.

But I was extremely proud of this drawing – I felt I had done it enough justice.

I put my chin in my hands, and thought of what I felt like sketching presently. The grounds? Myself? The mountains?

None of them seemed very appealing at the moment. Then the ideal image floated into my mind – Draco Malfoy, in all his splendor, as he rode on a broomstick! I didn’t know if I would be able to catch the perfection of his features, or the arrogance of his seraphic smile, but I felt like trying.

I didn’t need him to pose for me or anything – I’m corny enough to know that he posed like that in all his beauty, in the eye of my mind and heart. I quickly bent my head down and got to work.

I began by sketching the broomstick, the easiest part. I flourished a Firebolt on it.

Then I enjoyed drawing his tall, lean frame that seemed so lithe and beautiful even in its still, penciled form. I enjoyed drawing the way his long Quidditch robes would billow magnificently around him.

Then I started on drawing his pristine face. I drew the high, angular cheek-bones and the flawless square of his jaw. I drew how his full lips would curve into that jubilant, exulted smile as he soared into the sky, his wide, beautiful eyes fringed by thick lashes.

I finished with his long hair framing his face, wishing I could get that perfect shade of silver, imagining how it would glint in the sunlight.

Wow, I said to myself. I had to admit, it was pretty good. I gazed at it for a few seconds, wishing that Draco Malfoy would look at me like the Draco beaming at me from this page.

I suddenly realized that the people around me were bustling around. I glanced at my watch – 3.30. The bell must have gone ... I didn’t want to be late for yet another class.

I quickly gathered my books for divination, my next class, and skipped out of the common room.

My success at portraying the Slytherin wonder had definitely heightened my spirits. I walked swiftly through the crowded hallways, hardly noticing my surroundings as I daydreamed. A long sequence of images of a certain fair haired, stormy eyed personage swam around my head.

Stupid, stupid me. I generally couldn’t condone such thoughts in myself, and I knew I was only making way for more gloominess when I reminded myself that my fantasies were unreal. But at least it had me whistling for now.

From the greenhouse in front of me came a long line of people. I looked at them, trying quickly to remember which year they were in. I realized, with a jolt, that they were sixth year Gryffindors – and Slytherins.

I swallowed tensely as my eyes automatically found Malfoy, his ivory skin looking stunning against his jet black robes. His usual sidekicks were present, looking a lot like gorillas flanking him.

His elegance was even more pronounced as he stood next to them – I hardly even noticed Harry and his friends wave at me, waving back at them only well after they had gone into the hallway.

I had stopped walking, as I gaped like an idiot at the sight. But suddenly, Draco turned his magnificent head, and his grey eyes latched on to me. He muttered something, at which Goyle sniggered, and then Draco gave me a smooth, breathtaking smile.

The beauty of it was staggering – but – why was he smiling at me? I looked back at him, resisting the urge to beam at him in delight – the way Colin had beamed at me, earlier. To my sudden terror – and joy – Draco started walking to me, in lithe, long steps.

I made myself take deep breaths. I had to be nasty to him – the way any sane Gryffindor and Weasley should. But my mind reproached me – who said I was sane, anyway?

No doubt he was up to something bad. Walk, Ginny, run! I thought to myself, but I couldn’t move myself an inch.

Draco stopped about a foot from me, and he smirked mockingly. “Weasley,” he said in a low voice.

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Ah, forget it,” he said dismissively, as if he were giving up on some plan. “Come, Ginny,” he said, his voice low and unbelievably seductive. “Let's take a little walk, shall we?”

“Um, why?” I demanded, managing to make my voice acerbic, fighting with the fact that his piercing grey eyes were managing to interfere with my coherency. I put a hand on my hip, and made to stomp away from him. Fantasies were one thing – in real life, Draco was an asshole.

Or at least, that’s what I was trying to convince myself.

He suddenly drew closer to me, and put his hand on the small of my back. I could feel the warmth of his skin on mine, and I suppressed a little shiver. He leaned close to me. “Don’t act,” he told me. I felt his nose touch my ears, and I did shudder – in pleasure. “You know you want me, Ginevra,” he murmured in a silky voice.

I was shamefully rooted to the spot, and I could feel the heat on my face, and the thudding of my heart.

“You know you want me. You want me so much, don't you?” he whispered, the hand at my back slowly moving upward. “Give in ... Ginny.”

“Malfoy... what are you d-doing?” I managed to stammer, drawing my eyebrows together in what was probably the most unconvincing scowl of the century. My lip trembled, to make me even more pathetic. I drew my face away a few inches, but then I could see his piercing pewter eyes – and that made nothing better.

“I'm making you see the light. You're very pretty, you know that, Ginevra?” he answered, pronouncing my name delicately. The trembling ensued.

“And I’m perfect.” He drew me closer to him, and all my resolve broke, and I allowed myself willingly to feel his hard, muscular body against mine.

“What are you trying to say, Malfoy?” I asked uncertainly, my thoughts scattered by the unnatural intensity of his stormy gaze.

“This,” he said abruptly, and before I was aware of myself, I felt a something kick my shin outwards deftly so that I fell forward, on my nose. Startled beyond belief, I heard a smattering of laughter around me.

From my position face down on the hard ground, I gritted my teeth and raised my head – I could see a pair of finely molded dragonskin shoes in front of my face.

I watched as the shoes swiftly moved backward. I clenched my jaw and raised my head higher, to see the bewitching form of Draco Malfoy smirking down at me, his eyes glinting in malice.

“Wow, look,” he said softly in a politely surprised tone. “She loves me so much she’s at my feet in worship.”

I staggered to my feet, the blood beginning to pound in my ears, as I recognized my temper rising. At least I had that to save the situation – a bit. I didn’t bother to brush the dust away from my robes.

“Don't give yourself false hopes, Malfoy.” I said through gritted teeth. The image of me physically assaulting him swam in my head – impossible, of course – his Seeker’s reflexes would never allow it.

The thudding in my ears and chest was muffling the laughter around me.

But then an idea occurred to me, an idea that gave me sudden, vindictive pleasure. It was reckless, of course – fed by the rage that was booming in my head.

The pleasure heightened as I imagined how that perfect, condescending smile would falter as my idea came into being.

I swiftly reached backward to my bag, and I pulled out the first book my fingers got hold of. Before anyone could react, or even notice my action, with a triumphant ‘Hah!’ I hurled the book at the smirking boy in front of me.

I grinned in sudden pleasure as I saw the book find its mark (I was, after all, a pretty good Chaser) and the flawless mouth turn down in disapproval as the book bounced off his shimmering platinum head. His eyes were slits of silver.

It took him less than five seconds to recover.

“Bless her,’” he said softly. “Tomato-head is having a tantrum.” There were a few chuckles and snickers from around me at this comment – whereas they had remained silent at my show of good aim.

Obviously, they would never dare laugh at Malfoy.

But then he suddenly moved, his lips twitching into a mocking smile as he gracefully reached for the book on the ground next to him, where it had fallen.

I watched in speechless horror as I realized what was happening – what book I had used as my weapon.

My sketch book.

He picked it up in his long, pale fingers, examining it delicately. There was a smirk playing on his face, his eyes still tight.

He opened the book with deliberate slowness as the Slytherins around him watched. His pale eyebrows rose as he took in the first few pages of my book – my sketches.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Wee Weasley is artistic.” I heard a smothered shriek of laughter from somewhere to my right – I was too horrified to look – but I recognized it as the voice of Pansy Parkinson.

“Oh, crap, Malfoy, give that here!” I cried desperately.

“Oh, no, Weasley,” he disagreed, his eyes glinting. “Not until I’ve had my fill of it.”

He flipped the pages, ‘mmm’-ing and ‘aaah’-ing in mock amazement.

Even in my absolutely humiliated state, I noted with a glimmer of pain that he looked so exquisite, perfect, pristine as an angel standing there, fingering through my sketches. An Evil Angel.

I could not think of a single thing to say as he flipped a page to what I knew would be my prized drawing of the Hogwarts towers.

“Malfoy ... don’t!” I whispered finally, knowing he would not hear.

“Wonderful, beautiful.” he said solemnly, shaking his head gravely.

Then a sudden smirk flashed across his face.

He gestured to the sketch of the school. “Did you practice by sketching that hovel you live in?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. I wished my temper was still there, to give me at least righteous fury, but it was dead.

“Look at this, people! Isn’t it a masterpiece?” he called to his watching fan club, waving my book in the air.

But then a thought struck me – and I suppressed a yelp of anguish as I realized what drawing it would be in the next page.

With that slowness that seemed like forever to me – he delicately turned the page. Now the tears pricked my eyes ruthlessly.

I watched as his fair eyebrows rose, his blazing eyes widening as he took in my drawing of him. He looked up at me, his silver eyes piercing, that intense look again. I knew he would never let me live through this moment.

“Aw, would you look at that,” he said softly, gesturing with a long finger to the page, as the tears spilled from my eyes hopelessly.

“Poor, infatuated little Weasley.”

X

I stood motionless, ten unbearable minutes later, my head hung as I heard the groups of chattering people walk past me, snickering and calling taunts at me I could barely hear.

After a single “Piss off!” I had become speechless with humiliation. What was the point of defending myself when I had been so stupid, so humiliated? Why couldn’t I have kicked his face?

Why was he so cruel?

I exhaled and inhaled deeply, trying to gather my remaining self-respect, or my ability to move, for that matter. Then it was quiet.

I slowly lifted my head, planning to pick up my desecrated book and possibly flee to some place I would never have to be seen again.

I could not suppress a gasp of astonishment as I saw Draco Malfoy still standing there, barely two feet from me, staring intently at me. His expression was unfathomable. We looked at each other for a few seconds, my expression broken, and his very serious.

His eyes were piercing, and so very intense. It was like there was a bubble around us, and we were enclosed in it.

“Hate me, Ginevra,” he said suddenly in a quiet voice. His pale hands suddenly pulled aside his cloak, revealing his pale, hard forearm.

I took a sharp intake of breath as I recognized the mark etched there – a black skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth. The Dark Mark. I still could not speak.

I stared at him, bewildered, horrified.

“Hate me,” he repeated, his voice still soft.

Because ...” he took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s how it should be. It’s ... better that way.” His voice was muted, velvet soft.

Then he turned, and without one glance at me, he loped back toward the castle. I stood there for a few more minutes, staring dumbly after him, before I finally discovered my feet and walked to class.

The War was over.

Lord Voldemort was dead.

Thousands crowded around Harry Potter, eager to hold some part of their hero, anxious to speak one word of their immense gratitude to the one who had saved all. But I was not among them.

I needed some time, time to embrace the truth – the truth that Tom Riddle would never haunt my thoughts and dreams again, that those vicious cerise eyes would never pierce anyone again. I needed some time alone.

I stood in the midst of the ecstatic crowd, staring blankly at nothing in particular. I finally glanced upwards, somehow frantic to see something other than the clambering, overwhelming horde.

The corridors were all destroyed, demolished mostly. As I looked upon them, the image of Fred, his dead eyes, still widened with their last laugh, swam into my head. I saw pictures of Remus and Tonks lying side by side, and their lifeless faces.

Fred, my favorite brother, dead. Tonks, Remus, Colin ... so many ... All non-existent now, just after this one day.

I had heard a saying that went something like: No one is ever dead, until you forget them. But it didn’t help me now. I would never forget these people, but they were still dead. They would never speak to me again, never touch me again. They would never be who they were again.

I shuddered in agony, and for one second I felt fiercely glad that Lord Voldemort was dead. But that was extinguished all too soon. I could not be happy now. I wanted to be, but it was not right. I felt that it would take more time for me to completely accept that I could be joyful.
For now, I was alone with my sorrow.

Two figures caught my eye. They stood alone, in one solitary balcony. The man had long, white blond hair. His face was gaunt, his sunken eyes had a dead look in them. He had his arms around a woman, whose silver head was buried in his chest.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Did they know that they were now probably the most hated people in the world? That they would never, ever be accepted again? That people would consider something disgusting, alien – not fit to be associated with?

Looking at the defeated, wretched look on Lucius' face, I gathered my answer.

Yes. Yeah, they knew.

But where was their son?

No, I berated myself immediately. I had no right to wonder that.

“Hate me,” he had said. I’d tried to hate him.

I did hate him.

A week after he had spoken those words, he had disappeared. The next time he was seen, he was Voldemort's tool – to cause pain and eliminate the subjects Voldemort thought it was beneath him to do himself. Nothing but a helpless puppet, unable to resist against the strings that pulled him constantly, forcing him to perform the inhumanity he repulsed doing.

I saw unwelcome glimpses of Draco Malfoy’s handsome face, of the tortured look in his gray eyes, the look of a caged creature begging to be set free. The look that was present even as his lips twisted to form that cruel smirk that he had been forced to adorn his words with.

Glimpses of another look in his eyes, a look that had been there when he had said those words, hate me, an emotion smoldering in them that I couldn’t explain. I wouldn’t explain.

Because that sub-conscious part of me that would instinctively keep me away from pain had not allowed me to comprehend that emotion. Knowing that it would be more torment if I knew that Draco had feelings for me, but was forced so cruelly to suppress them. The thousand “if only”s, the ghosts of what might have been, if it were not for the Dark Lord. There were so many of those, for so many people, but that didn't lessen the pain for anyone.

But, try as I might, I still saw flashes of my evil angel.

I hated him. I had succeeded in that feat. He was no one to me. What did I care, if he lived or died?

An image of him, spread-eagled on a cold marble floor, his eyes wide, lifeless, formed itself in my imagination.

I shuddered.

I did care. I cared so much, too much. Because I’d thought, in spite of the cruelty and the arrogance that he emitted outwardly, there was something else inside.

But I shouldn’t care. Everything was wrong about it, it was almost an atrocity that I should feel this way about Draco Malfoy.

I turned and made my way to the nearly demolished castle tower, blindly moving away from the crowd that was offensive to me in its happiness.

This was driving me nuts. I thought I had it all in control, but now, when I should have been in that torrent of people, happy for the end and sad for their dead – I was recalling him.

But now I realized, or perhaps I had always known, that I never would ... never could change the way I felt about him. I could only change its form – either passionate love or passionate hate. Inside the infatuation I’d had for him, there had been something else – something I hadn’t acknowledged at the time. The emotions were just channeled into a different path. They were still there.

I noticed that the halls around me were deserted. I let out a sigh of exhausted relief. I rounded another corner, concentrating on breathing deeply, and controlling the possible hysterics.

I was still blindly walking, not really caring where I went. I turned to another corridor, somehow desperately. It felt like I wanted to cover as much distance as possible, simply to give myself the satisfaction that I was doing something. Anything but being stationary with my unbearable thoughts. Walking didn't really stop me from thinking them, but it gave me the illusion of doing something to make it better.

I could see someone on the far end of this hall, but I knew it was too late now – I could not turn back. Whoever it was would have already seen me. I should have paid more attention...

I took a deep, slow breath, and walked quickly forward, hoping I would be able to pass the person without any look or word exchanged.

I looked carefully only at the floor as I continued taking feverish steps forward. I could not see the person's face, only his body, since I did not want to look up. I was sure that if I had to speak now – pretend to act normal – I would go mad.

I could see myself sprawled on the floor, wailing as I clutched at my hair – well, that’s what I felt like doing right now. Maybe that’s why I wanted to be alone.

I was less than a few feet from the unknown person now, but I thought I would be able to walk past without any contact. Once I was safely past, I could breathe again. It was stupid that I despised company so much, but it seemed mandatory for my sanity.

I could see the legs of the stranger, and for a moment they seemed to shift uncertainly.

To my utmost annoyance, the person walked haltingly towards me, until he was right in front of me.

The graceful, fluid walk was painfully familiar, but I didn’t want to recognize anyone now. I didn’t want anything.

I took an unwilling, indignant glance at the person’s face, fighting to keep it from crumpling into the emotion I had been trying hard to suppress. If he planned to speak to me, I had my “leave me alone!” phrased and planned.

But my breath caught in a ragged gasp in my throat. My head swam uncontrollably, and the edges of my vision shimmered into blinding whiteness as I recognized those silver eyes.

My knees gave out from under me, and all turned black.

X

“Ginny,” a voice said, as frantic hands shook my shoulders gently.

I opened my eyes blearily, only to find myself staring into those blazing eyes again, now filled with worry.

I cringed automatically from his touch – the sub-conscious leading me away from further pain again. I swiftly got to my feet.

There was still a faint ringing in my ears, but I ignored it.

“Are you all right?” he said, taking a step towards me, his expression concerned.

I gave a curt nod, and looked pointedly away through the windows at my side, my eyes narrowing. My entire being ached to look into his face, but I wouldn’t.

I had managed to put together my life, and I knew if I allowed that gaze to pierce me again, all I’d joint together would shatter. But I couldn't walk past him, either.

“I’ve hated you, Malfoy. Now what do you want?” I was still looking away from him, my nostrils flared slightly as I could feel my glare surfacing. As long as I didn’t look at him, I'd be able to piece together the various reasons I had gathered zealously to loathe this boy in front of me.

There was a long moment of pause, and then a cool, hesitant finger touched my chin, coaxing my face upwards.

My glare faltered, my anger dissolved – I couldn’t seem to fight the reactions that touch could bring out in me.

I looked hopelessly into his face. The silver eyes retained their brilliance, but they were sunken, with deep purple shadows under them. His face was deathly pale, with his skin stretched tightly over his cheekbones. His fair hair hung lankly down his back.

His lips were twitched into a humorless, grim smile.

The emotion I had been fighting bravely these last two years, and believed that I had won over, effortlessly flooded me as his eyes looked into mine hungrily as if he had just been waiting for the right moment to. He seemed to lift the truth straight from me.

“But you haven’t, Ginny,” he said, his voice velvet soft. He sighed. “Not really.”

“How do you know?” I demanded, the intended hostility in my tone hindered by the tremble I couldn’t suppress from my voice.

I was clinging on to my sanity, if I gave in to the power of what I felt for him I would simply break into pieces. Unless ... But I stopped my thoughts there. I couldn’t allow myself to hope.

I wanted to be alone! Away from this mess!

I wanted him, so very badly. So much.

“Your eyes,” he said simply. The painful smile faded, and his face was serious.

He lifted his finger from my chin, and lightly caressed my cheek. His eyes glowed with a sad sort of awe.

My breathing was harsh, each breath ripping up my throat unwillingly.

“I tried my best. You asked me to hate you, and I tried my very best to,” I said tremulously, my voice nearly incoherent. “And you still won’t leave me alone.”

I don’t want you to.

What I had not said seemed to hang in the air, just as if I had said it: That if he asked me to love him, I would.

His eyes suddenly seemed to come alive, like melting pewter. They were burning with the emotion I had been fighting not to recall.

“But you know I never wanted you to ... hate me,” he whispered.

“I know.” I did know.

There was no point trying not to know. It was no use now. He had come and shattered all the pretenses, all the things I had been trying not to believe.

His hands sudden lifted to cup my face, with a sort of desperation. His expression was intent, as if he was trying to convey something very important. His lips trembled, and twisted bitterly.

“I’m wrong for you, Ginny.” His voice was rough. “Completely, totally wrong. You know that.”

He was reminding me of who he was, what he had done. He was giving me the choice to turn my back on him, leave him. But bitter and harsh as his face was, I could see how much he didn’t want to give me that choice.

“I know, Malfoy. I know everything! I've been wishing so hard that it wasn’t this way, that what you’ve done” – I took a deep, shuddering breath – “that the fact that you’re Draco Malfoy would change how I felt about you, b-but...”

I stared into his face, unable to drop my gaze. I realized that this very wrongness was what I had loved; it was the only thing I would love. Everything in my life seemed proof to that. In that second, I made my decision.

“I don’t care.” Three words, three simple words that could mean so many things, that could imply so much, in this situation. I said them now.

I lifted my face, and fiercely kissed his startled, cold lips.

X

I drew him, under a tall tree, standing under its protective shadow. His arms were unfurled with an air of expectancy, as though he was waiting for someone to run into them.

His face seemed to glow with the meaning of the small smile that adorned it. His beautiful eyes displayed love.

Wonderful! I loved to get that gooey expression on his face.

I had finished, and I appraised my drawing appreciatively. “Draco!” I called. “Come look at this!”

He came ambling into my room, smirking. His eyes went to the small, leather bound book in my hands, and his expression turned curious.

“What is the artist up to now?” he queried. I held out the sketchbook to him shyly.

“The last page,” I informed him.

He flipped the pages casually, but I could see the eagerness in his face. He finally reached the last leaf of my sketchbook.

He looked at the drawing for what seemed like a long time, and his lips twitched into a playful smirk.

“You almost grasped how gorgeous I am,” he murmured, still looking at the page. "Though I do hate that ridiculous look on my face."

I tilted my head to look from under the book to his face, and was satisfied. Though it wore the teasing, slightly arrogant expression it often did, his eyes glowed with the emotion I had wanted to see.

I grabbed the book from his hand, and playfully smacked it on his head.

“Ow,” he mock protested, wincing theatrically.

He suddenly took my wrists in his hands, and pulled them gently around his neck. With a gaze that seemed to pierce right through my eyes, he slowly bent his head, leaning his smooth, cool forehead on mine. His sweet breath caressed my face, and my thoughts were momentarily scattered.

“My tomato head...” he murmured. Remembrance was sweet, even if the memory I remembered was not. I remembered the silly nickname he used to have for me, and I couldn’t suppress a little shiver.

“You’re evil, Draco,” I whispered helplessly, and he chuckled softly. He bent his head, and his lips found mine.

And he was evil. He was my evil angel.