I said something stupid today at lunch. I forget what exactly, something to do with Professor Flitwick and an orange, it doesn't matter. He compared me to a troll. They laughed, all his horrible 'friends'. Sycophantic bastards. If anyone's an idiot they are. Millicent Bitch-Strode put on a pathetic little-girl giggle and gazed at Draco with what she must have thought was an alluring expression. Shame there wasn't a mirror handy as she looked and sounded more like Professor Umbridge than the sex goddess she dreamt she was. I just rolled my eyes and carried on eating. They assumed I was sulking and laughed all the more. They can assume all they want for all I care because they didn't see the look Draco gave me. It wasn't exactly apologetic, he never would. But it told me he'd make it up to me soon. I took off one of my shoes and slid my foot under his trouser leg.
You see I don't care what he calls me in front of his cronies. I know it doesn't matter. I know that if he really thought I was a troll he would get rid of me in a heartbeat. And I know I can give just as good as he does. Why else would I wear such vile robes to the ball and talk to him like an ickle wickle baby. I love to see him squirm when I call him my darwing Dwakie wakie, my twoo wuv in front of everyone. He's torn between keeping up his image and his devotion to me. And it is devotion. He's an arrogant git, why would he want me hanging around if he couldn't stand me? Sometimes I do wonder if that's what he thinks. But then I wonder, if that's true why have we been together so long? Because when it's empty classrooms, dark hallways, the common room in the dead of night and it's him and me an lips and skin none of them matter. Not his goons, not Potty, Mud-Blood Granger and the Weasel King. Not even his father. Because when my hands are in his golden hair and in places that make him scream he can forget the world. Because when he looks at me, even when he's insulting me, I see love.
You see I don't care what he calls me in front of his cronies. I know it doesn't matter. I know that if he really thought I was a troll he would get rid of me in a heartbeat. And I know I can give just as good as he does. Why else would I wear such vile robes to the ball and talk to him like an ickle wickle baby. I love to see him squirm when I call him my darwing Dwakie wakie, my twoo wuv in front of everyone. He's torn between keeping up his image and his devotion to me. And it is devotion. He's an arrogant git, why would he want me hanging around if he couldn't stand me? Sometimes I do wonder if that's what he thinks. But then I wonder, if that's true why have we been together so long? Because when it's empty classrooms, dark hallways, the common room in the dead of night and it's him and me an lips and skin none of them matter. Not his goons, not Potty, Mud-Blood Granger and the Weasel King. Not even his father. Because when my hands are in his golden hair and in places that make him scream he can forget the world. Because when he looks at me, even when he's insulting me, I see love.