She looks beautiful.
No, she's always beautiful.
Now she's simply breathtaking.
The second he sees her, everything else fades out and she's all that he can focus on. Her normally bushy frizz—the tangles that always seemed to be alight with electricity—were replaced by shiny waves that were tied in intricate knots. She was wearing simple, yet extremely flattering and expensive-looking, periwinkle robes that highlighted her flawless porcelain skin—skin that he was desperate to touch and caress with his large, calloused hands. Her plump lips were as pink and perfect as ever, curled into a coy smile, and his constant desire to attach his lips to hers increased tenfold. Her honey-colored eyes sparkled with wit and passion and, in Draco's opinion, no jewel or gem could ever compare.
She didn't look his way, but then again, why would she?
All of her attention was on her date. Draco felt physically ill as he watched the couple waltz around the Great Hall, one of Krum's hands grasping hers and the other settled on her waist. She was smiling sweetly at her dancing partner and Draco tried to resist the urge to march over and Avada Kedavra that bumbling Bulgarian oaf into oblivion.
He wished he gotten to her first. He wished he had found the courage a few days earlier. He wished that he wasn't a Malfoy. He wished that she would just look his way; a simple glance would suffice. He wished that she would realize how much he loved her. But more than anything, he wished she would love him back.
But no, he was stuck with Pansy, who was pawing at him desperately, batting her lashes and whispering suggestive things in his ears.
Pansy didn't look breathtaking. She didn't even look beautiful. Hell, he didn't think she was attractive in the slightest. But really, who would ever compare to her?