She never hated him, but she thought that he wanted her to. He jeered at her from the moment they met, but all that he ever really called her was mudblood. She didn't think that he could come up with anything else.
The day that he first insulted her - a day in their second year when she'd stood up for her dearest friend in a Quidditch argument - she made it obvious that she found him to be hauntingly beautiful. He caught her in the hall after dinner, fumbling over his words in such an endearingly clumsy way, the slightest blush touching his high cheekbones, and she knew that he was trying to find the perfect way to word an apology.
She made the mistake of reaching for him, invading his personal space, and he ran from her so quickly that she was left with only one prevailant impression of him; he was weak.
Their years at school passed in a roar of one-sided insults and Death-Eater accusations, but they kept to themselves and tossed one another knowing glances.
Were it not for the prejudice, the animosity between houses that existed within the same school, the whole damned war, they would not have been enemies. But the fates had collaborated to separate them, and despite personal wishes they respected destiny's power and perpetuated that wall that kept them in opposite worlds.
Eventually she became an assistant to the Minister of Magic and he became a Death Eater, causing her to almost forget his pretty grey eyes staring across classrooms to share daydreams with her.
Almost.
The day that she had dreaded eventually came, and she sat down in that dark, condemning courtroom and watched as he was ushered in, manacled and dissheveled, dirt smudging those perfect pale cheeks and that prominent nose that he held high in the air.
They read his charges and asked for his plea. He proclaimed proudly that he was indeed guilty. He did not look at her as they led him from the room, reading off the sentence for his shameless support of the Dark Lord, and she was glad that he didn't, because she did not want him to see her cry.
She turned to the obituaries in the newspaper for nearly two weeks after his trial until the day finally came when his picture was accompanied by two dates that were some twenty-two years apart.
She cut the clip out of the paper and hung it in her cluttered cubicle, among the pictures of her friends and other accused Death-Eaters.
He had not pleaded for mercy when they read him his sentence, or suggested a trade-off of his fellows to save his own neck. That was more than any of the others had done thus far, and for the first time in almost eleven years, she questioned fate.
Weren't the strong meant to fight for good?
The day that he first insulted her - a day in their second year when she'd stood up for her dearest friend in a Quidditch argument - she made it obvious that she found him to be hauntingly beautiful. He caught her in the hall after dinner, fumbling over his words in such an endearingly clumsy way, the slightest blush touching his high cheekbones, and she knew that he was trying to find the perfect way to word an apology.
She made the mistake of reaching for him, invading his personal space, and he ran from her so quickly that she was left with only one prevailant impression of him; he was weak.
Their years at school passed in a roar of one-sided insults and Death-Eater accusations, but they kept to themselves and tossed one another knowing glances.
Were it not for the prejudice, the animosity between houses that existed within the same school, the whole damned war, they would not have been enemies. But the fates had collaborated to separate them, and despite personal wishes they respected destiny's power and perpetuated that wall that kept them in opposite worlds.
Eventually she became an assistant to the Minister of Magic and he became a Death Eater, causing her to almost forget his pretty grey eyes staring across classrooms to share daydreams with her.
Almost.
The day that she had dreaded eventually came, and she sat down in that dark, condemning courtroom and watched as he was ushered in, manacled and dissheveled, dirt smudging those perfect pale cheeks and that prominent nose that he held high in the air.
They read his charges and asked for his plea. He proclaimed proudly that he was indeed guilty. He did not look at her as they led him from the room, reading off the sentence for his shameless support of the Dark Lord, and she was glad that he didn't, because she did not want him to see her cry.
She turned to the obituaries in the newspaper for nearly two weeks after his trial until the day finally came when his picture was accompanied by two dates that were some twenty-two years apart.
She cut the clip out of the paper and hung it in her cluttered cubicle, among the pictures of her friends and other accused Death-Eaters.
He had not pleaded for mercy when they read him his sentence, or suggested a trade-off of his fellows to save his own neck. That was more than any of the others had done thus far, and for the first time in almost eleven years, she questioned fate.
Weren't the strong meant to fight for good?