A/N: I know this is a super-short first chapter, but it seemed to be a good start. There will be smut/lemons/whatever you wanna call it later on.


I hated him.

I had extended the hand of friendship first. I reached out to him. He turned me down. I was only ten, yet I was smitten the first time I saw him. Yes, I was smitten. I hated him…yet I also loved him. I couldn't help it. I dreamed of running my fingers through his impossible mop of black hair, and the way his emerald eyes looked at me so frankly, I was afraid he could see into my head and know the way I thought about him. The way I had dreamt about him every single night since the time I first laid eyes on him.

My "contempt" had all been an act. It was to put everyone off the trail, to keep them from even guessing how much I longed for that small, skinny boy. Apparently, it worked too well - he thought I hated him. And I did, to a point. I hated the way he looked at me, like I didn't even deserve to live. I hated it even more when he looked at me with pity in those gemstone eyes. I hated how my body reacted when we were near each other, and the way it tingled all the way to my toes when our eyes met.

I tried so hard to ignore him and avoid him. It never worked; he was always turning up when I least expected and least wanted him to. Instead of pressing myself against him, I sneered at him, spitting out his last name, "Potter", as if it tasted bitter...which it did. Instead of crushing my lips against his, I insulted him.

Nothing worked. After ten years, I still couldn't forget. Not anything. Certainly not the way he looked at me that first day at Hogwarts. There was no way in hell he would look at me now. After Voldemort died, Harry began his training as an Auror, and everywhere he went people loved him. Why would he even look at me? He was dating Ginny, one of those red-headed Weasley rats. Hey, just because I was in love with Harry didn't mean I liked the Weasleys any better. Harry probably didn't even know what happened to me after the war, nor did he care, most likely. My father went to Azkaban and my mother went crazy and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. My so-called friends abandoned me when they realized the Malfoy fortune was gone. Meanwhile, The Boy Who Fucking Lived had everything: money, friends, a partner, and a sweet job. I was stuck behind the counter in a shoddy pub. It was humiliating for a Malfoy, but it was that or starve.

On the other hand, was life without Harry Potter worth living?