I knew you couldn't care. That was just who you were – someone who had been bred to be cool. To be cold. To be heartless. Bred to be a Malfoy.

Although you moved around with the rest of us, and were a part of the student body, you stood apart. You were in a class of your own – no one could touch you. No one could be close to you. I couldn't be close to you.

It eats away at me – this undying want. Its heated tendrils of desire envelop my heart and grow bigger every day, threatening to overtake my entire body and consume my very soul. I feel the ache of emptiness; this pining for something – someone – I can never have. A feeling of loss for something I never had in the first place.

I feel almost guilty for daring to daydream, daring to hope – that I could be close to you. We're too different, you and I. We move in different social circles, as though in different worlds. You are unattainable – something there to remind me every day of what I cannot have.

Your eyes, so aloof, as though you were a king surveying his kingdom, sweep the room with their icy silver. So harsh, but so alluring, those eyes entice me. There is something about those beautiful pools of mercury that say so much, and yet say nothing at all. Void of expression, I can only guess what thoughts are running behind them. What are you thinking, when you see students talk in whispers in a quiet corner? What are you thinking, when you hear them excitedly sharing their plans for the summer holidays?

Your pale and beautiful skin cries out to be touched – I can imagine the smooth silky feeling of it under my fingers; the unmarred lustrous surface caressing my fingertips as they gently touch your face. No- No, I can't think of that. It will never happen – I only tease myself to dwell on it.

I saw you after a Quidditch practice the other day. Your perfect skin was flushed pink from the exhilaration, and you were actually smiling. The activity had loosened the strict, harsh slick of your hair, and several strands of white gold hung in a silken wave by your face. I longed to run my fingers through it; to feel the gossamer strands slide smoothly between my fingers and fall back in a soft, white curtain.

But I know I can only ever dream. If you saw me in a crowded room, would you take a second glance? Will you ever know my name?

You're my enigma. How much of you is real? Behind that flawless, satiny skin, and critical yet distant expression, how much of you is just playing the part of the dutiful Malfoy your upbringing has moulded you into?

You could have anyone you choose – you have that power – it comes with that face. You will never know about the quiet girl in the corner of the room who watches, with daring dreams and baited breath. The one that is condemned to live without that dream ever obtaining breath of its own. The one that is me.

You are a Malfoy. Do you feel fear? Do you feel compassion? Is your heart able to love?

And if it could…could that heart ever love me?