Disclaimer: All the characters in this story belong to JK Rowling and no profit is being derived from the composition of this story. Thank you.
He was doing it again.
Those grey-blue eyes, gazing at her from the other end of the Great Hall. His table was draped in green; hers, in red. Yet it hardly bore resemblance to the notion of pleasant Yuletide festivities. No.
This was more like a silent war. And he was proud to note who proposed it.
He watched as she brought the lightly buttered piece of toast to her mouth. It was scarcely a crust, but he could see her mouth devour it with relish, her dextrous tongue moving to lick the remaining specks of grease and crumb from the delicate corners of her mouth.
He licked his lips.
She stiffened as a red-haired boy lunged forward to tuck a stray strand of her chocolate tresses behind her ear. He watched with mild bemusement as faint traces of rouge emerged on her cheeks and a small smile lilted her lips.
He leaned forward on the table, transfixed as the girl dusted the crumbs off the fullness of her black robes. He gaped at her, perceiving every movement she made with meticulous scrutiny.
For that was how one's enemies were to be treated. With utmost caution and observation. At all times.
He stared as she twisted her slender neck, stretching and contorting it with a strange ardour. She was a strange person; she was a Mudblood, after all. And nothing but oddity and impudence could be expected from such a filthy race.
He was tempted to ruffle his hair, but his hand halted in the middle of the action as the girl looked over at him. He felt himself spit out some pumpkin juice, as one of her eyebrows mangled to rise in a perfect arch above her soft brown eye.
She was like fucking mahogany.
He tried to act smug, to slant back in his chair and nod his head suggestively at the girl. He tried to act malicious, to cast a few mortal curses her way or even to possibly extend his middle finger at her. She was a Mudblood, after all.
But his feet seemed to sprout iron bonds to the floorboards beneath him, his hand seemed to have developed an angelic disposition of its own and the restricted section textbooks that were stored in his brain seemed to have dissolved into nothing but candy and bunnies.
He groaned.
She was still gazing at him, her eyes unguarded and inquiring. He longed to slap her, to tell her to shield the damned virtue shining so clearly in her eyes – but they were still both a good few yards away from each other, at opposite ends of the room.
He maintained a blank, detached look on his face, failing to force the façade of frostiness on it, before the girl was swept off her feet by the same red-haired boy as before.
He muttered a few choice curses under his breath as she granted him one last glance before exiting the hall. Day one wasn't going according to plan.
But he still had the rest of the year to make her life miserable. Though the fun had not begun yet, Draco was certain he would get his own by the end of the day.
After all, she was a pathetic, pure, powerless seventeen-year old girl.
Not to mention, she was a Mudblood. And Draco would never lay low until he put her in her place.
A cruel smile swept over his face.
A/N: Review if you would. Thanks for reading, will update if there is adequate response. Cheers.