The days strech onwards and people laugh. The sky is falling, but only you can see it's colapsing state, it is only you that is affected by the sordid state of the world. You watch the stars falling into a black abyss, wondering faintly if they ever sleep. You see him everyday. He taunts you, words of ridicule, but you try to see the hidden passion. Wish that the words he spoke began with L and ended with E. Like the Hollywood films and the Weird Sister's songs. You sigh as the laughs come, as Hermione tuts, pondering faintly and desperatly why you won't be with her. Like everyone wants. Perhaps it would be easier.
"How's your mother Weasel?" He enquires one morning during a double potions, his eagle feather quill twisting through the thick veil that hides his eyes, blue and full of hate. You think he is playing, but you pretend he means every word, that he is generally concerned.
"gre-"
"Shut up, Malfoy." Potter cuts through, eyes narrowed through his glasses, you want to tell him to shut up, that the hastened words that Malfoy mutters are what keeps you sane, keeps the slow breathing continuing.
Everything you do is second grade, your clothes, your possessions, your love. He knows that you know, he knows that you won't tell. You don't care if he is another hand-me-down, you don't care if he hates you or if he hurts you. you are use to the pain in the left side of your heart, it is constantly there, like a tap turned on to tight. Constantly aware, but unable to make it move. He laughs, turning back to his couldron, eyes lingering on your tattered robes with a slight nod of awful recognition. You pretend it is hope.
"What a Brat!" Hermione whispers, her expression filled with concern, sometimes you think she wonders why you don't snap anymore, why you suddenly care about the Slytherin Prince. Why he has your heart wrapped in brown paper and tied up wiht string. Why it lies forever at his doorstep. But everyday he steps over it, carlessly and his friends step on it, leaving footfrints that do not fade.
She thinks you are to dull to notice that she is head over heels for you, that you don't understand girls, that you are scared. But your not interested in her small hips and her delicate skin. You don't see the way she chews her quill as she rests her head upon her hand to look isly at you while you struggle to write an essay. You don't feel the butterflies and clowns that are meant to be present when she embraces you in a hug. You know it's not there, and she can't believe, doesn't want to believe.
Suddenly you know that you'll always be just another hand me down, used love.
You smile, satisfied.
"How's your mother Weasel?" He enquires one morning during a double potions, his eagle feather quill twisting through the thick veil that hides his eyes, blue and full of hate. You think he is playing, but you pretend he means every word, that he is generally concerned.
"gre-"
"Shut up, Malfoy." Potter cuts through, eyes narrowed through his glasses, you want to tell him to shut up, that the hastened words that Malfoy mutters are what keeps you sane, keeps the slow breathing continuing.
Everything you do is second grade, your clothes, your possessions, your love. He knows that you know, he knows that you won't tell. You don't care if he is another hand-me-down, you don't care if he hates you or if he hurts you. you are use to the pain in the left side of your heart, it is constantly there, like a tap turned on to tight. Constantly aware, but unable to make it move. He laughs, turning back to his couldron, eyes lingering on your tattered robes with a slight nod of awful recognition. You pretend it is hope.
"What a Brat!" Hermione whispers, her expression filled with concern, sometimes you think she wonders why you don't snap anymore, why you suddenly care about the Slytherin Prince. Why he has your heart wrapped in brown paper and tied up wiht string. Why it lies forever at his doorstep. But everyday he steps over it, carlessly and his friends step on it, leaving footfrints that do not fade.
She thinks you are to dull to notice that she is head over heels for you, that you don't understand girls, that you are scared. But your not interested in her small hips and her delicate skin. You don't see the way she chews her quill as she rests her head upon her hand to look isly at you while you struggle to write an essay. You don't feel the butterflies and clowns that are meant to be present when she embraces you in a hug. You know it's not there, and she can't believe, doesn't want to believe.
Suddenly you know that you'll always be just another hand me down, used love.
You smile, satisfied.