REVISED.
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Damn him.
Those are the only words that cross my mind as I glare death at my alleged best friend, the bastard. How could he simply sit there reading? He's doesn't even like to read! Doesn't he have a clue that I am slowly losing sanity with ever turned page? Yet he smirks, staring blankly at the pages, not seeming to take in the words at all.
Damn that smirk.
Just because he has dashing looks and a smooth drawl that would melt any heart, particularly the heart of one Ice Queen extraordinaire, he thinks that he owns the entire bloody universe! Well, he's got another thing coming if Draco Malfoy thinks that he can simply penetrate Pansy Parkinson's black indifferent heart! Certainly not.
Damn those eyes!
Why does he have to look at me with those eyes? Can't he have some plain eyes, lifeless, loveless, and unlikable? But no, cruel fates I detest you! You have to give him the eyes of a Greek God! They have to be cold and dancing with shadows of sincerity; otherwise known as beauty in all its dark hideous glory. When those eyes, critical and analytic, lock with my timid black ones, every ounce of self control is dedicated to remaining still and indifferent . They are hypnotic, refusing to release me from the spell, causing me to trip on my own clumsy feet, and stutter. Yes, I said S-T-U-T-T-E-R!
Behind those eyes, lie something far beyond coldness, something that frightens me even more than his darkness, that makes me envy him.
Beneath lies passion, so distant that it is barely noticeable, only noticeable to someone like me. I study him and his impassive eyes, his body moving in a lazy graceful manner, and his eyes always holding his heart, betraying him. What I see repulses me, makes me gag!
Draco Malfoy can love freely, not thinking about it for more than a second. Before you could finish saying 'Crucio', he could give his heart away because it was beating. He is alive in so many ways, he isn't comprised of the simple mechanics of flesh and bone working together with parasitic thoughts stuck to him at all times. He isn't some sort of shell, or case, or empty abandoned house. He is whole.
But I am not.