A/N: Simply a pointless something written to break up my writer's block.
The line in the middle signifies the beginning of a different story.
There is something strangely comforting in chocolate. Whenever I feel sad, I gorge on chocolate.
Scorpius Malfoy is kind of like my chocolate. He's always there, an ever-constant presence. And when I ask why, he doesn't reply. He only looks at me with those metallic eyes and I know.
He hates me, but he can't tear himself away from me. He is my chocolate; I am his drug.
Whoever said there is a fine line between love and hate was right. And I don't like it. It scares me. How can you love someone you hate whole-heartedly? The animosity never fades. We're always hurting each other.
So why do we harbor a secret intensity? When we're alone together, and we're done exchanging insults, he looks at me with those metallic eyes. There is nothing alluring about his eyes. They're cold and hard and make you want to hide.
What entices me is his voice.
But when we're alone, we always end up sitting in silence. And in silence I hate him less than in commotion, even though his eyes make me feel cold, and only his voice can warm me back up.
So I've come to the conclusion that love and hate – it's the same thing. When we yell and wound and sting, are we really hugging? And when we kiss and hold on to each other, are we really hurting each other more than we care to admit?
Fog from my mouth makes me think of dragons and cold, sunny days.
Cold and sunny days make me nostalgic.
My head pounds when I sit by the lake – too many memories – of lives lost (my parents) and hearts broken (me).
He broke my heart by this lake. And he hates me. He is cold, yet he is my sun. He makes me nostalgic.
I used to absorb him the way I absorb the sun's heat on cold but sunny days.
Thinking of him makes me question everything. How can he have broken my heart when I couldn't really have loved him in the first place?
I'm too young for love; or at least I think so.
Something catches my eye. A piece of paper flutters, flutters, caught up in the wind and the air, before setting down softly and floating on the surface of the lake.
Even as I watch the water swallows it. It is about to disappear completely.
For unknown reasons, I wave my wand and save the paper. It is an essay. The ink is blotted and unreadable. But rescued.
A shadow crosses me. "Thank you."
It is him. His mouth is quirking.
A faint attempt at a smile? I'm not sure.
What I am sure of – this is a new beginning.