The Right Kind of Wrong
Differences. That's what sets us apart. Our houses, our colors, ourselves. I wouldn't have it any other way. I loathe her, I do. It started as just a game. It was just a game, after all. Sniping at each other in the hallways then sneaking in empty classrooms and kissing, her hands tangled in my hair. I loved it - I loved the way she fumbled clumsily with my buttons and how she unzipped my pants and I loved how she gave me little touches and little kisses that still linger their heat on my skin.
But even though it was just a game, a little thing she did to take a break, I hated the way she disguised herself. The way when I insulted her friends, she would stand up for them, even for that half-giant oaf, Hagrid, or whatever his name was. I hated the way she leaned on Potter or Weasley, how she whispered in their ears during lunch or dinner, how they were so close that every time they touched, it was just like breathing.
I wanted to do that. I even dreamed of several occasions where I had told the Sorting Hat I wanted to be in Gryffindor, because maybe then, maybe then whenever she touched me or kissed me or held me, it'd be breathing, it'd be completely natural. And that my name would roll off her tongue with a dreamy look on her face instead of hatred plastered over it. We've never gone all the way, because she's far too innocent for that. But sometimes I feel like she's watching me, trying to paint me a different color so that every flaw that is visible is gone from her vision.
I never want to paint her another color. I wish she wasn't a mudblood, I really do, but I can't change the blood that runs through her very skin. And even when I hold her, I hardly notice it. But when I look at her closely, I sometimes feel disgusted, images of her filthy blood on my mind. I feel so guilty afterwards, because I am just leading her on, and what would father say if he knew I was contaminating herself? She's not that bad-looking, and she proved that sensationally at our fourth year, when she came arm-in-arm with Viktor Krum.
I hated her even more for that. After all, how dare such a mudblood be beautiful? It wasn't supposed to be possible. Her hair was wavy and brown, like curly tendrils of waterfalls, and her lips shimmered as she cuddled closely to the massive Krum, her brown eyes glinting from the reflection of the people around her. I am getting too sentimental here, anyways. She's nothing but a tool I use to get what I want. She's close to Potter, which is a very, very dignified excuse.
What better way to get my hands on him by manipulating her to bring him to me first?
She's just a game. A game that I play.
I do loathe her.
Really.
I might faint. I just wrote a PG-13 D/HR.
Dear Heavens, the world must be ending...