It was impossible to know if she loved him or hated him more. More often than not she wouldn't know the difference between the two. She used to believe in true love, in happily ever afters. Now she knew better.
She liked to think she had managed to hate him. That the next time he appeared out of thin air and wanted back into her life, she would be the one to say 'No'; that she would be the one to turn away.
But she knew she wouldn't.
He was her greatest weakness, her biggest mistake, but she was incapable of giving him up.
The pattern was the same every time. He would come walking back into her life, unapologetic and unashamed. She would hate him for leaving, but love him for returning. Then, as soon as she was truly happy and complete, he would leave again, offering no warning. Then she would wait.
That was the one thing that was never the same, the wait. Sometimes he would return after only a few days, others he would be gone for months at a time. But it always felt like each tick of the clock killed her a little bit more. Each minute became an unbearable eternity of waiting.
One night she came home from her mediocre job to find him standing silently and watchful in her doorway. Neither spoke a word, but that was not surprising. After all, they both knew how this would play out. Several minutes passed, and finally he made some inane comment about the weather. And she let him come in.
She admired him quietly as he laid down his coat. He was graceful and neat, beautiful and dangerous, fashionably sensitive yet still too cool to actually care. He watched her as she watched him. She wondered if he noticed the bags under her eyes or the paleness of her once-glowing skin. She surmised he did, he rarely missed anything, but he made no comment.
She watched as he took three strides in her direction and pressed his lips to hers. Only he could come off as both passive and possessive in just one kiss. Just before she completely lost all sense he pulled back, as he always did, and made her come to him. Testing her and challenging her; making her take responsibility for her actions. And she closed the distance between them, just as she always did. And she hated and loved him.
There was nothing as beautiful as watching him in the morning. His perfect form gracing her somewhat shabby kitchen and making it seem to glow. He was always brilliant, speaking of philosophy and literature. It was moments like this, sitting at her table and sipping his coffee that he always struck her as the most unattainable. He sat there, giving her a glimpse into his world, and only succeeding in showing her that she could never really be a part of it. And her heart died a little more.
And he knew. He could never be accused of being ignorant of her feelings. But that only made the bitter sting worsen. He was well aware that he was tearing her apart, but doing nothing besides observing it with his cold eyes and quiet intellect.
The day he left, he simply rolled out of bed and donned his clothing without a word. She sat up only to find his back facing her, and clutched the blanket as she fought familiar tears.
"Draco." Her voice was a plea, which he never responded to.
"These foolish games are killing me." She whispered, sounding weak and desperate. Everything she resented, and everything she had become since meeting him.
His silver eyes met hers as his long fingers brushed away come stray blonde strands. His eyes betrayed his face and she could see that he agreed with her. And yet he left. And she waited.
One day he'd come back to find her empty, that she had become nothing but a hollow shell of who she once was, and he'd know that he was at fault. Somehow, she doubted he would care.
A/N: Inspired by "Foolish Games" by Jewel. Tell me what you think, there's nothing more constructive or wonderful as feedback. :]