Characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Slash and Het follow shortly; be warned. Rated R for mild language.

Infatuation

By:Chaos Silver

Life is superficial while I on the other hand, am as cold as winter. Or maybe I'm superficial as well. Am I? But what do I know? I'm just human after all.

I find that friends (If ever I have or had any) are so irrelevant. They bleed you dry and stab you on the back when you're not looking—the despicable bastards.

I choose to be alone because I don't want to be susceptible to society.

I want to be strong. I am strong now and I love the feeling of melancholy for I owe it to the great sots that nurtured and raised me. The only real thing in this life is pain and I love it because as long as it reverberates within my soul, I'm alive. I hate weaklings for I am not weak. I hated Potter as well. He surrounded himself with those humble, goody-goody riffraff Gryffindors. He could've been in Slytherin where I could've taught him what life was like in the real world. I hated Potter. Hated—which brings me back to my point. Life is superficial, animosity is fake—affection is unreal.

I have Granger now, Hermione Mudblood Granger. It feels miserably tame to call her such for I have more to call her with really. Then again, I like her. The distinct smell of her hair and her smile best of all so why insult the one thing that conveys sanity to my tired being? I think Pansy slipped something in my drink.

Anyway, I should be contented now, right? Hermione makes me feel good, makes me feel comfortable, she is the sole cure of my temporary anguish.

I'm not sure how to classify this emotional imbalance that currently, both annoys and scares me to hell.

Now, when Hermione's Dear Harry Potter friend walks my way I feel like stabbing him on the gut at one second and nibbling on the tanned curve of his clavicle at the next. Then suddenly, I start to wonder what it would feel like to taste him, have him, feel him. Those soft, calloused fingers stroking and grazing against my skin, prowling on an uncharted territory that soon shall be devoured—God thinking of him gives me a hard on.

Strange as it is, I don't feel the least perturbed. It irritates me that Potter is ever the innocent, more often ignorant slob that he is and there's a pain stinging somewhere within me(my ankles maybe?) when somehow I realize that these feelings or whatever you may call it is unprolific in its own sense. Is this reaction normal? Or is it not?

I'm sixteen. I'm horny as hell. I'm a Malfoy. I think I like Hermione.

Malfoys are immune to emotion. Lust isn't an emotion, is it? Passion, then?

Or how about Infatuation? I always thought Hermione was the only flaw in my life—the only sin worth holding on to. Now, I'm not so sure anymore. God, I'm screwed up.