I don't care who she is. Bloody Harry Potter's best friend, Golden Trio, smartest witch of her generation, my arse! That bushy-haired, know-it-all tramp better keep her filthy mitts off!
I saw her touch him! She didn't think I saw. No, it was subtle. Three fingertips on the elbow of that woolen frock coat I long to rip from his body. How dare she! I swear to Merlin's ghost that I will tear every strand of that bushy-hair from her head and claw her eyes out if she so much as looks at him today in class.
Oh sweet Circe, help me! There she is. Smiling with those perfect teeth. Bouncing around with her foolish Gryffindor bravado. I know why she's in a good mood though. It's not that imbecilic ginger-haired boy that is carrying her over-large book bag - she's so smart and can't remember to cast a simple Shrinking Spell?!?? No, it's not the way he looks at her all doe-eyed and love struck. It's enough to make me hurl the kippers I had for breakfast, but it is NOT the reason why she's so cheerful. No, her joy stems from one particular class and one particular professor and I know all too well that heady feeling of anticipation at being in near proximity to the man.
There he is! Dark, brooding, strong. He's not handsome. No, his nose is over large, his lips thin, but it is that acerbic tongue, that arrogance, that intelligence that sets my blood boiling. He tells us to make our way to our seats quickly in that rich baritone and I almost lose myself in it. But, I'm quickly brought back to reality when the bane of my very existence sits next to me.
What sick, perverted twist of fate sat this chit next to me?! What have I done in my life to deserve this misery?!
I watch her watching him. Oh, she thinks everyone just suspects that her over-attentiveness is just her diligence to schoolwork, but I know the truth. I see her lick her lips in anticipation and I want to scream.
The assignment is given and regretfully I must focus my attention on my work the only saving grace is that so must she.
Oh, here he comes. He's checking our progress. I love this part! He gets so close I can feel the heat of him radiating towards me - calling me to him. I can smell the scent of him, distinctly male, a heady mixture of pheromones that drives me to insanity. And those scant words of praise - telling me my work, as usual, is perfect. My name falling from his lips coupled with that praise is like ambrosia for my ears and it sustains me through the long nights alone.
He then moves to her. My jaw instinctively clenches and my emotions are awash in jealousy. His words to her a curt, cruel, taunting. I know her progress is flawless, but he finds fault still and for a moment I am happy, until I see it.
There!
His hand on the table top. Her hand right next to it. She inches it forward and the side of her pinky just barely touches his own. It is not even truly a touch - but it is more than I can stand!
My own hands have a mind of their own and with what appears to be an accidental slip my cauldron tumbles over to the side, bathing her in the caustic and boiling hot liquid. I see large, red welts rise instantly on her unprotected forearms, green pus beginning to ooze from them. It begins to eat through those damned Gryffindor robes and she is quickly sent off to the infirmary, with her two idiotic friends following closely on her heel.
I try not to smile as I am rewarded with detention.
Perhaps this will teach her that he was mine first!