Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or the English language, but I own this (lack of) plotline.
One Woman's Hate is another Man's Pleasure
She hated herself. This was not a new feeling. It was not something that had sprung on her surprisingly one night while she tucked in to her Shepard's pie. No, this was a feeling that had existed for as long as she could remember. The only way to get rid of it was to drive all of her raw energy into something that could withstand that much emotion.
His name was Draco Malfoy. He was use to the emotion of hatred, and therefore relished in the passion it brought to her body as it lunged at his. All of her hatred poured from her lips, driving them both into a frenzy of tangled bodies and harsh breathing. She hissed horrible words at him, really cursing herself and all of her imperfections. She was vile, low, wicked, unbearable, and detestable, and she knew this, but he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was fulfilling the craving he had, and she did this. He did not need her, but she needed him. She needed him desperately, though she would never admit it. He was an outlet for her fury. She crushed her lips against his, clutched at his flesh instead of pounding her head relentlessly against a wall, crying ferocious tears. To him, she was merely another toy, another useless fling. To her, he was everything.
She was tired of having no one to talk to. She hated the lack of love she received, the lack of being needed. Without friends, Draco was the only one who needed her for something. The nights they spent together were repulsive, full of shouting and growls; the nights they spent together were beautiful and ethereal. She both loved and hated him. The sense of loss and purposelessness was overwhelming to her. Draco was her refuge. He allowed her to forget her self-loathing and emptiness. He filled her with animal lust. Pure, unadulterated, unrefined emotion.
She knew that Draco had more girls than just her. She knew he spent nights with an uncountable number of girls. Girls from all years of Hogwarts, from all different houses. She wished that this was not true. She wished that she was the only one, but she knew she was not and that she never would be. Still, she visited his bed frequently, biting, scratching, and snarling, ready for more. And more, and more. She rationalized it by telling herself that this was better than hurting herself. This was better than crying. This was still an outlet of emotion.
The emotion had begun to get in the way, however. She had begun to feel jealously when she saw Draco on the arm of another girl. Jealously that felt like black, hot, sticky syrup covering her insides, threatening to ooze out of her pores and expose her. It was just adding to the heap of emotional wreck that she was, but she couldn't stop. She had to see him night after night. She had to have the tangle of bodies and pillows and sheets. She had to roll and sweat and yell out her frustrations at that detestable body, that detestable life that belonged to her.
What she really wished for was to have friends, people to care about her. She really needed to talk, but there was no one to talk to. There was no one to notice that she was slowly self-destructing. Her grades were steady, and she stayed awake during her classes, so there was no need for any teachers to suspect a thing. Not that they noticed when their students were in need. But she did not want to think of herself in need. No, she wanted to be self-sufficient until she blew up from the inside. The only person who she came in contact with was Draco, and he never noticed anything. He did not care about anything but himself.
She longed for him to care. She tried to invent compassion, concern, care, but it was not there in the slightest. His kisses only told of lust, his touches of ferocity, his movements of need. He knew her for her body, not for her soul. He only enjoyed being pleased; he was not even concerned with pleasing her. He did not care when she screamed, yelled, tore at her hair. He didn't know her voice. Her face just blended together with the others'. He knew her and wanted her for her body. He did not mind it when she cursed and insulted him, as long as she filled the carnal need he had. They did not have conversations. The only words that were spoken were her monosyllabic offenses, the only moans were her own. He would never make a sound. He would never appear vulnerable in front of anyone.
He was still a wonderful outlet for her self-hatred, and her loathing. He always would be. As much as her feelings for him grew, as much as her jealously raged, he would always be there for the one thing that he was good for. Her walls were crumbling and her resolve was breaking, but no one cared. The last person that would see her before she disappeared would be Draco Malfoy, who would witness her final ripping, biting, screaming. He would witness her last effort of reaching out, her last effort of holding back the tears and letting out the rage. But he wouldn't care, because he never did. He would just fulfill his carnal desire like he always did: silently, lustfully, and indifferently.