*i just inserted a title*
Years later she'll enjoy contrasting the image of the shadowy, indistinct, obscure, vague, indistinguishable, unclear, dim, faint, spectral, ethereal, sinister, mysterious, sexy, muscled, toned Dark Murky Gloomy Shady Lord with the charming, delightful, amiable, attractive, appealing, pleasant, polite, charismatic, fascinating, enchanting boy sitting two desks away in the library, sleeping on his completed Transfiguration homework. How she wished she had finished too.
When she thinks about him, and she remembers all those memories. The flowing natural stillness of his body, the soft glow of his concentrated, hard stare, and that moment before he howls, the moment before the mask slips off. In that 3.14159265358979323846 second moment she can truly see his ears, his pointy, sticky-outy purple ears, that smudge between hair and air, two asymmetrical unlit windows to his expanding brain, which at any minute may burst from the orifices from shear over-indulgence.
Still she can't look away. She may be studious , reflective, bookish, scholarly, diligent, industrious, assiduous, meticulous, prudish, stuffy, prudish, straitlaced, priggish, squeamish and starchy, but she has the chromosones of a woman, those fatal XX shaped squiggles in her genes. They giggle humourously over what she sees, she sees that carefully woken-up-with, greasy, crispy hair while she eats? That those ears, those endless purple ears are the last thing in her mind before she eats? That she eats not the nightly dinner, but sweet sweet visions from which each bite wrenches her painfully away, back to the weak, tasteless, delicious pumpkin soup? Does he suspect?
(AN. wll i thinks myslf tht he so does, bt u can mak up ur minds urslef!
LOL!)
He'd never care. She's seen one million, two hundred and thirty four thousand, five hundred and sixty seven point eight nine girls launch theirselves at him, to have them bloodied against the sharp, jagged spike of his snarling, beautiful refusal and his ever charming, dazzling smile.
But maybe he's noticed her?
All the years she tried, tried so hard, studied 20 hours a day, as well as in her 6 hours of classes, as well as through dinner and breakfast and lunch and snacks. To try and be him, achieve that level of pompousness. No. Really hoping that one day, one day she would be better than the rest, able to match his pompousness, and... stalk him. Oh and be the DA MOTHERFUCKING DARK CHICK!
(AN. hey mona bestieeeeee! I have a surpise 4 u! gess who cums in now!)
Once after class she's asked to stay back and...
"Mark my tests," says Dumbledore Kitten with pride, "and one day you'll be scrubbing the desks for this subject, my darling princess. Such a mastery. Oh and forget that everyone calls me Dumbledore Kitten secretly, or else… I'll… um… make you have sex with the giant squid"
And his eyes twinkle and so does her heart, every time. Fear of the tentacled giant squid keeps her going.
She sees a short malformed shadow stumble from behind a pillar and waddle away, and knows he's never heard those words. Only she extracts such high praise and love from Dumbledore, 'that beautiful wrinkled droopy MILF, wait, HMHILF'. She shouldn't have heard him say that, reveal his attraction to the HMHILF. She should never have placed that OhShitICan' Frendisciouslyindornetuousous Charm and followed him. She only wanted to learn who he was, who the real person behind his plain, repulsive, easy-to-read, awkward, clumsy, ugly, stilted, stunted, retarded mask was, to know him. Looking back, the irony will escape her. Now she has seen and felt too much.
She doesn't understand why, but she notices her feet are stuck on a Travelator, chasing after him, and then her eyes are blinded by the bright dark light spiraling off his bare chest as suddenly he steps out of the shadows and he is just there. He turns around, ever the Edward Cullen, with a swish of his cloak, revealing the pale, shriveled, sparkly nakedness of his naked self.
"Urgh?" he asks askingly, a paper smile glued on his face. It's slipping off but he reaches up re-sticks it, with all of his will and his resolve that the Gryffindor pin-up will not see the Slytherin slave smile realistically.
She slumps against the wall and gasps in agony, face red with exertion, that two steps she had to take to get off the Travelator was just too much. She realises with a start she had so much to say, many points to make, every reason to follow him.
He takes one step closer. And another step. And another, until he is so out of breath, so very close, puffing spit down onto her, and she can feel every wet splash of his sweet saliva onto her forehead.
He swiftly leans down, almost falling over, and her mind freezes and all she can see, think, feel is that the handsome ears of her dreams is coming closer. And closer. And closer.
An inch away from her mouth, he stops. And draws his wand.
"Do it," he whispers sardonically, "touch them."
She gasps, and lifted her hand slowly towards her want, her need, her dream…
Just as her fingertips are about to touch the purple curves, a sadistic giggle issued from between his glorious lips.
"You thought it was that easy?" He snarled as he pulled away from her trembling fingers.
And he walked away.