A/N: DAMN. Long time since I've written anything. This is really bad and rusty but I'm writing more and should get back into the swing of things. So enjoy :D
I could tell his moods by the way he would write in his little beat up black book. I think it was in second year when Harry, Hermione and I were convinced that Draco was the heir of Slytherin that I first really started to notice him. Sure in our first year he was the ever present jackass but that was all he was to me. Then came the really bad happenings of Second year and because of our suspicions about him, we kept close tabs on him. That is when I started noticing little things. The small tweak of an eyebrow when he thinks he's been clever. The dumbfounded look on his face when Crabbe and Goyle prove that they could indeed be more stupid than he had thought possible.
I don't know why those little things were so important but as the year went on I noticed more and more. I began looking, not for signs that would prove him to be Slytherin's heir but looking for the pure, unadulterated pleasure of seeing. Seeing the kind of feminine swish of his hips as he stalks away, seeing the cast array of colors his hair shines as light plays its way through it, seeing the briefest, almost sad spur of happiness that for a mere second flickers across his face as he smiles and jokes with his few friends.
It never occurred to me that maybe there was a little something more there. I never really noticed when I crossed the line between innocent staring and a full blown crush. As the years blew by and I matured (biologically if not in any other way) I started to acknowledge the feelings. The first event that finally clued me in on my changing hormones way the morning after Harry and Hermione freed Sirius in our third year. I hadn't had a good night's sleep since I woke up to Sirius holding a knife and looking for all the world like he was going to kill me. That day I had no idea about their going back to save Sirius. I was in the hospital out cold, the nurse was good though and fixed my broken leg in a minute and I had the best sleep I can remember having. I woke up feeling pretty good, my boner and several images of Malfoy doing things that…mhhhmmm…let's just say I was confronted with everything that I had been pushing down for ages. Yeah I liked Malfoy, and yeah nobody could know.
Hermione is such a good friend and I care for her but it's not the same as this thing I have going for Draco. The fact that everyone at Hogwarts has paired us together could not have been a better cover because while everyone assumed, I was free to stare longingly unnoticed.
For all my staring there is one thing that intrigued me most about Draco. He had this black book an inch thick and he would write in it whenever life let him. I could tell his moods by the way he would write in it. If he were in a good mood he would vigorously put the pen to the paper and scratch line after line with an almost whimsical smile on his face. If a spell of melancholy fell over him he would place the pen on the paper with the barest of pressure and would seem to caress the page with it, stroking and marring it in a most thoughtful and subdued manner picking out every word with a grace and a contemplative nod. Now if he was in a bad mood, forget it. He would lash out and create a few lines, then lean back and read it. Then his eyes would glaze over and be motionless except for the flexing of muscles in his arms and neck. I predict that at those moments in his mind he is taking the book and ripping it, taking the table and plopping it, taking his fist and braking it on the wall and yelling in an animalistic way, losing all control, but then he snaps out of it and I can all but hear the crack as his reality comes back to haunt him.
Urg. There was a point to me writing this. Maybe to get closer to him, feel what he feels when he writes. I know no one would believe we would, or could, be together, especially him. A hater of mudbloods and "disgraces to the name of wizards" I am sure gays are right up on the list of things he hates. But as I look at him now in our fifth year, I've been doing it so long that I think I've stopped caring. I've numbed myself to the knowledge that it's never going to happen for me. That for as long as I lived I would have to hid. Hide what I feel, what I think, and what I believe. That is it. That is why I'm writing. I'm tired of hiding, of marring and twisting everything I am so that I can fit into society's norms. I'm writing to get everything out that I've been keeping hidden.
A/N: Ok so I can keep going with this or…not? Leave a review and I may if you like it or won't if you don't.j