Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
"What are you doing out here, Malfoy?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Weasley."
"But you didn't. Answer me before I show you pain."
You roll your eyes, orbs of shining molten mercury in the harsh light cast by the wand I hold inches from your face. "Don't pretend you know anything of pain, little girl."
"Little girl? I'm only a year younger than you are." And I absolutely loathe you. I want to hurt you and kiss you, and you make me feel more than anyone should have to. Too many conflicting emotions. It'd be best if I avoid you.
"Just leave me alone." I sigh, letting you go and turning to walk away. I can feel you, hear you walking a few steps behind me, but I don't want to talk now. I hate talking. Every conversation I have is full of lies and pretenses because the truth makes people too uncomfortable. When someone asks how I am, they want to hear 'good', or 'fine', not that I haven't eaten in two days and my stomach is twisted in knots, my head is spinning and I wonder if I'm finally going to lose control and faint, or that I hate myself so much it's hard to sit through boring lectures without weeping over my own inadequacies. Conversation is uncomfortable, and to me, unnecessary. I spin to face you.
"Piss off." I hiss, surprised at your closeness, on some level even concerned about my breath. Not that it matters how you think I smell. Not that you imagine how I might taste the way I imagine my tongue trailing over your skin every time you walk past me and I catch a hint of your intoxicating scent. You smell like something I can't quite describe or remember, but that scent has become inextricably intertwined with every bit of my consciousness.
"You weren't at dinner." You say softly, and it's not a question at all.
"I just grabbed something from the kitchens." Recycling lies gives them an odd sort of credibility, but I know you don't believe me.
"Funny, because you would have had to walk past my common room to do that."
"How would you know where I have and have not been walking?"
"In Slytherin, we like to keep track of those lurking near the entrance to our house. It happens to be close enough to the kitchen that I would be aware if you had made a special trip."
"Maybe I had someone bring me food."
"Why would you lie?"
"It's none of your fucking business. What have you ever done that makes you think I owe you any honesty at all?" I can't stand you, but I'm turned on. I want to crush you against the ground, kiss you until I taste blood.
"You didn't eat at lunch." Again, not a question.
"I wasn't hungry." I glare as hard as I can, hoping the dim starlight is enough to illuminate my anger.
"You didn't eat dinner."
"Maybe I don't feel well."
"You ran instead of eating."
I slap you, and the sound of it cuts through the stillness. You don't even look surprised.
"What's your problem, Weasley?" You don't sound sarcastic, there is no loathing in your voice, just curiosity and maybe… maybe even concern. I don't allow myself to nurture such silly notions.
"What's my problem? I'm not the one stalking someone I hate."
"Did I say I hate you?"
"Of course you hate me."
"What makes you think that?"
"Everything." I can't stop staring at the way your irises reflect the starlight. It's almost too beautiful to bear. I look away and banish those thoughts. They've been coming to me more and more lately, realizations of the beauty of every part of you, desires that can never be fulfilled.
"I hate Potter, and I hate your brother. You're pretty neutral, when you're not attached to them."
"Thanks." My voice drips with sarcasm that could make even you proud.
"So what the hell are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to get some space. Mind leaving me alone?"
"I'm talking about in general. I never see you eat, and you're getting so thin it sort of creeps me out."
"I'm sorry my body disgusts you." I hope you can't see my blush in the darkness, or the smile tugging at the corners of my lips at the thought that you think I'm thin.
"What's going on with you?"
"I can't fucking breathe! I finally get a break from my brother and my roommates and Hermione, and here you are, interrupting a perfectly good night." At this point, you really are little more than an annoyance to me. I can't do any of the things I want to with you, or say the words that burn behind my lips, so even though I'm drowning in your eyes, your presence here is nothing but torture. "Go back to the castle." I mutter as I take a few steps closer to my broom, closer to the cold night air rushing past and making my head spin with unadulterated bliss.
You catch my hand just as I think I'm out of reach, and I spin, plunging once more into the unexpected depths of those knowing eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Why? So you can tell the whole school?"
You let out a heavy sigh, and I'm confused. "I won't tell anyone, okay? It just… It bothers me and I don't know why. It seems like you're dying and even though you have friends clinging to you everywhere you go, no one else sees it. It's driving me crazy and I just want to know what the hell is going on."
"It doesn't make sense for you to care."
"I just want to know." And I stare at your pale face, and you look like you really do care, but I don't understand why. The words catch in my throat, ready to tumble free at any moment, so I do the only thing I can think of that won't end in disaster.
I tear my hand free and run back into the castle, through the most twisted and winding route I can imagine, back to Gryffindor tower, and, finally, back to the silent safety of the curtains that enclose my bed.