His eyes were like sugar. Pansy wanted to stare into his eyes, drown in his eyes, devour his eyes, for they were crisp, crystalline sugar and she'd always had a sweet tooth. The thought, oh, even the thought of gazing into those eyes! Those silver- streaked orbs that knew the future, but would no allow it to be foretold. They had been "friends" since her birth - but what did friendship mean to a Parkinson, of a Malfoy, for that matter? Friendship was not intimacy, a secret smile or a sharing of the soul. Friendship wasn't holding one while the other cried. Friendship wasn't love. Not to the Parkinsons, and certainly not to the Malfoys. Friendship was companionship in the coldest meaning of the word. Friendship was walking down a silent hallway, knowing that even though the person sharing the hall with you wouldn't cover your back in a fight, you weren't walking alone. Friendship was knowing that there were twelve of you in a battle, and you're safe to assume that you will not be the first to die. Friendship was knowing that your wife would be looked after (most likely married to) one of your "companions" if you didn't survive in battle. Draco and Pansy had friendship. But did Parkinson-Malfoy friendship include such a longing? Was it permitted? Or was this, this rush she got every time he entered the room, was it more than friendship? Pansy wasn't really sure. All that she knew was that in Draco, she saw a part of herself. A part that she craved to call her own.

La Fin.