Intimate
I despise him.
And not in the light-hearted Slytherin Duty sort of way. I could see him die before me and I would not even flinch. I would not go and save him. I would help his murderer.
It's a convenient trait of ours. Slytherin's have always been terrific liars. We live in verbal camouflage. I had you believing that, did I not? Truth is, I love the sodding man. Always have. Probably won't always will.
It doesn't work that way. I don't hold my interest that long. This one's going for a record; the only interest I've held longer is the one in myself.
His beautifully perfect smile haunts my greatest of dreams. His voice echoes in my head whenever he isn't there — and when he is there, it's that of a male banshee.
I'm not trying to be poetic; I'm telling the truth.
For once.
He always did spew a clusters of swears at me after I insult one of his friends. I will never remember which friend, ever— it's almost as if the entire world around him is a blur. But who I insult isn't important; I insult most everybody anyway.
The attraction has never been unrequited, I know this for a fact. He has his double entendres and his movements that we both have that are like an unwritten secret language for the both of us.
We knew each other well, and I knew then and I know now that it is one thing that will never be admitted. We have our gestures. We have our winks. And our sneers — my sneers. But we will forever know what they truly all mean.
It's a unique relationship. We've never been intimate. We probably never will.