There was something.
Something in the chocolate brown orbs which were beckoning his eyes to look into, to stare into…
He could stare and stare for hours at ends, and not yet be tired, at staring at the hazel flecks in her eyes.
Hermione Granger's eyes.
He could see her, sitting on the opposite table, chatting happily with her friends, pothead and weasel.
If only, she wasn't friends with them.
Then he would be able to be with her.
Without their interference.
She hadn't known it, but he had had a crush on her ever since he met her. By then, he had thought she was just another "mud blood".
He would never admit it, but he was attracted to her. She was the only one to be able to keep up with his insults, the only one he had enjoyed verbal sparring with.
It was...invigorating, actually, and exciting.
He watched in annoyance, as Weasel draped an arm around her shoulder. He had a sudden reflex to hex him to the ends of the earths.
"Weasel and mud blood has hooked up! What a monstrosity!" He jeered, from his side of the Slytherin table. The rest of the Slytherins hearing the sudden jeer, joined in as well.
It didn't make him feel better to see her face crunch up in annoyance and hatred, all of that directed at him, but a sudden weight had lifted off his heart, seeing Weasel's arm off her.
As if an automatic reflex, the two people pointed their wands at him. Hermione glared at him, then muttered something to Potty and Weasel, who lowered their wands after that.
How he wished for that intimacy they shared between them.
He sighed silently. It was impossible between them, considering his pure-blooded, death eater family, Slytherin heritage, and her mud blood, Gryffindor princess, best friend of Potty and Weasel and...-it pained him to say it, but- hatred of him.
He couldn't blame her really, after all those years of countless insulting. He was jealous of Potter.
Harry potter, for being the "boy-who-lived", for having the life he ought to have: Everybody loved him, he had great friends, and he had Hermione Granger's love, even if it was purely platonic.
The love was true, for him, whereas everything was false for him. His father probably just wanted him to continue the lifeline, everything has to be perfect, and his "friends", or more like associates, were only after his money, power, or body. Without them, they probably would even be with him.
He glanced around his table.
Lies.
All lies!
Dark and light.
Truth and false.
It wasn't fair! The bitter taste filled his mouth. He glared at Potter. The latter felt his glare, and glared back.
Weasel. The other great friend of Potter. Another guy he hated just for being a friend of Potter.
The guy who tried to steal away his Hermione from him.
He had seen the loving looks he had given her, and the oh-so-subtle blushes when she had brushed against him accidentally, and the jealousy when she takes interest in any other man. He felt it too, the same jea- no, he would never admit it out loud-
Another sour taste filled his mouth.
Hermione. How much he hated her for just existing there, for being an insufferable know-it-all -disproving all the things he had been taught to believe-, for being Potter's friend, for actually looking decent at the Yule ball... But most of all, for making him want her- Such was the life of his.
He sighed again, silently, as he tucked into his bacon and pumpkin juice, resigning himself to his fate of loving Hermione Granger, but never getting her.
So far, yet so close.