She tried to decipher what he meant when he said what he did to her in front of others. When he said "mudblood," he must mean "beautiful girl." When he said "get away," he must mean "come closer." When he said "I hate you," he must mean "I love you." But on the other hand, when he says "forever," when they are alone, he must mean "until our friends are around." And when he said "I love you," he must mean "I love to use your body." Even though she knew these things, these contradicting things, she still watched him, went to him, spoke to him... and she still allowed herself to be with him.
His words weren't what drew her towards him, or what held her, but dark beauty kept her in his grasps. She was at his beck and call, and he knew it. He relished in it; he lived for the moments even more than she did. But his beauty took her breath away. His beauty was the contrast of everyone else's, even her own.
His fathomless silver eyes that held secrets only he knew, and she would get lost in their depths when they were alone. His porcelain face, so perfectly formed with masculine angles, lines, and smoothness mixed with rough manliness. He was pale, but not deathly so, and kept the secrets of where he spent his days. His nights were mostly hers, but his mysterious days were something different. Somebody different. His blonde hair so pale it was almost white showed his purity.
She had tainted him; he had tainted her. They had been mixed together in a form of dark beauty and secret longing. Darkness that was their secrets, their lies and alibis, and their perfect game. She knew she was playing with fire, but she wasn't afraid to be burned. She wasn't afraid he would hurt her, because she was so enthralled by his dark beauty.
Instead of her beauty overwhelming his senses, reasoning, his dark beauty and mystery consumed her very being. She couldn't think of anything but his touch, his kiss, when he was near. He was able to form insults to spit at her. But she summed it up to saving face. Saving hers; saving his. Their secrets were better kept between the two of them only. But he told her, when they were alone, that he thought she was beautiful. He was one of two who had ever called her beautiful, and with is hands, his motions, his looks of pure desire and longing, that she was beautiful. More than the other one had ever realized.
That's what drew her: the secrets, the mystery, and his dark beauty; nothing else mattered to her.