"He's beautiful." I would always tell myself. His pale, sparkling skin, his long nose, crystal-gray eyes, fine, blonde hair. The best example of perfection. I hid behind a statue in the corridor, watching him walk through the crowd, his goons surrounding his tall, lean, but muscled frame. He walked tall, nose up in the air, glaring at anyone that refused to move out of his way. He looked back for a moment, almost sensing I was there, his eyes glittered in the torch-light and just as it had come, the moment was gone. As the years had past and he grew, his style grew and he no longer greased his hair back but let it dangle freely, especially over his eyes, giving him an even more sinister look. Gorgeous. Oh, but know matter how beautiful I knew he was, I hated him. I hated him so much that I gritted my teeth when he walked past and made furtive remarks with my fellow Gryffindors. All at the same time, I wanted to caress him. I wondered how I would feel if he touched my skin. How could he make me feel this way? How could I loathe him so greatly, but at the same time wish that he would call me his and love me unconditionally as I hope to one day love him. What makes a Malfoy?