Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
While she passes him by in the corridors, bits of malicious remarks thrown at her (half-whispering, half-meaning them) vibrate in her ears.
"Cretin Loon."
"Freaky Blood traitor."
"Filthy trash."
"Basketcase."
"Potter's little slut."
They don't reach her hectic consciousness. There's a hemlock on her brain, and the control remote is situated in her marvelous mind and not her sensitive heart.
She's pulling her pink sneakers out of the icy lake, the smooth bare skin on her legs breaking out in goosebumps. Her lengthy hair touches the inky surface as she bends down, a position she slowly retreats from as she hears the green grass cry beneath his footsteps.
He's raging with wrath-charged fever, his eyes dusty with bits of volcano ash all while wearing a nasty smirk propelled by the counterfeit of Malfoy self-confidence.
How lovely to see him so lively.
Soon he reaches her, not caring that he (a pureblood Malfoy!) just stepped in the shallow lake, splashing the dirty water around, resulting in dark spots on his Slytherin robes and her dandelion yellow T-shirt.
The next moment, she's violently pushed over. Her bottom makes harsh contact with the moist ground, and her hands soon follow them to keep her weight up. A sneaky shiver runs down her spine as she feels her clothes dampen. She would let out a giggle but decides against.
"You foul, despicable cockroach. Pathetic lunatic! You let my insults roll off your back like you've used some bloody charm to ward them off?! A fucking saint! What a strong, little girl you are, Lovegood! Tell me, what's your trick? Do you keep plugs in your ears? Or is that you've decided I'm not worth your precious attention?" He spites like there's venom in his mouth that viciously dissolves his organs inside out. His eyes glint with danger, but there's no real threat behind them.
He doesn't believe she will give him an answer he could understand. Luna Lovegood, the airhead pureblood, never offers direct responses for she is the most candid evasive bundle of mystery Draco ever faced.
"Compos mentis."
He loves her blood. Her pure, pure, purest crimson marrow of inexorable life, the essence of existence that opulently gurgles in her pulsating veins. The finest necessity that carries his uncontaminated need. How could such delicious verification of pre-eminence vitalize someone so low, so unworthy and dirty like her?
"You call me a lunatic for the reason that I think insults are just mere words holding no significance, worth nothing more than my willful disregard when you're the one going mad by exposing your mind to such attacks and letting them gorge on your psyche consequently provoking needless stress?"
Verity in her words could reach as far as the Lovegoods were involved. The poor have always had it easy. The Malfoys, however, must rely on their public image. The opinion of Britain's every wizard was like fresh new body for a pandemic disease. They need their altered perception of the Malfoy lineage to keep their family's amour propre alive.
If no one believed in their blood and wealth supremacy how could they execute their disdain of those below them so freely?
"Ignorance is bliss, Lovegood. You think you're open-minded, but you only see with your eyes instead of perceiving with your mind."
Luna quirks a blonde brow and stands up. Water drops are free falling from her wet hair to the water below; conjuring up the illusion of a magical waterfall enlivening the nature around her beautiful form. Few of them find their way to her eye sockets; the liquid causes her prominent eyes shimmer with delight in the darkening afternoon.
Having the momentary confusion all cleared up, a small smile decides to rest on her lips.
"No, Draco, I see with my heart. Nevertheless, the person who's horizon of vision is so broad decides to blindfold himself. A tragedy if you ask me."
Draco must refrain himself from hexing her, so he goes and hexes her Nargles. Only to relieve pent-up frustration, assuredly not because he wants to become her supreme tragedy.
Notes:
compos mentis - having full control of one's mind
amour-propre - a sense of one's own worth; self-respect