It was a typical June night, sticky and hot, and he pressed his body up against the stone wall and tried to look small as he inched his way up the stairwell. He was sweating, his blond hair slick with sweat, and he told himself it was because the castle's climate-control charms were old and rickety, but a nasty little voice in his head insisted that it was nerves.
He was making his way probably slower than was absolutely necessary, and part of that was because he was trying not to get hit by the poorly-aimed curses and hexes that seemed to be incapable of finding their intended targets, and part of it was because what kind of idiot ran towards his death? And make no mistake—said the nasty little voice in his head—he would die tonight.
But part of him, a part that even the realist in him was polite enough to not give voice to, was watching her. She stepped out of the way of every spell thrown at her, in a manner that could almost be described as graceful and was certainly most uncharacteristic. Not that she was ever particularly clumsy, but normally she moved in the no-nonsense fashion typical of a woman who was always in trainers. As if to protest this unprecedented litheness, her brown hair was even fuzzier than normal, curls stuck out at all angles, and between hexes, she would push it back away from her eyes.
A little bit of his staring at her was a product of awe, a little bit more of lust. But mostly, he stared at her because he hated her, the inferior creature who made him feel these awful things.
He hated her because she didn't even have the decency to look pretty, which would have explained most of the feelings away. There was nothing to admire about her—but he did admire her, if not for her beauty, than for her book-perfect answers, her steady hand in potions, and the way she worried at her bottom lip, already chapped from neglect, the six weeks leading up to exams.
He hated her because, as smart as she thought she was, she didn't understand him. When he was feeling reasonable, he realized it was a little unfair for him to expect her to understand him, when he couldn't understand this mess of emotions himself. But this kind of thinking usually only served to make him feel like the whole thing was his fault, so he wasn't often feeling reasonable.
He hated her because even as she had preached tolerance and compassion and light, she had never considered falling in love with him.
Hatred was mother's milk to him, but tonight was one of those rare nights when he was feeling reasonable. This night was a moment in time unlike any other. So he let his eyes linger on her for a little bit longer. However this went, this would be the last night he would ever have to see her. The last time he ever had to concentrate on keeping his breath even, his face unreadable. If he completed what he came her to do—what a laugh!—but if he did, she would die. And if he didn't, which was more than likely, he would die, and she still might die too.
Even if by some act of divine intervention, they both survived this night and the war to come, Draco knew he would always hate her. They were incompatible, like oil and water. Like light and dark. This was the sort of dream that fueled wars and moved mountains. And maybe, if she wanted him—which she didn't—she would have been strong enough to do it. But he wasn't the mountain-moving sort. He hated her because she was.
He hated her for all the things he couldn't tell her, and all the things she'd never ask.