Our hatred was disgustingly strong. We probably could have moved mountains if it served in satiating our hatred. Even now, I don't think my love for him ever existed without an equally strong amount of hate. The first moment I truly and utterly felt a certain hatred for him was the very first time I stumbled into him. Its amazing how first encounters and first impressions can affect any relationship between two people.

He was arrogant, obnoxious, and a downright nasty little bugger. Yet it was obvious that he was just as nervous and excited as I was about the first day of school. I hadn't known anyone when I first climbed into the train. It was a miracle I ever figured out how to get to platform 9 and 3/4 but it was much worse trying to find a compartment with someone who I could become friends with. I peeked into multiple train compartments seeing several of them filled with intimidating, older, returning students and all the while I kept hoping to find an empty one. When I finally found one occupied solely by a pale boy, who in my opinion looked a bit sickly from the compartment window, I walked in. He faced away from me, towards the window of the train, looking out at the people, perhaps at his family, his hand lightly rested on a copy of Standard Book of Spells Grade 1.

"How do you do?" I asked as politely and sweetly as I could manage.

I waited there for an answer, with one hand on my hips and another holding my baggage, the door propped open with my foot. He neither looked up nor acknowledged my presence. In fact, I almost took him as someone who was deaf.

"Well, you look a bit pale. Are you all right?" I dragged my things in. Peered at him as I settled some of my luggage and continued talking in hopes that I could come off as someone friendly enough to not be shy around. I hadn't realized his silence wasn't attributed to shyness.

"What's you name?"

No answer.

"My name is Her-,"

"I don't care what you're name is. Get out." His response was cold and sharp. He still hadn't bothered to look at me. I couldn't understand what exactly his bloody problem was.

"Look I'm just trying to-,"

"Get out."

"Well you don't have to be such a-,"

"Damned mudblood." He finally looked at me. That was the first time I encountered his eyes: stormy, glinting, cold and at that moment quite malicious.

I stared at those eyes for a bit. I had lost my train of thought, my sense of time, when I stared into his mercury eyes, I felt like the light that reflected in them caused the gray to swirl. Liquid mercury. I couldn't help thinking that his eyes looked like liquid mercury. I felt like I was drowning in it, and the poisonous vapors were deteriorating my body.

When I finally broke out of my imaginative reverie, I realized that this boy, this pale, pointy faced little boy, was my first taste of an insult that I had doubted I'd ever be confronted with.

"What?" I sputtered out.

"Merlin! Are you deaf?" He stared me down with those eyes.

"What did you … just call me?"

"Mudblood." He sneered.

"I … you don't even know me."

I tried to make him doubt his words. Who was he to call me such a foul insult? What if I had been a pureblooded witch? He was certainly a first year as I identified the lesson book on the chair beside him. So how could he know? Even pureblooded wizards couldn't be sure, could they?

"Exactly. I don't know you. So you must be a mudblood."

"What if I was halfblooded?" I asked in a voice that didn't hold all the incredulity I felt.

"Halfboods and mudbloods both have the same dirty blood running through them." He replied simply, waving away my question before raising an eyebrow at me.

"And if I was a foreigner?"

"You'd have an accent."

I was honestly stumped. What was wrong with being a muggleborn witch? What in the world was exactly wrong with it? It wasn't as though he was anymore adept or powerful, or was he? My doubts from the summer reawakened. What if I wasn't any good at this stuff? But a little voice at the back of my mind whispered, "What if you are?" And I began to feel a sense of indignation at the unjust prejudice against me.

"Why are you still here? Get out." He indicated he was finished with me by turning away from me.

I was too shocked and insulted to realize I had allowed myself to be dismissed by leaving when he had turned away. But I did have enough pride to stop myself at the door; my knuckles had turned white as I clenched the handle of my luggage. I didn't bother to turn and look at him.

"I may be a … a … m-mudblood, but at least I'm not a cold, unfeeling monster. You may look like a human on the outside but you're insides are like that of a troll."

He had tried to say something but I slammed the door shut behind me and ran to the next compartment where I had befriended Neville instead.

After that encounter things just got worse between us. My friendship with his archenemy just further added to the fire, fueling our already fierce hatred. But then again was Harry his archenemy? Perhaps it was just an excuse to hate me even more; me, who was his real archenemy. He was just too full of his Merlin be damned pride to actually admit it to anyone, least of all himself.

I had always felt that this war between the Slytherin Prince and the "Golden Trio" had nothing to do with Harry, or even the Syltherin/Gryffindor rivalry but more to do with me and his hatred for me. He had actually declared war against me before he had against Harry. There were countless muggleborns in the school, yet for some reason I was the only one he taunted to the extent that he did.

We began with childish things. Taunting one another and even those associated with us. As we grew older we planned newer and better ways to get even. In public, I'd stick to ignoring the enemy unless the other side initiates, but in private, I often was the brains of any and almost every plan to sabotage our dear princey and make it look as though it had nothing to do with us. But he always knew. He had also always known the real culprit behind the pranks.

At meal times I'd sit facing him knowing that he'd sit facing me. We'd stare each other down. He'd smirk, but his eyes were cold and malicious. I could see his brain concocting a new plan. He'd see my body stiffen slightly and he'd know that my wariness was, in a sense, fear. Because in reality as much as I shouldn't have been afraid but rather alert, I was definitely frightened of what those poisonous eyes were saying to me.

There were many encounters. After all we did live in the same castle and have numerous classes together. No one seemed to realize how deep our relationship went. How often we seemed to clash and yet how equally often we sought each other to clash again.

The events in the biographies about Harry written by JK Rowling, rarely seemed to include all the fiery clashes between the students. The books after all were intended for the younger audiences so they didn't have everything that happened in our years together. Especially not the events between Draco and I, but then again why would a book about Harry Potter really want to talk about my personal life and all?

Of course she wrote about general things, like that time in third year when I got a real good punch at his face, but that really wasn't the only time I had hit him. Some events in the book were glorified, some complete bull shit, and most was just left out. She simplified so many of the personalities of the people that I knew and even my personality was so simple and stereotypical.

Yes, I was a bookworm, slightly overbearing, a good girl, and a person that's very passionate about the rights of oppressed people. But she hadn't caught the deeper traits that I believe truly make me who I am. If I had to describe myself I would say that I'm strong. Above everything I'm strong both mentally and physically. I'm bold, bossy, annoying sometimes prissy, fierce, headstrong, unafraid, intelligent, naïve, kind, curious, witty, sarcastic, and optimistic. I'm not just the two dimensional character she made me to be.

Draco's character was also lacking in so many features. He was so hard to figure out in general. So many different traits and yet each one was so intricately hidden from prying eyes. He wasn't only cocky, vain, arrogant, prideful, cynical, angry and a tyrannical bully. He was hateful, spiteful, sly, manipulative, intelligent, well-spoken, cool and especially calculating. You could always see him sizing up the opponent and calculating the next 10 moves ahead like a chess player. He always knew what the opponent was going to do next, and perhaps that was what infuriated him about me. He couldn't figure me out. Of course I could rarely ever figure him out as well.

There were multiple times when he did something or said something that seemed to completely contradict his character, or at least what I thought his character was, and then I'd have to re-evaluate him. It was like a constant list of traits in my mind that I'd often add to. Why was he so complicated?

He was second in our year when it came to grades. So I knew that he was more than just intelligent. He sometimes would beat me at test grades and papers. That was another unspoken war between us. I think that if it wasn't for Draco I probably wouldn't have studied so hard and been dubbed as "the bookworm".

In classes my main objective for answering every question that I could possibly answer is to prove to him and to everyone else that as a muggleborn witch I'm more than capable of being a part of the magical world. That first encounter with Draco in our first year on the train was a memory that had burnt itself into my mind and I was constantly measuring myself up to that. It was the one photo in my mind that had been laminated and would never fade and never be forgotten.

In the beginning, he had sneered at me. He continued to discourage me and tell me countless times how worthless I was and remind me that I was just a mudblood. But somewhere along the way he acknowledged me as a rival, some tiny part of him knew that he should hold something akin to respect for the muggleborn witch who was the very opposite of him in everyway and yet seemed to beat him at every magical subject. It hurt his pride. I was the splinter in his pride. A girl that should mean nothing to him yet caused him a world of pain. He agonized over it because he just could not beat me. So he resorted to other things.

When we crossed in the halls he used to trip me. He wanted to humiliate me in one way or another. In the beginning I didn't even have Harry and Ron to be there for me. I was so alone and it was worse when there was some one picking on me. I had no friends, maybe Neville, but he wasn't someone I could really confide in.

I believe that it should have been the most miserable period of my life and yet it hadn't been. Of course I felt alone but the attention Draco had given me, as evil and horrible as it had been, was attention nonetheless.

I had never felt like I was invisible when Draco did one thing or another to humiliate me. His want to hurt and crumble me had actually strengthened and made me feel like I was something of worth. Eventually I had strengthened myself enough to devise ways to humiliate him back. I sent small spells aimed at him. One to make the gel in his hair turn green, one to tip over his goblet, another to cause a thread in his bag to loosen so that throughout the day his bag would slowly unravel and then eventually break apart without a real person to blame. I even sent a spell at another girl's skirt causing it to fly up right when Draco had passed making it seem like he had lifted her skirt.

He must've been lonely too, because we could never stop our games.

I think there were times we secretly hoped we'd end up somewhere together alone, just to see what the other person would do in those instances. Or maybe that was just me. There were many instances in which we had encountered each other alone though. Yet no matter how badly they turned out, I always looked forward to the next time we'd come face to face.

The library was one place where we always seemed to end up seeing each other. It was a place that had become my sanctuary and my answer to everything. It would have been a battleground but I think he held a reverence to the books there as much as I did. We often sat at opposite ends of the library but we were aware of each other at all times. I knew when he would come, I knew what books he would choose to read and what books he held comfort in and would read over and over again if he was troubled. He was like me in so many ways. The characteristics that were the most similar to me were the ones that took me awhile to discover. Yet they were also the ones that allowed me to feel closer to him.

Our differences were the first things for me to notice about him. They were easier to spot and easier to persecute him for. We were the opposite in many ways. The most obvious was in the way we looked. For a bookworm I had a healthy tanned glow. I didn't play Quidditch, but I played muggle sports. I was also a runner. I loved running because it felt like I was weightless and sometimes when I run it feels like I leave all my stress and problems behind me. My muscles were lean, my hair dark and unruly. He was pale, as though he'd never left the house or even seen the sun. His hair was always perfect and smooth, glistening in the sun with a lightness that was almost white. I had freckles across my cheeks, and my eyelashes were like a thick curtain shielding the world from my deep hazel eyes. His long, thin, pale eyelashes grazed against clear, smooth alabaster cheeks and were like chiffon curtains that decorated the windows of his soul. His eyes already shielded themselves. His beautiful mercury eyes were poisonous and misleading. I was short and curvy (in my later years of course) and he was tall, and thin. My face was round, slightly heart-shaped, while his was angular, pointy and aristocratic.

I guess in a sense opposites really do attract. At least for a short time.

Since I often ran to rid myself of stress, I was able to explore many parts of the castle grounds. Eventually, I found a strange comfort in the Quidditch pitch. It was the one place where I couldn't fully embrace and yet I did in my own way. I wasn't a flyer, a broom would never listen to my command and even if it did, I wouldn't be able to stay in the sky too long. You can't learn how to overcome fear of heights from books.

So rather than loving the Quidditch pitch from the skies, I learned to love it from the ground. I came to love the ground, the endless soft grass that was perfect to lay on and to gaze at the stars. On rainy days I sat on the bleachers under the awnings that shielded me from the rain, and I would watch the lightening flash, and then rain pour. I sometimes danced in the rain on the wet grass without any shoes.

And I felt free.

The oddest part was when Draco would be there before me, or come while I was there. The Quidditch pitch somehow became mutual territory as well. In our later years we shared the pitch. In the middle of the night, maybe around two in the morning, one of us would already be there and the other would wordlessly lie down beside them. How or why we did that was a mystery to me. All I know is that it became mutual territory. We'd never tell a soul and if anyone saw us we'd deny it straight to hell.

In fifth year, it must've been close to five in the morning. I remember the sun just barely rising. We'd already been there for at least a couple hours. I don't remember if either of us had fallen asleep or anything during the entire night. I do remember watching the sun rise. I do remember our fingertips brushing against each other amidst the plush green grass that was wet with dew. I do remember making the mistake of looking at him and he had been looking at me. And most of all, I do remember getting lost in his mercury eyes. I couldn't read them. I didn't know what the emotion behind them was, I didn't know the answers to anything, I just knew that I was lost in the swirling gray and I wasn't scared.

We continued pulling our pranks on each other that day as though nothing had happened.

It was weird but during those times when the world was completely asleep I felt the least lonely. Out there in the vast Quidditch pitch, in the dark, with the one person who hates me the most, I felt the least lonely and the least worthless. I must be the most ironic and self destructive person I know to think that. In a way, he gave me a reason to live. He was the one who wished I'd die, and the one that believed I couldn't be anything important, he was the one who broke my spirit, hurt my pride and yet he made me feel the most alive. Maybe it was because he didn't accept me, and my goal was to prove him wrong so it gave me a reason to continue striving to be the absolute best and to do more than just the average.

I have no idea what he had been thinking back then though.

With all library and Quidditch pitch encounters, it's odd that we had never talked. The only times we talked were during the day, in front of everyone else. Where we'd simply insult each other and use every bit of our wits to destroy each other. I think words would have ruined what we had anyway. Even later on when our relationship changed, we rarely talked. Talking somehow made us feel like we were in too deep and that we couldn't control what we were doing anymore.

For us, it was always about control. Little did we know back then that we had no control over anything to begin with, so we were fighting for control that didn't exist.

We couldn't control each other, we couldn't control ourselves, and we couldn't control what happened after everything was done with. We were so powerless. We are so powerless.

I am so powerless.

I just never knew it back then, and he didn't either.

Over the years, I changed, he changed, hell everyone changed. But I know that our relationship, his and mine, Draco and me, changed the most.

Our passionate and emotional hatred, that simply couldn't be placated with a couple of ridiculing actions, a slap to the face, or hurtful insults, needed to be expressed in other ways. As time went on, we found those other ways.

We probably wouldn't have if our hatred hadn't escalated to a point beyond a reasonable level. It'd gotten so out of hand that it had turned into a sort of obsession. Perhaps he hadn't spent as much time hating me, but I had changed so much because of the energy and time I put into hating him. It was no longer a simple war between children but it had become something I would have died trying to win. Or maybe in a sense it was all a cover up. Perhaps I just hated that I felt something for him other than hate. Perhaps I tried changing what I felt for him into hate but it had simply been impossible to do so.

I think my obsession deepened as he grew closer to Pansy. Of course he was always close to her, but there was a sort of territorial feeling that I held for him. He was the reason I strived so hard, and yet if he stopped paying attention to me then I wouldn't be able to live. My obsession was to live. To live was to continue getting that hatred from him.

I didn't realize that I had already been poisoned by his eyes from the very beginning. I only see it now. Now that everything is over and done with.