He failed to see what was it what he liked about her.
She was smart, yes. Her vocabulary was exquisite, yes. She was cultured and intelligent, yes. She had the best marks in whole Howarts, yes.
And yet, that, was not the reasons a man of his age liked women. They liked them for their legs, their faces, the size of her breasts, their way of moving, their grace.
Oddly enough, this was not the case.
Not that he was all that bad. Her face was round, yet somehow according with the rest of her torso, her eyes were big, with long, luxuriously long, dark eyelashes, her lips, naturally rosey, and full, being tortured by her slightly oversized teeth, perpetually capturing them, to tug on them without mercy, signal of her constant thought-sinking habits, her hands clasping for anything that would look like a pen, to take notes during classes, or a book, or anything that would involve expanding her knowledge; honey coloured orbs dancing along the letters of each text, in order to bring the information to her brain, for it to process it... She never stopped. As simple as that.
He guessed that THAT was what was so... enticing about her.
He guessed that it wasn't that her messy, wavy, dark hair swirled around her face, framing it gently when she made the slightest of moves, the reddish reflects that her hair formed when it was kissed by the sun, the paleness of her seemingly smooth skin, the tone of her voice, so feminine and smooth, yet slightly childish, as a child who had decided that THAT tone, was going to define her as an adult in front of her parents, as soon she opened her mouth.
It was not that everything of her irradiated confidence, and being able not to let it seem as her ego's actions, instead of hers alone.
But then again, it was just a guess.
He could have been misundestanding her.
Likewise, it did not matter.
He still despised her. Right?
...Right?
Draco Malfoy found himself staring shamelessly at the Gryffindor Head Girl, the girl who he had been describing in so detailed manner in his mind a few moments ago.
And she... Was staring back.
He found himself being unable to look away, holding that chocolate, deep gaze of hers.
Potions classes did not matter, not it mattered the casual glances of their classmates, it did not matter that they were far, so far away, one in one corner of the dungeons, the other in the opposite corner. It didn't matter that they hated eachother. It did not matter that Snape was discounting points from Gryffindor and yelling about some condiment for the sleep potion added wrongly.
The hours passed... and passed...
And she was staring back.