Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Year 2, Round Six. Standard, Prompt: "You didn't hear it from me, but,", WC: 942. Muggle AU. With high school dramas.
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High school is a blistering sea of whispers. By blistering I mean that it is both unbearable, and that it is painful. Heat rolls off tongues of practiced gossipers, is aimed at the likes of me; Hermione Granger, your common loser, swarmed by cool-kids and cold shoulders.
In your classic high school daydreams and nightmares are the two classes of people. Populars, and the losers. Categories break down from those two main branches, but that isn't as important - nerds, jocks, the friendless, the queen bees, for reference of the reader. These people do not mix, unless one requires something from the other. In this case, stereotypically the more popular kids require something from the losers - like tuition, or lunch money. Because they are popular, they are feared.
I, nor anyone else of my kin, do not wish to have my head flushed, or my books ruined, or my life made social hell by someone of intense media power and influence.
This is how the system works: We submit to our supposed superiors in the hopes that they will not crush our future and present lives to anyone who may matter further down the line.
That is, until today.
From the instant Draco Malfoy walks into our well-trodden halls, it is obvious that he is different.
Pale, flushed cheeks. White-blonde hair. He is casually well-kept, like any popular kid. And yet, he holds a book, and a good nature in his posture. Word is that he is wealthy, and that his father has enough money to support a mansion for their family, as well as giving away generous donations to many charitable causes.
On the surface, somehow, he seems harsh. Sharp lines and an icy gaze.
He throws me a burning look as we pass in the hallways, and I feel myself melt. I can't decide whether it is a positive or negative thing that I should feel that way with one look from him. Either way, I am uncomfortable with the connection.
"Draco Malfoy," Lavender tells me in our English Language class. "That's his name."
Parvati turns in her seat, discreetly so as not to disturb today's guest speaker. "The new kid? My god, he's hot isn't he?"
Beside me, Ginny cringes.
"He gave me a weird look. And I saw him being unkind to a Year Seven earlier," she argues. "Classic popular kid, in my opinion. He just needs to gel with the jocks, then he'll fit right in with the rest of that crappy bunch."
"What kind of weird look, Gin?" I ask, frowning.
She shrugs. "Like I was a freak, I guess." Parvati raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I was attempting the Chubby Bunny challenge at the time, so maybe it was understandable. But he made me feel super uncomfortable."
"Ladies!" hollers Professor Trelawney from the front of the room, her bulbous eyes latching onto our conversation and lack of paying attention. She is our guest speaker for today, having come from Edinburgh University to talk to us about Mystic Poetry, and her latest theory regarding it. Personally, I don't agree with her, but am not bothered enough to speak out. "Are you quite finished with your conversation?"
We stay silent, and she moves on without further question.
"Mystic Poetry. It is a connection of the mind and the body through words and sounds. Some say it is linked to Synaesthesia, but I believe it comes from…"
There are some classes that I don't enjoy.
As I'm exiting the classroom, my body slams into someone else.
"Watch it," he laughs. Except, the laugh is not as warm as I would expect. Certainly, it is not maniacal laughter, but it is not warm and kind. And despite this his eyes burn holes in mine.
This clandestine moment builds our clandestine relationship.
Draco Malfoy's eyes follow me around the room, seeming to sear my skin, searching for more than what I must have on display. Whenever he glances up from his thick poetry anthology, it is me he is looking at. His slavic looks catch the gazes of many other females in the year - arguably better-suited females, pretty females, females who would pay him attention - but he does not waiver from me.
"You didn't hear it from me, but," Parvati begins, "Malfoy is seriously into you."
I scoff. "Who else would I hear that kind of trash from? He looks at me as though he is trying to set me on fire."
She raises a suggestive eyebrow.
"Burning looks? That's a sure sign, right?" Parvati turns to the other girls. Lavender nods eagerly. Ginny shudders. She's still not a fan of his, not in the slightest. "He likes you, Hermione."
"And that's why he's spending all of his free periods with Pansy Parkinson?" I laugh. "Malfoy is just one of those boys who likes to think they're in control of every girl in the vicinity. I know nothing about him, and I hate that enough."
Despite myself, I feel him watching me.
And despite myself, I know I am doing exactly the same thing; this is how we exist in each others' company.
I notice him, his top button undone, hair wildly perfect. I notice that he pretends to read, but secretly observes the world around him. He is cooler than ice, but by no means popular - not unpopular either. He is detached from the world, and our strange looks of communication involve me in his bubble for just a while.
Relationship does not cover this, I think.
It is clandestine because perhaps my friends do not notice that, while he is staring at me, I am quite often staring back.
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Thanks for reading!
