Trying Not to Notice

Her red hair glistened in the sunlight and he tried to not notice. Not to see how she bit her lip and scribbled on her parchment while her turquoise quill brushed the top of her hand. He averted his eyes from the way her narrow shoulders hunched over giving her the misleading appearance of weakness. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned on the warm stone. He had been watching her for quite awhile now, but she had not noticed, no, he was keeping very quiet. He doubted very much that anyone observed the slim fair haired boy in the shadows. It was a sort of vindictive irony, he thought to himself. The fallen angel, all pale beauty and hidden darkness, staring with a look of pained longing at what he could not have, yes, that was irony.

Irony, Draco pondered, was something he could respect, emotions and events twisted into their own savage humor, it was a respectful occurrence. If Draco knew anything better, it was savage humor. Forced when he was a child to laugh at torture and smirk at blood, humor always possessed a sharp edge of absolute cruelty. Yes, cruelty was the word. How cruel it was to look upon her, everything he desired, love and so much more, a mere distance from him and not be able to go to it. It reminded him reminiscently of when his father had chained a captured auor in the dungeons. Draco had not asked questions; never ask questions was a key rule in the Manor, and not one to be punished lightly. The auor was linked to a chain mere inches away from food. With no nourishment, he died within the week, so close to what he desired. Draco remembered hearing the screams for water as the man suffered right before going to bed, every night. Thinking back, he was now revolted and despised it, however, when he was seven, he looked up to the day when he could go and torture the men with his father.

She was getting up, shuffling the papers into her bag and standing up, surveying her surroundings. That is when she noticed him; her brown eyes traveling until they rested on him. His face reveled nothing, closing like shutters on an abandoned house. He did not move; merely met her gaze and she flinched. To be stared at that, it was intimidating. Eyes are the secrets to your soul some people say. Emotion is shown through the eyes better then anywhere else. Eyes can portray love, hatred, and sadness easily. But to look into eyes, and see nothing there, it is a rare and frightening experience. Ginny clutched her bag closer to her chest. She suddenly felt cold, very cold, as if standing on ice. The blood in her veins felt like ice crystals, moving slower than usual through her body, giving her a paralyzing feeling of lightheadedness.

They say that love is a sickness, like the flu, it gives symptoms. Is this love? What I feel, what I see, every time I look at him? I see everything I could ever hope to wish for, and everything I despise. It's what I dreamt for, what I wished out my window for, and now, I can't have it. Justice, like fate, is ever so cruel.

So silently, so she didn't even notice until he was feet from her, he removed himself from the sun-warmed wall of rocks and came towards her. Someone looking out would see a fair figure clad in all black with eyes like diamonds dropped in melted silver moving slowly towards a girl with red hair glistening in the summer light. But someone closer would notice more. They would see how his shoulders were tensed, the one hint of his ardor. They would notice the girl's hand tightening on her bag that her knuckles were white. The goose bumps erupting on her arms despite the heat. But no one, no matter how close, would notice - because it was done so subtly - what the fallen angel said to the scarlet-haired witch.

"J'aime et j'espere." I love and I hope.