Knowing Nothing

Disclaimers: Nothing belongs to me, since I wouldn't be able to take them with me to hell.

Knowing Nothing

I know nothing about you.

Nothing at all.

That is what I thought. All along, in the past, even till now.

I don't know what you like to eat or which drink is your favourite. I only know that every morning, no matter rain or shine, there'll be a cup of coffee waiting for you. You never add any sugar, not even milk. None at all. While others drink pumpkin juice or hot chocolate, you'll only drink coffee, one hand holding onto the cup while another holds on to the Daily Prophet, your eyes scanning quickly across the paper. I figured you don't really fancy sweet stuff, since every time your mother sends chocolates and sweets to you, you'll give them to Crabbe or Goyle. All of them. You took none for yourself.

How about your favourite subject? Defence Against The Dark Arts? Transfiguration? Or is it Potions? Hermione often mentions that you are better in Potions than her, though nobody really listens. It is not surprising since this is the only subject that you ever concentrate in. You are always so attentive during Snape's lesson, staring at him, memorizing the exact words, your long fingers swirling that white, elegant eagle-quill that you always use, taking down notes every once in a while. I stole a look at your notes once and saw words lying neatly across the smooth scroll, your cursive handwriting small and tidy, all lay out in a straight line, just like everything you do.

When you prepare the ingredients, you always take up a lot of time. The sharp blade will slice through the caterpillar slowly, every cut meticulous, precise. You'll place the sliced caterpillar next to the powdered asphodel, the ingredients always arranged in a neat order before moving on to chop the daisy roots. Your nails never get dirty like mine.

I know that this is weird, but how do you sleep? On your back facing the ceiling? On your side? Or do you just stuff your face into your pillow? I once thought that evil never sleeps but that was before I caught you dozing off during History of Magic. I never picture you as a human before; it's always 'that annoying git' or 'the stupid ferret'. I finally realize that you are also made of flesh and blood, just like me, no matter how cold or distant you may seem to be.

Strange, but even after seven years, I still don't know what you do in your spare time. Do you play wizard chess with Zabini or like what many people said, go around terrorizing the first years? If so, why do I always see you in the library, whether I’m doing research for Charms or History of Magic, or just to borrow a book on Quidditch that Ron recommended? I didn't know what you were reading then, until Madam Irma told me that you were holding on to the book I've been searching for ages.

And what about Parkinson? That girl with the long, black hair? I heard from Ron's sister that she's your girlfriend. So Malfoy, you've got yourself a girlfriend? Do you spend most of your free time with her? Snuggling besides her, kissing her? It's really difficult to understand who’ll like you when you spend more time on your broom than on her. Whenever I visit the Quidditch shed, you will be there, carefully clicking away the wild ends of the broom, polishing the handle till it shines like the way your hair does. And all these while, you never look up from your book or broom, so I do the same, ignoring your existence as I sit across you, mending my Firebolt in silence.

What are you truly like? Or is this really you? I just couldn’t understand. You insult Ron’s family, lookdown on him for being poor, yet you took a stray-cat back to your dorm, holding it close to your chest, dirt and mud smudged on to your expensive robe. You call Hermione 'mudblood'; belittle Hagrid, yet you help the third years Slytherins to pass their Arithmancy. I know that they are from poor families and from what I have heard they are all muggle-borns.

Do you hate me? You never told me. I just took those glaring and scheming plots as the message you're sending me. I thought I hated you but that was a long time ago, and hating you now seems to be a habit rather than anything. It’s like having Hermione and Ron around me, a constant in my life. Like always worrying about when Voldemort will kill me, something that I have come to live with, expecting. You are there. You always are. I'm not willing to admit but it's difficult to imagine life without you and your sarcastic remarks.

And every night as I lay down on my bed, I begin to wonder who you really are, what you are like. It's like an obsession and I can't end it. I don't want to end it. Many times, I wonder what you are like underneath that thick layer of school robe, how it feels like to run my hands over that white, alabaster skin of yours. When you dump into me along the hallway, I can't stop myself from blushing, faint memories from my dream last night coming back to me all at once. The desire to trace your jaw-line, kiss your soft lips and nibble along your collarbone becomes intense and I can't come up with anything to fend off your insults, choosing instead to turn away.

I want to touch you, to learn every curve and plane of your body, to dig my nails into your flesh, to trace and lick my name on you. I want to hear you moan; make you scream my name as I bring you to completion, burying my head against your shoulder and wrap my arms around you, or just lay beside your warm body, running my fingers through your silky hair.

I want you, yet I know nothing about you.

"Ask Potter. Just ask."

End
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