In The Eyes of Us [DRACO MALFOY]

II

Despite his slow entry, Riddle gets out from the locker room before me, undoubtedly eager to boast about his speed.

"Why do I get the feeling you're deliberately ignoring me?" His voice interrupts my thoughts once more. If there's anything Riddle enjoys more than causing chaos, it's taunting others. Or perhaps he's simply the most aggravating individual I've ever encountered.

The Great Hall lies in silence,brighten only by the flickering candles at the Slytherin table. Two plates sit with a lavish spread of food.

"Planning to run to Daddy for help?" Riddle's voice cuts through my thoughts once again. I realize I've been lost in annoyance, a common occurrence in Riddle's presence as I  maintain my composure and ignore his constant taunting.

Midway through dinner, a brilliant flash catches my eye, and suddenly, she strides into the room, effortlessly demanding attention. Her heels click against the floor, each step a symphony of attraction.

Despite still wearing her uniform, she's transformed it into a masterpiece, with rhinestones adorning her tights and sleek black heels with a shimmering bow.

Merlin, those legs.

Her skirt barely grazes her thighs, defying all decency and logic— even my belt is longer than her skirt. With each stride, she carries a runway-worthy walk, as if she's constantly under the lens of flashing cameras.

And it's not just tonight; every day she graces us with a new outfit, never repeating a look. How do I know? Well, I just do.

And anyways is this even allowed?

She lives for fashion, her obsession is apparent in every stitch and every step. The world could be crumbling around her, but mess with her clothes or shoes, and she'd unleash chaos upon us all.

As she takes the seat beside me, annoyance simmers within me, yet my insides betray me, stirring with a mixture of conflicting emotions. I catch a whiff of her perfume—lemon, mint, and lime—a bouquet of florals and musk that dances in the air, seductive and infuriating.

I'm captivated by her, drawn to her arrogant presence like a moth to a flame. But my obsession is based on resentment, a frustration born from her effortless charm and my inability to resist it.

It's a volatile mix of desire—desire to cause pain—and disdain, a conflict that keeps me constantly on edge in her presence.

"So you screwed up," she taunts, her words laced with a mixture of amusement and the usual disgust. It's like they've choreographed this little performance just to get under my skin. And why does she always have to be here, making everything more complicated?

I shoot Riddle a glance, hoping he'll have the sense to intervene, but he just chuckles, earning himself a swift kick from me under the table.

As she leans closer, her presence practically radiating smugness, I can't help but feel drawn to her—drawn to choke  her—despite my better judgment.

When she reaches for my plate and starts helping herself to my food, I instinctively pull it away, our hands locking in a silent tug-of-war. It's not really about the food; it's more about a who gives in first, and neither of us is willing to back down.

You're not five, Malfoy.

"Alright, enough, you two," Riddle finally interjects, breaking the tension with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Reluctantly, I release the plate, shooting her a sidelong glance that she returns with a defiant smirk. But as much as I try to play it cool, I can't shake the nagging question in my mind:
Why does she always have to mess with me? More importantly: Why do I let her?