𝐗𝐋𝐈𝐈

                                    

                                          
𝐀𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚
                          
The grip I have around my quill is tight, pressing the tip against the parchment without moving my hand one bit. A pool of ink is collecting itself, ripping the paper in front of me because of the dampness.
                          
I'm staring ahead, narrowing my eyes with every time one of her wavy strands of hair moves, falls into her face just to get tucked behind her ear again. 
                          
I wonder what it must feel like. I wonder whether hers is softer than mine, easier for fingers to brush through without getting stuck in the knots that have formed. Maybe it smells better, being more hypnotising than anything else that carries a scent.
                          
Does he like her hair better than mine?
                          
Her left hand is touching her necklace, playing with it while her eyes fly over the words that are written on the multiple pages. The silver must feel cold on her cleavage without all the material it could lie on. Maybe it's the way she dresses, the way she allows others to watch every inch of her collarbone that probably works wonders. I don't know how she can manage to wear all the different colours, all the different shapes without looking weird in any way, without causing others to think something rude or mean.
                          
Does he like the way clothes fit her body better than they do on mine?
                          
One look at her flawless skin and one wishes to never have seen it. No matter where I look, I see nothing that could let her appear less pretty, less attractive. She has no beauty mark, no scar that tells a story of her life and not even a small bruise to indicate her clumsiness. She almost looks like one of those dolls one can find in a clothing store, skin so shiny and smooth that it appears like she isn't human.
                          
Does he like the feeling of her skin better than the feeling of mine?

                          
Maybe my quill can do more than writing or drawing.
                          
Maybe i can hurt someone with it, form a whole in that persons face just like I did with the parchment. One perfect throw across the room and the pretty looking girl wouldn't appear so perfect after all. 
                          
Is she human? Is she even able to carry something which marks her as „wasted" or „stained"? Is she even able to experience the pain once the tip of my quill rushes through her skin, leaving a flaw behind?
                          
Whole sentences.
                          
I could write whole sentences on her skin and seal them with magic to make sure that she'll never be able to wash it off, to get the one thing off her skin she wants to get rid of so bad. All the anger inside me wants to get let out, but I don't think that her body offers enough of space for all the words I want to throw at her.
                          
Just keep fidgeting with your jewelry, keep writing supposedly delicate letters on your unstained piece of parchment, giving the impression to have printed every single word. Keep looking away from me so that I have enough space, enough time to figure out how to show you the way you make my blood boil.
                          
The surface of the library table must have splashes of ink on it, but that is my smallest problem right now. I'm in a room full of people, silence ruling between us, but my attention only lies on her and if I wouldn't hold that damn quill so tightly, I would clasp my hands over my ears in order to block out the nonexistent noises she gives away.
                          
„I want you closer, Draco. I want it gone."
                          
Did you know that I was there? Did you know that I heard those words rolling over your tongue, reaching the ears of the boy who fought so hard to get to me but the boy who betrayed me after all?