Summary: He knows he's addicted, but he just doesn't care. Harry/Draco Slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor make any money from my writings.
Addicted
It was an addiction.
A dangerous addiction, that would more than likely end in his death. He knew this, but it never stopped him. When he found a note in his bag, or one sent to him through the post, he knew he could die at that next meeting.
He just couldn't find it in himself to care.
He'd lost so much last year, the last semblance of family, of security. He'd dragged his friends into almost certain death, and without a backwards glance.
And for what?
He'd lost Sirius anyway, lost his friends through his inability to stop and think. They shunned him after the fiasco at the ministry. Said it was just a matter of time before he got one of them killed. He had no one. So it really didn't matter.
He wasn't suicidal.
He didn't crave death. He was simply unconcerned by it. He had been asked once, what he thought lay beyond death. He'd thought long and hard about that, and was quite certain of his answer. Nothing. He believed that once a person died, and failed to manifest as a spirit, that they would simply go out, cease to exist. They, the person who had asked, had been horrified by his answer. 'Aren't you scared?' They had asked. No, no he wasn't.
So he went.
Each time he received that little scrap of parchment with the elegant green scrawl, he'd go, and he knew he was addicted.
The heat, his touch.
That he needed. That he craved. It hurt, oh he always made sure it hurt, but it was real and it was his! Without it he would fade, empty, hollow.
Afterwards, it was always the same. He would dress, leave. Nothing would be said, there was nothing to say. Then, a day, a week or a month later, he'd get another note.
Sometimes, he tried to imagine it being different.
He imagined himself being the one sending a note. He imagined that he caused the pain. Or that they would talk, even kiss.
Once, he imagined that he wouldn't go.
He'd find the note, in his potions book, or amongst his divination charts, and he'd throw it into the fire. He would sit, alone on his bed, and he wouldn't feel the urge to go, to see him. He wouldn't feel the need to come alive under his touch.
He imagined lots of things.
It didn't really matter, in the end. He knew it made no difference. He would continue to go, to see him, Draco Malfoy, and nothing would change. At the end of the day, he was his.
He was addicted.
----------------------------