Desire Trilogy, Part one: Want
I want him. it's a burning, aching sensation trapped inside my body, stinging my soul and taunting my heart. I want to touch his skin, brush my fingers through his hair, press my lips against his - hard, without mercy. I want to feel his body, damping hot, trapped beneath me. I want to hear him moan in a mixture of agony and exhausting pleasure. I want him to breathe my name with closed eyes - no glasses on - on the brink of insanity. I want to hear him call me Draco.
He doesn't talk to me very often. he never does, in fact, unless he has to. When he does, it's with short sentences, forced words. It's like he can't even bear to look at something as despising as me. Every time he spits my name out like he thinks I'm the lowest person - no, creature - he's ever met. Perhaps it isn't so far from the truth.
I never call him by his first name either. At least never to his face.... I only call him by his first name when I meet him at night in my dreams or nightmares. I only call him by his first name when I picture his face in my feverish fantasies. I only call him by his first name when I'm alone, when I'm weak, or scared. He makes me alone. He makes me weak. He makes me scared.
Harry Potter.
The famous and infamous Harry Potter, always accompanied by his loyal side-kick, Ron Weasley. And the Mudblood, of course. The Gryffindor trio. God, I hate them. Granger. Head Girl, perfect girl. The best grades in the entire school, the most dedicated student that Hogwart's has seen since the days of Potter's parents. Father demands that I excel her, but I really don't think that's possible. I'm second best, although I don't think many of the students know. They think I'm just a snobby, arrogant bastard. Well, I'm that too, but I'm more than just money and sarcasm. Hard to believe, I know.
They.... out-shine me. Granger alone out-shines me. Potter doesn't even have to try. He's been famous since birth, after all. He's the Boy Who Lived. Add his abilities with a broomstick to that, and a natural gift of getting in the spotlight. He was born for fame and greatness. What am I? I'm known as Lucius Malfoy's snotty son. Oh, yes. Great. I'm not even the best Seeker, although my flying skills are better than most. However, Potter is a natural. Without anybody interrupting him, he'd win over just about everybody. I know that he's already gotten an offer to play for the English Quidditch team. Bloody bastard.
Weasley can't steal my fame, because he's struggling to much himself. Give it up, Weasley. You'll always be known as Potter's side-kick. I think he's aware of that, but he never lets his envy and jealousy show. It has to be there, buried deep inside. Weasley wishes he could be everything Potter is, but he'll never even be close. I recognise it in his eyes, because I feel the same. I'll never be close either. I'll never get the fame Potter has.
Screw his fame. I want Potter himself. So bad. I don't want to be him, I just want him. Pure and simple, yet tauntingly complex. I, Draco Malfoy, want Harry Potter. He's just about the only thing in the entire world that I can't have. Ironic, isn't it?
Crabbe and Goyle thinks I'm in love. Yeah, right. I don't believe in love, I believe in what I can see and touch and take. For once I have to be content with watching. Watching and drawing. Capturing him onto paper, locking him in, trapping his very soul on a little white sheet. I've become quite good at portraying him, actually. The first feeble attempts at drawing him were terrible. I honestly sucked. But practice makes perfect, to use a cliché. I must have about a thousand different drawings and paintings of Potter now. Am I sure that I'm not in love? Hell, yes. I'm not sodding Colin Creevey, after all. I'm not in love, I don't have a simple school-boy crush. This is different. This is... desire and hate melted into a big star of golden lava. I can't get away from Potter, nor can I get away from my craving for him. Trust me, I've tried. As the years have passed, it's just gotten worse. I knew he was different from the first time I met him, and back then I didn't even know who he was. I never saw the scar.
The stupid, idiotic scar which made him famous in the first place. It could have been me, you know. But then again, how could it have been me? I'm more liekely to help Lord Voldemort regaining his power than to destroy him altogether. Yes, I know I'm complex, leave me alone. All the hormones isn't making this easier. I mean, how easy is it to focus on that damned golden fluttering ball when Potter is looking so extremely shaggable, and in addition to that, he's so close that I can almost feel his pulse racing.
Just like today.
The weather is warm, but it's not too sunny, and there's almost no wind. Perfect conditions for flying, perfect conditions for playing Quidditch. I'm high up in the air, even above Potter. Not far above, though. When I first get the chance to be close to him, I grasp it like a mad-man. I'm pretending that I'm looking for the Snitch, but I am in fact studying Potter's movement on his brand new Firebolt 5, the most advanced broomstick ever. My own Nimbus 2005 looks like an antique next to it.
He looks like he's born on the broom. Like he sleeps with it next to him at night. Like he thinks of it as his best friend. Hell, maybe he does. I gave up trying to read his mind a long time ago. He's to complex for me to ever understand. Me, I'm easier, though I'm still not easy to understand. Want. Take. Have. It's worked fine so far, but now it's become harder. I can't just grab Potter and keep him as a pet, now can I? Can I?
"Malfoy, get your ass down here!" A loud yell rips me mercilessly out of my thoughts, Potter is suddenly far below me, zooming towards the ground. I can barely make out the tiny Snitch a little below him. I start after him although I know he will catch it - almost boringly - in a few seconds. And of course he does. Again... I've never won against him, and while Potter smile and raises his arm in the air, adored and cherished by everyone around him, I land far outside the cheering circle, walking slowly away.
I'm tired of losing, tired of always standing in the shadows, tired of never being acknowledged. Potter, I'm not that bad. Really. no, wait, I am as bad as I seem to be. Maybe worse, because I haven't yet unleashed the things hidden deep inside me. I could squash you, Potter, and you don't even know it. But you just wait. Just wait.....
------
I need a cold shower. Preferably as cold as ice, to cool down after the match. The rush from flying mingled with the rush from being close to Potter is currently making me very hot and bothered. Oh, how I fucking hate this. I wish I could get him out of my system and go hunting for something or someone who isn't quite as unobtainable. I need to do something. I want to do something.
So I shower. I eat. I do my homework and draw a portrait of Potter flying. I fall asleep with him haunting my mind, exciting my body. It is as it always is. Just like it always is.
I want him. it's a burning, aching sensation trapped inside my body, stinging my soul and taunting my heart. I want to touch his skin, brush my fingers through his hair, press my lips against his - hard, without mercy. I want to feel his body, damping hot, trapped beneath me. I want to hear him moan in a mixture of agony and exhausting pleasure. I want him to breathe my name with closed eyes - no glasses on - on the brink of insanity. I want to hear him call me Draco.
He doesn't talk to me very often. he never does, in fact, unless he has to. When he does, it's with short sentences, forced words. It's like he can't even bear to look at something as despising as me. Every time he spits my name out like he thinks I'm the lowest person - no, creature - he's ever met. Perhaps it isn't so far from the truth.
I never call him by his first name either. At least never to his face.... I only call him by his first name when I meet him at night in my dreams or nightmares. I only call him by his first name when I picture his face in my feverish fantasies. I only call him by his first name when I'm alone, when I'm weak, or scared. He makes me alone. He makes me weak. He makes me scared.
Harry Potter.
The famous and infamous Harry Potter, always accompanied by his loyal side-kick, Ron Weasley. And the Mudblood, of course. The Gryffindor trio. God, I hate them. Granger. Head Girl, perfect girl. The best grades in the entire school, the most dedicated student that Hogwart's has seen since the days of Potter's parents. Father demands that I excel her, but I really don't think that's possible. I'm second best, although I don't think many of the students know. They think I'm just a snobby, arrogant bastard. Well, I'm that too, but I'm more than just money and sarcasm. Hard to believe, I know.
They.... out-shine me. Granger alone out-shines me. Potter doesn't even have to try. He's been famous since birth, after all. He's the Boy Who Lived. Add his abilities with a broomstick to that, and a natural gift of getting in the spotlight. He was born for fame and greatness. What am I? I'm known as Lucius Malfoy's snotty son. Oh, yes. Great. I'm not even the best Seeker, although my flying skills are better than most. However, Potter is a natural. Without anybody interrupting him, he'd win over just about everybody. I know that he's already gotten an offer to play for the English Quidditch team. Bloody bastard.
Weasley can't steal my fame, because he's struggling to much himself. Give it up, Weasley. You'll always be known as Potter's side-kick. I think he's aware of that, but he never lets his envy and jealousy show. It has to be there, buried deep inside. Weasley wishes he could be everything Potter is, but he'll never even be close. I recognise it in his eyes, because I feel the same. I'll never be close either. I'll never get the fame Potter has.
Screw his fame. I want Potter himself. So bad. I don't want to be him, I just want him. Pure and simple, yet tauntingly complex. I, Draco Malfoy, want Harry Potter. He's just about the only thing in the entire world that I can't have. Ironic, isn't it?
Crabbe and Goyle thinks I'm in love. Yeah, right. I don't believe in love, I believe in what I can see and touch and take. For once I have to be content with watching. Watching and drawing. Capturing him onto paper, locking him in, trapping his very soul on a little white sheet. I've become quite good at portraying him, actually. The first feeble attempts at drawing him were terrible. I honestly sucked. But practice makes perfect, to use a cliché. I must have about a thousand different drawings and paintings of Potter now. Am I sure that I'm not in love? Hell, yes. I'm not sodding Colin Creevey, after all. I'm not in love, I don't have a simple school-boy crush. This is different. This is... desire and hate melted into a big star of golden lava. I can't get away from Potter, nor can I get away from my craving for him. Trust me, I've tried. As the years have passed, it's just gotten worse. I knew he was different from the first time I met him, and back then I didn't even know who he was. I never saw the scar.
The stupid, idiotic scar which made him famous in the first place. It could have been me, you know. But then again, how could it have been me? I'm more liekely to help Lord Voldemort regaining his power than to destroy him altogether. Yes, I know I'm complex, leave me alone. All the hormones isn't making this easier. I mean, how easy is it to focus on that damned golden fluttering ball when Potter is looking so extremely shaggable, and in addition to that, he's so close that I can almost feel his pulse racing.
Just like today.
The weather is warm, but it's not too sunny, and there's almost no wind. Perfect conditions for flying, perfect conditions for playing Quidditch. I'm high up in the air, even above Potter. Not far above, though. When I first get the chance to be close to him, I grasp it like a mad-man. I'm pretending that I'm looking for the Snitch, but I am in fact studying Potter's movement on his brand new Firebolt 5, the most advanced broomstick ever. My own Nimbus 2005 looks like an antique next to it.
He looks like he's born on the broom. Like he sleeps with it next to him at night. Like he thinks of it as his best friend. Hell, maybe he does. I gave up trying to read his mind a long time ago. He's to complex for me to ever understand. Me, I'm easier, though I'm still not easy to understand. Want. Take. Have. It's worked fine so far, but now it's become harder. I can't just grab Potter and keep him as a pet, now can I? Can I?
"Malfoy, get your ass down here!" A loud yell rips me mercilessly out of my thoughts, Potter is suddenly far below me, zooming towards the ground. I can barely make out the tiny Snitch a little below him. I start after him although I know he will catch it - almost boringly - in a few seconds. And of course he does. Again... I've never won against him, and while Potter smile and raises his arm in the air, adored and cherished by everyone around him, I land far outside the cheering circle, walking slowly away.
I'm tired of losing, tired of always standing in the shadows, tired of never being acknowledged. Potter, I'm not that bad. Really. no, wait, I am as bad as I seem to be. Maybe worse, because I haven't yet unleashed the things hidden deep inside me. I could squash you, Potter, and you don't even know it. But you just wait. Just wait.....
------
I need a cold shower. Preferably as cold as ice, to cool down after the match. The rush from flying mingled with the rush from being close to Potter is currently making me very hot and bothered. Oh, how I fucking hate this. I wish I could get him out of my system and go hunting for something or someone who isn't quite as unobtainable. I need to do something. I want to do something.
So I shower. I eat. I do my homework and draw a portrait of Potter flying. I fall asleep with him haunting my mind, exciting my body. It is as it always is. Just like it always is.