Smell
I will forever remember his scent – a soft cinnamon that always makes my toes tingle and my head spin in fervour. There are times when I wander around in Hogsmeade, looking at everything (so many shops – where to start, where to stop) but not really comprehending my surroundings, wondering if it was worth it, if he was worth it. Giving it all up – the rush, the power, the familiar. Father had once told me that if love truly exists, an emotion so unbearably and intolerably weak, it must exist in the soul, in the very core of one's weakness – a curse that not all are plagued with. He always said that I was cursed with one, forever to be tormented by it, making me nothing but a pathetic imbecile. He tried to beat it out of me, at times literally, claiming that change would do me good. Maybe father was right. I stay awake for hours, fighting off the tempting call of sleep, committing my lover's aroma to memory – the scent that affected my soul. I always wonder if it was worth it – giving my heart out, knowing it will only end in tears of death. I think about the day I will cradle him in my arms, or when he will cradle me in his, as a last breath leaves the body, the other's name whispering from still lips. I can not change that. This is a war, and love can not conquer all. Yes, I always wonder if it is at all worth it. But then I lie in his arms and his smell tickles my nose, my soul and I realise that it is. I smile.
Touch
I realised long ago that Harry Potter was the most beautiful man in all the worlds that may exist in this tiny and yet supposedly endless universe. As I look down at him (dear Merlin, his beauty never ceases to amaze me), squirming under me, gasping my name in passion, I always marvel at how such a stunning man could lose himself to me. When did the spirits bequeath me such power? Our times together are rarely gentle, rarely slow as we are both taken away by our infatuation. By day he is the honourable Boy Who Lived whom the masses worship whilst I am nothing more than the arrogant and often outspoken Slytherin Prince. But by night, the world glazes over in a cloud of secrets and arousal and I soon find myself pounding into him, bruising his hips, biting his skin, slamming my cock. Over and over and over again. I will never forget the first time we fucked. Chests pushed against each other, nipples grazing, creating shocks within our bodies. Mouths clashed, teeth broke skin, blonde mixed with black as our hair curled together like smudged ink. He screams first, always him, and seeing him like that – debauched, legs spread, mouth gasping in ecstasy – I start to scream to. It feels like he is pulling me apart, piece by piece, ripping my carefully placed mask to leave nothing but that damned soul. And even though I am on top, I know that he is in control, he is owning me. Always is. And I don't care.
Taste
His taste is not unlike his smell, a sort of soft cinnamon. I press my lips behind his ear, a weak spot of his, and try to lap up his taste, committing it to memory, ensuring that I shall never forget this heaven that Merlin has granted me. He always asks me why; why I bother trying to remember it when I could just taste him for the rest of his life. I always shake my head and softly caress his face (such a sweet, beautiful, innocent boy he is) claiming he wouldn't understand and go straight back to tasting him. And he doesn't. Understand, that is. How easily I could lose him – to Voldermort, to someone else once he realises that such beauty should not be with scum like me. My biggest fear? That I'll lose him because of me. I always wonder why he chose me of all people to love. A misunderstood son of a Death Eater loved by the noble and heroic Golden Boy. Still makes me want to scoff. Still makes me want to throw up a little. But he is convinced that I am no longer that person, that I am now safe. But he doesn't know. He doesn't know that every time we visit his friends I clench my fists and force myself to breathe, just so I don't smash them into a wall and do as I was trained to do since birth. He doesn't know of my sudden urges to hurt him as my Malfoy instincts kick in my gut, leaving me breathless and flushed in disgust. He doesn't know how close he comes to losing me, and I him. So I plan to taste him for the rest of his life. I just don't know how long that will be.
Listen
I could listen to him for forever. That voice, so intoxicating due to the passion that pulls through when he speaks, makes him more special to me. The fervour that exudes from his verbalisations have more power than any of the longwinded, eloquent expressions I have been taught to use throughout my life. I attempt to recognise the topic on which he is ranting about, but I am too quickly swept away by the deep flow of his voice. It runs richly through my veins, calming me and exciting me simultaneously. I look up as his words hit an apparent crescendo and am immediately struck in wonderment by the image before me. He is in deep passion, eyes stormy, skin flushed, hands jerking whilst he talks. So beautiful. So fucking beautiful. He looks at me and abruptly stops, noticing the vulnerability, the awe in my eyes. He reaches down to where I am sitting and kisses me softly on the lips before looking into my eyes.
"Love you."
And I am melting because it all suddenly falls into place. It isn't going to be easy – no, not a chance in the slightest. Friends, the War, their beliefs. All obstacles. Love can not conquer all. But it doesn't matter.
.
"I love you too."
Sight
In the past, whenever I saw Harry, my body would tense, readying itself for a fight, hoping for a fight. Any reason to get him to touch me. Not that I would have admitted that. Now whenever I see him (especially when I wake up with his tiny body in my arms, as he wraps himself unconsciously with my body and the thick blankets I have covered us with after our passionate love making), all I feel is happiness.
He made me realize that that is enough for now.