Love and Hate
Have you ever hated someone so much that you loved them?
Yeah, well I have. She's a pain in the arse, rude and insensitive to my friends, consorts with my worst enemy, narcissistic, vain, demanding, stubborn, narrow minded, egotistical, has a firey temper and a twisted mind.
No idea how anyone could love her then? It's not easy loving her, she needs my love, wants me more than anything, which is nice to my ego... But she's also pushes me away, spiky and stabbing with her words.
She was a Death Eater, and bear the mark that doesn't fade over time. I know she used to wear it in pride, flaunting it. She took pleasure in what it represented and what duties involving it. It literally makes me sick to think of what she did.
It plays on mind sometimes, whether she still is loyal to that cause and not the Light. The battles and wars are over, Voldemort is dead and buried along with the Wizarding World's best and brightest, yet I still wonder if she toys with me pretending to be mine and wholehearted for good.
Yet other times when her eyes are sparkling and she's smiling for what seems a million years, literally shining with happiness and light, I kiss her and can't help but believe her protests that she's all changed. Tells me that she loves me like no other and I embrace her, content that she is finally at peace with herself.
Then when she flies into rages, screaming hysterically that you don't lover her. Hitting you and you come that close, that close from hitting her back even through you know hitting girls is bad. She tests you, makes you want to strike back and do something bad. It irritates you knowing that she does this without caution and deliberately.
You hate her sometimes, hate her moods and emotions. Her sullen looks of hatred and the ugly look in her eyes when she spits in your face.
Eventually she breaks down, crying and repenting and you can't help but love her. Not when she looks so weak and vulnerable sitting, hunched up weeping herself to exhaustion. You hold her, cradle her in your beaten and bruised arms, and talk nonsense and make soothing noises.
Sometimes you wonder, wonder, because you could never ask, fearing her and her violent rages that she would be sure to fly into, wonder if she loves you and this was all sort elaborate prank, a joke that everyone was playing on him.
You know that if asked, she would scorn him, that he isn't nearly as important as he thinks, that everyone hates him. You know it isn't right, she loves him after all, but it still stings.
Pain. That what it feels when you see her kissing someone else. It hurts loving someone and hating them at the same time.
Eyes shut, terror ridden of the love, the hate and her.
Harry is slumped over a small rickety table in some god forsaken hotel in some scum village in the middle of no where. The wood creaks as he moves, a dozen splinters embedding themselves in his raw hand. He has bitten his nails raw, and they are rusty, bloody where he forgot the pain, forgot the pressure.
Thinking of her. Kissing that bastard, wrapping her slinky arms around his thick neck, her polished nails tracing a pattern in the tanned skin.
It burned, and he sobbed again. His hair was messier than usual, looked like he had fallen head first into a pig farm, he smelled unpleasant too.
Right now, Harry was beyond caring. His heart was breaking, damn, and it hurt. It just wasn't the jealously of her kissing another man, but the betrayal of her trust. The trust the had worked hard on, sweat, blood... Had all been wasted on her. he was such a fool, a fool for believing in her.
Standing, and looking at the hovel that was this hotel, Harry felt this irrepressible anger surge at the situation. It was all so bloody hopeless.
The chair collapsed under his heavy boot as he kicked it without thought, emotion making him numb, yet not enough for him not to flinch at the sound of it hitting the wall, falling to ground.
Blank green eyes, stare. Tears form and wash a clear path through the grime, dirt, blood and shit. He swipes at them, making an even muddier mess.
Stumbling over to the sagging mattress, he lets he body drop down, his legs suddenly feeling weak. Shoulders slumping forward, Harry gazes dumbly at his aching fingers.
Briefly he wonders if she ever loved him, or if he was just one of her many fazes she was going through. This wasn't the first time she had hurt him badly, emotionally, but he really feared it could be the last.
Even through he knew she probably hated him now, he still loved her so much, that he it hurt, it pained him to all extremes.
Kicking off his muddy boots, he looks at his humid, smelly wool socks. Mrs Weasley had knitted them for him one Christmas, with his usual wool jumper. Seeing them there, a big toe poking a hole through he feels his heart warm and a small smile light up his face. It's nice having someone who cares for him, maternally, someone he never had earlier in life.
Face darkens. She said she loved him. She must have lied.
Harry hates, despises, loathes lies. Especially when people do them to him. Lies... and Harry shudders, create distrust. Wars are started by lies.
Maybe she hadn't changed.
You know what that would mean, don't you Harry mate? All this time, she was lying to you, it's all been a waste.
A small tender smile flashes across your mind. It's her first real smile of something that doesn't resemble something dark, crooked. at that moment you're hooked on her. She's like a drug, a dangerous narcotic. Sometimes you wonder is she is poison in your bloodstream. The other times when she rests in your arms, dust motes in the air and both of you are just breathing, just breathing together. Together it's beautiful. Charming.
She's like that, a charming poison. Harry lays back and looks at the peeling wallpaper, a million thoughts of his mind, all about her.