I do not own the characters, or the song, which is by Placebo. Don't sue, I have nothing to give.
Strange infatuation seems to grace the evening tide.
I'll take it by your side.
He watches you when he thinks you aren't looking. His eyes flash, but it isn't with hatred. It's unfamiliar. You meet his gaze, smirk when he turns away, cheeks flushed. You return to your meal, but tuck his infatuation into the back of your mind.
You should probably inform your father of his feelings, but for some reason, you want to hold this close to you. You don't want to seduce the boy who lived.You don't want to deliver him into the grip of the only life that you have ever known. So you avoid him, eyes downcast. You refuse to awknowledge his silent invitation.
Such imagination seems to help the feeling slide.
I'll take it by your side.
But you are not a saint. You want him, you want him badly, and at night, when you are alone with your thoughts, you imagine him with you. Claiming you. You want to fall into his arms, but that decision was never yours. Whenever you feel yourself losing control, you remind yourself of the serpent coiled along your arm. You stroke it, tender as a lover, because it is all you have.
Your choice has been made. You are claimed, obscured in the darkness. Instead of a loving gaze from deep green, you are haunted by the ownership flashing red in another. The dark lord. You close your eyes, and make your decision. You will owl your father in the morning.
Instant correlation sucks and breeds a pack of lies.
I'll take it by your side.
He is predictable. Within weeks he is meeting you. Beneath you. And when he cries out your name, it's unfamiliar to you. Draco. The word reeks of trust and promises that he shouldn't be making. When you fall against him, he whispers that he loves you. And you drop your mask for a moment, and whisper that you love him too.
Oversaturation curls the skin and tans the hide.
I'll take it by your side.
Your arm burns when he touches it, but you allow it. He silently questions your motives. You summon a weak smile, and excuse yourself by mentioning that your father forced it upon you. That is not a lie. He asks no more, and you can't bear to look into his eyes. You don't want to see the love shining in its depths.
You tell your father that you need another month, and enjoy the freedom to love. To hold him. To pretend that he is not the boy who lived, you are not a death eater, and that everything is pure between you. For him, it's not pretending. For you, it's exhausting.
I'm unclean, a libertine
And every time you vent your spleen,
I seem to lose the power of speech,
At night, when you lay curled against him, he tells you that he doesn't want to be a saviour. He says that he loves you for not seeing him as that. And you shut your eyes tight, stroking his hair, pretending that you don't see that in him, don't see the scar marking him as a target. Your target.
You never touch his scar. He doesn't ask why, even as his fingers trace along your dark mark. You suppose that he figures you see past it. But now, when you close your eyes, it's all you see. Gone are the dreams filled with his eyes. Now you are alone with that lightning bolt that damns him.
You're slipping slowly from my reach.
You grow me like an evergreen,
It's June. In one month, he will enter the world alone. You ignore his nonsensical ramblings about finding a place together, about settling down. Every night the mark burns more. Crucio is the word you hear the most. You cannot delay this any more. You create a portkey.
His eyes flash with emotion as he opens his gift, but when he reaches out to take it, your hand moves to grab his. Before you can pull his hand away, the world is spinning, and your eyes are filling with uncharacteristic tears. He is gone.
You never see the lonely me at all
You're running down the halls, out the door, ignoring shouts as you speed towards Hogsmeade. You never stop to catch your breath, instead apparating as soon as you are positive you have passed the school boundaries.
As soon as your feet touch the floor of your bedroom, you are racing to the dungeons.
I take the plan, spin it sideways.
All turn towards you when you enter, breathing hard. Your father's eyes are gleaming with pride for you. You would bask in that on any other day, but today you feel your stomach turn. Harry lays on the floor, lifeless but for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Your eyes are on him, entranced.
Wands are raised.
I fall.
A scream is torn from your chest as the word you are so familiar with is spoken. You, who never make a sound during your own torture, cannot help but sob as Harry's body jerks and his eyes snap open. You're crying when his eyes meet yours, and through his pain, he mumbles your name.
You see the trust and love shimmering in his eyes, and turn, emptying your stomach on polished floors. Your father grabs your arm, likely to restrain you, and you sag against him, chest heaving, eyes on Harry. The next words rip your breath away.
Without you, I'm nothing.
Harry's warm eyes are vacant, but still he stares at you. You sink to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, ignoring the laughter around you. You get up on shaky legs and move to grasp the dark lord's robes.
He looks down at you without emotion, and you grasp his wand, tugging it lightly to your throat, silently begging him. He arches a brow in amusement, and utters the words you need.
You hit the floor without the elegance that had been drilled into you at birth, and if you were alive, you might wonder if that was why your father cried.
Without you, I'm nothing at all.