Title: Hatred is by far the longest pleasure
Summary: Inspired by Lord Byron's lines: "Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste but they detest at leisure".
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not do this for profit. yadayadayada...
Just a little something I wrote this summer and forgot about.
Hope you enjoy it!
"Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste but they detest at leisure" - Lord Byron
When Cho ran away from him and their relationship like he had some horrible, contagious disease, Harry couldn't find it in himself to care all that much.
Sure, he had been kind of crushing on her, and they had gone out a couple of times –most of which had, admittedly, ended in either screaming or hysterical sobbing- but she really wasn't the single most important thing in his life, not like he imagined his true love –as sappy as that may sound- would.
The only thing truly dominating his mind, burning in his very soul, was Voldemort, and making the bastard pay. Killing him and destroying his Horcruxes took up every single crumble of his attention, capturing his mind in every waking moment, the only thing he could think of at all.
Cho, in comparison, wasn't all that important, a simple, little smudge in his life. He didn't shed a tear when she shouted at him and cried and talked about Cedric –the only thing she managed was to bring his mind back onto the topic of Voldemort, of how to kill him, how to destroy him.
So, when Cho broke up with him, he didn't mind all that much, never lost any sleep over it, never really thought all that much about it.
And then he started noticing Ginny's flirting, and he somehow ended up dating the red-head, and still the growling monster in his chest remained silent most of the time. Sure, he cared about the little girl, and everybody practically gushed about how a cute, perfect couple they were, but she didn't take up most his attention with a burning, single-minded passion.
His desire for revenge burnt higher, faster, consuming him with a flaming need, something he just couldn't ignore, tugging at him and tearing at him and easily becoming the central thing in his life. If the monster in his chest growled three times a day, the warm caress of fire over his scar burned all day long.
When Ginny broke up with him, he wasn't all that surprised, all that heartbroken. He still didn't know how they had ended up together. Don't get me wrong, but she wasn't all that important –not to him, anyway- and how were they supposed to work out as a couple if he didn't care all that much about their rose-coloured romance?
So he didn't cry, kept on with his life. He didn't feel all that remorseful over their utter failure as a couple, to be truthful, even if everybody else spent most of their time moaning about what a shame it was.
A couple break-ups after that, Harry gave up on dating altogether and concentrated on the war, feeling relieved. Dating had become quite a strain on him, not something to be enjoyed, and none of the girls he had dated made a lasting impression. He would be hard-pressed to remember much about them, other than their names and faces, and maybe some random details about their likings and such, but nothing deep enough to merit mentioning.
Meanwhile, he delved into Voldemort's psyche, learning about his beginnings as Tom Riddle, watching countless memories of the young orphan, studying his very movement and mood until he could predict by the pangs of his scar alone what kind of attack the monster was about to launch. Instead of closing off his connection, he deepened it, dug into it, learned everything there was to know, and silently spied on Voldemort and on the only thing he kept unprotected –his feelings, not hidden behind a wall of occlumency as his thoughts were.
In a raid, Draco Malfoy died. Harry had already left the school, choosing instead to look for the horcruxes, and when he read about his former enemy's death he felt a tendril of sadness enter his heart.
Malfoy had once taken up every waking moment of his; chasing after the blond and his nefarious plans had been, a long time ago, his favourite pastime. At one point, he had even known how to tell the blond's mood by the way he chewed his toast –and he was sure the bastard had been able to tell how Harry himself felt, too, just as effortlessly.
For no reason at all, he attended the funeral, hidden under a dark, hooded cloak and silently saying good-bye to his former rival.
The war kept raging, and it seemed somehow endless. He had lost contact with both Hermione and Ron by then –too consumed in his frenzy to destroy Voldemort, irritated by the other two's immaturity, by their naivety. He had heard of many of his old classmate's deaths, but they had been mere interludes between one hunt and the other, always searching for more information, for another plan, for another attack, for another horcrux, another way to destroy Voldemort for once and for all.
Ron knocked on his door one day, told him Ginny was marrying some Gryffindor guy, a couple of years younger than them. Harry spared a moment for her and Cho and all those girls whose faces he had almost forgotten –hadn't Cho been hurt in a battle somewhere? Was she even alive?- but his mind soon turned back onto the problem at hand, Voldemort's fifth horcrux, and the memories where tossed into some dark, forgotten corner of his mind and soon they disappeared completely.
When Harry finally found a way to kill Voldemort, he was elated. For forty-eight hours he was unable to sleep, too caught up in the excitement of his discovery.
When he went to Voldemort's headquarters, determined to face the snake-faced bastard, he was trembling –not in fear, or in dread, but in pure, joyous excitement.
And when Voldemort fell, Harry felt like someone had torn a hole in his heart. He fell to the ground, clutching at his scar, as the perpetual burning he had always felt there, like a comforting presence, vanished.
And suddenly there was nothing else to fill his mind with, nothing to burn in his soul and make life brighter.
Nothing to consume him with the same single-minded passion he had felt for Voldemort.
Nothing to fill his mind, his heart, his soul, his time.
Empty.
He did cry that day, as the emptiness threatened to consume him, and pure desperation took Voldemort's place. He hungered for something he hadn't been able to find in any of his love interests – something that gave a purpose to his life, the centerpiece of his very being.
With time he learned to love, and he married, and had children.
But as much as he loved his wife and his family, deep down, he knew none of them were enough to fill the hole Voldemort's demise had left.
He may have found true love in his wife, Mary, but true love hadn't been enough fill his life up, to take completely and utterly over him.
Only hate had been able to fill that gaping hole in his chest. To light his life with it's all-consuming fire.
And now it was gone.
And he was empty.
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