Body, spirit and soul. My loathing for you is far greater than anything else in the world. Anything but my love for you.
You're so perfectly flawed. Perfect. Your eyes, those emerald eyes. Hiding from the world behind silly glasses. There are two sides to them. Your and mine; not that we belong in the same sentance.
Beauty. Don't watch me. Don't look at me like that. It's wrong. No, it's not wrong.
I'm wrong.
Blackened, lined hands, tired, potion-stained, bearing the tales of countless deeds I wish I didn't commit.
I'll never let you know. I'll sit and watch you like the Gryffindor girls in the back row, trying to catch you're attention. Unlike them, I won't send pathetic charmed love notes that recite poetry and proclaim false love, and giggle when I tell you your pathetic excuse of a potion is worse than Neville's- even though it's better than the Granger girl's. Instead I hurl insults about your brilliant work and scowl when you win with your clever, witty remarks. Never proud. You just smile to yourself quietly while the rest of the class laugh and snort. Nothing short of perfection. But you must think I hate you. I do hate you. So passionately.
Pure, young, soft. I'll never be like you. I want to touch that skin, kiss those lips. Feel you, taste you. You look so delicious. And yet your boyish good looks and charm is what I hate most. Its so intense, like a wild flame.
I check the time hastily. I notify the class icily that time is up, and that an essay on the properties of the Whitewhiste plant will be due next lesson, and those who fail to complete it, will be issued with a detention on Wednesday.
Thank God class is over. The feeling is bittersweet. I wish to be free of the agony that is being in your presence, but as always, I can only wait to be become steadily burdened by the torture that is being without you. I am far too familar with these feelings. I watch the rest of the class file out neatly. Quiet grumbling and groaning about the far too complex essay I just set them. My eyes flicker in hope, in fear when I see you whisper to the redheaded fool sitting next to you: "I'll catch up with you." Your repulsive friend glares at me before agreeing and no doubt rushing off to some mundane activity. But I believe you both have Transfiguration next.
You approach me cautiously, as if you're fragile. Breakable. I cannot look at you. So beautiful. I can feel you watching my back, waiting. Stop looking at me. Don't. If you watch too closely you might just see through my fallacy. Please, no.
"Professor?" You say shakily.
"What do want, you have Transfiguration to waste, and I have first-year essays to fail." I hear myself say to the wall viciously. I wish I could hold your softly shaking figure, stroke your hair, trace the lightning-bolt scar etched deep within your flawless skin. Just to prove it's you. I only want you. No one else.
"I wanted to speak to you." You shy away. Fair enough. Why would you let your greasy, ugly, degenerate freak of an Potions teacher watch you cry? I can't see you, but I can feel you willing your tears away. Your strength and determination to hold back your pain fills the room, but its already flooded with emotion. You're strong, but this is stronger. You're vunerable, and I can feel it.
One question plagues me. Why would you want to speak to me? Giving me this ultimate honour, this priveledge? Is this to test me? Torture me?... Or is it something else?
No. Of Cause not.
Never.
" I didn't mean to do this to you..." You choke up. "Its just..." You're barely breathing.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I can feel my heart racing in my chest, under robes, through blood and flesh. Hope runs through my veins. You're under my skin. Is this it? Do you want me too? Why else would you put so much trust into me?! I want you! I admit it! I want you! I want to love you. More than anything. I want to keep this moment forever.
I hold my breath as you turn around. I was right. No such beauty exists elsewhere. Your tears are like nothing I've ever seen. Rare. Liquid diamonds flooded with so much anguish and pain.
You're so pretty.
Unearthly beauty.
But Its better than that. So much more. They are tears of love, aren't they? You're crying for me, aren't you? You're crying because it's forbidden, because it's wrong aren't you?! But, really its right.
My voice softens as my heart melts, but my words still harsh. "What is it?"
The words that will come from your mouth will set me free. Release me. I'm a foolish Potions teacher. A poor foolsih old man in love. But who, being loved is poor?! I need those words. Tell me you love me! Its alright! I love you too. I'm shaking with anxiety, with excitement.
As you open you're mouth, I close my eyes and smile. I brace myself.
"I'm never going to be a Auror," Your voice is barely a whisper.
It takes me many long seconds to come to the conclusion that they are not the words I expected. Where are they? This is not how it's supposed to be. No affection, no passion. Nothing. Nothing but a pointless, unrealistic fear. The words run through me like poison. A prickling feeling somewhere within me. It spreads through the veins that forever ago held hope, as the words form in my mind. The poison begins to take effect with intolerable pain when the words replay over and over in my thoughts. Consuming me, shattering me, killing me from the inside out... Then nothing. Blank. Numb. Dead.
"Doubt that I could even get a 'Acceptable' let alone an 'O' in the potions O.W.L's to make the N.E.W.T class." You sniff quietly.
I watch you burst into a fresh wave of tears.
You reach over to my sleeve and pull it closer. I let you snuggle into my arm. You're so hopelessly unaware of the heart you have broken. I let my hurt comfort you. I'll never let you know.
"I just want to be an Auror so badly.."
I turn away from you. I dont yell, I dont cry. I don't feel. I sit in silence in the unfriendly dungeons listening to your quiet sobs. You stay with me through the rest of Transfiguration, and well into lunch.
Before I can think, breathe, I mumble some stupid words of encouragement. You'll cherish these words forever. I don't even care. I don't even feel.
You look thoroughly shocked when I push you off me. I turn and look at the wall blankly. To regain my composure, I add,
"And twenty points from Gryffindor, for being a troublesome brat." I say with an empty voice. To him I may be just back to 'Greasy, Slimey old Snapey' but I will never be the same.
You leave with nothing more to say, but an awkward smile and a whispered thank you.
You've left me with nothing. Not that I had much to start with anyway.
Blank. Except for one passion buring brighter than ever.
I hate you so much, Potter. But yet, I love you even more.