Hello, readers! This is written for The Houses Competition.
House: Hufflepuff
Category: Themed (Escape)
Prompt: "Anger [Emotion]"
Word count: 1315
Title: The Difference
So…. This is a lot different from what I normally write. One, this has no dialogue. Two, I compare vomiting to anger to love here. Three, I wrote this in the perspective of a certain blond-haired Slytherin. Four, this whole thing is practically a metaphor. At least there's one thing familiar- This is a Dramione! (Whoo, I was almost overwhelmed by all the new things.) Anyways…. This was an odd one. I have no idea how this little Athena sprung up in my head, but here she is! Disclaimer: I did not write Harry Potter, I only write fanfiction. Happy reading!
Draco's POV:
Do you know that feeling right before you hurl? How it feels like something's sitting, waiting patiently in your throat as if asking for your permission to come up? But, of course, it's not. You can't seem to swallow it back down because, by then, it's too late. It all spills out, and your taste buds are filled with the horrid flavor of your vomit as you let it all go, and your nose is assaulted with the scent of the same thing, and you can swear it smells exactly like it tastes.
I know from my own experiences that anger can feel exactly the same way. You know what's going to happen, that it's going to spill over the edge, yet you're powerless to stop it. Almost like you're not in your own body, and you're simply watching as you let go. And you really can't care less, but your blood is pounding in your ears, and you know that whatever's happening is something you should be concerned about but can't bring yourself to lift a finger to stop it.
Your hands shake at your sides, and you try to make them stop, but your efforts are pointless. There are startling similarities between being angry and being sick. This is something I know all too well.
After a long time, the hatred and rage that burns in your stomach becomes a dull ache, hardly there, apart of you. But then it flares back to life, coming like a roaring fire that leaves you broken and ashamed after something- or someone- manages to calm you down. I'd felt this fury four times in my life.
First, when Harry Potter, in all of his glory, rode a bloody hippogriff, and I couldn't do it myself. Second, when Harry Potter's name came out of The Goblet of Fire. Third, when my father didn't retrieve that stupid prophecy from The Department of Mysteries, and was thrown into Azkaban. And fourth, when I was branded with the Dark Mark. I dealt with it in different ways.
I can deal with anger, the deep gut feeling I'd grown accustomed to. It was like a shadow, always there to accompany me, always something I could turn to. But it became suffocating. I needed to escape from it; I was sick of it.
I needed to feel something else, something other than the inevitable fury. So that's why I ran. My justification for switching sides and abandoning my pureblood beliefs was simply that I needed to feel something other than disgust and self-loathing.
I spent weeks cooped up in a dark, musty room while they interrogated me-The Order, the Light. I was miserable, and I welcomed it. I welcomed the change, and they new it, too.
After six months of being locked away from everyone, they finally let me out. I could walk into the kitchen on my own free will. I could bask in the dim sunlight that poured into the drawing room through the grimy windows. Despite my newfound somewhat freedom, I grew bored. That, I decided, was somehow worse than my sizzling anger.
I spent days in my room, only leaving for food and books. On one of those fateful days was when I saw her, Hermione Granger, poring over the large texts in the library. I wasn't even aware she was in The Order. It surprised me, of course, but the reaction from Granger was priceless.
She jumped up and punched me, hitting every body part she could reach, including my groin. I was highly amused despite the pain I felt, and I told her so. It took an intervention from McGonagall to get her off of me. By then the situation was less humorous.
But seeing Granger that way stirred something inside me. The flush that rose to her face, her lips parted in anger, her hair flying wildly. I never imagined something so perfect. That's what I was needing. I guess you could say that moment was when I fell for her. And, oh, did I fall. Hard.
It was slow work, getting her to trust me. It took three months, to be exact.(Not that I was counting.) It was worth it, though. When I first kissed her, I felt something twitch in my chest. I'd already thrown away my pureblood values, so I didn't mind when I acknowledged the fact that I'd fallen in love with her. Weeks of fantasizing about her slowly led me to that point, all I had to do was jump, hammer the last nail into the coffin. And I knew that kiss was it, the thing that sealed my fate.
I couldn't stop the affection and adoration that filled my heart. I couldn't stop myself from fighting for the Light, because that's what Granger did, and I'd follow her anywhere.
I escaped my rage, my life, my beliefs, all for the sake of change. And I'd fallen straight into the arms of love. It was new, and I was clumsy. But I had Hermione to pick me up when I fell, and kiss the scrapes on my knees better.
Do you know that feeling right before you hurl? How it feels like something's sitting, waiting patiently in your throat as if asking for your permission to come up? But, of course, it's not. You can't seem to swallow it back down because, by then, it's too late. It all spills out, and your taste buds are filled with the horrid flavor of your vomit as you let it all go, and your nose is assaulted with the scent of the same thing, and you can swear it smells exactly like it tastes.
I know love feels the same way. You know it's there, but you just ignore it until it becomes so obvious and noticeable. That's when it flows over, and you start kissing in public, and you've defined the relationship. It becomes so glaringly bright you don't even know why you didn't see it before.
I noticed how closely these three things are related. Love, anger, and puking. An odd thing, each is.
With anger comes hatred and disgust. It bites you, grips your life, and you get so tired of the constant burning. You have to just leave it all behind. To run wherever it won't follow. You have to escape your life because wherever your comfort is, your rage is, too.
When you're vomiting up this morning's brunch, you just want to fall away from it all. To stop the awful sensations and just be somewhere else. To switch bodies with someone who isn't having muscle aches or stomach spasms. After the third or fourth time of retching it becomes routine: stagger to the toilet, fall to the floor, and let it all come up. So you have to escape from that, too. Only you don't know how to make it stop.
That's where love is set apart. That's where love is different. It overloads your senses and smothers you. But it's warm and you welcome the feeling. The sensation of drowning is all you can feel for weeks straight, but it's not a bad feeling. Not when the water around you is the way she smells, or the sound of her laugh, or the glint in her eyes when she smiles. You let yourself fall into the black pit, spiraling out of control. And yet, you feel no urgency to climb back out. You have no need to escape from under the overwhelming blanket of desire. You just know that somewhere within the dark, there's a ladder to leave this behind, take you back to where you were before. But you know you'll never need it.
That's where the difference lies. Between love, anger, and vomiting. When you really stop to look at it, the only one you ever wish to have forever is love.