Author's Note: I'm on a roll here! Short HP fics just seem to be my thing
right now, huh? Well, this one's Draco/Harry slash, so be forewarned, okay?
Comments and critism appretiated!
I Want To See Him Cry
Hatred is a strong emotion. The strongest, except maybe for love. People say there's a fine line between love and hate. There's not. That's just an overused cliché used by people who've never really hated or loved. I do not love Harry Potter. I hate him. If he died a brutally painful death, I would laugh and kick more dirt over his grave, just to put more between us.
He thinks he's so great, so amazing, so brilliant, so fucking perfect. He's so imperious under that thin mask of modesty. I've seen the way he looks at me with contempt. He thinks he's so much better than me; so much better that he has to be friends with The Weasel and Mudblood Granger just to rub it all in my face.
So like I said, I most definitely do not love Harry Potter. Never have, never will. Lust, however, is very different. Hate and lust run hand in hand. I want to hurt Potter. I want to rip his head up by that soft raven hair and force his emerald eyes to meet mine. I want to cut him and feel his blood. I want to see him cry.
I bet he's pretty when he cries. I've never seen him cry before. I've seen that squib, Longbottom blubber, and both The Weasel and Granger have cried in my presence. In all three cases, it was the same: splotchy, red, puffy faces and lolling tears bubbling over and stringing out all over their face.
I can only dream of Potter, though. Pale, shaking, crystalline tears falling gently, causing wet spots on his black robes. He'd probably be petrified in either fear or pain -- I can't imagine him crying for any other reason. His skin, drained of color, would be luminous against his contrasting hair and robes. His eyes would be wide, with a delicious amount of fear. Ropes. There would have to be ropes, too, around his wrists and ankles. Potter seems the type to flail his about, or try to run, completely ruining the aesthetic effect. Potter may be beautiful and picturesque, but he really has no taste for art at all.
I've changed my mind suddenly, but this is my daydream, so I'm allowed to do so. I don't want to stumble on him after an encounter with some dark monster; I don't want to just find him in the corridors or in an empty classroom, sobbing his poor little heart out. I don't want to see him cry.
I want to make him cry.
I Want To See Him Cry
Hatred is a strong emotion. The strongest, except maybe for love. People say there's a fine line between love and hate. There's not. That's just an overused cliché used by people who've never really hated or loved. I do not love Harry Potter. I hate him. If he died a brutally painful death, I would laugh and kick more dirt over his grave, just to put more between us.
He thinks he's so great, so amazing, so brilliant, so fucking perfect. He's so imperious under that thin mask of modesty. I've seen the way he looks at me with contempt. He thinks he's so much better than me; so much better that he has to be friends with The Weasel and Mudblood Granger just to rub it all in my face.
So like I said, I most definitely do not love Harry Potter. Never have, never will. Lust, however, is very different. Hate and lust run hand in hand. I want to hurt Potter. I want to rip his head up by that soft raven hair and force his emerald eyes to meet mine. I want to cut him and feel his blood. I want to see him cry.
I bet he's pretty when he cries. I've never seen him cry before. I've seen that squib, Longbottom blubber, and both The Weasel and Granger have cried in my presence. In all three cases, it was the same: splotchy, red, puffy faces and lolling tears bubbling over and stringing out all over their face.
I can only dream of Potter, though. Pale, shaking, crystalline tears falling gently, causing wet spots on his black robes. He'd probably be petrified in either fear or pain -- I can't imagine him crying for any other reason. His skin, drained of color, would be luminous against his contrasting hair and robes. His eyes would be wide, with a delicious amount of fear. Ropes. There would have to be ropes, too, around his wrists and ankles. Potter seems the type to flail his about, or try to run, completely ruining the aesthetic effect. Potter may be beautiful and picturesque, but he really has no taste for art at all.
I've changed my mind suddenly, but this is my daydream, so I'm allowed to do so. I don't want to stumble on him after an encounter with some dark monster; I don't want to just find him in the corridors or in an empty classroom, sobbing his poor little heart out. I don't want to see him cry.
I want to make him cry.