How is possible to hate someone so much and yet also love them?
I find myself wondering this a lot recently. Two such separate emotions, and yet both so connected. Every time I meet you gaze they flash at me almost simultaneously.
I hate you.
I love you.
I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I wonder if I ever could again. Or are you just special. That makes me laugh. I can imagine what your ego would think to be called 'special'. It's nothing you haven't heard before though. That's where you and I are the same. Both of us are used to the spotlight- it's where we always are. Except when we're alone- then it's never the spotlight we crave. It's the darkness of the halls, the abandoned classrooms, the night covered grounds.
What would they think if they found out, your friends and mine? I can imagine it now; the Gryffindors would be outraged and shocked. But then, you're all so pure and good it's sickening. Except you, of course. When we're out behind the school, sweating and moaning, I never think the word 'pure'. And what would the Slytherins think of me? They'd be suitable disgusted. After all, to them there is nothing worse than fucking a Gryffindor. Death is preferable. Maybe they'd change their mind if they could see you do the things you do to me. The way you work could impress anyone.
When we see each other in the halls, people would never be able to tell what was between us. The hatred they see is as fiery and real as the passion they don't see.
I look over at you now, sitting at the Gryffindor table with your friends. They disgust me. We lock eyes and I see something. Either loathing or lust. They're so intermingled now that it's hard to tell. You give me a smug, Gryffindor kind of look and I want to punish you. And you'll let me because you want me to.
How confusing it all is. Will there ever be middle ground for us, I wonder? Can we ever just be in the same room without it leading to either sex or violence? I smile, remembering that our meetings usually lead to both.
"What are you looking at?" a voice asks me.
"Gryffindors," I sneer.
I find myself wondering this a lot recently. Two such separate emotions, and yet both so connected. Every time I meet you gaze they flash at me almost simultaneously.
I hate you.
I love you.
I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I wonder if I ever could again. Or are you just special. That makes me laugh. I can imagine what your ego would think to be called 'special'. It's nothing you haven't heard before though. That's where you and I are the same. Both of us are used to the spotlight- it's where we always are. Except when we're alone- then it's never the spotlight we crave. It's the darkness of the halls, the abandoned classrooms, the night covered grounds.
What would they think if they found out, your friends and mine? I can imagine it now; the Gryffindors would be outraged and shocked. But then, you're all so pure and good it's sickening. Except you, of course. When we're out behind the school, sweating and moaning, I never think the word 'pure'. And what would the Slytherins think of me? They'd be suitable disgusted. After all, to them there is nothing worse than fucking a Gryffindor. Death is preferable. Maybe they'd change their mind if they could see you do the things you do to me. The way you work could impress anyone.
When we see each other in the halls, people would never be able to tell what was between us. The hatred they see is as fiery and real as the passion they don't see.
I look over at you now, sitting at the Gryffindor table with your friends. They disgust me. We lock eyes and I see something. Either loathing or lust. They're so intermingled now that it's hard to tell. You give me a smug, Gryffindor kind of look and I want to punish you. And you'll let me because you want me to.
How confusing it all is. Will there ever be middle ground for us, I wonder? Can we ever just be in the same room without it leading to either sex or violence? I smile, remembering that our meetings usually lead to both.
"What are you looking at?" a voice asks me.
"Gryffindors," I sneer.