Disclaimer: Not mine.
Harry slumped forward onto the cold, stone wall in front of him, his breathing came hard but was slowing gradually. He heard the muffled sound of cloth being dragged over skin and turned around to lean nude against the wall of the deserted hallway. He watched as the form in front of him pulled black trousers up it's legs over green boxers and fastened them before leaning over to grab a black t-shirt with a silver snake insignia which it pulled over it's white blonde hair.
A shame to cover such a perfect creamy torso, Harry thought as the shirt was pulled down. Then cold grey eyes, like the very stone he leaned against, looked up to meet his own green eyes. In them Harry found pure unadulterated loathing, not the fuzzy warmness one should find inside their lover's eyes after sex; and Harry was fine with this. He stared back with a mixture of hatred and acceptance.
Malfoy's eyes wandered down Harry's nude form with a staged look of disgust, but Harry knew what was behind the mask: want, need, lust.
"Put some clothes one Potter." Malfoy spat out before turning on heel to stalk away to his dungeon common room.
Malfoy would never love him, indeed could never love him. But that wasn't the point was it? Harry had lived his entire life without love and had long since quit searching for it. The admiration the wizarding world poured on him was idiocy and nothing more. What had he done to deserve it? Survive. Big deal. Muggles did more heroic thing everyday. He didn't want admiration.
Now hate, hate was something Harry understood, something he knew how to deal with. It spread out inside him and filled him like no other emotion could hope to, it replaced the emptiness of his heart. Malfoy provided him hate, and pleasure, and hurt, and Harry consumed it all like a junkie.
Now Malfoy would head back to Slytherin common room, pull Pandy to him in a lover's embrace and spout to her insults about "that bloody Potter". But he would be back, he always came back. He too understood the power of hate, and got lost in it's powerful pull.
For now though, it was time for Harry to return to Gryffindor tower. To meet the warm gazes of his friends. To hold Parvati close to him. To sit snuggled with her before a blazing fire. To engage in animated speech with Ron and Hermione. To live the mask of a hero's life. He slipped his clothing on and knotted his shoes before taking a last glance at the wall where he and Malfoy had embraced. He then walked down the hallway and towards his awaiting friends, back to his charade.
A hero the people called him, a champion. If they only knew.
This story was originally based on this poem I wrote first. Personally I think the story is much better but if you'd like to read the poem anyway, here it is:
"The Dance Of Hateful Lovers"
Love is such a fickle thing, A thing we do not need, Though some will tell you otherwise, That love is what we breathe. For our young hero 'tis a lie, For love he's lived without, No longer does he seek it, But now seeks another route. Hate is what will fill his heart, What will make it whole, Now in his lover's arms, The hate he seeks can warm his soul. Cold grey eyes and white blonde hair, And lips so fair to kiss, Coal black heart and serpent charm, To make our hero hiss. Through pain and pleasure, bodies warm, Their loathing reaches pitch, As lovers part they stalk away, To each their separate niche.
A/N Thank you very much to Wynter Flame, my beta and my best friend, for first reading my story and giving me the straight truth. Please review readers, I like to know what everyone likes and dislikes, just remember if you flame to make it constructive. Much love, peace out.
Harry slumped forward onto the cold, stone wall in front of him, his breathing came hard but was slowing gradually. He heard the muffled sound of cloth being dragged over skin and turned around to lean nude against the wall of the deserted hallway. He watched as the form in front of him pulled black trousers up it's legs over green boxers and fastened them before leaning over to grab a black t-shirt with a silver snake insignia which it pulled over it's white blonde hair.
A shame to cover such a perfect creamy torso, Harry thought as the shirt was pulled down. Then cold grey eyes, like the very stone he leaned against, looked up to meet his own green eyes. In them Harry found pure unadulterated loathing, not the fuzzy warmness one should find inside their lover's eyes after sex; and Harry was fine with this. He stared back with a mixture of hatred and acceptance.
Malfoy's eyes wandered down Harry's nude form with a staged look of disgust, but Harry knew what was behind the mask: want, need, lust.
"Put some clothes one Potter." Malfoy spat out before turning on heel to stalk away to his dungeon common room.
Malfoy would never love him, indeed could never love him. But that wasn't the point was it? Harry had lived his entire life without love and had long since quit searching for it. The admiration the wizarding world poured on him was idiocy and nothing more. What had he done to deserve it? Survive. Big deal. Muggles did more heroic thing everyday. He didn't want admiration.
Now hate, hate was something Harry understood, something he knew how to deal with. It spread out inside him and filled him like no other emotion could hope to, it replaced the emptiness of his heart. Malfoy provided him hate, and pleasure, and hurt, and Harry consumed it all like a junkie.
Now Malfoy would head back to Slytherin common room, pull Pandy to him in a lover's embrace and spout to her insults about "that bloody Potter". But he would be back, he always came back. He too understood the power of hate, and got lost in it's powerful pull.
For now though, it was time for Harry to return to Gryffindor tower. To meet the warm gazes of his friends. To hold Parvati close to him. To sit snuggled with her before a blazing fire. To engage in animated speech with Ron and Hermione. To live the mask of a hero's life. He slipped his clothing on and knotted his shoes before taking a last glance at the wall where he and Malfoy had embraced. He then walked down the hallway and towards his awaiting friends, back to his charade.
A hero the people called him, a champion. If they only knew.
This story was originally based on this poem I wrote first. Personally I think the story is much better but if you'd like to read the poem anyway, here it is:
"The Dance Of Hateful Lovers"
Love is such a fickle thing, A thing we do not need, Though some will tell you otherwise, That love is what we breathe. For our young hero 'tis a lie, For love he's lived without, No longer does he seek it, But now seeks another route. Hate is what will fill his heart, What will make it whole, Now in his lover's arms, The hate he seeks can warm his soul. Cold grey eyes and white blonde hair, And lips so fair to kiss, Coal black heart and serpent charm, To make our hero hiss. Through pain and pleasure, bodies warm, Their loathing reaches pitch, As lovers part they stalk away, To each their separate niche.
A/N Thank you very much to Wynter Flame, my beta and my best friend, for first reading my story and giving me the straight truth. Please review readers, I like to know what everyone likes and dislikes, just remember if you flame to make it constructive. Much love, peace out.