hate(d)

hate(d)

He hates Harry. It's the kind of slithering, insidious hatred that lies thick beneath the layers of skin and clothing, quivering with a pulse of its own. He doesn't have to think of it to know that it's there. It's like breathing, or tying his shoes, or the knowledge that two times five is ten. Draco finds it quite comforting in a way; the second war may bring change upon change, but he will always be able to look across the Great Hall and feel the slide of loathing against his flesh.

He reads a lot these days. Azkaban grows more vivid within his mind as he turns the pages of each library book. He pictures moss on the walls and an endless, dripping seep of rust coloured rain. Crabbe and Goyle trade plans of revenge, but Draco prefers to carve thin lines in the stain of his bedposts and to write his name with a fingertip when his breath fogs the windowpanes at night. Photographs of manacles remind him of Pansy's perfume. His notebooks are filled with the beginnings of letters that are never sent.

He dreams in reds and black shadows. Sometimes he wakes and gulps mouthfuls of dark night, his heart pounding and his skin itchy and too tight. His hands are silver in the moonlight and he presses their chill against his cheeks. His lips shake against the palm of his hands and his breath quivers within him, thin and resolute. Draco's mother sends him packages every Tuesday and the owls struggle with their weight. He eats chocolate and gags at the taste, his tongue pressed hard against the back of his teeth as he swallows again and again. The air smells of sugar and blood and letters from home. He breathes.

He watches the sky during class. It is summer and the heat warps the air. The forest is green and dull in the distance, swallowing birds and insects and the burn of the sun. Light catches a thousand particles of floating dust and presses warm against his forehead until he is forced to shut his eyes against the glare. Draco writes with too many loops and too few spaces and fastidiously blots the ink. He takes notes on irrelevant things and counts the letters in each word. He remembers evenings at home and afternoons by the fireplace and wonders whether he'll forget his father's face and how to spell his name.

He kisses Pansy in a hallway. She holds him too close and her lips taste too sweet. He places a hand on her waist and marvels at how fragile she feels, how easy it would be to press her against the wall and break her in two. Draco likes the way she looks at him from beneath half-lowered lids and the way her skin feels against his fingertips. He speaks less now. Words echo in his ears, muted as though underwater, and always sound false. He's never entirely sure what he wants to say. Some nights, a blank piece of parchment seems to hold the key to the entire world.

He catches the Snitch against Gryffindor and the Slytherins lift him into the air. Harry glares at him, mud on his face, and pushes rain-soaked hair away from his eyes. Draco holds the Snitch aloft and smirks as he blinks water from his lashes. Harry does not shake his hand. Later, he pushes Draco against the Quidditch stands, wrapping a fist around his collar and twisting until Draco can barely breath. The air smells of autumn leaves and victory and Draco laughs and laughs until Harry falters and lets him go. Harry tastes of rain. His fingers are nails in Draco's flesh. The sky is purple with approaching night.

He gasps for breath as Harry licks wetly at the side of his jaw. Sodden blades of grass break beneath their weight and his clothes are soon heavy with mud. Harry grasps his arms with desperate strength, leaving white marks that will blacken by dawn. Their kisses have claws and Draco knots Harry's hair within one fist, tugging and turning until Harry breaks away, flipping Draco so that the ground is wet and slick against the back of his head. An owl flies overhead. Harry snarls as he thrusts, his fingers strangely gentle as he traces the swell of Draco's lips. A breeze flutters the canvas banners of the stands. Harry's glasses are flecked with rain.

He hates Harry. It's the kind of throbbing, seeping hatred that tangles within the mind, becoming black smoke as daytime thoughts give way to midnight dreams. He rubs red marks into the back of his hands and chews his lower lip until it cracks and bleeds. He kisses Pansy as he pushes her deep into his mattress, biting at her neck and shoulders until her cheeks become damp with tears. The darkness swallows any hint of moonlight and Draco holds her hand too tightly, smiling as he feels the bones of her fingers grate together and the cut of her fingernails against his palm. When it's over, she cries into his chest and he twists a hand in the lengths of her hair. He dreams of Harry when he sleeps. In the morning, the bruises have faded. As they pass in the hallway, Harry smiles.