Romantic Misconceptions

Romantic Misconceptions

By Jaylee

*****

Harry Potter was the first person I slept with whom I actually loved and as such, I really didn't know what to expect from that first heady, intense, and amorous encounter.

Oh, I had heard plenty of old wives tales, of course. They were pretty hard to miss given the amount of poems, sonnets, novels, songs, etc. that were supposedly inspired by such a life-altering phenomenon. Too bad the majority of them are, at the risk of sounding crude, complete and utter bullshit. And I say that with the reverence of a man who realizes what true love is really about.

It took me seven years to get into Harry Potter's pants. Not exactly a record breaking speed, I'll grant you, but had I known during that time that I had *wanted* to get into Harry Potter's pants, I assure you it wouldn't have taken quite so long.

Admittedly, it did take me some time to decipher the code in which Harry and I interacted with one another; awhile to interrupt what each glance, glare, cough or nod meant, but translate it I did.

Reading Potter was like trying to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics sans the Rosetta Stone. For six years I took everything at face value, as did the rest of populace of Hogwarts. It was a well known fact that Harry Potter hated me, and that I returned those feelings with an entirely zealous air... Even after Potter had finally killed Voldemort, and my sadistic, narcissistic father was sent to prison by association, which, at the risk of sounding disloyal, was entirely deserved, and there was no longer a need to keep up the pretense of 'sides' between Harry and myself.

The crux of the matter, as I learned later, was that we were both simply desperate for each other's attention. After all, early in our relationship Harry had rejected my offer of friendship, and Harry, not used to public adoration, longed for the companionship of someone who was not in utter awe of the scar on his forehead. Kind of ironic, if you think about it; all of those people forever wanting a piece of the "Boy Who Lived," each of them failing to realize that the way into said hero's heart was to not refer to him using that title accompanied by a look of nauseating hero-worship.

It was early in our seventh year that I first realized that Potter and I had been facing each other on opposite sides of a very thin line between love and hate, and that line was crossed the moment I caught Harry giving me an uncensored expression of gratitude when he had stumbled across me dressing down a first year Slytherin for gawking at him with uninhibited wonderment.

In that moment a great number of things about the infamous Mr. Potter suddenly made sense, and I started to look at him, me and him, and his relationships with other people very closely. It was then I discovered our code - a system of language that had developed gradually over six years of wanting; waiting; admiring; growing and learning more about ourselves, and each other.

A sneer of utter disgust meant 'hello, and how are you this fine morn'?'

An obnoxious snort of exaggerated displeasure translated to 'look at me, I'm here, I'm waiting, would you kindly open your damn eyes? And, since I'm on the subject, what beautiful damn eyes they are.'

And an evil glare of untimely demise was, in fact, a look of 'I want you, sans clothing, on a bed of satin sheets, preferably with a low calorie, non fat chocolate sauce and a side of equally figure/quidditch friendly whipped cream, NOW!'

Once I broke the code it wasn't before I came to my next startling revelation... I was in love with Harry Potter and I had been for quite awhile.

His ability to never sway or falter in his personal belief system despite frequent temptation commanded my respect; his profound loyalty to those he cared for pulled at my proverbial heart strings; and the strength of personality and character he exhibited was something I had always admired, despite my best efforts not to. In short, I was in over my head.

And contrary to countless forms of written expression, the realization of my true feelings towards Potter were not met by a choir of angels; a flock of nightingales didn't suddenly swarm over Hogwarts to sing brilliant notes of undying devotion, and the heavens certainly didn't part to shine a holy light down on us so that we may bask in it's unearthly glow. In all actuality, I was downright pissed - the sudden enlightenment of my true feelings towards Harry came hand in hand with other, less pleasant, discoveries.

One cannot be a control freak and be in love at the same time; it just isn't done. To be in love is to give a small amount of control over to another being - to bestow onto that person a large amount of influence over your emotional state, thus granting them the power to hurt you if they so desire. Those who have a hard time handing over said control naturally have issues to contend with before they can yell 'charge' and sweep the object of their affections off of their feet. Also, being in love is just about the most non narcissistic thing a person can do, after all, what could be more life-altering then to suddenly find out that someone else's feelings suddenly matter?

Unfortunately I was both a control freak and narcissistic - I am, after all, my father's son and was raised as such. These sudden enlightenments into my personality weren't 'happy' insights, I mean, who wants to suddenly wake up and ascertain that they are the exact opposite of the one they love? Harry was every non-masochistic man or woman's dream partner: selfless, loyal, trustworthy, honest, brave, honorable, and pretty damn good-looking, if I say so myself, and I do. I was none of these things... well, except for the good-looking part; I am that.

So, needless to say, I was pretty ill-equipped to handle this all-important discovery, thus 'evil glare of untimely demise' became 'monster stare of endless pain and suffering' with a side of 'you - me - Astronomy Tower - midnight, and bring some nonfat chocolate sauce.'

For months this became my new look; it was a hole that I had dug that I couldn't seem to climb out of... until the day that Potter, in retaliation to the aforementioned look, shot me a hurt filled glance of 'Why do you wound me so? What changed between us?'

And the irony just kept on coming; I spent all those years trying to get under Harry's skin, and managed to finally achieve that goal when I least wanted to.

Murphy, the name is Malfoy. Draco if you're nasty. I believe you know me well?

Anyway, in that instant, with Harry looking at me with pained-filled, entirely beautiful green eyes; my heart broke, and I decided, quite suddenly, that maybe giving Harry a little bit of control wasn't necessarily a bad thing, in fact, the benefits might just outweigh the unpleasant side effects.

I was right... naturally.

Harry Potter is now mine: mine to hold, mine to touch, mine to, uh... actively debate with, and mine to sleep with, anytime I want, whipped cream or no.

Romantic misconceptions aside; our love is a wonderful, beautiful thing.

True, we didn't wake up after our first night together tangled in a mass of limbs - after all, it was hot, both Harry and myself are exothermic, and contrary to popular belief, human bodies weren't meant to fit together for lengthy periods of time like two pieces of a puzzle.

And true, the spirit of Ralph Waldo Emerson didn't suddenly appear out of nowhere quoting his greatest works. But there was, and is, two people with strong feelings who share complete, utter respect, and the unparalleled ability to generate immense pleasure for and with one another.

The first time I held Harry... His hot, naked, satin skin pressed against mine; our hands traveling, groping - unable to stay in one place for want of discovering everything; our kisses hungry, feverish - needing constant contact; and our eyes wide, wondering, and filled entirely with one another - I knew.

Love isn't a metaphor, or a rhyming phrase. It isn't larger than life; it IS life.

It's two very real people who share very real emotions.

It's communicating without a spoken word.

It's accepting each other's fallibility and contradictions (not that I have a lot of those).

It's looking into Harry Potter's countenance and realizing that angelic nightingales that radiate light could never hold a candle to what Harry and I have.

The reality of love far exceeds its expectations.

The End!