Obscure Light

I'd like to give you a million butterfly kisses, but even the skin of my arms is softer than the skin of my lips.

My lips would only scratch yours. You don't want that, now do you?

No, you don't. You want soft, gentle kisses. Kisses that barely touch your marble skin. Kisses that leave you aching and yearning for more. Kisses that leave you hungry.

I can't give you anything you want.

I want to protect you. I want to make sure you'll never feel pain or anxiety again in your life.

I hurt in sympathy when you get paper cuts. I cry my eyes out when you get bruised by a Bludger. I want to rip my heart out of my chest and hand it over to you when I see that sad expression on your face. Is it just that eternal sorrow caused by the death of your beloved parents, or it is something else? Are you unhappy, Harry?

Perhaps you're lonely?

Who am I to know.

I stole the photo album with pictures of your parents in it. Did you even notice it was gone? I know how much it meant to you. I'd like to apologise for stealing it, because it is a nice thing to do after you're taken something that was not yours to take, but I am really not that sorry after all.

I wanted to take it. No, I needed to take it. It was the one last reminder of the only two people that really cared about you besides me. You need to let them go, Harry. They are dead and staring at their smiling faces isn't going to bring them back. I'm the only one you've got, Harry. I'm the only friend you have. Not Mudblood, not Weasel. Me.

I know you don't believe me. Why would you?

You know nothing about me, Harry. You know nothing about my immortal devotion to you. You know nothing about the endless nights I've spent awake, thinking of what to say to you the next day. Which snide remark, which insult to spit at your pretty face this time. You know nothing about the effort I put in it.

You see, I am a perfectionist. My father taught me that way. And it applies to everything I feel or do, especially hate. Especially love.

Unlike most people, I am not infatuated by your unintentional, sincere charm. This is something else.

Do you hear me, Potter? Your silly little tricks are not working with me.

I am not like everyone else. The others only worship you mindlessly.

I love you.

Feeling unrequited love this strong is like watching the world through a wet glass. Everything becomes so hazy and indistinct. I never know if I'm awake or not. My dreams mix up with reality and there are days when I truly believe that you have talked to me.

Talked, Harry. Not sneered or hissed. Just talked. Like normal people do.

I remember meeting you at Madam Malkin's. It was the first and last time you said to me something that wasn't hostile or scornful. I remember how much I wanted you back then. Your eyes were the purest shade of emerald green I had ever seen and you were so adorably confused. I didn't even know who you were.

That is why I merely wanted you. The hatred was yet to come. Lurking around the corner, waiting for me to find out that you truly are the Boy Who Lived.

I hate you because of who you are. Isn't that what everyone wants?

***