Need To Destroy

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There is a part on the back of Harry Potter's neck that is very sensitive. It is this one specific point that will shudder under even the lightest touch, and if you suck on it hard enough, he will groan, and sometimes he will swear. I know this only by a chance discovery, but it's something I take great pleasure in teasing. I never tease him, not anymore, but I will tease the skin with my lips, my teeth, my breath, anything to make him make that sound.

I don't know very much about him, I never pretend to. I never even pretend to care, and he knows this. I don't know his favourite food, I don't know how long it takes him to choose a good book to read, and I don't know what subjects he is good or bad at. Instead, I know his favourite sexual position, how long it takes him to reach an orgasm, and as for what he is good and bad at - there is nothing he is bad at. There is nothing he can't do.

Most of the girls at Hogwarts would love to think that Harry Potter was outwardly innocent, and inside a sexual beast. A killer in the sack, if you will. Most of the girls in this school think about him last thing at night, because he's turned into something of a sex symbol ever since he nailed Granger only four weeks into their relationship. This was two years ago, and ever since then, the hype has escalated every day until it's almost unbearable.

Everybody watches him walk around, so it is no strange feat when my eyes drag over him in the classroom. I cannot help but watch him now, to watch him and think of what we do, and how we are together every night almost, and yet separated during the day. He does not know how often I watch him, because I am sure he would have reprimanded me by now. But I do, I stare at him in every lesson we share, every time we pass each other in a corridor, and every opportunity I get to glance across the Great Hall, every meal time.

The other students all think I hate him because I don't get half the attention I used to, and this is why I choose to stare at him. The fact is, I don't need the other people any more, I don't need the adoring fans. I don't even want them, and I don't need them to want me anymore. They want what they will never have now, not unless they are particularly persuasive. I have what they will never have without even needing to speak a word or raise a single point in my favour. I have Harry Potter in my bed almost every night of the week.

It is never my bed though, not literally. It is the Astronomy Tower, or the Quidditch pitch, or a corridor, or a table in an empty classroom, or anywhere we can fit without getting caught. It must happen without being seen by anybody, not even the mice that sometimes run through the puddles that adorn the floor. This is the most important rule to abide by, and we both know this. We can never be seen, because Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are worst enemies, it is as simple as that.

If the signs come, I will kill him or he will kill me. We are supposed to destroy each other as soon as the last sign comes.

The signs are what tells us that He is coming back, that He will return. The secret telegram to tell each and every Death Eater, and each and every enemy of the Death Eaters, that Voldemort is coming, and that he will have the destruction that he craves unless somebody has the courage and ability to stop it. The one person who can stop it, of course, is Harry Potter.

The first sign will be snow, my father has told me. Snow is not unusual at this time of year, especially not here where Hogwarts is at the top of the United Kingdom, but every time it snows I can feel a twinge in my stomach. Apprehension. Waiting for the next sign, just in case. It has never come, and then I know it is not time.

It snowed the day after I kissed Harry Potter for the very first time, the first time our eyes locked, and I thought I would have to remove him straight away. I think I was ready to, I told myself I could do it and I knew I would try. As it happened, nothing came of it, there was no need to prepare myself. It had been a false alarm, just like the many other times.

Harry doesn't know about the snow, or any of the other signs. He just knows that when something happens, it will be ready and he will have to go into hiding or go into battle. He will choose battle, because he is a Hero, a Champion, the Savior that the wizarding world has worshipped and loved since he was a baby.

It is a little known fact that when everything comes all at once, I will be taken away and killed before I can kill Harry Potter. It is an even less known fact that fucking Harry Potter, having myself inside him and having him inside me, gives me far more pleasure than the thought of killing him ever does, and ever will. It was never supposed to happen this way, but then I suppose nothing really works out the way you want it to, not the important things. I was never supposed to get this involved.

At first, it was just a stupid idea, a stupid way to try and get him to trust me. To get him to think that I would never kill him, I would never murder anybody that I was sleeping with or had slept with. But Harry isn't as stupid as some people think, and he has always known that I am no virgin. I was never picky about who I touched, or who I let touch me. I was never really very bothered.

It was about time, as well. It was about passing the hours that have suddenly become ridiculously slow, obscenely so and enough to drive me to crazed thoughts and bouts of insomnia that I cannot do anything about, despite my constant efforts. Drawing Harry Potter in was just something for me to concentrate on, something that I could do. And I was surprised that I could do it, I was more than surprised, because it wasn't how I expected him to react. I don't think I ever expected him to kiss me back, but I know that I wanted it.

It has come too far though, and I know this. I don't want this. I don't want to send him an owl everyday, to kiss him and run my tongue down every crevice in his body, crevices that I don't delight in knowing well, but then again... I do. Part of me thinks it is about power, and part of me knows better. Part of me knows that I want him, and have wanted him ever since I discovered hormones.

You always want the one you can't have. You always want the one you aren't supposed to touch.

But that was before I realised I could have him, I could touch him. That was two years ago. After Harry did the deed with Granger, and he broke up with her and she was heart broken. Harry Potter became a Bad Boy. A Sex God. He had only had to have sex once, and then he became infamous all over again. The Boy Who Broke Hermione's Heart. Everything in capital letters and hurried whispers and tears and broken friendships. They speak now, him and Granger, but it is in careful rehearsed tones and it is hard to tell which of them is more uncomfortable.

He has intimacy problems, or at least that's what he told me. I told him right back that I didn't really care about his problems, and that there was nothing wrong with his intimacy. He's very good at intimacy. I suppose this is why I doubted his inexperience, because he just seems to know where to touch, where to taste, and when and how. Timing is essential, and Harry Potter is very good at getting it just right.

The second sign that Voldemort will return is that the clocks will stop, so every time I look down at my watch and think the second hand isn't moving, I feel myself close up and want to die. Then the hand will start moving again, and I will sigh with relief and start walking again. Walking to wherever he is, to turn him into my possession again, for the thousandth time.

Time will cease to be, and colour will cease as well. Everything will be white with snow so travel will be impossible, and the clocks will stop moving so nobody will know how long they have been trapped, and then the rest of the signs will come and everybody will die. Everybody doesn't believe this, because it has been so long since He has acted, it has taken too long. Everybody who isn't in the inside circle has given up on him returning, has made it back to normal and near forgotten their paranoia. They have forgotten what He did before, as though it never happened.

I am eighteen years old, in my last year at this school, and I am just waiting for everybody to fall apart and unravel and die, for everybody to realise just how wrong they are and have been. I am eighteen and I am sleeping with the enemy. It is like something out of a cheap porn movie, but I do not watch porn. I do not need to, because I am no Muggle, and because I have Harry Potter's mouth wrapped around me instead.

He is slow, he takes it slowly every time. He knows it makes me crazy, but he does not know that it is because I have an unnatural and ever growing obsession with time, with speed, with pace. I don't want the clocks to stop, and I don't want him to stop, and every thrust is a statement, every thrust is me wanting to draw him in closer, and closer. The release is just another reminder that it will all be over soon. That I cannot let him in, because then I will not be able to destroy him.

We convince ourselves that nobody knows, but the truth is, there are some people who are starting to figure it out. Not the students, or the faculty, or anyone asinine and unimportant. The people who know are the ones who will wait until the very end and then use it. Among the people who know is my father.

He is not a stupid man, my father, and he has never told me that he is aware of my extracurricular activities with Harry Potter, but I know he knows. He never caught me, or us together, but he can just tell. My father is very perceptive, and I would love to know exactly how he found out, but he did and now I know he is just waiting to use it against me. To make me strike the final blow.

I was never supposed to be the one to kill Harry Potter, it was always going to be the Dark Lord himself, until my father discovered my big secret in a way that I still cannot conceive, because we were so careful, both myself and Harry were so careful. But my father did discover our relationship, and ever since then he has wanted and demanded me to do it, to kill him myself. Originally I was to lead him to Voldemort, and maybe I could have done that, but now it is my responsibility to bring him to an end.

When this happens, the Dark wizards will rule and everything will collapse that does not welcome the darkness. The world will fall, because Harry Potter is what is holding it up. He does not know that, and I will never tell him, because he would surely go insane. More importantly, he would lock himself away and then I could never have him. I could never have him have me.

The third sign is that he will bleed. Harry Potter will bleed, and it does not matter if it is a deep stab or a paper cut, because everything is very vague in this world, in this time. This is why I try not to bite hard, because I fear that the blood will be enough, that the Lord will take it as his sign and come down and make me do it. The metallic taste in my mouth has been enough to make me sick before, to stop what I am doing, to remove my mouth from his skin and run to get a completely different sort of release. I don't want him to bleed.

We kiss, and we talk, and we smile, and then we go back to our friends and our lives and do not even look at each other. I won't even speak to him anymore, and once again everybody assumes this is because nobody wants me as much as they want Harry Potter. The tables have turned and suddenly he is the one they fantasize about, he is the one they want to hurt them. This is not why I don't speak to him.

If I look at him in a corridor, I want him all over again, and I fear what I will do. I have no control, no matter how much I pretend I do, no matter how much I go on top of him, no matter how much of the majority of the time I am inside him instead of the other way around. I cannot control this, because I have taken it too far.

He thinks it is about power, but it is not. It is nothing to do with power. Perhaps it was at first, but at first was so long ago that I cannot even begin to remember. Two years is a very long time. Two years without anybody knowing, two years of this madness that encompasses everything and is all I think about anymore. I haven't thought about anything else for 24 months, and I don't suppose I will ever change again.

Harry Potter knows how to make me sweat, and how to make me gasp and shudder and whisper his name. I am not vocal in sex, and at first he took this is as an insult, but then he came to realise it's just the way I am. It's not the way he is, and this is where we clash, but then again we clash everywhere. We are two entirely different entities - I am dark, he is light. I am blonde, he is black.

I am in love, and he is not.

I think he would be, but the difference between me and Harry Potter is that he does not know how to love, and as much as he could learn, he pushes it away to the back of his mind because he thinks I will never feel the same way. He pretends not to hear when I breathe out two of those three words in mid-climax (the order is never defined, and the sentence is never complete), because to him that is all it is, a gesture that is uncontrolled and unmeant and false. I am not ready to correct him, not yet. Perhaps right before I let him kill me, I will tell him. But I will never know, because I will not be thinking, and after that I will not breathe and he will be the only one who hears and remembers it.

I will die for him, because I could not kill him. I can never kill him, because it hurts me just to look at him, just to hear him breathe, and so I am a fool. I am ridiculous, and I have betrayed everything I believe in, but it is for him and so it doesn't matter. I only ever want him now. Everybody else is just a shadow.

He knows how to drive me crazy, and nobody else knows this. He knows much more about me than I know about him - I am his hobby. He talks to me all the time when we are alone, when there is no sex to keep us distracted. He asks me questions which I duly answer, pays me compliments that I duly accept. He tells he that when this is all over we will run away together and be outlaws, outcasts, and that we will be happy. I smile and tell him maybe, why not?

And then it will go quiet, because we both know why not. We are enemies, and as much as he thinks I will kill him, I know that it will be the other way around. He doesn't know this, because he would never think it himself, and because I cannot pull myself together so much so that I could tell him. If I could become that aloof once again, I might be able to actually take his life instead. If only I could, everything might not be so confusing.

The other difference between me and Harry is that he sleeps with other people. There are not many and they are few and far between and there is never any loyalty like there is with him and I, but they are there. He tells me about them, he tells me what they do right and what they do wrong, and if the latter list is longer then the sex we have is better and I always climax quicker because I know he wants me more.

I do not like to hear him talk about them, but I have to listen if everything is going to work out. I can't have him know, because then we will be back to square one, where there is confusion and the unknown and rediscovery. I rediscover Harry Potter every night, but that is very, very different.

The last sign, the fourth sign, is that he will hear a declaration of love, be it from his lips or someone else's. The irony is almost sickening, in my mind, and it pounds throughout my ears and my veins and my heart every second of every day. This is not a device that Voldemort worked into his plan, it is fate. It is the vast mockery that this world has created for us, and this is how I know that I can never tell him. Each sign is more powerful in sequence, and if I tell him, then it will explode. We will end, one or both of us will fall and die.

It has to be me.

He will never tell me that he loves me, and so I know that I will be the one who kills myself in a roundabout way, a suicidal device that I cannot control because it is the signs, and they will happen in order, they will come about and the world will collapse. Either I will die, and the Dark wizards will fight to kill Harry Potter, and they will not, or he will die and I will be over. My heart will be over. The world itself will be over. They will not miss me, but Harry Potter is a hero.

Nobody can hurt him like I can, my father knows this, the Dark Lord knows this, and this is how they all realised that it must be me. I have to do it. I never will, I never can. I will fall at his feet and I will take him in my mouth and I will stroke and caress him and I will tongue every part of his body, but I will never kill him.

Every meeting is hard, but this one is the worst. It has snowed, and I am cold and scared again, because the snow is still fresh and light and soft, and it crunches below my feet when I make my way across to the Astronomy Tower to meet him. I hate snow now, which is strange to think, because when I was a different person two years ago, I used to love the way it made me look.

Harry loves the way it makes me look now instead, and that is much more exciting than any vanity ever was or will be. Harry has always said he wants to make love to me in the snow, and then he always laughs because he knows it is utterly inconvenient. He can tell me he wants me in the snow, but he cannot say what I always wish he would. It is such a pathetic existence, pining over three words that I would have laughed to hear not long ago. Two years is a long time, but it passes so quickly.

Meeting him now, he looks like perfection, standing against the window, leaning against the wall and smirking slightly when I enter the room. He always seems so pleased to see me, and this never fails to make me melt inside and out. He has a dimple in one cheek, and I love to kiss it because it is what makes him look so innocent and dangerous at the same time. He is a walking contradiction, and I want him all the time.

It is always me that kisses him, but it is always him that sighs first, and he never pulls away. This is what I love about him, his persistence, his ambition, everything that nobody else is. Nobody else has what he has, and nobody else has what I have. Certainly they will sleep with him, and he will cry out like he does with me, but they will never feel it like I feel it. They will never have him surrounding them every day, every passing second. I dream about him, and I see him, and I have him. But he is not mine as I wish he was, he is just mine as he wishes he was, and he is.

The routine is always the same when we meet here, but it doesn't matter because it is always perfect. I will push him lightly against the wall, and I will unbuckle his belt, and slide down him, and it is always just as invigorating, all the time without fail. The rest of the sequence is less planned, but it is always memorable, and it always end the same way - it always ends with my frenzied whisper and a small silence, and then he will kiss me and just let it dissipate in the air like dust particles.

Today, the routine changes.

There is the kiss, and the gentle pressure on his shoulder that backs him up against cold brick, and everything is as intimate and careful and heady as always, but he turns us both around so that it is me with my back against the wall and he runs his hand down slowly to brush the material of my trousers, to touch my thigh so briefly that it could have been an illusion, but I know it was not. I know he is going to taste me first today, and I wonder what else will be different. I wonder if anything else will change.

It is quick, as usual, because I cannot control myself with him anymore. Before I was much better at it, before I fell and before I realised I had fallen, when I had those few blissful weeks of denial, but now that I know it is all over too soon. It is the same for him, but for entirely different reasons that I could not pin down. I could never know because, like I said, I don't know very much about Harry Potter.

When he is finished, he licks his lips in the most tantalizing way, although I am sure it is not meant to be as such, and he travels his way back up my bare chest, his lips barely brushing the skin and making me shiver and wonder if I could complete this all over again if it weren't for the fact that it is physically impossible. His lips brush mine and I close my eyes because I can taste myself and I can taste him and it is just like we are one person, just like it always is and I always want it but never get it-

However, today is different. Today I get it, I get just what I have wanted for so long, and this is when my eyes open quickly, rapidly, and they do not close or even blink because I almost wish I had not heard him say it. A part of me wishes he had not done it on the day that it was snowing, on the day that another sign is already in full flow. The most of me, however, the part of me that he has taken, is filled with elation because Harry Potter finally loves me, and I pull him into a messy kiss that is so hard that I draw blood from his lips. The metallic taste does not make me feel ill, it does not even catch my attention until the kiss is over and I lean my forehead against his and whisper something about nothing, and I am happy until I realise that everything is falling into place, but nothing good can possibly come from this.

When I look down at my watch, I am waiting to see what I know I will see, but he assumes it is once again my pointless compulsion taking charge, but what he does not know is that I was right after all. I was always right. Today is different.

Here is square one just as I had thought it would be, and I am confused because this was not how it was supposed to work out, it is all very different. It is all a puzzle, a confusion, a hardship that I feel the world has meant for us. I am rediscovering Harry Potter, and it is new, but I cannot help but feel lost, lost and bewildered and not ready to face the unknown because the consequences are completely unpredictable.

My watch has stopped, everything has stopped, and something altogether new is about to start.