Oxymoron

I hate love.

I think the above is one of the most wonderful, and valid, oxymorons around. It's right up there with 'a faithful man.' The words just don't fit.

Love isn't hearts and flowers and candy-sweet goodness; it isn't holding hands and taking walks together and kissing each other goodnight; it isn't spilling all your secrets and placing all your trust in one person and thinking that they'll never hurt you.

Because what you have to know is that they'll always hurt you.

It starts off as wonderful, and precious, and all-encompassing...you can't wait to talk to each other, and every word is a stepping stone further into your soul, and his; you thrill every time his hooded eyes sweep to you as if the very fiber of your being called out to him and drew him to you; you delight at the secrecy of it all...the rule-breaking and the lying to friends and the late-night sneaking out. It's everything you've wanted to do; a variation from your staid routine, and soon, it becomes second nature, because it pleases him. And all you want to do is please him.

Not that you'd ever alter your views, or convictions, or beliefs. No, you're too strong for that. But it starts. With the little things. How you hold your quill when you write. The way you wear your hair. The little ink stain that you rather like on the cuff of your sleeves. You smile and shake your head, laughing inwardly at how he nags at you like your father might, but after all, it's only because he cares about you. It's not as though he'd point all this out to random strangers.

And oh, how he loves you. When he takes you in his arms, and kisses you, and makes love to you (you never want to call it just 'sex' because that seems to trivialize it so), you know he loves you, and words aren't necessary to express it.

But soon, words are ignored entirely. Those long conversations you used to have? Not anymore. The whispered words? Not needed. The furtive notes exchanged in halls, the rushed 'I love you' s in between classes, the long talks with his head on your lap and you playing with his fine, silvery hair? No, no and no. It's just sex. Only sex, because you're not sure he loves you anymore. But you draw him in, and you take it silently, because this is the only way you have left to feel close to him again. And you think, one day soon, he'll look down at you like he used to and say something that'll make it all better. And meanwhile, you allow him to use your body because you still love him, and it pleases him.

And you ignore how it hurts you when he won't listen to you anymore. You may as well talk to him about the weather. But, under the pretext of being too tired, or too emotionally drained, he won't hear you out when you're having problems with the relationship...with him. You just want to fix things. You want to be happy again. You want to please him. And now he won't even give you a chance.

And then you see him. With her. Again and again and again and again. And the excuses start. They were studying together. Professor Snape paired them together for a Potions project. They were just talking about what a rough time she had at home, and he was comforting her. And you want to ask him how it is he remembers to be such a good friend to her when he's completely forgotten with you.

Then the rumours start. And you want to believe him when he denies it. And you try to. But you know, don't you? And it's all you can do not to break down in public when he gives you another flimsy excuse, and you take it, because you don't know what will hurt more...leaving him, or staying with him.

And people look at you with such pity in their eyes that you can't take it. You've borne a lot, and chances are you'll have a lot to bear yet, but you absolutely will not take pity.

So you end it, dying a little bit inside when he readily agrees and springs away without a goodbye kiss, or a hug, or any words of assurance that there had, indeed, been a time not so long ago, when he loved you. And you hope and pray that, since it's been so many months now, you'll have learnt to block the pain and maybe even forget him name.

"Evening, Hermione."

"Dr--Malfoy. Evening."

No such luck.

I hate love.

I think the above is one of the most wonderful, and valid, oxymorons around. It's right up there with 'a faithful man.' The words just don't fit.