Lust

I don't remember when it started. I don't remember a thing. I remember it always being there, a thick rivalry that drove us apart. Or so they thought. Yet really, it brought us together, in a way they would never imagine. They looked at us, and couldn't see past our hatred. For that's what it was. Hatred. Yet they couldn't see that other emotion that lingered behind long after our tempers had calmed. They couldn't see the lust that settled over us as our minds wandered in lessons.

Thick, strong lust. No one saw it, not even ourselves. We were jealous of one another, both so envious. We each had exactly what the other needed to make ourselves complete - you the happiness, friends and family, and me the wealth, charms and posessions. But the lust was there still, thick and heavy upon us as we watched one another from across the room. You hated me, and to be honest I hated you. We were bitter enemies, yet nothing could keep us apart.

Sex drew us closer. Sex. That three letter word that is taboo in society, and that is frowned upon by anyone with no spirit of enjoyment. No, we did not do anything, yet we were both aching for it. We both wanted it so badly that we could not form the words to tell ourselves. Our anger covered it up well, until we found ourselves alone, fermenting on the day's occurences. Then we would grown angry at ourselves for thinking such thoughts, and the anger would cover it up once more, for yet another day.

I stopped eating at one point. I was vain, as vain as any fifteen year old boy. I looked in the mirror, and did not like what I saw. Unlike most boys, I did not want to develop muscles. I wanted to remain skinny and slight. I wanted to be the world's greatest ever seeker. I wanted to make people proud of me. More than anything, I wanted to be seen for who I am, rather than what I am.

You sauntered over to my table one day. I was annoyed, angry. The sight of you always made my heart race and my blood boil. I hated you so much. The mere thought of you made me mad, and I have to admit that I did think of you a lot. I wasn't a happy person at this time, and you just made my life a whole lot worse. You were snarling, and curling your lip in a way that made me so jealous. I don't know when you learnt to do that, but you'd suddenly got better at it than me, and I wanted to hit you and kiss you so much. I wanted to make you bleed so that I could tend to your wounds. I wanted to beat you, and wrap you up in cotton wool. I wanted to see you in pain. I wanted to hold you. Nothing made any sense anymore.

You asked me why I wasn't eating, and I got mad. You'd noticed something was wrong. I hated you for it. I hated you for noticing something about me that my friends hadn't. I wanted to kill you. I very nearly did. I could have done, had that whiny friend of yours not pulled you off. I wanted also to shove my tongue down your throat, but that Mudblood screamed at you first, and that was that. You didn't care about me, and although I knew that your body was aching on top of mine, the anger was still very much in control of you.

That night was painful. You had punched me hard, and my lip was bleeding. That was not the pain. The pain was my confusion. I was still sure I hated you, there was no doubt about that. Yet that passion I had felt earlier was so earth shattering that I couldn't sleep. Professor Snape was ordered to speak to me about causing such a riot at breakfast, but I didn't take in a word. I was thinking about you, and how much I hated you. Because I did. I hated you with my entire being. You were everything to me back then, simply because I hated you. My life wouldn't be the same without the pain, the anguish and the teenage angst.

I saw you again. Everyday you haunted me. You seemed to appear everywhere. I hated you. You were against everything I stood for, yet my passions were so strong. It was beginning to take me over, and I knew that eventually your lust would take you too. You had no charms, yet everywhere I looked you were all I could think of. Years of obsessional hatred had begun to break down my defences, and now I lusted after you more than I hated you. I still didn't fool myself. I didn't like you. I looked at you and wanted to kill you, yet now I also wanted to do so much more to you.

My new feelings were confusing. At the time, it meant everything to me, and I really felt that no one else in the world had ever been through such confusion. I guess I was just behaving like an ordinary teenage boy. Still, the feelings I felt were painful, and as well as hating you, I began to hate myself for it. When I got angry, I no longer took comfort in insulting you, I now had new things on my mind. Everytime something went wrong for me, I would come and find you. I had no idea why I did it, I just liked to fight you. I liked to feel your body near mine, feel your breath on my face. Yes, I still hated you, but the lust had changed me into a new person. We would fight for a while, until one of your friends would pull you off. One of the friends I used to find my satisfaction in insulting. Now, though, my target was you, and they were nothing to me.

My friends thought I was going mad. That Pansy, she was trying to cheer me up and pulled my top off. She saw scars on my arms and shoulders, scars I'd put there. I think she was honestly concerned, the first real human emotion besides greed she had ever felt. Yet I could not stand her looking at me, discovering my secrets. I felt as though my body was no longer mine to do what I wanted with. It was yours, and anyone else touching it made me infuriated. I hit her, hard, so hard that she was sent flying across the room, the way that only ever happens in books. She was petrified, and cowered in the corner as I pulled back on my shirt, and hissed grotesque words at her. I had hurt her, no doubt, but she had also hurt me, in a way that I could never forgive.

I had wanted you to discover the scars. I had wanted it to be your fingers that traced the contours. I wanted to see the look on your face as you saw my disfigured arms and shoulders. I knew you wouldn't be impressed by scars, nor would you be disgusted. I just wanted you to hurt me by sticking your fingers into the wounds as far as they would possibly go. I wanted you to make me mad nowadays. That's all I ever wanted. When I was seemingly happy, I wasn't really, because I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hit you, to fight you, so that you could be close to me. I didn't care about hurting myself, or even hurting you. Both had happened so many times that they were no longer anything special. We hurt one another badly, although still, the pain I felt was nothing like your fist against my head.

Weeks passed, and we got ourself into more and more fights. For both Houses, their points were plummeting as we lost them due to our endless battles in the corridors, classrooms and the Hall. For the first time in numerous years, it looked like Ravenclaw were set to beat the pair of them to the House Cup. I didn't give a damn, and I don't really think you did. Potter seemed slightly worried about it, as though he were wondering if he should go and find a Dark Lord to defeat. Granger once or twice cursed you for fighting with me, screeching at you and telling you that you'd lose points for Gryffindor. Not that it ever stopped you coming to find me for a fight.

Fights were no longer a way to pound out our anger. They were a way to be with one another without admitting our real feelings. It was drastic action, yes, but we only did this because we still detested one another. I remember the first day, it was not warm, not sunny, but it was in mid May, and we were going to Potions down the same corridor in the dungeons. I have no recollection of what started the fight, but you hit me several more times than was necessary. In my mind, I knew I had to repay you, I had to fight on or the people that had gathered would crown you victorious. The bell went for the lesson, and the crown disintergrated, even your friends. We were left alone, so I no longer had to prove anything, not even to myself. Our heads were closed, our legs wrapped round one anothers torso as we tore at each other's flesh on our backs.

I heard footsteps coming down the corridor. It could have been a teacher, or even a prefect. I had no idea what was coming, and I didn't want to lose the moment. So I leant in to your mouth, and rested my lips on your own. You didn't seem to notice, even to care, as I pressed my lips into a kiss. You finally kissed back, hard and passionate. My heart leapt, yet the kiss still felt as rough as the fighting had been. The footsteps were now upon us, and we jumped up from the cold stone floor. I never saw who the footsteps belonged to, as I bolted down the corridor, you following behind.

All through that lesson, one that earned you and I detention together, I thought about that previous fight's events. It all felt so right, even though we were tearing each other apart. The kiss felt natural to the fight, as natural as the bringing down of my fist upon your skull, or the slamming of your feet on my back. I wished that all fights could be so eventful, mixing the hatred and violence with the lust and compassion that I had fallen under the spell of today. It was as though I had never wanted anyone or anything before. You were all I really ever needed, all I wanted. The hatred was lessening, leaving behind only lust. Never anything more. Never compassion or love or anything along those lines. Only ever lust.

Our detendion was that next night. I hadn't seen you much that day, as I think we were both trying to avoid one another. I had not mentioned what had happened, and I suspected you hadn't either.The detention consisted of not much. We were to help the House Elves clean the kitchen using only the latest in Muggle technology, or so we were told. I suspected that even Muggles were smarter than using dusters and mops. It was awkward at first, as we didn't speak to one another. The Elves, at this time, were tidying up the dormitories, so we were left to our own devices. Really, I think Filch had gone insane, as we could have done anything during the three hour period we were left alone.

I was cleaning out a pantry which was already immaculate, I just found I preferred this to cleaning up the grime. I have no idea what you were doing, but I heard screeching noises which suggsted you were attempting to use a liquid on a plastic surface. I liked my pantry, as it was dark and it gave me the time to think. I didn't get much cleaning done, really, as my brain was working to fast than it should have been, and I no longer was to be left to do menial labour jobs. There was a knock on the pantry door. It wasn't entirely closed, yet I had pulled it to to keep out noise and unwanted smells. I opened it, and you were standing there. Your face seemed somewhat embarrassed, although I didn't know you well enough to make a judgement. You just stood there for a while, and I was confused as to what you wanted, so I took your shoulder in my hand. I have no idea why I did it, I just felt that I had to do something or I would die of suspense. You kissed me, violent and rough, and then we were on the floor, our hearts beating, both soaking as we rolled on the newly mopped ground.

We didn't do anything else, except hit one another pitifully and kiss. The hour and a half that was remaining passed quickly, and after I left, I hated myself for not hitting you harder. I felt that, although this had been what we had both wanted, I was no more intact mentally than I had been before. In fact, I was so confused that I thought my head would explode, implode, or something. Many a time I considered killing myself, then I got angry, and thought you weren't worth it. After that, I wanted to kill you, then I wanted to kill our parents for making us such bitter enemies in the first place. It was the Romeo and Juliet syndrome, only we weren't in love, and I hated to think that we would ever go through such pain just to be together forever. For I didn't want to be with you, I didn't want to go to sleep with you and wake up with you. I didn't want to cook for you, bring in money for you, have children with you. I just wanted to carry on, hurting you, making you bleed. I wanted more than anything to fuck you until it hurt.

Maybe that was my next plan, maybe it wasn't. I have little memory of what happened next. I lived in a daze, waiting for the next fight to occur, and even when it did, it didn't always result in a quick snog between us. In fact, very rarely did it. There were always people about, things in between. Our feelings were not always as strong as they had been sometimes, and at other times they were stronger, yet we kept apart so as not to complicate things. Not that in doing so, we weren't complicating things more and more. I watched you in Potions one time. I could hear everything that was being said, as Snape had seated us close together. I hate to boast, but I think it was a way for him to show off his best pupil to some of his worst. Potter kept on glaring at me, in an attempt to look brave to his followers, yet he just looked ridiculous. Mudblood said something about me to him and to you, of course, and you turned a vile shade of green, one that clashed horrifically with your hair. I smiled, and you caught my eye. You looked away, but I kept on looking. I felt so good making you squirm like that. I felt so powerful.

One Hogsmeade weekend you approached me, although I had no idea about that. I was on my own, for once. Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson and the rest of my so called friends had gone into the Three Broomsticks, whereas I had decided to take a walk onto the moors. I was alone and quite enjoying myself, when I heard something. I suspected to find a Third Year, all excited about their first time in Hogsmeade, but there was no one. Obviously, I was fairly scared, as anyone would be when they hear noises, and turn to find no one there. Then I heard noises again, only this time so way ahead of me. There was nothing to be seen, so I naturally cried out. There was a snigger then, and you appeared from nowhere, holding a silvery cloak which you through to the floor. I was filled with both intense fury and relief as you stepped towards me, and tripped me over. I wasn't too sure why you had tripped me, and what you were planning on doing next, only that I was lying on the floor, my back aching magnificently, and you were knelt next to me, glaring down at me with a look I had never before seen.

I spoke to you, asking you what was up. You told me a lot of things. You launched into a huge long speech, and I must admit I didn't pay attention after about a minute and a half, but what you said to begin with was interesting. You told me that you were fed up of being the joker, being the right hand man. You were fed up of being the good boy, fed up of making everyone smile. You said that you wanted to be a real teenager with real feelings. You wanted people to stop presuming and start believing. Then I zoned out, and came to when I felt a hand on my crotch. Not surprisingly, it was your hand, and had it been anyone else's, I would have been very disturbed. I had no idea what the hand was doing there, but the feeling was not unpleasant, so I didn't object. I just felt that you were acting less than your usual self, but as I didn't know you well enough, I didn't say anything.

What followed - well, I won't go into it as it's not the kind of thing I like to talk about. I believe private life should stay private, especially between the two of us. Our private life became uncontrollable, filled with constant meetings and kisses. We were living two lives. The daytime life where I was bitter and you were loving. The night time life where I was shy and you were outrageous. In my wildest fantasies I had never imagined that our nightly strolls would be such bliss, yet we still hated one another. That never changed. We couldn't stand to be with one another, and had it not brought such pleasure to our bodies, and had we not been filled with such childish greed, we never would have done. We were not a couple, there was never a chance of us being counted as that, yet when I flirted with the girls in my House, I saw the look on your face, and recognised the emotion as that which I felt when you were surrounded by the people you loved.

You did love them, and maybe that is what I was jealous of. I don't think I'll ever find out what I was jealous of when it came to you. After our trysts, I felt that no one else could take your place, and I was sure that you felt the same, although we shared very few words during our times together. I somehow knew what you were thinking despite the fact you never again launched into a speech. Maybe this telepathy was an omen, but most likely it was just a sign that we were both very similiar people stuck in circumstances that ordered us to be polar opposites. Week followed week, and night after night we met. The signs were there for people to see, mainly the bags under our eyes in the mornings, our failing grades and our unnaturally poor performance at Quidditch. Yet we still met in the same place, at the same time, every night. Until they realised. Until people asked awkward questions, and we didn't see each other until right now.

Four years has passed, and we are no longer at school. Four long years has changed us both, neither for the better nor the worse. Yet we have met again after years long and circumstances changed. We are both different people, and as I feel you beside me, I know that I no longer hate you. I didn't hate you all along. Never was that feeling in the pit of my stomach hatred, nor was the one in yours the same. It was something so much stronger, so much harder to trace. It was love, Ron. All along, I think I loved you, but I never knew it. For love is as harsh as hatred, and there isn't much difference in the two.