Paradox

Paradox

He was better than him; Harry knew this for a fact. It was what there entire relationship was based on; the simple concept of superiority. And Draco could hide all he wanted from that or come out in the open and berate Harry until his words lacked definition and carried only the tune of intense hostility, but sooner or later the truth would stand out, heedless of preference. As long as Draco hid behind his cruel facade, Harry would always exceed him.

But love worked in wicked and immoral ways, there was no doubt about that. And lust and love labored hand in hand no matter how many times you tried to deny it, and when all fronts were ripped away leaving only the barren soul of a troubled boy, there was no doubt in the veracity that Draco lusted after Harry more than he had will to do so. It hurt, hurt both of them with a pain that was neither chilling nor searing, but a unfathomable nausea that dug itÂ’s sinister roots into their hearts, leaving nothing but a fleeting memory of happiness.

And Harry detested Draco for that more than anything he had ever done before. He was killing Harry, slowly, from this inside through his ignorance and palpable disdain for the idea that they should ever, could ever be together. It was horrible and wrong and spiteful in so many ways that to analyze it would only bring more pain from both sides. Could Harry handle it? Could he handle living with the recollection that they had once been together and it had been lost to a macabre pride and deep-seeded hatred? Would the sting or rejection ever lull from itÂ’s pulsing rhythm that traversed through HarryÂ’s veins every time he passed the Slytherin?

No. All he could do was remember the one time when he had allowed pure ecstasy to override his consciousness. The only time when everything had been absolute.

Draco stooped over his broom, sweat creating small beads on his forehead. The sun had set, and the moon was beginning itÂ’s everlasting journey across a blackened sky, illuminating the land of the Quidditch Pitch into a sea of emerald grass and empty stands. Yet there sat Draco: his form resentful but still managing to carry an extreme amount of dignity, silver eyes bearing angrily into HarryÂ’s own as he strode up to meet him. Harry didnÂ’t know why he was meeting his enemy during the night; couldnÂ’t begin to understand what had influenced him in taking those final steps toward Draco.

“What the fuck do you want, Potter? Come here to criticize me like every other damn person in this school?” Draco’s eyes were blazing, a cold fire that ruptured the very binds of his sanity. Harry thought back to that afternoon during the game. He hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t meant for his broom to veer off course and into Draco’s. But it had happened nonetheless, causing his opponent to spin off course into the masses of people and fail his team for one last, dishonorable time. And when the Gryffindors had all arrived to cheer by his side, Harry could think of nothing but Draco, his mind weighed with guilt.

“I came to say I’m sorry, Malfoy. I don’t want to leave Hogwarts this year with you as my enemy.” Draco stared at Harry for a moment; a gaze that seemed to unwrap every emotion inside of him. It was the look of deep hatred, then, unbeknownst, a look of passion.

“You’re too late,” Draco replied, turning his back on Harry. But he didn’t move; didn’t leave. There was something in his movements that had shifted with the mention of being equal to Harry Potter; of not having to live up to the constant expectancy that he had to carry this endless battle with the Gryffindor. Then, in a whisper that was nearly non-audible, “I’ve done too much...”

Harry took a step forward, form wavering close to DracoÂ’s.

“I think you’re a whole lot more than the worst you’ve done.”

“You would. You can always find the good.” This time it was the Slytherin that took a step forward, body closing in on Harry’s until their breath mingled and their eyes flushed with hidden intent. “Well, I’m not good-” Harry gulped as Draco took another step forward, chest heaving against his own. “-and I will never be.”

Stuttering, Harry replied, “Then why are you still here?” Raw emotion fell across Draco’s face as he closed the gap between them, sealing their lips together in a powerful kiss. Everything had fallen into place then. Everything had made sense. Their enmity: a silent plea for the sweat taste of flesh corrupted by logical grounds for hatred, yet the passion they shared that night went far beyond reason.

And so it had begun--the menagerie of midnight meetings; the desolate sensation of waking up in a tangle of sheets only to find them empty; the desire that followed every kiss, the sweat fused with flesh radiating off fiery heat so intense that to persist would be painful but to turn away would be to deny himself the world. They were contradiction at its most powerful. But at the end would always come denial; rejection; the refusal Draco held to believe he could be with Harry no matter how much he innately knew that they need each other. That was all love was: one agonizing day after the other spent lusting over someone to the point where everything becomes a sea of black and white except for that one person who stands out in vibrant shades of red; the hate and the obsession and the cruel indifference. Yet the simple fact that Harry chose to accept his lust made him excel. He was always better, and always would be.

But would love always be a paradox?