|You Used Me
Author: Loud-Bass-Woman PM
Harry and Draco are finally together, but Harry is paranoid that Draco will leave him, so he does everything he can to prevent that. The thing is, Harry has a twisted sense of logic and Draco feels like dying.Rated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Drama - Draco M. & Harry P. - Words: 1,148 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 12 - Follows: 2 - Published: 01-28-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2774404
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: N. O. T. M. I. N. E. That stands for Never Own The Magic Inside Neville Evermore. Yeah, that wasn't supposed to make sense.
WARNINGS: Loopiness, crude words, violence (probably) & other stuff.
You Used Me
You used me, my love.
You used to make me sad and make me cry and make me want to rip out all of my hair so that you would understand.
I don't want you to leave me, you whispered one cold evening at home.
But I loved you. Could you not see that, you stupid boy, could you not see?
The way my eyes shone with adoration when they rested on you, the way I followed you around like a little lost puppy, practically tripping over my own two feet to get a bit of your attention, the way I kissed and cuddled you when you got too insecure about yourself, the way I screamed for you when you took me?
I'll never leave you, I whispered back to you.
You just smiled, one of those twisted little half-smiles that make me think that I don't know you as well as I think I do.
The next evening we went out to a muggle club. It was a gay bar.
I know that you like me to dress up when we go out together, so I put on tight black jeans, a white shirt with the top few buttons undone, my favourite silver belt that hung low on my hips, and my dragon necklace. I also knew that it turned you on when I wore a bit of make-up, so I outlined my eyes in eyeliner and put a bit of lip gloss on.
I don't particularly like wearing make-up – it makes me feel so fake, so sick, so used, and brings back memories that I wish I didn't have – but I did it for you anyway, because I knew you liked it.
That night you looked . . . amazing. Stunning. Gorgeous. Beautiful.
You were wearing a tight forest green shirt that showed off your abs – you see, I remember – and leather trousers that hugged your arse well. Your hair was perfectly dishevelled, and you had removed your glasses long ago so the shirt just brought out your eyes even more.
When you saw me your mouth dropped open.
I think you were restraining yourself from fucking me right there and then.
We went out and it was all well and good, plenty of dancing and drinks, when a muggle stranger started dancing with me.
I didn't like it – you knew I didn't like it – because I don't like strangers touching me, and I tried to get away, but he just pressed himself closer towards me and started grinding harder.
You saw me and you helped me but you didn't look at me not once not once (whywhywhy you knew I didn't enjoy it) and then you made a special effort with a tall, handsome stranger, grinding on the dance floor right in front of my face and groping him and-and-and-
You got off with him right in front of me (you bastard), and you even had the audacity to take him back home, up to the guest bedroom, right next to our one, and fuck him so hard that he practically screamed the house down.
You made me want to die.
And that wasn't even the first time.
Do you know how much it hurt? Night after night after night, listening to you fuck some muggle bimbo who didn't know who you were, an attractive guy a few years older than us, an older man more experienced than me . . .
You spent more time in bed with other people than you spent time with your own boyfriend.
Why, Harry? Why? Why would you do this to me?
I loved you. I loved you, and I trusted you. I had never trusted anyone before. Not even my own father. Not completely, anyway.
But you abused that trust.
You abused that, and me. My soul, my body, my heart.
Why, Harry, please just tell me why?
But as I sob all this over your dead body, somehow I don't think I'll ever get my answer.
I know you were insecure, I know it, but I couldn't let you get away with it, Harry, you understand, don't you, I loved you and you cheated on me, cheated on me on claims that you loved me too much and that if you made me feel that no one else would want me I would stay with you, and only you, and if you showed me that you could easily leave me for someone else then I'd feel grateful for your love, but I did, don't you understand, I already did.
You stupid, stupid boy.
Killing Voldemort must have unhinged you somehow, I loved you, remember, I told you I loved you but no, no no nononono, you had to think I was lying and you had to make me feel like shit and you had to keep me at home like a fucking prisoner and you didn't let me see my friends and especially no other guys apart from you, but you had no problem bringing strange men round and fucking them – sometimes right in front of me – do you know how much that hurt – and oh God Harry you made me feel worthless and I know that it's true, I am, everything you say is the truth, you're the Boy Who Lived, but Harry, don't you get it don't you get it?
I let you do this to me for two years. Two years, Wonder Boy, two years. You got so used to it that you forgot one thing:
I am my father's son.
So goodbye lover, goodbye Boy Wonder, goodbye green eyes, goodbye Saviour of the World, goodbye Scarhead, goodbye Potty, goodbye evildisgustingsicktwistedman, goodbye Fath-
No. No, not Father, Harry. Harry.
What's wrong? Why aren't you waking up? Harry?
I wipe my face with my bloodied sleeve.
"I did what I had to, Harry." I explain brokenly to your still body.
You used me. You used me to make yourself feel better. You used me so that you could feel something. You used me and made me insignificant. You used me and made me worthless. You used me and I'm sorry.
But you were too much like my father for me to allow you to live.