A/N:  Slashy undertones.  If the thought of male/male makes you squirm, please leave now to save further grief.  Feedback would be greatly appreciated.  Enjoy.

Disclaimer:  Not mine. Don't sue.

Traitor

Harry complains often.  About the traveling, about the living conditions, about Malfoy dragging him 1000 miles away from the battles and from Dumbledore and Hogwarts and a Dark Lord who wants him dead.  He complains to Malfoy because he is the only one around, but Malfoy only ever rolls his eyes in reply.  It's almost as bad as his answers to Harry's questions. 

Harry asks a lot of questions. Why why why why why?  Thousands of 'why's, a million, infinity.  Malfoy smirks and says 'Because I hate you' and of course Harry cannot be expected to let that lie without a fight.  So Harry lives in a world full of 'I hate you' s and smirks and eye rolls and sometime bruises and it is beginning to irritate him. 

Harry remembers little that matter.  He thinks he ought to remember the colour of Dumbledore's eyes, but when he thinks of colour he sees the grey blue and white blond and the contrast between almost alabaster skin and simple black robes.  He thinks he ought to remember the smell of the Gryffindor Common Room, but his olfactory senses only ever pick up the sweat and pine and almost dewy-ness and it is completely extinct of all things Gryffindor. Maybe. He thinks he ought to remember Ginny's touch, but all he can feel is the softness of blond hair and the calluses on knuckles just before everything goes black or blurry.  He thinks he ought to recall the sound of Ron's voice but all he can hear are the 'I hate you' s and the occasional grunts and the even more occasional laughter. He hates it, hates seeing, smelling, feeling, hearing, but he thinks he might like to taste, just something else other than the iron of his own blood.  He knows these are traitorous thoughts and Hermione and Ron would be so disappointed if they knew, that's why he quashes them and only ever think that way on quiet nights when Malfoy is asleep and not talking, moving or obviously breathing. 

Harry dreams.  He dreams not of Voldemort, or Ginny, or anything else he would be comfortable in admitting.  He dreams about light touches and gentle caresses and the feeling of soft lips on his lips, on his nose, oh his forehead, below his eye.  He dreams a gentle hand tracing his scar and smoothing his hair.  He dreams of soft moans, of tender words that he suspects has nothing to do with hate.  He dreams and dreams and dreams and he feels so guilty after each dream because the one in his dreams has golden hair and grey eyes and smooth pale skin, and it is wrong. So very wrong. 

Harry likes to pretend.  He pretends to want to go back and fight. He pretends he doesn't care that he's but a pawn in the neverending game.  He pretends that he misses them all and he worries and gives a shit.  He pretends Hogwarts is still home and he wants to go back because home is where the heart is.  He pretends that he hates Malfoy and that the only reason Malfoy is doing this is because Malfoy's Malfoy and he's the son of Voldemort's right hand man.  But most of all, Harry pretends he never ever had any traitorous thoughts because it was all Darwinism really, and Harry needed to survive.

~fin~