I do not own Harry Potter. Gasp. Shock.


You get the feeling, sometimes, that love isn't supposed to be like this. You think that love should be something safe and gentle and warm, something to be held inside of you, something golden glowing.

"Enter."

You think that maybe, just maybe, there's something wrong with you. That your family was right all along, that you're nothing but a freak. You should want-

"Potter."

-that something golden glowing, that warms you from inside. You shouldn't want this, you shouldn't, but you do. And maybe later you'll rage in the silence and try to tell yourself that it isn't your fault, that really you don't like it, but for now you know. You know the truth-

"Strip."

-you know that nothing golden glowing can compare. You know that you don't want warmth or safety. You've never wanted safety, because you aren't fool enough to want what you can't have-

"Good."

-not anymore, because the disappointment hurts like nothing golden, hurts like burning iron-

"Now!"

-and there's nothing good or golden, nothing glowing, just pain and pain is good, so good-

"Slut."

-because you know, when you hurt, that you're alive. You know, if you're bleeding, that you can fight. And you know that what you have, what you have isn't weak, isn't golden-

"Pathetic."

-that it's something stronger, something wilder, something crimson that doesn't glow, that burns right through you and consumes you and turns you to ash. You don't want golden glowing in your heart, no, you want fire that crackles along your skin and seeps through your pores, that destroys you, that breaks you down to embers. You want wine and the avada kedavra, velvet and steel and silk-

"Dress."

-pain and pleasure, and you know, you know this is love, because this is living and this is dying, and what else is love but everything?

And sometimes there's gold in the crimson. A touch, a look...

"Harry."

...something richer than thunder and softer than dew...

"Leave."

And sometimes you burn.