Love and hate, is a fine line, Harry had been told. They were almost correct. Love and hate, a line between them everyone walked; one could cause the other. A fine line to balance on. Harry's worst enemy was probably his closest lover – not that he had many, anyway. He walked a fine line; they had the same experience from the muggle part of the world, The same pain, the fear, the hatred... they could understand each other unlike most people could. They were enemies though, a prophecy foresaw they would end at each other's hand – but they still walked that fine line – not of love and hate, but understanding and hate. Comfort and pain; his one true enemy that wanted to kill him brought him to life as well. He supposed it was the same for Voldemort.

They walked a fine line; a line Harry fell off.

Harry sat up in the bed, taking the offered smoke and lit it. He didn't bother trying to hide his nakedness, not that his enemy would care who was staring out of the window, naked. The man was anything but beautiful; with white scaly skin that stretched across his bones. A bald head with no ears and nose, and no lips to speak off, and the nose was only the gape of his face, his eyes almost hollow with those bloody eyes of his. His fingers, long and slender, with sharp nails, not unlike a spider's leg. His feet were in no better shape. No, the Dark Lord Voldemort was not beautiful in his snake like skeleton glory. Then again, a man like him didn't need beauty, didn't want it either – not that Harry wanted it either.

Together like this, they didn't discuss anything involving the war; or anything at all. If they didn't go directly to fucking they were basically talking about how much they wanted to kill each other. The embrace was anything but sweet, gentle, loving and caring. It was rough, painful, dangerous. The point wasn't to give comfort like lovers would do, but through the pain they gave each other. Voldemort would never allow himself to submit in any kind of way, but always keep in control in some kind of way. Harry preferred it that way, truth to be told. All the control everyone around him expected him to have was getting to him, like stones on his shoulders, it was dragging him down. Voldemort always demanding, never expecting, never giving always taking, gave Harry the feeling he wanted, the feeling of utter submission, to not be able to take control. Of course, he wasn't hopeless, he could stop it, a word for him, would stop Voldemort. So while both had their illusions, it would never get to the point they forgot their places: equals. Whereas Harry could stop it, he wouldn't tell Voldemort what to do, or how to do it. That was his enemy's part, calling what shots, he only called when it ended. The perfect illusion.

The dark lord that every man in United Kingdom turned, those orbs staring at him, yes, Harry could say much about that man, he could claim he wasn't afraid off him. Lies of course, only an idiot wouldn't be afraid of this man. Even Dumbledore should fear him, not because of his superior strength, or wits or anything; but because of who he had been and who he had become. What he dared to achieve, even though he knew it was wrong. Any man should be afraid of him because of what feared had driven him to do – what fear could do to all of them. He was what they all were when it all came down to fear; frightened beasts, willing to do anything and everything to survive – like they had always done. Voldemort, unlike what he liked to believe, wasn't feared because he was the Dark Lord or anything even close to that. He was feared because they all saw themselves in that man – and they didn't like it.

"They will miss you, Potter."

"They can miss me all they want to," Harry replied calmly. He walked up to the feared lord and hit him on the chest, once twice, and he walked past him and opened the window letting a breeze in. Their conversations was always strained, one of those rare times they weren't talking about killing each other. Well, those usually took place before sex, anyway. It got the mood going – so to say. They never stayed long enough to share a breakfast or even showers. They weren't into having sex in showers, it would be pointless, it would be more tender.

These meetings – if it could be called even that – wasn't a way to make trying to kill each other killing easier. They took comfort of the pain, anger, the wrath. It was a solution to the hatred for each other, the pent up feelings was let out in those rooms, in those wounds. They didn't heal the wounds – for there was plenty of them, after all – but let them be there and heal. A painful reminder, not a bad one. Merely a reminder of what had taken place, they didn't care who found them. All that wrath and pain was in those wounds, they expelled the worst through each other with sex and hurting each other while fucking. They needed the pain as much they needed the control and the lack of therefore.

No one could take away the pain they felt, only each other, they only had each other like this. The hatred was there, it would always be there. They, more than anyone else could ever hope to, understood each other – and they hated each other even more for that.