Your Kiss Hits Me Harder Than A Dementor\'s Kiss
Your Kiss Hits Me Harder Than A Dementor's Kiss
- Your Kiss Is Hitting Me Harder Than A Dementor's Kiss. -
- Prologue. -
Harry's fingers trembled in shock. His eyes were wide, hand sweating. It wet the worn-out parchment.
'September 30th, 1993.
I saw you today again. You mesmerized me, even though I see the loathing in your eyes. I shot you a look with the same loathing in mine, even though it wasn't honest hate.
Most hatred is based on fear, one way or another.
Yeah. I wrapped myself in anger, with a dash of hate, and at the bottom of it all was an icy center of pure terror, and even though I loathe to admit it, love. Love for you. I alreadyexplained this. I don't like you. True, I don't like most people, but I especially dislike you. I could start my own religion based on how much I dislike you. I know hate is a strong word and everything, but its okay: we're teenagers. I have so much hate that it has turned into love. It only explains the thin line between love and hate, doesn't it? You can't truly hate someone until you've cared about them. Until you've loved them. I actually hate everything. But I've never hated anything or anyone as much as I hate you. How much I love you. I didn't know it was possible to simultaneously hate and ache for someone. Hate is often an obverse form of love. You hate someone whom you really wish to love but whom you cannot love.
My father abused me. Raped me. Inside, my soul became so cold I hated everything. I even despised the sun, for I knew I would never be able to play in its warm presence. I cringed with hate whenever I heard other children laughing, as they played outside. My stomach coiled whenever I smelled food that was about to be served to somebody else, knowing it wasn't for me. My heart ached when I saw other people be happy, knowing I could never be truly happy.
I never intend to tell this to someone, but I'm a Soul Searcher. And I truly love you.'
The ink was smudged, tears splattered onto the page. Harry recognized the neat handwriting. The lovely curls were slightly shaken, most likely due the writer's emotions overflowing. For a moment, he forgot why he had gotten this letter again.
Earlier that day...
"Class dismissed..." Snape drawled lazily. Harry sighed deeply. Finally, he thought. When he packed his stuff into his bag, and stood up, the bottom of his bag gave up. "Shit!" He hissed. "Language, Mr Potter." Snape smirked. Harry just scowled. He told Hermione and Ron to go on without him, since it probably would take long to fix it.
When he finally fixed it with a couple of spells, and sighed again. Once he walked out of the classroom, a hand was clasped onto his mouth, and he got pulled into an abandoned corridor.
"Don't scream." The obviously female voice whispered in his ear. When he nodded, she let go of him.
Harry turned to look at the female. "P-Parkinson?" He asked, flabbergasted. Pansy Parkinson put one hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. "Fix him. I don't care how you do it, just fix him." She ordered, eyes narrowing into slits.
"... Who are you talking about?" Harry asked dumbly. "Who do you think, Potter?!" Parkinson hissed. "How should I know?!" Harry replied in disbelief.
Parkinson pushed a waxed envelope into Harry's hands, and disapparated with a crack.
End Of Flashback.
Harry didn't know if he should've been happy, or should burst out crying. He loathed himself. How couldn't he have noticed?
Malfoy loved him.
Stupid Hero-Complex, Harry thought.
xDemoiselleGothique: This has been written on my birthday. Enjoy. Until the next update! (This will be 3/4 chapters long.)