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Love Letters	By : JustAbi Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
All Love Letters are from Draco to Harry.

Chapter Eight

oOo

I do not miss
you. I do not think about you when I should
be thinking about other things. I do not
dream about you at night. I do not feel
phantoms of your fingers tracing my skin when I close my eyes. I do not ache in a thousand places you never
touched me, nor does the skin burn where your fingers
once brushed. I do not pine for the loss
of your presence next to me, or the sound of your voice, or the way you look at
me like I am the only thing in the world that matters.

I am not brutally aware that you love me only until you are able to find a suitable replacement, nor does it
constrict something in my chest to think of you with whom ever it is that you
have replaced me with this time, or for that matter, the last time. I am not terrified that you are so fickle
that you have forgotten me now that you are not forced to see me every
day. I am not afraid that you will never
touch me again. I am not plagued by your
memory.

I cannot remember a thousand things about the way you look,
the exact ebony of your hair, the moss of your eyes, the chapped roughness of
your lips, nor the pitch of your voice.
I cannot recall every word you have ever spoken to me, not the words you
said before �I love you,� nor after, the words your silence
held. I cannot feel your absence
every moment of every hour of every day that you are not with me.

oOo

The first time
you said, �I love you,� when we had first called our truce, when our fragile
friendship first began, I told you not to.
I told you it would be better for you to love a pretty little Gryffindor
girl, like the Weasley girl you�ve taken up with, ironically enough, someone
who wouldn�t hurt you in the end. I only
meant to remind you that I can be cruel, and that I cherished the friendship I
had so long desired from you, and that I didn�t want to destroy it.

You waited after that, for months, for some sign only you or
Trawlany could possibly be fool enough to see.
And then apparently you saw it, and you kissed me, and it was
amazing. But then you asked me to go to
Hogsmead with you, and told me you had something you wanted to say to me, and I
just *knew* what you were going to say. I knew it and I tried to tell you not
to say it. I did try, you know, to stop
it, to warn you, to keep everything from changing so much we could never go
back, to keep myself from hurting both of us.

But you wouldn�t listen to me. You never listen to anyone. You always think you know better. You just think that if you rush in to things
with your foolish Gryffindor courage and your Boy Who Lived luck that
everything will be alright. You�d think
you would have learned after that mess with Black, but then you never were
terribly bright, and you�ve always underestimated me as a threat.

When you stopped me, put your hand on my arm and pulled me
off the road into the trees and stood so close and held my hands and told me
that you loved me, were you just too self involved to see the terror in my eyes
or feel me trying to pull away? How could you have possibly thought it would
all end happily ever after if you backed me into a corner like that? I never
wanted you to say it, and you did it anyway.
And what was I supposed to do with that?

I was nauseous and my chest *hurt* and I felt like you�d
slapped me and I was going to fall over, so I lied. I told you that I hated you, that you were a
bastard, and that I never wanted to see you again. I couldn�t tell you the truth. I couldn�t say that I loved you and I
couldn�t just stand there with you standing so close and say nothing and I
didn�t know what to do and it just came out.
I�m sorry that I pushed you away.
So sorry that I lied. I�m so sorry.

But it was your fault.
Why did you have to go and ruin everything? I suppose it doesn�t matter
now. Apparently you�ve learned your
lesson. According to your friends you
aren�t running around making loud proclamations of love to the Weaslette,
though you are no doubt shagging her senseless.

Blaise never tells me he loves
me. He touches me and I don�t feel like
I will die. He kisses me and nothing in
my chest clenches so tight I think I might never breathe again. His smile doesn�t make things muddle in my
brain. He is my friend, and he can�t
hurt me.

oOo

Ron tells me that
you blew up your aunt last summer. I
nearly died laughing the way he told it.
You get into more trouble than a house full of Slytherins and you are
still the Golden Boy. But you aren�t the
only one making mischief. We here at
Death Eater Summer Camp can put up some competition.

Pansy, Blaise and I snuck into my
Aunt Bella�s room and sprinkled her sheets with a concoction made with powdered
rhino horn or some such thing that Blaise�s uncle thought he might have use
for. I don�t know why he thinks Blaise is in need of an aphrodisiac that would put a 300
year old mummy into heat, because let me tell you, he is doing just fine in
that department. But he did, and we used
it and now Aunt Bella is having spontaneous orgasms and can�t keep herself
standing up.

Uncle Rudolphus had a fit and called her a whore and now
she�s so desperate for sex she is flirting with the dementors. She�s mental, that one. She�s going to get
herself kissed one of these days and with the way that cackling bitch lords her
status over everyone around here, no one will be sending a patronus her way to
save her.

oOo

Do you miss me at
all? I miss your face. You have a
hideous face, common and scarred and I miss it.
Those terrible muggle glasses are so thick you could use them for watch
glasses in potions, and yet, every face I see without them looks too vulnerable,
somehow naked and vulgar. And your hair,
atrocious, but the smooth hair of pretty, well kempt boys looks so girlish it
makes me laugh.

Blaise has a perfect face. Generation after generation of pureblood
breeding went into moulding his cheekbones and
smoothing his unblemished skin. His lips
are like silk, like a girl�s, like mine.
There are no calluses on his hands.
His hair is dark as yours and it could be wild, but instead it curls
into soft ringlets around my fingers when I kiss him. He is always groomed immaculately.

And I hate it all, his face, his hair, his
lips.

You told me once that you loved my hair. You wanted to run your fingers through
it. Is ginger hair as inviting as blond?
Is her hair as mesmerizing as you once found mine? Or do you sit with her in
the dark, running your fingers through it and imagining the corn-silk of her
hair is the true silk of mine?

Do you prefer the soft swell of her breasts to the hardness
of my chest? Hers are barely more than a little boy�s chest, but mine is a
man�s now. The muscles in my body are
like yours, long and hard from Quidditch.
You could run your hands over your chest, and it would be like touching
mine. You could do it when you are
alone, and you could think of me, remember me, remember wanting to touch me
like you touch yourself.

oOo

A/N: Thank you to
the people who left comments. If you
leave your e-mail addresses, I will be happy to get back to you. Or not, if you don�t
particularly care. Whatever. Must sleep now. Or,
you know, as soon as my head stops hurting.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Love Letters