Admire from Afar
God, what a practice it has been, but the game isn't over yet. I see you move across the locker rooms; I never did like these interhouse practices. You know I am looking, and your arrogant ass puts on quite the show. Dragging out the changing of your robes, deliberately making every one of your movements aimed to drive me wild, and though I fight it, you know you do.
Finally you know I can't take it anymore, and that's where the fun begins. You move towards the showers and you know damn well I will follow, but you play along, just like nothing is happening. You turn on the water and let it warm up for a few seconds, you slip the towel from around your waist, and I gasp. Now it's only you and me...or so I think.
I know that when I move across the room and grab you from behind, it's not my embrace you feel, but hers. My hot breath against your ear isn't mine, it's hers. But I'll give you what you want, what she will not. So you take me, always telling her you are still a virgin. You always were a rotten liar, but she is lost behind too many books to see the truth...and what you need.
When I run my tongue over your neck, it's not my tongue, but her tongue. And as you step into the shower's comforting water, it's not my body making you gasp, but her's. But Harry, though you may deny it, while we move together as one, the one making you come isn't her, it's me. And the one comforting you after the wake, is not her, it's me.
And we have talked, and actually tried to be civil, but it's always the same. You love her, not me. Funny thing love; I never really did understand the emotion, which is probably why I am so afraid of it. But you know as well as I do, that at night, as two become one, it's not her body you are inside, but mine. And although you scream her name, it's not her that's leaving you slack-jawed and shaken, it's me.
I think you love her because you have to; it seems to be in the hero's handbook. No hero loves his enemy, but it seems perfectly alright for a hero to fuck his enemy senseless night after night, because the one he "loves" won't do so. Well Harry, you don't seem like a hero after all, you seem more like a traitor to me. A traitor to your own beliefs, a traitor to me. You're afraid of what they would say, what she would say.
Yes Harry, what use to be meaningless fucks are becoming so much more, and you know it. You fumble when you moan her name, and even accidentally slip mine in its place time after time. I love the way "Draco" rolls off your tongue as you are plunged into the pleasures of heaven. You look at me, stare at me from afar, but as soon as I feel your glare, you turn away and pretend to be happy with her.
Believe it or not Harry, I have learned and accepted that I love you. And I would think that in your brave Gryffindor heart, maybe, just maybe, you could do the same and not be ashamed. But until that day, and the gods only know how long it will take, I will simply admire from afar.
God, what a practice it has been, but the game isn't over yet. I see you move across the locker rooms; I never did like these interhouse practices. You know I am looking, and your arrogant ass puts on quite the show. Dragging out the changing of your robes, deliberately making every one of your movements aimed to drive me wild, and though I fight it, you know you do.
Finally you know I can't take it anymore, and that's where the fun begins. You move towards the showers and you know damn well I will follow, but you play along, just like nothing is happening. You turn on the water and let it warm up for a few seconds, you slip the towel from around your waist, and I gasp. Now it's only you and me...or so I think.
I know that when I move across the room and grab you from behind, it's not my embrace you feel, but hers. My hot breath against your ear isn't mine, it's hers. But I'll give you what you want, what she will not. So you take me, always telling her you are still a virgin. You always were a rotten liar, but she is lost behind too many books to see the truth...and what you need.
When I run my tongue over your neck, it's not my tongue, but her tongue. And as you step into the shower's comforting water, it's not my body making you gasp, but her's. But Harry, though you may deny it, while we move together as one, the one making you come isn't her, it's me. And the one comforting you after the wake, is not her, it's me.
And we have talked, and actually tried to be civil, but it's always the same. You love her, not me. Funny thing love; I never really did understand the emotion, which is probably why I am so afraid of it. But you know as well as I do, that at night, as two become one, it's not her body you are inside, but mine. And although you scream her name, it's not her that's leaving you slack-jawed and shaken, it's me.
I think you love her because you have to; it seems to be in the hero's handbook. No hero loves his enemy, but it seems perfectly alright for a hero to fuck his enemy senseless night after night, because the one he "loves" won't do so. Well Harry, you don't seem like a hero after all, you seem more like a traitor to me. A traitor to your own beliefs, a traitor to me. You're afraid of what they would say, what she would say.
Yes Harry, what use to be meaningless fucks are becoming so much more, and you know it. You fumble when you moan her name, and even accidentally slip mine in its place time after time. I love the way "Draco" rolls off your tongue as you are plunged into the pleasures of heaven. You look at me, stare at me from afar, but as soon as I feel your glare, you turn away and pretend to be happy with her.
Believe it or not Harry, I have learned and accepted that I love you. And I would think that in your brave Gryffindor heart, maybe, just maybe, you could do the same and not be ashamed. But until that day, and the gods only know how long it will take, I will simply admire from afar.