Love Is My Religion

Title: The Worst Part
Author: crazyparakiss
Beta: None. All horrifying mistakes are definitely mine.
Pairing/s: Harry/Draco and their canon wives
Rating: R
Warning(s): Off screen het sex mentioned. Hinted m/m sex.
Word Count: 500 +/-
Summary:Oh, the very worst part is,
I will always love you anyway.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: I really really really hope I don't make a complete ass out of myself with this one. XD I've never really drabbled/ficlet-ed so here is me trying to do very few words. For frayach, who is my H/D HERO!

Honestly, you were less than a prince,
I could say that again.
What we had was little more than a glimpse,
Of the things that we hoped for back then.
No one likes to,
Find the one who they thought was lovely was a flash in the pan,
Survey the scene,
Well, the break was clean,
Oh, that may be true,
And yet the losses were grand.
And the worst part is,
Oh, the worst part is,
Oh, the very worst part is,
I will always love you anyway.

The Worst Part


He had a real lover once. It was a brief moment in time. An ancient history so small, yet so grand, that it could never be forgotten. There are days, he finds, when the memories of that lover are so real he forgets that it’s not that person who shares his life, his children, his wants.

It happens so often now, now that there are no longer distractions to keep him from thinking too deep. Earlier in the week it was the bitter taste of too stout tea. It reminded him of a long lived argument. “You can’t make tea for shit! God, do I have to do everything?” The deep sound resonated through the canal of his ear as if it was the thousandth passage of that same tired dance. How he wished that morning it was, how he wishes now that sound would come back to him. Yet it doesn’t, it is the sweet voice of his wife as she enters their kitchen. Wide white smile on, and a question about their son she stands before him. Devotion shines from her lovely eyes, and he pities her. He’s not got it in him to be truly devoted to her. He smiles back, a tight smile that makes him feel old, as he tells her the boy is out with his broom. They talk of inconsequential things. The weather, the eventual trek to the platform to watch as their life boards the train. It’s hardest when only he and she are in this house. Conversation becomes stilted, the nagging sounds of his past become harder to ignore.

She’s not bad, not really. She loves him, he’s grown to love her. However, he’s not in love with her. Never has been, never will be and there are times when he wishes he could.


The night before the train they kiss. It’s tired and true, the same press of lips they’ve had for over the past decade.

He misses the hard clang of teeth as desperate mouths come together. The taste of whiskey and hints of tobacco while angry tongues battled each other to prove one is better than the other, but most of all he misses the musky smell of a work damp face covered in scratchy stubble.

“I hate you,” they’d whisper and hands were harsh while clothing ripped. Sex wasn’t the best part, it was the fights, the biting, the need to dominate each other. Consuming the other before finally rendering each other breathless.


Now when he comes it isn’t a blinding white, it’s just a hazy film that covers his eyes and makes things seem illusionary. His climax with her is unsatisfying. It doesn’t obliviate him, doesn’t take away the terrors that are burned into his retinas. Only one person took the nightmares away, for a little while.

They were lovely, but it wasn’t really beautiful. What they had was painful, a horror show no one else would ever understand. They abused and used, hit and quit, and always came back for more.


When he stands on the platform, white billows of steam obscuring most of the crowd, he turns and sees him. He’s with his own wife, his own children, his own friends. Yet when their eyes meet green on grey, grey on green, it is only them on that long platform. Only their breathing and heartbeats making sound within their chests, and it’s only their need swirling between them.

Then there is a hand on his shoulder, and the spell is broken. He nods once, and receives a nod in return. The moment past another moment of theirs gone, and another wound that he’ll carry.

“The worst part is I’ll always love you,” he whispers and his wife turns.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” turning again he sees that the pain he feels is mirrored in a spine he used to know so well.