Drabble - "Love of Hate"
Title: Love of Hate
Author: icanhaspancake
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Prompt: black ink
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Summary: There's a fine line between love and hate, and sometimes it's hard to tell exactly where that line begins.
Author's Notes: Um, I never write like this, but this fic demanded it. I basically just whipped this out in 20 minutes after seeing HBP for the second time today. I love it when that happens. :D
Oh, and there's a reference to an alternate sixth year, in which Draco and Ron were friends. Or at least frenemies. IDEK.
Written for rarepair_shorts
Link to Prompt Table: Here


I hate you. I hate you for calling my name in sixth year, when the Mudblood and your stupid girlfriend were standing there, waiting for you to need them. Dray. That was all you could say. But that was enough. Everyone knew who you wanted.

You didn't even remember it afterward; you denied me the opportunity to hate you for it, to ridicule you. I couldn't tell you. I couldn't let you know that it mattered at all.

I hate you for being too thick to realise that it was my fault you were poisoned in the first place. You wouldn't let me talk. You wouldn't let me cry. You told me not to worry, that it was silly to blame myself.

I still do, you know. I notice when you politely decline mead. I notice everything.

You think I'm crazy. I know you do. No one stops being a Death Eater and lives to tell about it. No one spends three years in Azkaban and comes out unscathed. And I would still be there. We both know that. And that's why I jumped into a marriage with the Auror who got me out: You.

And I hate you.

I hate the stupid trinkets you got from your mother that you hang about the flat, declaring this place our "home sweet home." I hate that you're more like your father than I realised, and that I'm just an interesting puzzle for you to solve. I'm not broken, I can't be fixed. Stop trying, you'll only be disappointed.

I hate that you come home from work and smile and give me a kiss, and ask me how my day was. You know perfectly well that I didn't move from my chair, and I wouldn't move at all if I weren't trying to get away from you.

I go to bed, you follow me. You tell me you love me and turn out the lights. I let you kiss me, fuck me, do whatever you want to me. Because I would still be there if it weren't for you. And in those moments I almost love you.

Your touch is always gentle, like I'm some porcelain doll you're afraid to break. You stroke my face and kiss my scars. You tell me that I'm beautiful and sometimes I believe you. I'll hate you in the morning; right now I want to love.

You don't know this. Any of it. I suppose you think I'm happy. Maybe I am; I've never known what happiness felt like.

I hear you calling me; you were never good at hiding your concern. I'm not in my usual place, and I hate you for being so worried. You'll ask why I have ink on my fingers, and you'll give me that look that I hate, but I won't answer. I'll hide this letter with all the others, and maybe I'll show them to you one day.

If you're reading this, Ron, it must mean I love you.