"It isn't what you think," Harry said, leaning back against the stone. He took the joint Malfoy offered him and brought it to his lips.
He inhaled the sickly-sweet smoke, relishing the burn in the back of his throat, the buzz at the base of his skull, the tingle that was now making its way to his fingertips. He opened his eyes, half-expecting to see Malfoy hovering over him, staring at him like he'd done the last time.
Malfoy slid down to stretch out on the cold stone floor, long pale limbs folding out from his body without a hint of grace.
"I fucking hate you," Harry whispered. His throat was raw, burned, chafed.
"No, you don't," Malfoy replied. He held out his hand.
Harry ignored the gesture. He closed his eyes instead, letting images of rubble and blood and death consume him for a moment -- the picture of the genocide that played out every day, just there, beyond that stone wall.
"You hate yourself," Malfoy continued, voice barely a whisper. His fingers brushed against Harry's thigh, touching the spot where that little girl had grabbed his trousers and clenched her fist in the fabric, eyes full of horror, mouth open in a wordless scream.
Harry opened his eyes and brushed Malfoy's hand away. "You're right," he muttered.
The sound of his own voice spitting out the killing curse filled his mind. The little girl in his mind fell aside as he kept walking.
He raised the joint to lips. "It isn't what you think, though."
::
Story Notes:
Originally posted: July 10, 2005