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Constant Flux

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Being Harry Potter’s enemy is like fire, you see. He looks at you, and for a moment you’re the only thing that matters. The only thing that exists. You can see it in his eyes — in the way he clenches his fists as he spits the perfect words to get you riled up. And as the thrill creeps up your spine, as you take a step forward, your bodies synchronise in a mocking parody of a lovers’ dance. You get ready for the collision, and when it comes, you smile. You smile because for a moment, he’s yours.

And the best part of it all, you see, is that he doesn’t hurt you. Not really. He hates you, yes. But he’s so careful, so utterly, repulsively good, that his attacks all come in scathing words and fiery looks — never in blood.

Until one day he does. He does, and that’s when you wonder what brought you to be so bad that you’re undeserving of Potter’s protection.


Being Harry Potter’s colleague is like earth. It’s like walking barefoot on a fertile farm, like feeling the roots of a tentative friendship grow bigger and stronger every day. You’re sent on a mission together and it’s like he can read your mind, like you can read his. Like, for a moment, you understand him. And when he gives you that smirk — that annoyingly beautiful smirk that says I knew you’d have my back, and you shake your head at him, you feel home.

Until he goes back home to his family, that is, and you go back to yours: a melancholic song on the wireless and a lonely glass of wine.


Being Harry Potter’s lover is like air. A fresh, soft breeze brushing your hair out of your face — a soft gasp parting from your lips as he cradles the nape of your neck, touching you like you’re precious. As he holds your waist and he brings you closer to him so he can kiss your body. The way he breathes against your collarbones, the way he trails his mouth down your belly, makes you feel worshipped in the gentlest of ways, and for hours on end you cease to exist outside the walls of his bedroom and you become his. His treasure, his feast. His.

Until he lets go. That’s when you hold your breath — when you pray his touch will be back before his absence suffocates you.


Being Harry Potter’s husband is like water. Why, you ask? Oh, because he won’t stop crying. Seriously, you can taste tears through that kiss — certainly not very fashionable for the picture. But cry he does, completely oblivious of the cameras recording this moment for posterity. As for you, you shed a tear or two — nothing noticeable for the crowd cheering at you. But your chest fills up with waves upon waves of — well, of happiness. And it’s overwhelming, really, until it isn’t — until you make your way back home that night and you realise that Harry Potter is yours, and that you’re his, and that your time with him, like the ocean, is infinite. A beautiful, dangerous world to explore together.