Consumed

Consumed

The meanings of love and need were lost somewhere in translation. Lost somewhere in tongues and groping, in bodies pressed harshly together and sighs and moans (no longer sure of which were pleasure and which were pain). “I love you's” and “I need you's” blurred together, becoming indistinguishable, tangled up and muffled by kisses too hard on the lips and fingers that pressed too hard against the skin. Everything else fell away when they were pressed together, skin-to-skin, hearts racing and breathing hard, grasping his shoulders too tightly while he pulled her hair too hard, running her nails down his back just to leave the marks - because he was hers (and the bruises on her arms and legs from the passion he was too discordant about to prove she was his). Somewhere in the way his calloused hands were delicate and insistent, pressing, touching, caressing and pulling and bruising, somewhere in it she knew he loved her. This was how he showed her. And somewhere in the way her nails bit into his skin, and the way her elegant skin flushed with the flutter of his lips, the way her hips bucked against his when he held her hard pressed between him and a surface (usually the wall but she didn't care because it was him), he knew she loved him. This was how she showed him.

Somewhere in the dark they lost any chance of light. It was just easier in the darkness (she could hide the tear stains on her face and he could hide the sorrow no one knew was there). They hid in the shadows of their lives, trying frantically to fill some emptiness with each other. His insistent, needy kisses left her lips red and swollen, their teeth clashing together unceremoniously, leaving the bitter taste of blood in her mouth (and the bitter taste of regret in his for having nothing better than this life to give her). This way she could pretend he was enough to fill the hole in her and the little gaps left behind from the pieces of her self she lost along the way; this way when she felt him inside of her, she could pretend she was whole for just a few moments (helplessly feeling more empty than she had when he slips out of her and leaves her glistening from sweat, shivering and sticky).

Somewhere in the lives they were choosing together (because it was the closest thing to love they knew) was the shadow of a memory of a little boy and a little girl who could have been so much more than this.

The Great Hall was full for mealtimes, plenty of students getting satiated and full of chatter, none of which either of them really cared for. He watched her sitting on edge of the bench at her House's table from across the room, talking to a few girls he didn't know and didn't care to. She glanced up at him for no more than a moment before resuming her conversation, and he felt a surge of unwarranted anger. How dare she ignore him? He got up quickly, striding across the room and out the doors into the hallway; several students looked at him as he passed them, hoping he might stop and talk to them, acknowledge them, but he never did. She excused herself from her friends. She followed him out into the hall; he grabbed her by the wrist, ignoring her protests that he was hurting her. He backed her against the wall.

“Tonight.” He wasn't asking, and gave no room for question. She pulled her wrist away from him roughly, standing still against the wall as he had one hand planted against it above her shoulder, his face inches from hers.

“What time?” Her tone wasn't nice, or soft, or hurt that he was telling her what to do; it was just as angry as his.

“The same time as always.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” For a moment they just stared at each other. Most people talked about how cold he was and were more often than not frightened of him. But none of that really mattered to either of them. It would have seemed to onlookers - if there had been any - as if they might kiss, though it was much different than the romances she had once talked of with girl friends when she was much younger. He touched her lips before leaning in and kissing her. “Until later,” he said, and was gone. His close proximity left her breathing hard, her heart beating too fast, and the color in her cheeks too noticeable.

She lay in bed for what seemed like hours, waiting for the right time, for the time she knew he would expect her to be there - not a moment too early, not a second too late. She crept out of bed quietly and stole away from her dormitory. None of this was new to her; she knew well how to get around without getting caught, and even how to get caught when she needed to. She didn't exactly look forward to these rendezvous; she craved them. Her heart palpitated in anticipation of the next time he would pull her aside and tell her to be there. She didn't like the way it was most of the time, but she needed it. It was all that either of them knew, and the best way they knew how to prove it to each other that there was something there, some ounce of feeling outside the contempt of the impending war, and the stigmas of social class. It was odd, she thought, as she walked quietly down the corridor; when she had first met him she thought the only thing she would ever feel for him was hatred, but even as she knew she should loathe him there was something else beneath the surface. Thinking hard on it, she knew it would have happened inevitably anyway. She knew she loved him, but never said it; she knew he loved her, but never said it. It wasn't necessary. Their kind of love wasn't written about in books, or told about for centuries; their kind of love was the kind that no one spoke about out in the open. Their kind of love was the kind pressed against hard walls, and sweated out; it was the kind that was unruly and lustful and all wrong. It was the kind of love that was shown through demands and orders and rough kisses that bruised the lips.

She slipped easily in through the door, hardly making a sound. She knew without seeing that he was already there. She could smell him, feel his presence. She stood still, waiting for the movement of his shadow, for him to initiate as it was always with them. He didn't speak, didn't need to. He grabbed her around the waist, pushing her back against the wall, the air rushing out of her as her back hit the hard surface. His lips were on hers, ravaging, bruising, demanding. Her hands grabbed at his hair, pushing against him and pulling him closer. His tongue was insistent, pushing past her lips, claiming her mouth without permission - not that he ever asked or needed it anyhow.

This was how things were. This is how they were.

He pulled at her clothes, not caring what (if anything) ripped or was torn. He kept her pressed against the cold wall, barely moving far enough from her to pull her shirt over her head. Their breathing was short, heaving, harsh. He stared at her, and she felt he was staring through her.

“This is the only thing I look forward to anymore,” he said, his breath warm on her face.

“It's the only thing I need anymore,” she replied, nipping at his lips and tugging at his shirt. She pulled at his shirt desperately, needing to feel his skin against hers. She could feel his heart racing, like hers. His lips were pressed against her throat (just to feel the vibrations of the noises she made that he knew he caused). His hands were rough and insistent, kneading her breasts hard. He was so rough, she always mused, and his hands were so soft (it was the only thing soft about him). His hands were at the waist band of her pajama pants. “Just take them off,” she said, demanding, yanking at them because he wasn't working fast enough. She reached for his trousers, pulling at them. She pushed him away roughly, yanking them down and snapping at him to step out of them, tossing them aside without regard. He grabbed her by the shoulders, slamming her into the wall with all his weight. She could feel him, hard, pressed against her. “What are you waiting for?” She sounded angry.

“You don't know how much I need you,” he said, biting her shoulder. She reached down, grabbing him through his boxers. He groaned, his hands squeezing her waist harshly. “I want this more than anything.”

“We have one more year, Draco; you'll be gone and this is over,” she panted, his hands working her panties down and touching her in ways only he would.

“It's not over; it just changes, Ginny.” He yanked her panties down, and off, pulling off his boxers and tossing them behind him somewhere. He picked her up, her back hitting hard against the wall, knowing there would be bruises and scrapes in the morning - but it didn't matter much, they were worth it in the end. He was far from gentle, and she was more than ready. She inhaled sharply as he pushed into her, not going slow or easing, just pushing all the way in until their hips met. She wrapped her legs around his thin hips. His hands were in fiery hair, pulling, keeping her lips pressed to his. She whimpered as he thrust into her, her skin scraping the cold wall, focusing on the way he felt inside of her. His hands were everywhere, his touch scorching each spot he came in contact with, his kiss burning her mouth. This was their love at its best.

This was all they had. This frenzied desperation and fiery passion; shameless need and wont and angry lust, and all the wrong kind of love. This was who they were and all they knew.

He was never gentle, never sweet, and she never asked him to be. It was easier to just fuck and forget all the rest that was so wrong. It was always the same, and she always came back for more. It was always hard and rough, fast and searing and biting. Her body was always sore afterward, her back painfully scraped and bruised. He came hard, biting her neck as she raked her nails down his back, knowing she would draw blood. They didn't move for minutes at time, hearts racing and breathing fast, their bodies sweat slicked. The room had the distinct, heady smell of sex. For only moment his head rested on her shoulder and her arms lay languidly around his neck, her legs trembling and her body sore, the muscles in his back aching and burning. He lifted her up and slipped out of her without talking, or even making eye contact (it was easier to forget the hurt when they didn't have to see it reflected back at one another). It was easier to forget that he was a lost and misguided little boy pretending to be so much more, and that she was a misunderstood and vulnerable little girl (she found that if they both just fucked the pain away it was easier to sleep at night pretending that everything was perfect in the morning when it was all so far from it).

“You're right; everything changes in a year, it doesn't end. I won't be pretending to be daddy's little girl who does what she's told and fucks away never being perfect enough, rather the good wife who does what her husband says and fucks to forget that she was never what she thought she would be.” She pulled her shirt over her head and picked up her panties stepping into them.

“I don't worry about what I thought I would be,” he said. “I have this. This is all I need. It's still you and still me. The only thing that changes are the scrapes on your back and the cement burns on my hands.” And he left, a line of light filtering in through the crack in the door.

This is what they had. This is what they were destined to be, and it would never change. Fucking in the dark (it was easier to hide the tears when he couldn't even see her face), avoiding the light (they never belonged anyway), struggling so hard to get away they suffocate in futility (accepting it for what it is was easier than trying to find what it never could be). It was all wrong - the only right they knew.

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