Somewhere to Hang My Head Without Your Noose

AN: My second-to-last story in my whirlwind four-day author acceptance celebration! I guess that means I better get to writing some more, huh? Thanks again to everyone who continues to read and review my stories, it means so much to me!

Somewhere to Hang My Head Without Your Noose

A straight, slender nose buries into the spotless white pillow atop a hotel bed that’s too big for a person of such lean build. Feet stretch against tangled, binding sheets, trying in vain to find the end of the mattress he so despondently sinks into. Green eyes sting as he rubs them with the heel of his hand, applying just enough pressure to witness a burst of blue and purple stars in the darkness his resting eyelids create. As he lay on his left side, as close to the edge as he can get, Harry thinks he might be dying of guilt. Overdosing on negative emotions. Strangling on the shame that rises in his throat like bile and forms a constricting lump right in the center, preventing him from taking a real breath. Maybe he’s really been dead for months now.

Harry’s ears strain to hear the near-phantom footsteps approaching. The unnerving click of the bedroom door opening and closing seems to echo throughout the eerily silent space, filling him with a sense of dread. He can feel the dip in the mattress beside him, slowly inching toward his shrinking figure until petite willowy fingers dance along his side, skirting on top of his snug t-shirt, then over the elastic of his boxers. The front of a bare body molds to his back, sending involuntary chills down Harry’s spine. Uncharted kisses drape across the nape of his neck, follow his collarbone, and flutter along his tensed square jaw line. He tries to convince himself he’s no more than a cadaver because, well, he’s been dead for years now.

Harry turns over with hesitation, deliberately buying time. He’s afraid of what he’ll find. It seems as though a whole lifetime has passed since he laid eyes on a girl – woman, now – with blonde-streaked bushy hair, intense brown eyes, and a genuine smile that he’s found himself aching for when her image creeps steadily into his unsuspecting mind. A lifetime in which he mourned that woman, the one who left with a simple, “I think I love him, Harry.” A lifetime of avoiding photos of the happy pair, of dodging inevitable “how’re you holding up?” conversations with mutual friends, and evading the part of him that had once naively claimed love.

And then there’s her, whom Harry had during that lifetime. She’s been the constant, with long flaming red hair and milky skin that smells of lavender. Her luscious lips whisper promises of mending his broken heart; her expressive eyes hold ideas of growing old together; her heart beats a rhythm she swears is the sound of contentment. And when he fucks her, he can almost convince himself it’s her that gets him off, instead of the enduring images of the woman that left him a supposed lifetime ago. A lifetime that, to a girl named Ginny, is three of the best years she’s ever had. She’s waiting for Harry at home and he knows she’ll love him when he gets back there, even though he’s nothing but a corpse.

He finally faces the woman so easily seducing him.

“Harry,” Hermione breathes, placing a hand on Harry’s pale cheek, “Just, love me? Please.” Those soulful brown eyes are pleading, her smooth lips moving for Harry’s.

They meet in a passionate kiss, slow and sensual, and everything Ginny’s isn’t. And, for the first time in three years, Harry realizes he’s alive.