Disclaimer: Summary is a line from Chuck Palahniuk's Invisible Monsters. Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.

This is Your Truth.

This is how the end of your life began as you remember:

You saw her twirling her goddamned hair around her finger, watching the way she would begin languidly, and flick, flick her split ends. Her lips would flatten and stretch, her face muscles contracting horizontally, pulling back to crease the skin around her mouth. She was biting the inside of her lips. Her forehead was scrunched, her eyebrows furrowed. Sure to leave some ugly wrinkles.

And then she opened her lips a few centimetres.

And then she closed her eyes.

And then she twisted her mouth to the side.

With her head still ducked low, they snapped open to your face.

You remember, you were looking at her – only for a little bit, right? – and when she looked at you, turned those filthy eyes to your form, your eyes and your mouth grew a little bigger, a little wider.

Milliseconds passed.

She blinked and your mouth snapped closed, and pivoting jerkily away, you pushed past those library doors, and you jumped slightly at the bang that echoed in the hallway.

This is what you see:

His hands are always on her. Wrapped around her small waist, his fingers slightly curved. Gripping with his palm. She's tight against his body, moulded – breathing and smiling in perfect synchrony. She looks up at him, and the flash from the bulbs of the cameras make her eyes look watery. She's got a pretty face with love and acknowledgement set in her enamel. She hugs his waist like he's everything to her, like she wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

You've noticed that it's the same but different when they're holding hands. The grip is in the tips of the fingers, you see. And she's usually walking ahead. Thick brown hair behind her while his fucking hair lights the goddamned glossy picture on fire.

Same affection.

Same story.

Same bullshit.

This is what you heard:

Can – I can do better. I promise. I can fix everything.

I know. I know, I know, but I just, I just can't let that happen. We won't be happy like that, you understand, right?

I know. I understand. But…isn't that expected? It'd be exciting. Never, ever boring.

Yes, and well, we do always have the most fun…

Exactly! I knew it – I knew it!

Well, in your head that's what you wished to hear. But that's not how it goes.

This is what you really heard:

I'm – I'm really sorry about everything.

You shouldn't be. I've had enough sorries to last me a lifetime.

I was just trying to be nice.

Yeah, that was always your problem.

Don't. Don't start with me. I tried to save your goddamned ass.

Fat lot of shit that did. Dappled your name in the mud for me. Ha!

Please, please don't be bitter with me. Can't we end this with…god, with happy memories?

Fuck that shit! No, no, we can't! You think I want to remember those good times? You think I want to keep YOU in my mind? Are you fucking INSANE

St – stop it!

Aw, what is that? Going to cry now? Did I hurt your precious feelings? Your goddamned bleeding heart? Here's a napkin, sweetheart; clean yourself up before you return back to your wonderful, lovely wonderful normal home. With your fiancé, your friends, and all those snivelling brats peeing on your leg. Don't cry in public, it's not ladylike. Didn't my manners ever rub onto you?

Is this what you call manners? You're despicable – don't LOOK at me like THAT! I – know what you're – I know what you're trying to do. And as much as I tell myself not to feel sorry for you, you're unbelievable.

Thank you.

Shut up. I won't let you convince me to hate you. I can't, I can't do that. I want to remember good times, so – so goodbye. And I love you. I do. I did. Goodbye.

This is what she felt like:

Hot, smooth skin under your sweaty palms: your nervous, nervous, virgin palms. A virgin to touching her flesh, feeling the small bumps on her skin; the elevated hairs, and the stiff brown nipples; where you traced the curves of the swell of her breasts and the underside, slightly sticky from perspiration.

From flicking her earlobes to trace down the length of her lower jaw down to the hollow of her throat where your thumbs could reside there and turn her face and lips blue. She felt like curiosity. A venture. An adventure.

Bringing her closer to you, shifting her naked hips flush against yours. Dipping past the expanse of her shoulders, between the valley of her breasts, your shaking hands reached and held each one. They felt heavy, and you felt her squirm against you, before feeling the puff of air that escaped from her lips and then her tongue, flat and broad, licking at the juncture of your shoulder and neck before sinking her teeth lightly in.

It was: lather, bite, suck. Repeat.

And there was something inside that made your breathing quicken, deepen, and your heart speed up, making your stupid virgin hands tremble.

You felt her small hands wrap around your length and God, you jerked into that and a whimper strangled out of your throat, and then you were sinking into her wetness. Slowly, carefully, oh god, inch-by-inch her heat was engulfing you, your insides were melting, and she was so tight. You gripped her waist with your palm, your fingertips, and it felt so good.

You slid her up and down and it was easy, and that – that was the feeling you will never, ever forget. It was euphoric, and her lips on yours were giving you life, it was tongues mimicking the actions of your lower bodies – sliding and wet and hot. Saliva surrounding your mouths, juices on your thighs.

And when her muscles were clenching sporadically, you leaned your head onto her sticky shoulder, breathing your smell – her smell – smells combined – something was breaking inside you, and you wanted to weep into her thick mane.

Remember? Remember when you were both done and she took your pathetic virgin hands and brought them to her lips? Blessing them. Offering you redemption, maybe? You silly, virgin sinner, you. She cradled your head when you planted blasphemies on her skin, slicking back your blond locks, and telling you that you were forgiven.

And you'd thought it would last forever, you silly virgin, you.

This is the only thing that keeps you sane:

Seeing a small smile stretching her perfect lips when she blinks at you from the newspaper. Magazine. When her name is attached to a face, you hang it on your wall. You have three walls to cover, to choose from, and you place her in the darkest corner you have.

You read those articles of her fairy tale life, of her happily ever after, and you scream every single time you see his name. His stupid common name attached to her ordinary, Muggle one. As if he were important.

You feel like you need to cover every wall with her name, with her face, so you won't forget. So you won't forget what's keeping you sane. So you won't forget what her face looks like because some days, she's just a figment of his imagination – a dream he thinks of when he's desperate.

You can't wait to read her name, see her face.

In the newspaper.

Magazine.

Obituary.

Sad, it's the only thing that's keeping you sane, the only thing that's helping you build a tune when your humming bounces off the walls back to you.

Your turn.

You silly, pathetic virgin, you.

You hopeless sinner, you.

You imaginative, fatalist you.

Same story, same bullshit.

Goodbye.

AN: Beta'd by Ishibishispider (at livejournal). Written for Jinx for the dmhgficexchange – I volunteered to be a back writer – and s/he requested for: tears, a library, and a Draco-Hermione-Ron triangle (it doesn't have to be the story, it can be afterward way in the future, or in the middle, or the beginning; just some type of mention somewhere.), and no Fluff, SexGod!Draco, and classroom projects that force them together.