Ageing Star
Nat Carter
*
It was nothing but a fling, really. One night of passion, of frustration and release, a night of vows easily made and easily broken. An affair. A one-night stand.
Brought on by the stress of the hearings, the torment of watching enemies on the stand, giving up names--names that sometimes belonged to other enemies, but more often--and more painfully--belonged to friends. We sat next to each other that day, as always, and when the long list of names was being read, I felt his hand creep into mine and squeeze, oh so gently. I squeezed back, reassuring him, and kept my grip on his hand throughout the hearing.
We returned together to his house afterward, our intent quite clear. He held my hand during the walk; I remember thrilling at the sensation. We were barely inside the door when he kissed me, pressing me up against the wall and fairly devouring me--we were so young!
I don't particularly want ot revisit every detail of the night spent in his arms, his bed--let's just say it was a lapse, and leave it at that. And that's all it was, honestly. The next day, I woke alone in his bed. We dressed and returned to the chamber where the Ministry was holding the hearings. That night, we went seperately to our houses. That was that. Over, done with. The slate wiped clean.
Which doesn't explain why I'm sitting at the staff table, waiting anxiously for Alastor Moody to stomp through the doors. It doesn't explain my strange, sudden desire to see him. Doesn't explain why I've started thinking about him again, after all these years.
And it certainly doesn't explain why, despite everything, I am just beginning to realize I love him.
*
A/N: Go ahead, flame me. I dare you to write a flame free of spelling and grammar errors g
Nat Carter
*
It was nothing but a fling, really. One night of passion, of frustration and release, a night of vows easily made and easily broken. An affair. A one-night stand.
Brought on by the stress of the hearings, the torment of watching enemies on the stand, giving up names--names that sometimes belonged to other enemies, but more often--and more painfully--belonged to friends. We sat next to each other that day, as always, and when the long list of names was being read, I felt his hand creep into mine and squeeze, oh so gently. I squeezed back, reassuring him, and kept my grip on his hand throughout the hearing.
We returned together to his house afterward, our intent quite clear. He held my hand during the walk; I remember thrilling at the sensation. We were barely inside the door when he kissed me, pressing me up against the wall and fairly devouring me--we were so young!
I don't particularly want ot revisit every detail of the night spent in his arms, his bed--let's just say it was a lapse, and leave it at that. And that's all it was, honestly. The next day, I woke alone in his bed. We dressed and returned to the chamber where the Ministry was holding the hearings. That night, we went seperately to our houses. That was that. Over, done with. The slate wiped clean.
Which doesn't explain why I'm sitting at the staff table, waiting anxiously for Alastor Moody to stomp through the doors. It doesn't explain my strange, sudden desire to see him. Doesn't explain why I've started thinking about him again, after all these years.
And it certainly doesn't explain why, despite everything, I am just beginning to realize I love him.
*
A/N: Go ahead, flame me. I dare you to write a flame free of spelling and grammar errors g
