She pretends not to see him.
He pretends he's not mentally undressing her with his eyes.
Their lips meet. Hers are chapped, cracked, dried- she'd licking them out nervousness, for this meeting to come, no doubt.
His are in charge, leading the way for hers to follow, much like how the rest of their relationship ran.
She pretends there actually is a relationship.
He pretends there isn't.
They begin the exploration of each other's bodies; the awkward, unsure roaming of teenage hands up and down, through fabric and underneath it. They're met with no surprises, as usual. But this was just a necessary procedure, a suitable prelude for events to come.
Her hands are cold. They switch from being cold and warm every day. Depends on if today was a research day or a writing day. Reading ensures idle hands; writing keeps them moving, circulates the warmth.
His hands are cold. They always are.
She pretends the frigidness of his hands doesn't bother her. When he sets them on her hips, she makes no sound, no motion to give away the fact that his touch is similar to tiny little icicles.
He pretends her touch does bother her, that he's not already cold, that's he's not always cold and so used to it that the frozen touch feels kind of like home. Feels kind of like the Malfoy Manor, with all it's heat and elegant fireplaces, how it's still perpetually chilled.
They shift to his bed, he leads, she follows (as always) and he's on top and she's on her back (as always). She closes her eyes the entire time, but he stares straight on.
She pretends it doesn't hurt.
He pretends he doesn't want to hurt her.
When they're done, he rolls to the side and they lay there, breathing quiet, shallowly, like they're disturbing each other by breathing. Maybe they are. They don't know. They don't know the first thing about each other.
She pretends to see someone deeper in there, someone scratching the surface and begging to be released; a tortured boy who's past reedeems all his sims.
He pretends she won't go running off the Weasley and Potter right away, adjusting her robes and smiling, pretending she's flushed from the cold.
They both pretend they won't regret this in the morning.
They both pretend that they aren't pretending.
Their truths are colored with lies, and the barrier is hard to determine. What to believe, what to trust, who to trust. None of it makes sense. None of it ever does and it probably never will.
Neither of them care.
Or at least, they pretend not to.