Title Local Lies
Author Elladora Ketteridge
Rating R for non-graphic slash
Summary Also Known as Never Say Never Again. Written for Dee a while back but I thought I'd lost the file when my computer crashed. But it's here. So taadaa. Similar vein to Always Under - musings of a Slytherin mind. Although, more chronilogical... I bet I've spelt that wrong! "Lying comes easily to some people. They even delude themselves."
Disclaimer Do I really need one? If I owned them I wouldn't be so excited about the imminent release of Chamber Of Secrets on DVD - I'm sure I'd already have a copy. *hides dodgy pirate video*
***
Never again.
Even as I sit across from Dumbledore's stern expression, McGonagall looking murderous in the background, Snape beside her, looking bored, I swear to myself.
Never again.
Madame Pomfrey has assured me that if I turn up in the Hospital Wing one more time with a broken jaw, she will simply leave me that way. I know she is lying (she would be dismissed if she refused to treat a student) but I also know that she can choose which ever treatment she so sees fit. I don't fancy letting my next cracked nose heal the Muggle way.
Which is why there won't be another cracked nose.
I do not need the lectures I am forced to endure; the same lectures he will receive, no doubt. I may be a blonde but I'm not a fucking Longbottom. I *will* stay away from him.
Even as I promise them this, I can see they don't believe it.
But I do.
*
Avoiding him is surprisingly easy. This may be due to the fact that he is clearly avoiding me as well. If I couldn't tell by our new, carefully-arranged but never-spoken-of schedule (I am early for all classes, he is late, except for Care Of Magical Creatures, he is welcome to that) then Granger's oh-so-subtle steering him in another direction when she spots me would certainly make me aware. Potter uses those famed Seeker skills of his to scan corridors before Weasley is allowed to continue his route to wherever it is those three hang out.
Dumbledore is looking pleased that we have listened to him. He obviously didn't expect it. McGonagall is looking smug that the two most notorious students in the school have obeyed faculty authority. She obviously believes we will set a good example to others. Snape is still looking bored.
My days have not changed. I still get up early, still spend a good hour preparing myself for the day (primping in front of the mirror, yes, but also double-checking I am ready for classes and keeping up with the correspondence I hold with many of the students from Durmstrang and Beaubaxton), I still drift through the corridors looking suave and mysterious, keeping up appearances. I taunt the Hufflepuffs more than I used to, but it is not because of him. Not because I need something to fill the gap he has left. Because there *is* no such gap.
And I certainly don't long for them to react, rather than stare in open-mouthed horror at the malicious words I throw their way.
*
Never again.
I do not feel my resolve weakening. I do not find myself wandering the halls in vain hope of 'accidentally' running into him. I am merely bored of keeping to areas I know he will not visit. The dungeons grew boring in my second year and my opinion of them has not changed since then. Besides, I know I will not run into him. He is keeping to the areas he knows I will not visit. This does not annoy me. And I do not hope that he will have tired of Gryffindor Tower by now.
I do not glance his way in classes. Do not silently beg him to look up. I do not because I know Granger or Potter would be bound to catch me. And I care, not because of them, but because I have made this promise and I do not go back on my word.
I do not show reckless disregard as the weeks go by, do not blatantly stare at him. Do not simply ignore the death glare that Granger seems to have perfected solely for use on me.
I do not feel twisted and torn inside when he still refuses to acknowledge me.
He is no longer trying to ignore me but that does not mean he pays the slightest bit of attention to my actions. It is as if it is no longer a conscious effort to keep his own eyes from meeting mine. It comes naturally.
It is as if he has forgotten me.
This does not upset me.
Not upset. Never upset. It does, however, make me angry. That I cannot deny. I would never deny myself my true emotions.
Never, never again.
This is easy for him, he must wonder why he did not choose to do this years ago. The time and energy it could have saved; not to mention the stress on my jawbone. He always hit out with his fists. A pureblood who instantly forgets his wand in a crisis.
Flailing, overly-long limbs. Red face, flush running in smooth lines from ear to cheekbone, hair-line to neck, and lower still. Eyes narrowed in a would-be frightening glare. Teeth bared, breathing heavy, shoulders shaking in fury. A perfect photo image, before that fist flies forwards at break-neck speed.
I am *not* remembering these memories fondly!
*
Potter is being malicious enough to qualify him for some sort of Slytherin-Nasty-Bastard Award. His jibes are cruel and well-aimed. I keep shooting killer glares in Snape's direction for pairing me with him. He merely looks bored.
I cannot retaliate while we are in hearing range of Weasley. Which we always are in Potions, he makes sure of it. McGonagall has congratulated Weasley and myself on our restraint (both in separate meetings, of course) but has made it clear we must continue on the same path or risk suspension. At least the sentence has dropped from instant expulsion. But I do not want to test her patience right now. The Quidditch season is in full swing and she gets a little 'antsy' around this time. I do not want to give her a reason to rid Slytherin of their Seeker.
I want to hex Potter into oblivion or even, Dark Lord forbid, drive my fist into his gut, over and over, in a manner now so distantly familiar, but I cannot risk it. Snape would not punish me too harshly (seeing me hurt Potter, be it physically or emotionally, seems to be the only pleasure he can find at Hogwarts) but Weasley would get involved. Gryffindor heroics, or, as I prefer to call it, *bravado*, would demand him to 'protect' his best friend's honour.
Potter knows this. And uses it shamelessly to his advantage.
Even I can't deny I'm impressed by his dark streak.
*
I did not do it to get a reaction from him. That much is obvious to me and I am sure it was to Granger. Vincent and Gregory congratulated me later on pissing him off. He could not do anything, he had given the staff his word to stay away from me. I corrected them, pointed out that it just seemed like an eternity since I had called Granger a Mudblood, taunted her, done my best to break that icy resolve and cause tears to well in her eyes. My pact, I reminded them, was to stay away from Weasley, nobody said anything about *her*.
And he did not seem to care anyway. Of course he was worried for his friend. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and turned her away from me. He assured her that she was better than "the jerks of the world." His voice was calm and soothing, no trace of anger.
That fact did not affect me in any way.
And I did not listen eagerly when my two 'friends' told me how they had seen him later that day, on his own, near the entrance to the dungeons, fury radiating from every part of him.
*
My friend's exaggerations were just that. He is fine. Of course. Granger is fine as well. She clings to him and smiles constantly. I do not know if she is simply proud that he has changed the group dynamics, finally maturing enough to take the pressure off of her own mother hen role, or if...
I do not find myself angry at the possibilities that circle through my mind.
Granger's glare is back on top form. I respond with raised eyebrows and a pitying smirk. She doesn't buy it, I can see it in her eyes. She knows I did it to get to him. Which means she is clearly delusional.
I did not do anything to get a reaction from him. She is wrong.
I must stay away from him. That's why I launched into a verbal tirade when I saw her in the library. I knew, somehow, that he would be meeting her, would be entering the library any moment. But he wasn't there when I began. So I was not to blame if he turned up suddenly, breaking his part of the pact by starting a fight.
Not that I did it to get at him.
Never again. It is a part of my life, a part I never enjoyed, never, that has ended. Our fights are a distant memory to be disfigured and forgotten.
I would never, could never, *do not* find my pulse fluttering when I catch him studying me.
*
Never again. If this opportunity had presented itself last year I would have jumped at the chance to rub his obvious misery into his face. As it is, I simply turn away from the lake and start to walk towards the castle.
*Start* to walk. I get no further than a few steps before his long-suffering sigh reaches my ears. It is the pain behind that sigh that makes me turn, walk back to him. What does he have to suffer from? This all comes so easily to him. Ignoring me, a Malfoy, someone who is never, never ignored. He must be used to others ignoring him, after spending so much time in Potter's shadow.
When I sit beside him my anger has gone, abandoning me. Perhaps it has remembered we cannot be caught fighting and wants to keep me safe. How considerate. But without anger I do not know how to deal with Weasley. Especially a miserable Weasley.
"Hello, Malfoy," he greets me simply.
He has not turned his head. I thought I was the only one able to tell it was him approaching me without looking. It appears the gift is mutual.
"Weasley," I reply in the same toneless voice.
"What brings you here on a night like this?" he asks. There is no sarcasm in his voice, but no interest either.
I do not answer.
I am not worried by his lack of emotion, never worried. But I am confused.
"You shouldn't be here," he sighs eventually. "You should leave."
It is him who stands and makes to leave.
I stand as well, reaching out to grab his arm, never quite making contact. Contact between us always leads to fighting and I promised. To stay away from him.
"Weasley?" My voice is not small and timid.
He turns to me and his eyes, usually so bright and vibrant are darker than the lake beside us. His features are barely outlined by the starlight sprinkling in through the willowy branches above us but I can see anguish there.
"You can't talk to me," he whispers.
"Weasley," I mumble again, not sure what I want to say.
"We can't talk," he continues softly. "Which means we won't be able to discuss this."
If I had opened my mouth I would have been able to not only ask what he was talking about but I would have had time to fit in at least the first few verses of The Weird Sister's *Charmed Nails* as time slowed around us to a firesnail's pace. Instead I simply stared at him as, in slow-motion, he leaned forwards, one hand curling in the front of my shirt and the other moving to the back of my neck, whisper-soft, and then he was pulling me to him and our lips were meeting.
Warm, yet so, so cold, smoothness, firm, insistent pushing, but, shrieking out at both of us, such *restraint*...
His eyes were still dark when I pulled back far enough to look into them. But it was a different darkness, one that I felt entirely and heavenly responsible for. His hand was still clinging so tightly to my shirt but the hand on the back of my neck, tracing gentle circles with one callused thumb, was so unsure.
To this day I cannot say who it was who gasped, which of us it was that lurched forwards, closing the gap. Who opened their mouth to the other first, allowing questing tongues access to exploration, domination of unmapped territories.
Never again will I let this happen.
I do know it was my hand that wrapped in that copper hair, tugging perhaps a little too roughly, an action that was echoed throughout our bodies as teeth clashed, nails scratched, pelvises ground together.
Never again.
I know it was him who wrapped an arm tightly around my lower back and pulled me seemingly effortlessly into his arms, so sweetly, before twisting us around and slamming me back against our sheltering tree.
I know it was me who pushed him back far enough to dig my fingers into his shirt, to rip it open, to loose buttons and scraps of material in what I can now admit was extreme enthusiasm. It was me who then fell forwards, back into those arms, biting and licking and sucking and worshipping newly exposed flesh.
Never again.
It was his fault when we tumbled to the ground, for the simple fact that I had relied on strong arms to hold us upright. Having me wrap my legs tightly around his waist appeared too much, however, as he yelped and we fell to the floor. That yelp did not make my heart jump from my feet to my throat. Such an insignificant noise did not make me light-headed.
It was his fault that I landed on top. That I naturally took advantage of such a situation.
My shirt was half-ripped, half-pulled over my head and then skin met bare skin and I knew this could never happen again, even as I took his earlobe in my mouth, hands inching further down, as he didn't resist, wriggled to give me better access.
It can only be his fault that I didn't resist as I rolled us over and reversed our positions.
Shoes and socks kicked off, trousers shed, still more clothes to go and then...
Oh God, never again.
The feeling that shot through me caused my back to arch up off of the ground and scramble to hold onto him, anything, that could keep me anchored. It was his fault, pressing against me, grinding, holding my hips in an iron grip, restraining me effectively, restraining himself less effectively by biting down on my shoulder and whimpering, a sound that made me arch even higher and it was too much...
Him entering me, the feeling of him being completely in control, I would have hated it, but we would never discuss it, and his mouth, open in surprise, at the sensations, his own daring, I don't know, but the pain I may have experienced was gone in a heart-beat as the only desire that filled me was to possess his lips and I reached up to him, leaning to him...
One of us wailed and all was lost in a hazy mist of cries and thrusts and tears and sweat and the blood dribbling down my shoulder from his bites and I tried to pull him into me, as far as he could go, further still, wanting him inside of me in ways I didn't know possible and I felt as if I was being split in two and he was all that could hold me together, all that I could ever need...
Fire, washing over already over-heated skin, need, pure, wild need, desperate, words choked out, meaningless, I prayed they were meaningless, end of eternity drawing near and desired, needed, but resented, for drawing us apart, and all thought lost in kisses and white-hot sparks and completion.
Never again.
*
I hate him. With a hate even I did not think myself capable of. I hate him for making me break promises. Not those to the staff or my father or the Dark Lord. Promises to myself. And every time I saw him, every time I see him, I make that promise again.
And as I hold him in my arms, the early morning light streaming through the gap between our badly darned curtains, brushing his hair from his eyes, closed tightly in his sleep, I know I will never be able to keep that promise.
Never again.
Mini Notice Sorry for continued updating of older stories with no adjustments but I'm still having trouble with the formatting on this thing, since I don't own a copy of Word and fanfiction.net doesn't seem to like my RTF files. Don't even get me started on HTML...
Author Elladora Ketteridge
Rating R for non-graphic slash
Summary Also Known as Never Say Never Again. Written for Dee a while back but I thought I'd lost the file when my computer crashed. But it's here. So taadaa. Similar vein to Always Under - musings of a Slytherin mind. Although, more chronilogical... I bet I've spelt that wrong! "Lying comes easily to some people. They even delude themselves."
Disclaimer Do I really need one? If I owned them I wouldn't be so excited about the imminent release of Chamber Of Secrets on DVD - I'm sure I'd already have a copy. *hides dodgy pirate video*
***
Never again.
Even as I sit across from Dumbledore's stern expression, McGonagall looking murderous in the background, Snape beside her, looking bored, I swear to myself.
Never again.
Madame Pomfrey has assured me that if I turn up in the Hospital Wing one more time with a broken jaw, she will simply leave me that way. I know she is lying (she would be dismissed if she refused to treat a student) but I also know that she can choose which ever treatment she so sees fit. I don't fancy letting my next cracked nose heal the Muggle way.
Which is why there won't be another cracked nose.
I do not need the lectures I am forced to endure; the same lectures he will receive, no doubt. I may be a blonde but I'm not a fucking Longbottom. I *will* stay away from him.
Even as I promise them this, I can see they don't believe it.
But I do.
*
Avoiding him is surprisingly easy. This may be due to the fact that he is clearly avoiding me as well. If I couldn't tell by our new, carefully-arranged but never-spoken-of schedule (I am early for all classes, he is late, except for Care Of Magical Creatures, he is welcome to that) then Granger's oh-so-subtle steering him in another direction when she spots me would certainly make me aware. Potter uses those famed Seeker skills of his to scan corridors before Weasley is allowed to continue his route to wherever it is those three hang out.
Dumbledore is looking pleased that we have listened to him. He obviously didn't expect it. McGonagall is looking smug that the two most notorious students in the school have obeyed faculty authority. She obviously believes we will set a good example to others. Snape is still looking bored.
My days have not changed. I still get up early, still spend a good hour preparing myself for the day (primping in front of the mirror, yes, but also double-checking I am ready for classes and keeping up with the correspondence I hold with many of the students from Durmstrang and Beaubaxton), I still drift through the corridors looking suave and mysterious, keeping up appearances. I taunt the Hufflepuffs more than I used to, but it is not because of him. Not because I need something to fill the gap he has left. Because there *is* no such gap.
And I certainly don't long for them to react, rather than stare in open-mouthed horror at the malicious words I throw their way.
*
Never again.
I do not feel my resolve weakening. I do not find myself wandering the halls in vain hope of 'accidentally' running into him. I am merely bored of keeping to areas I know he will not visit. The dungeons grew boring in my second year and my opinion of them has not changed since then. Besides, I know I will not run into him. He is keeping to the areas he knows I will not visit. This does not annoy me. And I do not hope that he will have tired of Gryffindor Tower by now.
I do not glance his way in classes. Do not silently beg him to look up. I do not because I know Granger or Potter would be bound to catch me. And I care, not because of them, but because I have made this promise and I do not go back on my word.
I do not show reckless disregard as the weeks go by, do not blatantly stare at him. Do not simply ignore the death glare that Granger seems to have perfected solely for use on me.
I do not feel twisted and torn inside when he still refuses to acknowledge me.
He is no longer trying to ignore me but that does not mean he pays the slightest bit of attention to my actions. It is as if it is no longer a conscious effort to keep his own eyes from meeting mine. It comes naturally.
It is as if he has forgotten me.
This does not upset me.
Not upset. Never upset. It does, however, make me angry. That I cannot deny. I would never deny myself my true emotions.
Never, never again.
This is easy for him, he must wonder why he did not choose to do this years ago. The time and energy it could have saved; not to mention the stress on my jawbone. He always hit out with his fists. A pureblood who instantly forgets his wand in a crisis.
Flailing, overly-long limbs. Red face, flush running in smooth lines from ear to cheekbone, hair-line to neck, and lower still. Eyes narrowed in a would-be frightening glare. Teeth bared, breathing heavy, shoulders shaking in fury. A perfect photo image, before that fist flies forwards at break-neck speed.
I am *not* remembering these memories fondly!
*
Potter is being malicious enough to qualify him for some sort of Slytherin-Nasty-Bastard Award. His jibes are cruel and well-aimed. I keep shooting killer glares in Snape's direction for pairing me with him. He merely looks bored.
I cannot retaliate while we are in hearing range of Weasley. Which we always are in Potions, he makes sure of it. McGonagall has congratulated Weasley and myself on our restraint (both in separate meetings, of course) but has made it clear we must continue on the same path or risk suspension. At least the sentence has dropped from instant expulsion. But I do not want to test her patience right now. The Quidditch season is in full swing and she gets a little 'antsy' around this time. I do not want to give her a reason to rid Slytherin of their Seeker.
I want to hex Potter into oblivion or even, Dark Lord forbid, drive my fist into his gut, over and over, in a manner now so distantly familiar, but I cannot risk it. Snape would not punish me too harshly (seeing me hurt Potter, be it physically or emotionally, seems to be the only pleasure he can find at Hogwarts) but Weasley would get involved. Gryffindor heroics, or, as I prefer to call it, *bravado*, would demand him to 'protect' his best friend's honour.
Potter knows this. And uses it shamelessly to his advantage.
Even I can't deny I'm impressed by his dark streak.
*
I did not do it to get a reaction from him. That much is obvious to me and I am sure it was to Granger. Vincent and Gregory congratulated me later on pissing him off. He could not do anything, he had given the staff his word to stay away from me. I corrected them, pointed out that it just seemed like an eternity since I had called Granger a Mudblood, taunted her, done my best to break that icy resolve and cause tears to well in her eyes. My pact, I reminded them, was to stay away from Weasley, nobody said anything about *her*.
And he did not seem to care anyway. Of course he was worried for his friend. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and turned her away from me. He assured her that she was better than "the jerks of the world." His voice was calm and soothing, no trace of anger.
That fact did not affect me in any way.
And I did not listen eagerly when my two 'friends' told me how they had seen him later that day, on his own, near the entrance to the dungeons, fury radiating from every part of him.
*
My friend's exaggerations were just that. He is fine. Of course. Granger is fine as well. She clings to him and smiles constantly. I do not know if she is simply proud that he has changed the group dynamics, finally maturing enough to take the pressure off of her own mother hen role, or if...
I do not find myself angry at the possibilities that circle through my mind.
Granger's glare is back on top form. I respond with raised eyebrows and a pitying smirk. She doesn't buy it, I can see it in her eyes. She knows I did it to get to him. Which means she is clearly delusional.
I did not do anything to get a reaction from him. She is wrong.
I must stay away from him. That's why I launched into a verbal tirade when I saw her in the library. I knew, somehow, that he would be meeting her, would be entering the library any moment. But he wasn't there when I began. So I was not to blame if he turned up suddenly, breaking his part of the pact by starting a fight.
Not that I did it to get at him.
Never again. It is a part of my life, a part I never enjoyed, never, that has ended. Our fights are a distant memory to be disfigured and forgotten.
I would never, could never, *do not* find my pulse fluttering when I catch him studying me.
*
Never again. If this opportunity had presented itself last year I would have jumped at the chance to rub his obvious misery into his face. As it is, I simply turn away from the lake and start to walk towards the castle.
*Start* to walk. I get no further than a few steps before his long-suffering sigh reaches my ears. It is the pain behind that sigh that makes me turn, walk back to him. What does he have to suffer from? This all comes so easily to him. Ignoring me, a Malfoy, someone who is never, never ignored. He must be used to others ignoring him, after spending so much time in Potter's shadow.
When I sit beside him my anger has gone, abandoning me. Perhaps it has remembered we cannot be caught fighting and wants to keep me safe. How considerate. But without anger I do not know how to deal with Weasley. Especially a miserable Weasley.
"Hello, Malfoy," he greets me simply.
He has not turned his head. I thought I was the only one able to tell it was him approaching me without looking. It appears the gift is mutual.
"Weasley," I reply in the same toneless voice.
"What brings you here on a night like this?" he asks. There is no sarcasm in his voice, but no interest either.
I do not answer.
I am not worried by his lack of emotion, never worried. But I am confused.
"You shouldn't be here," he sighs eventually. "You should leave."
It is him who stands and makes to leave.
I stand as well, reaching out to grab his arm, never quite making contact. Contact between us always leads to fighting and I promised. To stay away from him.
"Weasley?" My voice is not small and timid.
He turns to me and his eyes, usually so bright and vibrant are darker than the lake beside us. His features are barely outlined by the starlight sprinkling in through the willowy branches above us but I can see anguish there.
"You can't talk to me," he whispers.
"Weasley," I mumble again, not sure what I want to say.
"We can't talk," he continues softly. "Which means we won't be able to discuss this."
If I had opened my mouth I would have been able to not only ask what he was talking about but I would have had time to fit in at least the first few verses of The Weird Sister's *Charmed Nails* as time slowed around us to a firesnail's pace. Instead I simply stared at him as, in slow-motion, he leaned forwards, one hand curling in the front of my shirt and the other moving to the back of my neck, whisper-soft, and then he was pulling me to him and our lips were meeting.
Warm, yet so, so cold, smoothness, firm, insistent pushing, but, shrieking out at both of us, such *restraint*...
His eyes were still dark when I pulled back far enough to look into them. But it was a different darkness, one that I felt entirely and heavenly responsible for. His hand was still clinging so tightly to my shirt but the hand on the back of my neck, tracing gentle circles with one callused thumb, was so unsure.
To this day I cannot say who it was who gasped, which of us it was that lurched forwards, closing the gap. Who opened their mouth to the other first, allowing questing tongues access to exploration, domination of unmapped territories.
Never again will I let this happen.
I do know it was my hand that wrapped in that copper hair, tugging perhaps a little too roughly, an action that was echoed throughout our bodies as teeth clashed, nails scratched, pelvises ground together.
Never again.
I know it was him who wrapped an arm tightly around my lower back and pulled me seemingly effortlessly into his arms, so sweetly, before twisting us around and slamming me back against our sheltering tree.
I know it was me who pushed him back far enough to dig my fingers into his shirt, to rip it open, to loose buttons and scraps of material in what I can now admit was extreme enthusiasm. It was me who then fell forwards, back into those arms, biting and licking and sucking and worshipping newly exposed flesh.
Never again.
It was his fault when we tumbled to the ground, for the simple fact that I had relied on strong arms to hold us upright. Having me wrap my legs tightly around his waist appeared too much, however, as he yelped and we fell to the floor. That yelp did not make my heart jump from my feet to my throat. Such an insignificant noise did not make me light-headed.
It was his fault that I landed on top. That I naturally took advantage of such a situation.
My shirt was half-ripped, half-pulled over my head and then skin met bare skin and I knew this could never happen again, even as I took his earlobe in my mouth, hands inching further down, as he didn't resist, wriggled to give me better access.
It can only be his fault that I didn't resist as I rolled us over and reversed our positions.
Shoes and socks kicked off, trousers shed, still more clothes to go and then...
Oh God, never again.
The feeling that shot through me caused my back to arch up off of the ground and scramble to hold onto him, anything, that could keep me anchored. It was his fault, pressing against me, grinding, holding my hips in an iron grip, restraining me effectively, restraining himself less effectively by biting down on my shoulder and whimpering, a sound that made me arch even higher and it was too much...
Him entering me, the feeling of him being completely in control, I would have hated it, but we would never discuss it, and his mouth, open in surprise, at the sensations, his own daring, I don't know, but the pain I may have experienced was gone in a heart-beat as the only desire that filled me was to possess his lips and I reached up to him, leaning to him...
One of us wailed and all was lost in a hazy mist of cries and thrusts and tears and sweat and the blood dribbling down my shoulder from his bites and I tried to pull him into me, as far as he could go, further still, wanting him inside of me in ways I didn't know possible and I felt as if I was being split in two and he was all that could hold me together, all that I could ever need...
Fire, washing over already over-heated skin, need, pure, wild need, desperate, words choked out, meaningless, I prayed they were meaningless, end of eternity drawing near and desired, needed, but resented, for drawing us apart, and all thought lost in kisses and white-hot sparks and completion.
Never again.
*
I hate him. With a hate even I did not think myself capable of. I hate him for making me break promises. Not those to the staff or my father or the Dark Lord. Promises to myself. And every time I saw him, every time I see him, I make that promise again.
And as I hold him in my arms, the early morning light streaming through the gap between our badly darned curtains, brushing his hair from his eyes, closed tightly in his sleep, I know I will never be able to keep that promise.
Never again.
Mini Notice Sorry for continued updating of older stories with no adjustments but I'm still having trouble with the formatting on this thing, since I don't own a copy of Word and fanfiction.net doesn't seem to like my RTF files. Don't even get me started on HTML...