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His lengthy white hands would stroke my body continually, in no such pattern, but in some such way that, for a moment, I would forget it all, and I would loose my senses to him. My lips would reciprocate his touches, and make him scream, make him try harder, as if it was all just a game, and we just couldn't let the other win. My hair would be slicked tight to my scalp from sweat, my dark black tips wild and wet, as they slapped against my back, each time I withdrew from him – and each time I went back in for more.
His eyes would brighten, and in that moment of ecstasy, I could finally figure it out. I could see why he was so harsh, so hidden, so permanently scarred. And all that hurt, and all that disappoint I could take away, bit by bit, with every lingering touch of my fingers. I was all-powerful. I conquered him.
And then it would end. Either by one of his half-wit cronies drunkenly slumbering in and catching us in the act, or by a sharp realization that he'd let too much slip. I never wanted it to stop. He could never wait to be finished.
I used to dream that one day his eyes would endlessly follow me around. That his lust for me would overcome him, and in some fantastically twisted way, he'd realize he wanted more, he wanted all of me. Even though we'd both agreed this was it. And I was still true to that feeling. I didn't want anymore. I had a life beyond this. I had men that could be, were, so much more. I could have any life, a better life, with the snap of my fingers. But still - I dreamt.
"Fuck," he'd said once, after it had been over, on one of the rare occasions when he hadn't run away immediately. He was sprawled out on his bed, his sleek blonde wisps falling in front of his eyes. "Fuck, Pansy."
I stayed still, scanning the scenery through the open window, my hands in a knot in my lap.
"Do you ever wonder …" he scoffed, turning to his side. "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to be married?"
"To each other?" I bent my head, feeling the hot pressure of his eyes on me.
"Yeah. I guess." He shook the hair off his face, his brow knotted. "Do you?"
"No." Better to hurt than be hurt.
"Huh." If he was surprised, he masked it well. "I do, sometimes. I suppose it's because we spend all this time together, but still…" He blinked; blowing out a long, quiet breath. "Do you think it would be nice?"
"To be married?"
"Yeah."
"I think it would be interesting." What I am supposed to say? I satisfied my nerves by chewing on one perfectly manicured nail, knowing my mother would kill me if she knew she's going to have to pay to get them redone already.
"Father says its fucked up," he spat, changing the tone of the conversion abruptly. "But I guess it depends. He's just unlucky, he got married to a fucking tramp."
I turned my head. "Yeah. I guess." I lay back down beside him, throwing my long dark hair out behind me. My hand strayed towards his, but as soon as we touched, he broke apart, getting up.
"Leaving?"
"What do you think?" he said, quickly zipping up his jeans, and throwing on his shirt. "I've got other shit to take care of."
And like that he was gone, and I was alone in his dormitory, listening to his friends acknowledge him as he charged past, bottled up anger still pulsing through his veins. And all I could think, as I lay alone, was, Will it always be like this?
And even now, as I'm alone again, in my own house, listening to my own friends talk about anything and everything that mattered least in the world, and I think, Was it always like that?
And when I toss and turn at night, thinking about what could have been, I wonder why it hurts so much, and why he doesn't look at me the same anymore.
And all I can tell myself is, At least I have the memories.
And sometimes, if I want it bad enough, I can even feel him stroke me, his long, pale hands gleaming in the moonlight and my lips screaming the name, Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.
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Oh you don't mean nothing at all to me
No you don't mean nothing at all to me
But you got what it takes to set me free
Oh you could mean everything to me
Nelly Furtado.
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