Afterwards, he'll close his eyes and sigh loudly.
She'll tremble, telling herself it's out of pleasure or relief. She'll tell herself that, as long as it's not regret, she can deal with it.
When he doesn't move, she'll slowly untangle and edge herself out of his green and silver sheets.
She'll find her discarded clothes—magically mending those that he had ripped—and her hand will be on the door.
She'll look back. His eyes will be open and he'll smirk at her.
Friends with benefits, he called it once. But they were never really friends. So, what are they?
-x-
She never speaks. Not when she's with him, anyway.
He'll see her later, joking with the other annoying Gryffindors, but when she's with him, she never speaks.
He tells himself it's because their arrangement is merely that—an arrangement—and not a relationship. He tells himself it's because he'll never pay her back in kind. But the entire time he spends dwelling on her silence, he purposely ignores the truth.
Because he knows. Of course he knows.
She doesn't speak because it's him. A Slytherin. And she can't let him win.
Because in the game they're playing, silence is golden.