We are sitting on the hill, watching the sun set into an orange glow, listening to each other breathe. Few people walk by this part of the grounds, but those who do smile at us with a knowing look on their faces. They know why we here, basking in the glow of young love. Which would be fine, but we are not in love.

We have never been in love.

We have in common trusting no one. That is all we have, and it alone is enough to create an eternal tie between us. But we do not want that. Neither of us believes in forever. Eternity is an illusion, and she and I both recognize it.

I think I like her best like this, the orange and pink symbolizing another wasted day upon her skin. It hides the bruises and scars that are scattered across her body. She could be beautiful like this if she wanted to, but she doesn't. Beauty would get her nowhere. She would still be on this hill with me, replacing former happiness with bruises and unshed tears with scars, because that is all she knows how to do.

I only give her what she wants.

She sighs. If she were anyone else, I would think this is a feeble attempt to get me to speak to her. But she is not someone else, and I do not have to ask her what is wrong. She and I both know what is wrong. No words are needed.

It's at times like this when I almost want to kiss her. Really kiss her-- like I never have before, with emotion that has not been derived from anger. She looks so fragile at this instant. She has brought her knees up to her chest, hugging her arms around them as if she is cold. She probably is. It's only September, and the summer breezes have only just begun to burn off, but she is always cold. Always vulnerable.

She is helpless and strong, weak and fierce, all at the same time, and I hate her for it. I feel my lust turn to rage, as it always does, and I want to hit her. But today I will not. Today I will be different, not that it matters. I know that she will be back here in our place again tomorrow no matter what I do.

I used to read the Bible when I was younger, though my family was far from religious. The sunset reminds me of how I had always pictured the end of the world-- an orange sky with a blood-red sun. She sees it too. I can feel her close her eyes as she lies down, basking in the glow of a blissful Armageddon.

All we have in common is that we are not in love, and that is enough.

A/N: So? What do you think? This is the first story I've written that I don't understand. Do you think they're really both in love with each other and can't admit it? Or just one is in love with the other? Or is Draco right, that neither of them are in love and they are together just for the pain they can give each other? I'm not too sure myself. Review and tell me if you want. I want to know.

Disclaimer: Draco and Pansy belong to J.K. Rowling... or at least that's what she thinks... though, I guess it doesn't matter, since there are no names used in the story.

And part of the plot belongs to the Goo Goo Dolls, since this is kind of a songfic-type thing to their song "Slaughterhouse", which is a really bad song with really good lyrics.