A/N: I own nothing but an overactive imagination.
Warnings: Mature Content, Sexual Situations, Non-HEA
March 14th, 2001
She releases a silent scream and I feel her entire body tighten as her orgasm washes over her; her eyes shut tightly. I hold back my own release as I continue thrusting inside her, allowing her to ride that wave of pleasure before I reach for my own.
Just like always.
It's always this way; every time she knocks on my door in the middle of the night, tears running down her face.
Weasley is a fool. But then again, so am I.
Her body goes limp, and the familiar look of contentment washes over her face. It won't be long now. Any moment she will open those big brown eyes and look into mine…searching. Searching for feeling. For emotion.
Everything that I can never give her.
So before that can happen, I pull out of her, flipping her over roughly and pull that perfect arse of hers high in the air. I enter her from behind, her juices coating her folds, offering no resistance.
She moans.
I curse.
She throws her head back as I pound into her, her headful of wild curls cascading down her back.
I can't resist.
I reach forward and bury my hand into them, pulling tight and forcing her back to arch in that sinful way, driving my cock deeper into her dripping wet cunt.
She's panting and moaning and whispering my name.
I can't have that.
I angle my hips and grind into her. A curse leaves her lips. Such a filthy word coming from that pretty mouth.
I almost come undone. But I'm not through with her yet.
One hand still entangled in her hair, I slide my other around her waist, pressing firmly against her abdomen before trailing upward to palm her breast.
I force her back to my chest, barely able to control myself and I breathe in her intoxicating scent. She is putty in my hands, her form eagerly melting against my own.
I take her pert nipple between my fingers and pinch…hard, just the way she likes. Pleasure and pain.
She gasps.
"More," she pleads. Her words are like a drug, and I drink them in greedily.
I give her what she wants; pinching and pulling the small peak, eliciting all of my favorite sounds from the witch as I near the precipice of my own demise.
Weasley is a fool.
How could he ever let something as flawless and stunning slip away? How dare he ever betray or forsake her. He doesn't deserve her. No one does.
It's been in all the papers…his sorted affairs. Tender touches and intimate moments put on display for the world to watch over and over again.
He's a scoundrel and a lush; too preoccupied with ego and notoriety to notice he is destroying this precious thing in front of him. Piece by piece.
But then again, so am I.
She begins meeting my thrusts with equal vigor and I can't hold back any longer. I hold her still, wrap my arms around her and press her flush against me.
She raises her arms, bending them as she rests her hands gently around my neck. We both struggle to catch our breath.
I know what she wants.
It's a mock gesture, a cheap imitation a moment we can never share; that moment of post-orgasmic euphoria where two lovers' lips meet gently; a stark contrast to the animalistic fucking that has just occurred. That's why I took her from behind.
I know what she wants, but I can't give her that.
I can give her pleasure. I can give her pain. But I can't give her that.
Yet every time she knocks on my door, every time she watches me through tear-soaked eyes, she wants. Wants some sign, some emotion, something to feel in the midst of her numbed existence.
Weasley is a fool. But then again, so am I.
I lie; tell myself it isn't real, that it would take more than a single word from my lips to make her mine. She doesn't feel anything for me, just as I feel nothing for her.
This is an arrangement born out of vengeance and hate. It always has been and will be, until the day she leaves for the very last time.
I lie; tell her I have an early meeting, tell her I've plans, tell her anything to make her leave and to break this ominous weight that fills the room the moment our bodies separate.
I make my way to the toilet. She calls my name. Not a shout, it's more of a whisper, as if she doesn't really want me to hear. I ignore her. She's never done this before. We've never spoken. Not since that first night she came to me; offered herself to me. Why should tonight be any different?
I splash water on my face before throwing on an old Quidditch shirt and shorts, ensuring my face is void of all emotion. It doesn't matter though.
She won't be there when I return.
But it's all a part of the ritual, so I can pretend I don't know she is only here for one thing. So I can pretend I haven't pushed her away, the same way she pretends she won't knock on my door the next time The Prophet's front page is littered with his latest indiscretion.
I hold my breath as I enter the room and for a split second, as my eyes land on an object atop the now coverless bed, I think she might not have left.
I exhale unevenly as the object comes into view.; an envelope with my name scribbled in familiar script.
I break the seal, wondering what it is that she couldn't say to me. What made her call out to me for the first time.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach as I read the small card inside. I stumble back, dropping it as I clutch the bedpost to regain my footing.
My vision blurs and my head spins. Bile rises in my throat as the letter's contents play on repeat in my head.
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their son
Ronald Billius Weasley
to
Hermione Jean Granger
the 17th of March 2001
I tell myself it will never happen. One or both of them will find a reason to delay it. Perhaps it will be the weather, or a particularly important case at the Ministry and I can taste the saltiness of her skin and feel her heat wrapped around me once more.
Maybe she will finally stand up to him, call him a liar and a cheat and end it.
After all…Weasley is a fool.
But then again, so am I.