Up.
Out of bed.
Past Ron.
There is a delay, at that bed.
Staring with anger. Pushing it out.
Hoping it's felt. Out of the tower.
Down the stairs.
Fire burning in the hearth. Heat casts pressure.
Out through the portrait.
Slamming her shut.
Down and across. Away.
Not running to avoid.
No shoes. No socks.
Pants, and a shirt.
Wand.
Through corridors. Windows chill.
Somewhere solid, stone. Sit there. On the ground, looking up. Where we would be.
Feeling weight, not shame. Not for them, anymore.
Time slips past. Wasted, and again. The moments drag on.
Everywhere quiet, dark. Engagement could be extinct, save tactile distractions.
Stillness may be appreciated, somewhere.
Bored thoughts regress to cycles. Doing violence to themselves. And me.
Me. What I? I for others or I for myself. House of courage, lives for cowards.
Set to change, when able. To prove independence is contradiction. There is only that which is, alone.
Calmer now, reflecting inwards. Dull senses.
Sharp with sound. Feeling rushes back, mid-tense. No moving, breathing.
Louder, closer. And now sight.
Theodore Nott.
And he knows me, too. Both tensed, not still. Moments pass.
He wears more than I do. Shoes, and trousers.
Expecting he will leave. Averting my stare to allow it.
Louder footsteps. Walking forward. Across the corridor.
He stands over me. I stare back up.
The face he shows does not say anger. Suspicion clouds his brow. I do not expect him to speak.
When I finish judging his mind, I feel time flowing.
We should not be here, I under, he over. No return to equilibrium.
There is no spell to break. I reach for his waist. No recoil as I unbutton his trousers. Pull down his pants.
No thought forward. He's soft, but firming. Easy to angle into my mouth. Without experience, doing comes slowly. As he grows I lick around, and lean forward.
His hands land in my hair. Pulling and guiding. Only two directions now. In and out and keeping up.
Trying to liven my tongue. To what end never matters. Constructive cycles now.
I look up, his face screwed shut. He feels and stares down, lips stretching. Smirking. It's cruelty not thanks.
I focus on my work.
The building tension sputters. Rhythms fall apart. Breathing is harder.
With a pull my nose is crushed in his hair. I barely feel the coating of my throat. He exhales at me.
I swallow. He lets me fall back. His pride hangs out. I look up, he shows no shame.
The cruelty is gone, expended. Left is respect.
He dresses in two movements.
I lay back on the stone, throbbing. He points.
I pull it out. Rub three strokes until it's spent. My pants stay at my thighs.
My throat is sore.
He stands over me again. I expect a nod.
He nods and leaves.
Not poetry. Too much Nietzsche.
Written for the night. Stood in the day. Published.
I do not own the rights to publish or commercialise the work of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by JK Rowling. I affirm that this work depicts characters belonging to Ms. Rowling, Bloomsbury, or Time Warner. This derivative work is published with no commercial intent.