She was spitfire and fierce brimstone and never backing down. He was fighting hard and pulling back soft and clever mind tricks. He makes you think you're in control. She knows she still is.
There's never been a doubt in her mind. So much was taken from her. There was still so much to lose, so much time to lose everything. Every second was precious. Every action was calculated, determined. She was self-assured, always on top.
He ran impatient hands through her hair, bruising lips against her own. He wasn't going down without a fight either. He was snarled whispers of sweet words. He'd seen loss, and he'd be damned if he let it near him again.
She questioned herself each time she went to him. In the end, she always went. Why the hell not. She didn't have much more to lose. Why not take the risk. If you've gotta go out, why not go out swinging.
He didn't think about her. Or, he didn't want to think about her. He tried closing his eyes, picturing any other face above him. In the end, it was always her, no matter what. He told himself it wouldn't last. There was no way it could.
She moaned his name. She didn't bother to hide it. He knew what he was for her, they'd made a deal. She wouldn't be held responsible for any feelings.
When the war ended, she went back to him. And when things got rocky again (as they always did), he found himself in her company once more. He didn't exactly dislike their tug-of-war. He disliked his lack of control. Over her, over the situation, over his emotions. Stupid, to fall for the blood-traiter. What had he always been told.
She never looked back with regret. Not on the day she left him for good.
He wished he could say the same.
.
A/N: For the Marathon Competition: Mile Two (Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini)