Cherries.
StoryGirl.
Her lips are sweet, addictive, and he cannot resist the urgent, insistent draw he has towards her. They are sticky, the stickiness remaining on his lips long after they have broken apart, and red, so red he cannot resist to remember the colour of blood, the redness that stains the white.
She tastes like cherries.
Her lips are parted when he reaches her, a scowl on the lines of his faces, blond hair slicked with mud, the edges of his robes covered in the substance as well. She is standing, back to him, bag slung over her shoulder, her frizzy hair crackling with uncontrolled electricity.
She snaps at him when she whirls around and their eyes meet, angry, but soon softens when he captures her plump lips with his own, his heart almost stopping its beat at the taste of her lips. Cherries.
She never complains though, when he pulls her away into an abandoned classroom to steal a kiss, even though she is angry about it later. He suspects that she feels the same sort of pull that he does towards her. His sweet, his love, his Hermione. His.
Whenever he asks her what she uses to make her lips that way, she shrugs, brown eyes confused, a frame of mind she hates to be in. She uses nothing, she claims, before leaving him, leaving him with his thoughts, the Mark drumming a heavy taboo against the veins of his arm.
She uses nothing.
But when they meet again, she tastes like cherries.
He never questions her again.
They both have their own secrets to keep.
Written for the Fruit Challenge on HPFCC. Go check it out, it's awesome!