Inspired by Ella Eyre's cover of 'We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off'.
I own neither the song nor the works of J.K Rowling.
You had thought the rules were incontrovertibly clear.
That you would orbit concentrically, skipping over solar systems and pleasantries, until he plucks you out and rests a deliberate hand on the naked slope of your back.
That you would casually scrape against the other's resolve, the echoing crevasse of unfamiliarity filling with the sticky, seductive rhythm of temptation.
That you would elope from the cordial commune and instead steal unconstrained caresses in the same deserted hallways you used to roam as nondescript strangers.
And that maybe if you granted the cherry wine free reign over your intoxicated inhibitions, that he would bear down on your yielding form and stroke your aching ego into sated submission.
But in painful, translucent actuality, there is an inferno of humiliation blazing across your cheeks as he re-places the crimson silk back onto your frozen shoulder.
You feel like a recalcitrant child, cowed into capitulation, unsure exactly where they took the fatal misstep.
Still, he reclines, crossing an elegant limb over the other, content to allow unappeased silence to descend upon the temporarily abandoned classroom.
He explains that he desires more than to know what lays between your thighs.
That you are worth more than a liquor soaked fumble and a shaking resolve.
That only until he has erected his triumphant flag in your darkest corners and lay between the entrenched headstones of your self-doubt, will he conquer the next great divide.
And perhaps tomorrow he will tell you that you have never been nondescript, even all those years ago.
Or perhaps he won't.
You could never tell with Blaise.
~ Fin ~