He will leave tonight, after everyone is asleep. It will be for the best. He needs to get away from The Burrow, away from her presence. He hopes she doesn't stay the night, hopes that she is so angry with him that she'll apparate home and not come back until he is far, far gone.
It takes hours for the house to settle, for the house to ease into the comfortable silence of sleep. Snow continues falling outside and everything glows blueish white. He's lucky that he travels light these days and he needn't worry about packing any bags. His stomach growls as he pulls on an extra pair of socks and decides that before he leaves, he will raid the kitchen because there's no sense is braving the cold and the snow in a weakened state.
He slips out of his bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. His stomach rumbles again and he curses these animalistic urges and their intensity. He damns the full moon as he enters the kitchen, his mind set on the ham he saw on the table at dinner. He is halfway to the cooler when he catches something out of the corner of his eye, a shadow near the sink.
The hair on his arms raises, sending prickles up into his scalp. He turns slowly, meeting her eyes through the darkness. She doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Her eyes are wide, her hair dull, and he can see her pulse hammering in her throat. His eyes train on the spot and he steps forward, without thinking, and reaches for her. He has no control over himself, no control over his body, his limbs. He cups the back of her head in his hand, wraps the other arm around her waist, and pulls her against his body. His mouth finds that spot where her pulse races just under her skin and he exhales with a groan when he smells her, sweet and soft, a bit of soap. She pushes at his shoulders and he pulls back, cradles her face in his hands, and kisses her. She doesn't push him away again, doesn't protest when he backs her against the counter, pinning her with his body.
The full moon is the next night. He feels the beast in every inch of him, in his blood stream, screaming louder and louder the closer they get to the apex of his madness. He wants her, he needs her in a way he has forgotten existed. But he knows, as his mouth moves to her jaw, to her neck, that he has never forgotten this painful desire, this carnal lust for her. He has never wanted anyone this way before and doubts he ever will again.
His hands moved over her body in a fury, finding their way under her jumper, moving lightly, quickly over her soft, warm skin. He presses his fingers into her ribs, feels her inhale and exhale, and he pulls the piece of clothing up her body and over her head. He is vaguely aware of their location, of how easily they could be happened upon, but it doesn't occur to him to mind. He wraps his arms around her, covering her upper body with his own, and holds her there for a moment, absorbing her body warmth, sharing his with her. Her fingers are at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling, tugging, urgent.
"We should...move...somewhere...else." She manages between kisses and gulps of air.
The animal does not care. But he finds a moment's control somewhere inside himself and nods, dragging her away from the counter, out of the kitchen, and down the hall to his room. He shuts the door, presses her against it with the weight of his body, and with his mouth at her neck, he mumbles incantations to charm the door, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the window. Her skin is salty and sweet and when he kisses the base of her throat, traces his tongue along her collarbone, he feels her become a part of him.
She gives up on the buttons and yanks his shirt open, sending buttons flying. They bounce off random objects: a bedpost, the desk, the floor. She pushes his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms until it falls in a heap on the floor. He inhales sharply when she tugs on his belt, loosens it, and unbuttons his pants. She seems driven by the same mindless need as he is and it only spurns him on.
He forgets their earlier conversation and all of his convictions. All of his determination is out the window. He pulls her away from the door, his hands moving under her top again and he pulls the piece of clothing up her body and over her head. She shivers, hands at his sides, and the blinding desire for her overpowers him and his mouth is at her neck, his hands searching for pieces of clothing to remove from her body.
His lack of control frightens him. He is afraid he'll hurt her but his fear isn't enough to stop him from wrapping his arms around her and walking them forward until they reach a bare bit of wall. Her hands tug at his pants and it is all blinding fury and the snow is still falling outside when finally, finally he buries his face in her neck and they move, quietly, slowly, desperately. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging into bare flesh, and there is nothing he can do to stop this now. He hears himself whispering her name, hoarsely, over and over again, breathing the syllables like a prayer into her hair, her neck, her shoulder. She tangles her fingers in his hair, keeps him close, pulls him closer when she presses her heel into the back of his thigh.
It is over too soon. They stand there, at the wall, for a long moment, breathing hard and shaking. He rests his forehead against hers, brushes the hair away from her face, says her name, draws her into his arms. His mind is still clouded, still thinking of her skin, her smell, her taste, and the soft curves he wants to spend the rest of the night re-learning. Her fingers stroke the back of his neck lightly and he shivers, lowers his head and kisses her. She stifles a yawn and without saying a word, he gathers her in his arms. She burrows into him, her face at his neck, as he carries her to the bed.
There is barely room for both of them on the small bed but Dora presses herself against him, her lips at his neck, and they make themselves smaller and smaller until they fit. Until they are practically the same person. He trails his fingers over her back, down her spine, to her hips, her thighs. This is how he would like to spend his last night on earth, wrapped up in this woman he loves without reason, without hesitation. Her presence, her heart beating so close to his own, lulls him into a deep, dreamless sleep but even in his sleep, he knows she is there, feels her warmth, feels her in his arms, against his chest and torso and legs.
His eyes open with ease and for a moment, he forgets where he is, when he is, and it doesn't occur to him to worry that Dora is asleep in his arms, nestled against his chest. He watches her for a moment before brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. He glances toward the window and a shaft of pale, silver light falls across the floor, illuminating the room in a soft, ghostly glow.
It hits him hard, in the chest. The full moon. The full moon is that night, Christmas Eve, and he is in bed with Dora, her naked skin pressed to his naked skin, and he reeks of her. He knows he reeks of her. Of them. Together. He looks down at her, her face so peaceful, and deep, sharp, piercing regret floods his chest. Why? Why was he such a fool? Why did he do it? Why?
He slips from the bed, careful not to wake her, and pulls on his clothes hastily, his eyes trained on her sleeping form. This is a mistake. It was a mistake. The animal in him moves languidly under the surface, sated, and he curses himself for not having more control, for not finding the human side of his logic and applying it before he put her life in such grave, grave danger.
There is no time to grab any of his belongings, not even a bite to eat before he must leave. He lifts his shirt to his nose as he opens the bedroom door and his jaw clenches almost involuntarily. Everything of his smells like her. The pack will know before he even arrives that he has been with her and they will use it against him in the worst way imaginable.
He washes up in the bathroom, ignores the burning pain in his bones, in his joints. No amount of soap can remove her from him completely and he swears quietly as he dresses again. He needs new clothes, things that are not his, and he needs them immediately. He moves through the house with an agility he always forgets he has until he reaches the laundry room. He digs through the various bits of clothing until he finds a few things of Arthur's and a few things of Bill's that will keep him warm against the elements for a few days. He sheds his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, pulls on the new pieces, and then stops, leans against the door jamb, and forces himself to stop shaking.
Five minutes later, he is back in his bedroom, standing beside the bed. Dora's face is relaxed and beautiful in sleep; she is truly vulnerable and perfect and now he must hurt her. He must break her into a thousand pieces. He must take the thing that will destroy her and use it to protect her. He leans down, presses his lips to her forehead, her cheek, and pulls back the blanket to touch her side, just below her ribs. He tucks the blanket around her again, kisses her cheek, and forces himself to take a step back. Then another. And then several more until he is in the hallway and making his way to the front door.
He takes one of Arthur's cloaks from the closet and drapes it over his shoulders before walking outside into the crisp, bone chilling cold. A few miles up the lane, there lies a farm where he will stop and attempt to cover her scent, attempt to make it appear that he has not been living among wizards for the past few days. With each step he takes, he hates himself a little more. He knows she will wake up in a few hours and will find herself alone in his bed. He knows he will not see her for a long time after this because this will shatter her, just as it is shattering him now. He worries she will never forgive him, will never agree to see him again once this is over, and he wonders if this will be the thing that breaks him completely. He wonders if maybe he should just lay down in the snow and wait until his mind is hazy and all he has to do is fall asleep. But he cannot. He knows he cannot. He is doing this for something bigger and more important than himself. He's doing it for her. He's doing it for them. For the hope of their future together. And so he pushes himself forward, onward, into the darkest part of his night and the darkest part of hers.
(c) 2008
