Song Six
White Lines and Lipstick
It's just these little pills
That make my dreams feel real
And I'm still craving more.
The room stank of stale sweat and piss. The carpet stuck to the bottom of his boots as he pushed his way through the crowd towards the bar. The strobe lights were flashing in time to the music, making his head hurt. On the dance floor, people writhed up against one another, scantly dressed.
He caught the eye of a barmaid, her hair chopped with vibrant purple dye in places. Her nose was pierced and she had a ring on her lip. "Tequilla," he shouted over the music and then he raised three fingers. She nodded. He watched as she stretched up to get the glasses, showing off her tattooed stomach.
She placed the small glasses in front of him, picked up a bottle of amber liquid and poured it. She put a plate of salt and a glass of lemon slices next to them.
He nodded at the drinks and said, "Want one?" to the bar maid.
She grinned, licked the back of her right hand and then sprinkled a pinch of salt onto the small patch of spit. He mimicked her.
They licked the salt, and knocked the liquid down their throats, grabbed the lemon and bit into it. He performed the routine again.
"Drinking alone ain't good for ya," she said, drawing close to his ear. Her artfully torn top gaped forwards showing him her ample cleavage.
"I was under th'impression you'd jus drank with me, love?" he asked playfully in thick accented Irish, his eyes lingering on her torn top.
"Only once, an I'm sure ya did two." She grinned wickedly and he winked.
*
They were in the back ally way, sharing a cigarette and kissing smoke. The last of the ash tumbled to the floor and he backed her into the wall, pushing his erection into her thigh. He began kissing down her neck gently, occasionally nipping at her flesh with his teeth. "I don't even know your name," she groaned as his hand slipped up her skirt. She wasn't wearing underwear.
"You don't need to know it," and he kissed her full on the mouth.
*
She was curled around him, her soft flesh pressed against his. She'd slipped into the dormitory at around two am and into his bed. She'd had a nightmare, needed comfort. Neville snored lightly over the other side of the room.
It hadn't been about sex, just wanting someone close. He tucked a strand of her curly blonde hair behind her ear, gently caressing the exposed skin of her arm. He was gonna marry her. After all this was over, after they'd beaten the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who, he was gonna take her to Ireland, buy them a nice little house and marry her.
He kissed her forehead, imagining their daughters with sandy curls and gleaming blue eyes, their mischievous little boys with a face full of freckles. And they wouldn't know pain and they wouldn't know the darkness. Mummy and Daddy would be heroes, survivors, proof that evil never wins. They'd be able to tuck them into their beds at nights with kisses and stories of happiness without worrying they'd awake to find them slaughtered, to worry that they had lied and that evil was just outside the door.
*
It wasn't enough. It was never enough. There was blood on his hands, a mark on his back, scars so deep that you couldn't even see them any more. He would drink. And he'd fuck. And he'd shoot up with junk. Or he'd snort the strongest snow he could lay his hands on. But it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
*
The Dark Lord had fallen an hour before and the dead were still being found, their broken bodies scattered around remote parts of the castle. They died alone, in pain, hidden, crushed, raped and shattered.
There was nothing victorious in that.
Within the hour before the final struggle, she'd been missing. He had hoped she was hiding somewhere, injured perhaps, but nothing too fatal. Or else helping someone who themselves was injured.
By the time they found her, under the rubble of the collapsed marble staircase, she had been dead nearly three hours. Her skin was dusted with debris, her hair smeared grey. Her eyes were glassy, lifeless. Her throat mangled and bloody.
He tugged one of her matted curls behind her ear, a faint gesture to that night lost long ago, hidden in Gryffindor tower, in a bed of soft and freshly laundered sheets. His hand slipped over her eyes, dragging the lids down.
If it weren't for the gashes at her neck she could be sleeping, but they were all too telling of the sexual predator that had ripped the life from the woman he would have loved.
*
He cut the Charlie into neat lines and used a Muggle twenty to snort it up.
Forget it all.
Forget the explosions and the screams. Forget the falling rubble and each shouted or uttered curse. Forget the noise of the splintering wood, of the sobs, of the roaring flames. Forget her scent and her smile. Forget the carefree afternoons spent lazing under the warm sun by the lake. Forget the feel of her skin in the dead of the night and the way her body lay spread-eagled on the battleground. Forget who fell and who walked away. Forget the nightmares. Forget the flashbacks. Forget the good times.
Forget it all.
________
Author's Note: Wow, I'm bad at this, right? This challenge was meant to be finished by the end of last year .
I'm gonna carry it on cause I honestly enjoy writing these little stories.
Seamus' wound up being much darker than I ever intended. My bad.
Hopefully another chapter soon :] A Draco one, I believe, if I consult my notes ;D