"Ain't no need to cry, darlin'," I said, eventually, and peeled a piece of hair from her cheek that was stuck to the skin with her tears. "Ain't no fairy godmother gonna come for you now. Just got me and my mates, ain't ya? Just me and your little teacher when we get you back to school…" Like she'd been kicked in the stomach she inhaled sharply, straining against me as if she'd finally realised where she was and what was happening to her.
"What? School? You can't take me back to her," she protested, her eyes wide and glassy, "You know what they're like there now. What they do..."
"Ain't my problem, darlin'," I said with a smirk, pushed her back when she gasped loudly and tried to leap up. "Ministry weren't right for a girl like you anyway. Woulda taken your wand and sent you home again, that's all. 'Sure your teachers can think of something much more suitable for you…"
"No," she said, and she was shaking her head, her mouth trembling again. "No. You can't, you wouldn't." And looking at her, lying there underneath me, her face so full of things I'd never seen before, I realised that it was all up to me. My choices, my decisions. I'd taken the responsibility for her, taken it from her own hands, and her destiny in so many ways was mine now. And I felt something deep and colossal stir inside me, recognised a sort of guilt, a sort of culpability, realised that it was there, ignored it, suppressed it- but looked back into her face and found that she demanded it, some sympathy. Something. And I had to get rid of it.
"Don't," I said, and I was shaking my head. Just that expression. Killing me. "You ain't changing nothin', beautiful. Don't look at me like that." She pressed her lips together and whispered,
"Do it now, then. If you aren't going to take me back to the Ministry. If you're going to take me back to her. Why don't you just kill me now?"
"Don't be stupid, darlin'," I grinned, flicked her under her chin. "We don't get no money if we hand you over dead, do we?" She exploded into a sudden fit of anger and hit me on my shoulder; hit me across my arms, across my chest, weak but numerous blows that disorientated me a little, perturbed me a lot. She squirmed beneath me, pulling the rug up beneath her so that it bunched around us, her face white and angry as her hands tore at my clothes.
"Oh, I hate you!" she screamed, the force of her cries pushing her head forwards, her lips pouted, "I hate the lot of you. You're not human. You don't feel. You're just-" She wailed in anguish, high and long as I caught her arms and pinned them above her head.
"Putting on quite a performance, ain't you?" I hissed, pulling back a little as she moved towards me.
"Shut up!" She exclaimed, and her fingertips swiped past my face, her nails leaving soft pink trails. "Just shut up, shut up!" She pulled on my shirt, tugged it so hard two buttons came loose and in the shadows the outline on my chest became visible, and she stared at it, suddenly quiet, breathing loudly through her nose, lips pursed.
"What the hell is that?"
"What? Ain't never seen a tattoo before, darlin'?" I asked and sat up a little, pulled my shirt to the side to reveal it.
"'Course I bloody have'," she hissed, but she didn't look away, just lay there gazing quietly, placid except for the way her chest was heaving, the heat that was coming off her face. "What is it?" She said, after a moment, and then before I could react she'd wriggled free and was tracing its outline with the tip of her finger, and there was the shock of her breath on my skin, the crackling electricity of her touch, and I think she knew before I did. She looked up at me and I said slowly,
"Serpent." I caressed her cheek, quickly and gently. "For destruction." I can't describe now how her face was then; contemplative, controlled, a little strained. I ache to say that I stood up a left her but I didn't, and so I'll lie. I'll lie about it all. About how I fell on her, wild and hungry, pressed my panting mouth to her hair, inhaled its scent greedily, took fistfuls of it in my hands. About how I felt her body as it stiffened against mine, and mine against hers. I'll lie about how I tore open my belt and my trousers and pushed myself on her. About how in the middle of it all I watched a silver tear spill onto her cheek, and how she turned her face away without a word like she wasn't a part of it, her face emotionless in the moonlight, jerking as my body moved against hers. And I'll lie when I say I felt nothing at all, because even the absence of feeling is something, I know. Even emptiness hurts.
I'm not going to say a lot. Just that posts may suddenly be rather irregular for the next week or so at least, and that I really whole-heartedly appreciate all your reviews!
You can find a copy of his tattoo here: .com/albums/q87/broken_since_
