Notes/Warnings: Is this going to be a chaptered story? I don't really think
so. Think of this chapter as simply, the flipside of the story. Who knows.
I may add on a third perspective and make it a trilogy. Anywho, this
chapter contains language, adult situations, self-mutilation, and self-
gratification. You have been warned.
It was damned cold that night. I couldn't sleep. The fires roared, but I could still see my breath in front of me as I lay curled beneath my covers. I suddenly became aware of a presence in the room. It was nearly midnight, so I felt a little uneasy. I sat up in bed, and saw a shadow coming nearer to me. It was not until she was inches from my face that I recognized it as being Angelina.
I smiled at her in the dark. "What's up?" I whispered.
"Mind if I borrow that flask of yours?" she asked.
"Sure." I slipped out from beneath the covers, feeling a blast of cold as I did. I quietly opened my trunk, rummaged through it for a moment, and produced a plain metal flask. It contained a strong brew George and I had concocted one day out of boredom. I had never liked the stuff myself much, but Angelina took quite a liking to it.
She took the flask from me and gave me a brief peck on the cheek. "Thanks." She slipped out as stealthily as she had come.
She was going to her quiet place. Angelina had lately taken to midnight journeys to the library. She would sit, sometimes all night, just staring at the fire and sipping wretched homemade liquor. I had gone with her a few times, to provide a little company, but she seemed indifferent to my presence. As I watched her, face aglow from the orange firelight, I knew that these visits were meant to be spent alone. I could only imagine what thoughts were swimming behind her dark eyes. There were times when I would have given anything to have the power to dig into her mind, and see what it was that captivated her so. What place did her mind wander to as she slowly inebriated herself and got lost in the dancing flames of the library fire? I would never know.
I wished that I had the courage to at least ask her about her thoughts. In all the time we spent alone together, in all the years of friendship we'd shared, I'd never been able to just say, "What makes you tick, Angelina?" I never had the strength to reach out and brush my fingers against her smooth, chocolate skin. There wasn't a single day when I didn't curse myself for being so afraid of my own feelings. I was so busy trying to keep my raging hormones from controlling me, stopping myself from making moves on Angelina because we were friends, that I had hardly noticed I'd fallen madly in love with her.
But how to tell her? It seemed like an impossible task. I didn't possess the strength to put it all into words. None of my wit or cleverness could come close to explaining to Angelina the things she did to me. She was my counterpart, my perfect opposite. Her laughter livened my mood and gave me spirit. Her tears gave me the motivation to be strong and be there for her. She was the substance that diluted my concentrated madness and made it the perfect balance. I myself could hardly fathom the sort of power she gave me; how could I possibly make her understand the things that only the dark depths of my mind seemed to comprehend.
I thought about the Quidditch practice we'd had that afternoon. Bloody freezing, and rain on top of that. Angelina kept driving us on, motivating us to keep at it for about two hours, until Madam Hooch came onto the field screaming at us to get our bloody asses down; we'd apparently gone mad to practice in that weather. I thought of the instant, the brief instant, when I touched down beside Angelina and nearly kissed her. Her face was dotted with silvery droplets of water, her crimson robes soaked and dripping. The warmth of her breath was visible in the form of a translucent white puff pouring from her mouth as she breathed. At that moment I thought I would be unable to control myself; in that moment I'd seemed to think I'd go mad if I didn't indulge in her soft brown lips.
I sighed softly. I slipped my hand down and held myself firmly, my mind dancing with visions of a soaking wet Angelina in dark red Quidditch robes.
I slapped my forehead. Get a hold of yourself, Weasley, I thought to myself. I added, And not in the way you're presently doing it. I was only torturing myself. I shouldn't even allow myself to fantasize about her. I knew I would never be able to muster up the strength to approach her, and I shouldn't even let myself suffer the disappointment of those fantasies not coming true. There were no words... NO WORDS to describe the feelings I had. I would never be satisfied with a simple, "I love you," because it felt like so much more. Something along the lines of, I need you. I crave you. I live off your light. I worship you. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I covered my face with my hands. These sort of thoughts were making me positively sick to my stomach. It was late, I was tired, I was freezing my bum off, and all the while thoughts and emotions battled each other within me. I found my own words resonating through my brain like a haunting echo. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I threw my covers off of me, and didn't even notice the cold. Once I put one foot in front of the other, I found myself unable to stop walking. I moved briskly out of Gryffindor Tower, and down the silent halls of Hogwarts. I hardly knew what I was doing; I was driven purely by a force unknown to me. I was going to Angelina, I knew, but what would happen when I got there? Would my words fail me, get caught in my throat? Would she feel the same?
I found myself at the library. The walked had taken ages, and yet it had not taken nearly long enough. I entered and was greeted by the crackling fire and the smell of moldy texts. I was just about to whip around the corner when I had an unnerving realization: there was someone else in the library with Angelina. I grew lost in a mix of hurt, fear, and confusion. I had never thought Angelina brought anyone else to her quiet place, and the idea that she did made me almost jealous. I crept through rows of books to get a better view. I peeked over a shelf and saw something that shattered my heart and mind into pieces.
I saw Angelina cradling Hermione in her arms, pressing their bodies close together. Angelina was breathing heavily into the nape of Hermione's neck panting, "You have no idea how long... how deeply I've wanted to hear you say that." I swallowed hard. My brain went numb as Angelina slowly peeled black school robes and underwear off of Hermione. It was like a sick dream playing out before me. I saw Angelina's body. Her lean muscle and smooth skin, even more exquisite than all of my daydreaming could have cooked up. I saw crevices and curves of girls I had never seen before. I normally would have killed a man to see Angelina bare, but somehow it was all horribly wrong. She intertwined herself with Hermione, and they seemed to be touching each other everywhere at once.
My stomach churned, but I could not tear my eyes away. I watched Angelina's lips, those lips that I'd needed so badly for comfort, move up and down Hermione. I watched the rapid rise and fall of Angelina's chest as she breathed hard on Hermione's skin. I saw Angelina's eyes roll back in her head as she let out moans of deep and unworldly pleasure. There was something radically different about her. She looked exactly the same, and yet she looked bizarrely different. Her face contorted in pain and pleasure, and she screamed in an animalistic way. I was getting hard... my eyes and body seemed to be infinitely pleased by this savage and carnal display of flesh, but those feelings conflicted with that of my aching heart.
The skin. The gasping. The kissing. The touching. It was driving me mad, and yet I had lost all control of my body; I could not make myself move. I kept hearing Angelina's breathy voice groaning, "Hermione." It rang in my brain like a blaring siren. Fury and panic and unprecedented confusion rose up in me. "Hermione!" Angelina called out. It was all a dream. It was all a sick, delicious, poisonous dream. I snapped. I broke into a run, leaving the library, darting through the blackened halls. I found myself unable to stop running until I was in the safe solitude of the Gryffindor common room.
"Love is a bitch," I muttered aloud. I sat on the floor by the fire in my t- shirt and boxers. I didn't dare break my gaze from the fire; images of Hermione and Angelina in positions of ecstasy seemed to come pouring into my mind if I let it wander from anything but the fire. Such rage and sadness and uncertainty were burning in me that I seemed to simply go numb.
I clutched my hands around my own arms, digging my nails into my flesh and thinking vaguely how I'd like to shove a butcher knife through Hermione's face. Warm tears eased down my face; I hadn't noticed it until I'd reached the common room, but I'd been crying the whole time I'd been watching. It was... wrong. Angelina was the other part of me. Angelina was everything I needed to be complete. But as I envisioned her crying out Hermione's name, I knew that she had no earthly idea what she was to me. I thought back on my words. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I crept up to the dormitory, retrieved my wand, and returned to my spot before the fireplace, where I knew I'd have plenty of light. "I'll show her," I said to myself. "Bladus." I touched the tip of the wand lightly with my index finger; it was sharp.
I traced the edge, lightly at first, around the flesh of my forearm. I pressed into my skin, and let out a breath as it penetrated me and ripped a gash in my flesh. The gash quickly filled with crimson blood. In the firelight, I watched it drip ever so slowly along my arm. It had a painful resemblance to wet Gryffindor Quidditch robes. Tears continued to fall; I made a second gash. I lifted my arm to my lips, and kissed it. Red blood smeared around my face and lips. I lapped up the blood, feeling its metallic taste in my mouth, and swallowed. I put the blade in my other hand and made long, shallow cuts along my other arm. My arms, chest, and face were soon lightly bathed in dark red.
Even the pain of breaking my own flesh, even the taste of my own blood, could not force Angelina out of my mind. I thought back with horror and arousal of she and Hermione, locked in a position that looked both saintly and demonic. There voices... their pleasured cries. I ran my bloodstained fingers up and down my chest; I dug my own nails into me. "Angel," I whispered. I reached into my boxers and stroked myself slowly. I swam through images of Angelina's naked body; Hermione's pink tongue brushing against the different parts of Angelina's brown skin. I guided myself in a fierce, rhythmic pattern, back and forth. All I could see was Hermione and Angelina, alone in their little world, pleasing one another and unaware of anyone else in the universe. I felt myself trying to match them. I wanted so badly to have what Hermione had stolen from me.
My free arm flung back to my face, rubbed against my forehead. Blood smeared everywhere. I was sweating. Thoughts of sex and murder and love and hate bled within my head. I saw flesh, rubbing forcefully against each other. I saw sweat, skin, legs, blood, breasts, rain, fire... My breathing grew heavy as I felt myself escalate in pleasure, but it was bittersweet because I knew Hermione was experiencing more than I could ever hope to obtain. Stolen from me. Dreams of love and lust, robbed before I ever even had them.
My breaths and thoughts slowed gradually as I came. What a lunatic I am, I thought coldly too myself as my arms continued to bleed and as tears poured from my eyes. Whoever heard of a guy crying while he gets off? Sounds like something a bloody girl would do. Bloody girls...
But even anger was not enough to cover the emotion I felt that went deeper... despair. I was alone. I was incomplete. Angelina had refused me before I'd ever even had the chance to offer myself to her. What would become of me? What could possibly keep me from going over the edge, now that the one thing true in my world was in the arms of another woman? As long as Angelina wasn't a part of me, I was nothing. I may as well cease to be.
It was damned cold that night. I couldn't sleep. The fires roared, but I could still see my breath in front of me as I lay curled beneath my covers. I suddenly became aware of a presence in the room. It was nearly midnight, so I felt a little uneasy. I sat up in bed, and saw a shadow coming nearer to me. It was not until she was inches from my face that I recognized it as being Angelina.
I smiled at her in the dark. "What's up?" I whispered.
"Mind if I borrow that flask of yours?" she asked.
"Sure." I slipped out from beneath the covers, feeling a blast of cold as I did. I quietly opened my trunk, rummaged through it for a moment, and produced a plain metal flask. It contained a strong brew George and I had concocted one day out of boredom. I had never liked the stuff myself much, but Angelina took quite a liking to it.
She took the flask from me and gave me a brief peck on the cheek. "Thanks." She slipped out as stealthily as she had come.
She was going to her quiet place. Angelina had lately taken to midnight journeys to the library. She would sit, sometimes all night, just staring at the fire and sipping wretched homemade liquor. I had gone with her a few times, to provide a little company, but she seemed indifferent to my presence. As I watched her, face aglow from the orange firelight, I knew that these visits were meant to be spent alone. I could only imagine what thoughts were swimming behind her dark eyes. There were times when I would have given anything to have the power to dig into her mind, and see what it was that captivated her so. What place did her mind wander to as she slowly inebriated herself and got lost in the dancing flames of the library fire? I would never know.
I wished that I had the courage to at least ask her about her thoughts. In all the time we spent alone together, in all the years of friendship we'd shared, I'd never been able to just say, "What makes you tick, Angelina?" I never had the strength to reach out and brush my fingers against her smooth, chocolate skin. There wasn't a single day when I didn't curse myself for being so afraid of my own feelings. I was so busy trying to keep my raging hormones from controlling me, stopping myself from making moves on Angelina because we were friends, that I had hardly noticed I'd fallen madly in love with her.
But how to tell her? It seemed like an impossible task. I didn't possess the strength to put it all into words. None of my wit or cleverness could come close to explaining to Angelina the things she did to me. She was my counterpart, my perfect opposite. Her laughter livened my mood and gave me spirit. Her tears gave me the motivation to be strong and be there for her. She was the substance that diluted my concentrated madness and made it the perfect balance. I myself could hardly fathom the sort of power she gave me; how could I possibly make her understand the things that only the dark depths of my mind seemed to comprehend.
I thought about the Quidditch practice we'd had that afternoon. Bloody freezing, and rain on top of that. Angelina kept driving us on, motivating us to keep at it for about two hours, until Madam Hooch came onto the field screaming at us to get our bloody asses down; we'd apparently gone mad to practice in that weather. I thought of the instant, the brief instant, when I touched down beside Angelina and nearly kissed her. Her face was dotted with silvery droplets of water, her crimson robes soaked and dripping. The warmth of her breath was visible in the form of a translucent white puff pouring from her mouth as she breathed. At that moment I thought I would be unable to control myself; in that moment I'd seemed to think I'd go mad if I didn't indulge in her soft brown lips.
I sighed softly. I slipped my hand down and held myself firmly, my mind dancing with visions of a soaking wet Angelina in dark red Quidditch robes.
I slapped my forehead. Get a hold of yourself, Weasley, I thought to myself. I added, And not in the way you're presently doing it. I was only torturing myself. I shouldn't even allow myself to fantasize about her. I knew I would never be able to muster up the strength to approach her, and I shouldn't even let myself suffer the disappointment of those fantasies not coming true. There were no words... NO WORDS to describe the feelings I had. I would never be satisfied with a simple, "I love you," because it felt like so much more. Something along the lines of, I need you. I crave you. I live off your light. I worship you. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I covered my face with my hands. These sort of thoughts were making me positively sick to my stomach. It was late, I was tired, I was freezing my bum off, and all the while thoughts and emotions battled each other within me. I found my own words resonating through my brain like a haunting echo. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I threw my covers off of me, and didn't even notice the cold. Once I put one foot in front of the other, I found myself unable to stop walking. I moved briskly out of Gryffindor Tower, and down the silent halls of Hogwarts. I hardly knew what I was doing; I was driven purely by a force unknown to me. I was going to Angelina, I knew, but what would happen when I got there? Would my words fail me, get caught in my throat? Would she feel the same?
I found myself at the library. The walked had taken ages, and yet it had not taken nearly long enough. I entered and was greeted by the crackling fire and the smell of moldy texts. I was just about to whip around the corner when I had an unnerving realization: there was someone else in the library with Angelina. I grew lost in a mix of hurt, fear, and confusion. I had never thought Angelina brought anyone else to her quiet place, and the idea that she did made me almost jealous. I crept through rows of books to get a better view. I peeked over a shelf and saw something that shattered my heart and mind into pieces.
I saw Angelina cradling Hermione in her arms, pressing their bodies close together. Angelina was breathing heavily into the nape of Hermione's neck panting, "You have no idea how long... how deeply I've wanted to hear you say that." I swallowed hard. My brain went numb as Angelina slowly peeled black school robes and underwear off of Hermione. It was like a sick dream playing out before me. I saw Angelina's body. Her lean muscle and smooth skin, even more exquisite than all of my daydreaming could have cooked up. I saw crevices and curves of girls I had never seen before. I normally would have killed a man to see Angelina bare, but somehow it was all horribly wrong. She intertwined herself with Hermione, and they seemed to be touching each other everywhere at once.
My stomach churned, but I could not tear my eyes away. I watched Angelina's lips, those lips that I'd needed so badly for comfort, move up and down Hermione. I watched the rapid rise and fall of Angelina's chest as she breathed hard on Hermione's skin. I saw Angelina's eyes roll back in her head as she let out moans of deep and unworldly pleasure. There was something radically different about her. She looked exactly the same, and yet she looked bizarrely different. Her face contorted in pain and pleasure, and she screamed in an animalistic way. I was getting hard... my eyes and body seemed to be infinitely pleased by this savage and carnal display of flesh, but those feelings conflicted with that of my aching heart.
The skin. The gasping. The kissing. The touching. It was driving me mad, and yet I had lost all control of my body; I could not make myself move. I kept hearing Angelina's breathy voice groaning, "Hermione." It rang in my brain like a blaring siren. Fury and panic and unprecedented confusion rose up in me. "Hermione!" Angelina called out. It was all a dream. It was all a sick, delicious, poisonous dream. I snapped. I broke into a run, leaving the library, darting through the blackened halls. I found myself unable to stop running until I was in the safe solitude of the Gryffindor common room.
"Love is a bitch," I muttered aloud. I sat on the floor by the fire in my t- shirt and boxers. I didn't dare break my gaze from the fire; images of Hermione and Angelina in positions of ecstasy seemed to come pouring into my mind if I let it wander from anything but the fire. Such rage and sadness and uncertainty were burning in me that I seemed to simply go numb.
I clutched my hands around my own arms, digging my nails into my flesh and thinking vaguely how I'd like to shove a butcher knife through Hermione's face. Warm tears eased down my face; I hadn't noticed it until I'd reached the common room, but I'd been crying the whole time I'd been watching. It was... wrong. Angelina was the other part of me. Angelina was everything I needed to be complete. But as I envisioned her crying out Hermione's name, I knew that she had no earthly idea what she was to me. I thought back on my words. I'll fucking die if I can't live and breathe you.
I crept up to the dormitory, retrieved my wand, and returned to my spot before the fireplace, where I knew I'd have plenty of light. "I'll show her," I said to myself. "Bladus." I touched the tip of the wand lightly with my index finger; it was sharp.
I traced the edge, lightly at first, around the flesh of my forearm. I pressed into my skin, and let out a breath as it penetrated me and ripped a gash in my flesh. The gash quickly filled with crimson blood. In the firelight, I watched it drip ever so slowly along my arm. It had a painful resemblance to wet Gryffindor Quidditch robes. Tears continued to fall; I made a second gash. I lifted my arm to my lips, and kissed it. Red blood smeared around my face and lips. I lapped up the blood, feeling its metallic taste in my mouth, and swallowed. I put the blade in my other hand and made long, shallow cuts along my other arm. My arms, chest, and face were soon lightly bathed in dark red.
Even the pain of breaking my own flesh, even the taste of my own blood, could not force Angelina out of my mind. I thought back with horror and arousal of she and Hermione, locked in a position that looked both saintly and demonic. There voices... their pleasured cries. I ran my bloodstained fingers up and down my chest; I dug my own nails into me. "Angel," I whispered. I reached into my boxers and stroked myself slowly. I swam through images of Angelina's naked body; Hermione's pink tongue brushing against the different parts of Angelina's brown skin. I guided myself in a fierce, rhythmic pattern, back and forth. All I could see was Hermione and Angelina, alone in their little world, pleasing one another and unaware of anyone else in the universe. I felt myself trying to match them. I wanted so badly to have what Hermione had stolen from me.
My free arm flung back to my face, rubbed against my forehead. Blood smeared everywhere. I was sweating. Thoughts of sex and murder and love and hate bled within my head. I saw flesh, rubbing forcefully against each other. I saw sweat, skin, legs, blood, breasts, rain, fire... My breathing grew heavy as I felt myself escalate in pleasure, but it was bittersweet because I knew Hermione was experiencing more than I could ever hope to obtain. Stolen from me. Dreams of love and lust, robbed before I ever even had them.
My breaths and thoughts slowed gradually as I came. What a lunatic I am, I thought coldly too myself as my arms continued to bleed and as tears poured from my eyes. Whoever heard of a guy crying while he gets off? Sounds like something a bloody girl would do. Bloody girls...
But even anger was not enough to cover the emotion I felt that went deeper... despair. I was alone. I was incomplete. Angelina had refused me before I'd ever even had the chance to offer myself to her. What would become of me? What could possibly keep me from going over the edge, now that the one thing true in my world was in the arms of another woman? As long as Angelina wasn't a part of me, I was nothing. I may as well cease to be.