Hermione stood alone in front of the mirror in the cold, dark room. Running her fingers over the deep purple-blue bruises on the hollows of her hips, she sighed. She knew every intrusion by heart. Everywhere his prying fingers would scorch her skin. It was her own fault that the hem of her skirt was too high, and the dip in her blouse was too low. It was her fault that her hair was so thick; his hands got tangled in it sometimes.

And she could pretend she didn't know about all of his other girls. The walls were not thick; she could hear them even now. She could deny that she imagined all those girls touching him,

Grabbing

Tasting

Taking.

She knew every curve and mark on his body.

And suddenly he was on top of her, panting and groaning. He suffocated her, and his weight pressed down on her frail frame, muffling her cries. He seeped through her like poison, burning through her veins.

"I starve for you," she uttered breathlessly to him.

But this new diet's liquid.

And dulling to the senses. And it's crude,

but it will do.