Notes: Um… I guess I'll write more if I can sway it with the literary muse.
By the way… *pokes Remus/Harry fans* Where is this fabled "mailing list" that I've been unable to find when left to my own devices? Link? Please? ;__; I'd be ever so grateful.
Of The End
This is the beginning.
I think there's something wrong with me.
Physically, I've been slow to develop. Even at the age of fifteen, I look about the same as I did when I was twelve. I'm thin, short, and a little willowy around my limbs. My skin is smooth and a slightly too pale; I have yet to develop facial hair of any kind.
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and wonder whether I should have been born a girl. Maybe it would have made things easier.
While my body may be slow adjusting to the idea of puberty, my mind has had no problem with the idea of a 'sexual revolution' of sorts. It's a burning teenage love deep in the pit of my stomach.
I read somewhere that when girls mature they sometimes suffer from extremely poor body image. I wonder… does that ever happen to boys too? Perhaps that's my problem. I'm a little afraid of becoming an adult, having an adult body. But my mind is also afraid of staying inside the body of a child.
I want to talk to someone. But I feel like this is something I should keep to myself. I can't imagine sitting down with Ron and Hermione, casual and happy in the commons room, and trying to tell them about what's eating away at me.
It's not abnormal. That what I keep trying to tell myself. It's not abnormal; it doesn't make me a bad person. But it still feels wrong, no matter what I try to tell myself. I miss the days when I lay awake in bed thinking about Quidditch or homework I had yet to do.
Now… now it's all about fucking. Every night I tug the curtains closed around my bedposts, snuggle beneath my covers, and reach one hand 'down there' to touch myself. If I don't, my dreams become vividly sexual… sometimes frightening. I've dreamed about being raped before, and those dreams confuse me. I think some part of me actually wants to be raped… but I know rape is a crime. It's a Bad Thing.
But if it's such a Bad Thing, then why do I always cry out with pleasure in my dreams? Why do I imagine people- adults- I know as my attacker? My villain?
Yes, that's the worst. Because I can see these people forcing themselves upon me, even after I open my eyes. I always feel awkward for a few days afterward around the chosen person, gently avoiding their company and trying to come to terms with the fact that no one ever touched me.
Still… when I dreamt of Professor Lupin, it was completely different. Oh, he still ripped my clothes to shreds and forced me against a wall; the sex was incredibly violent. But the next day, when I saw him in class, my heart skipped a beat. No, not in fear… but in anticipation.
That dream was the beginning of a crush… a crush that has spanned nearly two years time, ever since that fateful day in third year when I looked into his eyes and saw another person instead of just a professor. His eyes are amber, deep and flecked with gold. I'm afraid I spent more time concentrating on them than on Defense Against The Dark Arts when he was teaching.
Finding out he was a werewolf deterred me not at all. If anything, it made the dreams more frequent and brutal. My subconscious introduced what I later learned was commonly called 'blood play' into my fantasies about Lupin. And, later, I discovered that many of my desires were frequently of the genre "bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism". BDS&M. A horrible, frightening acronym that I detest thinking about during daylight hours.
I am restless. My fifth year is ending and he is in the building again, prowling the hallways with an easy smile and a cheerful wink for me. My eyelashes always flutter, and I flush something horrible when in the same room with him. I'm afraid. I'm excited.
I want something, but don't know how to ask for it. This is worse than convincing a girl to go to the ball with me… I'd be exposing a part of myself that I don't like, but enjoy. Yes, I'd have to reveal myself to him sexually, and I'm so scared to do something like that.
How could I tell this older man, this person I so admire and lust after, something that I can't even find the courage to tell to my friends? What would I say, in either case? "Hello, Professor. Hello, Hermione… Ron. Did I ever tell you that I find blood to be incredibly erotic? Especially my own blood? No? Well, I do. And, since you know that, you should also know that I fantasize about being tied down and brutally raped. Night, after night, after night…"
I'd never be able to face them again. Embarrassment, shame, disgust would drive me away.
I feel so dirty. I don't think this kind of thing is at all right, even though I try so hard to reassure myself. God, all I want to do is be clean… but no amount of soap will take away the pervasive stench of my hateful desires. Sometimes I wish I could open my skull and scrub at my brain, scrub and wash it until every trace of bad, nasty thoughts had been swept away.
Restless, restless. So restless. The night is warm and I cannot sleep. I've kicked the covers off, I've masturbated, I've laid idly in my bed observing the ceiling… but I am still awake and thinking about things I don't want to think about.
Some horrible, traitorous part of me is suggesting that I take the Invisibility Cloak and go visit Professor Lupin in his office. I know, from a great deal of frantic and hurried spying, that he is often up very late… especially when it comes close to the full moon. I need company now; the brave and foolish part of me is suggesting that sometimes things happen on warm spring evenings when everyone is in high spirits. Good things happen.
Oh, God. I want some good things. I want relief from the fire in my brain and between my legs. I want to feel gentle hands running up and down my spine and across my stomach.
Silent as a cat, I reach into my trunk and recover the Cloak, wrapping myself in its gauzy folds and slipping out of my bed. My naked feet make no noise on the floor as I shuffle to the door, an imperceptible wisp in time.
