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The room is filled with the rhythmic moaning of the hotel bed, accompanied by breathless cursing and pleading.
Beneath him she, essentially a stranger, random and unimportant, yet at the moment filling most of his world.
He bring her to the brink of fulfillment and sadistically leaves her there for a moment or two. And He starts again.
And she, under his hands, is a rippling sensation, nothing more than a sensation.
As she then falls asleep, He gathers off to leave, looking at the traces of their earlier excitement. Shoes thrown impatiently off his feet, clothes lying in disarray, the contents of his purse spilled on the floor, lipstick, lighter, keys, scattered floo powder.
Harry put on a crumpled shirt, washed out pants. Once again, He returns his gaze to the sleeping woman. Her hair, so recently perfectly styled, is now a tangled tangle, the perfectly applied makeup smeared, leaving traces on the bedsheets and his skin. During the day, she exudes that peculiar elegance that makes you believe she honors you with her presence, but now, resting apathetically, she looks completely worn out. But satisfied; a slight smile adorns her lips.
Harry usually gets up around eleven o'clock, outrageously late for some, but given that He rarely gets to sleep before four in the morning, He thinks it's a pretty decent time.
A quick, icy shower. He never eats breakfast.
He dresses in black nylon sweatpants, a white cotton T-shirt, pulls on his favorite sneakers, a bottle of water, a baseball cap over his head, and a wand in his pocket.
Time to "punish" the body for the acts committed the previous evening. Of course, without inhibition, He will commit them again, just let another night come. Someone might say that He is actually punishing him for his sins, that He is not running, but escaping. But such melodramatic talk is like mental onanism. Some people like it.
He runs to the rhythm of Gorillaz, first Clint Eastwood, then Dirty Harry and the rest, He hums everything from memory, sometimes he wonders whether he should buy a Muggle music player, but the constant debts with the goblins leave him without unnecessary cash.
Twenty kilometers on the sodden, stinky asphalt of London. He doesn't turn toward parks or squares. This is supposed to be a punishment, not a pleasure. He runs, seeing nothing, everything blurs in front of his eyes, hearing only music and the pounding of his heart, feeling trickles of sweat running down his forehead, back and torso, concentrated on the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the sidewalk.
In the middle of the distance, as usual, He runs out of water, his tongue sticking to his palate. No matter, He skips the stores. The run is supposed to be a punishment.
When he finishes, he doesn't feel himself, only fatigue.
At home, another shower, something to eat. He browses the "Daily Prophet" and does everything He can to make time pass as slowly as possible so that the night comes later than usual.
Yes, today is one of those days when Harry simply doesn't want to.
He's thinking of calling one of his old friends from back in Hogwart, but then I'll be blabbing again as much as possible, so what's the point?
Deep down, Harry knows perfectly well that He will never stop lying.
Because the moment He would stop lying, He would become one enormous disappointment. Therefore, He let everyone believe He is someone important, respected, enterprising and, above all, busy.
So much so that He sees friends occasionally, maybe four or six times a year.
He has visitors, because sometimes he can't say no to people he'd known more than half your life. And these visits bring him a few moments of relaxation.
He would even venture to say that these visits are times of small happiness, if it weren't because He spins lies like a spider spins its thread, and the web woven from them is already so old that it has become heavy, thick, greasy, sticky.
Okay, enough of that. The night awaits him.
At twenty. Harry showers, today He gives up shaving, just a dab of perfume, which has been his favorite scent for several years.
From his closet He pulls out navy blue jeans, a white shirt, a leather jacket, brown from dragon skin and a matching belt, one of the few useful gifts he got after defeating Voldemort. He checks the amount of cash in his wallet for a moment. He considers whether to ride a Sirius motorcycle, to feel a moment of carefree freedom, but no, today is off. The body demands percentages, and given his angry mood, it won't end with one drink.
Jesus, is she blind? Can't she really see that He's just like her? She throws him a look full of resentment and disbelief and walks away slowly, swaying her hips. She has not yet escaped five steps when a guy in his forties sticks to her and whispers something in her ear, and her face lights up again with a hopeful smile.
He tears his gaze away from them and returns to scanning the dance floor, which is arriving with still quite sober party girls dancing to the beat. Mostly desperate bodies who were here yesterday and will probably be here tomorrow, next week, next month.
"When do you plan to return?" Daphne asked in a quiet, almost tearful tone. "Wednesday, somewhere near the evening."
"I don't know how I will survive so many days without you, Blaise," her voice still dripping with sadness.
"I know, baby, I'm sorry." Zabini kissed Daphne on the forehead and stroked her hair gently.
"Cook something special for your return?"
"I'm not likely to be hungry. I'll probably eat something on the way, but I'll let you know on Monday, okay?"
"Okay, baby, take care." She climbed on her toes and placed a gentle kiss on her husband's cheek.
"And you, baby, and you," he replied quietly, closing the door behind him.
What a farce, thought Daphne, breathing a sigh of relief when the man who had been her husband for five years disappeared behind the door. For performances like the one just now, she should have received an Oscar nomination long ago.
Of course, not everything in her marriage was miserable. Only .
In fact, she never had warm feelings for him, though she couldn't say why. He was caring, kind, good, didn't see the world outside of her, fulfilled her whims, and yet he irritated her more and more.
Why did she agree to sign a prenup before marriage? Until now, she could not answer herself. Probably she was so proud of herself that she had entrapped a rich man. She had completely lost the ability to think clearly, or at least in perspective. And that's why she was now stuck chained to this completely indifferent, wimpy fool.
But without him, she couldn't even dream of the standard of living she had now. Without Blaise's money, she would be naked and not cheerful.
It was past eight o'clock and time to get ready.
An hour and a half later, she was almost ready to go. Slightly nervous, but determined to relieve the tension that was building up inside her slowly but consistently.
Blaise had always demanded of her only one thing - to maintain the atmosphere of marital happiness, although in fact she was nauseous about it.
Today she finally got a chance herself for a few moments.
She knew what kind of man she needed, and she was confident that today she would get him.
I also invite you to my p atreon.
New content every day.
There is a chapter available on my p atreon: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,
pa treon .com(slash)pandorastories (remove the space)