Laudo Amo is Latin for I praise love.
:Red lights begin flashing as an automated voice comes on: Warning! Warning! SUICIDE, suicidal thoughts/actions, CHARACTER DEATH, mild OOC (I can never nail Ron), VIOLENCE, BLOOD (notice the capitalization? If you don't like aforementioned things, I beg you not to read this story, because the most of the chapters will have these things. Not the character deaths, obviously, I'd have nobody left to play with, and Jesus did that sound wrong or what?).
Summary: What starts out as a rough shag three times a week becomes something so much more violent. What has happened to the innocence they all once had? What can you rely on in a world where the odds are a thousand to one you'll die before the age of twenty? Who can you turn to and what can you do when your life is becoming an overused cliche?
'The Futures already there, It can't be changed.'-Cait McCann, Lucas; A Story Of Love And Hate
'Out of your whole life give but a moment!
All of your life has gone before,
All to come after it-so you ignore'-First three lines of Robert Browning's' poem Now
'We were mean't to be, supposed to be
But we lost it
All our memories so close to me
Just fade away
-
It's nice to know that you were there
Thanks for actin like you cared
And makin me feel like I was the only one
It's nice to know we had it all
Thanks for watchin as I fall'-Avril Lavigne (co-written by Butch Walker), My Happy Ending
'I couldn't tell you
Why she felt that way
She felt it everyday
And I couldn't help her
I just watched her make
The same mistakes again' Avril Lavigne (Ben Moody helpes her write the musc-the part with the notes for the instruments-and also plays guitar on this song. His playing is wonderful), Nobody's Home
It's funny what we're scared of. Mice, snakes, heights, blood, water...It's funny, I think, because of how ridiculous it all seems to be scared of small things when there is so much more to be scared of.
I'm scared of never finding love, never being understood, never experiencing loyalty to it's utmost, not dying a happy man, but most of all, I'm scared of what I'm going to regret in twenty years, ten, five, one...Of what I may regret in the next hour or minute or even second.
People do some crazy things. Rape, murder, suicide, self mutilation, lying. It all seems so senseless, really. What do you get out of this? What the hell are you expecting out of it? It's dumb, it's the epitome of humanities stupidity. People who do these things disgust me.
I suppose that makes me a hypocrite, for I've done almost all of them. I haven't, obviously, committed suicide, but I have driven a person to it, knowing full well what I was doing, knowing what would happen. I'm addicted to this, though. Addicted to doing bad things, to manipulating people. It's a drug, a powerful drug, and I can't get it out of my system because I love it.
I wish I was dead sometimes. Not because my life is horrid, not because I can't stand the blackness that blankets me and caresses me so sweetly, but because I'm tired of being who I am. I am tired of having people fear or hate me because of my last name. I'm tired of having girls fawn over me. They don't love me, they don't even like me (or maybe they do, but I have no evidence of it). They fawn and do what I want them to because of the money I have, because of my heritage.
I have power, I am Lucius Malfoy's one and only heir. I am an enigma to some and a book to others, but what you don't see and what they don't see is how different I am from what they think. If asked to describe myself in twenty-five words or less, I would have to think because there is so much about myself that I want known and yet so much I want to keep locked down tight. If I had to describe myself in said twenty-five words, This is what I would say:
Intelligent and talented, a mystery to even myself. Blonde, silver-blue eyes, tall, muscular and thin, cold, manipulative, caring, sweet, angry. Dark, lonely, craving something.
It's mildly depressing, is it not? I do not know why the way I describe myself seems so distant, so matter-of-fact and cool. When it's just me in my room and I have a pencil in my hand and paper in front of me, images swirl through my mind, and I try to capture them to pin down who I am. Sometimes I write, but my own writing makes me want to slash my wrists and bleed to death to get away from the image painted in short stories and poetry.
I am an avid fan of Edgar Allen Poe and Ella Wheeler Wilcox. I do not care for Shakespeare, though he is an ancestor, and I do not care for the Russian classics the Goth's and sophisticated people long for. Chekhov holds no wonder for me, and neither does anybody else, for that matter.
I tell a lie, though. Wuthering Heights paints a picture that is nearly brusque. I do not read it again and again, I read it out of a longing for an escape. An escape from what, I do not know. Maybe from myself, maybe from the world, maybe from nothing at all. I imagine myself as a tragic hero, but this is wishful thinking. I may be tragic, but I am no hero. I am not brave. I do what I have to survive and to gain my father's coveted respect and love. But I bore you. I shall not waste anymore time, for my quill is running low on ink and time is of the essence.
I write this letter to you, beloved, for I know no other way to express what I feel, have felt, and will continue to feel for the rest of my life. I shall betray your secrets to no one but yourself and my confidant, whose memory I shall wipe clean afterward. I wish to tell you of what I went through when you and I became what we are. You do not know one key part of this story, and my heart and soul cringe and cower at having to tell you, for I do not wish to recount the wretched misfortune of my heartbreak and the finding of a corruption I knew nothing about.
I wish you well, my love, and I do hope that one day you may forgive me after you are through reading this. I pray that one day you will swallow your infamous pride and your temper shall abate to allow you to become, once again, my ray of sunlight and my beacon in the storm. I just hope that when and if that day comes, I am alive to see it and to kiss your lips and cry with you at our utter foolishness and then to engage in a fight that will rock us both, as they do now.
Now, dearest, onto what I must tell you as I spell myself into the past and into your head at the moment of our meeting...
It was dark, and as Ginevra Weasley walked stealthily through the halls of Hogwarts on Prefect duty, her thoughts were of a dark and desperate manner. Harry was hers in a sense, but now that she had him (Ginny was not quite sure how this had come about), she didn't want him.
It was like being in a cage. A dusty cage locked within yet another cage. She had a dark cloth thrown over her cages, so she wouldn't speak when she was awake, just think it was still night and fall into a trance of sleep and restless waiting again. Being Harry's girlfriend, it was not what she wanted, not really. She wanted to be loved by him, not owned by him. Claimed and taken and compromised by him, but oh no, Mr. Harry James Potter was to much of a gentleman, but what gentleman will lash out angrily at the one they presumably love? Hitting, kicking, screaming, nasty little whispers.
They made her want him, but repelled her because after he would apologize, and she did not want him to. She wanted to be hit, wanted to be screamed at. She craved it like she craved chocolate.
"Weasley, have you checked the Ravenclaw hallway?" Draco Malfoy asked tiredly, his words laced with doubt. Young though she was, she was not incompetent, and felt a desperate need to prove this to the icy blonde. Not because of any 'I like him, I'll impress him' reason, just out of...out of a need to do anything.
Something else to focus on, really.
"Yes, a Ravenclaw fourth year and a Gryffindor fifth year were snogging. I deducted ten points from each of there houses," Ginevra said quietly, aware of the muttering coming from some of the portraits.
"Marisol Kingilton and Colin Creevey again, Weaslette?" He just couldn't resist an insult, could he?
"Yes. I wasn't sure if they deserved detention or not. It's up to you, oh Ferrety Head One!" She snapped, albeit dully, and dropped to her knees in reverent, sarcastic bow.
In the dim light cast by his wand, she could see a sneer playing on his face. An approving sneer. Odd.
"One would think you weren't a pureblood. Or that you have an odd fetish for my feet as well as pigs and your brothers. I'll bet you ten galleons Potter and Weasel have loads of fun over the holidays," Draco said silkily, an uncanny imitation of Snape.
A small spark of rage ignited in her, but was soon diminished, taken over by her heavy, unexplainable sadness.
"No, Malfoy," she said softly, her voice shaking from suppressed tears.
"Have I made you mad, Red? Have I made you want to run to daddy and show him how much you appreciate your new lacy lingerie? You'll have to photo that one for me, I'm sure Potter would love it." He laughed cruelly.
"Good night, Malfoy. Creevey and Kingston can only scrub bedpans without magic for there offense, please remember," Ginevra whispered and turned to leave.
It hurt, her heart actually hurt. The insults he had thrown at her didn't hurt her at all, it was the tone he said them in. Like he couldn't be bothered with her. Just like everybody these days, to busy with the War... 'Are you alright? Can you do this spell? Had any visions from You-Know-Who? Are you alright? Talk to me. Tell me. Can you save us? You have to learn this and this and this and have Ginny help you, she has nothing better to do, she loves you so much, Harry, she always has and-'
"SHUT UP!" She screamed suddenly, nausea and dizziness sweeping over her as she fell to the ground, the words swimming in her ears.
She heard a muttered "What the bloody hell?" as footsteps came toward her. She was shaking, getting up weakly, tossing her long red hair out of her face, tears stinging her eyes.
I will not cry, she vowed, hardening. I will not cry, I can't, I have to be strong, I have to help everybody, I. Will. Not. Cry.
"Weasley? What the fresh hell is going on? Why did you scream? Let me help you up," Draco said, sounding a little worried.
"Do you desire me?" She asked as he pulled her up.
"Pardon?" He said, handing her her wand.
Her heart was pounding. He would be rough; he wouldn't hold back, he wouldn't cry afterward.
"Do you desire me. Don't think of my name, of who I am. Just look at me, and take me in, and then answer my question, Draco," she said, his name rolled off her tongue like honey, and she caressed it, almost enjoying it.
He looked at her. Her fiery red hair was wavy and tumbled halfway down her back, caught up by a blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her wispy bangs touched nearly to her long eyelashes that covered clear, haunted blue eyes you could drown in. Her face was round, barely any spots, except the few he noticed only because he was looking at her so hard.
Her lips were full and pouty, and she was pale. Her school vest was off, and her tie loosened. Her white shirt was untucked in the front, and unbuttoned enough to show her substantial cleavage. She wasn't thin like other girls; she had a full figure, round hips, a round stomach that most girls were ashamed of if they had it. Her legs were nice, he decided, and you could see a hint of muscle. Her ankles were delicate and as he took her in, he knew his answer.
"More desirable than every girl in this school, Weasley. Why?"
"Shag me. Hard. Rough. Think about me but think about yourself. Please," her voice had no plea; it was calm and betrayed nothing. Her eyes glittered with some emotion she couldn't identify.
He blinked at her for a second but recovered and smirked. He ran his fingers down the silver chain that her teardrop shaped aquamarine pendant hung on and the trailed his fingers down her partially exposed breast.
"As you like it," he replied softly, pulling her roughly to him and kissing her. Her lips parted to him, and his tongue slowly traced them. Her breathing quickened as he slid his hand up under her skirt, and she parted her legs.
"Mmm," was all she could manage, as he walked her backwards to a wall. Her hands found his belt and she unfastened it before attacking the buttons on his pants. As she slid her small hands inside, he shuddered momentarily. Her fingers were cold as ice. Cold as death, and he shuddered again.
"Do you make loud or quiet noises?" He breathed into her ear as he kissed her neck-making sure it was in a spot her hair would cover-and then slid his hands into her shirt.
"Qui-quiet," she stuttered, pulling her hands from his pants and placing them on the back of his neck. He flipped her skirt up, pulled her underwear down as she slid his boxers and pants down, and entered her swiftly.
She stifled a moan in his neck before kissing him again, deeper and more passionately than before. He let his hand slowly make its way down her body as he quickened his movements, slamming her into the wall with each stroke.
"Malfoy," she whimpered as his fingers stroked her and his teeth sank into her bared shoulder. He moved his fingers faster on her as small whimpers of pain met his ears and he thrust into her, accompanied by moans of pleasure that grew louder at every moment.
"Now," he whispered to her, kissing her gently, and then groaned out her name-not Ginny, but Ginevra-as his body shuddered and he swirled his fingers in a circle around her.
"Thank you," she murmured, feeling blood from where his teeth had been, and feeling alive. She straightened her clothes, and she left him. Walking back, trying to calm her breathing, she smiled a real smile for the first time in two weeks.
Cowardly and a prat though Malfoy was, he had always made her feel somewhat more alive whenever they involved in verbal sparring or in physical combat and-now-in rough, harsh fucking.
Ginevra changed out of her school clothes and into her dark blue pajama pants and tank top, and slid into bed. She gasped slightly as she rolled onto her back and was assaulted by waves of pain.
Her eyes drifted closed then, and for the first time in three nights, she slept peacefully and with happy, good dreams.
Entering the Great Hall the next morning, Ginevra's sparkling blue eyes sought out his silvery-grey ones. Biting her thumb nail as she walked, her bag clutched close to her, the rough fabric of her school shirt coupled with Harry's heavy hand on her back, made the bruises tenderer and reopened the scrapes on her back.
He sneered viciously at her, licked his lips suggestively, and imitated her nervous nail biting, presumably in an attempt to embarrass her. Ginevra smiled sweetly at him, feigning naivety, and tossed her hair, made wild and curly by her careless attitude this morning.
"Gin? Did you hear me?" Harry asked, his thumb pressing uncomfortably into the small of her back.
"No, sorry. What was it, then?' She answered, sitting down and staring at the mountains of food in front of her, overwhelmed by the vast choices. The Goddess of Fire opted for a piece of dry toast and a goblet of orange juice, provided by Harry.
"I said, Lavender has gotten permission from Dumbledore to hold a party of sorts here in the Great Hall. Everybody's invited, but the boys must ask the girls, no matter if they're a couple or not. So, Ginny, will you go with me?" Harry asked, flashing a fast smile.
Ginevra seized at her temper and annoyance with an iron grip, holding in a grimace. Is that what he thought she wanted? To attend a party with him? To be his little decoration? The questions rose in her mind, but she did not follow them, apathy stealing over her, the light in her eyes extinguishing.
"I'd love to!" She squealed, grinning and clapping her hands.
The green eyed Wonder Hero smiled indulgently, as if he had just given his favorite pet a treat to help her forget a temper she had been in.
"Not feeling well, Gin?" Ron asked, frowning at her meager meal.
"My stomach is doing a bit of a tap dance," Ginevra replied, smiling. "Must be from the excitement of the party. The last one was the Yule Ball, and that was three years ago."
"Besides, just nibbling at the toast and sipping at your juice may help you get a better figure, not that I don't love the one you have, but you know how people are, Pastry," Harry said, his eyes flashing with something. He used her hated pet name, but Ginevra paid no notice as the bell rang and she was swept away from her 'beloved' in the crush of human bodies, eager for lessons.
"Back again, my little nympho?" Draco asked, smirking.
Ginevra tugged him behind a statue and began to hurriedly unbutton her shirt, her dull eyes locked on his lively ones.
"I do believe your turning into a slut, Miss Weasley," he whispers in her hair as she bit his neck.
"I do believe your turning into your own person, Mr. Malfoy," she replied as he kicked off his shoes.