Disclaimer: no copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made, I do not own Harry Potter I just play with JK's characters.
Author's note: got bored. short one shot. There is a companion piece from Draco's Point of Veiw, BOTHERED, but both fics can be Standalones.
Vices
Everyone had their little vices, their demons, little voices niggling and needling at the edge of consciousness for their presence to be known.
A want.
A need.
A craving.
Its something that just seems to be there no matter what. Your body cries out for it, your mind just seems to wonder back to it no matter how determined you are to blot it out.
It's everywhere, in everything.
Close your eyes and its tattooed to you eye lids, block out your ears and it plays in your head.
Everywhere and in everything.
Everywhere, but the one place what you need it the most, where you desperately crave it. In its place is an empty aching void that you cling to because you need to. You need to be connected to your addiction, even a sad, pathetic shadow of it.
Painful.
Excruciating.
Two deeply pale words to describe what it feels like. Bland and dry on the tip of my tongue, because its so much more than that.
Its like crawling through an arid burning desert, so hot that the edges of your eyesight seem to be boiling. And then suddenly in front of you the most succulent tempting fruit you've ever seen, and its just out of reach.
Look, but don't touch.
Touch, but don't taste.
Taste, but don't swallow.
Excruciating.
Everyone had an addiction, a vice.
Even me.
"'Bout bloody time."
Gryffindor Prefects have secrets too.
He clicks off the lighter in his hand.
He's smoking again, I can see the green flame at the tip of his cigarette in the darkness of the room.
Hi, I'm Mary, and I'm addicted to nicotine.
He's smoking an enchanted cigarette, because wizards can't be bothered to worry about trivial things like Cancer.
Mary is from a support group in the Prybisterian Church I volunteered at last summer holidays.
He's dressed in his black uniform plants, his oxford shit left open exploiting the ivory panes of his chest. He is sprawled out on the massive velvet draped four poster bed.
He looks so out of place and yet completely perfectly right where he is.
Everyone in support groups introduce themselves like Mary does. Like they're dead, but only a little.
I shrug off my robe and divest my person of my jumper and tie.
Hi, I'm George and I'm addicted to alcohol.
His eyes darken and he looks me up and down. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
This has become an old game between him and me. The steps have been memorized from repetition. It's never between us. There is no us. There probably will never be. It should become routine but it never does. It's a complex competition, both sides vying for control.
On top for a moment and then beneath the rest, and every carnal depraved and insanely heated moment exhilarates me. Replenishes my senses, and suddenly I'm saturated with what I want, I need and I crave.
Its not about completion, it never was, it never is, it never will be. He and I are not two halves of some sort of cosmic whole. We have no need to feel complete and all that rot. We were not destined to be together.
Romeo and Juliet have died and we've taken their place.
Hi, I'm Marty and I'm addicted to Crystal Meth.
He stalks up to me and pulls me down.
I say that as if I'm some fallen angel corrupted by this serpent. My first deadly sin, my original sin. The apple and the serpent.
That's wrong.
I want to be here just as much as he does, because this is real and stark and raw.
It doesn't matter how much we hate each other. How wrong he is for me or how prissy I am, right now it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
I don't have to be anything. Anyone.
Hi, I'm Anna, and I'm addicted to sex.
And suddenly I'm gone, lost, though not in him, I'm never lost in him. We've never lost in each other being lost shows weakness. Weaknesses are exploited.
"Fuck you, mudblood." He mutters into the wild tangle of my hair.
And I'm filled with perverse amusement.
"That's the idea."
We move in unison closer and closer to what we both want hurtling ever faster to the edge that he had shown me so many times.
I can feel the anticipation building at the base of my spine and I brace myself for the onslaught.
When he suddenly stops, he's still clinging to me holding me back.
The panic is immediate and he can sense it.
Bastard.
I look at him in confusion, resentment and hate.
"I want you to beg me."
So I do the only thing that I can at this point.
I try to flip us over and to take things into my own hands. The bastard pushes me back, pushes me further into the mattress. The velvet feels harsh, like rough grass against me. Like needles prickling into my skin. The sensation mocks me, because its not the sensation I want to-have to feel.
"Beg me."
And I want to sob.
I'm teetering on the edge but I can't fall over. I feel fragile and rigid like I'm about to break into a million pieces, and I want to.
I need to.
But I can't.
And I begin to babble. Long strings of nonsensical declarations of hate and passion and need. I can feel his smirk as he reaches back and surges forward, pushing me over, and jumping after me.
But I'm too fargone to care.
I'm flying. Colours are flashing before my eyes in a primordial whirl, everything is singing the hymn of time immemorial around me like the universe has snapped into place for one moment and I come around, and I'm back.
And the universe is in disarray. Again. As usual.
Its unspoken between us as we untangle from each other and dress.
Five minutes later he is back in his pristine uniform and he strides hastily out the door.
It slams behind him, a hollow, breakable sound.
Hi, I'm Hermione Granger and I'm addicted to Draco Malfoy.