Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and other trademarks are © by JK Rowling, Little Literacy Agency, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Arthur A. Levine, & Warner Brothers. No profit is being made, it's all good clean fun. Really.
An Uncertain Week
- for kristi, misscora and shakespearechic : on their mutal birthdays -
Tuesday
Parvati breaks up with you. Noisily. At the breakfast table.
You stare into your porridge, stirring pitifully, as she stands next to you, hands on slender hops, repeating the same things over and over and ...
You keep on stirring. Pretending it doesn't hurt.
Parvati tires quickly, wilting like a flower, turning away from you helplessly. Lavender stands up to go, wraps a hand around Parvati's waist, and plays the supporting role of the best friend.
Parvati plays the victim.
You stir your porridge. Stirring, stirring, always counter-clockwise.
Hermione starts a loud conversation with Neville about Herbology, like anyone cares.
The Slytherins snigger on the other side of the Great Hall into their coffees and French Toast.
Ron twists uneasily and begins to pester Harry with questions about the upcoming game against Ravenclaw. He sounds confident, like he's sure we've already won. Harry's dubious, as a good Captain should be.
Your porridge is cold by the time you take a bite and you wince, slowly pushing to bowl away from you.
You stand. Look at me.
I stand too.
We walk to class together.
You're very quiet.
You keep to your side of the chessboard with minimal movement.
Elbows tucked, chin buried.
The pieces follow your soft commands with very little commenting.
With anyone else they squawk and chatter and tussle -- but with you, with your large, triangular personality, they remain very quiet.
And when you're quiet, they are even more so.
You beat me soundly, three times over.
I wonder what you're thinking.
You're very quiet.
Wednesday
In History of Magic, I watch you twitch and fold further into your seat as Lavender glares daggers into your back.
Parvati keeps her eyes to the front, or firmly out the window.
I sketch your face on the margin of my page. I must be one of the only kids at Hogwarts to use Muggle exercise books in class.
Lavender glares until Hermione kicks the back of her chair lightly and frowns meaningfully.
Forget everything rotten I've ever said about the girl. She's brilliant. Ron catches my grateful look and goes red in the face.
I divert.
Your knee presses into mine.
Harry finally accomplishes what he's been practicing to do for a long time -- falling asleep with his eyes open, sitting up.
Binns drones on.
Ron resembles a rather attractive, but red, fire engine.
All I can think about is your knee and the way your eyes stare at me from my margin.
Thursday
The backs of our hands brush as we walk to Divinitations.
An electric spark runs up my hand, and I shiver.
We're all rattled. Harry had a nightmare this morning, and you crawled into my bed, eyes large and helpless.
You hate thunderstorms too.
We talked, a little, about subjects that don't mean a great deal.
Harry looks pale, and Ron hovers about like an uncertain butterfly.
We lie in the sunshine after classes are over, all the Gryffindors.
Hermione is mediator by self-appointment.
Lavender works on her Divinitations homework, and ignores you.
Parvati braids daisies together.
Harry snoozes, his mouth half open.
Ron laughs with Neville over Quidditch magazines.
I draw you as you stare into the sky.
Draw your hands and elbows and chin and ...
... pages of you to adore.
Friday
Harry catches me giving you a hug in the bathroom and stumbled past sleepily with a mumbled apology.
We stare at him until he disappears, look at each other in disbelief and fall about, laughing helplessly.
It's so good to hear you laugh genuinely again.
The echoes stay long after we leave.
You play a prank on Goyle in Potions, wiping some shaved Banshee skin off your hands on your way to the Potions cabinet, giving you a full minute to get away from the explosion.
I laugh helplessly from under my desk until Snape glares under the edge and gives me a detention for tonight.
You own up.
He gives you one too.
We spend the evening scrubbing cauldrons, and you crack jokes the entire time, while the fumes over-power us.
Cleaning fumes.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
That's why I gave you an extra long hug while the others slept around us.
That's why I ran my cheek against yours as we pulled apart.
That's why I kissed you.
It was all because of the cleaning fumes.
They must have made me hallucinate...
...because I swear you kissed me back.
Saturday
I didn't go to Hogsmeade.
Neither did you.
You slipped into my bed after everyone had gone and showed me that it wasn't just the cleaning fumes.
Afterwards, we lay in a warm, messy tangle of blankets and skin.
You hummed kisses on my throat.
My long, lean, black thigh nestled against yours, my hand sifting through your hair, a moan low in my voice.
You rolled me over in a mock fight of soft punches and hard kisses.
That quickly led to Round Two.
Neither of us got to Hogsmeade that day.
Sunday
You let me inside you.
Nails run down my back, spine, sides, scrapping away the layers between up.
I'm drowning.
You're crying out, helplessly.
The curtains create our world of red, as we lie, knotted together.
I thought I would die, you were so tight.
Monday
I try to take your hand at breakfast, but you pull away before anyone can notice.
I follow your drifting eyes.
Parvati walks up, walks up to you, shuffles her feet. She's nervous.
I'm cold.
You stare up at her, porridge forgotten.
I'm getting colder.
She's...apologising. Asking for forgiveness. Turning up the Patil charm and saying that she missed you.
Lavender looks smug behind her, as if this is what she was planning all along.
You leave the table with Parvati.
Harry looks at me from across the table, understanding.
I finish my toast and stand up to go.
- finished -