There are some in this world that were just meant to bleed

remember
whatever
it seems like forever
ago

His voice was soft, but clear.

"No."

Her face struggled to keep disgust from covering it as she continued making long, shallow, cuts along his arm.

"You're an idiot." She hissed back.

"Am I?" he asked mildly, maintaining a passive expression towards her answer, which was a particularly deep incision.

He remembered a muggle psychology text that he had happened upon by chance, and wondered if Pansy might be taking out all that 'bottled up emotion' on him. This was not a comforting thought to Neville, who knew from his grandmother exactly how and to what degree of emotional women could get.

His right arm was beginning to throb slightly now. He was well aware the dripping sound that echoed in the cold, dimly lit, dungeon was his own blood, but the thought of that did not repulse him, as it usually would have.

That was simply because he wasn't concentrating on it as much as he should have. Instead, he was concentrating on the pale, dark-haired girl standing in front of him.

He watched her complexion turn closer to the shade of her Slytherin badge as her hands continued to be soaked in a color much nearer to his Gryffindor one.

He watched her pale lips move as she muttered to herself, picking out snippets of sentences which sounded suspiciously like, "fucking twisted Gryffindor" and "bloody idiot."

Even in the severity of the situation, he felt a small smile twist its way on his face. That girl had a way with words.

His reaction was not what the Pansy had been looking for apparently, because suddenly, she slammed the blood covered silver and jade hilted blade down on the rusty wooden table next to them.

"What is wrong with you?" she spat at him.

If he hadn't known her, he could have sworn she had tears in her eyes. But that was probably just the moonlight. (Pansy didn't cry)

"All you had to do was answer the bloody stupid question and you would've gotten off with a black eye at worst. Oh, okay fine. A bruised ego, maybe." She was ranting now.

He wondered why she was still trying to convince him to change his mind. He proceeded to stare blankly ahead like he had the past ten or so times she had asked him, and hoped she'd turn back to her delightful task of mutilating him, like before. But no, it looked like she was going to pursue this one.

"It wasn't even that big of a deal! They meant for it to throw you off, expecting you to start stuttering or something. But no, you have to look at them straight in the eye- condescendingly, mind you-" she yelled, poking him in his rope bound chest, "-and refuse to answer the question. You have been in enough situations to know that you do NOT leave a Slytherin unanswered with only a condescending look- hell any kind of look- to grace them with!" she shrieked. "Especially Nott and Zabini! So now we're stuck in this godforsaken excuse of a room until you say something or else bleed to bloody death or die of poisoning by morning!"

She was breathing hard now, and two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Clearly, she was not accustomed to doing this, preferring to be the one behind the intricate plot of evil instead of actively carrying it out. (Pansy refused to be degraded to do such filth. Nott apparently found a way to persuade her. Keeping her life, maybe...)

The late hour didn't work wonders for her mood either, he could tell by the way her eyes had slipped into a glazed glance during classes that she hadn't been getting sleep lately.

"Just say something." She demanded, holding his face towards her so he could not look away. Still, he was silent

"Oh, make it up if you want to, I don't care." she added vehemently, throwing her hands in the air.

"Unless you want to bleed to death?" She looked at him quizzically, and his lips quirked at this.

"I can't tell you." He said, for what seemed to be about the hundredth time this night.

She shook her head before her palm made solid contact with his face.

The slap echoed around the dungeon as she lowered her face to his.

"They are not going to stop hurting you, ever. And now, you've given them a reason to. Do you think they care that this is some silly little crush they're risking Azkaban for? Give them a reason, Longbottom, Give them one fucking reason, and they will kill you. Merlin, you are so aggravating! Listen to me. Listen to me," she hissed as his eyes started clouding over again. "Just say it's that Mudbl- Granger or someone," She asked, in an almost pleading tone (Pansy didn't plead) offering the tip of her wand to his mouth like a microphone. "Say it's her and I will personally go and explain to her tomorrow what happened, if that's what's worrying you. After force bonding her to make sure our little secret doesn't go anywhere, of course." She added as an afterthought.

Neville just looked, for the first time in a few years, properly looked, at this girl in front of him, trying to remember the eight year olds they had been, sprawled in the puddle, covered with mud, and laughing.

He remembered telling her that her eyes seemed like a stormy ocean to him. She had responded by solemnly telling him that his eyes looked like dirt, and responded with smearing said dirt across his face.

He remembered his surprise on his ninth birthday when she had gotten him a book on gardening, with a note from her, signed to 'Dirt face', her endearing new nickname for him.

He remembered her surprise when he in return had sent her a flowering Spanish bluebell, which happened to be the exact shade of her violet-blue eyes. Coincidence? She thought not…

Alas, that day was the last any "surprises" had good news for him. He had been so stupid, so naive to think that nothing would change after they turned eleven.

Of course, she had caught on first, she always did. Their childhood skirmishes had proven that.

The only contact they ever had after their first year was when they would get ready to leave school during the summer, and he'd hand her a vial.

'Curatio Elixer' it was called. He gave her a larger and larger stock every year, and it pained him to see that at the beginning of the next year when she would return the vial to him, it would be empty, as always.

Aside from those yearly rendezvous, they never met. And when they did, they met as strangers. Acted like strangers, and even worked together, when required, like strangers.

But years of threat of torture, pain, and even things involving sharp things and body parts he'd rather not discuss, she still had not achieved what she wanted. Not that he could ever let her find out.

She wanted him to hate her, and he knew that.
She wanted him to turn against her, and he knew that.
But in spite of this, or more likely, because of it- he had fallen in love.
And it positively killed him because he could not tell her that.
Why? Because she didn't want him to.

Now, looking into her eyes, he couldn't see the sea. He could see the storm, oh yes. But the sea had been eliminated.

He saw slight bruises on her neck, where her sweat had dissolved her heavy layers of foundation. He grimaced slightly, thinking of what her summer must have been like if the bruises still showed halfway through the year, and after he had giver her the Curatio Elixer.

He saw her pale, thin hand, still gripping the rickety table, and forbade his mind to even think about the scars that rested there.

When he spoke, he rather thought his voice sounded like a crackly radio station Dean had tried to get to work back in third year.

"I don't think you understand, " he began.

Her eyes flashed.

"You're bloody right if you think I don't understand, and you'd better explain yourself! All I'm bloody asking you to do is just say a bloody name, so we can both get the hell out of here and go to bed!" she snarled. "Which brings me back to what an idiot you are, Longbottom. Just say a damn name. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

Neville held down the eyebrow that was itching to jump up to his hairline. He wasn't even going to begin commenting on the hypocrisy.

"Pansy,' he began again, "This is worth my life."

"Oh, Merlin!" she groaned. "Don't go all Gryffindor-heroic-like on me over some silly little crush, okay?"

A heavy sigh escaped him.

He glanced once more at the dagger resting on the table, and the vial filled with a yellow colored antidote sitting next to it. The poison the edge had been swished around it was now in his bloodstream. He could feel the effects starting to wear down his muscles, his eyes had closed and his shoulders sagged.

Beside him, he could hear Pansy continually demand him to give her an answer right now.

Finally surrendering, he nodded his head curtly and not a moment later, felt a cool liquid cascading down his throat.

xxxxxx

It was two in the morning, and they were just sitting there, at either end of the table. The ropes that had bound him before now lay at a heap near his feet, his right hand was covered in a bandage, and she just started down at her hands.

Suddenly her wand emitted a purple spark. Wasting no time, she sprang from her seat and walked over to him, holding her wand out in front of her.

"Well?" she asked in a clipped tone. "The time it takes for that antidote to work is up. Hurry along and confess so we can leave this dunghill."

Neville leaned forward on his with arm on the desk. "What I say will probably land either or both of us dead. After being tortured and spit on first."

Pansy, not understanding what he meant, rolled her eyes at this and muttered something incoherent about Gryffindors and their pride. Neville, however, bowled on as if he didn't hear her.

"So if you want to risk that, go ahead. I'll tell you who she is. But don't expect me to cover up from then on."

Her brows furrowed, trying to figure out what he meant. It wasn't everyday Longbottom could waltz in and make you feel uncomfortable with his tone and choice of words. After you had ruthlessly tore open his arm. And was he giving her the evil eye? She was about to ponder the possibilities of his insanity when said lunatic interrupted her.

"Go on." He told her, eyes practically emitting a blaze. "It's your choice."

"Wha-My choice? It's your life, Longbottom!" Pansy stuttered, trying to cover up her amazement. She doubted if he had ever been mad before. And the sight of it actually instilled…fear…in her. "I doubt they actually care who you like." She sneered, trying to regain her proverbial footing. "You're just too easy to pick on. And tie up. And…mutilate." She said the last with a wince.

"Is that a yes?" he asked her.

"Gods, Longbottom, just say it, you prick! I have no clue what the hell you're talking about. So hurry up and say the blasted name!"

The cocky bastard just sat there. And he had just caused her to call Longbottom, of all people, a cocky bastard.

Pansy quickly checked outside the window for the signs of a coming apocalypse, and sat back down in her chair when she was satisfied nothing was going to blow up.

Besides her temper of course.

Did he even remember, dammit? Did the prick just find it that easy to drop her and move on? That thought hurt more than it should of. She had pushed away from his friendship for both their safety's sake. And he had repaid her by forcing her to pierce his skin until it bled so much she couldn't tell his bloody arm from her memory of her own bloody arms.

But he had taken it. Without as much as a sniffle. She had clearly underestimated the boy.

Just like when he had given her Curatio Elixer

It was a ridiculously complicated potion, and it included having to grow your own ingredients. So suffice it to say she was a little surprised when he gave it to her. She still wondered why he gave it to her and how he knew she needed it. Pansy took the utmost care in placing concealment charms and using muggle make-up (okay, so they did have some credible things in their otherwise pathetic lifestyle).

Not that she didn't want the elixir. Merlin knew she needed it.

Suddenly, it hit her why the little sucker was sitting there. This wasn't Neville Longbottom from first year! This was Longbottom after many, ruthless years of vindictive teasing and…

He enjoyed seeing her in pain. It's not as if she hadn't tried to make his very existence horrible from the moment he set foot here, but it was just so… Slytherin of him. (Not that he hadn't learned from the best in his early years, mind you.)

While the analytical side of Pansy had been picking this apart and examining it, the more primal and carnivorous side of her had been building a seething anger. How dare he sit there and pretend he had done nothing wrong. How dare he sit there and speak in cryptic tongues, leaving her confused. And how dare he make her forget the line that would permanently exist between the two of them until kingdom come. Why I ought to strangle, and then castrate…' the analytical side of her thought, but her primitive side beat her to it.

"Don't just sit there- It's your life…For the love of Merlin, do something!" she shrieked at him, flinging the blood-ridden dagger right past his ear and into the chalkboard. The knife vibrated on the spot making an odd twanging sound.

"Do something." She repeated.

So he did.

And it was a good twenty minutes later, when they both sat gasping for air, he reeling from his own outburst and she feeling blissfully and wonderfully light headed and practically sitting on his lap, that she realized what was going on.

Is this what he had meant? Did he mean that he wasn't going to hide his…feelings for her? Is that what he meant about the torturing and spitting? Dear Merlin.

Then with every ounce of Slytherin life-preservation skill that came crashing back to her, she stood up…

and she fled.