Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
november, 1999
...
'is she pretty?' she asks, suddenly, abandoning her previous position—laying at his side, orb of light illuminating her face, mindlessly reading through some work reports—in lieu of peering at him from above; her weight on his stomach, hands resting on the sides of his face, hair all over it, wand forgotten, orb dismissed. her eyes shining dimly, reflecting the light from somewhere else (perhaps the light coming from the streetlights, sneaking through some gap in between the curtains, perhaps not, perhaps it's a light from their own, coming from within).
the surprise must have shown on his face, because her smile goes from mischievous to downright evil.
'the girl you're thinking about,' when you kiss me, when you embrace me, when you are inside me. she does not say it, but neither does she need to. the words are there, unspoken but in the air. they are there, in her shining eyes.
is she pretty.
the words repeat incessantly in his mind. and he wonders.
images are there in less than a blink of an eye. wild, short hair the colour of strawberries. images of it tamed into a ponytail, longer this time, maybe a little bit lighter; pictures of it in the middle of coming undone by the will of deft fingers.
there's also a portrait, depicting soft smiles and gentle laughs. sketches of emeralds for eyes, kindness and amusement radiating from them.
and they all carry the slight impression of citrus on them.
it's probably her, the one she's thinking about. the one she believes lives in his heart. the one with the soft smiles and kind eyes, for she does not know the truth; that the one in his mind is not the one with paint on her fingers and colourful blotches on her clothes, sketchbook in hand.
it's the one with the long, dainty limbs. the one with the practiced movements as she walks by, fingers tapping away at the muggle song of the day. the one with the dark blue eyes, hair dyed a different colour every week. the mischievous smirk, laugh ringing free. blue ink staining her fingers. dancing reflected in her every step.
'so?' she insists.
'she is,' he say, mostly in a sigh, eyes closed. and she laughs, even if he can't fathom as to why, and then lays her head on his chest. he feels, rather than hear, her next words, coming out in sync to the beating of her heart.
'you should tell her, probably. maybe don't tell her you've been sleeping around, though. i doubt it would endear you to her.'
there's a throaty sound coming from him, more like a choke than a laugh. and this time she peers at him from below, bony fingers tapping briefly at his chest.
'what?' she's curious. 'does she have—'
'no. no. it's not like that.'
'then?'
he looks at the roof, then. and it comes out as a shaky breath, 'it's complicated.'
'of course it is,' and he feels her roll her eyes, but she does not say anything else and simply lays still, her legs intermingled with his.
in the dimly lit room, he can feel her curling her toes.
he can feel a lot more of her now—with their legs in a knot and her chest pressing against him, her hair all over his face and his neck and part of one of his arms—than he did a few minutes ago, hands touching everywhere all at once, lips separated for just enough time to breathe and he has to wonder why is it like that. why it has to be like that.
he drifts to sleep not long after her, with his face buried in the crook of her neck, the smell of her wafting easily through his nose. of sweat and something more, of sex and its aftermath. of stale parchment, white paper, and the distinct tang of high-quality ink.