By the Way Chapter Twelve

By the Way

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

CHAPTER TWELVE

I spent the next twelve hours hating myself—I was lost in a confusing tumble of disappointment and anger, indifference and regret.

I remembered how the moon hadn’t been quite full, how the clouds, the very ones that promised rain, had floated whimsically over it, casting shadows on the damp grass, casting shadows on the surface of the lake, sometimes calm, sometimes rippled by that chilly, bitter breeze that cut through clothing and turned my blood to ice. I remembered how I’d sat at the edge of the water, waiting for clarity, for something, only to be overwhelmed by memories that made no sense, served no purpose except to illustrate my stupidity, my abject and abnormal stupidity. I remembered being surprised, inexplicably so, by his sudden appearance, his eyes taking in my pajamas, the undone top buttons, my loose hair falling down my back, over my shoulders; I remembered watching his hands, thinking that they were bigger than I would have expected, the fingers long and tapered, the fingernails clipped and short and immaculate.

I remembered how good he’d tasted, how right he’d felt, how very much I’d wanted to forget myself, abandon myself, just get lost in his arms, with his tongue delving deeper, playful and erotic and dangerously teasing, with his hands touching me everywhere, anywhere, with something rather like reverence, brushing against my skin and caressing, memorizing, every last contour, every last nuance, with his weight, so thrilling, so much, pushing my back against the grass, our bodies kissing the ground—passionately, intrepidly, beautifully.

But most of all, I remembered, distinctly, wishing he’d never stop, wishing I could let his hands, his lips, finish what they’d started; I remembered wanting more more more, God, but I’d wanted more, except when he’d shifted to reach for my pajama bottoms he’d let in some of that freezing air, effectively dousing that ridiculous, overrated—feeling , yes, that’s what it was, a chemical reaction, a hormonal imbalance, a catalyst to crave someone else’s touch.

Except it hadn’t gone away, not even after I’d fallen asleep, exhausted and disoriented.

I’d woken up and wanted him even more.

OOO

“Well you look tired, Granger,” he observed nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the bookshelf next to my carrel at the library.

“I wonder why that would be,” I mused icily, embarrassed by his mere presence; I was sure, so sure, that he knew every last one of my inappropriate thoughts, every last one of my dreams.

“Oh, I think you do. Wonder, that is,” he replied pointedly, smirking.

“About what? Nothing out of the ordinary happened to me last night,” I bit out, fighting the urge to scream.

“Didn’t it?” he murmured, vacating the bookshelf and bending down so that his elbows rested on my desk. His eyes, which had been shuttered by distance and necessity, bore into mine, glittering with some unidentifiable emotion.

“N-no,” I stammered, “it didn’t.”

And then I glanced away, but not fast enough, because he caught my chin with his hand, wrenching my head back to face him.

“Are you sure about that?” he demanded silkily.

And then my reticence, so out of character and strange, dissipated, and I was oddly, unbearably, unpleasantly furious.

“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, pushing my palm against his chest, hard, watching with some morbid satisfaction as he stumbled backwards, his cheeks flaming.

“You certainly didn’t say that last night,” he remarked heatedly.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly, I assure you,” I returned coldly.

“Right, since logic is really important when making a decision like that,” he said sarcastically, a lock of bright blond hair falling across his forehead: I was mesmerized by those silky strands, glinting in the afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows; they looked soft, so soft.

“And why shouldn’t it be, if only to prevent someone from making the mistake of a lifetime?” I ground out, irritated with him, with myself, with the conversation.

His lips grew thin as he pressed them together.

“Since it’s worked so well for you? Oh, that’s right, your boyfriend dumped you!” he shouted with mock sympathy. I took a thoughtless step forward, rage spurring me on where common sense could not.

“I’m sorry, but I was under the impression my boyfriend had dumped me because you’d decided to finally grow into your sadism!” I yelled, incensed.

“Funny, I’d thought I was doing you a favor, convincing someone with more freckles than brain cells to dump you!” he retorted menacingly.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Want me to return the favor and push you out the bloody window?” I asked threateningly, narrowing my eyes.

“Only if I can take you with me, Granger. I should do right by the Weasel, anyways, put him out of his misery by getting rid of you,” he spat sardonically.

“Who knew you’d want to die playing the hero?”

“One would think it would be whoever knew that you’d enjoy kissing me.”

“Oh! And here I thought I’d been the one to push you away,” I seethed, watching with interest as he gritted his teeth.

“Not before you’d made your satisfaction abundantly--”

“Oh, please, since you’re just such a--”

“I really wish you hadn’t interrupted me. I was just getting to the good part, you know, the really good descriptions of exactly what you felt like when I--” he broke off.

“When you what, Malfoy? Hmm? I’m breathless with anticipation,” I goaded him, needing to hear him say everything he’d done the night before, needing to hear him condone it, admit it.

He stared at me, though, an inscrutable expression on his pale, pale face.

“Strange, but I can’t seem to remember,” he said thoughtfully.

“Denial’s unhealthy,” I pointed out scathingly.

“No, no, it’s not denial. I just can’t be bothered to remember things so…unremarkable,” he shrugged, looking away.

I bit my lip.

“Not even when memories are the only thing you’ll ever get?” I countered.

He swallowed.

“The only reason people hold onto memories so tight, Granger, is because memories are the only things that don’t change when everything else does. Memories are forever. And forever,” he finished cruelly, “doesn’t exist. You can attest to that.”

I flinched.

“I can’t imagine that there’s anything else to say,” I finally replied, my voice brittle, my eyes unblinking.

And then, with poise I hadn’t known I’d possessed, I packed up my books and walked sedately out of the library.

I only looked back once.

OOO