Written by- Lucifer's Garden
You can find them here! - http://www.fanfiction.net/u/446652/
One Shot
One shot: It’s all just a fantasy, Granger. Open those pretty brown eyes and look around at the world you think you know, lying in shambles. DMHG
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Faraway
A/N: I do not own the Harry Potter novels or it’s trademark characters/settings/properties. They belong to their respected creator, JK Rowling.
Oh, and the title Faraway (by Apocalyptica) is just the name of the song I was listening to when I came up with the idea.
000
His fingers roamed the keys, driven by instinct. He vaguely remembered this song from somewhere, some time long ago in the deep recesses of childhood. And now he could bask in something beautiful, something separate from his small, ugly, pathetic self.
He was tired, so very tired . . .
The piano sat before him stoically, an ancient instrument that still sang as sweetly as it did the day it was crafted. It was his oldest friend- no, his only friend. It never questioned him, never demanded from him. He could spill his heart upon those ivory teeth without fear of being mocked, or rejected, or abandoned (lied to). Without words, only with simple finger manoeuvres, he could communicate a thousand expressions to it and never have to worry about whether or not it understood in return. Comprehension didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now. Had anything ever mattered in the first place?
He had been secretly ecstatic to find that the Headmaster had placed the grand piano in the Head Boy and Girl common room before the year started, not bothering to ask questions or make any sort of comment about the Head Boy’s love of music. It was as if he had known all along. Hell, he probably did know all along. That old bastard knew everything, didn’t he?
In the pale light of dawn streaming through the window, he closed his eyes and let himself forget.
Forget the lingering pain of the Cruciatus curse still burning his blood, oozing slowly from his battered flesh like poison being drawn from a wound. Forget the gleam of triumphant contempt in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes as he watched his son’s slumbering body convulse in agony. Forget the hissing words on his father’s forked tongue.
“You will consider our offer more carefully this time? Remember how lucky you are to be alive, Draco. The Dark Lord is insistent that you become one of us . . .”
Forget the screams he stifled, too stubborn to release, the tears of agony he had been repressing since boyhood. Forget the nauseating fear that always overwhelmed him when he awoke, trembling from the meeting with Lucius through his dreams (more like nightmares).
Forget everything. Just play . . .
He remembered the first time it had happened, the first time his father had come to him during the night in his sleep. He remembered the same old discussion, repeated again and again from thereon after.
“You are being most difficult, Draco.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I should think it quite obvious. The Dark Lord will soon regain his strength, and when he does, he would make it very worth your while to join forces with him. What a pity you do not remember all that we have discussed in the past.”
“I-I don’t-”
“Don’t what? Stop shaking Draco, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Leave me alone. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be a killer!”
“I did not raise you to be so sentimental. ‘Killing’ is nothing, if it is justified. We are doing our world a great favour. Are you quite finished with this nonsense?”
“Give me my freedom, Father. For the love of Merlin, let me go . . .”
“Draco, you will join us. You are hardly good for anything else. You can’t even beat Potter at Quidditch.”
“I don’t care! I swear to God I just want my own life!”
“Do you really think you have a choice in the matter?”
“I’ll never join you, you . . . murdering bastard! To hell with Voldemort!”
“CRUCIO!”
And then all he knew was pain, unbearable, unimaginable pain that crushed him, burned him, destroyed him from the inside out. He was dying inside, he had to be. Nobody could stand so much torture without suffering the ultimate end. Then there was darkness, and in that darkness, there was some shadow of solace he could fall into, some sweet oblivion that enveloped him.
Once, he would have gladly bent over backwards for Lucius and the Dark Lord. He would have done anything to join the Death Eaters and prove himself worthy of purging the world of muggles and inferiors. As a young boy, it had been his only dream to become Voldemort’s second in command and make his father proud.
But, as is bound to happen with most childhood fantasies, this dream became something of a nightmare. It happened gradually, beginning slowly after his fourteenth birthday. As time went by, he became more and more independent. Soon, he was no longer following his heart’s desire; he was following orders. He stopped volunteering his time and energy and started doing slave labour. He was no longer sheltered from the big bad world of muggles; he was immersing himself in it daily in order to ‘learn more about the enemy’.
What enemy? Harmless human beings, or at least something akin to human beings, going about their daily lives without any knowledge of his world?
The mudbloods were said to be contaminated, inferior to the pureblooded, the only ones truly worthy of the title ‘wizard’. They were hybrids, twisted half-breeds only useful for using Unforgivables on. Torture victims marked from birth. They had to be. A thought otherwise would be heretical, shameful, abominable.
If they all knew what you were thinking . . .
What about her? That bossy know-it-all bookworm Granger, proud little sidekick to the famous Harry Potter, the golden girl. She was without a doubt the cleverest witch at Hogwarts, and was certainly powerful enough to do serious damage with that wand of hers. She did not seem very inferior, aside from the fact that she was so blinded by emotion, so dependent on the dream of peace and harmony between all the blood types.
Emotion is weakness. It’s all just a fantasy, Granger. Open those pretty brown eyes and look around at the world you think you know, lying in shambles. One day the Dark Lord will rise again, and when he does, there will be nothing any of you can do to stop him.
Vaguely he wondered if his playing the piano so loudly at dawn would wake her up. He decided almost immediately that he didn’t care. Let her make a fuss. Let her throw a tantrum if she wanted to.
His eyes were still closed, but he did not need sight. He had every single key, every chord, every note memorized beyond the call for vision. His eyes had seen too much anyways.
One side effect of prolonged use of the Cruciatus curse, a lesser-known fact, was the appearance of darkened veins all over the body. The curse affected the body from the inside, corrupting the bloodstream before seeping through the tissue and bones and organs. Thus, should a victim undergo particularly long session of torture, he or she would have notice several dark blue veins suddenly becoming startlingly visible under the skin.
The veins on his face were beginning to fade. In another hour they would disappear entirely again, and nobody would be the wiser.
He screamed the first time, but only once. He would never scream for that man again. But night after night Lucius came back, devoid of emotion as he terrorized his son, his only child. The only way to fight back was to stay awake for as long as humanly possible. When he first began this radical attempt to escape, he would collapse after three days of maintaining consciousness and fall into a temporary coma. At first, it seemed to effectively keep Lucius at bay; but eventually, he found a means with which to worm his way back into his son’s subconscious, and commence placing the unbearable agony on him all over again. It was impossible to stay awake forever. Night and day became blurs. He slept in shifts, only when he felt enough physical and mental stamina to withstand the torture. Teachers noticed the uneven pattern of his grades, which had once been consistently outstanding. His friends commented on how thin and pale he was getting. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed restlessness and paranoid insomnia.
He didn’t care. The only time he didn’t feel pain was when he was he played, and that was good enough for him.
Suddenly a new sound voiced itself, a soft resonance that he was scarcely sure he had even heard in the first place. Without stopping his fingers from assailing the piano keys, he strained his ears to listen.
What was that? He listened further, curiosity getting the better of him. Could that be . . . ?
Granger.
The moment he recognized the sound, her name came to mind. It was the gentle hum of a violin’s strings, clandestinely joining in with piano notes. Surprise mingled with awe as he continued to play, striking the keys with new passion. He knew it was her; for one thing, no one else could enter the common room without either Head Boy or Girl knowing, and secondly, he had heard her practicing her violin in her room late at night on many occasions since they became reluctant roommates. He would never admit it to anyone, especially to her, but he found the music she played quite fascinating, and oddly soothing. In secret, and bearing no shortage of reluctant interest, he would find himself standing outside her door to listen as she played away the hours.
Slowly he opened his eyes. In the glossy black finish of the piano’s wood, he could see Granger’s hazy reflection, holding her violin almost tenderly. She was gradually making her way closer to him, moving cautiously so as not to startle him. Her notes were getting louder the nearer she came, but he found himself not caring. He was too caught up in the spirit of the moment to question her presence or even snap at her to leave.
She knew this song too. How? He didn’t know or care where she had learned it. All that really mattered was to keep playing, keep filling the silent void that threatened to overwhelm him once more at any second.
She sounded beautiful. They both sounded beautiful, two elements of music joined together in an invisible dance. Woven as one. The rest of the world was melting away, fading like the misery of the Cruciatus curse.
Suddenly he felt the sickening clutch of alarm. If she came close enough, would she see the veins marring his face? Surely a bright witch like Granger would be able to recognize it as a symptom of torture via Crucio. What would she do if she realized it? Would she badger him for answers? Would she tell Dumbledore, or worse, her little boyfriends Potter and Weasley?
But the idealistic, poetic part of him was not at all enthusiastic about ending such an intimate moment. Perhaps if he kept his face turned away from her, she would not notice. Besides, it was still dark in the common room. The fire was unlit, and dawn’s sunlight had barely started to filter in.
They played for a long time, neither saying a word as the song drew to a close. What could they say to each other?
His fingers came to a hesitant halt, lingering on the ivory keys as if wanting to reclaim the notes he had just released. Strangely, the silence that settled over the room was not painful. It was . . . peaceful. Granger lowered the violin and stood behind him uncertainly, and he realized for the first time just how close she was.
“So . . .” she said in a hushed voice, frightened of breaking the bizarrely comfortable stillness between them. “I’m not the only one who hasn’t been sleeping.”
“Go back to bed, Granger,” he murmured wearily, resting his head against the piano. He was still consciously trying to keep his face turned away from her. “I can’t summon the energy to belittle you right now.”
“I heard you screaming again.”
He stiffened and raised his head, but kept his eyes trained forward.
“Sometimes at night . . . or, at least when you manage to get some rest . . . I hear you cry out,” she explained softly, sensing his confusion. He had never heard her use such a gentle tone before, not even when he eavesdropped on her inane conversations with her friends.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, fighting to keep his voice neutral. Reveal nothing. Reveal nothing.
“Oh come on, Malfoy,” she said with a trace of urgency. “I would have said something earlier, but judging by our ‘relationship’ so far, I knew you would not want me to pry. But, enough time has gone by, and I don’t think I can stand it anymore. I’ve been lying awake for weeks, listening to those awful screams coming from your room, and I must know what is wrong. They can’t be just nightmares. They aren’t, are they?”
“If it’s any consolation, I feel much better knowing I can keep you awake to suffer alongside me,” he shot back petulantly, still struggling to figure out how it was possible for him to cry out in the night without realizing it (I told myself I would never scream for him again!). He could feel her gaze penetrating the back of his head silently willing him to turn around and face her, which he adamantly ignored.
“Malfoy, I’ve seen you in the dining hall and during lessons. You never eat, you hardly ever focus in class, and you’re always so jumpy and paranoid. You are killing yourself by repressing whatever it is inside of you. Everyone is worried about you,” she told him, adding that last sentence in a much softer tone.
“Even you?” he grunted, unwilling to admit to himself how surprising he found her distress. His friends had been relentlessly demanding to know why he was becoming so withdrawn and washed out lately, but it was more out of frustrated curiosity than actual concern.
“Yes, even me,” she replied without batting an eyelash. He scoffed again.
“Granger, I really don’t appreciate this Gryffindor heroism of yours. I can take care of myself without you sticking your hideous face in my business. Why on Earth do you care, anyway?”
“I care because I’m human, and so are you.”
The irrational, fatigued, frantic anger clouded his judgement and he lost control of his senses. He spun around on the piano bench and flew to his feet, towering over her with vehemence flashing in his Arctic grey eyes.
“You are not even close to being human, you disgusting mudblood,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me, ever!”
It was unavoidable that he should realize for the first time just how pretty she really was when he was standing so close to her. He was near enough to see how his breath caused her cinnamon brown curls to flutter slightly against her slender shoulders. She was not outstanding or breathtaking – he had seen much better looking girls in the halls before. But she was pleasant and warm and familiar, a pink and gold vision of Earth Mother incarnate.
The Head Girl gave him a look of pure outrage and stood her ground furiously before him, until her eyes suddenly widened with disbelief. She took a horrified step back from him, her hand flying to her soft chest.
“Malfoy . . .” she whispered in a barely audible voice. “Those veins!”
Suddenly he remembered that the effects of the Cruciatus curse had not completely faded away. His stupid, reckless rage had caused him to forget that the veins were still visible at the edge his eyes, the corners of his mouth, and temples. How fortunate that the one witch smart enough to know this particular side effect of the curse was standing right in front of him. He swore violently and wrenched himself away from her, absurdly shielding his face with his arm as if he could somehow hope to block the sight from her memory.
He felt her gentle hand descend upon his shoulder and viciously shook it off. Knowing his weak attempts to hide his ugly secret were completely useless, he dropped his arm and forced himself to look back at her.
“So, now you know,” he spat, wishing he had his wand with him. The idea of casting a memory charm on her seemed very appealing, although the chances of him being able to curse her of all people seemed laughable. She would probably disarm him faster than he could blink.
“Malfoy, who did this to you?” she murmured, taking another few steps towards him. Her dark brown eyes had altered remarkably from anger to dismay.
“You mean who’s doing this to me,” he corrected, curling his lip with disgust. Her sympathy was really quite pathetic. Why should she waste her energy on him? They had been enemies since first year. So she stumbled upon his dirty little secret. Big deal. That did not give her the right to be so . . . so damn considerate all of a sudden. Had the situation been reversed, he wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about her problems. He would have been a smart wizard and kept to his own affairs.
“Are you saying that all the while I’ve been hearing those screams, I’ve been hearing . . . torture?” she questioned, her brow furrowing.
He merely shrugged, having no idea what to say to that statement. What was he to do? Burst into tears and weep on her shoulder, cling to her like a helpless child? No. Malfoys did not do that. Malfoys never cried, never showed emotion or weakness. He had a little lapse in character when he allowed himself to reveal his wounds in a fit of anger, but never again. Never would he lose control like that a second time.
Faster than his eye could follow, she moved her hand up and lightly touched one of the veins at the corner of his mouth. He stood motionless, stunned by the gesture, as her fingertip traced it with the utmost care. Her contact created some sort of bizarre charge of energy in him, and although he felt his stomach tighten with a sensation he could not even begin to name, another part of him relaxed almost completely. The lingering pain lessened ever so slightly, and for a few breathless seconds he was powerless to resist her, too entranced by it all.
Abruptly he realized what she was doing (what they were doing), and finally found the strength to move. He did not shove her roughly, nor did he jerk away from her. Instead, he gently but firmly took her delicate wrist in his grasp and pulled her hand away from him. Somehow it did not seem fitting to snap at her for it, because it was entirely too soft and even affectionate to be considered an infringement of personal space.
“Malfoy, who? Who could possibly put you through all this?” she asked, her eyes imploring him to pour his heart out to her.
Was she always this bloody compelling? Did everyone want to simply give up and confess everything to her whenever she gave them that look? Was he the only one who ever wanted to relent under that spell of hers? His attention slipped for a moment from the gravity of the situation, and he allowed himself to examine her briefly. She was wearing a white silk thin-strapped nightgown that swished ethereally around her thighs; he found himself appreciating a lovely few of her long elegantly shaped legs. The gown did little more than half conceal her chest and left her soft arms bare and exposed. Her delicate neck was long and regal, framed by her soft russet curls. She had the darkest, deepest brown eyes imaginable, swimming with gold and green flecks that seemed to glitter with a limitless arrange of emotion that completely baffled and intrigued him.
It had hardly escaped his attention that she had developed quite miraculously into a willowy and sinuous young woman, rather than the shapeless little twig he remembered. Although he still beat her height by at least five or six inches, it seemed as though she didn’t even have to try to stare him down to get the answers she would no doubt get. He could feel himself steadily letting go of his resolve to shut her own completely.
“It does not matter who is doing it,” he said tonelessly, letting his eyes fall to the world outside the window behind her. He did not want to look at her, now that he realized he was not just standing before some know-it-all Gryffindor mudblood. He was standing before Hermione Granger, an earthy mudblood girl who had, against all odds, managed to make him question the beliefs he had been raised on simply by being so smart and strong and kind.
Sweet Slytherin, he really was losing it.
“You must tell somebody, Malfoy. Tell Dumbledore! He will help you, I’m sure of it,” she begged him, peering closely into his eyes to tease his gaze in returning to meet hers.
He could not help but snort disdainfully at that. “Dumbledore? Sorry, Granger, but I doubt there’s anything that Muggle-loving old fool can do to help me.”
To his secret pleasure, he saw a flicker of indignation dance across her features. There was a glimpse of the old, passionately defensive Granger he was used to.
“A) He is the most powerful wizard of our time, B) he is a genius, and C) there is plenty he can do to help. For heaven’s sake, Malfoy, somebody is using an Unforgivable on you! An illegal curse!”
“I know what an Unforgivable is,” he snapped defensively. “My grades are just as good as yours, Granger, I think I can tell the difference between spells and curses with moderate ease.”
She regarded him patiently. “I wish I could understand why you are hiding this from everybody. Surely there must be some way we can fight this.”
“We?” he hissed, taking a dangerous step towards her. “Excuse me, Granger, but there is no we in this matter. It is my problem, not yours. Do me a favour and drop this little ‘good girl’ act of yours. You think you’re so bloody great, don’t you? You are just trying to live up to everyone’s expectations as the perfect person, but you are not fooling me. You’ve hated me for as long as I’ve hated you, and nothing can change that.”
Her face twisted with surprise. “Malfoy, I don’t hate you.”
He smirked and turned away from her, shaking his head.
“I mean it,” she insisted, moving around to stand in front of him again. “I dislike you, and you are probably the most horrid, beastly young man I’ve ever met, but that does not mean I am willing to turn my back on you, on this. Bottom line is, you need someone, whether you like it or not.”
He glared down at her with disgust, but said nothing.
“And as for being the ‘perfect person’,” she continued, dropping her gaze slightly. “Regardless of what you may think of my intentions, please understand that I am not doing this for Dumbledore, the other teachers, or anyone else. I am doing this because-”
“We’re both human beings?” he supplied coldly.
“Well, yes, and . . . because . . . oh, Harry and Ron would kill me for saying this, but . . .”
“But what?” he pressed, frowning. Why was she bringing Scarhead and the Weasel into this?
“Well . . . I think you and I could have been friends, had we started off on the right foot,” she admitted quietly, fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown. “I doubt that’s something you’d like to hear, or even understand, but . . . it’s true. It’s how I feel.”
If she had grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth (for some reason the image chose to linger in his mind’s eye), he could not have been more surprised. All this time, she had considered them potential friends?
At his silence, she took a deep breath. “Look, think of it this way. If you don’t talk to Dumbledore about this, then I will.”
He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at her, hardly able to believe what she was saying. “Are you threatening me, Granger?”
“Yes.” She did not even flinch or falter. Her gaze held his steadily.
“And what makes you think I will allow you to do that?” he asked in a dangerous tone. “I am bigger, stronger, and faster than you, and seeing as how neither of us have our wands present, the odds seem to be in my favour. You are sadly mistaken if you think I am letting you walk out of here so easily.”
A flicker of fear flashed through her eyes as he began advancing towards her, moving with slow, predatory steps that fell silently on the carpet.
“You don’t want to hurt me,” she whispered, almost desperately. “You don’t want to do anything that will ruin your reputation.”
“And you don’t want to start throwing around threats without being able to follow through,” he countered, backing her into the corner of the room. “Now, answer me this: what exactly are you planning to do?”
The deliberate warning in his tone left no room for argument. Hermione pressed herself against the wall and watched him warily draw in closer, waiting for the right answer.
“Nothing,” she whispered, dropping her gaze from him.
“Good girl,” he replied, smirking down at her lowered head. She looked small and pathetic, cowering so close to him with a curtain of cinnamon brown hair hiding half of her face. Almost fragile.
Frowning as a sliver of pity began to imbed itself in his heart, Draco took a hasty step backwards. As he pulled away, she looked up at him with darkness in her eyes.
“It’s your father, isn’t it?” she whispered in a numb voice.
His face went lax with incomprehension. Impossible. How could she know? How could she have guessed?
“How do you . . .?”
She sucked in a quick, trembling breath before speaking again. “I’m not sure how I know. It’s just that . . . I don’t think there is anyone in this world who can hurt you as much as he can.”
He felt the strangest indecision then, torn between laughing and crying with relief. She knew. Somebody out there knew. And he didn’t care how she knew of the tension between himself and his father. He didn’t care if she was just very observant or some kind of telepath. He didn’t care that she had been his enemy for nearly seven years, the riddle he could never solve, the target he could never take down.
“Draco, let somebody in. I can help you. I want to,” she choked, her eyes glistening.
The last pillars of his reserve crumbled.
“You can’t help me!” he shouted, his voice uneven, uncontrolled. “Don’t you get it, Granger? He’s too strong for me! I am weak, a coward, and nobody can stand up to him, not even you.”
Tears that he hadn’t even realized were gathering spilled over and he felt himself collapse.
She rushed forward and caught him around the middle as his knees gave out, and the two of them sank slowly to the floor. He was weeping and clinging to her body, trying to suffocate himself in the nape of her neck. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he knew she was crying just as hard as he was. He felt her shaking arms move to circle around his neck and shoulders as she whispered unintelligible things against his ear, pressing him close to her as if to smother her own heartache. He hadn’t realized how cold he was, and he instinctively sought out the contours of her figure to catch the warmth radiating from her.
It was frightening yet indescribably beautiful to him that of all places, the comfort he so urgently needed lay in the arms of a girl who had always managed to perplex, infuriate, and intrigue him more than anyone else. Who was she now? Who was he now? Where was the line between hating someone passionately and loving them with that same fire? This changed everything, but at the same time, it felt as if it was changing into something right, something that belonged. She was so . . . so everything all of a sudden. Her heat, her presence, her smell, her touch, her tears, her voice . . . she was a new centre, a core of kept promises and loyalty and support. She was everything he needed and had been lacking all this time.
He felt her kissing his neck and shoulder; small innocent kisses that made his heart break for all their gentility. Sighing unevenly as the last of his tears fell, he withdrew from her just far enough so that he could look her in the eye.
“All right,” he breathed, swallowing thickly. “All right, you win. I’ll talk to Dumbledore.”
The smile she gave him made all the others he had ever seen diminish into nothingness. It was so full of joy and hope, shining through her tears. On impulse she moved forward and placed a small, chaste kiss on his mouth and hugged him again, as if she was too overcome for speech.
The touch of her lips against his remained tantalizingly fresh in the face of its briefness. He sat in a daze as she held him, hardly able to believe what she had just done. Just as he was about to return her embrace, she pulled back and grasped him by the shoulders.
“Everything will work out fine, I promise you,” she said with a confirmatory nod. “And even though you may hate me for the rest of your life, I want you to know that I’ll still always be here to help you.”
He wanted to laugh, and in fact he nearly did. The two of them had just gone through an emotional breakthrough, held each other, confessed secrets to each other, he had just allowed her to kiss him on the mouth, however quick it had been, and she still thought he hated her? She didn’t notice that he couldn’t take his eyes off her, or his hands? She didn’t sense his yearning to hold her and kiss her and make himself a part of her?
“-course, I don’t think it really matters how little you like me, what’s important now is helping you get away from your father and-”
“Granger,” he interrupted, smiling. Smiling, after all this time. “For someone who is supposed to be smart, you can be incredibly thick sometimes.”
She opened her mouth to make some kind of indignant response, and that is the moment he chose to kiss her. Hard. Deeply. Hungrily, with more need and passion than any other kiss he’d thrown away to girls that meant nothing to him.
Her first reaction was, understandably, complete and utter shock. He felt her hand fly up to press against his chest, torn between pushing him away and running her fingers over the smooth, flawless skin. But when she realized that she was in fact not dreaming and Draco Malfoy was indeed kissing her, she could not find it in her heart to be disgusted. Or appalled, or outraged, or any other emotion she thought she would ever feel in this situation. Too much had transpired between them to make her remember how much she used to dislike and even fear him. She had seen his human side, the side of him that needed somebody else to love him and care about him, and it called to her instincts, driving her to act in the only way she knew how. Nurture. Protect.
Slowly but surely, agonizingly, her hand moved up from his broad chest to comb through his soft, silver blond hair that fell in graceful swoops across his face and eyes. The other, as if of its own will, quickly followed suit and she felt his arms tighten around her, crushing her to him in a fierce but tender display of possession. She was kissing him back. She was kissing him senseless and neither of them wanted it to stop. He was igniting fires inside of her, fires that had never burned before, not even with Ron.
They broke once for air before he was upon her again, his mouth capturing hers eagerly. His hands moved to explore her figure, teasing her delicate curves and soft, supple flesh that seared him with its heat. He had never been so enamoured by the feeling of touching another human being before. Everything about her body was fascinating to him, and his roaming fingers left nothing undiscovered.
“You’re with me now,” he gasped, his lips still brushing against hers.
He wanted to thank her, Merlin how he wanted to thank her for everything she had done for him. But there were no words, no expression to emulate just what his heart was telling him about her.
“Yes,” she replied in the same breathless voice, feverish from his touch. “I’m with you now.”
He leaned his forehead against hers and stared into her. She stared back from under her long dark eyelashes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were hazy with feeling and desire. He smiled again, unable and unwilling to repress it. She smiled gloriously in return, and he felt the stirrings of something in his heart that he knew could never be reversed or diminished. All she did was smile and he knew he could fall effortlessly in love with her. One of these days.
I’m ready for you, Lucius, he thought to himself as the two of them curled up on the floor, bodies intertwined as dawn began its shy approach into the room. When he was certain her breathing was slow and steady in the throes of deep slumber, he finally allowed his eyes to close.
But this time, there was no fear of the dark.
END
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