Peractio


Hurt me, he said coldly. He thought you wouldnít do it.

His wand clattered, smashed, crashed against the stone floor, so hard you thought it would break but it never did.

Come on, he said, do it. He was shaking, you noticed. You didnít think youíd ever seen him shake, not like this, not with rage. You didnít know he had it in him.

Perhaps, though, you suspected. Perhaps.

You didnít speak, not knowing what to say. For awhile (forever, it seemed), you didnít even move. Just stared, watched as he grew angrier, pale skin reddening. He was sweating. It registered somewhere in the back of your mind that heíd never looked more alive than that moment. He wants to kill me, you thought, but it didnít scare you.

Maybe it should have scared you.

Finally, frustrated, he grabbed your wand and threw it to the floor. You barely heard it hit. You barely heard anything, saw anything, recognized anything but him, standing there in front of you. Hands clenching as if wishing they were wrapped around your throat. Breath heavy, loud, angry, echoing in the dimly lit hallway.

You couldnít hear your own breathing.

He stepped forward, boldly, placed his hands on your chest and pushed. You barely stumbled backwards. His hands were hot, almost painfully so, and you wondered if there would be handprints later, imprinted in your skin, angry fingerprints, rough red swirls, marks to show that he was there. You didnít push back.

Fucking wake up, Potter! he screamed at you. It echoed, a thousand gray stones whispering it back to you, only you. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

You smiled; that was a mistake.

He pushed you roughly against the wall, the whispering stones digging into you. Bruises, there would be bruises tomorrow that you couldnít see. Bruises.

Look at me, just look at me, he demanded, his hands fisted in your robes, jerking you back and forth, your head banging into the wall. It hurt, you saw spots, little sparkling clouds of red obscuring your vision. Not enough to hide the blond hair, disheveled now, dilated gray eyes, flushed cheeks, the pure hot radiating anger that made your heart pound faster, faster, faster than you thought it could. Iím awake, you thought, Iím awake and I see you, but you didnít say it.

You didnít say it, and for a second you thought he would strangle you, beat you to death with his bare hands, rip your heart out with sheer force of will, right there in the corridor that you passed through on your way to Charms everyday.

He didnít. He stared at you, and you stared back.

Hit me, Potter, he said, hurt me. Deathly quiet, like he was suddenly afraid of getting caught. Just do something. Anything.

I could break him, you thought wildly. Break him into a hundred pieces. He wants me to, I could do it. I could do it.

You leaned forward, not far, and your lips touched his. He was hot, feverish, skin burning, and instead of punching you in the face he kissed you back. Your hands stole under his robes, under his shirt, over his skin, pulling him closer, digging your fingers in, bruising. He kissed you back and you felt him break with every nip of your teeth at his lips, every soft stroke of your tongue against his, every second, minute, that he didnít pull away. He tugged at your hair and pressed his lips to your neck and you wondered if this was what winning felt like.

Like this, like your worst enemy vulnerable to you, helpless with desire, begging for your touch. Yours. To have and to hold. To destroy.

You laughed.

He pulled away and looked at you, startled. How adorable, you thought, Iíve caught him off guard for once in his life.

Lust and power thrummed through your veins, your heart racing with it, your hands shaking from the urge to touch him and watch him shatter like glass.

Eyes widened, lips reddened, he stared at you like youíd gone mad, or he had.

Still smiling, you pushed him hard, sending him tumbling to the ground.

He stared at you, shocked and disbelieving. His palms were bleeding, torn from the stones scraping them as he landed. Harry, he said.

You didnít answer. Just straightened your robes, picked up your wand, and walked away.

Without a backward glance.

Hurt me, he said.

So you did.

End
6/1/02

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