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Sing Me A Song

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Cho’s lips are gorgeous in red, especially curved into a knowing smirk like this. Spike heels in crimson as well, matching her nails, her skirt blue and full. She does a little shimmy in the mirror, and laughs at the beauty of her skin and the angles of her collarbone.

Oliver lounges in the doorway, watching her with a grin. The photographers are hovering outside the door, cameras already snapping, but these two are sparkling and ready to dance.

“How was the game?” she asks, slipping her arm through his. He kisses her before speaking.

“You taste like sugar,” he says.

“Sweet-talker,” she whispers.

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Angelina slid off her broom and landed on the ground with a thud. Practice was exhausting today; Oliver was behaving like a bloody lunatic, and the Slytherin team had decided to spy – rather obviously, since they were crowded in the bleachers. She ran a hand through her cornrows, and turned when someone shouted snottily, “Hey Johnson! I hope you’re better in bed than on a broom!”

It was Malfoy, insolent little prick. Angelina glanced at Katie and smirked.

“He’s in love,” the other girl teased.

“He certainly thinks he’s intimidating,” snorted Angelina, and the two girls strode off the pitch.

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His tongue slides and moistens chapped lips. Beauty like you doesn’t come around here much, he says. Fingers move, trace patterns on pale skin, runes of degradation and decay. Step into my shadow, he begs, but really it’s a command.

You’re frail and beautiful, and the taste of your blood in his mouth is almost enough to satiate him. He stalks you through the forest and the castle; he’s a ghost, a god, a man, and you are just a momentary amusement, passing entertainment, a speck.

He treats you like a mongrel and whips you to heel but you whine and plead for more. The border between torture and sex crumbles and rots. In the end, he grinds you into the dirt and leaves you, cracked bones and pulpy meat and dripping eyes. You’re unnecessary, after all; there is always another you.

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“I want to show you something,” she whispers, and Percy knows this is going to be a secret.

“Keep it just between us,” she whimpers, and Percy sets his hand on her hip and wants to erase the bloodstains the diary left on the canvas of her mind.

“If I had been there from the beginning,” he begs, but she shakes her head and lets him brush his lips over her scars. The anguish of her broken skin leaves its own metaphorical marks on him in the form of night sweats and migraines. The tattoo burns under his eyelids when he sleeps. Her inner war is not Percy’s to fight, but he asks. His helplessness slays him, and when she cries his name in bed and speaks to him in her sleep, he curls his fingers around her wrist and wakes her. It’s their secret, like everything.

“If I could be there right now,” he whispers, but she’s in the labyrinth of her psyche and he can only share her burden partway.

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Sometimes they bring dogs, great hulking beasts with slavering jaws and glowing eyes. The Muggle children try to run but they’re overtaken and ripped to pieces while their parents scream, and scream, until the tears and snot, saliva and sweat paint their faces with a greasy sheen and then – only then – do the strangers in masks and robes kill them, with thorns and spells and potions.

It makes me so tired. The shouts and crackling flames blur together in my mind; it’s difficult to separate each cleansing. Murder, I should say. Murder. I refuse to be like them; a human life is not something to be dismissed, however pathetic they are. It could be me, after all. It could be Lily.

When I look my brothers, I can see what they’ve done, and the ash in their mouths speaks of the furnace in their bellies. But I cannot always tell the dogs from the men.

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He’s so oblivious; Teddy feels like he’s leaping up and down, perhaps on that nice leather couch, holding a giant sign that just screams Pay attention to me, you rotten bastard! (And your arse looks quite nice in those trousers, by the way.)

Honestly, he’s known Teddy long enough. He should’ve noticed by now; at every family gathering Teddy goes out of his way to flirt, but Percy’s so bloody obsessed with his job he’s completely insensible to it. Or at least that’s what he thinks. But he’s wrong. So when Teddy gives up on subtlety and barges into Percy’s office and snogs him senseless, then ends up at Percy’s flat (which he never quite leaves), Percy’s actually very smug about it. Especially at the next family get-together, when he collects hard-won Galleons from his brothers and uses them to buy Teddy a nice suit.

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Ginny’s not much of a planner, nor is she very good at logic. She acts on intuition, and even if it’s a huge mistake, at least she has fun stumbling around. Not to mention that she’s sick of playing the good daughter, and is just dying for a chance to fuck everything up. So the most headstrong of the Weasley clan sets out to make a mistake. And she does, oh yes she does; makes it all over her flat with her lips and tongue and toys, and later she’s curled up on the floor in a sweaty hug with her surprisingly clingy slip-up. Neither she nor Pansy have ever been so glad to take a risk before in their lives.

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“What time is it there?”

“Zat is a good question. I theenk…three in zee morning?”

“I hear people talking. Do you have someone over?”

“Oui. Eet is a little fête, mon chou.”

“You couldn’t wait?”

“I did not know when you would be home.”

A short pause.

“Perhaps…you are lonely, I theenk?”

“…yes.”

“Does thees make it better?”

“I…Fleur! You – ”

“These buttons on these silly Eenglish robes, c’est difficile! But I theenk I can
manage.”

“Oh Merlin.”

“I want you, Nymphadora.”

“I’ll try to get tomorrow off.”

“Zat is good.”

“Don’t get too hot and bothered until I get there.”

“Oui, mon amour. I will wait.”

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It’s just a flick of the wand, really, such an insignificant movement. A click of long nails on polished wood is the first warning. Hermione’s heart seems to drop into her bowels, then speed to her throat. She knows something’s happening.

A whispered word from a hoarse throat, six deadly syllables that in any other order would be nonsense. No one else understands; the poor Muggles think this is just a robbery. They’re waiting for the bullet. They don’t get why they’re dropping like doxies, it’s not violent enough for them. But Hermione knows what’s happening. Bellatrix laughs at her through tattered hair and disappears. A body had hit the edge of the table; Hermione watches the blood drip onto the linoleum vacantly. War is coming.

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Their interactions are like a dance; Narcissa is the beat, the careful piano which flows in elegant steps and holds the symphony to the earth, while Lucius, in all his moods and rages, is the tempestuous violin flying into the air, notes screeching and trembling. He holds himself taut like a string ready for the plucking.

Their dialogue is point and counterpoint; they alternate control of the melody, but the passion runs through both of them. In their years together they are put through their paces; their waltzes evolve into tangos and transform into whirligigs. But they are a duet, and the music they make is always a fervor.

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I. Pretty Fly for a White Guy - the Offspring
II. Candyman - Christina Aguilera
III. Red Right Hand - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
IV. Inherited Scars - Sage Francis
V. Ash - Murder By Death
VI. Excuse Me Mr. - No Doubt
VII. A Mistake - Fiona Apple
VIII. Out of My Hands - the Donnas
IX. When the Gun Draws - Pharoahe Monch
X. Danse Macabre (Opus 40) - Camille Saint-Saëns

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“Gorgeous golden hair, perfect skin, absolutely striking fashion sense, three-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, model for Madam Malkin’s Menswear for the Stylish Wizard, and on top of that, I am a good soul! I give back to my community! What do you think about that, Mirror my love?”

“You are the fairest of them all, Gilderoy,” said the mirror soothingly. “Now go and impart your wisdom and hair advice to those poor, deprived students.”

Gilderoy Lockhart stroked his mirror lovingly, fluffed his lurid robes, and proceeded, with a half-stroll, half-flounce, to his first day of teaching.