Title: I Want All My Memories To Be of You
Feedback address: email@example.com
Date in Calendar: 16 June 2009
Fandom: Harry potter
Word Count: 1110
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Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to JK Rowling. No infringement or monetary gain intended.
Note: The characters are well above the legal age of consent. Enjoy the story.
I want a love that is like the first snowflake of the season: brief and fleeting, I think that such a love will at least leave me without a scar, and the memories that remain will be eternally sweet in the transience – like a rare delicacy. I have tried to live my life thus far in such a manner. I fall in and out of love as the sun sets and then rises once more. I whisper a different name every single night and I never press my lips against the same skin twice. I promise sweet nothings to the feel of a stranger’s body and I always make sure to drink just enough that I never remember more than the taste left on my fingers and lips. To love faceless bodies is much easier on the heart.
I have known the taste and texture of a desperate love, an all-consuming love, a young love and I have come out charred, scarred, pained, ruined, completely broken. I have come away with the vivid impression of a redhead with a pair of flashing brown eyes imprinted into my eyes, the feel of her curves burned into my hands and the smell of her hair permanent in the air surrounding me. She haunts me like childhood nightmares, like teenage dreams.
I cannot catalogue every single kiss I have had, but every single one I have had with Ginny remains so very clear in my mind that I can imagine another pair of lips to be moving with mine as I shut out the early morning sunlight. That is my cue to leave. I never stay around for the morning after and I do not plan to start now. There is no point in getting attached, I have nothing to offer besides a good time and I know better than anyone that meaningless sex does no good to most anyone.
Apparating home without leaving even a single note, the first thing I see on my coffee table (apart from the mess) is a rather conspicuous letter. I have some sort of an idea as to what it may be, but I do not yet need to know. I turn to my bedroom. I need to scrub away the smell of a stranger. It is only during the day that I permit the smell of Ginny to envelop me, I feel less lonely with the sun still around to cloak me in its warmth. It is only when it sets that I seek out another sort of warmth.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” a voice speaks up from the corner of the living room.
I freeze and slowly grate out, “No.”
“Please,” Ginny’s voice sounds exactly the same and it bothers me endlessly. How dare she remains the same when I feel like my whole world has come undone.
“I know what it is. Congratulations,” I hiss, “now will you please leave me bloody well alone?”
“Pansy,” Ginny whispers. I hear the slight rustle of fabric and it is not more than five seconds later that I feel her just behind me. “Don’t -”
“Don’t what? Don’t be mean? Don’t be rightfully affronted? Don’t start with me, Weasley!” I know the use of her surname is worse than any insult my Slytherin brain can ever think up.
“It’s not what I want,” she starts, her fingers twitching as they press against my back.
“No, but you’re doing it nonetheless,” I point out, sucking in a breath as I feel her fingers splay across my back. Her nails dig into a sensitive spot and her curves flatten against mine as her other arm wraps around my waist. She needs to leave. My legs can barely stop trembling.
“Pansy,” Ginny whispers again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the side of my neck. I can hear the slightly wet sounds of her kisses and I can just imagine the way her teeth alternate with her tongue and lips in making contact with my skin. Somehow the idea that she is kissing the exact same spots that my lover of last night has kissed is turning me on so much.
“Stop,” I breathe, reaching forward with both of my hands. Feeling the solidness of the wall in front of me, I relax my stance slightly. My knees still buckle a little. “Please, just go. Please.” I do not beg, I do not plead, but my personal rules never apply when it is Ginny Weasley I am interacting with.
“Pansy,” she persists, her voice is lower than I remember and the pure heat of the sound lands immediately in my centre. Her hand trails upward underneath my loose shirt, pressing slightly chipped nails against my bare skin, skimming the underside of one of my breasts and finally raking against an immediately erect nipple.
“Don’t, Ginny. Stop. Please,” I groan. I do not know she can be so cruel.
“Please,” she returns, pushing me forward with her hips, spreading my legs with a nudge of a well-placed thigh. “One last time,” she goes on, pulling hard at the collar of my shirt. I think I almost cry at her words, at the sound of threads ripping, at the sound of her increased frenzy. She bites at my shoulder, soothes over it with the flat of her tongue and plays with both of my breasts while she grinds her hips into my bottom. Something about this pronounces the end of our relationship much louder than anything else ever can, ever will.
“Please,” I whisper needlessly, suddenly turning around in her arms. “Just one last time.”
I think I see tears welling up in her eyes, but she pushes forward with a kiss and I cannot remember anything else before that. If she can taste another on my lips, she does not say. If I can taste someone else on her lips, I do not say either. This moment is about the two of us, just the two of us. Any complaints, any words, any promises die on our lips as she thrusts into me and I thrust into her. I meet her as she meets me one last time. Our final goodbye.
When the two of us are well spent, when the only sound in the air is our laboured breathing and the last rays of sunlight turn the red of her hair into gold, she tells me, “The wedding is in two months.”
I know, but I do not say anything.
The silence is beautiful and the feel of her fingers intertwined with mine is divine. Another faceless lover awaits me tonight and she returns to Harry Potter’s waiting arms.