Quinque Sensi

I can see it in your eyes.

Every look you give me, every fleeting smile you send my way, holds something arcane and dangerous, something dripping with hatred and loathing, but masked with loyalty, and love. I watch your eyes when they turn to me, and see the silver interiors frost over, turning to ice, even as your pale lips twist into an unpracticed smile. You love me, yet you hate me, because I am the cause of your problems, I am the girl that just wouldn't die. I see it when you turn away, how your eyes narrow, how they dart around, searching for a resting place, searching for anyone but me. I watch your eyes slide over me, dismissing me for nothing more than what I am; an enemy.

I can hear it in your voice.

You call my name, and it echoes across the vast chasm between us, though we are only two inches away. I can hear the way you want to change it, the way you want to spit it out of your mouth, as though the mere syllables of my name are a vile substance. Your lips form around the word, and I watch you struggle. It is a trial for you to call me by my real name, to abandon our childhood tradition of calling each other by our surnames. We are still children at heart, though the rest of the world it quite grown up. Your voice wavers when you address me, and though you tell me to show no fear, you show the greatest fear of all; fear of my name.

I can taste it in your lips.

You draw me close, and wrap your arms around me when you can think of nothing to say. Your lips brush over mine, your heart beating with mine. I can taste the hatred on your lips, mingling with the love you once had for me. Our kiss deepens. I can taste it again, and I dive deeper, trying to get the taste of love, the taste of time gone by. But you sense my motive, and you draw away, leaving my mouth open and my heart pounding. A simple smile, and you shrug, as if to say, "I was out of breath". But I have seen you, when you think no one else is watching. You hold your breath, as though waiting for a storm to pass. You told me that you did this to regain control of your temper and thoughts. Where are your thoughts flying that you should deprive yourself of breath so often? I know the answer already. You dream of the taste of softer lips, and fleeing from the taste you despise; the flavor of me.

I can feel it in your touch.

Your long, cold fingers slide over my skin hesitantly, almost reluctantly. We both know that you don't want to touch me, but I need your touch so much. If you only knew what it meant to me, to be loved in the way you used to love me, you wouldn't touch me as though I was burning. I know that my warmth always repelled you. Your slender fingers brushing over my hot skin were saving to me, a bit of calm that I knew was beyond me. I whisper your name, and your touch is gone from me. I know that you did not know what you were doing until you heard your name issue from my lips. I reach forward, and take your frigid hand. Don't stop now. Your hand comes forward, and your fingers trace the features of my face. It's a face that you don't want to touch, but I need your touch more than you know.

I can smell it in the air.

When you're with me, the atmosphere sparks while our tension climbs. The air takes on the smell of your hatred, and I try not to breathe. If I breathe, I take in what I have always hated about you; your loathing towards me. While my body is slowly being deprived of oxygen, I sit, and I wonder, and ponder the "what ifs". What if... I had let go when you wanted me to? What if... you were with someone else now? What if... My heart did not yearn for you so completely? Then, you shift your position, and my eyes fix themselves on you. For a fleeting instant, I can see that the hatred in the air has brought these same thoughts upon you. Then, a veil drops over your face, and these thoughts are lost forever to me. The only evidence is the sharp, metallic scent of your loathing hanging in the air.

I can know it.

The morning sun shines in my eyes, the brilliant rays reflecting off the childish prisms I hung on your windows. The shards of rainbow fall on a book, its pages opened to a verse. I reach out my hand expectantly, reaching for you, but my hand is empty. You're not beside me, Draco, and I want to know why. I bury my face in the pillow, sobbing furiously. I don't want to look in the book, but I feel drawn to it. The parchment calls to me, like it always has. The tainted ink in my blood is connected to the book, drawing me closer and closer to my doom. Hesitantly, I raise my head, and pick up the book, eyes blurring furiously as I struggle to read the words.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up the remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wall my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

Then can I grieve and the grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

* * *

Fin