Faint

"Where were you last night?" he demands angrily.

She glares back at him through her thick red hair, her brown eyes flashing. "It isn’t any of your business."

He grips her shoulders and shoves her back. Her head strikes the wall with a satisfying crack. "No one keeps me waiting, Weasley. Now, tell me where you were."

She winces and closes her eyes against the pain. "I was with Harry," she hisses through clenched teeth.

He laughs then, an empty, mirthless sound that reminds her far too much of Tom. "Planning on starting the Harry Potter fan club again, Weasley?"

She opens her eyes to glare at him once again. "And why would you care, Malfoy? After all, I am just a Weasley."

He glances quickly around the corridor, making sure no one is around, then turns his harsh gaze upon her again.

"You are mine," he says. He speaks slowly, carefully enunciating each word. "Mine," he repeats, tightening his grip on her shoulders. His nails are biting into her flesh.

"No. I belong to no one."

His eyes flash dangerously. "You belong to me."

His lips come crashing down upon hers. Hard enough to bruise. He bites her lip, thrusts his tongue into her mouth when she gasps from pain. She loves his kisses in the night, when he is gentle and passionate all at once. But she does not like this. It is suffocating and violent and so much like Tom. She screams, but no sound comes out. She pounds on his chest, but this only seems to encourage him more. He will have his way, he will prove that she is his.

When he is finished, he pulls away. Her blood is staining his perfect lips. His face is slightly flushed, his breath short. He smirks at her, at the hot tears flowing down her burning cheeks.

"You are mine. I own you. And I can do what I please with you."

She gives him a look that could cut through steel. She wants to scream at him. Tell him that he does not own her. But did he not just prove it to be so? He has the power. Just as Tom did.

So much like Tom.

"You will come to me tonight," he commands.

She nods weakly. She knows that she would have gone anyway. No matter what he does, she will always go to him.

*

She slides into the bed beside him, and his arms are around her waist. He buries his face in her shoulder, his lips trailing butterfly kisses over her neck.

"I knew you would come," he murmurs against her skin.

She says nothing, tilting her head back and weaving her hands in his fine, slightly damp, platinum blond hair. His lips work their way down to the hollow of her throat and back up again. They brush over her jawbone. To the corner of her mouth, and finally rest upon her waiting lips. The kiss is tender and slow, nothing like the angry passion he exhibited that afternoon.

He pulls away and gazes down at her. His gray eyes are softer, somehow. This startles her.

"You need me. That is why you come."

Without knowing why, she nods. She feels the sharp sting that warns of coming tears, and brings his mouth down upon hers again. He kisses her deeply. She sobs into his mouth. He seems to take this as encouragement, pressing his lips even harder against hers. His hands fist in her already tangled hair.

She kisses him back with equal passion. But all the while tears stream down her cheeks.