Alone Together and Perfect Hell

Alone Together

When we fuck we are together, but we're quite alone. We're alone together, not making love on a lone mattress in a hostel, in a grungy back room made for people like us who want to escape.

This room must get used quite often, as there seems to be a permanent indention in the springs of this piece of shit, covered in curtains that had a linen change and became sheets. I know this is the busiest hostel in Hogsmeade, it's really more of a whorehouse (but who is the whore?). I know all this because the floor is carved with the initials of the alone, but not necessarily lonely.

I know this because everyone wants to escape.

Welcome to the war, happy you've arrived.

This is how we do it; this is how we survive. We find something steady and we use it, we abuse, and we feed off of it like our lives depended upon it. And they probably do. I would be a mess, an even greater one, if I didn't know that every other weekend I would be able to take all my frustration out on her pussy, and she would collapse in her heap of books if she didn't have the assurance that there would be a guy to make her so mad she would be able to punch at his stomach until she sobbed.

So that's how our weekends work. We come, we screw, we sleep some empty caravan of dreamless never gonna come true fairy plot, and then we speak in perfect tongue, never letting the other know any semblance of what's really on our mind.

She'd like to talk about her Weasel leaving her for the great beyond.

And I'd like to blab about the perfect hell my home life has become.

Perfect hell...a cliché Pansy and I have consummated. If we don't die we're going to be bond together for life, but we're hardly even fair weather friends. If you could call Slytherins friendly and even then we'd all turn on you in serious offense. This war time, this stalking through the winter of Hogwarts trying to act as if some great storm of power wasn't gathering and people weren't going to Care of Magical Creatures and never coming back, as though Lovegood hadn't thrown herself off the Astronomy Tower and gone splat, and as if that fraud wasn't predicting clouds on every horizon.

Hell wouldn't be so perfect if Hermione weren't such a constant.

I can only call her Hermione in my head; out loud she's Granger, or her newly resurrected pet name--Mudblood which she rolls off and returns with a side dish of ferret. I'm glad I've got someone to share my insomnia fits as I stroll the lake, but its not like I love her.

We want to be able to say we're in love. To end, or leave, this war in a grand gesture of either extreme violence or chaotic peace--both of which picture us using love to end this. But we're not in love, no use pretending we are, we're just not made for anything more than linking our two bodies together and heaving their abilities around in a swirl of nothingness.

Tonight I'm going to the hostel where we will screw for hours, then she will sleep while I trace the carvings on the wooden floor with my wand callused fingers. I'll wake up to her lying across my chest, adding her lyrics to the engraving I've just begun, and singing our song for the next users to arrive here.

Her soulless brown eyes greet mine dimly; here we are, together.

Together.

We are so alone.