Casualties of Heart

-CASUALTIES OF HEART

She comes to me every week, religiously.

We have sex. The most amazing sex imaginable and, in the morning, she leaves before I even wake up. I'm used to that now, even though I long for her all week. I know she'll be there on the next week, and I will have her for that one night. When we happen to see each other on the streets, she talks happily and acts like nothing ever happened between us, nothing more than friendship. I think she really believes that's all we have, and I admire her ability to separate things almost as if she had two different lives. People would never guess that we've been together all this time.

I suppose I could call myself a happy man: to have the woman I love in my arms, to have been allowed into her life, her intimacy. Oh, I've always been part of her life, as she's said many times. But even so, I never thought I would have the chance to bed her. It seemed so out of reach, and to be honest, I knew I wasn't good enough for her. Not even as a lover. I often thought that I would be the happiest man in the world, if that ever happened.

Yet, I wonder if this is what happiness feels like.

While I will admit that I don't want it to be over, I am aware of the disturbing nature of our relationship. If you can call it that.

I would do anything for her, and I accept her terms because I see them as my only chance to be with her. Call it weakness, I know it is, but I can't help it, as I'm sure she can't help it, either. We are tied... bound in our own sick needs. The need for something that isn't there, something that will never be. We will grab at any trace of that fantasy and for a few hours, think they are real and we are happy.

She doesn't allow me to call her Hermione, and I comply. How could I not, when I see how alive her eyes get as I call her Miss Granger? She wants me to be demanding, controlling and never, ever speak softly or lovingly. She says: "It doesn't feel right if you're not snarky enough." Whatever that is...

I can feel her passion intensify at every rude comment I make. I don't understand how she can get aroused by being offended and bullied, but I can't say no to her. Not when I feel her hand snake up my neck and grab a handful of hair, sliding through her slender fingers. She loves to do that; she loves the feel of it in her hands.

I ache for the moment when her lips search mine, parting them with her tongue and kissing me passionately. It's breathtaking.

She asks me to wear the same black trousers and crispy white shirt, buttoned up to my neck, so she can slowly undo them, carefully placing kisses on my chest as she opens each one of them. I find myself moaning at the feel of her warm little mouth on my skin. She takes her time, enjoying every moment, tasting every bit of me and at that moment I don't care if this is wrong or not; I feel loved; I feel wanted and cherished. It's wonderful, and I'd give anything to have that every day, every moment... to the rest of my life!

She lets me undress her, many times she asked me to tear her clothes apart, to be aggressive and yet calm. She loves the danger those little actions imply, and the feel of being punished that makes her breath get hitched. I indulge her, and love her thoroughly because, in the end, that's what we both want and need.

Her body is perfection, but I always knew it was. She is everything I thought she would be and more. She's even more beautiful at twenty-six years old than she was when I first saw her. I know it didn't seem like I fancied her, I was never good at showing it, but I did; I've always wanted her. Many times I said the wrong things, when I didn't really mean them, and I could see her drifting away from me. But things have changed and I have changed. I like to think I managed to control my temper, at least for her. I don't think I would accept this situation years ago, but the war and time do things to a person. We mature in so many levels, learning to accept the little happiness offered our way and make the best of it.

And she makes the best of it, giving herself to me entirely, passionately, almost desperately. Clinging to my body, following every stroke to finally reach climax, digging her nails on my back, panting those words over and over. She always screams the same words, "Fuck me, Professor, I love you Professor... my Professor!" Sometimes she calls me dark lover, but other than that, she never uses my given name. I let her, because I will do anything to please her.

We lay panting, spent and sated, for the longest time. She then places one soft kiss on my nose and turns her back to me, pulling my arm around her waist. She always does that, and I wonder if she refuses to face me because she doesn't want me to see her silently crying, as she does every single time, or if she just doesn't want to see my hair turning back to red and the freckles returning to my skin.

I wonder what will happen once she uses up all of that lock of black hair. The lock of black hair she discreetly cut from him while bending over his coffin to kiss him goodbye. But I try to push those thoughts away, and enjoy her while I can.

My own and only love, my 'Mione.