Is Life Delicious?

I often wonder if life could be defined as delicious . . . that every minute spent with the one you loved made each bite sweeter and more satisfying than the last.

If life was delicious, I wouldn't mind eating every minute, until I don't have any time left to devour.

If life was delicious, I wouldn't mind dying as I savored it.

- - - - -

Long, exceptionally long lashes.

They're black.

Yet, his lashes aren't merely black. They were raven black that shown with a prism of four dimensional colors. A spectrum of beauty encased in rays of soft hair.

And I wished for them to glide across my skin, hovering slightly. Like a delicate paintbrush, I wanted it to paint beauty across my skin.

I'm not a beautiful woman.

He is.

Beautiful.

Not a woman though.

If he was, I'd gladly be a lesbian for him.

I was watching Harry Potter behind hooded eyes.

Almost like a stalker.

Almost.

I was his best friend. The prissy, know-it-all everybody hated for her smugness, but loved for her best friend. I was Hermione Granger, the almost-stalker who watched Harry behind hungry, lustful eyes.

I was clearly a virgin.

A deprived virgin who found her best friend to be a work of art, sculpted by God as Michelangelo.

I returned my eyes to Hogwarts: A History, re-reading the same line for the ninth time. Whenever I tried to distract myself however, brief captions of the fantasy I had last night of Harry flashed in my mind. Minor details--cherry lips on skin, jet-black hair fanned on pure white pillows, small breathless pants. They haunted the mind, the soul, the heart. It left no hollow space within me. I was filled to the brim with obsession.

And delusion.

A soft, warm breath appeared next to my ear, steady and slow, sensual.

"They don't make beauty like that anymore. Don't you agree, Granger?"

It was Draco Malfoy. Over the seven years I've known him, his voice hasn't wavered. It's still steadfast and strong, mysterious. Despite the fact that we were enemies, his strength demanded that I paid respect.

And I did.

It's an inevitable.

I didn't glance towards Malfoy, or shot him a witty come-back that I knew was half the truth.

I merely nodded.

"That beauty encased in one man . . . it drives you insane with lust. You avoid going to bed because you know you won't get any sleep from thinking about him. Harry Potter can make an insomniac out of a heavy sleeper."

His cold hand slipped to the book I wasn't reading, placed it down, and covered my hand within his own.

"Now there, you can stop pretending. It's apparent to anyone who watches you that you are watching him. Don't need to pretend with me. I sympathize with you."

His other hand snaked its way around my waist, planting his palm on my abdomen.

Like an anaconda seducing you to your death.

Like a vine entwined around your neck, gradually, artfully murdering you.

"I love him, too. In ways that Malfoy shouldn't love."

My eyes widened a fraction of an inch, maybe wider. I was shocked, stunned, content. I wasn't the only one suffering. There was another who cried along with me.

I could feel the heat of his gaze on me, making me catch my breath, allowing for me to suffocate.

"Don't look so surprised, my beautiful girl."

"I'm ..." My voice wasn't mine; it was choked with suppressed tears and bile from my silence. I cleared my throat once again, trying to find the confidence I lacked.

"I'm not yours."

"'Course you're not. You're his. We're his, but he'll never be ours. He was made for greater things than us."

The bite of his ice-cold hand detoured my face towards the antique mirror near the book shelves.

There was us. Embracing like lovers, but sometimes mirrors were ideal liars. It was a passionate scene that meant nothing to both of us, but a balm on our wounds. Something between spirits.

"Look at us, darling. Look at the illusion we're forming. Look at how real we look. We're silly, aren't we? Wanting more than we can reach like a little child aching for the cookie box on the top shelf. Our reflections pity us. They pity us. We look towards Harry, and they pity us even more."

Good thing we were in the dark corner of the library.

Good thing we couldn't be seen, or else they would have spotted the pained expression on our faces.

"Malfoy, our love for him is deep. With every day we live and breathe, it eats away at our souls. We allow that. Why? Why do we allow pain?"

It's my voice again.

Once again, it doesn't sound like my own. It's familiar, but it belongs to someone else.

"Because, love, this type of pain brings us to the line of pain and ecstasy. Up to the point we can't recognize which one is which."

His hand guided my face towards his. Our lips making brief contact and returning for another kiss.

Delving further into our wounds.

Our tongues battle; his lips shifting against mine. Clichés are being broken.

The earth shatters. The floor breaks from underneath our feet. Time is nonexistent.

We part breathless, amused.

My eyes flutter while his remains closed. We can only say one thing,

"Harry."

His name said longingly, wistfully in our tongues.

From that afternoon on, we spent our days in each other's company.

We were a comfort blanket to one another. Conveniently, he would distract me from Harry and the loneliness he inflicted with his eye-scrunching, dimple-showing smile.

And I, well I saved Draco Malfoy from his insanity.

- - - - -

It's ironic that love can transcend through expectation and planning. I've lived my life based on an organizer, on a leather-bound daily planner. I've lived my love for Harry on obsession and loyalty.

The only thing I hadn't depended on with planning was Draco Malfoy.

He was irony in a small, red box.

A jack-in-the-box that never came out, until the second you least expect it.

And I was turning the handle for a long time, anticipating.

Dying with every turn.

+++

It was our graduation night.

Alas, we were adults, officially separated from our child-like bodies.

The noise of celebration echoed through empty corridors; everyone was in a state of bliss.

Alcohol in every house, every graduate was happy and drunk. Some couples were having raunchy, loud sex on tables while others were outside in the Quidditch field, doing graphic lovemaking.

The door eerily creaked open. It was a slow, grating sound like the beginning of inhaling.

"You weren't in our spot in the library today. I waited for hours in the dark, contemplating. You never said a word. How can you be so damn inconsiderate?" Draco murmured in a monotone, slurred slightly by the twenty shots of tequila he had earlier.

We were in the Astronomy Tower, a lover's meeting place. He and I were meant to be out of place, but it felt fitting to be here with him.

I was gazing out a window, slightly leaning against the stone frame. Sighing.

"We always met there, beautiful girl. Always. Fawning over the god we could not have. Are you abandoning me now?"

I refused to look at him. I concentrated on a dim star, distantly shining. My fingers curled against my palm, half-moon-shaped marks now on my skin.

"Are you letting me go now that I'm accustomed to the wry smile on your face?"

I wish he wouldn't say those things. It makes it harder to let go.

Why let go, Hermione? You could pretend. You've been pretending all your life.

Pretend he's yours.

The jack-in-the-box slowly turns, winding along with broken, circus music.

At least for tonight.

His hand fanned against my cheek, brushing his knuckles across my skin.

A lover's touch.

He's not even my lover.

Heavy breathing could be heard from the Astronomy Tower as I seized Draco's wrist and flung him against the stone wall. Both of his wrists were caught in my grip; I tiptoed to reach his lips.

"Just one last performance, Draco. Then the show's done."

I took his mouth into mine and smirked smugly when I heard a breathless gasp from him.

The jack-in-the-box remains shut while the music gets faster, a rapid climb to an unsuspecting climax.

We've made love there on the stone floor. Our body heat kept us warm, and punch-drunk passion kept us high on ecstasy.

The bright moon bathed white liquid over the hills of our bodies. Our lost whispers of endearments and groans were well-kept secrets of the stars.

I've let him have all of me.

Naked.

We were caught in each other's arms with me tracing random circles on his porcelain skin.

Almost lulled to sleep by satisfied silence and the priceless sight of the sunrise, I murmured my love to Draco.

"I love you, Harry."

His eyes closed, slumbering.

The jack-in-the-box comes alive, no more terrifying, climactic circus music. I realize that I don't want it opened anymore.

An ethereal glow of gold spilled over his skin; a bronze curtain that made him appear magnificent like a Greek statue of Adonis. Tears accumulated in my eyes, the first in seven years.

It landed on his lips, and I followed after with my last kiss.

Brief.

Short.

Sweet.

The ideal goodbye.

I found my clothes and put them on. Mismatched buttons and underwear in my jacket pocket--I was in a hurry to run.

With one last look, my breath caught in my throat.

I should have never turned back, yet I did.

It's an inevitable.

The door creaked closed; the click of the lock defined the end.

It exhaled.

I, of course, did not.

- - - - -

Prostitutes and I share only one common ground.

I lived an envious woman's life.

What sets me apart from them?

I've only made love to one man.

+++

Flaxen hair.

Sculpted body.

The glow of glistening sweat underneath the rising sun.

These were the memories I kept, replacing my girlhood fantasies. They left me breathless, bothered, hungry.

The days of Voldermort have passed with trails of blood and death behind it. Harry Potter was dead in attempt to save his beloved husband, Ron.

Despite his unselfish effort to save Ron, both Harry Potter and Ron Weasley perished in the arms of each other. Like Romeo and Julio.

They were a vibrant, passionate couple and my two best friends.

Yet every time, they kissed in a shaded spot of a pub or held hands while walking down the crowded streets, I would stare, heart beating rapidly. They drifted off, deeper into the crowds, oblivious.

Stare until envy drips slowly from me and leaves me numb.

I wasn't envious of Harry's love for Ron. I was envious of their love.

Harry was no longer the boy of my dreams; my thoughts could only hold down memories of flaxen hair and a warm, baritone voice.

I stood in front of Harry's grave on a brisk London morning.

"I've missed you, my beautiful girl." His breath skimmed across my cheek.

Hands reached around my waist, the other grasped my other wrist.

"I'm not yours." I could feel the arrogant smirk sweeping across his face. I closed my eyes in shame, cringed away from the heady scent of his heavy, sensuous cologne.

"He's gone. The reason of our childhood trysts is this man who could not return what meaningless obsession we had over him. He was--"

"The man you loved." I murmured, accusingly, bitterly.

The grip around my wrist wrapped around tighter, until I couldn't feel the blood circulating in my hand. It was cold as his wrist wound tighter, tighter, tight.

"I'm getting married, you know. To a wonderful man. He adores me, treats me right. The best part of this package is that he loves me," I said.

They were all lies.

Of course.

The grip grew tighter; the pain ebbing away to be replaced with numbness. Even the arm around my waist became taut, pressing me against the entire length of him.

Memories, memories.

I struggled against him, in attempt to escape the cage he caught me in five years ago. His skin emitted the scent of teenage sex and unrequited love. I had to break free from the bondage.

What a sadistic person Draco is.

To find pleasure from playing with people's emotion.

"No."

"What 'no?' I've stopped listening to you years ago. You are a face of my past. Let me live my life. I'm no longer your security blanket. I can't be Harry's mannequin. I'm not real when you pretend I'm him."

He let go of the fierce grip around my wrist, exposing a raw, bruised circle.

Then, Draco lapped the bruise.

"I've spent so many years searching for someone that doesn't want to be found. What you believe doesn't matter. Whether you refuse or not, I have claim over you. No one can fucking mess with me, not your fiancée, not you, not even . . . "

Closer and closer it seems, his breath almost evaporated into my skin.

"Harry." A whisper.

"Don't toy with me, Draco."

"Why? We toyed with each other years ago. What difference does it make now?"

I broke free from his restraining embrace.

"I'm not that adolescent doll to be played with. I'm no longer that young girl that needed your affection. I am my own woman."

He pinned me against Harry's tombstone, legs entwined against my own. His weight knocking the air out of my lungs. I was breathless.

I was in the same position I was five years ago.

In between Draco and Harry.

Between the only two men I've loved.

"Understand this, Hermione. You are my woman."

No.

No.

Stop that fountain of lies, you possessive, chauvinistic masochist.

Stop before I start believing you.

I lay still like a corpse with death running through my veins.

Tears streamed down; gravity pulling them down to the moist soil of Harry's grave.

I hoped he would catch them even from six feet under.

I refused to meet with Draco's eyes. They had the depth of Satan in them.

"You don't love me. Not then. Not now. The man you love is beneath us, resting with his lover in purgatory where they shall find purification for their sins. It's where they are. It's where I will be, to atone for my sins. We have all wronged you in the eyes of God. We have committed the highest sin. We have made you cry."

If life was delicious, I wouldn't mind dying as I savored it.

"Hush those tears. Despite my sins, I am unwilling to live through your absence in my life. You must be mine even if you shed tears until death. I will pay for my selfishness in hell just for this paradise on earth."

I linked eyes with the devil.

Lucifer with pools of molten silver, sincere eyes, beautiful grays.

Love was not a factor in life anymore.

This was not love.

This was entwined fate, a cliché of destiny.

Love was trivial, flighty like a bird with one wing.

I took the hand that pinned my own and brought it against my chest, above my heart.

"And I will pay for sins I haven't committed just to follow you to the ends of hell. Because . . . "

Then I kissed his palm, cradling it against my cheek.

"This belongs to you."

Alas, I exhaled.

Life was delicious.

- - - - -