Dead, You're Alive

Dead, You're Alive

~Voldevie

"They say follow your heart, follow it through,

but how can you when you're split in two?"

--Face to Face, Siouxsie and the Banshees

Thump.

I was pushed into the hard stone wall. My back tensed as my shoulder blades ached.

Ever since I learned how to, I fantasised about simultaneous pleasure and pain, a boy of beauty roughly pinning me up against a wall, making me lose control, losing all senses, him trying to embed me into the wall. Or bookcase; whatever was better to compliment the mood. But it was rough, it always had to be rough. The attraction was gone if he was gentle; it was more meaningful when it was gentle -- well, as far as I can think (nothing like what I'm describing has ever actually happened to me. Imagination can really take you anywhere), gentle is boring. Rough was adventurous, daring, a step on the wild side.

I wanted to lose control.

Maybe it's a hormonal thing; after all, I'm still a teenage girl and Merlin knows what's happening inside me. I can barely understand my own non-academic thoughts nowadays. All I want to do -- as ridiculous as it sounds -- is moan. In pleasure, I mean. Not doing it, you understand. I just want to kiss heatedly and gain some rush of excitement, some rush of passion.

Which is why Malfoy just shoved me into a wall. Roughly.

I have a feeling I might lose control soon. In a few moments, I might just hand my every fibre of being to him. He's some sort of catalytic sex god, speeding up the reaction. Of course, he's a prat, but what does that matter in the middle of sensuality? Does anything matter in the middle of sensuality? We should all be as carefree and passionate as we are in the middle of sensuality. The middle of sensuality is a different place altogether; it's on top of the highest mountain, it's at the bottom of the deepest ocean. Can't we all be in that place?

He's glaring at me, holding my shoulders tightly. I'm twisting, trying to get out of his vice-like grip. Always look innocent and pure; they chase you more. They want to corrupt you, want to break you and by God I'll let him. I give in weakly to his supposed power -- although this is part of the plan; make him think he's winning when you're five steps ahead -- and beg him not to harm me. Innocence is the greatest form of seduction.

Since I cannot move, I have to stare into his eyes. He really does have the most unique eyes. Silver. I wish I had such intriguing eyes. Anything's better than the dullest shade of brown. His... I could stare into them all day and still not decipher his feelings. Not that I'd want to, anyway. Stormy grey shining like liquid silver might be attractive, but it's still him and I can't like him. Not like this, anyway.

Two fine strands of his blond hair -- not just blond; platinum blond, the most exquisite tone to exist -- has fallen into those eyes. I sweep them away -- I never was one to live with imperfections -- and he smirks, catching my ice-cold hand as if it were a Snitch. He gently brings it to his mouth and kisses each finger individually. I want to slap him, but I'd rather kiss him. He never takes his eyes of me nor I him. I don't think I could.

Does he realise how beautiful he is?

My mouth has become considerably dry, so I "absent-mindedly" run my tongue across my lips, hoping he notices, which, of course, he does. He drops my hand and it swings limply from side to side; he's moving in for the kill.

But he stops, realising something. Grabbing both the fallen hand and the unmarked one, he holds them high above my head. He knows I want pain.

He's smirking; he knows.

Being Granger, however, means I must pretend to dislike it: every brush against my skin, every eye-locking moment, although my body is crying for him -- pleading, begging -- I must pull away, tear away to be torn. I'm Granger, though I wish I wasn't. Then I wouldn't need this pretense.

He pries. It's not a gentle kiss -- he's a Malfoy, what do you expect? -- but it's not rough. It's somewhere in-between. Passionate is the word. I'm not letting him win, though. I stand there, mute and stationary, waiting for it all to be over. I'm not going to react, not for him, but he can do what he wants to me. Anything he wants and I'll obey, although his life greatly depends on it.

This time, I have to move in for the kill.

As he searches deeper and deeper, I swiftly draw my wand out and slowly point it at his chest. He's realised something's tapping at him and pulls away reluctantly.

"Avada Kedavra," I say in a deadly voice.

He drops to the floor, crumpling, and looks asleep. Now I can do what I want without feeling guilty. His life does not matter, not after everything he did to me. His life for my sanity; it's a fair deal.

I fall to my knees and trace my index finger down his soft face. Merlin, he's beautiful. I have to have him. I must. I have to have every last bit of him. I breathe kisses upon his fair flesh, but it doesn't satisfy me. The only way for me to have him is to taste him. I tentatively lick his left cheek, experiencing the pureness of water. So this is what the boy I hate tastes like. I gently lick his other cheek to balance it out -- it would be unfair to devour only one side of him. The feeling of desire washes over me; I have to know every part of him. Besides, what's stopping me now that he's dead?

I carefully unbutton his majestic dark cloak and loosen his strangling robes. Shuffling down slightly, I lick his neck but it's not enough so I delicately tug on his unblemished skin using my teeth. Aghast, I stop -- what am I doing? I must regain my common sense or else I fear I could devour him. I do not know my own strength now; everything is so wrong. But if I can love him the way I've always wanted to, what does it matter?

Although I wish to literally strip him of those teasing clothes I could rip to shreds, I have my dignity. I will not perform any actions suitable for my mind to regret. I am not regretting this; his freedom is gone and he is mine now, all mine.

I hesitantly stroke his lips, trailing my tongue over the paleness of his mouth. I cannot resist; my tongue dives in. Of course, he does not reply -- I would be rather scared if he did -- but the feeling of us together, as one, is bliss. I am inside him and I find it isn't so bad being a Malfoy. I swirl my tongue around his then move it up to the roof of his mouth and caress it. My tongue is going haywire and I'm enjoying every moment of it.

I tug at his fair hair, twirling a strand around my finger, running my other hand through the silkiness. Feather light, his hair is, of the most angelic shade imaginable.

I love him. I love him.

I love him.

***

"Add the newt eyes," Professor Snape instructed quietly, gliding by the tables.

Hermione added the three eyes and her potion turned into a rich bottle-green colour, fizzing for a couple of seconds before dying down. Stirring the solution, she admired the sharpness of the hue and the smoothness of the texture.

"Collect a jar from the front if you haven't done so already," the professor drawled, cloak swishing to and fro. "When your potion is brewed correctly, it should be deep green. Unlike Mr Longbottom's," he added, mouth twisting upwards and staring at the bubbling purple calamity that was Neville's potion.

Hermione gave Neville a sympathetic smile which he returned glumly.

"Fill the jar up to the halfway mark -- do not go beyond this." Professor Snape looked around for his next victim; "Miss Granger, you do not need to be so uncertain in your measurements." She blushed slightly and heard, from the other side of the room, Malfoy sneer. Looking at where Hermione was glaring, Professor Snape added, "Or so confident, Mr Malfoy. I said half the jar, not two-thirds." Suffice to say, Malfoy quickly silenced, causing Hermione to attempt to conceal her laughter.

"Drink the potion slowly. When you finish -- and it could take a while to have an effect -- I want you to tell me what you think the potion enables you to do."

Hermione drank hers hesitantly after looking around the room: she hated this part of Potions. She never shed the suspicion that Snape could be feeding them all poison.

The potion had no taste and Hermione wasn't sure whether she had swallowed it or not. Nothing happened for a few moments until images flashed, emotions erupted, needs hungered and sanity departed.

Malfoy. Wall. Fingers. Kiss. Kill. Lick. Tongue. Right. Wrong. Love.

She felt herself vaguely coming back to the classroom. Coughing slightly, she opened her eyes and blinked, looking around. Everyone else seemed to have the same bewildered effect upon them and it was a further few minutes until everyone was in the right state of mind.

"Since you're all safely back in the room, what was the potion? Anyone?" Snape drawled.

This was the part where Hermione would raise her hand, like everyone expected her to, but instead she remained silent and breathed raggedly. She barely even heard Snape's question. The only thing she could think of was...

Malfoy?

"Potter," Snape barked, startling her fellow classmates. "As entertaining as it would be to listen to what you saw in your potion, I feel it may be held against me as an invasion of privacy. Therefore, as a generalisation, what does it show?"

"Err, what you want?" he suggested.

Hermione, of course, knew what the potion was, but it made no sense. Malfoy wasn't what she wanted. Perhaps she brewed it incorrectly. How degrading.

An idea struck her. Curious, she looked over at Malfoy, studying his silent expression with great interest. It wasn't natural for him to pay rapt attention to Professor Snape (and yet he always managed to almost beat her grades), but he was staring at his professor intently, listening -- no, watching -- every word pour out of his mouth. Quite suddenly, Malfoy turned to look at her, taking her aback. His expression was as neutral as it always was but his eyes were narrowed. His attention was drawn back to Professor Snape, but Hermione still analysed every move he made.

Was it possible he saw the same thing?

"What I want right now, Potter, is for you to give a correct answer once in a while, but I doubt that'll show up in my potion." Malfoy, Hermione noticed, did not laugh in his accustomed appreciative manner when Snape's jokes were directed at Harry. The professor looked around again. "Miss Granger," he snapped. "Seeing as you have some odd fixation with Mr Malfoy--" Malfoy suddenly became interested in Hermione, "--what about you? You usually answer before a question's been asked. What's the matter, cat caught your tongue?" It wasn't said mockingly, but in a cold, worried tone -- it was his idiosyncratic form of respect.

"It, um, shows your deepest and most darkest desire," she said quietly, staring at her hands.

"Correct." Looking at the clock, he said, "Pack away your things. I want an essay about this potion covering two parchments. Mr Weasley, do you wish me to make yours five parchments?"

Hermione slowly tidied her desk and cleared away her books. She wanted to speak to Malfoy, although she didn't know what to say. "Hi, my desire was kissing and killing you!" wasn't going to go down well, she assumed.

She waited until everyone left and Malfoy was a distance away from her classmates when she said, "Malfoy, wait."

Turning slowly, he looked at her, expression serious. With sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, he whispered, "Don't say a word."

He smirked; he knew.

***