ZOMBIE She’s broken. Tattered. Casually thrown aside. The debris of her once esteemed figure. She’s her own shadow. There is her head, hunched over her chest that every so often shudders. Her prominent nose peeks out as her scraggy hands inch upon her face and dust off her matted curls. His hand twitches on the doorknob. He musn’t be seen, he musn’t be noticed. Repetitive mantra, followed advice. Or at least its been the only thing that’s gone through his head. The only permanent thought that manages to break through the mundane evening of him just staring at her from the door, just watching. Watching her take out the shoddy book up on the shelf. Watching her fingers delicately scratch the surface and watching her as her face falls and the book skids away. Eyes scrunch and a deep frown places itself between her brows as she shudders. He wonders if she can cry. Sure, he had seen her heave her chest and clutch her hands tightly around her tender mouth as her moans catch themselves in her throat. Sure, he’d seen her close those brown eyes and he’d seen her teeth bite her lip. But never, never did he catch the site of a lone tear marking her cheek. Marring her perfection with its single response of life. He figures if she ever cries again (she used to once... before it happened) it would be her complete breakdown. The day she would admit it. Harry’s gone. He had already made amends with it. Tore down the boy’s poster bed hangings from the dorm and locked away his trunk. He had already patted the backs of his fellow Gryffindors as they came rushing to him, for a last standing memory of him. As if he had claimed his own identity. His freckled hand burns with blood. The door creaks open. Her hand stills at the zipper of her pants. The other halts at the curve of her breast. Damndamndamndamn. What was it? He musn’t be seen, he musn’t be noticed. He tries to back away, but now he’s seen. Now, he’s being watched. Those big brown eyes he had seen all too much roll in the back of her head watch him with a trace of recognition. The hand that entranced him (entices him now) beckons with a simple bend of her index finger. His clumsy feet manage to make their way to the foot of
Harry’s her bed.
She gives him a shy smile.
The dilapidated windows of Grimmauld Place grind shut. There’s no light, only a sliver given by the moon and that one creaking by the open doorway that came from the hall, silent hall.
They don’t say anything (what else is there to say?) and she curls her arm around his neck.
He feels awkward, gigantic, compared to her petite form. Dry lips part and he wants to say something (anything) to make some sense of how she was acting.
But there is no comprehension of the situation. Her eyes are closed and her body grows rigid. Her arm is still around his neck and he’s standing there just watching her.
Only when he focuses on her mouth (sweet mouth) does he understand.
Her lips mutter incomprehensibly as she tugs on his shirt and as he drags himself on top of her.
Only does he understand her beautiful scene when he pulls Harry’s bed cover’s over them to shadow his hair and make the freckles on his skin blend.
Only then does he understand the role he plays as the last solid memory of him.
A/N: This was a 'guilt gift' for my friend after I accidently tore the back cover of her cheesy romance novel. I wrote R/Hr for her to show my sincerity, but ultimately I am too much a H/Hr shipper. :p I might make something more out this...
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