Just a little thing – if you look up the word "sanguine" in a dictionary, it will
probably say something like lively, or vital. This is a skewed meaning – the
original derivation is from the Latin word sanguineus, which means "blood" or
"bloody".

Umm… This is supposed to be from Draco's POV. Sorry, I know that's not too
clear, but come on, can you really see Ron being this... kinky?

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine… unless the delectable Master Draco Malfoy ever
happens to come up for sale.

Rating: R

Archive: Ask me.

Sanguine

by *strange charm*
 
 
 

"We were two and had but one heart between us."
- François Villon
 
 
 

I remember the first time.

We were sixteen, intoxicated with the insatiable hunger of adolescence. I was
violent, frenzied, needing a release. You were serene, glowing, but understanding.
I told you that you were a goddess.

We lay, contented, on the forest floor. I slept in your arms for hours. There were
leaves in your hair, and a moth.

The next time, and the next. We would steal out to the Forest, disappearing in the
dark of night. We didn't even know each other by day, but at night we were one.
One soul, one desire, one need. I didn't even have to tell you what I wanted. I
was inside you, contained within you, body and soul. You were my world. I lost
myself, drowning into you.

I remember the blood more than anything. Vibrant and pure, surging from the
lacerations along my spine, the scratches you made with your nails. There were
bite-marks on your collarbone, the chaste whiteness of your neck and chest
stained scarlet. I marked you as my mate, and you never resisted. I can still taste
your blood on my tongue, feeling it mix with my own as you bit my lip. I still
remember the feeling of sinking my teeth into your shoulder, the way the soft
flesh would give and let go, feeling you shudder as I clutched you to me. I would
watch as your brow furrowed in pain, and I just pushed harder.

It was what you wanted, though. It was what we both needed. You were
tranquil, your senses dulled by the monotony of your existence. I was frozen,
yearning for warmth, not for love or friendship, but for the fire of passion. We
were both looking for escape, and we found it. We melted into each other. Our
souls fused like our intermixed blood, an intravenous celebration of consciousness.

I remember the last time.

You told me you were leaving with him. He loved you. He loved your mind,
your spirit. I only craved your body. As you craved mine.

The hunger, you said, the visceral lust, it wasn't enough for you. Since when, I
asked. Since him.

You didn't know it could be any other way, you told me. You made it sound as
though I had taken advantage of you, had forced you to do the unspeakable
things we had done. It wasn't like that at all, and you knew it. You had wanted it,
you had given yourself to me. You offered yourself in exchange for pleasure, as
people have done since the dawn of time. And until the end of time, I will pursue
you.

I remember the only time.

You died young. What a waste, they said, what a tragic loss. But now you're mine
forevermore. The dream that we call death will never let you go, just as I will
never release you. You can walk forever into that mirage, but he will never be
there. Only our truth will echo forever.

I went to see you the day you were buried. The fresh earth compressed itself
beneath my feet, sending up dances of aroma. I will always associate the smell of
fresh dirt with you, with our nights on the forest floor. Something wasn't right
about it, though.

Of course.

I pulled out my knife and pressed it to my lip. I turned the point meticulously,
tearing open the scars you had given me over the years. The knife point felt
almost the same, almost like the feeling of your sharp teeth tearing through my
flesh. I closed my eyes, sighing with pure desire. But there was nothing left there
for me, not while you lay alone, under six feet of sod and earth.

I sway forward, collapsing onto your freshly-turned grave. My lips brush against
your tombstone, leaving a trail of blood, but most of it falls onto the earth,
invigorating and revitalizing it. What do you think will spring from this, a bed of
grave dirt and lovers' blood? Spectral children and the dreams of shadows, a dark
yearning for an unreachable radiance.

I look up, and read what it says there, my warm blood already chilling on your
granite tombstone.

Hermione Granger
1980 – 2005
chasing the farthest star
 

Chase it forever, my love. I'll catch you someday.

Someday.