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He He watches. He sits at their table in the Great Hall, the ceiling above them spelled in realms of blue, and puts his eyes upon the figure that coils into his every waking moment. In classes, in their common room, in the hallways as they stretch from one hour to another; voices can be calling his name but he doesn't stop. Watching. He is careful, of course, so very careful. It would not do to be caught in the thrall of those snaking hips, easily traced even through stolid black robes, or entranced by lips that softly-softly entice without ever seeming to try. Never seeming to know the fever caused by not-quite-green irises and long-fingered hands as they slinked around scratching quills, a suspect illness that's struck over half of sixth year. There is a word for it, he knows. Want. As he watches the outer world there's another going on in his head, where he bites and breaks and bends that willow-body anyway he pleases. Where the mirror of those eyes shatters to show a dozen reflections of himself, vibrant in blond and pale, and stronger than any lion could ever be as he takes. And Blaise? Blaise lets him. |