Author's Note: Steak for dinner can produce very strange trains of thought. Strange, but welcomed. It's better than trying to write H/Hr to a Matchbox Twenty song just because you've been double-dog-dared to. (To write a H/Hr one-shot, not a fic to Matchbox Twenty…just wanted a song prop to help me through.) Resolved something: cannot write H/Hr. Will not back down anyway. Here, in the meanwhile, is a pathetically small ficlet for another pairing that is just too easy.


   He walks into the room, and I'm the first thing he sees.

   He sneers. I scoff. We glare at each other, no words.

   There are other people around us, walking, talking, laughing and crying but we don't notice any of them. Not a single one.

   Instead, we glare.

   I try to look away. I try to think about something other than his penetrating eyes. But he consumes me that way; he overwhelms my senses until he's all I can see. Or hear. Or taste…

   It's visceral, the taste of him- of the hate we share. Violent and simple, on the same animalistic level as a predator sinking his teeth into prey. He tastes like blood, like the sweetest, most tender meat I've ever tasted. I redden in shame.

    If there's anything I despise most about him, it's the allure of his taste.

    He smirks. He's won- I've reacted to him. I scowl. I wish I could tell him my thoughts, just to spite him. To scare him. He doesn't know how easy it would be to wipe that smirk off his face…

   …to taste him….

   He thinks he has me under his control. He thinks he can make me react to him. I am, and he can. But it's not his looks. His words. It's his taste.

   He slides triumphantly into his seat. He thinks he's getting away with this. He can taste the blood too, I'm sure- cold blood, dizzying, blood that reeks of fear. The blood I taste in my mouth- I'm biting down on my lip, hard, trying to bring myself back into reality. But the blood only drags me further into the downward spiral- my head is swimming now, and I can't think straight.

   Not that I've been able to since he walked into the room.

   Since his eyes first met mine, my thoughts have been anything but straight…

   I hate him for this. The things he makes me question, things I always took for granted. He turns my world upside-down, and I'm nauseated, just as I am as I swallow the blood he's made me draw. I hate him, because he makes me hate myself.

   He's talking to his friends now. Or the people he calls friends. I shake my head and poke at something on my plate. Beside me, Harry starts to talk about our Divination assignment. I listen, but my thoughts stray disobediently from the Tarot cards and tea leaves.

   I talk, and I laugh, and I pretend that it's not there.

   But every bite I take leaves the taste of his blue blood on my tongue.