Disclaimer: It's all JK Rowling's.
A/N: Yep, for some reason, I'm on a posting frenzy. I was cleaning out my fiction file and found some pretty good stuff. This is a Fred/Angelina drabble. Sometimes more poetic than actual prose, but I've noticed that I tend to write in that style from time and time, and it works in my opinion. Hope you like this and thanks for reviewing!
It was the same routine every Saturday night. Her shattered and demolished heart would reach out its frail hand, in hopes of capturing some sort of nonexistent Prince Charming. The diseased blood would thrust through icy veins and she would sputter, choking on her own fragments of deceit and hypocrisy. He was just too damn irresistible, but the power of temptation was far too weak and quiet to butcher the ravenous strength and fortitude of fear.
She would watch him from the couch, sinking into the plush cushions, wishing that one day, the fabric would just devour her, swallow her into its bottomless crimson hole.
And he would occasionally catch her smile, tossing back a sly grin that seemed to reach all the way to his ears, creasing a canvas of ivory skin. She would pretend that the gesture went unseen but deep down inside, her optimism would proceed to scream with delight.
It was the same situation every Saturday night. They would meet in some secret nook of some dark and dreary hallway, where he would profess false confessions of false passion and she would trace faint hearts on his shoulder blades.
He'd wrap his arms around her waist and she would gaze up into his eyes, eyes that were like crushed blue velvet, shimmering and humming like the docile flutter of a fairy's wings. Their lips would topple onto each other's, crashing like the twisted remains of a carwreck during a winter's night. And she would make believe that tomorrow would be different, that tomorrow's love affair would be fulfilled instead of unrequited.
It was the same every Saturday night. She would whisper "I love you," and the logs would combust, exploding into a raging shower of blood colored sparks, while he would turn his head, words clinging to his smirking mouth.