As sunlight dies
and moonlight falls
Dusk creeps like a wanton lover
Darkness embraces fevered lands
With kisses, shameless surrender
Hush now, love,
hush and see
Here it is, the night before
Tonight they tease and feel
Tonight they touch, explore
But as dawn
breaks from the east,
What will be their morning after?
People always talked about the night before – who met (she was half-stumbling from drunkenness, a giggling, incoherent mess, and he was achingly sober despite the three liters of firewhiskey in his blood), where they met (an alley alongside a bar, in a place where rain poured like bullets and air acrid like cigarette smoke), when they met (the aftermath of a wedding they were not invited to), and how they met (she was giggling because she stumbled and seeing a bottle of unclaimed vodka she took it, not seeing the cold hand that also reached for the bottle. "Mine!" "No, mine you idiot!"). Probably one of the reasons was that, the night before always seemed to be the catalyst for future meetings, for future trysts.
But what about the morning after?
The morning after what? Well…
When she refused to give up her bottle he yanked it up to him, her hand and body following suit. Soon the bottle flew and she was in his arms, vomiting on his shirt. Nothing romantic, no rituals like, "Why if it isn't the Mudblood," and the "Shut up bastard!" Not even the slightest recognition, just a lot of cussing and the next thing they knew he was pushing her on the wall and she was riding his thigh and her skirt was bunched up to her waist, her blouse pulled low and damn, fuck, it was like she was never taken before, and she was gripping him tighter, harder, faster. He obliged, uncaring that she was clawing through him with her sharp nails because he was seeking oblivion and for several moments, he got what he wished for, oblivion, in the arms of someone he couldn't care less about.
Now, was there anything romantic in the night before?
And here it was. The morning after.
They didn't wake up in the alley or covered in rat dung and filth because either one of them had the grand idea to move them, or Merlin someone else might've seen them sprawled naked on the streets and graciously made them disappear - somehow. But when they opened their eyes they were in a place they didn't know, covered by the sheets they didn't use, and with a person they did not like.
He jumped from the bed faster than he could mutter jumped-up Mudblood.
Oh God she wanted to die. She had difficulty keeping her stomach settled, and looking at him groggily, she wondered why this person – just who was this person anyway? - was putting on a shirt that had a yellowed stain on it. Clearly cleanliness and hygiene had no place in—oh dear God, no. No no no not, not—
He grimaced at his shirt, then glared at her, and finally she remembered. And wished she could forget, and Merlin just how cliché was that?
He felt for his wand, found out it wasn't where it should be. "Fuck," he bellowed, knowing he had to wear something but did that something have to be this shirt with the vomit on it? Immediately he took it off, threw it at her face. "Clean it up," he ordered.
She threw it on the floor. "You wish," she said, standing up and weaving the sheets around her. Damned if she could come up with something cleverer when she didn't have a stitch on. Well wasn't this just grand? She couldn't even grasp for any shred of dignity because, well, at least he had some clothes on! Fuck!
He looked around him, muttering obscenities beneath his breath, and when he turned to inspect the window she gasped – look, scratch marks on his back, made by a harlot! She inspected her nails – bloodied. She sat on the bed again. She was going to be sick.
"Now what?" he asked, himself or her, who knew? He whirled to face her. "Do you have your wand?"
She shook her head, regretting it a fraction of a second later as the slight motion seemed to make her head swell and shrink in alternation. Oh Merlin, was it possible to throw up air? She put her hands on her lips. She was about to find out.
"Stupid," he whispered, disgusted, not at all perturbed by the fact that he could also be described as such. After all, he was busy being indignant and righteous – hell, someone had to be!
His luck was changing – it was turning for the worse. Last night had been hell; he'd been casually told he should leave, as he was not invited to her wedding, and cheerfully he was escorted out by henchmen twice his size, height, hair. Happily he was tossed out onto his arse and if he ever as much as show his face in the area he was going to be beaten until that face was pulped. Not much imagination required, but he got the idea. Soon he was out for blood, but whose blood should he spill? The bride and groom's? When? No, it'd be better if he waited, preferably with alcohol as his company, for the suitable time for revenge. Next thing he knew he was on the streets, in a bar then in an alley, fucking the wits out of some whore only to find out he wasn't fucking any whore, but someone lower, and fuck his luck for turning even worse.
Her luck was changing – it was turning for the worse. Last night had been hell; she'd spent the majority of the night crying because she wasn't invited, and fuck them she didn't cry, not now, not ever. She was just told that maybe it'd be better if you didn't come because it would only be awkward and awful to have you there, right? Right? Through an owl, no less, and just how impersonal was that? It was as if they didn't spend fifteen years together and –no, no, there was no use in dwelling on yesterdays, or so she thought when out on a whim she went to that bar with nary a sensible thought in her sensible head but to get sensibly drunk. It was her fucking right as the jilted lover. Next thing she knew, she was being fucked senseless, and damn it why couldn't it be someone else? She was rational enough not to believe in knights in shining armor, but damn. Fuck, her luck was turning for the worse.
As one, they looked at each other. As one, they looked away.
"Are you…" he started, then halted. How did one tactfully inquire about contraceptives? He used his hands, indicating a bulging stomach.
Luckily, she was intelligent enough to understand and answer, "Yes." She didn't miss his large sigh of relief, and didn't know if she'd be insulted or not. She chose to be insulted, because hadn't this bastard touched her just last night? She smiled and chose to spite him with, "Must be your lucky night."
He returned her smile with an equal amount of malice. "With you? Never."
She stood. "Fuck you," she said amicably.
"You did, didn't you?" he muttered in kind response.
And they were back to the problem at hand.
He looked out the window again. Since it was hours after sunrise, people were already milling about. Despite his reputation, because of his reputation, he refused to leave shirtless. Something about morals and ethics and some shitty social conduct. Glancing at her, he thought of ways on how to explain this incident, if necessary. Having sex with whores and prostitutes was socially tolerated, but with Mudbloods?
She walked to the door, debating on opening it or not. Where in hell could they be? Maybe if she saw someone, she could ask that question – and for some clothes as well. Then she could leave this damned rathole and the rat in it. Glancing at him, she thought of ways on how to explain this incident, if necessary. Her having sex was barely a cause for an uproar, but with him?
He grabbed her hand even before she could touch the knob. "Are you mad?" he yelled at her, throwing her hand away as if he'd been burned. "What if someone sees us?"
"That's the point, idiot," she muttered. She glanced at his pants, cursed at it for being there. "I don't want to be stuck with you any more than you do, so—" She placed her hand on the knob again, and opened the door wide, only to reveal—
Or more precisely, no one.
All that there was out there were miles and miles of closed doors and probably empty rooms.
"Happy now?" he inquired silkily.
She slammed the door shut as her reply.
What's wrong with him? Didn't he realize that, unlike her, he could just go out? People were less likely to gawk at him, since he's a man and it's a misogynistic rule in this damned universe that men could actually appear naked from the waist up whereas women—
On second thought, no, never mind. Because if he did realize and do it, it would mean she'd be stuck here, alone and naked.
On third thought – wouldn't that be better?
Quite suddenly, she was pried from her thoughts by his harsh laughter. "You know what's interesting?"
"You're going to tell me, anyway."
Was that resignation in her voice? Well. "That bar was probably a thousand miles from Hogwarts," he said, stalking towards her with a predatory gleam in his eye, "and yet you, of all people, stumbled upon it."
"Really? I seem to remember an incident where your filthy mouth kissed my feet." He shrugged. "A fitting act, by the way."
She pursed her lips, her fingers burrowing in the sheets. "You're wrong," she repeated viciously. "It was twenty-six."
"Twenty-six miles, not a thousand." As an afterthought, "Bastard."
Two of his fingers decided to take a stroll down her bare arm. She swatted them away furiously, and he smiled, the bastard.
"So how come—"
She glared at him. "Don't make small talk. It's…highly unnatural."
"What do you suggest we do, then?"
He was tugging the sheets that were woven around her.
"Don't!" She gripped the last vestige of dignity she had. "You're disgusting!"
"No, I'm bored. And if you walking around naked is what'll amuse me, then…" He tugged.
A slim calf peeped from the sheets and kicked him hard on the thigh.
He laughed, almost cruelly. "I don't understand your need for modesty. I've seen you – all of you – already."
"Yes," she hissed, her skin crawling as she saw the way his eyes moved over her. "Yes you did, and I don't need to feel more violated than you already do."
The mirth died, replaced by something sinister, challenging. "I didn't violate you," he muttered low. "You were willing."
She raised her chin. "What I was, was drunk."
"And willing," he reiterated. "Don't turn this on me. I didn't violate you." He walked around her, stopped when he was behind her, stepped until he was close to her. "If anything, it was you who contaminated me." As a silken caress, "Mudblood."
She whirled away from him, all flying hair and wounded dignity, and fuck you, you filthy, inbred bastard! But he smiled at her, all goading air and provoking stance, and defy me if you dare, filthy Mudblood
This was not getting them anywhere.
She moved to the bed, her territory, and he walked to the window, his terrain. Occasionally, she thought of throwing the vase by her side at his face, just to spite him. Occasionally, he thought of strangling her, just for fun.
She was about to fall asleep – they were both silent for that long – when he muttered loudly, "Fuck this, I'm out of here." Her eyes flew open and she watched him get his shirt from the floor, grimace at it, then wear the back over the front. A few steps from the door he halted, then turned to her. "I'd like to say this was fun, but…" He smiled. "I'd be lying."
"I believe you were right in the middle of leaving? Don't let me stop you."
And he was gone.
The moment he stepped out, she gathered her wits and left her pride in the room. She knocked on all doors until she could find someone whose clothes she could borrow. Then she, too, was gone.
People always talked about the night before – who met, where they met, when they met, how they met. Probably one of the reasons was that, the night before always seemed to be the catalyst for future meetings, for future trysts.
In this case, however, there was no need.
The morning after ruined all that.
Hush now, love,
hush and see
Here it was, the night before
But tomorrow dawned, lo, behold
This became the morning after.
Author's Notes: This is me toying with the idea of D/Hr having a one-night stand, but not falling in love, as most stories tend to tell us.