DISCLAIMER: I DONT OWN IT. I NEVER WILL. SHUT UP.
WARNINGS: THERES A REASON ITS RATED "R". EWWWWW ITS FLUFFY, ER, KINDA...
They say light travels straight lines in all directions from its source. Bullshit. Muggle scientists don't have a clue.
If anyone had ever asked you you'd tell them that light exists and dies at precisely the same moment you open and shut your eyes. Who can tell if the light is on or off when their eyes are closed?
You coax her into a tiny yellow sundress. Your english rose, dancing in the sunshine with you. Just like you had always imagined. Except that she's only with you because she's scared to be inside the house alone. Malfoy Manor doesnt like Mudbloods.
She's sitting in a padded chair sipping at a cup of pink lemonade with ice cubes and a straw. You sit across from her with the paper. She picks at her cucumber sandwich and mumbles something about the sun being too bright and you smile indulgently behind the black printed ink.
The front page advertises the death of so many Order members and you quickly fold the paper so the front is hidden by an advertisement for Madam Milly's Malady Mix.
She stares off into the distance somewhat lethargically, her eyelids drooping low and her facial muscles stretched into a lazy grin.
You blink and her grin is gone.
Blink? Who, you? Never. Never, never, never.
She's fallen asleep in her chair and you lift her quiet body into your arms. You feel like a prince. A rescuer. Her rescuer.
But you're not, are you? Not by any stretch of the imagination.
You're a sick boy, and now that the party is over who will make you forget?
You slip inside the house and rest her gently on the bed. You crawl over on top of her, and its nice that this time shes not trying to wrench herself from your grasp. Your lips hover over hers, parted in slumber. You feel soft air hitting your lips and your eyelids slide low in anticipation. You gently, oh-so-softly, ever-so-lightly press your lips to hers. Its perfection in its purest form.
Her eyes fly open and the moment is over. You hold her arms down before she can push you off her. She moans in despair and you cant bring yourself to look at her. You flip so that you're on your back and she is lying in top of you. You let your eyes close and prevent her from escaping from your grasp by repositioning her against your chest.
Soon she's stopped struggling.
Her voice to you is the sound of sunshine filtering through venetian blinds, a tinkle of crystal in the evening, the sound that the weak light of a kerosene lamp might make had science gifted light waves with the ability to create sound.
The vibrations you feel through her chest as she talks both frightens and excites you. She's alive, she's alive, she's alive. Alive through the patter of her heart throwing itself madly against her ribs, alive through that tiny voice that seeps from her lungs and escapes through her mouth, alive through the frightened breaths that puff from her nose as she stares at the ceiling. Stares at the wall. Stares at anything that isn't you.
Muggle scientist invented something called Stockholm Syndrome to classify those people who fall in love with their captors. You read a book about it.
Your only question is unanswerable. The muggles that would be able to answer it are dead, you made sure of that.
Stockholm Syndrome? Bullshit. Muggle scientists dont have a clue.
ITS FINISHED. MORE FICS LIKE THIS TO BE POSTED AS SOON AS I GET MY FUCKING ACT TOGETHER. AH.