Blue eyes burn into yours from across the busy station platform. The sheer light from them seems to illuminate the area around him, casting a dark shadow around the bustling people at Platform 9 ¾. Though you are in a crowded place, you feel as if you two are the only people there. The blazing fire in his eyes causes your skin to tingle with a familiar burning sensation, and a hot feeling quickly spreads to every inch of your body, your limbs shaking from the mere memory of those tantalising nights together. The piercing gaze roams freely over your body, pausing with slow deliberation on your eyes, your lips, your neck – and immediately locks back to your gaze and holds it. Your breath is caught in your chest as you imagine that breath - hot, shallow and fast - teasing you, trailing a series of slow, soft kisses at the nape of your neck, along your collarbone and behind your ears, while those firm hands lightly trace patterns on your skin.
You're drawn to him. It's electric, this feeling that sparks between the two of you every time you're within so many feet of each other's presence. Magnetic. There's something about him that calls to you – helplessly, uncontrollably, irrepressibly so. Your thirst for him is unquenchable and all-consuming, yet his presence only makes you yearn for him more. There is no antidote, no remedy for these feelings The longer you stay away, the more intense your feelings become, until they reach an almost frenzied peak where even the slightest touch from him sends you into oblivion. Yet the more you have of him, the more fervid the infatuation becomes.
This isn't love. This is an absorbing, compelling, compulsive addiction. And even if there is a cure, you're not quite convinced you'd take it. This is the most alive you've ever felt in your life. Just the thought of him sets your heart thumping against your rib-cage, and you struggle to remain in-control of your emotions. He is your drug. You are the addict. And the high he gives you is incomparable to any narcotic-induced hit.
It's hard to exactly pinpoint when your feelings for him developed, or indeed when they accelerated from admiration to – whatever this is. It’s difficult to even explain why you do feel this way about him. You just – do. This obsession has become integrated into your very self; you can never be wholly complete without his presence. And although your feelings are over-whelming, they just fit. You'd feel lost without them, like something was missing from your soul. You need them. You need that feeling of being complete. Yet, you don't need his affection, or a kind word whispered in your ear. You don't need promises of love, stability and family. You just need him. You need his body. You need his touch. You need his presence. You need that feeling like your body is on fire as you come in contact with his slender frame. You need to feel that warmth his body radiates when you are in bed together, the soft hum that seems to vibrate off his very skin. You need to feel wanted. You need to fall asleep with his arms around you and your head on his chest, knowing that you are desired. You need to wake up and not feel that aching empty hole inside of you that never seems to be filled unless he is around. Most of all, you need to feel needed, to feel like if you were not at his side he would feel these emotions, too. You need to feel like you are not alone.
But of course you are, aren't you? You always wake up alone. No matter what time you awake, even if it is early, he's already gone. And it's always like he was never there in the first place. You have drifted from your side of the bed into the middle, laying blatantly where his figure should be sleeping next to you. The maze of cascaded clothes that led to the bed has been taken - presumably returned to the previous position on his body. Indeed, even your own clothes have been restored to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. He leaves nothing: no indication that he was there, no indication that he will ever be back. And every time, you pad around the flat, hoping to find him brushing his teeth in the bathroom, or making scrambled eggs in the kitchen. And every time, you sit alone in the one spindly chair in the kitchen with a black cup of coffee, wondering how it has ended up like this again. Each time, you promise yourself that, next time, it will be different. Next time, you will not let this happen. Next time, you'll make him stay. Somehow. Next time, you'll wake up with him beside you.
You pretend that you are strong enough to have him just some of the time. You pretend that is all you could ever want - an occasional drunken mid-night visit. You lie to yourself, and you lie to him. You say the situation is exactly what you want - no more, no less. No strings attached. No feelings. No words. No promises. Just anonymous touches and fiery sensations. It's not exactly what you want; it's all you can get. He's made his feelings on the matter very clear. As far as he's concerned, it's just sex. Mindless, meaningless sex – an escape from reality. And, pathetic as it is, you'd rather be his path to fantasy than a nothing in reality. Perhaps you deserve more. Maybe you deserve someone who will love you unconditionally. You probably deserve more than someone who can't bring himself to say your name aloud. Perhaps. But no-one ever really gets what they deserve. You know you don't.
Reluctantly, you tear yourself away from your thoughts, your pensive, bittersweet fantasy. You are his escape from reality. Your heart aches for him to become your reality. The sight of his solitary, lofty figure on the platform seems to entice you to approach him, to enwrap you both in an undisturbed bubble, where outside interaction is forbidden and unnecessary. Slowly, you make your way towards him, unable to resist his sheer allurement. The closer you move towards him, the faster the blood begins to race in your veins. The closer you draw to him, the more you can see his eyes becoming distant - he's blocking you out. When you finally approach him, he's completely barricaded you out of his mind. You don't exist to him. And that hurts more than his absence ever could.
"Hi."
That's all you're permitted to say. It's part of your facade. That's what you agreed to.
"Hey."
No names. You agreed to that, too. No acknowledgement whatsoever.
He makes a gesture of rubbing the back of his neck with his long, nimble fingers. Your body literally craves physical contact and begs to be touched - for this throbbing ache to be relieved.
Then, there is a stirring motion in the corner of your eye and, with a gut-wrenching comprehension, you are aware of the effect this breathtakingly stunning girl is having on him. He shifts, his figure becoming more open and inviting, and he turns away from you, his arms held aloft to receive her embrace. Gripping the side of his face and bundling his long hair through her fingers, she pulls him towards her, gathering him into a messy, heated, passionate kiss. Your body burns red-hot with betrayal, rejection and loss. You never knew. Your heart literally screams with pain, threatening to rip at the very seams, as you can't seem to bring yourself to look away. Every frenzied, illicit movement fires a piercing pain through you.
"Hello, Teddy," she breathes huskily when the embrace is over, untwining herself from his arms with a satisfied smirk.
"Hello, Victoire," he says, his mouth stretching into a wide smile, his previously blank eyes brightening with an almost inextinguishable light – the type of light that is never in his eyes when he is around you.
You can see how the tips of his hair seem to brighten with pure joy, morphing from a dark brown into an astonishingly rich copper. Victoire fiddles with them playfully, wrapping them into little curls.
She throws you a quick, teasing smile. "Hey, cousin."
"Hey, Victoire," you reply, almost monosyllabically, afraid that any trace of emotion in your voice could betray your internal conflict.
Not that she notices, of course. Instead, she is clutching Teddy by the hand and dragging him towards the Hogwarts Express with her, for another ostentatiously affectionate farewell.
"Tell – tell Roxanne to have fun," you call after her retreating figure, and she shouts an affirmative.
You are left standing by yourself on the platform, watching his back as he walks proudly hand in hand with your cousin. Your heart feels as if it could burst. You knew he was seeing other people - how could you not - but your own cousin? Your limbs begin to tremble once more, threatening to abandon holding you upright and instead settle for collapsing onto the ground. The idea does not seem too unappealing right now.
After a few painstaking moments, during which you do not trust yourself to move for fear of what you might do, he returns. Slowly, he leans in and whispers softly into your ear, his breath tickling your neck. "Tonight, your place, Fred?"
Before you can answer, he is gone again, leaving a whiff of his musky cologne.
You spin around in desperation, dying for some comfort, some stability. But he is nowhere to be seen, the platform is littered only with Hogwarts students who stare after him curiously, whispering and giggling.
You know you shouldn't. You don't need to. You deserve better.
But he called you by your name.
Maybe this time you'll wake up with him beside you.
Magnetism by Nitwit Blubber Oddment Tweak x
Story Notes:
This story takes place during The Epilogue :)
Mucho smooches again to my dears Ari (AH) and Ari (Royari) for working on this one-shot with me
Chapter Endnotes: Feedback - both positive and critical, brief and thorough - is always appreciated :D