Private post
There's a lock on the liquor cabinet today. It was there when I woke up this morning, heavy and blackly iron. I've no idea where Finola put the damned key, and can't be arsed to search for it.

I could break the lock if I wish. She knows it as well as I do. It's not even as complex as the warding she's attempted before.

I'm not certain what that means.

She said nothing when I came back in Wednesday morning before she left for work, merely raised her eyebrow at the bruises and scratches barely visible above my collar. I don't even know if she suspects them of being Draco's.

Who would, really?

We barely slept at all the entire night. We didn't talk. Talking is far too dangerous for us at the moment. It leads to anger and bitterness and grief on both sides.

Instead I touched him, kissed him, held him, fucked him. Felt his fingernails scrape down my back, his thighs shake around my hips. Heard him whisper my name as I moved inside him, heard him cry it in gasping breaths as he came, his fingers gripping my shoulders tight enough to bruise. And for one night I could pretend that nothing in our world had changed.

Stupid of me. The morning sun fades the illusion, of course. The dream ends, and we wake to futile reality.

We didn't speak as we dressed, and the kiss we shared behind a pillar in the lobby of Brown's was bittersweet at best. I couldn't help but wonder as he stepped away from me, his mouth swollen and lovebites red on his throat, if this would be the last time I touch him.

I'm a fool, I know. I should go home. I should take my place back in his bed. But at what cost? Ignoring what brought us to this point will do no damned good, and even I recognise that fact, wary as I am of anything that smacks of emotional content.

What do I want, he asks, over and over again. I don't know. I wish I did.

I won't break the lock tonight.

I'll drink tea instead.