This is written for Ilia’s Every Word Counts Challenge on the forums. I don’t know what to make of this myself, only that it is a moment in time, held inside a much larger moment.
It beats like a drum
There is a sound like rain. It echoes through the dark and it takes her a moment to realise the sound, the soft patter, is inside her only. No water mars the glass, no raindrops slide helplessly downwards. The drumming, the tapping, rests in her and so she dances.
Her feet beat like a war drum, beat like thunder, drive her mad and yet, she does not shy away. He would laugh if he saw her. He would stand against the doorway, all hard lines and sharp features and laugh. He thinks her wild, untamed, hungry for something he is not sure of and so, he tries to be what he believes she wants.
She wishes he would only be what she needs.
There is no answer, no recompense, and so she dances.
He is aloof and untouchable, with his golden charm and skin like ice. She likes to watch him glow when the lights are extinguished, watch the milky pallor of his skin and the blonde of his hair shine as he moves.
She knows she is always destined to only watch.
“Dominique.” There is ownership in his tone, and his smile is predatory. There is a way that he watches her, that makes her skin crawl and her brain itch and want to claw itself from her head. She knows he does not mean it. She knows he is merely playing, being what he assumes he needs to be.
She wishes he would talk, but he doesn’t. Words are weapons, wielded on sharp tongues and so they do not speak about anything worthwhile; their conversations are without substance, without meaning and she knows, deep inside the dark places of her soul, that he wants to be somewhere else.
She never expected him to love her but she did not expect to find him with an armful of fire and his lips on someone else’s.
It meant nothing, he told her. I thought you wouldn’t mind.
It wasn’t like he loved Lily, she told herself at the time. It wasn’t like Scorpius loved anyone but himself. So typically male: so typically pathetic of her to believe in him.
Despair beats its fists upon her soul, and she dances.
He will not come again, she knows this. He will not stand in her doorway and laugh at her – without words they have only looks, glances shared across tabletops, and she knows they cannot survive with only that.
Dominique dresses, brushes her hair and collects her things. Out in the world there are nameless places coated in dust and streaked with beauty. He will not search them for her. He will let her go, smoke on the wind; he never tried to close his fist around her.
The world is dark when she steps outside. The chill of the air bathes her, caresses her and she closes her eyes.
There is a sound that echoes. It is the rain, falling to kiss her skin.