[转帖]In The Mood(一篇看不懂的文张，谁能帮忙翻译)
In The Mood
Marvolo
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When you first saw it, you were reminded of something. It was like d閖?vu, a hiccough in your memory, a quick something that made you pause.
Every time you touched the pages, it grew. A dark feeling that welled up inside of you and threatened to pour out, an aching of confusion and hope and the echo of yesterday. It pulsed under your fingers, frayed under your gaze. It was like a brittle paradox: you longed to reach out and grasp the memories that lingered on the edges of your conscious, yet at the same time you knew that if you dared touch them, they would crumble in your fingers and float away in the breeze.
He was just like you, all dark hair and awkward movements and limbs just a little too long. Yet he was nothing like you, he was graceful and stunning and you wanted to be just like him.
His caresses were rough and mocking, dripping with the knowledge that he owned you, you belonged to him, he could make you do anything. And you wouldn't have dreamed of asking for it any other way. You felt like you were at home there in front of the blurry backdrops, imbedded in that Hogwarts trapped in time. You felt like you should have been there, then, when he was. You would walk through his memories and feel like they were your own, and when his hands held your shoulders down and your knees ripped on the rough stone, they felt like your hands.
His eyes were as dark as midnight, all blue and black and endlessly devastating, and they burned into yours when he lifted you by your chin. Your hands would hastily fly to the corners of your mouth, smearing the traces of sticky white down your chin, and he'd smile knowingly. His movements were like liquid, rippling through the air in a calm flurry of contradictions, and you were never able to find words for it, your memories afterwards a montage of sounds and sights, but never descriptions. His fingers would slide through your hair, long and slender and delicately strong, gliding down your cheekbones and over your lips and back up to your forehead, lingering on the jagged line that zig-zagged through the flesh there.
The first time you were really afraid was then, one of those moments when those dark eyes lingered at your scar, that thing everyone gawked at. He looked at it with a hunger, a raw longing that was frightening even after you foolishly compared it to what churned under your heart. You went limp in his arms like a rag doll as his mouth traced a lacey pattern up from your open mouth to that mark on your forehead, his moist lips sliding over the scar, his tongue flickering out to caress the ridge that he made so many years before, so many years later. If you closed your eyes when his hands moved down over your shoulders, slowly knotting the striped golden red noose of reality around your neck, you could almost mistake the pause in his motions to be something of emotion.
Yet there were times, times when you were hard and aching for him that you felt -- you knew -- he could do anything to you, anything at all, and you'd still be there, you'd still be whatever he wanted you to be. You were his, his to command and take and destroy, no matter what the reason. You were his, his to command and take and destroy, no matter what the reason. You had read once about unconditional love -- had you ever felt that before? had he? - and the phrase lingered in your mind until you finally snuck into the Dursleys' den and found the word in their dictionary. Unconditional; without conditions or limitations: absolute, always.
You knew that in some way, you were unconditionally his.
And those were the thoughts that swirled through the blue oblivion of your mind as you lingered in the rickety shadows of his recollections, fingers gripping hips with bruising intensity, your wet lips growing chapped from the friction of skin on skin. His hands would entwine in your hair, and you would lose yourself in the taste, the flavors, the sensations of him. The sensations that echoed of home.
He told you his secrets there in the darkness, when his breathing was deep and quiet and your heart slammed against your chest like it was trying to get closer to him. His lazy fingers would skate across your face and down to your hands, and he hissed delicately into your ear. If you listened carefully, you could hear so many things in his voice; the scratch of quill on parchment, the opaque glint of a saxophone note, the rasp of a spell flying from a wand, the slithering of snakes through wet grass. You took it all in with wide eyes, and he trusted you, trusted you more than anyone.
You were weak, too weak for him. The wise sorting hat debated putting you in Slytherin, but just as you failed that question of honor, you failed this. Cunning giving way to fickle bravery, ambition and ruthlessness lost by dueling emotions. He had reached his hand out to you, pale and lanky and spidery, and you turned away, seeking the advice of someone else.
Ashes, ashes, you both fell down. One whole sliced in two, unable to breathe without holding on. And in the besmirched cerulean, just one thought exists between both.
You're dead, Harry Potter. Dead.
End.
