Disclaimer: JKR, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury Books, and Scholastic all own the Potterverse. I make no money from this work of fiction.

Notes: Many thanks to julian_black for beta-reading.

---

Who are you to say
I am empty? You, hollow
as the shallow grave.

You think you are a
cypher, you wish to be smoke,
cooling as it fades.

I can see the heart
of you, the bitter, bitter
heart, it smolders, chars.

You bite, break your teeth,
the struggle, the clawing--how
dare you mock the wolf

when you are more the
animal. You draw your own
blood, lick 'til it's raw.

The days turn back on
themselves. I feel your tension,
it thrums below skin.

You withdraw, you are
submerged in your wounds, and I
am sublimated.

Haze against the moon.
I smell it. I taste the harsh
rusty iron moon.

Dry panting breaths, loud,
the cell is always too cold,
too clear, barren, bright.

It takes a day, two,
before the stink of fur slips
away. You won't touch.

I must approach you
with milk and fig, bait the trap
and wait, palms open.

Later, when I have
held you (you think that you have
permitted me), when

I have nuzzled you,
your awkward, acrid body,
you will sigh, untie.

You would loathe me if
I said the truth--your heart has
been trapped already,

it is only your
sharp-edged body I must find
again and again.

With eye and tongue and
hand, I have always craved you,
the dark veil of smoke.