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It ends the night Ginny catches them together, slick with tears and sweat and come, and when Harry catches sight of her, all legs and eyes and flashing red hair, he starts; murmurs confusedly, “Ron-?”
And she says, as coldly as she’s able to, given who they’re talking about, “No. He’s as dead as he was when they found him.”
Hermione swallows a sob, and Harry’s arm slides automatically, protectively, around her shoulder. Her bare shoulder. And it hits her all at once that they’ve had sex. That Ron’s dead. That Harry knew Ginny was waiting for him, for the them they should’ve been. And he had sex with Hermione, and Ron is dead, and Harry’s fingers are tracing little patterns on Hermione’s shoulders, and she doesn’t know it all happened, why it’s all happening to *her*.
It feels as though she’s breathing through salt, and this tickle at the back of her throat can’t be tears, can’t be grief, not now, so she chokes it back, and turns, and waits.
She stands by the door, grips the handle so hard it indents her palm; she stands, and she listens, and she waits, but they don’t say anything, and eventually she leaves.
-*-
He comes up to her at the pub - more to get in a dig at a Weasley than anything else, she thinks - and sneers in that Malfoy way of his: “I’d always suspected you were a lush. How else could you put up with Potter’s wandering hands?”
Ginny’s imbibed enough firewhiskey to take the edge off the thought, ‘not anymore’, and she replies almost cheerfully, “Given a lot of thought to Harry’s hands going a-wandering, have you, Malfoy?”
He looks taken aback for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected her to have any response at all, let alone one with barbs. First goal to the redhead, she thinks, and toasts herself. Malfoy’s eyes narrow on her consideringly. “Not especially, no.”
The sound that tumbles from her is noncommittal: she’d speculated more than once on Draco Malfoy’s sexual proclivities; his baiting of Harry always seemed more out of frustration than anything else, and everyone knows Quidditch is all about phallic symbols, anyway.
She says, only slurring a little, “Concerned for my welfare, then?”
He snickers, and she realizes that he really does have a beautifully shaped mouth. Not too full, and firm -- he looks like he’d know what to do with a girl, and it wouldn’t be fumbling kisses in the back of the common room.
“See something you like, Weasley?” he asks, cool and smooth, and she suddenly wants to press her fevered cheek to his skin and simply lose herself in the Malfoy-ness of him.
“Perhaps,” she says boldly, surprising them both. She takes another drink to pin her suddenly flailing courage to her breast, and takes another long look at him.
This time, he looks back.
-*-
He kisses her in the loo, lifts her up so her back is pressed against the cool glass of the mirror and her ass rests on the lip of the basin; he takes full advantage of her gasp when her thighs meet cold porcelain, and pushes his tongue into her mouth, seeks out her own tongue in a rough and playful game, then teases her by withdrawing until she whimpers a protest.
He knows the game, does Draco Malfoy, and her hands are busy on the zipper of his slacks when he breaks away, panting, to ask, “Is this because of your brother, Weasley?”
And his eyes are devoid of their usual icy glint; instead she sees a hint of compassion, and her heart squeezes, squeezes until she can barely breathe from the pain of it. “Shut *up*, Malfoy,” she grits out, then grasps her hand firmly around his cock, gives him one quick stroke, and when his eyes close, she lets go.
Licks her palm, then slowly tightens her hand around him and slides it up and down his cock, handling him with less finesse than she normally might’ve, but this is Malfoy, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll take anything she gives and be pleased with it.
He groans, and the look on his face is one of agonizing anticipation. This, this exactly, is true power, and when he wets his lower lip, an ache begins to build within her. She rocks her hips against the basin, but the angle is wrong and doesn’t satisfy her need to be touched.
“Malfoy,” she says, surprised when her voice comes out raspy and lust-roughened. “Fuck me.”
His eyes open, and she imagines the picture she must make: working herself against the basin, skirt rucked up around her thighs, panties damp and transparent at the crotch. It only makes her all the more hungry to think of it, and when he shoves her panties aside, slips a finger, then two, into her, she can barely stifle a moan.
Then his cock is inside of her, wider than she’d thought he would be, and he pulls his hips back, thrusts back into her and stretches her, and she bites her lip on the scream that threatens to spill out. She shifts slightly until the angle is just right, rolls her hips, and when his rhythm becomes unsteady, when he’s riding her hard, she lets herself go.
Malfoy comes inside of her, a warm splash that makes her feel glad she’s on birth control, and when she opens her eyes, she realizes his eyes are on the mirror behind her.
Ginny chokes back a giggle; he’d probably been watching himself the entire time, and she finds she doesn’t mind, really, because it wasn’t as though *she’d* had eyes for him, and *someone* ought to have seen what he looked like in the throes of orgasm.
He stares at her a moment, and she runs a hand through her dishevelled hair, knowing that she can’t look her best after a quick, drunken fuck in the pub loo, but not caring all that much, because honestly? Who’s here to see besides Malfoy?
And for the first time, it’s a thought that makes her smile.
And she says, as coldly as she’s able to, given who they’re talking about, “No. He’s as dead as he was when they found him.”
Hermione swallows a sob, and Harry’s arm slides automatically, protectively, around her shoulder. Her bare shoulder. And it hits her all at once that they’ve had sex. That Ron’s dead. That Harry knew Ginny was waiting for him, for the them they should’ve been. And he had sex with Hermione, and Ron is dead, and Harry’s fingers are tracing little patterns on Hermione’s shoulders, and she doesn’t know it all happened, why it’s all happening to *her*.
It feels as though she’s breathing through salt, and this tickle at the back of her throat can’t be tears, can’t be grief, not now, so she chokes it back, and turns, and waits.
She stands by the door, grips the handle so hard it indents her palm; she stands, and she listens, and she waits, but they don’t say anything, and eventually she leaves.
-*-
He comes up to her at the pub - more to get in a dig at a Weasley than anything else, she thinks - and sneers in that Malfoy way of his: “I’d always suspected you were a lush. How else could you put up with Potter’s wandering hands?”
Ginny’s imbibed enough firewhiskey to take the edge off the thought, ‘not anymore’, and she replies almost cheerfully, “Given a lot of thought to Harry’s hands going a-wandering, have you, Malfoy?”
He looks taken aback for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected her to have any response at all, let alone one with barbs. First goal to the redhead, she thinks, and toasts herself. Malfoy’s eyes narrow on her consideringly. “Not especially, no.”
The sound that tumbles from her is noncommittal: she’d speculated more than once on Draco Malfoy’s sexual proclivities; his baiting of Harry always seemed more out of frustration than anything else, and everyone knows Quidditch is all about phallic symbols, anyway.
She says, only slurring a little, “Concerned for my welfare, then?”
He snickers, and she realizes that he really does have a beautifully shaped mouth. Not too full, and firm -- he looks like he’d know what to do with a girl, and it wouldn’t be fumbling kisses in the back of the common room.
“See something you like, Weasley?” he asks, cool and smooth, and she suddenly wants to press her fevered cheek to his skin and simply lose herself in the Malfoy-ness of him.
“Perhaps,” she says boldly, surprising them both. She takes another drink to pin her suddenly flailing courage to her breast, and takes another long look at him.
This time, he looks back.
-*-
He kisses her in the loo, lifts her up so her back is pressed against the cool glass of the mirror and her ass rests on the lip of the basin; he takes full advantage of her gasp when her thighs meet cold porcelain, and pushes his tongue into her mouth, seeks out her own tongue in a rough and playful game, then teases her by withdrawing until she whimpers a protest.
He knows the game, does Draco Malfoy, and her hands are busy on the zipper of his slacks when he breaks away, panting, to ask, “Is this because of your brother, Weasley?”
And his eyes are devoid of their usual icy glint; instead she sees a hint of compassion, and her heart squeezes, squeezes until she can barely breathe from the pain of it. “Shut *up*, Malfoy,” she grits out, then grasps her hand firmly around his cock, gives him one quick stroke, and when his eyes close, she lets go.
Licks her palm, then slowly tightens her hand around him and slides it up and down his cock, handling him with less finesse than she normally might’ve, but this is Malfoy, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll take anything she gives and be pleased with it.
He groans, and the look on his face is one of agonizing anticipation. This, this exactly, is true power, and when he wets his lower lip, an ache begins to build within her. She rocks her hips against the basin, but the angle is wrong and doesn’t satisfy her need to be touched.
“Malfoy,” she says, surprised when her voice comes out raspy and lust-roughened. “Fuck me.”
His eyes open, and she imagines the picture she must make: working herself against the basin, skirt rucked up around her thighs, panties damp and transparent at the crotch. It only makes her all the more hungry to think of it, and when he shoves her panties aside, slips a finger, then two, into her, she can barely stifle a moan.
Then his cock is inside of her, wider than she’d thought he would be, and he pulls his hips back, thrusts back into her and stretches her, and she bites her lip on the scream that threatens to spill out. She shifts slightly until the angle is just right, rolls her hips, and when his rhythm becomes unsteady, when he’s riding her hard, she lets herself go.
Malfoy comes inside of her, a warm splash that makes her feel glad she’s on birth control, and when she opens her eyes, she realizes his eyes are on the mirror behind her.
Ginny chokes back a giggle; he’d probably been watching himself the entire time, and she finds she doesn’t mind, really, because it wasn’t as though *she’d* had eyes for him, and *someone* ought to have seen what he looked like in the throes of orgasm.
He stares at her a moment, and she runs a hand through her dishevelled hair, knowing that she can’t look her best after a quick, drunken fuck in the pub loo, but not caring all that much, because honestly? Who’s here to see besides Malfoy?
And for the first time, it’s a thought that makes her smile.
The End.
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