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Midnight Fantasies
In her dreams, she remembers him, remembers what it was like to be fifteen years old, reckless, and invulnerable in a way she would never be again. She remembers what it was to touch him, and be touched in return, that terrible, glorious, damn-the-whole-world thrill that was equal parts lust and dangerous fascination –
And she wakes, panting, her nightgown twisted around her heated, sweating body, aching with the phantom, bruising touch of white, quidditch-calloused hands, the hard, unpractised play of mouth on mouth.
Harry lies beside her, sleeping heavily, his mind untroubled by ghosts of long-past lovers and regrets. But the memory of Draco Malfoy – sixteen years old, sullen, awkward, and resentful – hovers round her like a ghost, so strong she can feel him.
*****
Slowly, silently, she trails her fingers down her throat, imagining the touch of his lips following, the brush of his over-long, white fair hair, trailing further down, now, circling her breasts, skimming her stomach (her muscles contracting, her breath catching) and down to the ache between her thighs, his eyes smoky grey, dark and a little cruel.
She builds the image slowly, his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and closes her eyes so that she can hold it in her mind, grip it tightly, this guilty pleasure, hold it close to her heart against all the disappointments of reality. Breathing hoarsely, she writhes under him, lost in a stolen winter night, the full moon illuminating their hidden tryst, pouring down on their blind, gasping striving –
And then it shatters, dissolves into white nothingness, and she is left with nothing but empty memories and the reality of her sleeping husband, worthy, good-hearted, and utterly oblivious.
*****
In the cold light of morning, all ghosts and fantasies are banished. She smiles and talks easily, bustling about the kitchen, scolding her children and kissing Harry on the forehead before he goes off to work.
She reveals nothing of her dream, or of the midnight fantasies that fuelled it.
She never does.
*****
FIN
In her dreams, she remembers him, remembers what it was like to be fifteen years old, reckless, and invulnerable in a way she would never be again. She remembers what it was to touch him, and be touched in return, that terrible, glorious, damn-the-whole-world thrill that was equal parts lust and dangerous fascination –
And she wakes, panting, her nightgown twisted around her heated, sweating body, aching with the phantom, bruising touch of white, quidditch-calloused hands, the hard, unpractised play of mouth on mouth.
Harry lies beside her, sleeping heavily, his mind untroubled by ghosts of long-past lovers and regrets. But the memory of Draco Malfoy – sixteen years old, sullen, awkward, and resentful – hovers round her like a ghost, so strong she can feel him.
*****
Slowly, silently, she trails her fingers down her throat, imagining the touch of his lips following, the brush of his over-long, white fair hair, trailing further down, now, circling her breasts, skimming her stomach (her muscles contracting, her breath catching) and down to the ache between her thighs, his eyes smoky grey, dark and a little cruel.
She builds the image slowly, his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and closes her eyes so that she can hold it in her mind, grip it tightly, this guilty pleasure, hold it close to her heart against all the disappointments of reality. Breathing hoarsely, she writhes under him, lost in a stolen winter night, the full moon illuminating their hidden tryst, pouring down on their blind, gasping striving –
And then it shatters, dissolves into white nothingness, and she is left with nothing but empty memories and the reality of her sleeping husband, worthy, good-hearted, and utterly oblivious.
*****
In the cold light of morning, all ghosts and fantasies are banished. She smiles and talks easily, bustling about the kitchen, scolding her children and kissing Harry on the forehead before he goes off to work.
She reveals nothing of her dream, or of the midnight fantasies that fuelled it.
She never does.
*****
FIN
The End.
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