Celescribbles

One-Shot, Romilda/Blaise

2008-02-20T21:18:41Z

Chocolate Soldier

Genre: Romance, Angst, Post-DH
Pairing : Romilda/Blaise
Rating: R
Warnings: sexual content and general immorality
Story Summary : He wanted to ask her when he’d see her again, and for a moment as she stood by the door, he had the distinct feeling she wanted to ask him the same thing. But in the end, she left as she always had, with only a tilt of her head and a last glance at him before walking out.

“Goodbye, Blaise.”

Author's Notes: another one for the Cocktail Challenge! Thanks to Anne and Liz. This is an unusual pairing and two very minor characters, that don't get much love in the fandom, so I was surprised at the positive response I got from it, and how interesting it was to write about them. I hope you all enjoy as well.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling around for one of her stockings - it looked like a pale, gossamer ghost floating in her hand, but then fleshed out, stretched against the creamy skin of her leg. He watched as she slipped the stocking up her calf, her thigh, and then did the same with the other, standing up and giving him a perfect view of her buttocks, her back, and the messy mass of dark, glossy hair that tumbled down it. She rummaged around for her bra and he playfully grabbed it from the floor, dangling it up until she looked his way and made a lunge for it. He was laughing, but he was sleepy too, and his heart wasn’t really in it. In a few minutes, she’d leave, out the door and into the cold grey morning, in her black stiletto heels and her stark black coat. The sheen of glamour from the night before would be gone, washed off by the gloom of the early hours of the day, and he knew that when he saw her standing in his front hall, he would hardly recognise that warm, vibrant body that had moved against his just a few hours before.

Four times already, he thought, falling back against his pillow. The count was slowly but surely adding up. Where would it stop? At five? Six? When would they start to feel the need to see each other in the afternoon, in the morning, for breakfast, lunch or dinner? When would he actually feel the urge to send her an owl or call her through the Floo network? It was not something he had ever envisaged getting into this business, but he was starting to think the whole experience was bringing him more than he had bargained for.

“You should give me your Floo number,” he blurted out, not really knowing what he was saying and why.

She paused in the act of zipping up her skirt and looked up at him. Only a slight movement of her lips betrayed her surprise – her gaze was steady and intent, as always. Then she smiled – a small smile, one he’d seldom seen on her, and that seemed to clash somewhat with her strong jaw and bold eyebrows.

“Last night was really lovely,” she said.

Lovely. It was a quaint word, and it was completely wrong as a means of describing the time they’d spent together, grabbing whatever pleasure they could, hungrily and recklessly, with little regard to where and how they managed to do it. Nevertheless, he smiled at her, and his eyes followed her as she put on the rest of her clothes and made to go.

He wanted to ask her when he’d see her again, and for a moment as she stood by the door, he had the distinct feeling she wanted to ask him the same thing. But in the end, she left as she always had, with only a tilt of her head and a last glance at him before walking out.

“Goodbye, Blaise.”

*****************************

Two months earlier, Romilda Vane had walked in her boss’s office, holding a file, a Quick-Scribble quill and a cup of fresh Mandrake juice.

Elaine Flabble was the editor-in-chief of the Fortune Teller, one of the many magazines that had cropped up in the post-war editorial boom. Heavy criticism of the Daily Prophet and the demise of Rita Skeeter’s career, who had publicly slandered a revered war hero, left much room for new newspapers with fresh ideas. The Fortune Teller was a weekly scandal sheet with no political agenda of any kind – if it shocked and if it sold, it was good enough to print. This ruthless, free-for-all take on things was precisely what Romilda liked about it. For two years after leaving Hogwarts, she’d worked as a secretary at the Daily Prophet, where she didn’t do much else than answer owls and listen half-heartedly to lectures about the importance of work ethics and politics of the wizarding world. But Romilda had no interest for either of these things - she’d had enough exalted moral values to last a lifetime being in Gryffindor for seven years. She was young, ambitious and eager to sharpen her knives on real scoops. The Fortune Teller, in this respect, was a much greener, if slightly seedier, pasture.

“Good morning, Elaine,” she said, handing her the cup of Mandrake juice. “Thought you might want some – it’s piping hot.”

Elaine looked up at her from the stack of newspapers she was sifting through, half-amused and half-annoyed. “You’re here to talk to me about the Flamelle story again, aren’t you?”

Romilda smiled, but her eyes hardened. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“I’m guessing that file you have isn’t just there to look pretty,” Elaine said. “I see you’ve been keeping busy.”

Romilda dropped the file onto the desk. “One week’s research, all in here. Records of similar establishments through the ages, a bit of background information on the blokes who work there…”

“Impressive,” Elaine admitted, flipping through the file then closing it and sitting back in her chair, arms crossed. “But I don’t know, Vane… I’m still not convinced this is viable. I still think Kilenic would be better for the job.”

Romilda remained silent for a moment, as if she’d been expecting the blow, then seemed to regroup. “I’ll grant you that she has more experience than I do, but with all due respect, Elaine, Sylvana is more the type to cover the latest aristocratic wedding than an inside story on an escort bar.”

Elaine shrugged, but seemed to be considering the argument. “Kilenic has that… frustrated housewife appeal that might seem appropriate for that kind of place. You’re young and you’re attractive – why would someone like you go to an escort club?”

“Career girls have no time for romance, and they don’t mind paying for sex with a good-looking man,” she replied, with disarming naturalness. “It’s more convenient that way.”

Elaine took a sip of Mandrake juice and looked through the file again. “All right, Vane. You’ve got the job. Do this right and you might be running your own column before next year.”

Romilda grinned. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Whether she was talking to her editor-in-chief or to herself wasn’t quite clear.

*****************************

The first time she’d pushed past the door at Flamelle’s, a sober, nondescript building just off Diagon Alley, on the Muggle side of London, she immediately latched on to the more alluring details she would need for her article, already forming catchy sentences in her mind – the exclusive feminine atmosphere of the crimson carpeted hall, the soft music coming from the main room, the kindly hostesses directing the clients to their tables, and a glowing sign with black-and-white animated pictures of the escorts, the only thing that differentiated the establishment from a restaurant or a beauty salon.

Most of the patrons were older than she was, she noted, though definitely not housewives or old biddies looking for a good time. She had been right – Kilenic would’ve been as out of place here as a sheep at a thoroughbred stud. There was an atmosphere of cold hard cash and blank sexual appetite about the place that made it irreparably animal, despite the efforts of the hostesses, the tasteful decoration and the polished appearance of the escorts. Romilda herself was more partial to places where desire was unbridled and unapologetic – night-clubs or bars, with pounding music and drinks all around, and the knowledge that nothing would last beyond morning. She’d had her share of wild nights before. It was a nice change from having to trick the more virtuous students of a posh public school with drugged sweets just to get them to loosen their ties a bit.

She was recalling the incident, half-amused and half-horrified at her enterprising younger self, when a smiling hostess came up to her table to take her drink order.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of seeing you here before,” she added in a friendly tone. “Perhaps you’d also enjoy some company for the evening. All the young men who work here are well-versed in many subjects of discussion, and eager to cater to our clients’ every need.”

If the price is right, of course, Romilda thought, irritated by the establishment’s candy-coating of a rather crass equation: paying for sex. The women here were no better than blokes paying for prostitutes. She wondered why they so desperately needed the illusion that they were.

“I’d rather share the evening with someone my own age,” she said, pretending to be flustered. “But just for a conversation. I’m not here for anything else.”

Not that she would’ve minded a good, solid shag, but an hour of company cost a fortune in Galleons already, and Elaine would kill her if she spent any more, seeing as the newspaper was covering the expense.

“I think I have just the person for you – he’s new to this establishment as well. He’s a big fan of the arts and a brilliant conversationalist. You’ll be blown away.”

Romilda nodded, eager for the hostess to leave so she could gather her thoughts. A few minutes later, she saw a tall, dark-skinned young man head her way, carrying two martinis. He was breathtakingly handsome, in a very dangerous sort of way. A smug smile, high cheekbones, lithe hands… When recognition hit her, she couldn’t help but flinch. He noticed. He stopped, just for a second, before sitting down in front of her. She watched him, suspecting this was the moment that the escort was supposed to start a casual conversation, subtly charming the patron with hopes that he could later entice her to pay for further services.

But there was no casual conversation to be had now. They knew each other. Vaguely, from afar, but it was enough.

Blaise Zabini set the two martinis down, then took a cigarette from a pack in his pocket, and offered her one wordlessly, lighting hers then his own with a silver lighter. He blew a billow of smoke from between his full lips and for all the world he looked amused.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Romilda was surprised by the question. She half-expected him to make some catty remark about noble Gryffindors being subject to the crass needs of the flesh just like everyone else. But on second thought, all that was so long ago… Did it even have a meaning anymore? She supposed that if she had known that a former Hogwarts student was now an escort, she would’ve instantly thought of a Slytherin, but that just didn’t make sense. Most Slytherins she remembered were just as hell-bent on stuffy principles as Gryffindors, if not more. But Blaise Zabini, for all his haughtiness, was obviously not like the others. Using phenomenal good looks to swindle people out of their money was a family trade.

“How can you tell?” she asked, intent on not losing her cool. The assignment was jinxed, but perhaps she could still dredge up some useful information for the article.

“They always send me over to the new girls, for some reason,” he explained. “I have those fine Hogwarts manners going for me – it makes them feel sophisticated. Not that I ever landed on someone who actually went to school around the same time as I did.”

“I was two years behind you,” she clarified, thinking he probably didn’t really know who she was. “Romilda Vane. No particular claim to fame.”

Unlike him, of course, her smile said. Everyone had heard the rumours about his mother. Blaise didn’t pick up the allusion, or if he did, he didn’t let it show.

“Oh, I remember you,” he said, locking eyes with her for a moment. “There weren’t many people I would’ve condescended to nail back then.”

The remark sent a thrill through her loins. He was good. Awfully good. Even though it was clear that he was lying, her mind was begging her to take it as the truth.

“And now you only condescend to nail someone who has enough Galleons,” she mused. “I guess things don’t change that much after all.”

Blaise shrugged and stubbed his cigarette out. “If you think I sleep with anyone who has the money, you’re mistaken,” he replied simply. “I never have sex with anyone I wouldn’t shag under other circumstances. The money is an added bonus.”

“Isn’t the point of this establishment to make as much Galleons as possible?” she asked, curious.

“The quality largely makes up for the quantity.”

Coming from anyone else, it would’ve sounded like a crass pick-up line, but the nonchalance and steadiness with which Blaise said it made it sound like a simple commercial truth, and Romilda was fully willing to believe that some clients would pay double for another night with him. There was something smooth and intense about him, and something profoundly disarming about his beauty. It was quite a rare experience, almost an epiphany of lust, to be able stare at such wondrously attractive features full in the face.

“Too bad I won’t be able to put that to the test myself,” she said, sipping on her drink, and starting to feel slightly shaky. “The money may be an added bonus, but I don’t have enough of it.”

Blaise wasn’t looking at her anymore, but staring into space. He stayed silent for a long, long time. Romilda glanced around at the other tables, where escorts were busy delighting their clients with elaborate conversation, compliments and charming attentions. And yet, she certainly didn’t feel cheated out of the money she was spending for the evening – just by sitting there in silence, Blaise was making her forget where she was and why she was there.

Keep focused, she told herself. That’s what escorts are paid to do. It’s all part of the same ploy. That’s what you’ll have to write about in your article.

Then Blaise got up from his chair and all thoughts of about the escort club, the article, the money and everything else flew from her mind.

“Come on,” he said. “My place isn’t far from here.”

*****************************

The second time she came, he realised that a part of him hadn’t expected to see her again.

Not that their first night together hadn’t been satisfying. In fact, Blaise had kept the memory of it for days, in his mind and his aching limbs. It hadn’t taken long for him to perceive in Romilda what he usually looked for in a woman – a greed to match his, unabashed and unreserved. One look at her – the fleshy mouth, the mess of black curls, the bold expression – and he had remembered a silly rumour from his school days, whispered around Slytherin, about a Gryffindor girl who spiked chocolate sweets to make love slaves out of boys. It had amused him back then, piqued his interest, perhaps even given his loins a stir. Funny thing that she should show up now, eager and willing to try some more adult shenanigans.

Eager and willing – the two words put together certainly seemed to give a good description of her. All night long, she had met every one of his impulses, every lusty notion with some of her own, with complete disregard for noise, sleep, energy or discomfort. Down on the tiled floor, and screaming. There was something almost furious about her. But it was good. More than good.

Mind-blowing, if he was perfectly honest with himself.

He had wished for her return without really believing in it, and now here she was, standing in the hall, looking as though she didn’t really know what she was doing there. She wanted to ask for him. She didn’t know if it could be done. Blaise smiled. With a slight nod, he let the hostess know he was on it. Never mind that Romilda hadn’t paid for his services, and wouldn’t start now. After the night they’d spent together, it made about as much sense as asking someone to put a coin into a slot to breathe the same air as you did.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” he told her when he arrived at her table. Two martinis and the smooth movement to light her cigarette – the routine was already setting in.

She set her chin on her curled fist and looked at him. “Neither did I, to be honest.”

They stayed in silence, neither of them wanting to talk, simply because there was nothing much to talk about.

“Would it look suspicious if you took me home right now?”

“Who said I was going to take you home again?”

For a second, a look of uncertainty crossed her face, but it didn’t last. Romilda wasn’t the kind of girl to look unsure, and no doubt her body was reminding her of last time. He took his time smoking his cigarette, watching with disinterest the other escorts in the bar trying to earn their pay. Of course he would take her home.

“Come on.”

Once outside, they hastened their step, almost clumsy with hurry, stumbling on the cold asphalt across two streets. They weren’t touching or holding hands – as soon as they did touch, the whirlwind would engulf them again. Climbing the stairs, heavy with desire, then keys in the front door… He had barely closed it behind them when she was tearing off his coat, and her stiletto heels were scraping on the floor…

It was a race, a desperate, angry race to the bed, or anywhere else that would do on the way if the bed was too far, and a race to get naked, bare, wet, hard, ready, dizzy, biting, sucking, licking, and they stumbled somewhere next to the bedroom – on a carpet, with the bed in plain view, and Romilda’s legs were already winding themselves around his waist…

From the lust-laden fog of his mind, her name emerged – the rolling, thunderous syllable, then the smooth, delectable dip in the middle, and finally the bright, insolent end.

“Romilda… Romilda…” he croaked, pushing into her unceremoniously, again and again. She might have said his name, too. She might have cried it out – either his name or the white-hot fire that was consuming her from inside. But Blaise had his eyes open, and despite the eminent onslaught of pleasure threatening to flood his senses, he noticed, in the corner of her eye, a small tear disappearing into her hair.

*****************************

Four times already.

Romilda slowly walked down the stairs of the building and into the grey morning light, the coldness of the air contrasting with the warmth she was still feeling inside, like embers left over from the night before, only wanting to be fanned again.

But she couldn’t. She would have to stop. Despite Blaise’s laughter that morning – she didn’t think she’d ever heard him laugh - despite the sex, the fusion of their bodies, the love they made anywhere and anyway they wanted, despite the martinis and the cigarettes, the sparse words and the symphony of their cries, she would have to stop.

Her throat constricted at the thought, and she brushed away the beginning of a wetness from her eye. Elaine was getting impatient. The article had yet to be written. She couldn’t think straight anymore. He was an escort…

When they were together, there was only them, in the carpeted atmosphere of the club or in the intimacy of his flat, but when the morning came, it seemed to bring with it the indistinct shapes of all the other women he brought there for the same thing. She wondered if he groaned. She wondered if he bit into their shoulders, just before losing control of himself. She wondered if they left the money on the nightstand. She felt a wave of disgust so profound the whole city seemed to rock under her feet.

She would have to stop. There was no way around it.

*****************************

“About the article…”

Elaine seemed to be in a bad mood. It was only ten thirty and she had downed three cups of Mandrake juice already. She glared at Romilda from the other side of the desk and didn’t reply immediately, which was always a bad sign.

“Oh really? Do enlighten me.”

Romilda frowned, taken aback. Surely her boss couldn’t have guessed what was going on. Yet she didn’t seemed surprised by the fact Romilda was having second thoughts.

“I – well, it’s a complicated story, I -”

“Complicated? Oh, I wouldn’t call it that. A phenomenal waste of time and money, perhaps, but I suppose you couldn’t have known.”

Now Romilda was completely confused. What on earth was Elaine talking about?

“I don’t understand…”

“Come off it, Vane. You must’ve seen the newspaper stand this morning. The latest issue of Pegasus just came out.”

Pegasus was a rival magazine, though a bit more male-oriented, and was serious competition as far as scoops were concerned. Elaine reached into her drawer and flopped the latest issue on the desk.

Romilda leaned forward to take a closer look. One of the headlines read, Undercover escort: an inside look on the wizarding world’s sexual woes.

“New kid – the name’s Blaise Zabini,” Elaine explained. “He’s got a pen like a Diffindo spell. Bloody fantastic article.”

Romilda flipped through the pages feverishly, not understanding what she was hearing, not reading a single word she was seeing. He wasn’t what he said he was. She wasn’t what she’d said she was. And somewhere down the line, their bodies had uncovered the truth they’d been hiding from each other.

They were just the same.

“Well, there’s nothing to do but forget about this whole story. We’ll find something else for you to work on, is all, and make sure those bastards down at Pegasus don’t get the same – Vane? Vane, where are you going?”

But Romilda was already out the door.

*****************************

He wondered, lying on his bed, if she would ever seek him out, or if she would continue to attend the club at all. The mere thought of some of his pseudo-colleagues lighting a cigarette for her made him want to punch the wall.

He’d got congratulations from his boss for a job so well done, the promise of a monthly column, and admiring looks laced with jealousy from the others. Everything seemed to be handed to him on a silver platter, as it always had.

The war had been unkind to most Slytherins, but his mother had always been an equal opportunity seductress, and she had friends in high places at the Ministry who had always been on the winning side. Finding a position in one of the up-and-coming newspapers had been ridiculously easy. Convincing his boss to publish a story on the new escort club that had opened hadn’t taken long. And as for the rest, the reputation of his family had preceded him.

And then there was her. If she read the article, she would never forgive him for being written off as part of the mass of “callused career girls with cold-hard Galleons to spend any which way.”

No, she wouldn’t seek him out. And he would never see her again. He wouldn’t hear the scraping of her heels on the floor, the soft plop of her coat on the sofa, or smell her perfume… He closed his eyes, giving to the tricks his imagination was playing on him…

“You left your door unlocked.”

It was a dream, there was no other way. Blaise felt his face fall perfectly still just as his heart started thumping erratically against his chest.

She was standing next to his bed, holding an issue of Pegasus in her hand, and amazingly, incomprehensibly, she was smiling. A true smile, a smile that told of her boldness, her recklessness, her warmth, and the rough, intoxicating playfulness of her kisses.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand and laughing, while he was still too dumbfounded and glad and grateful to speak. “Come on! You’re taking me out tonight. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

H/G one-shot

2008-01-22T19:38:44Z

Sex on the Beach

Genre: Romance
Pairing : H/G, mention of R/Hr and Neville/Hannah
Rating : R
Warnings: sexual content
Story summary : when a group of friends rent a beach house for the holidays, our favourite couple have a hard time finding the privacy they need. Part of an ongoing "Cocktail" challenge ;)
Author notes: thanks to Anne for the beta.

Harry was nervous. Of course, he took pains in not showing it, but certain small detailed belied his feelings – they showed in the way he stared straight ahead - alert, watching, and tapping one finger against the pocket of his trousers. Everything about him said, I’m not sure this is a good idea.

Ginny smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “It’s going to be fine,” she told him. “Come on, what are you worried about?”

“Huh? Who, me? I’m not worried.”

“Harry…”

She bit back a little laugh and kissed him on the mouth. Harry closed his eyes, distracted for a moment from his apprehensions. Ginny drew back slightly, letting their noses touch.

“I’m so happy to be going on holiday – it seems like it’s been forever, hasn’t it?”

“Actually, I’ve ever really travelled abroad for the holidays,” Harry replied thoughtfully. “There’s just been so much to do these past few years… And these past few weeks. Merlin, I feel like I’ve been working non-stop since April.”

“You have, and so have I, and that’s why we need a break,” Ginny said, smoothing his collar. “And we’ll be able to… unwind all we want.”

An undertone in Ginny’s voice made Harry shudder deliciously. He grasped her hand and kissed her again, not letting her get away before he heard someone cough behind him.

“Oi, you lot!” Ron had entered the living room with several heavy-looking bags. “We’re all ready, so let’s get going.”

Hermione came in behind him, already sporting a summer dress and a wide-brimmed hat. “I asked the owner of the house to connect his fireplace to the Floo at nine in the morning, GMT. We have a fifteen-minute slot. Let’s just pray we don’t collide with Neville and Hannah.”

Harry smiled. For some reason, it was comforting to let Hermione take over. It seemed she always thought of everything. Ginny was right – nothing would go wrong.

“Okay, you go first, Harry,” Hermione said in a business-like tone. “You know the place. We’ll be right behind you.”

Harry took one the bags, grinned at Ginny and entered the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Villa Alouette!” and opened his hand.

*****************************

“Ron Weasley, I am going to kill you!”

Ginny rolled her eyes and smiled at Hannah as she handed her a cold drink. The two of them were on the balcony outside while mayhem ensued on the other side of the French doors. Even closing them couldn’t drown the noise out.

“They’re not always like this,” she told Hannah in a light tone. “It’s just that… Hermione gets a bit wound up some times, and the fact that my brother can be a tremendous dolt doesn’t help.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’m sure we’ll manage,” Hannah said, a bit shyly, taking a sip of her Orangina. “The view is really wonderful.”

And it was. The beach house was situated on top of a grassy dune and overlooked the sea. The beaches of Normandy weren’t as crowded as the South of France during the summer but the weather was just as delightful, and a cool, lazy breeze was blowing on the wooden patio. It was almost the perfect holiday spot, had it not been for the tiny glitch in the accommodations.

“I swear, Hermione, I checked about a thousand times before owling the bloke,” Ron replied with vehemence. “It said three bedrooms!”

Hermione frowned, thinking, then gave a grunt of frustration. “You mean it said ‘Trois pieces’? Oh, Ron, you big oaf, why didn’t you tell me that? Can’t I trust you with anything? ‘Trois pièces’ means three rooms, not three bedrooms! The living room and the kitchen are included in the count!”

“Oh.”

Well, what more was there to say? Ginny rather felt like smacking Ron about the head herself. Because of his blunder, four of them would have to sleep in the living room, which was rather large, but still only one wide open space. Meaning some activities would be strictly prohibited. She felt a tremor of irritation, and her lips clenched together against the curse word that threatened to roll off her tongue.

Hermione suddenly stormed out onto the patio, slamming the door behind her. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “All right. All right. We can work this out.”

“By working this out, do you mean throwing Ron over the balcony?” Ginny asked.

“I can sleep on the sofa, that’s no problem,” Hannah offered immediately. “Or on the floor. I really don’t mind.”

“Thanks, Hannah, but if anyone’s sleeping on the sofa, it’s Ron, not you,” Hermione replied with a smile. “I think the blokes are trying to sort it out right now,” she added, glancing back inside.

*****************************

Harry, Neville and Ron had retreated into the kitchen, where Ron was muttering about the French and their bloody stupid language.

“On the upside, this is a really big kitchen,” Neville helpfully offered. “Hannah is a real ace when it comes to cooking, you lot will be blown away.”

Harry bit back a grin. Neville had been yammering on about Hannah since they’d arrived. It looked like he was really taken with her.

“Speaking of which, Neville, I think I left the cooking supplies on the patio, would you get them so we can start unpacking in the kitchen? Maybe that will calm Hermione down.”

Neville happily complied. Ron stretched his neck to take a look outside. “Well, she doesn’t seem to be tearing her hair out anymore, so that’s a good sign.”

“Listen up, before Neville gets back,” Harry said in a low voice. “We’ve got to let Hannah and him have the bedroom. He won’t want it, but we have to insist.”

Ron frowned, puzzled, then his face cleared with comprehension. “Oh, right. They haven’t been dating for long, and he’s smitten, so -”

“Yes. Apparently things didn’t go too well in that, erm, area when he was with Luna, so he needs all the help he can get.”

Ron shrugged. “Fine with me. But how the hell do you know about what happened between Neville and Luna?”

“You know your sister as well as I do,” Harry simply replied. “She’s never been one to keep her tongue in check.”

And that was in everything sense of the word. Harry shifted from one foot to the other. It must’ve been the sun, the beach – the prospect of seeing Ginny in her bathing suit. Suddenly all he could think about was being alone with her. Thanks to Ron, he’d have to find more creative ways to make that happen.

“Nevilles’s coming back,” Ron said, tearing Harry out from his thoughts. “We’d better let him know what we’ve decided.”

*****************************

Lying in the sun all day was surprisingly tiring, Harry noted. Tiring in a good way – he felt drained and wonderfully lazy, as if he would never have to do another day of work in his life.

Next to him, Ginny was drying off from her dip in the water. Harry watched the little droplets of water glinting on her pale, smooth skin, reflecting the sun like tiny diamonds, and making her generous curves stand out even more than they usually did. Her hair was mess of sleek, glossy waves, and her grin made her eyes crinkle mischievously when she caught him looking at her.

In these moments a part of Harry’s mind always stood in amazement that this beautiful, magical girl was in love with him, just like it had in the first few months of their relationship. He felt like sweeping her away, hiding her from anybody else’s gaze, and making her his, binding her to him permanently. In a sense it was already done – they had recently become engaged, and Ginny made a point of wearing her ring all the time, even now, when she’d just got back from her swim and had delicately extracted it from her bag and put it back on. But all the wordless vows his body made to hers when they made love, a part of him wanted to make over and over again, as if there was a truth to the matter they had to keep grasping at.

Ginny read the expression in his eyes. Suddenly she jumped to her feet and grabbed her towel to shake it free of sand.

“It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?” she said, eliciting a few grunts of agreement from the rest of the sunbathers. “Harry and I will take first turn in the shower, that way we’ll be done by the time you get back.”

“Have a nice time,” Ron called, shaking with silent laughter.

Harry hurried to his feet and followed her back to the house, pleased with Ginny’s ingenious idea. They had at least half an hour before the others came back.

The thing Harry had always liked about the summer was that there were never many clothes to take off. But the beach was even better. In thirty seconds flat, without saying a word, Ginny had shoved him under the pelting water along with her.

Without his glasses, everything around him was blurry, but that made the sensation of her slick body against his as the water ran down on them even more thrilling. He tried to speak but the jets of hot water were running down his face and into his mouth, so he just groaned loudly. Soon the streams of water were mingling with the searing sensation of Ginny’s lips on his chest, slowly making their way down.

Harry breathed in sharply and laid his palms flat on the tiles, trying to keep his balance, but they kept slipping. She was going to drive him to his knees, in both senses of the term, and she was enjoying it, no doubt. Though he couldn’t see her, eyes squeezed shut against the water and the sensation of her mouth around him, he could just imagine her concentrated, delicate expression, as if she were in on a wonderful secret no one else knew, and the darkened red hair sticking to her cheeks from the wetness. The thought aroused him further.

He had blindly reached for her arm to bring her up to face him – or rather, to turn her around – when voices erupted loudly from the living room.

“What’s that?”

Harry felt around for the knob to shut the shower off for a moment, and felt Ginny’s warmth leave his side. She was groping at the tiled floor, searching for a bathrobe.

“Bugger. I think that’s the rest of them.”

“Ginny…” He gave a loud sigh. “Come on, they can wait five – ten minutes for the bloody shower.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

“Harry? Ginny? We need to get Hannah in the shower here.”

“What the -”

Harry quickly donned a bathrobe and opened the door. Ron and Neville were supporting Hannah, who was wincing in pain and seemed unable to stand alone, with Hermione close behind them.

“Some sort of venomous algae,” she explained. “Either that or the common jellyfish.”

Ron helped Hannah into the bathroom. “I heard the best cure for jellyfish stings is -”

“Don’t say it,” Hermione warned. “What do you think, Neville?”

“The sting marks are all aligned – definitely a case of Porphyra Algae, also known as Salamander Weed,” Neville said, putting Hannah leg under a jet of cold water, and gently stroking her honey-blond hair away from her face. “The European species is relatively harmless. It’ll be better in thirty minutes or so.”

“Just my luck to run into one of those with the Hogwarts Herbology Professor looking after me,” Hannah said with a pained smile.

Ginny caught Harry’s eye and smiled. Looks like they were definitely out of luck today – but the week was just starting.

*****************************

The small beach town nearest to Villa Alouette had a delightful boardwalk overlooking the beach, numerous ice cream stands and a quaint miniature golf course. The Muggle golf course was adjacent to the beach, but the magical one, where wizards on holiday would simply play with their wands instead of troubling with putters, was concealed in what looked like private car park. The group, on their fourth day of vacation, had decided to try it out.

“Bloody hell – that’s the third time my golf ball had been eaten by one of those holes,” Ron grumbled. The golf ball was unceremoniously spit back out a minute later.

“Got it,” cried Hannah, grabbing it as it bounced on the ground and handing it to Ron. “At least these things don’t fly on their own – no risk of getting your head bashed in like with a Bludger.”

“Besides, it only does that if you take more than eight tries to get it in,” Hermione said with a slight smile, shooting her ball perfectly down the carpeted path.

“Well, I’ve never played this game before,” Ron said casually, “but you ought to know I usually get my holes in one.”

Harry and Neville burst out laughing and Ginny groaned at her brother’s terrible joke, while Hermione feigned to be offended and huffed down the course to play her ball.

“Ron… Could we please cut the bad sex jokes while playing golf?” Ginny asked, giggling despite herself.

“Come on, if you can’t make bad sex jokes on a golf course, I don’t know where you can.”

It was Harry’s turn next and Ginny watched him as he carefully positioned his wand to play. He and Hermione were the best players by far, and his co-ordination was flawless. She watched in admiration as the muscles in his forearms flexed and his green eyes focused on the ball. She liked to see him like this – intent, concentrated, completely absorbed in what he was doing. And then, a second later, breaking out into a wide smile, getting back into the game with everyone. She didn’t know what attracted her most about him – what had always attracted her. Perhaps the nearly imperceptible blend of both.

The breeze made the dark hair on his forehead flutter softly, and suddenly, for no peculiar reason, she felt as if she would die if she didn’t touch him right now.

The last two days had been torture. To be so close to him without being able to do anything but kiss him… slip her hand into his shirt, to touch his back or his stomach… clutch the back of his neck and press further into him, but not far enough to forget the flimsy pieces of clothes that were separating their skin from each other… It was driving her crazy. It seemed she couldn’t think about anything else.

“Come on, Ginny, it’s your turn.”

She was last to play and the others had already moved on to the next hole. Harry wrapped her arms around her from behind and placed his own hands over her wand.

“Hey, Mister Golf Expert, who told you I needed help?” she asked, nudging him with her elbow.

“Who told you I wanted to help? I want to make sure you lose.”

“This can’t be any harder than Quidditch,” she said, fitting her body against his, and feeling the hardness there. “So let’s make a little wager, shall we?”

“I’m all ears.”

“If I beat you, you make love to me,” she said. “And if you beat me, I make love to you.”

Harry laughed and the vibrations of his laugh made their way from the bottom of her spine to the nape of her neck. He kissed the soft little strands of hair that curled there, having escaped from her bun.

“Deal. There’s no one on the beach in the evening – it could be nice to take a long, nice walk after dinner.”

*****************************

Neville hadn’t been lying – Hannah was an excellent cook. But despite the delicious dishes she had prepared for them tonight, Ginny was in no mood to eat, and hardly tasted a bite. Her body seemed clutched with desire, addled, burning inside and empty of anything else.

Sweaty and anxious, Ginny wiped her forehead with an arm and set the last of the cleaned plates next to the sink to dry. While her brothers had always complained back at The Burrow when it was their turn to do the chore – it was faster to do it by hand than by magic – she had always liked to do the washing up. It was satisfying, and it helped her clear her mind.

“You and Harry make a wonderful couple,” Hannah said, blushing slightly, while she put a stack of dishes back into a cupboard.

They both looked out at the patio, where the three young men and Hermione were taking turns handling the binoculars and spotting boats out on the ocean. Harry laughed at something Neville said, and then pointed out to the sea.

“That’s very nice of you, Hannah,” Ginny said, surprised but sincerely pleased. “I could say the same for you and Neville. I can’t remember when I last saw him looking so happy.”

And it had been so complicated, so terribly complicated with Luna… You could say what you wanted about love, but sex wasn’t so much the fuel to warm the heart as the burning fire keeping it hot, moving, palpitating.

“It’s such a gorgeous evening…”

The air was cool and calm, and the sky endless, turning from a pale pink hue to a dark indigo above them. The swishing of the waves was like an open invitation to venture outside, be amazed, and dare anything that could exalt that wonderful sensation of freedom.

Harry glanced back over his shoulder and motioned her outside from the other side of the glass bay.

*****************************

“Did you bring the blanket along?”

It was exciting, to sneak around like this – Ginny almost felt a like a teenager again, snickering in the shadows. She was so jittery she could barely help but to pounce on Harry right here and there.

“Hey, not here – anyone can see us…” He tried to shake her off as she nibbled his ear, but it only made her want to tease him more. “There’s a pier – just next to the lifeguard stand.”

Ginny ran ahead of him and he caught up with her in a second, sweeping her in his arms.

“No playing,” he growled softly. “I think you owe me something.”

“You know I’m a terrible loser – I won’t give in without a fight.”

Ginny liked to struggle, and liked to feel that Harry could overpower her if he wanted to, but didn’t because he loved to feel her moving against him, resisting, her muscular body arched and open at the same time. As soon as they lay down on the blanket, time seemed to shrink in an instant, and Harry’s smile disappeared from his face. Suddenly he was intent again, completely absorbed in the task of methodically stripping her of all her clothes.

“Please… keep going…”

The taunt, stretched fabric was telling him to wait, to slow down, but Ginny wasn’t. She whimpered and her hands grasped at his back, clawing his shorts away, beckoning him closer to close the void between them. Harry held back for a moment and bite at the soft flesh of her breast, revelling in its tenderness, its warmth, the sharp intakes of breath escaping from Ginny’s lips, the flush of her cheeks, the wetness he could feel on the tip of his curled fingers. Again and again his tongue rolled over it, until finally his urge took all control and he pushed himself into her, his elbows digging painfully into the sand.

A moan burst from his throat and he shut his eyes against the first wave of sensation, but he couldn’t keep them closed for long. He wanted to see her – her face, her body, and his, moving inside of it, hard, lean muscles against full, supple curves.

“So… so…”

“Good” was hardly beginning to describe the sensation. But just as Harry felt the first shudders of pleasure gripping his insides, Ginny stiffened under him. He pulled back and fell to the side.

“Ginny – what’s wrong?”

But the answer came in the form of footsteps on the pier and two voices, harsh, cheerful Gallic accents babbling away.

“Don’t worry, they can’t hear us, I cast a Muffliato charm,” Harry whispered, kissing her neck.

“No, but he can,” Ginny said, nodding towards a small dog, standing not one meter away from them and wagging its tail.

“Go on, shoo,” Harry hissed, waving it away.

“Eh bien, Médor, qu’est-ce qu’il y a là-dessous?”

The voices were getting closer. And effective as the Muffliato spell was, other people could still see them.

“Where’s the Invisibility Cloak when you need it?” Ginny said, half-laughing and half-wanting to curse the two intruders and resume what she and Harry had been doing. It felt just like being parched for days and having a fountain of icy water dry up on the tip of your tongue.

The dog barked and Harry threw a handful of sand its way. He had always hated dogs – miserable beasts, all of them. Especially the little yapping ones.

“Médor, allez, viens ici!”

Ginny quickly got back into her skirt and tee-shirt while Harry pulled his shorts back on, muttering a stream of unrepeatable insults. He grabbed the blanket and the two of them scurried out from under the pier.

“Ah! Ah, d’accord…”

It was good thing the French weren’t too touchy about these things. The last thing Ginny wanted, on top of everything else, was some unwelcome remarks.

*****************************

Harry didn’t know what had awakened him. For a moment he stayed with his eyes closed, willing himself back to sleep, but a small noise coming from outside awakened him. The sound of the waves.

He sat up in the bed, reaching for his glasses. Sure enough, the French doors were open. He remembered closing them before going to sleep. From the feel of things it was the middle of the night.

Coming back from the beach, gripping Ginny’s hand like his sanity depended on it, Harry had wanted nothing more than to cut the evening short and hide under the bed sheets with his stupid, sizzling, overwhelming frustration. But as usual, it had subsided in the company of his friends, with a glass of wine and a story Ron had to tell, with a game of Exploding Snap and some subdued, serious discussions late into the night.

And now the doors stood open, and Ron and Hermione’s futon was empty. The winding, unfulfilled feeling suddenly came back under a veil of sleepiness. A small hand made its way up his arm.

“I have to hand it to Hermione and Ron, they’re a bit smarter than we are,” Ginny whispered, peeking up at him from her pillow. “When they go romping on the beach, they really make sure no one will be around.”

Harry smiled and fell back on his pillow, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Ginny snuggled up closer.

“They left ten minutes ago, so…”

“So,” Harry repeated, pulling her closer and sliding her slip up her legs. “No stinging algae or yapping dogs in sight.”

“And I still owe you for that game.”

They kissed, slowly, listening to the silence of the room and the distant rustle of the water.

Then, quietly, without saying a word, she pulled the slip over her head and let it fall to the floor. In the moonlight her hair shone softly and her milky skin was patched with shade. Harry thought, dizzily, that he had never seen anything so beautiful, but when she sank down on him, the last remnants of his dream melted away into a stark, fleshy, amazing reality. And the reality pulsed at him with renewed force every time Ginny moved again, and again, quicker, until later, much later, both of their bodies had met every way possible and were so full of sensation that they gave out and collapsed against the freshness of the sheets.

Harry panted, catching his breath. Finally.

“We’ll definitely have to take it in shifts for the rest of the stay,” Ginny said, still shaky, curled up against his damp chest.

Yes. They would. Merlin knew why they hadn’t thought of it before.

“I wonder…”

“What?”

It took a few seconds for Harry’s mind to wrap itself around words again. “Ron’s always been an adventurous kind of bloke, you know.”

Ginny rolled back, laughing. The sound of her laugh was as enveloping as the sound of the ocean.

“If you’re telling me Ron made that blunder with the rooms on purpose to get Hermione to do it on the beach…”

It wasn’t a half bad idea, after all. Harry laughed along with Ginny and pulled her back close to him, gently fingering her tousled hair. At that moment, as it always did, anything seemed possible, and everything seemed wonderfully far away, up and above like the moon shining in the night.

celescribbles @ 2008-01-04T19:25:00

2008-01-04T18:38:56Z

Unmentionables - a D/G romance

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary : Bellatrix took out a small book she had never seen before. The cover read : Of Dementors and Their Ability to Breed with Humans, by Annie C. Fapp. That looked very promising indeed. A truly Machiavellian plan began to form in the slighted Slytherin witch’s brain. If she could get that little red-headed brat pregnant with a Dementor’s child, Draco would never touch Ginny Weasley again, and he would come back to her. It all sounded like marvellous fun – more fun, indeed, than she had had since dancing a conga line with Inferi at Narcissa’s wedding.

Bellatrix was bored and in the depths of her heart, there was also a seething pool of anger just waiting to overflow . It was bad enough that the Dark Lord had commanded her to stay with Draco in the Malfoys’ villa for the time being – her own mansion in Romania had a much larger pool and an outdoor hot tub carved out of black marble surrounded by giant black marble carvings of phalluses. It was all very tasteful. But no, that wasn’t what was bothering her most. The little twit had had the gall to resist her, she who had taught him everything he knew, and had turned her down like he would an extra piece of pecan pie after Thanksgiving dinner! What was wrong with him? He had never acted like that before, and truth be told, his formidable sexual appetite and extraordinary performances had been a nice change from dressing up as a postman, complete with cap, just to get Rabastan mildly excited. Not that she tried all that often. She always had to imagine herself with the Dark Lord just to get off whenever she was with her husband.

Yes, Bellatrix wanted Draco, that much was clear – he was just a boy, really, but he was an extremely well hung boy and nothing short of a sex god under the covers. No woman in her right mind would resist him. No woman except… Bellatrix’s ebony eyes narrowed dangerously as she recalled the way he had sent for the Weasley girl. Of course! That had to be it! He was smitten with her… the only girl who would rather die that give in to his advances, thus forbidding herself all the pleasures of Draco’s potent passion plant.

Stupid little self-righteous Gryffindor. Well, she would show her – she would show them all!

Looking for inspiration, Bellatrix stood up and started rummaging through the bookshelf for anything that would give her some new ideas of torture to which she could submit her prize prisoner.

“Now, let’s see,” she murmured, trailing a finger on the spine of the books. “High Times at Torquemada Hotel? I think I’ve read that one. Arts and Craft Fun with Lope de Aguirre? Know it by heart. Joseph Jugashvili’s E-Z Mass Murder Method? Stake Envy : Memoirs of Vlad Drakul’s Psychotherapist? There must be something else… What’s this?”

Bellatrix took out a small book she had never seen before. The cover read : Of Dementors and Their Ability to Breed with Humans, by Annie C. Fapp. That looked very promising indeed.

A truly Machiavellian plan began to form in the slighted Slytherin witch’s brain. If she could get that little red-headed brat pregnant with a Dementor’s child, Draco would never touch Ginny Weasley again, and he would come back to her. It all sounded like marvellous fun – more fun, indeed, than she had had since dancing a conga line with Inferi at Narcissa’s wedding. How young and innocent she was back then… but now was no time to get nostalgic.

The first thing she did was send an owl to Azkaban – the head of their Secret DNA Manipulation Lab was an old flame of hers, and she’d got him out of a tricky spot when the Pro-Life Knights of Merlin had burned an straw effigy of him in front of the Ministry and threatened to sell some incriminating pictures of him and his test subjects to the Prophet.

Please send me an able Dementor without delay, she wrote. Money is no object. Make sure the package is discreet, unmarked and SEALED. Last time, the delivery boy was brain-dead before he made it to the front gate.

After she’d sent the message off using one of the Malfoys’ snowy white royal eagles, she raced down to the dungeons to Ginny Weasley’s cell, only to find it empty.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried in fury, and Crabbe, who acted as dungeon keeper, arrived at once, scribbling frantically on his dry-erase board.

Drako made me put GW in teh guest room. I thot he told U. Sori.

“Sorry isn’t going to help, you blithering moron! Now I’ll never be able to carry out my plan… But wait. Who else is available for torture today?”

Crabbe dug the torture timetable out of his pocket and handed it to her. Apparently Hermione Granger was scheduled for the main torture chamber from four to six that very afternoon.

Bellatrix rubbed her hands in delight. “Well, this might turn out to an enjoyable day yet.”

*****************************

Ginny had woken up that morning to find she was no longer in her cell but in a real room. A crackling fire was burning in the hearth and she was lying in a bed, under a warm quilt of crimson silk. What was the meaning of this? Who could it be that put her there during her sleep?

She got up and realised that she was no longer wearing her tattered school uniform but a night gown of the lightest, purest white lace. She touched the trimming of the collar, still confused. A plate of the most delicious food had been set in front of the bed for her – foie gras, white wine, tiramisu… She had never seen such a display. Who had enough kindness, money and sophisticated culinary taste to prepare this meal for her? It was all very baffling indeed.

Sitting back down on the bed, Ginny thought of the events of the night before and felt herself blush. Of course, she hated Draco Malfoy with all her heart – he was evil and cruel, not like her Harry. And yet… yet when he had touched her, thrown her brutally on the bed, and let his hands slide on her naked thighs, she had felt the irrepressible throes of desire beginning to rise inside her like cheese soufflé in a burning-hot oven. This had never happened when Harry had kissed her, and she’d even refused to go any further with him… for that very reason.

Ginny frowned. She just couldn’t understand what was happening to her. But it occurred to her that never before last night had she noticed how handsome Draco was, with his light blond hair and his pale grey eyes, glinting like the purest silver… And underneath his brutality, his biting words, and his apparent intention to use her for sex and discard her like a dirty Kleenex, she had felt in his touch true warmth and consideration, true desire to know the real Ginny Weasley.

Harry had never wanted to know the real her, Ginny realised bitterly. It seemed all he was interested in was her body. And she thought she’d loved him – loved him to the point of using magic to get him to date her. But now she wasn’t so sure anymore… last night had changed everything.

What is wrong with me? she thought. Of course I love Harry. And I hate Draco Malfoy! If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here!

But then another voice in her head said, You know who did all this – he’s the one being kind to you. Besides, don’t you remember how sad and tortured he looked when you left him?

All these voices were starting to make her head ache. She slipped out of the room, hoping she could find some Tylenol in the vicinity, and realised the guest room was right next to Draco’s. Suddenly, she was overcome with the urge to see him, to make sure he was all right, and peeked through the crack in the door.

Draco was seated at a small table, sipping some coffee. Newspapers in every language were scattered in front of him, and he was currently reading something called Hexenkunst Heute.

“I’ll have you know that I’m a very avid reader,” he said calmly, not looking up. “And I find it very important to keep up with current events.”

Ginny started. He had sensed her presence.

“Well, come in if you must,” he said, waving the door open with his hand. “I take it the tiramisu was unsatisfactory? I made it myself, you know. Oh yes, I have a great deal of talents you can’t even begin to imagine, Weasel girl.”

Ginny didn’t reply and made her way around the room, observing him cautiously. She felt like a little mouse trapped in the same cage as a lithe, powerful lion, ready to pounce on her at every step she took. The sensation was both terrifying and strangely arousing for a reason she could not yet even begin to surmise.

“Don’t worry, I won’t lay a hand on you again,” he said. “That is, unless you want me to.”

“How can you say such a vile thing?” Ginny asked, unable to steel herself any longer against the rush of emotions in her heart. “Do you really think I would ever want someone like you?”

“Yes, of course,” Draco said with a smirk, folding the newspaper back up and taking another one, El Magico Pais. “Who else could please you but Harry James Joey Willy -”

“Stop that!” Ginny cried. “I forbid you to talk about Harry that way.”

“ – Potter,” Draco finished pointedly, ignoring her demand. “You’re acting quite the bitch this morning, Weasel girl. Hangover? PMS? Rough night? I thought you might like the change in your quarters.”

“I’d rather spend a thousand years in that dungeon than in the room next to yours,” she retorted, turning her back on him and whipping her red-gold hair around like a flag caught in the wind.

Draco stood up from the table and crossed the room to come stand behind her. He gently touched her fiery mane of glossy, abundant curls. “So beautiful, and yet so distant… I’ve got half a mind to take you here and now whether you like it or not, you impertinent little tease. That might teach you some respect.”

Ginny bit her lip, forcing down the moan of desire that was fighting its way up her throat. Why did he have such an effect on her? Why?

“I bet I could make you scream as loud as an entire stadium of drunken hooligans five seconds before the end of the Quidditch world final,” he said, his voice low and enticing.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. He was driving her to madness and there was nothing she could do about it. Was he the one she had been waiting for, the one she would let explore her body, still pure and ignorant of sin as freshly fallen snow on a winter morning?

“But, a promise is a promise, just like ol’ Grandad Adolf Malfoy used to say,” he taunted her, breathing in the sweet perfume of her skin. “Even though it would be pleasant indeed to be the first to walk on that uncharted, unspoilt territory… If it’s unspoilt indeed, as you claim…”

Ginny turned around with the intention of pushing him away and bolting out of the room, but Draco was quicker. He grabbed her wrists and she tried to free herself. They struggled for a moment and finally Draco forced Ginny down to the floor.

“Let me go!” she yelled. “Let me go, you miserable fiend!”

“I can see it in your eyes, Ginny – I know you want me,” he said, dizzy with arousal. So dizzy in fact, that when aiming for her lips he missed and banged his forehead on the ground.

Ginny took advantage of this small reprieve to wriggle from under him and flee towards the door.

“This isn’t over yet, Weasley,” Draco said, half-laughing. “I know you’ll come for me again – you won’t be able to resist it!”

Ginny disappeared into the hall, but deep down inside, she knew he was right.

New fic! Beware of crack...

2007-12-21T18:01:18Z

Unmentionables - a D/G romance

Chapter 1

Genre: Parody, A/U (thank god)

Rating: R

Warnings: massive screwing with canon, foul language, completely contrived non-con, sex, Dementors and rock 'n' roll.

Story Summary: Ginny finds herself prisoner of Draco Malfoy, and things unravel from there, in every sense of the word. A comic take on the most - ahem - original stories you can find out there. Do not search too hard for a plot or any sort of coherence, you might get a headache.

Notes: this fic would have never seen the light without the prompting of my beta, Anne - yes, she has a lot to answer for, so take it up with her in case of complaints.

The sky overhead was gloomy and dark, as if foreboding a storm that would sweep across the deserted countryside. Strange, Draco thought, taking his sunglasses off and setting his Daiquiri to the ground for a house-elf to pick up. It wasn’t usually so dank and gloomy in the South of France in the summer.

“Ah, fuck it,” he said, putting a shirt on and stretching it over his muscular abs. “This is no way to get a tan.”

Yes, he was most displeased with this turn of events, he reflected, standing by the poolside in his tight spandex shorts and absent-mindedly caressing his broad chest. He’d have his father flog a few of the domestics for this – after all, what was the point of having a villa in the South of France if the staff couldn’t even get the weather right?

Draco turned back to go inside. The mansion was a beautiful example of 15^th century Louis XIV architecture, and word had it that it had once belonged to Erik the Red. The black marble turrets seemed to be reaching towards the sky, towering over an open archway of red sandstone Doric colonnades. The whole place gave an impression of elegance, power and intricacy, and seemed to have been made to fit its current owners. The Malfoy family motto, Panne Du Matin, Chagrin, was engraved on an iron-wrought arch over the entrance.

A woman wearing a black robe was waiting for him on the doorstep, her black hair tumbling down to waist and her dark, black eyes looking at him like a bird would its wormy prey.

“Hello, Draco,” she said teasingly. “Got a nice tan?”

“Oh, shut up, Bella,” he replied in disgust. “I’m in no mood to humour you right now.”

“Come now, I’m sure there are a lot of games we could play,” she said, following him as he entered the mansion and headed for the kitchen. “Or is my nephew too busy at the moment?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, pausing and turning around to look at her, “I was getting a glass of lemonade.”

They stared at each other intently for a moment, then Bellatrix laughed. “Oh Draco, what a silly little boy you are! But lucky for you, I like silly little boys,” she added, tracing a manicured finger along the belt of his shorts. “There’s so much I could teach you…”

“You’ve jingled my bells one time too many, woman,” Draco hissed, opening the fridge. It was shaped like a demon’s mouth - when one pressed on the left eye, ice cubes came out of the nostrils. “This isn’t a game anymore. I’m now a full-fledged Death Eater and - ”

“Are you sure of that?” Bella said, aggressively snatching at his bum. “I heard our Beloved Lord of Evil tests the loyalty of his most faithful companions by piercing their…”

He snatched her hand and she backed away, shaking from the intensity of his icy blue silver gaze. “Yes. He does indeed.”

Bella shuddered with arousal. “Would you like to go tear the heads off of puppies with me?”

Draco let her hand drop and gulped his lemonade in one swift gulp, then started away. “You’re insane. I’m going to the tanning beds.”

“Or perhaps torture the prisoners?” Bella added, trailing after him. “We got a fresh new arrival just this morning! And they happen to be your former Hogwarts schoolmates that we caught in – well – that battle. Thing. Against the Dark Lord or something.”

The blond-haired heir stopped for a moment and considered. “Hogwarts schoolmates, you say? Gryffindor? Ravenclaw? I won’t have any Hufflepuffs, as you very well know – too much muscle, not enough tit.”

“Well, they are Gryffindors, if you must know – and they’re young nubile virgins, too, taken from the clutches of your most hated nemesis and left at your complete mercy!”

“Hmmm… that might be interesting,” Draco condescended. “Send the youngest, most virginal one to my room. Chop, chop!”

Bella’s face fell and her eyes flashed a terrible omen of vengeance. “Your mother will hear about this.”

“She’s your sister and you fucked her only son,” Draco remarked, brushing a piece of lint from his shirt. “I think I have more ammo than you.”

Wordless, the dark-haired witch turned and stalked off, the thirst for revenge blazing in her hard, stony heart.

*****************************

Ginny cowered against the wall and shivered. The dungeon was dark and stony; humidity was seeping from the walls and rats were squealing in every corner. It was hard to believe she was actually on the Riviera, especially with the storm raging outside.

Suddenly, she saw a looming, familiar figure approach her cell. It was Crabbe, Malfoy’s old crony from school.

“What do you want with me?” she cried. “Don’t you lay a hand on me – when Harry comes for me you’ll regret you ever did!”

Crabbe rolled his eyes and held out a small dry-erase board: Miz Bela told me Drako told her to get U.

“Um - what’s with the board? Are you mute all of a sudden?”

I’m 2 ashamd 2 talk cuz I stuter and Drako beats me 4 it. Itz tuf.

“Wow, you must have had a traumatising childhood,” Ginny said, moved to tears. “I’m so sorry I misjudged you all these years. I guess ALL SLYTHERINS AREN’T BAD.”

Crabbe shrugged and took a huge set of keys from his pocket to open the door. Ginny followed him down the shadowy, eerie corridor and up a flight of winding stairs that seemed go on endlessly. Five minutes later, they finally arrived at a landing. Crabbe knocked on a big mahogany door and passed out, red in the face and breathless. A house elf scurried over with an asthma blower, and dragged him off by the legs.

Intrigued by this rather incongruous spectacle, Ginny hadn’t noticed that the door had opened. She stepped inside and saw Draco sprawled out on the largest canopy bed she’d ever seen. He was wearing a satiny, dark green bathrobe embroidered with his initials and lined with expensive grey cloth that accentuated the fine traits of his face, his sparkling, ice-freezing gaze and his creamy alabaster skin.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he told her, without looking up from his game of miniature golf. He was moving the ball with his wand. “A perfect shot… as always.”

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?” Ginny exclaimed, shock and panic making her heart thump dangerously.

“See this room? And this house?” he asked, waving a hand around. “It’s all mine. As are the prisoners we keep here. I can do as I please with them.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. A horrible feeling of skin-deep dread was crawling its way up her delicate spine. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means… you’re lucky you didn’t end up in Uncle Rabastan’s house in Romania – I hear he has a special fetish for chainsaws and postal workers.” Draco laughed and with a casual flick of his wand, he opened a mini-bar next to the fireplace. “So what’ll be, Weasel girl? Martini? Curaçao? G-and-T on the rocks?”

“You disgust me, Malfoy!” she spat. “You’ll regret when Harry comes to rescue me! He’ll never let you get away with all of this!”

“Harry James Johny Billy Potter,” Malfoy said, spitting out every word. “The hero everyone loves – including you. I bet you were happy to tinkertoy with his corndog and -”

Ginny gasped and tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Draco, how dare you!”

“- and you let him munch your Cherry Merry Muffin, didn’t you?” Draco smiled sardonically. “Well, let’s see just how much you’ll enjoy… this!”

He threw his robes open, revealing nothing but a black studded latex jock strap. Ginny cried out and stumbled, ready to swoon, but Draco was swifter. He gathered her up in his arms and pushed her short, sexy Hogwarts schoolgirl skirt up. Ginny tried to push him away, clawing at his chiselled chest with all her might, squirming like an eel caught on a piece of bailing wire.

“No, no, it cannot be! Unhand me, you beast!”

Draco felt a surge of desire course through his veins and erupt in his belly like the flames of a thousands fireworks crackling in the hot summer air of July. Her gold-red-copper-bronze hair, her smooth, chocolaty eyes, her plump lips – she enflamed every bone in his soul.

“Let’s see what Potter will think of this next time you -”

“Never! Never! MY VIRGINITY IS MY MOST PRECIOUS ASSET!”

The golden-haired lothario paused. Ginny’s tears caught the reflection of the setting sun as it filtered through the storm clouds before sinking down to a red pulp on the horizon line. Could he really do this to her? Could he claim her as his own by robbing her of the precious bloom of her burgeoning womanhood? Would he be such a monster?

He backed away from her and scrambled for his dressing gown. Ginny sat up, confused.

“Draco? What -”

“Leave me,” he said gravely. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“But – but -”

“I said, leave me!” he bellowed, then turned away to look out the window at the blood-red sunset.

Ginny got to her feet and headed towards the door, giving her tormented captor one last look before slipping away. In her heart she was relieved, but her body was unsettled – and she had no doubt that once he recovered, he would come to her again to finish what he started.

celescribbles @ 2007-12-21T18:28:00

2007-12-21T17:38:19Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 8

Chapter summary : Ron gave her a small but decidedly pleased smile. “Well, come on, I have to give you your birthday present,” he said, making his way around the table. Hermione followed him, feeling suddenly nervous. Of course, Ron would never get try to get racy with her – he was… Ron. Clumsy and a bit gruff, but deep inside, she knew him to be sweet and considerate. But what if she wanted him to – well, be a bit racy? Should she ask him? The very thought made her shudder.

A loud knock sounded on the bathroom door, startling Ron from his thoughts and making him scramble for his shirt.

“What?” he called, stubbing his foot against the base of the toilet and biting back a curse. “What is it?”

“Ron, you’ve been locked up in here for an hour,” his father’s voice said from the other side of the door. “I need to use the loo!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he mumbled, hastily buttoning up his shirt and giving his hair one last look before opening the door. “No need to get tetchy about it,” he muttered, slipping past his father.

“Well, you certainly look nice,” his father remarked, bemused. “I didn’t know you owned anything that wasn’t a tee-shirt.”

“Yes, well – now you know,” Ron replied lamely, red in the face. Before his father could say anything else, he clambered up to his room and shut the door tightly.

Now that he was ready, there was nothing else to do but wait. He checked his breath and wondered if he should have put on some cologne – no, that would’ve been overdoing it. Besides, the only cologne in the house belonged to his father and had been a gift from Auntie Muriel several years ago – something called Eau de Chimère. He wouldn’t risk it. And after all, he didn’t want Hermione to think he was trying to … seduce her or anything. Besides, hadn’t that part already been done? He wasn’t sure.

Ron paced around, not knowing what to do with himself, and picked up one of his comic books with the vague intention of reading it, but set it back down immediately. According to his watch, Hermione was a bit late. What if she didn’t come at all? Feeling slightly panicky, he grabbed his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches and flipped through it. He’d found some passages of it very enlightening, especially the one on personal appearance: Always look your best, it read, but don’t look like you put too much effort into it. Witches are sensitive to a natural, manly type of sex-appeal that doesn’t need to be overwhelming. Unfortunately, it was silent on the subject of what to do once you had charmed a witch into being your girlfriend. Of course, technically, he’d already had a girlfriend, but in the end it had been much easier with Lavender than it was with Hermione – for some reason, it hadn’t been that important to please her. Things were different now.

It was strange to think of it like that: Hermione was his girlfriend. It seemed to Ron that he’d been fumbling achingly towards that goal for ages, and now that he’d finally done it – now that they’d kissed, and more than a couple of times too – he felt even more nervous and awkward than before. Would Hermione have expected him to get her some flowers or candy or something like that? The gift he’d got her for her birthday wasn’t very romantic… On the other hand, he reasoned, Hermione had never really been that type of girl – it seemed unlikely that she would change now, just because they were going out. But on the other hand… girls were so unpredictable and strange. You never really knew what they were thinking, and it felt as if every word they spoke had a hidden meaning. If they wanted a bloke to say or do something, they had a roundabout way of getting it out of him that was both deeply uncanny and terrifying.

“Ron! Hermione’s here!”

Ron jolted up from his bed, nearly knocking over his night table. His heart gave big leaping thumps as he bolted down the stairs before slowing down to a halt. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and took a moment to recover. What was wrong with him? This was just Hermione – his best friend, the bossy, brilliant girl he’d known for years. He’d seen her a thousand times before in a thousand different states. There was no need to get all jittery now.

Slightly calmed, Ron continued towards the living room. He could hear Hermione chatting with his parents and his treacherous heart made another somersault in his chest, making all sensible, rational thoughts fly out of his mind.

“ – but they’re fine now. Actually, they told me that they’d like to have you over to dinner…”

“Really? They did?” his father asked excitedly. “How wonderful – I’ve been wanting to see how a stove works for ages!”

“Yes, that would be lovely, my dear. Oh, and here’s Ron.”

And there she was. Tan, radiant, and looking more lovely than he could remember ever seeing her.

“I, urm – hi.” It seemed to Ron that his throat was both dry and incapable of producing a more witty turn of phrase. Thankfully, his mouth seemed to know exactly what to do, and he could feel it stretching into a smile. He was so incredibly happy to see her, it was almost a bit ridiculous.

Hermione smiled back and her cheeks tinged with pink. Ron wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her – that was the kind of greeting he was longing for, but of course he would never do that in front of a third party, especially not his parents.

His mother, amazingly, seemed to understand this. “Well, we’ll leave you two, then,” she said, slipping Ron a furtive, mischievous look and patting Hermione’s shoulder before retreating in the kitchen and shooing Arthur away towards the garage. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

Hermione and Ron both laughed, awkwardly, then she turned towards him again – was that expectancy he saw on her face? It didn’t matter. In one sweeping motion he’d gathered her into his arms and her lips where on his. His heart was knocking so hard against his chest he was sure she would feel it. And it all seemed to add up perfectly again – there was no need to be nervous or worried or anxious. All he had to do was fit his mouth against hers and hold her tightly and everything came as naturally as could be.

“Well, hi,” she said, a bit breathless, when she broke away.

“Hi,” he replied, trying to keep the burning ache her kiss had ignited under tight control. “I missed you.”

Hermione nestled her head in the crook of his neck and stayed there for a moment. “I missed you too.” Then she looked up, smiling, and walked over to the window, looking at the garden. “I’m so glad to be back – and here, of course. It’s funny, but I realised that it’s been years since I’ve been away so long from The Burrow during the holidays. It felt a bit strange, believe it or not.”

“Really? I’d give my left hand to travel to Australia instead of staying here for two months… I mean, it was nice to be with the family and all, but… I don’t know, I need a break.”

Hermione took his hand. “Well, you’ll be moving in with Harry soon – won’t it be grand when the three of us are living in London?”

Ron bit his lip. “I don’t know how long George expects me to stay with him,” he said hesitantly. Of course, his brother would never keep him from going away, but he didn’t want George to feel too lonely.

“George probably won’t want a little brother hanging around his flat if he has some friends over – or worse,” Hermione pointed out with a little laugh. “And as soon as Grimmauld Place is all ready, you won’t want to live anywhere else.”

“Ready? What do you mean?”

She grinned mischievously. “I can’t tell - it’s a secret. Sorry.”

He brought her closer to him again and she squealed, fighting him off. “I’ll wring it out of you. You’ll have no secrets from me.”

“Every woman’s got secrets,” she said with an air of mystery, then kissed the corner of his mouth. Ron felt as though he was a heavy metal clock being wound up from the inside. He blushed, feeling suddenly awkward.

“So – um – you’re staying here tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s what I told you.” She frowned, puzzled. “Why, do you have other plans? Did you have something in mind? I mean -”

“No, no, not at all. I just thought maybe – you’d changed your plans, or maybe your parents didn’t want you to – since they don’t really know me all that well and…” He raked a hand through his hair, not knowing what to say anymore. There was one notion that was taking up all the place in his head and he couldn’t work his way around it.

Hermione looked at him, silent, as though she was waiting for him to pick up the conversation again. He noticed at that moment that there was a discreet hint of colour on her eyelids, which surprised him, and she was wearing a rather elegant blouse. Maybe she was waiting for him to mention the change, though she’d never shown any concern about her appearance in front of him or Harry before. Perhaps he should’ve complimented her on tan, or told her she looked beautiful? Was she angry that he hadn’t said anything?

“Well – uh…” He looked her up and down, then, realising what he was doing, looked straight back up, embarrassed, his eyes itching to linger over her body a smite longer. “You look really pretty. It’s a nice change.” Merlin, that sounded absolutely awful. Realising his blunder, he tried to recover, very red in the face. “I mean, it’s not like you usually don’t, but…”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Well – I wouldn’t recognise you if you were full of tact and suaveness all of sudden,” she said, but there was no anger in her voice. In fact, she seemed rather amused, and let out a little laugh.

Ron laughed as well. “Sorry. That came out all wrong. What I meant was, you look pretty all the time, but tonight you look… extra pretty.”

“To be honest, I felt like trying something different,” Hermione said, a bit uncertainly. “I bought this new blouse in Australia. I mean, I don’t usually go for the lace-trimmed stuff, but I thought, you know, now that I’m out of school I ought to dress more my age, and besides, I was hoping you’d like it.”

“I do – I do like it. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

He almost gave a sigh of relief at having corrected his mistake, but Hermione didn’t give him the chance. They were still kissing when Molly called them to the table. Ron thought he’d never have more readily skipped a dinner in his life, and hoped it would be over fast.

*****************************

“Here, dear, have some more.”

Hermione pushed her plate back and smiled gratefully at Mrs Weasley. “Thank you, but I’m full. The dinner was delicious.”

“Well, Ron, won’t you have another slice?”

Ron glanced at the remaining half chocolate cake that was sitting in the middle of the table, and seemed to hesitate. Mrs Weasley had made enough for twelve. No doubt he and Harry could’ve eaten what was left all by themselves – Hermione had experienced first-hand during their long camping trip the seemingly endless capacity of teenage boys to wolf down anything edible – but tonight Ron didn’t seem to have much appetite. She was secretly grateful for it, even though she was reluctant to admit it to herself. Mr and Mrs Weasley were so nice to welcome her to The Burrow like that, and she had so much to tell about her trip… It seemed a bit impolite to want to go upstairs right now – even worse, to want nothing more than be with Ron alone in his room with the door shut tight. Hermione shifted on her seat. What would Mr and Mrs Weasley think if they went up together? Perhaps Mrs Weasley would be resentful that she didn’t show more gratitude, or perhaps she would think she was trying to… to… to what, exactly? She and Ron were dating. There was nothing Hermione could do to him that she hadn’t done already. Almost.

“Thanks, Mum, but I’m done. Three slices is my limit. It was bloody fantastic, though.”

“Well, should I help you do the washing up, Mrs Weasley?” Hermione said quickly. “And then perhaps we could – play a game or something like that.”

Mrs Weasley laughed and flicked her wand to pile up the empty plates. “Oh, don’t bother, dear. I’ll get it done in a jiffy. But I’m afraid I won’t join in the festivities, I have some sewing to do.”

Arthur stood up and tugged his napkin from his collar. “Well, better get to work on my electric fan – it’s almost finished. Picked it up in a dump, can you believe it? It’s amazing, really, the treasures people will throw out.”

Hermione felt her heart crawl up her chest. What was this conspiracy? Did Mr and Mrs Weasley think she was just dying to be alone with Ron to snog him? Well. She was – but that wasn’t the point.

Ron gave her a small but decidedly pleased smile. “Well, come on, I have to give you your birthday present,” he said, making his way around the table.

Hermione followed him, feeling suddenly nervous. Of course, Ron would never get try to get racy with her – he was… Ron. Clumsy and a bit gruff, but deep inside, she knew him to be sweet and considerate. But what if she wanted him to – well, be a bit racy? Should she ask him? The very thought made her shudder.

She’d thought about it a lot, when she was in Australia. For what seemed like the first time in all her teenage years, she’d had the time to think about something else than studies and books and saving the world. Of course, there had been that little thing she had with Viktor, but that was so long ago it almost didn’t count. And that date with that prat McLaggen – what had she been thinking? But with Ron, things were different. Her own feelings seemed to be expanding out of control and it felt as though a whole unexplored region of herself was opening up. It was unsettling. She prided herself in keeping a cool head at all times, but thinking of Ron just made her thoughts blurry and dizzy and wonderful. And when he’d kissed her earlier that evening… It felt a bit like the time when he’d come back after disappearing for so long – there was the same feeling of release, of achievement, of power and extreme vulnerability all at once. But while she certainly didn’t feel angry now, she was still reeling from it.

“I made up Ginny’s bed for you, dear,” Mrs Weasley called from behind her as they exited the kitchen. Hermione thanked her shakily, feeling rather mortified.

When they got to Ron’s room, he closed the door carefully behind him and Hermione sat on the bed, just on the edge, keeping her back very straight.

“It’s not much,” Ron told her with a lop-sided smile as he started to rummage through his drawer. Hermione watched the long strands of fiery hair fall down over his cheek and Ron push them back behind his ear, tugging on his plump bottom lip with his teeth as he peered into the drawer. She sat up a bit straighter.

“Ah, there it is,” he said finally, taking out a small box. “Here you go. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” she said, intrigued. She opened the box to find a small, delicate pocket watch strung on a golden chain. It looked like a miniature version of the Weasleys’ clock.

“It’s not real gold or anything, but… I thought you might like to have a wizarding watch of your own. It’s not like mine or Harry’s, it’s like the one in the kitchen – here, look, I put a few hands in already, but you can add more, as many as you want.”

Hermione looked closer, delighted with the gift, and saw that indeed there were already three hands in place – Ron and Harry, who were both “at home”, and Ginny who was “on the Quidditch pitch.”

“Oh, Ron, this is wonderful,” she said, holding it up, admiring it as it glinted softly in the light of the lamp. “Simply wonderful.” Then she carefully put in back in the box and stood up to wind her arms around his neck.

Ron held her tightly for a moment and when they pulled back, their lips met instinctively. Hermione closed her eyes against the feeling, trying to convey all of her delight and her gratitude through her kiss, but delight and gratitude soon shifted towards a deeper, nameless feeling that clutched at her senses. Ron’s hands were pressing against the small of her back as if he didn’t dare budge them for fear of where they would go on their own accord. He leaned over her and she stepped back, the back of her knees soon bumping against the bed and making her legs buckle under her. They fell in a heap on the bed.

“Oof!”

Ron’s elbow had found its way into her stomach and when she let out a grunt, he pulled back suddenly, rather alarmed.

“Are you -”

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just… your elbow.” She hitched herself on her forearms and took a deep, shaky breath, then met Ron’s eyes again. He was looking at her in a way that made her stomach coil around itself. He scrambled back.

“Sorry about that. I mean, not the kissing – the elbow.” He looked at his hands. “So, I was wondering – have you read any good books lately?”

“Books?” Hermione sat up completely, frowning. “Why on earth are you asking me about books?”

“Just trying to make a conversation,” Ron said, a bit sheepishly. “I mean, there’s so much you must want to tell me about Australia, and… books and stuff.”

“Ron, are you out of your mind? We talked at the dinner table, didn’t we? And there sometimes are other things on my mind than books, you know,” she added, rather annoyed. It was all fine and dandy that he didn’t take her for Lavender Brown, but his question was like a cold shower. Didn’t he want to kiss her?

“Yes, I know,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. He looked a bit annoyed too, now. This was not going the way she had expected. “I just thought you might want to talk, and not just… well, you know.”

“Well, do you want to talk?”

“No! I mean, yes. Of course! I always like talking with you.”

“Do you want to talk now?”

“Not really, but… Look, I didn’t want you to think I brought you up here just to snog, all right? And if we go on like this - ” He let out a big sigh and gave Hermione a grave look. “I bloody don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep my hands entirely to myself.”

Hermione considered this for a moment and shrugged her shoulders, feeling her face go very red. “Well… Did you hear me say anything about keeping your hands to yourself?”

Ron looked at her wide-eyed. “Are you – are you asking me to -”

“I’m not asking you anything!” Hermione replied, the blush brutally rising to its peak. “But for heaven’s sake, Ron, we’re eighteen and we’ve been dating for almost four months now – there’s nothing to have a fit over. No, I won’t smack you if you try to put your hands somewhere other than my back, so stop questioning every move you make and get on with it!”

“Wow.” Ron’s bewildered expression relaxed into a smile. “I always thought you were really pretty when you get bossy like that.”

Hermione took on a dignified air, trying not to laugh, and scooted closer to him. “Now, do you think we could try this again without the interruption?”

“Whatever you say.”

Ron leaned in and Hermione sensed that her anger had fuelled more than quieted her longing. His heavy, compact presence pressed against her and she felt herself fall back against the bed. Ron strayed from her mouth to kiss the curve of her neck and she shivered. His hand was stroking her waist and his fingers were curling against the edge of her blouse, edging up inch by inch. It was thrilling, scary, amazing that he wanted to touch her that way. There was so much caution and desire intermingled in his attempt that Hermione instinctively arched into him, as if to show him the way. Ron gently cupped her breast under her blouse, his breath hot against her throat.

“Do you like that?” he whispered, his voice altered to a lower, more uncertain key.

All the nerves in her body seemed to have converged to that one point, his hand lifting and stroking the curve of her chest, the tip of his fingers brushing her skin over the edge of her bra. Hermione kissed his forehead and stroked his hair, willing him closer, willing herself to feel nothing but the closed circle they formed together, in the dimly lit room, against the dark of the night and the rest of the world.

“Hermione… Tell me… Should I go on?”

“Yes.”

Previous chapter

celescribbles @ 2007-12-12T19:52:00

2007-12-12T18:57:08Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 7

Chapter summary: The outcome of the war had not been kind to Knockturn Alley, whose business had thrived under Voldemort’s rule. Now many shops were closed and their unsavoury tenants had all fled. It was only temporary, Draco guessed - they’d come back when the Ministry stopped arresting every suspicious-looking individual taking his dog out for a walk. And despite all the Ministry’s efforts, the wizarding world wouldn’t be miraculously rid of all its bad seeds. After all, Draco thought, he was still here.

She was standing in front of him, smiling, her long red hair tumbling down her back. He sensed more than heard that she had missed him, that she was happy to be so close to him again. It was snowing outside but Harry felt hot, flushed, unsettled.

From the corner of his vision, he thought he could see a Snitch and didn’t know what it was doing here, in this empty room, but that didn’t matter, because now he was taking Ginny in his arms, entwining his hands into her lush, silky mane, and kissing her, without holding back anything, and he thought he felt the sun shine now.

“Harry…”

He laid her down on the floor, felt her soft skin, saw her smile and her beautiful eyes.

“Harry…”

His desire for her was so strong that he willed himself to remain lying there, touching her, even though he could feel himself slipping away, and everything around him dissolving.

“Harry!”

He opened his eyes and shut them again, wanting to keep Ginny in his mind, to hang on to the delicious, pleasurable sensation his dream was giving him. But the voice was insistent and finally he couldn’t shut it out any longer.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered sleepily, sitting up and throwing his legs over the bed. He yawned and stretched, then felt around for his glasses and shuffled over to the fireplace across the room. Hermione’s face was staring up at him with a smile.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you up. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d still be in bed, even if it is Saturday.”

“What time is it?” he asked, giving another yawn.

“It’s almost ten. I wanted to know if I could drop by Grimmauld place this morning, but if you’d rather I come later…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry said, smiling at her. He hadn’t seen Hermione in over a month, and was glad that she was finally back in England. “Just give me half an hour, okay?”

“All right. I’ll bring some breakfast over.”

No sooner had Harry showered and finished dressing than he heard a quiet knock on the door
“I’ll get that, Kreacher,” he called to the House-elf, who was scurrying about in the kitchen.

He opened the door to a radiant Hermione who immediately flung her arms around him and gave him a tight hug.

“Oh, Harry, it’s so wonderful to see you!” she exclaimed. “I missed you and Ron so much when I was in Australia… Look, I brought you back something! Two things actually – I hope you like them. I took a lot of pictures too, but they’re not developed yet, I’ll have to show them to you as soon as they are -”

Harry laughed. “Settle down, Hermione – here, let me take your coat. Wow, you’ve got quite a tan!”

“Australia is wonderfully sunny this time of year,” she said as Harry led her to the kitchen, and almost tripped over a bucket. She looked around, wide-eyed, at the plastic covers that had been placed on the furniture and the stripped, bare walls. “Goodness, what’s happening here? Are you redecorating the entire place?”

“Yes, that’s the idea,” Harry admitted. “I started last week.”

If truth be told, he had been thinking about it for a much longer time than that, but he’d been hesitant to do it, not because he thought it would be like betraying Sirius or even Regulus, but because he thought it might upset Kreacher. Indeed, the House-elf didn’t look particularly pleased at the idea, even though he tried to keep face and not say anything that would irritate his master. In the end, however, Harry had finally decided to take action and redecorate the place that he and Ron would be living in – as long as they didn’t change anything in Regulus’s room, perhaps Kreacher wouldn’t mind so much.

“I’m going to need some help, though – I’m not going to be able to get this done alone,” he added. “I was thinking of inviting everyone over for a painting party after Ron arrives. We’d have the ground floor finished at the very least.”.”

“That’s a great idea,” Hermione said. “Are you planning on working on the rooms as well?”

“Yes, some of them - I was thinking Ron and I could both use a study, and there’ll be a couple of guest rooms… but I’m leaving Sirius and Regulus’s rooms as they are,” he continued, feeling slightly uncomfortable for some reason. It made him wonder, deep inside, what Molly, or Andromeda, or anyone else who had lost someone in war did with the things of the dead, sorting through them, keeping one particular object or two close at hand to soothe the pain and preserve the memory…

Hermione sensed his unease. “Come on,” she said, “don’t you want to see your presents?”

When they got to the kitchen, Kreacher served tea, greeting Hermione with an air of civility. Harry unwrapped his gift - she had got him a large magnet the shape of a koala bear that suggested, when asked, wholesome and healthy snacks to have between dinners in a twangy Australian accent. The second gift was actually breakfast.

“They’re Lamingtons,” Hermione explained as she took the cakes out of the paper bag. “Typical Australian treats. My mother became quite a pro at making them last year.”

Harry thanked her and unwrapped one carefully. “So the spell – it’s all gone, right?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, it’s all gone. The hardest part was explaining to them why I’d done it, but I think they understood. The important thing is that everything is all right, but… well, it must be strange for them to think that if I’d – if anything had happened to me, they would’ve never seen me again, and not even realised it.”

Harry took a bite of the cake – it had a sweet, chocolaty taste with hints of coconut, and was a welcome distraction from the conversation. He didn’t like to think of these things more than he had to. Even though the danger was gone, it still made him feel queasy.

“I got you a present too,” he said. “For your birthday. I didn’t dare send over to you from so far away. I was afraid it might get lost, but you got my owl, right?”

“Yes, and I got one from Ron too, and a card from Ginny and Luna,” she said, grinning. “It was really nice of you to think of me.”

Harry took his wand out of his pocket and summoned a clumsily wrapped gift from his room. It was a leather bookmark that automatically directed you to a passage you couldn’t find in a book if you gave a brief description of it. Hermione was delighted and they had a second helping of Lamingtons.

“So, you’re staying at your parents’ place right now?”

“Yes, but I’m going to The Burrow this afternoon and staying there until Sunday night,” Hermione said, blushing slightly. “I understand Ron’s been feeling rather down, staying there alone.”

“He told me he wanted to stay with George for a week or so, then I hope he’ll move in here. I know that he’s worried about George but… It can’t be good for him to be living with his own brother too long. He’ll go mad.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, Ron’s not made to live with one of the tw– oh Merlin. I’d better watch my tongue. It makes me feel so awful, just thinking about it.” For a moment, it looked as though her eyes were filling with tears, but she quickly blinked it back. “How is Ginny, by the way? Is she feeling any better?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. There was that sharp, knowing Hermione-look again. He knew she expected him to have sent Ginny an owl at Hogwarts, but the truth was, he didn’t dare to do it for fear of not getting any reply.

“I don’t really know,” he murmured. “I – well, she hasn’t owled or anything. And I think she’s perfectly fine not hearing from me either.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, I’m not going to have to set you straight again on that, am I?”

Harry didn’t reply, and looked down at his fingers which were sticky with icing. He didn’t particularly like to talk about the difficulties he had taking his mind off Ginny, missing her to the point of pain, and seeing no easy way to mend their relationship until they saw each other again. It made him feel terribly vulnerable.

“How about that job the Ministry offered you?”

She sighed and shook her head, but didn’t press the subject. “I’m going to accept. It sounds like an interesting deal, and I really want to work somewhere where I can be informed immediately of the important decisions they’re making.”

“Join the club, although it’s not all exciting news and fantastic changes all the time,” Harry said. “I reckon you’ll get as just as many stares as I am. And unfortunately, the war hasn’t rid the Ministry of stupid people.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Prophet – it’s just as bad as before. Sensationalism on every page, teary confessions, daily updates on Ministry arrests… I’m actually thinking of cancelling my subscription.”

“Well, what did you expect them to do? That’s what the wizarding community’s asking for right now. They don’t want to hear about anything else. Besides, where else would you get your news?”

“I know, but… well, I guess I just expected people like Rita Skeeter to simply disappear after the war. It’s silly, of course. There’s just no word of all the problems we’re going to have to face, and all the work we’re going to have to do.”

Hermione gave him a little tap on the shoulder. “Of course not. That’s what people like you and me are for, Harry.”

He laughed. They continued to talk of Ministry politics while sipping their tea, then the subject turned to Hogwarts and their former classmates. By noon Hermione was planning aloud a little housewarming get-together she was going to throw once she’d found a flat.

“And of course, you’ll come over as soon as my photos are done – oh dear, it is that time already?” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I have to meet Mum for lunch.”

“No problem. It was really great to have you here,” Harry said, sitting up. They thanked Kreacher for the tea and made their way to the front door.

“Oh, is that a picture of Teddy?” Hermione asked as Harry was getting her coat. She was looking at a small photo next to an unsealed letter. “Did Andromeda send you this?”

Harry nodded. “She invited me over to see him but I haven’t had a chance to go yet.”

“That’s too bad, he’s so adorable… Well, I’m sure you’ll find the time soon enough.”

They hugged briefly and Harry watched from the doorstep as Hermione walked away, her frizzy hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders. He felt a sudden pang of envy when he pictured her arriving at The Burrow, where Ron was waiting for her, and where Molly would have no doubt prepared a scrumptious dinner, but then closed the door and quickly shook the thought away.

He had work to do. There were things to plan. And no good would ever come out of feeling sorry for himself, or dwelling on a dream that had long since disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a curious stirring and a dreadful feeling of emptiness.

*****************************

“You won’t forget, will you, Malfoy? The 12th is next week.”

Draco halted and glanced over his shoulder at the short, skinny man sitting in a beat-up armchair, gnawing on an unlit pipe. He forced back the sneer that was coming to his face and gave the barest of nods.

“I won’t forget, Mr Marbrack,” he replied coldly.

The man looked at him with a look of pure loathing. “You were one day late last month,” he went on. “And last night I heard noise coming from upstairs until all hours – I don’t want that happening again, do you hear me?”

Marbrack went to bed at nine every evening, and seemed to think that the entire world should fall silent after that hour. Narcissa had simply been putting away some dishes. The crabby old miser’s constant complaining made Draco want to shove his pipe down his throat and slam the door behind the miserable establishment his lodger called “home,” but of course that was impossible.

“We’ll be more careful.”

Marbrack seemed to have run out of complaints and settled back into his chair, opening the Daily Prophet. Draco walked out the door into the dank, grey morning. His steps took him through the small, winding streets of Knockturn Alley without him even having to think about it. Living here, he had realised how well he’d grown to know Knockturn Alley, having gone so many times with his father, and even more so in the past two years. That wasn’t to say he was particularly fond of it.

“Won’t you come here, pretty boy?” a hoarse, cackling voice called from a doorstep. “I’ve got breakfast for you right here…”

Draco barely glanced at the slatternly witch, badly disguised with a crude glamour charm, and stalked on. He was used to such unappealing sights by now, even early in the morning, but it made him wonder where the good, respectable wizards of the world went to pay for sexual favours. The only brothels he’d ever seen were all in Knockturn Alley, and he couldn’t imagine wanting to go inside for all the Galleons in the world, let alone pay for it.

The outcome of the war had not been kind to Knockturn Alley, whose business had thrived under Voldemort’s rule. Now many shops were closed and their unsavoury tenants had all fled. It was only temporary, Draco guessed - they’d come back when the Ministry stopped arresting every suspicious-looking individual taking his dog out for a walk. And despite all the Ministry’s efforts, the wizarding world wouldn’t be miraculously rid of all its bad seeds. After all, Draco thought, he was still here.

But it was rather depressing to walk along a rampart of boarded doors and broken windows. A hairy wizard, clad in dirty rags, was slumped against an abandoned doorstep, an empty bottle in his hand. Draco gave a shudder of disgust and steered away from him. A few minutes later, he arrived at the juncture between Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley. Usually, Draco exited to the Muggle side of London through a passage next to Marbrack’s house, but today he had to drop by the post office. To avoid undue pestering and questioning from his landlord, he’d asked for his owls to be left there. He also didn’t want any of his old schoolmates to find out where he was staying.

Draco looked around, uncomfortable. As dark and disquieting as Knockturn Alley was, he felt somewhat protected there, as there was no chance of running into anyone he knew. In Diagon Alley, he was out in the open.

He took a deep breath and quickly headed down the street, looking down at his feet, passing by the colourful window displays of the stores that were just opening. Quidditch goods, clothes, sweets and treats of all kinds… once, Draco would have gazed at any of this with the aloof eye of a spoiled child, used to getting anything he wanted. Now, he felt rather amazed that such things still existed, and that some people had the time to indulge in them.

Help wanted. Position available. All applications will be considered. Many stores had posted these signs on their doors, a sure sign that the wizarding world was getting back on its feet. Draco paused in front of one shop and peeked briefly inside, but walked on before anyone could see him.

He would have to find a job, eventually. There was still some money in their vault at Gringotts – his father had had the sense, at least, to take some precautions when things had started to go awry – and that would take care of their rent and expenses for a couple of months, but after that… Marbrack was charging them three times as much as the run-down flat was worth, and that would drain them of their savings fast enough.

Pushing these troublesome thoughts to a corner of his mind, Draco arrived at the post office. The clerk gave him a withering look.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I was wondering if there was any post for me. Post box number 345.”

The clerk disappeared for a moment and came back with a small pile of letters. Draco thanked him and left.

There were a couple of letters from the Ministry – more rejected requests and inquiries, no doubt – and one from Pansy. Draco shoved the letters into his pocket, a uncomfortable feeling building in his chest. Deep inside, there was only one hand whose writing he longed to see among the letters, but there was a small chance of that happening anytime soon. Prisoners in the security ward of Azkaban weren’t allowed to receive and send owls. Still, he knew that when he came back to their flat, his mother would be waiting for him with a flicker of hope in her eyes that would disappear as soon as she would see the expression on his face. And Draco was tired of being the bearer of bad news.

It was still too early to go to the Ministry, and Draco wandered around for a moment, undecided as to what he should do. He craved some hot tea, and a warm place where he could read his letters. Would they kick him out of the Leaky Cauldron? Were they even allowed to do that, if he had enough money to pay for his drink? He decided to take a chance, and headed towards the pub, his stomach tightening.

He was a Malfoy, after all. He wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by lesser wizards. But the usual mantra was quite ineffective against the suspicious, unfriendly looks he was given upon entering the pub. Draco ordered a tea, looking pointedly down at the counter, and sat down in the furthest corner of the room.

The first letter he took out was Pansy’s. She’d been writing more and more often lately, but the content of her letters made it sound as if something wasn’t quite right, as if she was blathering on about superficial things in order to cover up a deeper problem. She kept complaining that she was bored and desperate and doing nothing – never once did she mention any acquaintances she might have made, or sights she might have seen, and she always finished her letters with a ridiculous flourish of sentiments that was too much, even for her.

And this letter was no different. I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing to do here. I dream of your sweet kisses every night.

Draco was not an idiot, and Paris was not the arse-end of the world. Pansy was hiding things from him, and he didn’t know whether he should be sad, angry or indifferent. It seemed wrong not to care if one’s girlfriend was lying and probably screwing around or Merlin knew what, but it seemed so far away and detached from him that he couldn’t really bring himself to feel anything but a mild sense of irritation.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once he’d thought himself genuinely attached to Pansy – with her cunning, her sharpness, her surprisingly normal giddiness at little attentions he had for her, little compliments he made on her appearance. She was hard and brittle but unreserved in her efforts to secure him at her side, and they’d fumbled together towards their first sexual experiences. It was all Draco knew of satisfaction at the time, and it had seemed like a world of possibilities opening before him.

But now it was the last thing on his mind, and all of Pansy’s misgivings came glaring back at him. Her inability to understand him, to support him, to make him feel as though he was something more in her eyes than an expensive set of robes and a Prefect’s badge. He had encouraged it back then, feeling flattered and in control. But since the end of the war, every owl she sent him made him want to stuff all these memories in a trunk somewhere and never open it again.

He should break things off with her. He would if he wasn’t sure she would do it first. Draco didn’t want to give her the easy way out. Pansy needed to pay for – for what exactly? For making him believe he was something.

“Your tea.”

Draco folded the letter back up and looked up to see the bartender walking away, and a tepid cup of tea sitting on the table. He pushed it away dully, his mind empty. Then, suddenly, an image of Potter having breakfast popped up in his mind. There was table full of eggs, bacon, steaming coffee, and Potter sitting in the middle of it all in his pyjamas, arms drooping at his sides, looking forlorn and sheep-like, as he always had.

It was an incongruous thing to think about, but then Draco felt at times as though he was losing his mind. He shook his head, slapped a few Galleons on the table and left, leaving the tea untouched to complete the process of becoming ice cold.

There was another long day ahead, and it wasn’t starting out any better than the last.

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celescribbles @ 2007-11-28T22:35:00

2007-11-28T21:40:04Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 6

Chapter summary: Daphne stood in silence as she waited for Theo to finish. He took his time leisurely, glancing up at her from time to time. It appeared that she, at least, hadn’t changed over the summer - still just as unassuming and fidgety as he remembered. The job fit her to a tee, but it was a shame those awful robes hid most of her figure.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Mrs Christabel Thompson glanced down at the file opened in front of her, looking rather bored, and gave a heavy sigh.

“I’m afraid it isn’t, Mr Nott,” she said. “I understand your concern for your father, but we’ve been in a state of alert since July, and certain restrictions have been made as a security measure.”

Theo pressed his lips together against the curses that were threatening to burst out. He felt such a powerful dislike for the woman sitting on the other side of the desk, icy and aloof, that it was almost physically painful to keep his fury under silence.

Restrictions. That was the fancy term they used to justify his father, guilty and criminal and dangerous as he was, being locked up in Azkaban since July without seeing the light of day, or his son’s face. All he wanted was five minutes – that would be enough to settle the most urgent matters.

“Listen, all I want to know is if I’ll be able to talk to him any time soon,” he said. “Or if a date has been settled for his trial, at least…”

“We are still processing through the administrative-”

Theo slapped his hand on the table, and for a split second, a shocked expression passed over Christabel Thompson’s face before returning to dull contempt.

“I’ve just left school,” he said, pressing every word, “and our house is under warrant…”

“Indeed, I have word here that the Ministry will be investigating the location on 30 September,” she replied coldly, shuffling with a few pieces of parchment that were lying on her desk. “All of Mr Jasper Nott’s properties are to be confiscated and examined by the Ministry for the time being.”

“Yes, but - ”

“Mister Nott, I assure you we are doing everything we can to make clear and efficient work of these difficult cases,” the witch cut him off, and rose from her seat, indicating that the conversation was to an end. “Now, if you’d like to make a request for an interview with the under-secretary of the board of the Wizengamot -”

“Will that get me anywhere?” Theo asked testily.

“You can try.” With a wave of her hand, the door opened. “First floor. Office 117. Good day, Mister Nott.”

The halls of the Ministry were crowded with wizards and witches running to and fro, carrying heavy folders and steaming cups of Jobberknoll juice. Theo watched the rustling paper notes fly over their heads as he made his way to the elevator, feeling like he’d just swallowed a ball of lead. It had been his third attempt at gaining permission to see his father. Any communication with him had been impossible since he’d been sent to Azkaban, and now they would take the house, and everything they owned…

His father had blood on his hands, no doubt about it – but that blood dated twenty years back, since before Theo was even born. Since the end of the First War, and for all of Theo’s childhood, he’d kept a low profile, keeping to himself and his affairs and his grief, avoiding the acquaintance of his former friends. He’d tried, and failed, to weasel out of joining the Dark Lord again when he’d returned, and again after being wounded the battle of the Department of Mysteries… That made him a coward on top of being a Death Eater, which was even worse, Theo supposed. But he wasn’t sure his father had murdered anyone this time – after all, he would have good reasons not to want to look at death in the face again.

But there was about as much use of explaining this to Mrs Christabel Thompson and her kind as trying to reason with a bunch of Blast-Ended Skrewts.

Theo took the elevator to the first floor, ignoring the suspicious looks the other wizards were casting at him, and made his way down to Office 117. He was almost there when he heard hurried steps coming up from behind him.

“Nott.”

It was Draco Malfoy. Theo turned around, eyebrows raised. Malfoy stood out from their surroundings as much as he did.

They shook hands, and Theo was about to ask him what he was doing there when the answer slid naturally into his mind. For the same reasons you are. They looked at each other for a moment, embarrassed, like two survivors of a shipwreck who happened to have grabbed onto the same buoy. They had never really been friends at Hogwarts.

“So, how have you been faring?” Theo finally asked.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Not well. They took the manor – me and Mum are renting a small place in… in Diagon Alley..” As he said this, the sneer Theo had heard so many times in his voice sounded more like hopelessness. He was lying, that much was clear – no one in Diagon Alley would rent a place out to the Malfoys. They were probably staying in some dingy room in Knockturn Alley, or even worse, had been forced to rent something from Muggles, and that Malfoy would never admit even if his life depended on it.

“Found a job yet?”

“I’m still quite busy with trying to get Father’s trial underway, and have permission granted to send him owls.”

There was nothing for Theo to add to that, for Malfoy or for himself, and he simply nodded.

“Are you still living in London?”

“They’re taking Clocksworth Place next week,” Theo said. “Just as well, perhaps, it’s getting depressing to have that bloody house all to myself. Our relatives, who were always so happy to drop in unannounced, have all suddenly disappeared to where owls can’t find them.”

“So where are you going to stay?”

“I’ll probably take up a room at the Leaky Cauldron, unless they have a new ‘No Purebloods’ policy. And I have to come here anyway, so… I guess it’s not the last time we’ll bump into each other.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Not like we have much of a choice.” He gave a little twist of his mouth that vaguely resembled a smile. “Well. Good luck with everything.”

They shook hands again, and Theo watched as Malfoy stalked away in the opposite direction, his dark cloak drooping inelegantly from his thin frame. Back at Hogwarts, he hadn’t been able to stand Malfoy’s strutting gait, but seeing him like this depressed him almost as much as the rest. He half-heartedly walked over to Office 117.

A frazzled-looking witch with droopy cheeks was manning the desk, and she looked at him with as much interest as if he was one of the many potted plants cluttering the room.

“I’m here to request an interview with -”

“You’ll have to fill out the form,” she told him, and reached into a drawer. “Fill it out and then – drat, I’m out of them.” She sighed, closed her eyes a moment, then took a small blue paper from another drawer and scribbled something on it. With a flick of her wand, it flew out the door and zoomed into the hall. “Wait one moment, please. Sit down.”

Theo pulled up a chair and looked around the drab surroundings, then listened as the witch replied to a talking paper memo asking for file 345 to be sent to a department on the fifth floor.

“I’m telling you, I don’t have it, Foreman is in charge of all the – oh, come in, Greengrass.”

Theo turned brusquely towards the door. Meeting Malfoy here hadn’t been such a surprise, but this certainly was.

Daphne Greengrass crossed the doorway, carrying a heavy load of freshly printed forms, her dark, curly hair tied in a messy bun and her face red from the effort. She was wearing the same dowdy robes all the Ministry employees wore, which amused Theo greatly. How on earth had she landed a job here, of all places?

“Put the forms in the drawer, and leave one out for this gentleman here,” the witch at the desk said, without looking at her.

When she caught sight of him, her eyes widened and she almost missed the table putting her load down, then realised her mistake and fumbled to recover the rumpled sheets that had landed on the floor. Theo watched, smirking, as she straightened her robes and pulled out her wand, then muttered a shrinking spell that affected only the top portion of the pile. She repeated it, the colour in her cheeks rising, then glanced at him again and remembered she needed a full-sized form. Once she’d turned one back its normal size, she seemed not to know whether to hand it to him directly or wait for an order.

The witch waved her hand and the sheet flew out of Daphne’s hand to Theo. “All right, Mister…”

“Nott. Theodore Nott.”

“Mister Nott, take a quill and fill out the form. Greengrass, you can go – no, wait, stay until he’s finished, then you can take it directly to Gerber’s office. And could you bring back a Jabberknoll juice? Sweet Merlin, I’m exhausted already.”

“Yes, Mrs Tottlebee.”

Daphne stood in silence as she waited for Theo to finish. He took his time leisurely, glancing up at her from time to time. It appeared that she, at least, hadn’t changed over the summer - still just as unassuming and fidgety as he remembered. The job fit her to a tee, but it was a shame those awful robes hid most of her figure. Narrow waist, small breasts, none of the other girls’ curvaceous arrogance – bloody fantastic, to Theo’s mind. She looked as though she could be snapped in two. He bit back a snicker as he signed at the bottom of the form.

“Here you go,” he said, handing Daphne the sheet.

She gave him a wary smile and nodded, then scampered out the door before he had time to get to his feet.

“Don’t forget that Jabberknoll juice,” the droopy witch called after her.

*****************************

Of all the people to show up… but no, it was her fault, she should’ve anticipated it. Of course he would show up here. She’d already caught a glimpse of Draco Malfoy, and he had to be next – their respective fathers were the most important cases the Law Enforcement Department was working on. But she never thought she’d actually meet him in Deidre Tottlebee’s office.

Daphne ran up to Raphael Gerber’s office and waited for the form to be filed and registered before rushing down to the first floor again with Mrs Tottlebee’s drink. Then there were files to order, and documents to copy, which Daphne didn’t mind so much because it didn’t require much thought, and that left time to think of other things.

“I need three copies of that report by twelve, Greengrass.”

Daphne nodded absent-mindedly to Agnes Palaver, her direct superior and head secretary of the Wizengamot Administration Services. As she pulled out her wand and cast a Replicate charm on the quill lying before her, her thoughts turned to Theodore Nott. What a klutz she’d made of herself in front of him… but to meet him there had been so unexpected! She’d had no time to prepare herself, though that hadn’t done her any good at Hogwarts. No matter how composed she tried to be, she always seemed to end up looking foolish in front of him.

It had started at the end of her fifth year. She could even remember the very day… She was in the common room with Pansy and Tracy, and they were talking about boys, as always, and playing at matching up people from Slytherin. Millicent should go with Crabbe, Pansy said - that was the usual joke. Tracy thought Blaise was good-looking but too snotty, she would much rather be with Adrian Pucey, until finally…

“What about you, Daphne, who do you fancy?”

There had been a salvo of giggles, as if the very thought of her fancying anyone was funny. She’d had small fancies before, of course, but no one in Slytherin, and she couldn’t very well own up to that. But as far as her housemates went… well, she supposed Theodore Nott was interesting. He was very clever, and he had a sharp air about him that she found rather attractive.

In the end, Daphne hadn’t replied because Pansy didn’t like Theo at all. But after that, she had started to watch Theo in class, and her imagination had wound itself around his hands, his eyes, the way his dark hair fell lightly on his forehead, the way his mouth drew into a pout when something displeased him. And then the knots in the stomach had started, the tight throat and burning cheeks, and the humiliation of having everyone in Slytherin snicker about it.

If he’d guessed her feelings, he’d never said a word about it to her or anyone, which was at the same time a relief and a painful reminder that he was perfectly indifferent to her.

Two years had passed, and her longing had been relentless. And now that they were finally out of Hogwarts, Theo had been thrown back in her face along with all the memories of her desperate affection and crushed hopes.

“Good grief, mind your quill, Greengrass, or you’ll get ink blots all over.”

Daphne stopped for a moment to close her eyes, then started again, urging herself to keep calm. There was no reason that she should ever meet him again - only the most experienced staff worked on such important cases as those of the Death Eaters. And that was probably just as well, because her father would never allow her to go anywhere near someone like Theodore Nott.

When lunchtime rolled around, Agnes gave Daphne a twenty-minute break. She had no time in the morning to pack her own lunch and had to purchase it in a Muggle grocery a few streets away from the Ministry. Daphne hurried her way up to the Atrium along with a crowd of lesser Ministry employees who had as few precious minutes as she did to go eat.

As she walked briskly towards the exit, lost in the flow, she saw a familiar figure in the corner of her vision and turned her head, almost tripping over the person in front of her.

Theo. He was leaning casually against a pillar next to where the statue used to be, watching the employees rush past like he would a line of ants. Daphne looked away again, but not before she realised with a jolt of panic that he was heading her way. She stood dumbly in the moving crowd, waiting, half-wondering if she was mistaken and he had spotted someone behind her.

But this was no mistake. They were like two little islands of youth, of former Slytherin glory, fresh out of Hogwarts and still obviously unaccustomed to the grinding mechanism of the Ministry. And that smirk, that little glint of amusement in his eyes, who else could it be for?

“Daphne,” he said politely, then gave a little nod as if to greet her. “Lunch?”

“I – um – hi, Theodore,” she replied, trying to smile. “I’m – yes, on my way to lunch, but I only have twenty minutes. So… is everything fine for you?”

“Not quite fine,” he replied, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Right.” She blushed, feeling tremendously silly. “Well, I’m sorry – I’m really sorry to hear that…”

“So if you have more than twenty minutes one of these days,” he interrupted, “it’s more than likely you’ll see me around. For lunch, I mean.”

“Of course. I’ll be around too. I work here now, as you’ve seen…”

She started to explain what her job was, but every word coming out of her mouth sounded more awkward than the last, and Theo looked wholly uninterested in the matter. “Well, I’d better get going,” she finally blurted out. “I hope… things get better for you. It’s very nice to see you again.”

He said nothing. His smile simply widened, but it didn’t make her feel any better. If anything, it gave her a profoundly unsettling feeling, and she turned away, mortified. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder as the crowd engulfed her again, pushing her towards the exit and the busy street and the sandwich she wouldn’t eat, having lost all her appetite. But she could sense a pair of eyes watching her, mocking what she had become, or perhaps what she had always been.

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celescribbles @ 2007-11-20T20:04:00

2007-11-20T19:10:58Z

The Other Side of the World

Genre: Romance, Angst, Post-DH

Rating: PG-13

Story Summary: After breaking up with Michael, Cho travels abroad and makes an unexpected encounter. Part Two in a four-part series.

Notes: thanks to Anne for the beta.

Closing her eyes, turning over, opening them, fluffing the pillow: none of it is of any use. Cho can’t sleep.

It’s too hot - she keeps fanning herself to get a bit of air, but the very air boiling - but she feels it isn’t only that. It’s the plane trip, the food, and when she glances at her watch, she realises she hasn’t set it to local time. It’s only early afternoon in London.

London… it already feels a world away. It’s June over there and still mild, the flowerbeds are blooming prettily in the parks, the Thames is rolling, calm and steely, and the nights are cool. Here it feels like August. And Beijing is stuffy, dirty, endless.

But for all the inconveniences, Cho’s happy to be lying on this bed, in this cramped room, with her aunt snoring softly next door, lost in the midst of a huge, unfamiliar city. In Beijing she feels like a little insect, with her dark, bright eyes reflecting the light of the street lamp outside her window, scurrying about for sleep.

She smiles and for something to do, she slowly turns the hands of her watch. It’s not the beginning of the afternoon anywhere anymore. It’s midnight in Beijing.

*****************************

When Michael left, Cho cried, and her tears seemed clumsy and grotesque to her. She buried her face in her hands and when she pulled back, she could see the wetness on her palms, and continued to stare at them, sobbing still, instead of looking at him, as he pulled his coat on, turning his back to her.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not that it wasn’t supposed to end at all – even after three years -- it wasn’t a surprise that their relationship should come to a finish. But not quietly, in such a stupid way, out the back door.

He didn’t want to move in with her. It was too early, he’d said. It was a step he wasn’t ready to take. And Cho had been annoyed and discontent, and whenever she thought of him the little daily frustrations seemed to overcome the kisses and the loving words. And it was amazing how rapidly, after all this time, it had gone awry.

There was someone else in his life, she was sure of it. He was cheating on her with another woman. She’d confront him and force him to tell the truth. Then when he did, she would scream at him and throw him out and cry for days.

But the sad truth, the sadder truth, was that Michael wasn’t leaving her for someone else, but simply because he didn’t love her anymore, and under the layers of habit and comfort and nagging belief that everything could still be all right, she didn’t love him either. She just wanted him to stay because beyond him there was no one, but he was leaving her to be alone.

“You knew it couldn’t go on,” he’d told her before leaving. “Not after Hogwarts. You and I, we both want to be someone else now.”

And Cho cried. She hated herself for it. She’d cried when Cedric had died, she’d cried when Harry had slighted her, and now she was crying because a boy she didn’t even love was breaking off a relationship she wasn’t happy in. It seemed to her that her tears had become more and more futile over the years, insignificant and abundant like tap water. Perhaps she was crying for that too.

*****************************

During the day, her aunt Jia works at the Meihui Healing Temple and leaves her alone to explore. Not that she knows exactly what she should visit first. The Great Wall, the Forbidden City. The Hidden Pavilion of Na-Han the Mage. She decides to start with this, as Chinese wizards might be a little less intimidating than Chinese Muggles.

It’s morning in Beijing and the sidewalks are crowded, the bicycles are rattling by steadily, and dozens of small restaurants and barber shops are lined up on the sidewalk – in Beijing, you can get your hair cut at any time of the day or night. She idly wonders what it would be like to walk into a barbershop at three in the morning and walk out with a new haircut half an hour later, just for the heck of it. She’s always liked her hair long – all the Ravenclaw girls admired it, were jealous even – but she feels she’s ready for a change.

“Short hair just makes your face look chubby.” That’s what Marietta would say, and Cho can picture her freckled nose and wry expression as if she were in front of her. Then again, she hasn’t heard Marietta say anything to her in quite awhile.

When she arrives at the place where the Hidden Pavilion of Na-Han the Mage should be, there’s just an old street musician playing a sort of elongated guitar.

“A coin for an old beggar?” he asks her in Mandarin. “It’s the song of Na-Han the Magnificent.”

Cho smiles and drops a silver Daiyu in his hat. Before her eyes, a beautiful, multicoloured pagoda appears. Its roofs are gilded, and the old musician gives a little laugh. Cho wipes her forehead, bunches her hair up in a ponytail to bare her neck, and walks towards the Pavilion, in front of which a throng of wizards in silk embroidered robes are taking pictures.

*****************************

“I think you should try to get him back.”

Marietta stirred her coffee slowly, while glancing out the window. It seemed she had spent that entire hour glancing out the window and not at Cho, as if after all these years she no longer needed to look at the face across from hers, a face she knew by heart.

Where had it gone, everything that had seemed familiar? Had it disappeared with the war, or just now, on that cold blue morning in the cramped coffee shop?

“I mean, don’t you miss him, after all this time?”

“I do. I do miss him – and it’s awful to come home to an empty flat every night, but I don’t think I should. It just wasn’t working out, Marietta. It really wasn’t. I’m so busy with the paper, and… I don’t know, there wasn’t any spark left, you know?”

“Oh Cho, we’re not teenagers anymore, for Merlin’s sake. If you keep looking for that little tug in your stomach like when you fancied some bloke in school, you’re bound to end up unhappy.”

Cho frowned. She didn’t like what Marietta was implying – that her time with Cedric had been nothing more than a meaningless fling. At the time, it had been all she knew of love - love in its own way. And who said love had to stay the same your whole life?

“Well, in any case, I can’t stay with a bloke who I have no feelings left for except some sort of… affection.”

“All right. But Michael is handsome, he’s got a position, a nice flat, he’s laid-back and funny…”

“Yeah, so what? If you like him so much, why don’t you bloody date him?”

She was annoyed and frustrated by now. How long had it been since Marietta and she had stopped looking at the world in a similar way? And how was it that she had not noticed amidst the tranquil recollections of tiny memories, and silly gossip, and bland little pieces of news…

“I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll Floo you.”

Cho looked at her - her curly auburn ringlets, her pretty face - with the sinking feeling that whatever had driven Michael away would also eventually turn Marietta into nothing more than a bland little piece of news, overheard by chance from someone else and received with a nod and a smile.

*****************************

It’s windy on the Great Wall, windy and hot and immense. It’s good to feel so tiny, to feel time shrink all of a sudden. Cho is delighted to line up with Muggles to buy souvenirs, to use real Muggle Huans. There are wizards there, too, just as amazed as the Muggles by the colossal, seemingly endless brick construction that slithers away into the distant mountains, and suffocating just the same under the sun.

Cho checks her watch and realises the next Portkey won’t be for another hour. She looks around for a Muggle bus, squinting at the signs, and feels a swooping feeling of pride when she finally finds the one that will take her back to Beijing.

Waiting at the stop next to her is a Muggle tourist, biting his lip and glancing nervously at the sign, then flipping furiously through his travel guide. He’s young, with a tanned, reddened face and short blond hair. There’s a smile making its way to her lips but she tries to push it back so he won’t think she’s laughing at him.

Finally, he looks her way, and starts speaking very slowly with a strong Scottish accent. “Excuse me… can you… tell me if… this bus… goes to Beijing?”

Cho giggles – she can’t hold it in anymore - and for a moment he looks slightly alarmed, but then she says, “I speak English. I’m from England, actually. But to answer your question, yes, this bus is headed for Beijing.”

“Oh.” He laughs as well now, still a bit nervous. “I’m sorry, miss, I thought you were a – I mean, that you – well -”

“I’m visiting a relative here,” she explains. The wind ruffles her hair, blowing off the wall, a compact, comforting presence behind them. She stretches out her hand, amused by the situation, and he shakes it. “I’m Cho.”

“Derek.”

The bus arrives and he stands aside to let her climb aboard, and then follows close behind.

*****************************

“All right, so you’re visiting your aunt, but why, exactly, is it that you should be seeing all the sights alone?”

Derek is struggling to pick up of a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, and she laughs – it seems she’s been bubbling to the brim with laughter ever since they met, and now it’s late in the evening, in a tiny little restaurant.

“Oh, I came here on my own – just needed to get away from the old routine, you know what I mean?”

“And how – sod it.” He chuckles at his plate, where the piece of chicken is still eluding him. “I’ve been saving up for months for this. But it’s not really a holiday.”

Cho picks up a noodle, deftly, and they both grin and she shakes her shoulders a bit, as if she wants to show off. And she does, but not to spite him, just so he’ll still be thinking about it later, if only for a moment.

“Are you here for work?”

“Yes. It’s a sort of culinary experience for me. I’m a food critic. A food writer. And for the life of me, I’ve never been able to get the hang of using these, so that actually makes me a very poor food writer.”

Cho buries her face in her hands and the laughs come out like water rippling over stone, unstoppable, deliciously refreshing. It brings tears to her eyes and she tries to catch her breath.

“A food writer – wow, this is the first time I’ve ever met one. You’re not going to be able to write about anything,” she says, motioning towards his chopsticks.

“Well, since I’m footing the bill, I was hoping that you could repay me by giving me some lessons. It would be a terrible shame to go home empty-handed.”

*****************************

“Some time off, huh?”

Lee was sitting on the edge of his desk and Dean was looking at her, his pencil stuck behind his ear and his drawing pad on his knees.

“All right, listen - I really… can’t stand being in London right now, to be honest,” Cho said, then bit her lip. “But I’ve been thinking on how to make this profitable for the paper – I could write a column about the way Chinese wizards live, or something like that. ‘The Great Wizarding Sites of China’, that’s catchy.”

“Do you think it would work? People read the Phoenix for news the Prophet won’t publish…”

“But think about it – isn’t that just the point of our paper? To open the minds of our readers to what’s beyond wizarding Britain and their little lives?”

Dean nodded, and Cho smiled at him gratefully. “She’s right, Lee. We could use a bit of the exotic around here.”

“And how are we supposed to make the paper work with only two people manning the office and our third staff member running off to the other side of the world?”

“Here, we got this in the post today,” Dean said, pulling out an envelope. “Dennis Creevey. Just passed his OWLs and wants a summer job. Word has it he’s as good with a camera as his brother was.”

Lee sighed and looked at Cho. “You got yourself a deal. But don’t you get any funny ideas of not coming back just because Corner acted like an arse.”

*****************************

“You didn’t tell me which paper you worked for.”

Derek and Cho are sitting on a bench, lost in the middle of the business district, looking at the glimmering sky scrapers that all look at if they shot out of the ground overnight.

They’ve seen the Temple of Heaven, Tian’anmen Square, the Forbidden City. They’ve dined in all the smallest, most unassuming food stalls they could find. Derek paid. Cho forgot to exchange her Daiyus and Zhus for Muggle money.

They’ve talked as if they’d just found each other after looking a long, long time. And now, in this wonderful moment where he’s holding her hand, she doesn’t know what to say. The Phoenix – it doesn’t exist for him. It never will.

“It’s – it’s just this little newspaper me and some friends founded after we got out of school to…” She clears her throat. “We’re trying to take a new approach on… things.”

“Oh, kind of an underground thing.”

She nodded. “You won’t have heard of it.”

“Well, aren’t you the rebel,” he says with a grin that makes her heart beat faster. “And which column do you write?”

“I’m writing… I’m writing a travel piece.”

Why do the words feel like a lie as soon as she speaks them? It’s the truth – but not the whole truth. She wants to go on, explain things to him, but she can’t, so she simply looks at him, and all of a sudden Derek doesn’t care about hearing any more of the subject. When he slips his hand over her damp neck, it’s to set her hair lose against his fingers.

*****************************

Midnight, midnight, midnight in Beijing. The days and nights have passed in a wonderful blur, and when she goes to sleep, Cho curls up against Derek’s strong, solid body, lulled to sleep by the sounds of the city outside.

“Does he know?” her aunt Jia asked her in a whisper the other evening, when they were fixing coffee in the kitchen. Jia couldn’t speak English, and Derek couldn’t speak Mandarin, but he’d cooked for them with what he could find, and it was delicious.

“No, not yet. I’ll tell him eventually, if - when we get back.”

Jia and Cho’s mother are Muggle-born. Her aunt understands these things. She smiled and nodded and said nothing.

But they are going to go back. Cho tries not to think about it, tries to close her eyes and listen to Derek sleeping calmly beside her as the light of morning filters through the blinds. But the watch on her night table reminds her that somewhere else, the night is only starting. It’s midnight in London.

She sits up, weary, and pushes her tousled hair back from her face. When they go back to Britain – she never thought about what would happen. This is not a summer romance; she can feel it in her heart, her stomach, her bones, and surely he can feel it too, the way they fit together perfectly. Holidays, sunshine, these are not the fuel, and not her problem.

Cho stands up to open the blinds and finds that her vision of the street outside is blurred and her throat is tight. The tears are coming back – silly, stupid tears. But when she thinks that in three days, she’ll be on the plane, it feels like the end of the world.

“Cho…”

She doesn’t want Derek to see her cry, but the sobs are upon her already, and she makes a strangled hiccuping sound trying to hold them back.

“Cho, are you crying?”

She turns towards him, sits on the edge of the bed, feeling to heavy to stay standing. “I can’t help it… It’s just – it’s just that in three days…”

He places a hand on her hip, strokes it with his thumb. “I’ve been thinking about that. I could change my ticket to go back to Britain with you… I don’t want to stay in Beijing if you’re not here.”

It makes her cry even harder, fully realising what will happen after they get off the plane. At the airport, they won’t be two strangers anymore, lost together in a country the size of a continent, but a witch Apparating back to her flat and a Muggle taking the tube to the train station.

“Cho – come on. It was fate, us meeting here – we’ll make this work. Edinburgh and London aren’t so far from each other, are they? A couple of hours at most…” She chokes, thinking that it would take her seconds to Apparate that distance, and he goes on. “Do you really think that’ll keep us apart?”

He’s trying to sound happy, cheerful, but she can’t calm down.

“It’ll work, I swear it. There’s no reason to cry...”

“I’m crying because – because -” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. At that moment, it seems to her no one ever understood why she cried so much. And now more than ever, there’s no way to explain the reason behind her tears. “I’m crying because you’ll never read my newspaper.”

“What? I don’t understand -”

“And you’ll never see that – that bloody Hidden Pavillion. The Hidden Pavillion of Na-Han the Mage.” She gives another little sob, and brushes the tears from her cheeks. “And it’s really, really beautiful.”

They stay there awhile, not moving. Cho waits for Derek to ask for an explanation, to sit up, to express his confusion, but he just looks at her quietly until she finally turns towards him. He smiles.

“I see you.”

*****************************

“So, did you bring anything interesting back from Beijing?”

Cho looks up from the pack of pictures she’s been sifting through – pictures Stanley sent her. There’s the Great Wall, and Tian’anmen Square, lying on her cluttered desk. She’d like to publish them in the Phoenix, but according to Dennis, once they’ve been developed using Muggle methods, there’s no spell to make them move like wizard pictures. Dean leans over her shoulder to take a look at them.

“Muggle photos. I guess that answers part of my question.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” she tells him with a little smile. “It’s someone I met, but – well, he lives in Edinburgh. And yes, he’s a Muggle.”

Dean taps his pen against his leg, thoughtful. “Did you tell him?”

Cho lays the pictures down, stays silent for a moment. “No, I didn’t. I tried, but it all came and went so fast… I didn’t want to scare him.”

“It’d be an awful shame, though, to let it go just because of that,” Dean says. “And you have to give him a chance at the truth in any case, right? Muggle or not, if the man’s worth it, he’ll stick around.”

She nods. Dean told her and Lee all about his family, during the long, coffee-fuelled nights when they were wrapping up an edition. There’s no doubt he knows a lot more on the subject than she does.

“Yeah, you’re right… but I just don’t know how to break the news so that he’ll understand.”

“Cho, those columns on China that you wrote were a smash hit with the readers. I’d say it’s your most inspired work so far. Why don’t you let that do the talking?”

*****************************

Along with a copy of the Phoenix, she sent him a little note.

You’re not going to believe me, but there’s something you really have to know before you come to visit. And I hope you do, because I miss you.

She carefully consulted her Guide to Muggle England to know how many stamps to use. And when a few days passed without a reply, she started getting scared, until she read that the Muggle post usually took longer than owls.

And now here it is, a thick, brown envelope addressed to her. And inside, a magazine, Cooking with Class, and a bright little sticky note.

My train arrives Saturday at three. As long as you’re with me, I don’t mind travelling to the other side of the world again.

celescribbles @ 2007-10-26T23:07:00

2007-10-26T21:12:26Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 5

Chapter summary : Pansy couldn’t believe her ears – clearly, this girl knew nothing of the world whatsoever, and it was indeed a very unpleasant surprise to realise that the Spanish witch wasn’t the only one who didn’t know the first thing about Hogwarts. How could this be? It was a finishing school for young witches they were sending her to, her parents had said, one of the finest in Europe, where she’d meet other girls her age. Get away from England for awhile. Keep clear of unnecessary trouble.

A shrill giggling sound and a burst of excited voices resounded from the down the hall. Pansy pursed her lips and felt a jolt of annoyance. She had been living here less than three weeks and had not yet trained her ears to shut out the frequent exclamations of the other girls.

“Masha told me the line at the cafeteria isn’t so long if you get there at -”

“Well, yeah, I don’t mind skipping dinner or…”

The dormitory was a big improvement over her quarters at Hogwarts - that much was undeniable. Pansy had her own room, her own shower, her own desk. She could come and go as she liked. There wasn’t much work to be done and besides, no one ever bothered to check if she actually did it.

No one seemed to care about anything at all.

A year ago, this would’ve sounded like heaven. Pansy had often complained about Hogwarts, about the strict teachers, the curfews and the rules and the homework. Even Snape, who was always said to favour his own house, could have been far easier on the Slytherins than he had been in practice. Pansy had never liked to study, and she certainly didn’t like to be told what to do either. In fact, she claimed to whoever was willing to listen, usually a band of Slytherin girls as shrewd and self-aware as she was, that the only good thing Hogwarts had ever brought her was her rather fetching Prefect badge.

And Draco, of course, but that was a different matter entirely. Pansy sighed and distractedly flipped through the magazine on the table, not really seeing the colourful adds for the latest fashion and layouts of pretty accessories. The giggles had not subsided, and now seemed to be right outside her door.

A year ago, she would’ve given anything to leave Hogwarts, but this wasn’t what she would have called satisfying. She was trapped inside the four bleak walls that bore no other decoration than a calendar hanging from a tack. Her room was a solitary, impersonal universe she didn’t know how to make hers, by decorating or arranging the furniture, simply because she had never had to bother before – it had all been done for her back at home, and it had all been done for her at Hogwarts as well.

In fact, it was only coming here that Pansy had realised how ridiculously easy everything at Hogwarts had been. She’d never had to make friends – they’d just naturally converged towards her. She’d never had to fight for her place, or claim it, or even question it. For years, she’d had her seat reserved at the Slytherin table, next to Draco, she’d had her silver and green pennant ready for every Quidditch match, she’d had her skirt and her blouse and her jumper ready to wear, making her fit to glare at Gryffindors and smile at housemates.

“So where do you come from?” a Spanish witch living in the room across from hers had asked, the day she’d arrived.

“Hogwarts,” Pansy had replied. “I was in Slytherin.”

The girl had seemed confused. “Hog-wots? That’s in – Ireland, right? Or is it England?”

Pansy couldn’t believe her ears – clearly, this girl knew nothing of the world whatsoever, and it was indeed a very unpleasant surprise to realise that the Spanish witch wasn’t the only one who didn’t know the first thing about Hogwarts. How could this be? It was a finishing school for young witches they were sending her to, her parents had said, one of the finest in Europe, where she’d meet other girls her age. Get away from England for awhile. Keep clear of unnecessary trouble.

A mere six days after the battle, they’d packed her off to Paris.

But instead of companions similar to those she had at school, she had found only strangers who didn’t give her a second glance. And nothing at all - not her parents’ recommendations, not Draco’s empty words of reassurance - nothing had prepared her for life on her own. She didn’t speak French. She had to buy her own groceries, cook her own food – the cafeteria dishes were simply too vile for words – and there wasn’t a House-elf in sight to do it. She didn’t even know where to start, waking up alone every morning, finding her way in through the maze of streets and Magi-metro lines.

And French wizards were decidedly unhelpful, she’d concluded almost as soon as she’d arrived. Grouchy, lazy, finding satisfaction in working as little as possible, and largely disorganized – it had taken her no less than two days to find, after several people had given her contradictory directions, the Boulevard Flamel, a hidden magical avenue adjacent to the Seine. But that was nothing compared to the shock of finding out from a former Beauxbatons alumna that Christian Lacroix, a famous designer, was actually a wizard selling last season’s castaways to Muggles. “Well, why shouldn’t he?” the girl had said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “There’s no danger in being caught – the Muggles don’t care about anything but what the new trends will be.”

A wizard dealing with Muggles, above all the rest! Pansy was shocked and outraged and completely helpless. This was the world she was to live in now.

I’m coming back as soon as I can, and when I do, it’ll be to stay, she’d written to Draco in her last owl. I’m not going to live in this wretched city a day more than I have to.

And no doubt there would be screaming and crying and slamming doors, but her parents would give in eventually, like they always did.

I miss you terribly, I wish I could be with you.

She was far away from Draco too, and for some reason, the words she scrawled at the end of her letters, words she had told him a thousand times, seemed awkward and incongruous glaring back at her from the parchment. But that didn’t matter – they loved each other, that was what mattered. It would be hard not to see each other for so long… but they had owls, and she would come back for Christmas anyway. His father would be cleared from all charges by then, and she would be able to invite him to her house…

A knock on the door wrenched her from her thoughts.

“Pansy?” There was a small laugh, followed by a loud shush. “Pansy, can we come in?”

Pansy reluctantly opened the door. She knew who that voice belonged to. Ashley was one of many American girls who lived in the dormitory. All of them were tall, outspoken and friendly, if a bit high and mighty, and Ashley was the friendliest and most outspoken of them all, which thoroughly irritated Pansy. She never seemed to know what to say to her, nor did she know how to react when faced with such a carefree display of sympathy, drawled out with the greatest ease in that loud, ungraceful accent.

“Hello,” she told the three girls standing outside. Behind Ashley was one of her friends, Kris, and the Russian witch who lived two doors down, Oleina. The three of them took this as an invitation to come in and Pansy stepped aside, hiding her annoyance. They seemed to think they owned the place. If only they knew who she was - who she had been at Hogwarts - they wouldn’t even have the gall to knock on her door.

“Wow, Pansy, it’s so… prim and proper in here,” Ashley said with a big smile. “Are you planning on decorating the walls at all?”

Not for the first time, Pansy wondered how on earth Ashley always managed to keep her hair so perfectly arranged and shiny – there must be a spell she wasn’t aware of, a secret carefully guarded by American witches. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Actually, she’d tried to hang up her Slytherin pennant the day before, but it looked so lonely and out of place on the white wall that she’d taken it down almost immediately.

“Oh, wow, is that the British edition of Teen Witch Weekly?” Kris asked, tracing a finger on the magazine. “That’s so cute!”

For some reason, the other girls seemed to find this amusing. Pansy shifted her weight from one foot to another, unable to move, unable to speak, boiling inside but holding her tongue. No good could come out of confronting these girls – this, at least, she had calculated right.

“Pansy, we wanted invite you to come with us tonight,” Oleina intervened, her tone pressing heavily on the vowels. “We heard about really great club - ”

“A wizarding club?” Pansy blurted out before she could stop herself.

The girls exchanged a glance. “Well, a lot of wizards go there, from what we’ve heard, but it’s sort of half and half,” Ashley said.

“It’s a ‘bar-boite’, actually,” Kris said, as if that explained anything.

“And what’s a bahrr-bwatt?” Pansy snapped, exasperated.

“It’s one of the trendy clubs,” Ashley replied, rolling her eyes in an amused way. “They’re all the rage here. And like, it’s Friday night, so I thought it might be nice if we all had fun together. You didn’t come with us last week, but we thought… Well, we’re all going to live together this year, so we should get acquainted. And you look like a really sweet girl.”

Pansy blinked at her. A really sweet girl? How dare she! Anyone who would’ve called her that at Hogwarts… no, it wasn’t even imaginable, simple as that. Suddenly, Pansy felt slightly scared that Ashley saw her as a potential rival, and might be hiding something under that surreal smile – some dark plan to run her out of the house, to make her an outcast, or perhaps simply to make her look like a fool.

“So, what do you say?”

“I – um – I don’t know, I was planning on… getting a bit of work done…”

The three girls started to laugh. “No, not this night, you have whole weekend for work,” Oleina said, planting her hands on her slim hips.

Pansy looked away, embarrassed, angry that she didn’t have the nerve to tell them that she didn’t want to go out, that she only wanted to curl up on her bed and hide under the covers and wait for this miserable school year to be over, because she was scared of these streets she didn’t know, this freedom she couldn’t handle. And she couldn't tell just by looking at people what sort of people they were -- she wasn't able to Sort them into Hogwarts-like houses based on their faces.

“I – well, all right.” Pansy gave them a tight smile and the others looked pleased with her answer.

Patient. She had to be patient and conciliating and sweet if she wanted to take the place that was rightfully hers, right at the top, next to these girls. They were crass and boorish, but they were wealthy, and they were smart.

Through her smile, Pansy suddenly wondered what on earth she was going to wear, because the fancy wizarding robes, tailored-made, beautifully cut, the robes that had cost so much and had been so gratifying to wear, were out of style, were useless here. She was useless here.

She’d have to go shopping. She’d had to fix her hair nicely, that would show Ashley who she was dealing with. She’d have to find her way through this mess, and through the night, and the day after that, onto the next.

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celescribbles @ 2007-10-05T23:06:00

2007-10-05T21:33:22Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 4

Author's note : If you want to take a look at some letters, pictures and other things concerning the characters that aren't in the actual body of the fic, please check out and friend vincit_scraps

Chapter summary : He was cherished and adored by hundreds of people and came home alone every night. Everyone wanted a piece of the story, a piece of him, but he never knew what to tell them, and ended up saying nothing at all. And whenever he retired to his empty house, where dozens of letters awaited him each evening, his mind automatically locked on her. Ginny. Now that he wasn’t fending off terrible dangers of all kinds, it seemed there wasn’t anything left to keep thoughts of her at bay.

Since Fred’s funeral, she had come to hate rituals and formalities. The big words, the grave faces, the elaborate display of flags and flowers… Ginny hated those, but she felt a sort of pity for those who put so much effort in preparing them. These people, whoever they were, were convinced that the speech would bring comfort to those who heard it, that the arrangement of flowers would bring them hope, or joy.

But clearly, these people didn’t know that Fred would have really preferred fireworks, a huge, banging, whirling display in lieu of a speech, because whatever could be said about him would have been contained in that phenomenal spark, in that big, brilliant joke, in his brother’s careful crafting of each rocket.

And these people didn’t know Colin, either. Ginny looked down at her feet, wondering what Colin would’ve liked. A huge display of pictures of his life all around the Great Hall - wizarding pictures, to impress his Muggle father.

Suddenly, she felt her chin tremble and her throat constrict as she imagined Colin’s father, the milkman, standing alone in front of his son’s grave in a Muggle cemetery, not understanding in the least why he had died.

The speech was over and everyone raised their hand in a toast, and Ginny scrambled to take her glass too, murmuring Colin’s name.

Professor McGonagall, who was now Headmistress, made the traditional opening speech. A dozen new students at most, huddling together, were ushered into the Great Hall. The Sorting was almost grotesquely short – it seemed many wizarding parents were too scared to send their children back to school. Hogwarts had not yet fully recovered, like a great beast slowly licking its wounds, learning how to live again.

For the first time in her life, Ginny desperately wished she were somewhere else.

At the Ravenclaw table, for a start, next to Luna.

Ginny tugged at her tie, hoping to loosen it. She’d always been proud to wear the Gryffindor uniform, but now it felt bulky and itchy and unnecessary. It was like being thrown right back into the battle – stealing glances at the Slytherin table, looking at who was left, suspiciously eyeing the new students sorted there.

There were three of them. They looked small and sheepish. Ginny couldn’t wait for the feast to be over.

“I heard you got the Captain’s badge this year,” Demelza told her with a smile. “That’s great – we’re a cinch to win the Cup.”

Ginny smiled back tightly. Captain, yes – Quidditch was apparently the only thing everyone thought she was good at. The owl had come one hot morning in August.

“I was sure it would be you,” Harry had said. He’d smiled and told her Gryffindor would win the Cup too. As if that would somehow make her feel important.

Although Ginny knew Harry couldn’t have meant it that way, it sounded so derisive coming from him – so childish. He was miles beyond silly games on broomsticks and silly cups and silly competition between houses. He was off to learn the most dangerous job in the wizarding world. He was everyone’s hero, famous and adored. When Ginny thought back on those sunny, carefree afternoons they’d spent together by the lake when he was still at Hogwarts, or when they’d kissed in her room before the wedding, it made her want to cry. Everything seemed so natural, so simple back then.

But since Fred’s death it seemed nothing was simple anymore. Between the funeral and the ceremonies and the constant demands made on Harry, he’d hardly had a second to spend alone with her. Not that Ginny particularly sought him out – underneath the heavy layer of grief was another, more insidious feeling.

She resented the fact that Harry had asked her to stay out of the battle while Luna and Hermione were already battling by his side. She’d thought he, of all people, would understand her need to fight. Not just because she loved him, but because the frightened little first-year inside her demanded it.

When Harry had approached her the day after the battle, the look she gave had frozen him in his tracks. In the next instant she’d felt guilty – she had no right to be angry when she was already so miserable, when he’d finally emerged victorious and was looking at her, grave and handsome, in the morning light. This was not the way she’d imagined their reunion. But she couldn’t help it – it felt as if the raw, brutal wound of Fred’s death had numbed whatever patience and comprehension she had left, had made her half-mad with pain.

“I would have come looking for you sooner but I thought – I thought -”

“Nice of you to come now – and Ron too, you’d think he would’ve wanted to be with his family…”

“That’s not fair to Ron,” he’d replied. “He was exhausted, I heard him crying -”

“Yes, because I was out celebrating, of course – wait, no, I was actually looking for you, I hardly had time to see you alive after thinking you were dead…”

Harry looked down. “Ginny… Merlin, you can’t imagine what I felt at that moment, when I heard you calling my name like that… It’s something I wish I could erase from my mind. All I wanted to do is let you know, somehow… but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

The pain in his voice was heartrending, but if anything, it made her own pain even more difficult to bear. “Well, you could’ve come talk to me as soon as it was over, just for a moment. I waited for you – I wanted to be sure you were okay…”

“I didn’t think – no, you’re right, you’re completely right, I should’ve come. There were just so many things on my mind… But that’s over, Ginny, don’t think about it anymore. I’m here now, aren’t I? I want to be here for you.”

Because your brother’s dead.

“Don’t think about that,” she repeated, “don’t fight, don’t do this, don’t do that – what are you, my mother? You sure sound like -”

“Stop it!” The harshness of his tone took her aback. Then his expression softened. “Ginny – I know you’re angry, I know you’re sad -”

“You don’t know anything!” she yelled, her eyes brimming with tears. “You don’t – you… don’t you dare tell me what I’m feeling right now, not – not after – you have no idea what I’m feeling!”

“Ginny, I’m sorry, just… please… let me… let us… I want…” But he couldn’t seem to find the words to express what he wanted. All he could do was hold out his arms to her.

It would have been so easy to let go and be engulfed in his embrace, to feel him against her, warm and alive. But something inside was holding her back, like an invisible string tightening around her heart if she moved forward.

Because your brother’s dead, you have no right to be happy. You have no right to rest. Not now.

“I’m not a… a bloody cuddly toy.”

The hurt in Harry’s eyes at that moment still haunted her.

At least some good had come out of it, Ginny thought with a heavy heart, pushing her empty plate back and leaving the table. At least she wouldn’t have to bother with a long-distance relationship.

“Ginny, wait up, if you will,” she heard Luna call from behind her. The blonde girl had risen from her seat and was following her outside. “Are you going back to Gryffindor Tower already?”

“To be honest, I don’t really know what to do with myself tonight,” Ginny replied. “It just feels completely wrong to be here – you know, talking about Quidditch and classes and such.”

“Oh definitely,” Luna said, nodding. “And it’s rather lonely without the others, isn’t it? It’s like there’s only the two of us left. I’m sad that Neville isn’t here.”

Ginny gave a small laugh at Luna’s wistful tone. “Well, let’s just hope this year will go by quickly,” she said. “It can’t be worse than last year, at any rate.”

“Oh, it’s so wonderful to have Quidditch again,” Luna said, wide-eyed. “Professor McGonagall told me I could do commentary at all the games!”

“In that case, I just might get back on my broom,” Ginny said, slipping her arm through hers as they started up the staircase.

It wasn’t much to look forward to, but it was a start.

*****************************

Whenever he woke up and whenever he went to bed, day in and day out, he thought of her.

It was all right when he went to the Ministry or to training – he had something to focus on, he needed to concentrate, and the lessons were hard. There was complex magic to learn, strategy, concealment, antidotes, institutional knowledge and ethics – endless hours discussing ethics. And he hadn’t even started the physical training yet.

Some lessons were boring, others were very interesting. Some of his trainers were fascinating people with many stories to tell, others seemed to have passed the last twenty years in a cubicle without seeing the light of day. All of them, though, were both intrigued by the famous Harry Potter and proud to be teaching him.

And of course, he couldn’t pass through a corridor at the Ministry without being on the receiving end of a salvo of warm greetings, slaps on the back, admiring glances and giggles from the youngest female employees.

Harry had never felt so lonely since leaving the Dursleys’ for Hogwarts. The media whirlwind had died down, thank God, but the peace and quiet was slow to come. Or rather, it wasn’t the kind of peace and quiet that he needed – he was cherished and adored by hundreds of people and came home alone every night. Everyone wanted a piece of the story, a piece of him, but he never knew what to tell them, and ended up saying nothing at all.

And whenever he retired to his empty house, where dozens of letters awaited him each evening, his mind automatically locked on her. Ginny. Now that he wasn’t fending off terrible dangers of all kinds, it seemed there wasn’t anything left to keep thoughts of her at bay.

London was grey and cold that day, and the sun was already low when Harry left the Ministry. He liked to walk home some days; it kept his mind off things.

“You two are mental, that’s what you are,” Hermione had told him just before leaving for Australia.

“Did you know you’re starting to sound like Ron?”

She’d given one of her patented pointed looks, guaranteed to make him feel like a complete idiot. “All I’m saying is that Ginny’s grieving, she’s not in her usual state of mind – she didn’t mean what she said to you that day… and she really needs you.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say I got the exact opposite message coming from her,” Harry had replied dejectedly.

“Oh, Harry, a girl like Ginny’s not the type to admit that, can’t you see? I think she’s given you more than enough proof of her feelings since you two started dating in sixth year… and maybe even longer than that.”

But that was before. Before everything had happened, before everything had changed. Now she was alone at Hogwarts, surrounded by what Harry sometimes imagined to be hoards of love-sick blokes, and with so much things left unsaid between them – because they hadn’t had the time nor the courage to say them – that it was hard to not to suppose that she loathed the very thought of him.

Harry shivered and pulled his cloak closer. It was no use going home this way, in this miserable weather. Feeling rather depressed, he arrived at Grimmauld Place, and his spirits lifted a bit when he saw an owl from Ron in the pile of post, and another from Neville, asking whether he was free for dinner that evening. Cheered by the thought of seeing his mate, Harry told Kreacher, who was busy cleaning the windows, that he wouldn’t be dining at home and hastily wrote a reply. When he was done, he gave the parchment to his new owl, Astor. He was a barn owl with a flat face, dark eyes, and fluffy white plumage, like Hedwig. His name reminded Harry of another dear friend that had fallen that same night.

At first he’d been reluctant to get a new owl– he felt like he was betraying Hedwig’s memory somehow, replacing her simply by walking into a store and fishing out a couple of Galleons. But it had soon proved impossibly tedious to go to the post office every time he needed to send a note, and borrowing Pigwidgeon from time to time was equally hard – his overdone enthusiasm always reminded Harry of the disapproving look Hedwig never failed to give the little owl. In the end, Harry had finally given in, buying an owl whom he thought would have won Hedwig’s approval – smart, dignified and efficient.

“There’s a good fellow,” Harry said as the owl stretched out his leg. “Take this to Neville quickly, all right?”

The end of the afternoon couldn’t pass by quick enough. Harry tried to occupy himself with some reading – a thick tome on Dark Mages through history – but by ten minutes before eight, he just couldn’t sit still anymore and after slipping his cloak on, he Apparated in front of the restaurant where he was supposed to meet Neville, a small, inconspicuous establishment where he hoped they would eat in peace.

A few minutes later, a small popping sound betrayed Neville’s arrival, and Harry smiled for what felt like the first time that day.

“Hey, mate,” Neville said, shaking his hand vigorously and glancing up at the faintly glowing sign above the door. “I-Ching Chow, huh? Sounds all right to me. I’m starving.”

“You and me both, Neville. They say that’s the lot of blokes living alone, though I’m lucky I have Kreacher - I’m a mess at cooking anything.”

The two friends entered the restaurant. The waitress, upon recognising Harry, instantly gave him the best table, something that never failed to make him feel horribly embarrassed.

“So how are things at the Botanical Institute?” Harry asked Neville as they were scanning the menu. “Did you finally get rid of that screeching fungus?”

“Yeah, we took the earmuffs off today, it’s become bearable again. How about you, though? Ministry treating you all right?”

It was difficult, and even a bit mortifying at times, to explain to his friend what trouble he was going through to adapt to his new life, but somehow Harry felt there were things Neville could understand better than Ron or Hermione did. For one, Harry suspected Neville knew what it was like to leave someone he fancied behind at Hogwarts. And what was more, he too was living alone. Of course, Neville still had his grandmother, but he’d never had his parents around to teach him what seemed like stupid, silly things – like darning a sock, or choosing the right water temperature to clean laundry, or… dressing a salad or any of a hundred other mundane chores.

It was when he was stuck with rumpled sheets in a corner of the room and the embarrassing task of having to ask Kreacher to take care of it on top of everything else that Harry thought of his parents, of Mrs Weasley, of how well they tended to their house, with what love and care they did it, and how happy he would be to simply learn to cook, with Ginny by his side, laughing gaily at his clumsy attempts…

“Harry, are you listening?”

“Yeah, what was that, Neville?”

“I said, I think it’ll get better once Ron gets here,” Neville said. “Won’t be long, I reckon, he can’t stay at The Burrow forever.”

He motioned towards the waitress and they made their order. Harry pondered over Neville’s words.

“No, I suppose not, but… I don’t think he wants to leave his family, actually. He’s been worried sick over his mother and how she’s coping with it…”

“Well, he’s not doing her a favour by hanging around,” Neville replied, then, seeing Harry’s surprised expression: “What I mean is -”

“Excuse me, sir, I’m terribly sorry, but…”

Harry looked around to see a middle-aged witch, clutching a pudgy boy by the hand, looking at him with subdued admiration.

“I hate to interrupt you in the middle of dinner, but my boy…”

Harry forced a smile and nodded amiably. Of course, he hated being pounced on this way; of course, he didn’t want anyone barging in on his conversation; of course it was all a tremendous bother, and he was sure he’d have trouble looking Neville in the face afterwards.

But could he really say that to the smiling witch and her little boy? Harry had quickly found out that it was impossible. The only thing to do was block the absurdity of the situation out of his head and sign the crumpled piece of paper as quickly as he could, wishing these people he didn’t know all the best.

“Oh, thank you so much, sir, thank you…”

He had fought for them, for all of them, Harry reminded himself. And this was the price of being a “celebrated hero”. The term made him sick, still… Better a hero than a martyr, as Ron had so aptly put it.

“What were we saying?” Harry said, very red in the face, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

“Artificial prolonged stay in the parents’ nest,” Neville replied. “Sooner or later, it’s bound to make things even worse than they are. Besides… we have lives to lead now, right? Not for our family, not for anyone but ourselves.”

Not for anyone but ourselves… If only the wizarding world remembered that once in awhile, Harry reflected bitterly, there would be hope for him yet.

“So have you seen your grandmother lately?”

“She’s in Egypt. Sailing down the Nile. You know, I reckon that stint she pulled last year did her a load of good.” Both of them laughed, and the food arrived. “It’s crazy, mate - I’m starting to think I’m going to have to beg her to invite me home for Christmas.”

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celescribbles @ 2007-09-19T00:24:00

2007-09-18T22:29:43Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 3

Chapter summary : Draco’s Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over. There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.

“You’d better be all set to go -”

“Do we have to? I mean, you’re sure there’s no way out of -”

“Be quiet! I’ve already told you a million times.”

Draco pressed his lips together and watched the fire dying in the hearth. It was hard – no, not hard, it was inconceivable to think it would be the last time he looked into that fire place, the last time he walked on the ancient marble floor in the hall… He tried to tell himself he’d touched the smooth wood of the stairs’ banister for the last time, repeating the sentence over and over again in his head, but it felt like a silly lie.

And yet, they were leaving. His mother was standing next to their dark leather trunks – they looked so small; how could all their possessions fit in there? – and fiddling about nervously to find something in her embroidered pouch. Her face was drawn, her features pale, and yet she seemed determined.

Draco wondered if his mother was actually happy to escape anything that could remind her of what had happened. Lucius tortured and disgraced, Bellatrix dead.

At first, for a fleeting moment, Draco had experienced a surge of desire for revenge, a desire to fight for his family and what honour they might have left against those who’d destroyed everything… but the truth was that he was tired. He was tired of the need for revenge and fighting and honour his father had instilled in him.

And the truth was that he simply wasn’t cut out to die for any cause, nor kill for that matter. He liked prestige, wealth and comfort. He despised humble people, weak people, people with tender hearts and a naïve view of the world. He wanted what was best for him. Draco had never been one to care for ideas. And he had never particularly cared for Bellatrix either – to his mind, it was just as well that she was dead.

These truths were rather easy to take. Others, not so much, like the fact that Potter had saved his life, that his mother had saved Potter. And Draco’s Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over.

There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.

“The carriage should be here any minute,” Narcissa said. “Come on.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t Apparate -”

“In the middle of London, or Diagon Alley, with all our trunks? Which would you rather have, Muggles pointing at us or wizards jeering us off the street?” His mother’s voice wavered slightly. “The carriage is expensive. I wanted to spare us the Knight Bus, but if you’d rather -”

“No, I’m sorry,” Draco muttered. “Sorry. It’s fine. Let’s go.”

Both of them levitated their trunks and bags out the door. Draco felt a tight ball form in his throat, and his eyes began to burn. He wouldn’t think of it, he wouldn’t.

But the smallest hedge in the alley leading up to the front gate seemed to remind him of a silly game or other he played as a child – hide and seek, perhaps -, and the way his mother would scold him because he snapped the branches and pick at the leaves. She always made sure that hedge was perfectly trimmed. Now it would grow wild and unkempt without Draco’s help, and no one would be here to tend to it.

The carriage was waiting and as they boarded; Draco saw his mother’s shoulders shake. He sat down and looked straight ahead of him. He didn’t want to see the tears running down her cheeks, blotching her face. He didn’t want to see the manor disappearing from view as the carriage lurched forward.

“Mother, don’t,” he said, holding out his hand and placing it awkwardly on hers, as if the ball in his throat was spreading to his limbs. “We’ll get the manor back, somehow -”

The words sounded absurd even as Draco spoke them. The Ministry would never let any Malfoy reclaim what was lost, he saw that now – they’d taken the manor on grounds that it had been Voldemort’s headquarters, that the place had to be inspected, verified, dismantled, torn apart. And they’d have him and his mother locked away in Azkaban along with his father if they could, to erase the Malfoy name from the face of the earth just like they would the manor.

It was their shame, too, Draco thought furiously. His father was paying for their shame and their weakness as much as he was paying for what he’d done. Perhaps Bellatrix was lucky to have been killed by someone who had fought till the end, instead of being ferociously judged by the same people who had stepped aside to make way for her a week before…

“I don’t care.”

Narcissa’s voice was so low that Draco thought he hadn’t heard well at first. “You don’t -”

“I don’t care,” she repeated, sniffling in a handkerchief. “The manor and the furniture can go to them – but Lucius won’t stay in their hands much longer, I can promise you that.”

“Mother, we’ve been over it a hundred times before,” Draco started, then he sighed. She’d told him about everything that had happened that night, but he didn’t think his mother’s lie to Voldemort would count in the opinion of a Ministry in need of the wizarding community’s unconditional support – and the wizarding community wanted culprits.

His mother shook her head and sniffled again. “He won’t.”

It was no use. They were completely alone, without the slightest hope of receiving aid or support. They were on their way to a new, unfamiliar place they were going to have to call home.

Still, Draco thought, the two of them – the three of them were alive.

“I promise I’ll go to the Ministry every day,” he said, patting her hand and then withdrawing. “We’ll find a way. We’ll get Potter – we’ll get him to testify to what you did.”

An image of himself writing an owl to Potter, pleading for help, flashed through Draco’s mind and he almost snorted in derision.

“Perhaps the Parkinsons…” her mother ventured.

This time, Draco really did snort. “If they’re not completely insane, they’ll keep a low profile for awhile, and letting us live under their roof won’t really help their case.”

“But you and Pansy -”

“She’s away,” he said curtly.

His mother said nothing more. And Draco found he had no more to say, either. He already had too much to miss and to regret to think about Pansy for now.

Outside, the sky was hanging drearily over a greenish field, and the carriage continued on its way.

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celescribbles @ 2007-09-12T22:35:00

2007-09-12T20:39:55Z

Not Another Pretty Face

Genre: Romance, Angst, Post-DH

Rating: strong PG-13 for language and some sexual content

Story Summary: Lavender deals with the aftermath of the battle. Part One in a four-part series.

Notes: thanks to Anne for the beta and to Cambryn for giving me this idea in the first place.

She tries to open her eyes, tries to break through the surface, but there’s pain all around – it’s like her skin is encasing her face like a mask, too tight for her to move. And there’s pain, pain, pain. It doesn’t seem to have a end.

Lavender groans and feels that someone is holding her hand.

“Dear – my dear, I’m here.” A man’s voice. “I’m here. It’s all right.”

And then another voice, one she doesn’t recognise. “Yes, we had to put her to sleep – the healing process is painful. She would’ve surely fainted otherwise…”

A woman’s weeping: “Oh, my baby. My precious baby.”

“She’ll be fine, Mrs Brown. She’s safe from harm now; that’s what matters.”

Parvati.

Lavender opens her eyes just a bit. The first thing she sees is the glittering barrette in her friend’s hair, catching the light of the sun; then she recognises the faces. Her mother, red-eyed, her hair dishevelled, and Parvati, looking grave and relieved.

Her father is holding her hand and smiling. She wants him to kiss her cheek, to hug her, to ruffle her hair. But her father does none of those things.

That’s when Lavender realises that part of her face and her neck is wrapped in gauze. And then she remembers, and she starts to cry, the tears leaking slowly from between her bruised, battered eyelids.

*****************************

“How much do you remember?”

Lavender shifts on her bed. She can talk now – they unwrapped her chin the day before – but she doesn’t really know what the kindly woman in plain garb wants from her. Is it for the Ministry? Is she a Conscience Healer?

“I – I was fighting in the Great Hall and I was overcome by this – this -”

She doesn’t know how to describe him. Not a man. More like a beast, but even the most ferocious beasts don’t have that glint of lurid glee in their eyes.

“ – huge Death Eater and he…”

Lavender makes a feeble swipe with her hand, her fingers slightly hooked, to show her. Then she repeats it again, and again.

The woman comes back the next day, and the day after that. Slowly, Lavender begins to tell her what happened to her neck. Every time she takes a breath, it feels like his teeth are still in there.

One day, the woman tells her that Greyback is dead. She tells her that all his followers are in Azkaban. She tells her that she won’t become a werewolf, as Greyback wasn’t transformed when he bit her.

Another day, a tall, long-haired man she recognises as Ron’s brother Bill comes to visit. He sits down next to her bed and starts to tell her about his life, the quiet, normal life he leads with his wife. He tells her how the Healers and his loved ones’ support helped him get through the ordeal, when his face was little more than a bloody mass. He tells her that she’ll make it through, in time.

Bill is handsome and wears his battle scars well. Lavender thanks him, watches him leave.

But none of this makes her feel better. All the bandages are off now, and she’s starting to fear the day when she’ll leave the hospital bed, when she’ll come across a mirror, or even a window pane.

The curtains are drawn at night, but Lavender doesn’t need to see the moon to know it’s full. She imagines it glowing in the sky like a huge round mirror, feels a lurch inside of her, and throws up on the crisp, white bed sheets.

*****************************

“Lav, I talked to Madam Malkin today.”

Lavender looks up from what she's doing. Knitting a scarf. She’s not knitting it for anyone in particular, and she hates staying inside all the time in the small flat she’s renting with her friend, but she needs to keep her mind on something.

Parvati shrugs her coat off and smiles at her. She’s the only one who has never flinched looking at her – not even the first few weeks, when she left St Mungo’s. Back then, even her mother couldn’t help her eyes from getting misty every time she saw her.

Finally, a glimmer of hope.

“What did she say?”

“She said she could use another seamstress,” Parvati says. “You’re not an expert at sewing, but cutting out the pieces -”

Lavender grimaces. She can’t purse her lips the same way as before, only twist her mouth. “If you think I want to work in the back shop of a store where I won’t see the light of day…”

“Lav, you’re being unfair. This is a good job for someone who always wanted to work in wizarding fashion .”

“But like you, Parv, like you!” Lavender exclaims loudly, which causes a twinge of pain to pass through her neck. Then, more softly: “Working on draping, measuring, choosing colours with the customers…”

“You didn’t apply anywhere besides Malkin’s,” Parvati says, but her tone is compassionate rather than reproachful, because both of them know full well why she didn’t. “She doesn’t own the only wizarding robe shop in England, you know.”

Lavender nods, but already she’s gone back to her knitting. The thick wool thread softly scratches her fingers, and she dreams it’s silk instead.

*****************************

“Come on. Come on, seriously.”

Lavender takes a deep breath, hesitant. She looks in the mirror. Her hair is perfectly arranged, her eyelids lined and glimmering with a elaborate palette of hues that highlight her blue eyes. She let Parvati convince to go to this party at first, but now the contrast between her makeup and the lower half of her face is too glaring, and she thinks there’s no way she’s ever going to summon the courage to step out the door.

“Lav, you look -”

“Don’t say it, Parv; you know it’s a damned lie.”

Parvati glares at her pointedly and crosses her arms. “Is it that time of the month again?”

Despite herself, Lavender giggles. It’s become like a joke between them. Only Parvati can make her laugh about that.

“I’m serious as hell; you look good. That shirt is perfect for you.”

Lavender frowns, turns sideways. Yes, the shirt is cut just right, the neckline is flattering, the trousers are gorgeous. If she only looks at her body, that young, effortlessly beautiful body, she can almost pretend that she’s like before.

“You’re coming with me, and that’s final. I know what you’re afraid of – that they’re all going to pull fake smiles and be overly nice and pretend that nothing happened but you’ll see in their eyes that they’re lying… but honestly, Lav, don’t you think all of them have already seen horrors far worse than your scars during this war?”

Parvati is fun, witty and smart, but it’s her rough, generous sincerity that Lavender always appreciated most.

*****************************

She sips nervously on her drink, puts it back, takes it again to occupy her hand. She’s feeling a bit dizzy from the alcohol, but she didn’t dare eat anything from the buffet. She still has trouble opening her mouth as much as she needs when she’s eating. She doesn’t want to make a mess.

Parvati is dancing. She looks radiant. Hermione, ever the perfect hostess, is passing a plate of appetisers around. Ron stops her briefly to give her a kiss, they smile at each other, she moves along and he turns back to his conversation with Dean.

Lavender watches them from the sofa. She once cried over Ron. She once hated Hermione with what she thought was all her might. Now, she only envies them, so strongly, so fiercely, that her chest aches with every breath she takes.

Parvati motions for her to join her on the dance floor. She shrugs and sets her glass down, light-headed and miserable, walks to her. Face down. Her hand is itching jolt up and hide her chin.

That’s when she hears a cry of greeting, and sees him arrive through the front door. She feels a squirm in her stomach, a mix of Firewhiskey and the reminiscence of an ancient school fancy. Of course, they all fancied Oliver Wood back then, giggled when they passed him in the corridors, and Parvati had dared her to ask him for a quill, and she, being so reckless and so artful in her schoolgirl charm, had overcome her titters and sauntered up to him in the Library where he sat confused and awkward.

This time, the hand shoots up to her face. He grins, starts his away across the room to greet everyone. Handsome, athletic Oliver Wood, like a cut-out figure from a magazine.

In another life, she would’ve smiled, slipped him a simmering gaze, seized the chance to make him hers.

Oliver moves forward, spots Parvati, and Lavender realises it’s almost her turn.

*****************************

“So, what are you up to now that you’re out of Hogwarts?”

Oliver is casual, gallant, at ease with a glass in his hand. Lavender can’t believe the question.

No one has asked her that question tonight, and it’s just as well, because all she wants to reply is what the fuck do they think she’s doing now that half her face is ripped to shreds; isn’t that convenient for someone who wanted to work in fashion, and who was never smart or studious, and who could only always count on her charm and good looks to get anywhere, and now she doesn’t even have that anymore, so she’s less than Parvati, she’s less than Hermione, she’s less than Eloise Midgen, she’s less than the most cowardly godforsaken Squib. Without her face she’s nothing.

But this is Oliver Wood, and he’s smiling at her. She bites back her anger.

“I design.”

Oliver looks confused for a moment, and Lavender clarifies, “Fashion. You know, robes and such.”

The lie came so naturally she feels strangely confident, and she sees Parvati glancing back at her with her eyebrows raised in surprise.

*****************************

“I don’t think the wizarding world only needs people working at the Ministry and Aurors and such – I think it’s just as well that we all got a bit of entertainment, really. And that includes fashion, although I’m not an expert myself… bulky sportswear, you know, that’s my daily lot.”

Lavender nods and smiles and hopes her eyes are making a better job than her mouth of telling Oliver what she thinks, because he’s sitting so close to her on the sofa that she can’t get a single word out.

And besides that, her eyes aren’t scarred. They’re just like they were before, blue and clear and pure.

Oliver seems to notice this. It’s very late and he’s had much too much to drink, obviously.

*****************************

“I can’t believe you bailed out, Lav.”

“He was drunk.”

“He was interested. I mean, come on, when you disappeared in the loo, he kept looking around for you.”

“There’s no way in hell – Parv, come on, this is Oliver Wood we’re talking about. Remember how we used to chase him around when we were in third year?”

“Well, you’ve changed quite a bit since then.”

“Yeah, and that’s precisely why I’m telling you that his so-called interest was purely whisky-fuelled and…"

"Look at Bill Weasley, and then look at his wife-"

"I am not Bill Weasley, damn it!" She glares at her friend, slaps her palm on the table, frustrated. "It's not like anybody was in love with me before this, it's not as if - Merlin, Parvati, look at my face! Look at my bloody face and tell me that someone like Oliver Wood would want to kiss it! I’m not – I’m not even sure I can kiss anymore, with my mouth like that -”

“Oliver Wood asked Dean for your Floo number, so I’m guessing that he, at least, would very much like to test that theory. But frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if you have it in you to let him.”

*****************************

Inside, she’s still struggling not to think that this is all some horrible, cruel joke. She waits in front of the restaurant, huddled in her cloak, clutching her bag.

She even brought some drawings with her – fashion drawings she made just to show him her so-called work, beautiful clothes for people with perfect faces.

He’s five minutes late. Ten minutes late. He won’t come. Lavender wants to throw her drawings in the mucky snow on the sidewalk, step on them, ruin the wonderful colours and complex arrays of material.

“Hey! Sorry I’m late!”

He’s breathless, red in the face. Not handsome, divine. Lavender grins, and for the first time in a long time she doesn’t notice the pain.

“Quidditch practice, you know – we always lose track of the time. I left before they were done, actually.”

“I suppose I should take that as a huge compliment, coming from you.”

She pushes her hair back behind her ear, glances at him from under her long eyelashes.

*****************************

“Please – please, don’t you want to…”

She squeezes her eyes shut, she grips his hair, arches against his body. She tries to let the lust engulf her, wipe away everything else, but it’s no use.

The curtains aren’t drawn – it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, and the wine isn’t helping, and her head is pounding, and the fluttering in her stomach caused by Oliver’s hands pushing her shirt up turns to a dull, sapping ache.

“I’m sorry, I -”

Lavender makes it to the bathroom just in time. And when it’s over, when there’s nothing left inside her stomach, she pounds on the tiled floor with her fist and cries, and feels like howling.

She never should’ve agreed to go to Oliver’s place tonight, but she wanted to see him so badly, she thought it would be stronger than the moon. She thought she would be stronger.

“Are you okay?”

Lavender wipes her eyes. “Yeah – I’ll just – just clean up and go home. I’m… It happens when…”

He nods. He understands. And then, amazingly, gently, he starts to laugh.

“Well, at least you don’t turn all hairy and wild – although, I was kind of hoping for the wild part.”

Lavender finds that she can laugh about it with him as well as she can with Parvati, and it’s such a relief that she manages to believe him when he says he doesn’t mind if she stays.

And she manages to believe him when he tells her she’s beautiful, that she’s brave, that when he looks at her face he can read a thousand things and know they’re all true, and that he knew that first night at Hermione’s place.

That she’s not just another pretty face.

*****************************

Parvati is sipping her tea, a mysterious smile on her face. When she smiles like that, she reminds Lavender of one of those elegant, ancient statues in temples.

“Lav, you know what? We’re going to open our own shop,” she says as if it’s a particularly juicy piece of gossip.

Lavender looks up from her drawing, dumbfounded. “But – with what money?”

“Savings. Loans. Whatever – it’ll be a hit. With your designs and my business savvy… Don’t you dare tell me it never crossed your mind.”

Lavender giggles. “Not seriously – I mean, I wasn’t doing this thinking that…”

But she doesn’t finish her sentence. Of course she was thinking that. For who are these designs, if not for the witches who’ll want to wear them, to look good, to feel good?

“Well – it’s worth trying anyway, right?”

*****************************

Oliver is sleeping, breathing softly in the darkness. Lavender curls up next to him, her loins still aching deliciously from the way they made love, but also stinging a bit. It was the first time, after all – with him or anyone else.

But she’s glad it was with him.

She lets her finger run lightly on his chest. That chest, that perfect chest all the silly girls imagined when he was at Hogwarts, the object of whispered jokes about the changing room showers, about sweating from Quidditch, and they would all strain their eyes after each game to see through his jersey.

A thick, bumpy scar, reddish in colour, runs from his collarbone to the side of his waist.

A hex from the battle, the frantic work of a Death Eater making one last stand, something that no amount of magic or salve will ever heal.

Oliver stirs slightly and feels around for her, touches her hair, still in his dreams. And Lavender closes her eyes, and lays her cheek on his skin, to feel his heart beat underneath.

Vincit Qui Se Vincit, Chapter 2

2007-09-03T17:34:31Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 2

Chapter summary : He didn’t want to hear it out loud, nor did he want to speak it, the sudden break in their perfect plans – going into training like they’d gone to Hogwarts. Together. Without any change. But things had to change, and this time, Ron had found someone who needed him more than Harry did.

With the fading of summer, friends and family members started to leave, or drop by less often, as if they were all realising that life had to go on after all, that they had to wake up in the morning to go to work and deal with bills and go to the grocery store.

Of course, there were other things to deal with that were less mundane – debating, judging, rebuilding. Planning ceremonies. Ordering statues. Taking care of the hazy mess the wizarding world seemed to be in, making sense out of it all. No doubt Kingsley would be more than fit for such a task, but already detractors were speaking out.

It got very quiet when Ginny left for Hogwarts. More quiet still, and much harder to bear, when Hermione left too. It felt as if the sun had been veiled by a pale, milky cloud, as if autumn had finally come. When she left, it was as if a ball of clay had settled in his stomach and his heart had slowed down to a stop.

Ron was alone in his room, and looking out the window at the garden, placid and green under the rain. The world was spinning on without him.

It wasn’t like that at first. At first, there had been a whirlwind of things to do, reporters crowding at the door, trips to the Ministry, and demands for celebration, for commemoration, for happiness and for rejoicing.

And Ron had been content – relieved in the deepest part of his soul that Harry and Hermione were by his side, alive and unhurt, relieved whenever he looked at his little sister, at his parents, at his brothers. Content, even though it was impossible not to think of Fred in these moments, where life seemed so wonderful, where the comfort of home felt like a soothing balm after months of facing constant danger.

Sometimes it was almost unbearable to look at George, to hear him speak when no one was there to finish his sentences. And it was worse for George than for any of them.

But George had left for London now, and Fred had been buried, in great pomp, alongside Lupin and Tonks and other heroes of the battle, and Bill and Fleur had left too after that, and Harry…

They wouldn’t leave him alone at first, not for a heartbeat, and his parents had actually had to put the protective charms back on The Burrow to make sure he wouldn’t be bothered. After awhile, though, it became impossible to ignore that August was reaching its end and that there was something waiting for them beyond the hedges, the field where they played Quidditch, the pond where they went to swim in the evening. It was time for heroes on holiday to sign into life again, as Hermione liked to put it.

Ron turned away from the window – his room seemed so small now, so cramped. Even when he’d taken down the Chudley Canon posters with their gaudy orange hue, so cheerful and obsolete, the walls still seemed to trap him. He sat on his bed, where he’d left Harry’s letter, and took it out of its envelope to read it again.

Dear Ron,

I hope you’re doing all right and that your parents are fine. I started class today – mostly theory right now, and more boring stuff than I would’ve imagined. Can’t wait for you to come to London, I’ve already started looking around for a flat to rent.

Hermione told me she’d be back in England in time for her birthday. How about a birthday and housewarming party all at once?

Harry

Ron smiled and put the letter back, then plopped down on the bed. Harry had insisted that Ron join him in London before he’d left – perhaps as a way to prove to Ron that even though they wouldn’t be together at Auror training, things wouldn’t change. They’d still be together, Harry and Ron, best friends nothing could keep apart.

“I’ll let you pick you out the curtains,” Ron had told him, grinning good-naturedly, a glass of Firewhiskey in hand and the stars above glimmering over the porch. Harry was lying in the grass, and his bags were packed upstairs, all set to go. “Something I’d never thought I’d say to a bloke, to be honest.”

It was hard to imagine Harry so far away now, sitting on the benches of some Ministry conference room, chatting with new people, making new friends, perhaps…

“You’re not going to apply?” he’d asked one morning at breakfast, bewildered, after Ron had told him his intentions.

Ron had blushed. He didn’t want to hear it out loud, nor did he want to speak it, the sudden break in their perfect plans – going into training like they’d gone to Hogwarts. Together. Without any change.

But things had to change, and this time, Ron had found someone who needed him more than Harry did.

“No. I’ve given some thought and… and I don’t think it’s the thing for me, mate. Seriously, I’m not really cut out for studies that long.”

“You mean you’re not cut out for studies without Hermione around to check over your homework for you,” Harry replied with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

There was another letter on his bed.

Ron,

I’m planning on reopening the shop on October 1st –the new stock needs to come in and I’m working on new prototypes. Drop by when you get to London.

George

In every line, every word, Ron tried to decipher a shred of hope, a sign that George was starting to get back to his normal self. The shop would reopen – that was something, wasn’t it? And George couldn’t do it alone.

It was his duty to help his brother. His duty to take up the family business, to keep things together with his sister in school, with Charlie so far away, with Bill starting a family of his own, with Percy so busy working for the Ministry again, under Kingsley’s orders.

He was the only one left.

A delicious aroma floated over to his nostrils and Ron sat up. He realised he was hungry – it was about time for lunch. He clambered downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother was bent over a simmering cauldron of soup. Her vivid red hair stood out sharply against her black robes.

When she heard him, Molly turned around, and the spark of her smile reached her eyes.

*****************************

Nothing to do but sleep, eat a bit, read, watch a film, sleep some more. Her legs were cramped and a headache was starting just beneath her brow, but at the same time, it almost felt good to do something so undemanding, so Muggle, and on her own.

Nearly twenty-four hours of flight. One stopover in Singapore. And then she’d be on the other side of the world. Hermione moved her feet from underneath her, made circles with her ankles, lifted her legs by stretching her toes. She’d read in the magazine provided by the airline that not moving your legs could cause your blood to clot.

Funny how she still paid attention to such minor warnings after narrowly missing death herself.

The flight attendant arrived with a trolley, smiled at Hermione, asked for her selection of drink, put a platter full of food in front of her. Hermione thanked her and took a sip of her Coke.

Yes, it was nice to do something that didn’t involve any magic, just plain work, technology, mathematics. The woman sitting next to her had nervously gripped her armrests when the plane had lifted off the ground, as if the plane would crash back down again. But its sturdy structure, its heaviness, its roaring engines reassured Hermione – there was no work of the mind here, no will coming from the tip of a wand, or murmured spells, or enchantments no one could see.

She smiled and took another sip.

Of course, there would be some magic to do when she got to Australia. It would be extremely complex to remove the heavy Confundus charm she had placed on her parents, even more complex to explain to them why she had done so in the first place, and why they were living in Brisbane when the last thing they remembered was having breakfast in Wingham.

“I could go with you,” Ron had told her, stroking her hair from the tip of his fingers, a few days before she’d left. “That way you wouldn’t have to deal with all that alone… and I could tell your parents what a heroic daughter they have.”

“I wish you could, but I think I owe it to them to let them have me all to themselves, at least for a little while.”

And Hermione wanted to have her parents all to herself as well. It had been so long since she’d seen them… and when she last had, she didn’t know if she ever would again…

It was thrilling and it made her want to grin, the simple thought of hugging them, letting them see she was okay, she was fine, they had won, all was right.

Even though… it would have been nice to have Ron here with her. Holding her hand. And kissing her – she loved it when they kissed. It was simply perfect, and exciting, and it made her chest swell pleasantly and fill with warm flutterings. Hermione wished they could have more time to themselves, though. So far, besides the kissing, it was hardly as if they were boyfriend and girlfriend at all. There had been no long, romantic walks, hand in hand, no embraces under the moonlight, no dates to the cinema, or the restaurant…

Of course, Ron had to take care of his family, and both of them had to support Harry, think of their futures, and prepare themselves for the long and difficult reconstruction of the wizarding world… but surely, that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a normal relationship. Like a real boy and a real girl.

Hermione liked to think of herself as Ron’s girlfriend. It was nice, and a bit unnerving in a good way - it was something to look forward to.

Suddenly, the endless flight seemed longer than ever. She couldn’t wait to get to Australia. Once she’d arrived, she’d be one step closer to coming back.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

New Post-DH Story!

2007-08-30T22:18:52Z

Vincit Qui Se Vincit

Chapter 1

Genre: Romance, Angst, Drama, Post-DH

Pairings: H/G, R/Hr and others

Rating: R for later chapters

Story Summary: When war brings grief, loss, and a world to rebuild, who can speak of a winning and a losing side? Eight young wizards deal with love, jobs and family ties, and, amidst the hardships, try to make a better future for themselves. Takes place right after Deathly Hallows.

Notes: a huge thanks to my beta, Anne! Reviews are always appreciated :) I hope you enjoy this story. There's much more to come.

Chapter Summary : She thought of dinner that evening – her mother’s pointed stares, her father’s smug satisfaction. Daphne had the impression that he had recentlty managed to get rid of yet another tie that bound him with the wrong kind of people -the ones who were rotting in Azkaban as Daphne was lying in bed. People the wizarding world, thirsty for redemption, hungry for culprits, ashamed and angry, would never let see the light of day again.

From the other side of the wall came a muffled sob, a tiny, plaintive sound that disturbed the silence.

Whispers, doors opened and closed with care so as not to make too much noise, and now crying… there had been so much going behind the apparent safety of the night that Daphne wondered, turning in her sheets, if she would ever manage to fall asleep again.

This time it was Rose. Her older sister’s sobs continued in the adjacent room and Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, irritated and exhausted. She thought of dinner that evening – her mother’s pointed stares, her father’s smug satisfaction. Daphne had the impression that he had recentlty managed to get rid of yet another tie that bound him with the wrong kind of people -the ones who were rotting in Azkaban as Daphne was lying in bed. People the wizarding world, thirsty for redemption, hungry for culprits, ashamed and angry, would never let see the light of day again.

Rose was still crying and this time Daphne buried her head under the pillow. There had been a terrible scene and their voices had resounded all around the empty house - Rose dramatically sinking to the ground, protesting with tears, their father unmoving, unyielding.

Daphne remembered how proud her father had looked just a few months before, how much taller her mother had held herself, when they’d announced Rose was engaged to a very wealthy Pureblood young man, from a very wealthy Pureblood family. And Rose, a precious shard of light glittering on her finger, smiling haughtily for the good luck she thought she deserved, had convinced herself she loved him, prodded on by her parents and enticed by her fiancé’s impeccable social status.

What was his name again? Someone from the Flint family… Claudius, was it? Rose had met him less than a year before, and Daphne had only seen him twice. She wasn’t even sure she knew what he looked like… and yet that very evening her sister had sworn she would throw herself into a lake and drown out of despair if the engagement was called off.

But the engagement was going to be called off, and Rose would never throw herself in a lake. She probably imagined, Daphne assumed, that it would be a romantic death – with long strands of hair flowing in the water, stately reeds bending towards the water in sorrow, and dead skin as pale as porcelain…

No blood, gushing out from torn flesh, no broken bones, no wide, unblinking eyes staring at the living…

Daphne shook away the images in her head and curled up on her mattress. The whole business was ridiculous and pathetic, and it made Daphne feel sick to think of it. The smugness on her father’s face…

“We can’t very well hide the fact that the girls were in Slytherin,” she remembered him saying, sitting on his chair and stroking his beard, deep in thought. “But I daresay – if we take certain precautions – we can prove to the Ministry that we had no hand whatsoever in this… that our name is clean…”

He had even chuckled to himself then, looking for all the world rather jolly. “Why, I believe we even have some Half-bloods somewhere in our family tree… Rather far down the line, but that should do nicely.”

In the Greengrass family, there had always been a strict set of rules to follow, and nothing had changed since June except their content.

Any mention of what had happened at Hogwarts – forbidden. Any mention of Pureblood families – forbidden. And any contact with other Slytherin students – forbidden.

It was the last rule that had set Daphne’s blood boiling, but quietly, as always, under cover of dark, lowered eyes, a pale face and a shy expression. It wasn’t as if she felt the irrepressible urge to contact her friends, girls who dressed better and more smartly than she ever had, knew how to fix their hair, and had always considered her with a sort of pitying smile that reminded her of Rose. It was simply the feeling of being a toy in her parents’ hands, an obscene reminder of their hypocrisy. For years they had showered her with recommendations, dressed her up in the best they could afford, steered her towards what they called “their kind”, even though they weren’t half as rich, or half as refined, or half as able to show off prestigious ancestors.

Rose, crafty and conciliatory, had known how to make the best of what they had – their manners and their blood. But Daphne had struggled to keep up with the pack, always trailing behind, awkward and meek, unable to smirk and simper and smile when the situation demanded it, terrified of being left out. Ultimately, her parents had resented her for it, and no amount of good grades could make up for her failings.

And now… now…

Daphne turned onto her back and opened her eyes. The moon was drawing pale squares of light on her wall. Her sister was done crying – she had probably fallen asleep.

Daphne couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, for her and her simple, stupid heart, for her unflinching belief in the family’s worth. Now it was as if Rose alone had lost the war, as if her mother and father were putting all the weight of defeat on her shoulders, she who had once been the cherished daughter, the favourite daughter, the daughter carrying the hopes of a respectable Pureblood marriage.

Her father was acting as if he had something to forgive. “It’s no use fretting over this,” Daphne had heard him tell Rose that very evening in a grave voice. “We’ll overlook this folly – this engagement… find another one soon, one much more favourable for us all.”

Her father, with that horrible, satisfied smile of his, and the affectionate pat he laid on Daphne’s head. “I’ve arranged an internship at the Ministry for you, my dear. There’s no profession more honourable than that of law, and with your excellent grades, it was no trouble at all to convince them…”

Favourable. Honourable.

A tear was rolling down Daphne’s cheek. Tomorrow was the first of September, and she would start her internship. She would clear the family name in busy halls of the Ministry, in the drab cubicle of a clerk’s office.

She would clear the family name because that was the only hope any of them had left.

Next chapter

The perfect proposal

2005-10-08T20:42:12Z

Title: The perfect proposal

Pairing: H/G with a side of R/Hr

Genre: Romance/Humour

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Harry wants to pop the question to Ginny, but destiny gets in the way.

Notes: fluffy, silly H/G goodness written especially for velvethope - I hope this will make you smile, my dear ;) (Oh yes, and this is unbetaed... hope there aren't too many mistakes!)

“Ginny, my darling… we’ve been together for awhile now, and – well, I’ve come to realise you’re the most important person in my life. I can’t imagine living without you – you’re the only one I ever loved.”

Harry paused and reached inside his pocket for a small, velvet case. He opened it carefully, revealing a glimmering ruby nestled in a gold ring.

“Will you marry me?”

“Of course, dearie. Shall I ask Mum for Auntie Muriel’s wedding knickers?”

Harry let out a yelp and turned away from the mirror, stuffing the ring back into his robes. “Ron, what the hell are you doing here?” he snarled at his red-headed best friend, who was standing in the doorway with a smirk on his face.

“Just came to drop by a fresh-printed copy of Hermione’s latest book,” he said cheerfully, entering Harry’s room and handing him a thick volume.

Momentarily distracted, Harry admired the cover and flipped through it. “Thanks, mate. The gift of healing : developing magical empathy capacities throughout adolescence,” he read. “By Doctor Hermione Granger-Weasley. Sounds like her best one yet.”

“Yes, she’s very proud,” Ron said, sounding even prouder. “I’ve got a copy for Gin, too. I was hoping to meet her here, but I guess you can give it to her when you see her.” He grinned slyly. “Depending on the answer she gives you, of course.”

Harry felt his face grow warm. “I wasn’t really planning on – I was just thinking, maybe, in the future -”

“Yes, and you bought that ring because it was on sale,” Ron said, amused. “Listen, you’re not talking to an amateur here.”

It was true, Harry reflected. Hermione and Ron had been married for three months. It was actually seeing Ginny marvel over Hermione’s dress and the wedding ceremony that had given Harry the courage to follow through with the idea that had been haunting him for ages : binding his life with Ginny’s forever.

“So - how do you plan on getting around to it?” Ron asked, sitting on Harry’s bed.

“I invited Ginny to dinner in that fancy new restaurant, Chez Flamel,” Harry replied. He started pacing around the room. “I asked for one of their enchanted tables – the candlelight changes colour, and the air around it is guaranteed to look like a starlit sky. I think I’ll wait until they serve dessert.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t want to take any risks, do you?”

“Well, how did you ask Hermione?” Harry said, stopping to lean against a bookshelf.

“Believe it or not, I asked her in my kitchen - under the sink, to be exact.” Ron had a dreamy look in his eyes. “It was a Sunday – I was having plumbing problems. We tried to fix the pipes for two hours without finding a spell that was resistant to pressure. We kept getting soaked.” He gave a little chuckle. “Finally, Hermione decided to go use one of those Muggle contraptions – a money-wrench.”

“Monkey-wrench,” Harry corrected automatically.

“Whatever. The thing is, Hermione had the sink fixed in fifteen minutes. When I saw her sitting there next to me, dripping wet, her hair a mess, her face red and that look of triumph on her face – you know the one - I realised that I could not bear to call her my girlfriend anymore. I wanted to call her my wife. I wanted to wake up next to her every remaining day of my existence, have her bear our children, have her nag me and scold me and love me until we were both 150 years old.”

Harry smiled, and waited a moment for Ron to resurface from the memory. “That’s really beautiful, Ron.”

He shrugged. “It’s the simple truth. Don’t worry too much over this proposal thing, Harry – if Ginny feels the same for you as you do for her, it’ll be no problem.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, sighing. “I just want it to be perfect, I guess. She deserves it.”

Ron stood up and rolled his eyes. “I can only imagine the huge fuss Mum and Dad will make over this – their only daughter about to be sacrificed on the altar of innocence.”

Harry had to laugh. “Don’t tell me they think that me and Ginny never - ”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Ron said, but he was laughing too. “I’d rather not think about it myself.”

*****************************

That evening, something happened to Harry that he had never thought possible – he spent more time in the bathroom getting ready than Ginny usually did. Vowing to take this secret to the grave, Harry slapped some cologne on his neck. Rummaging through the drawers, he found some products that had to be Ginny’s – moisturising cream, magical shampoo that curled or straightened your hair depending on how many times you shook the bottle, and all other sorts of lotions and balms. He considered giving himself an “Essence of Veela” face mask before setting off, but decided it would be pushing his pampering a bit too far.

After slipping on his best robes – an elegant set of a dark golden colour - and combing his hair the best he could, Harry inspected his reflection in the mirror, and decided he liked what he saw.

“Come on,” he told his reflection. “You can do this.”

He patted his pocket to make sure the velvet case was there, and headed towards the front door.

Harry lived in a wizarding neighbourhood of London, not far from Diagon Alley, on a quaint winding street where you could Apparate and Disapparate at will without having to worry about any dumbfounded looks. Usually, Harry liked to walk to his destinations, but he was on a tight schedule. He had to meet Ginny in fifteen minutes, and he still had to buy her flowers. Wizadring florists provided better bouquets than what a simple spell could provide.

Standing on his front steps, he was about to swirl away to his destination, when he heard an ear-piercing scream. He stopped his Apparation just in time not to lose a limb, and looked around, his Auror instincts immediately taking over.

“Help!” someone was calling in anguish. It sounded like a child.

Harry dashed down the steps into the street, heading towards the sound, then came to a brutal halt when he finally stumbled upon the scene of distress that was playing before him.

A little girl was crying and pointing towards the heights of a tree, where a kitten was clutching a branch for dear life. An elderly witch was trying to comfort the girl, to no avail.

“He-he climbed all the way up and now h-he c-can’t get down,” the child bawled.

“Now, now, hush, dear,” the old lady said. “I’m sure someone will help us get Snowball down from there.” She looked around hopefully and when her eyes landed on Harry, she smiled widely. “Young man, would you be so kind as get my granddaughter’s cat down from the tree?”

“Actually, I -”

“Don’t worry, Snowball!” the girl called up to her cat, tears streaming down her face. “We’re coming to get you!”

“Maybe I can find someone else who - ”

Just then, the cat tried to make a few steps and almost stumbled off the branch. The little girl gave such a scream Harry was sure his eardrums had burst.

“All right, all right,” he said hastily, positioning himself under the tree and reaching for his wand. He had never been fond of cats, but there was a way to solve the problem fast and good. “Accio -”

“Oh, good gracious, no!” the elderly witch interrupted, grabbing his arm and squeezing it vigorously.

“Huh?” Harry said. “I thought you wanted -”

“If you use that spell, he’ll come rushing down, and he might hit a branch on the way,” the witch explained. “Can’t you find another way to do it?”

Harry tried to concentrate, but it was hard when all that was on his mind was the flower shop closing, and Ginny waiting in front of the restaurant.

“Okay, let’s try this,” he said, swishing his wand and flicking it. “Wingardium Lev - ”

The old witch gasped and held him back. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Harry turned around and frowned. “What’s wrong now?”

“Kittens have fragile metabolisms,” she told him kindly, as if she was talking to a two-year old. “A spell like that, if concentration isn’t completely mastered, could make the poor animal explode.”

The little girl’s chin wobbled. “I don’t want Snowball to explode!”

Harry’s patience was running thin. “Listen, madam,” he told the old witch. “I’m a trained Auror, and I believe my concentration is quite good - ”

“Well, goodness, young man, there’s no need to be snappish,” she said tartly. “As I always say, bad temper, no fair weather -”

“Yes yes, fine,” Harry said, through gritted teeth. “Listen, maybe you could try and -”

“It seems to me the only way to get this cat down is to go get him,” the elderly witch said. “But if you’re in a hurry, I’ll do it myself.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. “No - madam. That won’t be necessary.”

At least I won’t have to hear that old bag talk anymore, he thought to himself as he hoisted himself up on the first branch. By his estimations, he only had a couple of minutes left to get to the restaurant. He’d have to settle for a summoned bouquet. But everything would still be fine.

“Young man!” the old witch yelled up at him. “Young man, watch out!”

“I know what I’m doing!” he yelled back.

That’s when he heard an resounding rip.

“Aw, fuck!” he cursed, look over his shoulder to see the bottom of his robes frayed.

“You had your robe stuck on a branch!” the woman called. He noticed a small crowd had gathered around her to watch his climb, and were starting to talk among themselves.

“Oh Merlin, is that - ”

“Yes, it is – look, the hair, the glasses - ”

Harry rolled his eyes and ignored them. He had almost reached Snowball’s level. Just a few more branches…

“Hey! Hey up there!” a young woman yelled, startling him. “Are you Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?”

“No, I’m the freaking Queen of May!” he bellowed, wishing they would all just go away.

Snowball was watching him with equal interest, but seemed still a bit reluctant to let go of his branch.

“Come on, boy,” Harry said, stretching an arm out to scoop him up. “Come on…”

Snowball recoiled and mewed piteously. The voice of the old witch came rising up from the ground.

“What are you doing to him?”

Harry thought it was best not to answer. There was, after all, a small child amongst the spectators.

“Come here, damn you,” he muttered at the cat, sweeping him up in his hand with one swift movement. “There’s a good kitty…”

Snowball mewed again and clawed at his skin fiercely. “Son of a bitch!” Harry exclaimed.

“Young man, please, control yourself!”

“He’s tearing my skin to shreds!” Harry protested.

Snowball managed wriggle free from his hand and gripped his shoulder, occasionally pawing at Harry’s cheek as he hurried down.

Harry resisted the urge to shake him off. “Will you – stop it – you damn cat!”

After what seemed like hours, he reached the ground, and Snowball leaped away into the arms of his mistress.

“Oh Snowball!” the little girl said gleefully, suddenly consoled. “You’re saved!”

The onlookers clapped, looking at her warmly. Disgruntled and sweaty, Harry tried to brush his robes clean and started to walk away before their attention would turn to him. A forceful grip held him back.

“Young man, how can I ever thank you?” the elderly witch gushed.

Harry forced a smile. “It was my pleasure.”

“Such a display of bravery must not go without a reward!” she insisted.

“Oh no, don’t think anything of it. Besides, I really must get going - ”

“Perhaps dinner at our place? I have some home-made soup -”

“No, thank you,” Harry said more firmly. It was all he could do not to outright growl at the old woman. “You’re very kind, but a friend is waiting for me.”

She smiled and winked at him like an overgrown schoolgirl. “Well, off with you, then – shoo! I don’t want to stand in the way of young love.”

Harry gave her a tight nod and fled as fast as he could without looking suspiciously eager. The nightmare was over… but he was ten minutes late.

*****************************

When Harry finally arrived in front of Chez Flamel, Ginny was standing in front of the door, holding her cloak tightly around her and looking as striking as ever, with her hair pulled up and cascading down her neck in a flow of thick red curls.

Harry clutched his summoned bouquet of daisies tightly and walked up to her. When she saw him, she broke into a lovely smile.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Harry said, breathless.

Ginny’s smile faltered when she got a closer look at his face and the state of his robes. “Harry, whatever happened to you? Did you get in a fight?”

Harry touched his cheek. He was bleeding from Snowball’s scratches. “No, actually – well, it’s a long story. I had to climb up a tree to rescue a cat – not just any cat, mind, a little girl’s kitten, you should have heard her crying…”

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny said, sounding highly amused. “I don’t know how you manage to get yourself into those situations… but truth to be told, I wouldn’t love you any other way.”

“I look awful, don’t I?” he said, laughing despite himself. “But it doesn’t matter, really – these are for you -”

He handed her the daisies, and she breathed in their scent, eyes closed. “You romantic fool,” she murmured. “You know I can’t resist daisies.”

“Yes, I know,” he grinned, brushing his fingers against his pocket to feel for the velvet case.

In the fraction of second it took for him to realise it wasn’t there, he felt his stomach fall down to form a puddle at his feet.

Ginny looked at him, perplexed. “Is something wrong, love?”

“Is something – yes – I would say -” He covered his face with his hand. “I’m the world’s biggest git.”

“You know that title is reserved for Ron,” Ginny said seriously. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I – I - ” He looked away from her. “I wanted to give you a present – and ask you something that’s been on my mind for months and months. It wasn’t just any present, see… I don’t know if you would have it, and now I may never know, because blimey, I wonder how I’ll ever manage to work up the courage again to do it…”

“Harry -”

He shook his head, angry at himself. “I wanted it to be perfect, and messed up everything – I can’t even imagine why I went up for that stupid cat in the first place, because really, I should’ve known…”

“But - ”

He turned to her, looking straight into her eyes. The words seemed to come out of him as if they had always been there, waiting to be uttered. “I wanted it to be perfect, because you’re perfect, Ginny. I mean, you have an awful temper, and you always hog the cover when we sleep, and I know you tell me jokes when I drink on purpose to make me snort it all out, but you’re perfect for me. I can’t bear to imagine what my life would be if you weren’t in it.”

He had taken her hands in his, and she wasn’t trying to interrupt him anymore. She was just listening, as if she was hearing something she’d only heard in dreams.

“When I returned from the war, when we were together at last, I thought – I thought life couldn’t get any better, really. But now I know what would make me happier – the happiest man on earth. If you would – if you would marry me - if you would be my wife, Ginny…”

Tears had formed in her eyes, and she let her forehead fall on his shoulder. “Oh, Harry, why do you even ask? Of course – of course I will…”

His heart soared at her words. He wrapped his arms around her and they kissed, slowly and passionately, crushing the bouquet of daisies between them.

“Ginny Potter,” Harry whispered when they broke apart. “I like the sound of that.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Ginny agreed, grinning. “Come on, let’s go home – your robes need mending.”

“What about dinner?” Harry asked, though it was the last thing on his mind.

“Oh, don’t worry about that – I think there might be some chocolate lying around – and some whipped cream -”

Harry never argued when Ginny got that blazing look in her eyes. Hand in hand, they walked away from the restaurant.

*****************************

The next morning, Harry was awoken by the sound of someone knocking on the door. He grunted and willed himself to get up. Every bone in his body ached. It had been a rough night, celebrating their engagement. He certainly never look at his desk the same way – nor his shower head.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said as the knocks got louder.

He threw on a bathrobe and stumbled down the stairs. When he opened the door, he was shocked to find the little girl from the evening before, smiling up at him.

“Um – hi,” he said.

“Hello,” she replied cheerfully. “Grandma sent me over to your place to thank you for rescuing Snowball yesterday.”

“That’s very nice of her,” Harry said, thinking the old woman could have sent her granddaughter a little later than seven in morning. “I hope your kitten learned his lesson.”

“We’re thinking of enchanting the tree so he can’t climb it anymore,” the girl said.

Harry smiled. “A swell idea.”

“Well, I guess I better go,” she said, then dug into her pocket. “Here, Grandma also told me to give you this, she said it was probably a present for your friend and that you had lost it.”

She pulled out the black velvet case and handed it to him. Harry grinned at her.

“Thank you,” he said. “This is a very important present indeed. All the best to your grandmother – and Snowball.”

The little girl nodded and walked away, waving at him from the street.

Harry closed the door and went back up to his room, admiring the ring in its case. It was truly a beautiful jewel. He almost wanted to wake Ginny up to show it to her, but decided it could wait. A ring was just a ring, after all. What really mattered was what Ginny’s answer to his question. In the end, everything really had been perfect.

Still sleepy, Harry lay down next to her and watched her sleeping. Her red hair was fanned out over the pillow and she had wrapped the entire cover around her. With the distinct feeling that this was the first day of the rest of a wonderful life, he slipped the velvet case under her pillow and closed his eyes against the morning sun filtering through the window.

celescribbles @ 2005-09-17T15:31:00

2005-09-17T13:36:27Z

Title: Three

Pairing: H/G

Genre: Romance. Warning: here be there fluff!

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Snippets of Harry and Ginny's life, centered around the number 3

Notes: written for the hpgw_otp newsletter Number Challenge. It's unbetaed, and I'm as happy with it as I would've liked, but even with ideas I found it surprisingly difficult to write.

She was her third year at Hogwarts when she’d let herself be kissed for the first time.

She was walking back to the common room, and he’d asked if he could walk with her there, and when they’d arrived in front of the portrait hole, he did not leave. She’d straightened herself slightly, and he’d mumbled something about fancying her very much, and then he’d bent down, and that was it. It was short and awkward, and afterwards she wasn’t sure she wanted to try again.

But then Micheal was quite a handsome boy. Having him hold her hand and carry her things made the dull aching in her heart lessen slightly. It was worth a few kisses.

Then the kisses got better. She started smiling for the world to see again. The aching fluttered out of her mind, but she knew it was still there, like a low radio wave buried under static.

Three days after she and Micheal broke up, Dean asked her out.

She grinned at him, and laughed with him, and admired his drawings, and found herself enjoying the easy flirting game they were engaged in. She kissed him, and this time she didn’t have to wait for it to feel good.

She felt as if this new, flirtatious her was laying it on a bit thick to cover up the darker part of her dreams. But then, Dean was charming.

Then the kisses got worse. Too much, and too quickly. The aching returned, and she hated herself for it. It had waited for its moment, nagging her with the realisation that it would never fully leave.

She still loved him.

Harry.

“Harry fancies you, Ginny,” Hermione had told her, smiling and squeezing her hand, as if they had just won a long gruelling battle against the odds.

Her world toppled at that moment, only to topple back into place when she had rushed into his arms – ran to him, like she could not bare it if they wasted a minute more not being together.

It was not a good kiss. It was perfect. Her pain had bloomed in a split second into a wonderful, swooping feeling that made her never want to let Harry go.

The other two never mattered. He’s the third and last. Three is a good number. It’s lucky.

*****************************

It was over.

It was over, and even as he spoke them in his head, the words didn’t make any sense. He was free, and the feeling was so new and so pure that his legs gave away under him and he crumpled to the ground, crying.

The weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders, dissolved into thin air, rising like the billows of blackened smoke rising from the ravaged grounds of Hogwarts.

He cried for a long time, so long as he could push away the primal need of finding them, seeing them, alive and moving. Then he looked up.

He saw Hermione first. She was walking towards him, holding her bleeding arm against her chest, but walking none the less. He stumbled in her direction, tears streaming down his cheeks, and they met in a tight embrace that spoke all their pain and relief more than any words could.

“Ron - ” Hermione croaked. “Have you seen – RON!”

Ron was bleeding at the head, looking around frantically amidst the survivors. When he spotted them, he started to run.

“Ron,” Hermione cried.

Ron encircled them both into a tight embrace, and there they were, the three of them, holding on to each other for dear life, when for the first time their dear life was not hanging by a thread anymore.

“Harry, are you all right?” Ron asked as they broke away from each other.

He nodded, but his eyes were wandering away already. All around it was grey and black and grim, and his heart started to race unpleasantly. He had not seen her yet, not seen the brilliant flame of her hair that never seemed to fade, even in the darkest hour. Where was she? Where?

Surely it had not been taken away from him… Surely…

“Harry!”

Ginny’s hair was matted with dirt. It was dull, dropping lifelessly on her shoulders. She was kneeling not far from them, trying to stand up in an fruitless effort that was painful to look upon.

But when she saw Harry, the expression in her eyes and the look on her face were the same as ever.

“Harry!” she called again. “Oh, Harry…”

He rushed at her side, overwhelmed with emotion. Hermione and Ron followed behind him, huddled against each other.

“It’s going to be all right now,” he said, stroking Ginny’s face and kissing her forehead.

The three people I love the most in the world, and they’re all by my side. Yes, it’s going to be all right – always, as long as they’re with me.

*****************************

They got it right – finally - on their third try.

It was a beautiful summer at the Burrow, from the dazzling light of morning to the warm and star-filled darkness of the night. When she ate her breakfast every morning, Ginny had the immense satisfaction to see all the clock hands stray very far away from Mortal Peril. It was a sensation she never tired of : idleness.

It wouldn’t last, of course. She had to go back at Hogwarts next year. Harry would be at Auror training. She would have to study for NEWTs.

But all that could well wait until she and Harry were done playing Quidditch, and taking walks in the countryside, and kissing, although the kissing part never seemed to want to end, only go on until their lips and their hands alone could not fully express their desire anymore.

“Do you want to?” he’d asked her, a bit breathless, in the quiet intimacy of her room.

“Yeah,” she’d whispered. The fate her answer sealed was thrilling, and scary, and elating beyond anything she could imagine.

So they did.

At first she didn’t know what she should be doing, if she should just wait and let him do everything, and what was the best way to get to it. By the time they had it figured out, she was a bit nervous, and he was concentrating hard on where to go, and then became even more nervous than she was for fear of hurting her.

They’d laughed about their clumsiness, dispelling any awkwardness there might have been, and Ginny found herself wanting to try again very quickly.

The second time was better, and they were ready, and oh, she wanted him so badly she could have screamed with frustration when she realised she had forgotten all about taking a Pregnancy potion that took three days to brew.

Hermione helped her with the potion, having already made some for herself. The three days could not go by fast enough.

“It’s a simple formula, really,” Ginny said as Harry hastily unbuttoned her shirt. “A strand of my hair, one of yours, three pinches of – hmmmm - ”

The words died in her throat, and did not come back till after they were finished.

“If you don’t succeed, try, try again,” Harry joked, caressing her stomach lazily.

“You were lucky to get it right that third time,” Ginny said. “Or else I might have tried with someone else.”

He nudged her, and she laughed.

He’s so beautiful, lying here next to me, and he makes me feel so good… I’m definitely up for three times more.

*****************************

Livia, Angus and Arthur all had their mother’s fine, curly hair and their father’s bright blue eyes.

“Isn’t tiring to look after of the three of them?” Harry asked Hermione as they were sharing an afternoon tea, while the toddlers played on the floor next to them.

“We manage,” Hermione said with a smile. “They’ve all started to show signs of magic, but nothing too terrible yet.”

“Triplets,” Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Even in the Weasley family, I reckon that’s a first.”

Hermione waved her wand and levitated her daughter away from the hearth, where she was a about to go exploring. “Heaven help us if they become pranksters like their uncles.”

“Heaven help Hogwarts, you mean,” Harry said, grinning. “I bet Minerva misses the good old days.”

Hermione chuckled. “Without the twins, and without you getting us involved in spectacular adventures at the end of each year, it must feel like an early retirement for her, you mean.”

Harry watched Angus knocking a building block on the floor, and squeal with delight when it turned from green to red to yellow. He suspected the triplets had inherited their mother’s keen intelligence and their father’s sturdy brand of magic.

They would go to Hogwarts one day. They would be sorted, and walk its dear old halls, and see Albus Dumbledore’s tomb gleaming by the lake. All the little witches and wizards knew who he was, of course, but they had no sad memories of him. On sunny days, they would lie in the grass and joke around, right next to the smooth marble slab.

Harry knew Dumbledore wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

He’d waited until Ron returned, then bade the two of them goodbye and headed home by foot. It was a chilly evening, but he was feeling unusually light-hearted, like something wonderful was about to happen. Peace was something wonderful happening every day – perhaps the triplets had reminded him of that.

“I’m home,” he called when he opened the door to his flat. “Ginny?”

His wife stepped into sight, but did not come to kiss him immediately. Instead, she just stopped and smiled. In her eyes were was the hard, blazing look she always got when she was happy about something, and impatient to share her happiness with him.

“I know that face,” Harry said, grinning. “What is it?”

“I can’t guarantee we’ll have three all at once,” she said, “but one is still good, right?”

Harry stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded. Then the meaning of her words hit him with the force of a train.

“You mean – you mean you’re -”

Ginny’s smile widened. “Yes.”

Without even bothering to take his cloak off, Harry ran to her and swept her in his arms, spinning her around until they were both dizzy and breathless with laughter. When they came to a stop, he gently touched her belly, feeling tears of joy spring into his eyes.

“A baby. A baby, imagine that.”

One and one make three. I’ve never been so happy in my life.

A fic! A fic!

2005-07-25T12:28:43Z

Title: Sunlit Day

Pairing: H/G

Genre: Romance

Rating: PG-13

Summary: This takes place immediately after Chapter 24 of Half-Blood Prince, "Sectumsempra".

Notes: I want to make it perfectly clear that this is all pocketfullof's fault as she invited us pervy H/G shippers to speculate on how far Harry and Ginny went, non-platonically speaking ;) Kudos to her and velvethope .

It felt as though he was walking on air, but at the same time, he was grateful for all the things which felt deliciously real – the warmth growing inside of him, the coolness of the hall, Ginny’s hand in his.

Ginny’s hand in his. Harry could hardly believe it was now his to hold, so soft and slim it was. It seemed to have been made to fit in his, and this new sensation made his smile widen.

“What is it?” Ginny asked him, moving closer to him.

“Nothing, I - ” Harry almost felt like laughing. “I’m just – well – happy, I guess.”

They turned to face each other. The look in Ginny’s eyes had softened, but it was still as blazing as ever. A renewed wave of desire shot up Harry’s spine, and he leaned to kiss her again.

After just a few short moments, Ginny pulled away. Her cheeks were a bit red. “Not here…” she murmured.

Harry nudged her nose with his. “I thought you were rather keen on snogging in deserted corridors.”

Ginny tugged on his hand and led him down the hallway. “It won’t stay deserted for long, everyone is going to go to lunch pretty soon… besides, I - ” She seemed to be searching for her words. “Well, I want our first time to be special – you know – for you and me.”

“Our first time?” A very pleasant image flashed through Harry’s brain as he followed her. “Oh, right, I see what you mean,” he added quickly. “I don’t know if a walk by the lake really qualifies as a first date.”

Ginny grinned at him over her shoulder. “Harry, you’re silly. Do you really think that sort of thing is important to me?”

She slowed down so that they were walking together again and Harry slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Well, that time you went to Hogsmeade with Dean – didn’t you go to Madam Pudifoot’s?”

Ginny snorted. “That place? I wouldn’t be caught dead in there. Besides, what I did with Dean isn’t important. It’s over.”

Harry’s face flushed. Hermione would surely have scolded him for his blatant lack of tact. “You’re right, Ginny,” he said. “After all… you’re my girlfriend now.”

She looked at him and Harry thought he saw a twinge of relief in her gaze, but it quickly disappeared to make room for her usual look, something between mischievous and determined.

“Come on.”

Outside was beautiful, and the lake shimmered under the sun. Ginny and Harry were quiet as they started down a lazy, grassy slope. It was only when Harry caught sight of the distant Quidditch poles that he suddenly remembered his team had won the Cup.

“So, how was the game?” he asked Ginny.

“It was great,” she replied. “I wished you could’ve seen it, you would’ve been proud of us… Ravenclaw put up a decent fight, but really, they need new blood on their team. Cho Chang didn’t seem too displeased about losing, though,” she added as an afterthought. “Maybe she was tired of playing Quidditch.”

“Imagine something like that happening,” Harry said, surprised. “How can anyone tire of Quidditch?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ginny said, stopping when they arrived on the lake’s banks. The grass there was particularly plush. “Shall we sit down?”

Harry nodded and let himself fall to the ground, bringing Ginny down with him. She leaned on his lap as she continued to talk about the game.

“Ron made some excellent saves. When the game was over, Hermione nearly made him topple over by hugging him.”

Harry laughed. “I know the feeling… although I’m not sure Ron reacted quite the same way.”

“In any case, I’m glad his fling with Lavender is over,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “She’s even worse than Phlegm.”

“Fleur isn’t that bad,” Harry said, playing with a fiery strand of red hair. “You girls are just jealous because she makes all the blokes – ouch!”

Ginny had just given him a sharp nudge in the ribs, but she was giggling. “Harry, shut up. It’s not because she’s stunningly gorgeous that I’m not fond of her - ”

“Well, good,” he said. “Because I think you’re much more attractive than she is.”

Ginny stopped giggling and turned to him. There it was again, Harry thought, his heart thumping hard against his chest. That look that made his insides quiver with want.

Without saying anything, Ginny placed both hands on Harry’s shoulders and made him lie down, settling herself on top of him. She leaned as if she was going to kiss him, but made for his neck instead, placing a string of tiny kisses along his throat. Harry tensed and buried his hands in her hair.

“Ginny….”

When she was done, she looked up to face him, and he captured her lips in a kiss. It was slower and more thorough this time. Harry pressed her body hard against his. He couldn’t get enough of her warmth, her curves. He felt as if he was on fire, a fire so strong only a plunge in the lake could’ve put it out.

He rolled over so that Ginny was beneath him. The kiss was getting more urgent, and his hands were itching to stray further than her back. Tentatively, he brought his hand up her side, panicking at the thought she might tell him to stop.

“Go on… I promise I won’t bite,” she whispered teasingly in his ear, as if she sensed his hesitation.

He nodded and pressed the palm of his hand against the swell of her breast, trembling slightly. Ginny’s back arched a bit, and he took it as a sign that she liked it, so he tried again, more confidently this time. It wasn’t to do hard at all, he decided, resuming their kiss. In fact, it was one of the most bloody greatest things he’d ever tried.

“Harry… wait…” Ginny said suddenly, her breathing ragged.

“Huh?” Harry froze and his hand dropped to the ground. Had he not been doing it right after all?

“We have to stop,” she tried to explain. “Because – because I think I’m liking this a bit too much.”

“Oh.” Harry sat up awkwardly, still painfully aroused. “I see what you mean – I mean – yes, after all, we’ve been going out for - ”

“An hour. Or so.” She sighed and let her head fall in the grass. “I’m sorry, Harry… I just feel like – I’ve been waiting for this so long, I want to really enjoy it – ”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You have?”

Ginny blushed and suddenly Harry was reminded of the shy little girl she once had been. It seemed like an eternity had passed, but Ginny hadn’t changed that much after all, he decided. It was a good thing.

She caught his gaze and smiled. “What now?”

“I really like you, Ginny,” he simply said. “And I want to kiss you again.”

Ginny laughed. The sound was like chimes in the wind, or soft spring rain on a window pane. “Me too, Harry,” she replied. “On both counts.”

She got to her feet and he followed suit, taking her in his arms and whirling her around. They kissed one last time and walked back towards the castle, hand in hand.

E is for...

2005-04-29T12:38:49Z

This is a small H/G ficlet I wrote for r_becca 's alphabetical challenge .

Title : Eager

Word count : 570

Summary : It was like being before a Quidditch match he was almost sure to win, or… opening a menu he knew was full of delicious dishes. Something like that. An impatient feeling, but a feeling that knows waiting is half the pleasure.

********************

He couldn’t quite describe it.

It wasn’t as if he’d never felt happy before – he fondly recalled, amongst the troubled depths in his mind, plenty of occasions he’d had to laugh, and smile. These memories were like snowflakes gently twirling against a dark winter sky, brilliant and gentle. Sharing a Butterbeer with Ron and Hermione. Family dinners at the Burrow. Late night discussion with Remus. Catching the Snitch, and feeling it flutter in his hand like a June bug while the cheer of the crowd alone seemed to carry his broom even higher.

Yes, he’d known happiness - bribes of it at least. But it didn’t quite fit with what he was experiencing right now.

It was like being before a Quidditch match he was almost sure to win, or… opening a menu he knew was full of delicious dishes. Something like that. An impatient feeling, but a feeling that knows waiting is half the pleasure.

It gnawed at his mind all day, from the moment he jumped out of the bed, looking forward to the day to come, wishing it would go by quickly so the glimpses he caught of her, in the common room, in the Great Hall, would materialise into her eyes looking into his, her hair in his hands, and his lips on hers.

Class dragged on, and he daydreamed, and had to concentrate twice as hard on his homework afterwards. Hermione congratulated for not pushing back his assignments until the last minute like Ron did, and Ron replied he could copy her work right now if she liked it better that way, and she nudged him in the ribs, and Ron smirked.

He didn’t even look up from his notes to watch them bicker. He just wanted to get the bothersome things over with, tidied up and packed away neatly, so his mind could be free to be entirely taken up with her, her smile, her voice, the feel of her body.

He wanted to get rid of everything in life that was tying him down, that filled his nights with silent terror, that filled the eyes of his friends with worry and fear. He was ready to fight for it with renewed determination. The sooner, the better.

The sooner, the better. He glanced at the hands of his watch. It was almost time. The feeling swelled inside of him, making him jittery, anxious, and he wanted to grin but he was afraid it might look goofy, so he held it down and simply told Ron and Hermione he was going back to the Common Room.

The corridors stretched on endlessly, and he found his pace quickening. More corridors, and steps, and finally she was there, waiting for him in front of the Cantering Centaur’s statue, an odd end of the castle almost no one ever visited.

She turned towards him at the sound of his footsteps and her face lit up. “Harry!”

Just a word, and the feeling rushed through his blood, and he couldn’t resist taking her hand and pulling her towards him, embracing her, burying his face in her soft, lustrous red hair.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he told her. “I was so – so eager to see you, Ginny.”

They kissed, and Ginny pressed her forehead against his. “Me too. It’s silly but… I never felt like that before. Not really.”

“I rather like it,” Harry replied, and kissed her again.

********************

Hope you enjoyed it!