The only real proof she has of the events that took place last night are the small finger-tip shaped bruises on the tender undersides of her wrists. Sitting in class, she traces them with her fingers, counting them silently.
Cold stone against her back and before she knows it her feet are off the ground and ankles cross around the small of his back. Warm, dry kisses feather across her collar bone as his fingers find their way beneath her skirt.
She shakes her head, looking at her professor. When did daydreams begin to overtake her studies instead of the other way around?
War does that.
Turns everything upside down. Hogwarts just wasn't the same. Very few from her class had chosen to come back, most trying to move on, trying to forget and Hogwarts seemed to be just one giant reminder of how much everyone had lost. She glances at the empty seat next to her, the one she and Ron never allow anyone to sit in and knows that what she has been doing is wrong. She turns her attention back to the professor, trying to allow the knowledge, she used to so desperately crave, to sink into her brain the same way his teeth sunk into her neck. Her fingers slide over her skin to find the next oval shaped bruise.
She fights the yelp threatening to break from her throat as he nips at the sensitive flesh just under her ear. She presses her hips forward, grinding against his hand poised just outside the barrier of her cotton knickers, feeling his arousal pressed against her thigh. Before she has a chance to realize, the sound of ripping fabric echoes into the empty hallway and cool air meets her fevered flesh.
Clearing her throat she crosses her legs trying to stop the throb that is making her thighs quiver. She puts quill to parchment, jotting down the last words her professor said. Yes, she knows what she has been doing is wrong. What would Har- he think of her "betrayal?" But her finger tips find their way back to her wrist, searching for that next mark.
As his fingers find their way to her center, her hands delve into his hair, catching on gel, and causing silver blonde strands to rip from his scalp and cling to her fingers. He hisses against her skin and then gives her a warning nip on her collarbone. She responds by repeating the action but this time, holding on to the ends of his locks, pulling his head back to crush their lips together. He tries to pull back but she catches his bottom lip between her teeth, feeling tender flesh scrape and catch before she releases him. She only does this because his thumb brushes her clit and her mouth opens to gasp in much needed oxygen.
Her reverie is broken when she feels the tip of her quill snap. She didn't even realize she was still writing. She feels the body beside her shift and knows he is looking at her. What would he think if he knew? Ron was quiet now, contemplative and sad. He'd lost so much, so much more than she. Even though Ginny was her best friend, she was Ron's sister, while Charlie was her protector, he was Ron's brother, and while Har- he was her friend, he was Ron's best mate. She pretends she doesn't notice his concerned gaze, watching as ink bleeds out the broken end of her quill and sinks into her parchment, creating a small circular blob at the end of her half-thought, much the same shape as the oval bruise her finger was brushing over.
Her hands slide down his back and then come between them, fumbling briefly with his belt, then deftly flicking open the button of his trousers with one hand while the other eases down the zipper. He was in her hands before he was ready to have her feel him. She knows this because she feels his sudden intake of air and the way his teeth dug into this bottom lip, bringing pain and control. Her thumb brushes over the tip in sweet revenge, brushing wetness across and down, coaxing a gentle moan from his lips. She smiles.
She smiles, and it hurts. Hurts to know she has this chance to smile. Feels guilty for smiling, feels guilty for everything that she has been doing and who she's been doing it with. She is a war hero as are most of the people surrounding her. Most. A few were not, though they were pardoned after coming to the light side in the knick of time. While the Ministry was content with their betrayal of the Dark Lord, she and many others knew they simply chose the winning side, their loyalties lying with those who could save their skin. His loyalty lay within her. Though she liked to pretend that last night was the first time, or even the second she knew that it was not. It had begun long before and both were unable to stop the monster they had unleashed when they were too naïve to know what they had done. Bitter cold nights, curled together when the rancid smell of burning flesh, the feel of his burning flesh were all she had for warmth, all that kept her sanity. And she was not sorry for that, deep down she knew it. She was not sorry for not losing the only thing she had in those cold, war ravaged months.
Giving into the memory finally, finger finding the last bruise, the one on its own, lower and away from the previous four, where his thumb pressed deeper than the others.
He's had enough as he grabs her wrists and slam them against the cold stone behind her, trapping them above her head. She feels him pressing intimately against her and then in her, swiftly, so much so that she gasps from the anticipated but unexpected intrusion. But he gives her no time to savor the closeness as he withdraws completely and she whimpers at the sudden loss. He shifts his hips and presses himself against her clit. She throbs as she feels him throb and tips her hips forward, silently begging for him. She hears him chuckle against her ear, his breath hot, hot as her skin, as her need for him and now, as her frustration. She tries to tug her wrists free but his grip tightens, sending sweet pain shooting down her arms.
Before she has the chance to yelp, he's inside of her again, setting a pounding pace that makes it impossible to catch her breath, impossible to protest, impossible to stop the fire curling in her belly and soon it is racing down her legs, curling her toes, tearing a scream from her throat which he silences with his own mouth. She tries to breathe as he lets his own shout drown in her mouth and she feels him shudder against her and spill down her thighs.
The bell rings and she puts her parchment away with trembling hands, dropping the broken quill into the bottom of her bag. She follows the ginger haired boy out of their row, glancing back and not finding a black haired boy following her. Sometimes she forgets. Sometimes she can't forget. All she can do is try to move on, try to live.
As she turns into the main aisle of the classroom, her shoulder knocks into a hard chest and a pang of familiarity races through her veins. Her eyes crash into his silver orbs and through the hard hatred she sees mischief and daring. She sees vulnerability and strength. She sees chaos. She sees herself.
"Out of my way, Granger," he says as his hand wraps around her wrist, finger tips lining up with finger tip shaped bruises. He forcibly pulls her behind him and presses himself against her as he slides past. He glances back, eyes meeting, secrets shared.
She finds the small circular bruises on the inside of her tender wrist, tracing them, counting them, and wondering if they will ever get the chance to fully heal.