June 9, 2010
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters, settings, and terminology belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm not making any money from this.
Notes: Thank you to Iridescent-Dreamer for beta-ing this for me. This is a response to Lia's Avant-Garde Challenge on the DG Forum. Requirements for this challenge are listed below this chapter.
Ginny saw him as soon as she walked into the pub, and, curiously, instead of the feelings of hate and revulsion she would have expected to feel upon seeing him, she was overcome with the urge to drop right into his lap, steal his tankard and have a chug of whatever he was drinking. He looked completely wasted reclining against some witch whose robes seemed to have fit her best when she was ten years younger, his ash blond hair in disarray from manicured fingernails raking through it, his eyelids heavy and half-closed—or half-open, if that's your thing.
It really didn't have anything to do with him. While she admitted to herself that he looked goddamn sexy all drunk like that, it wasn't because he himself was sexy. She just had this hole in her stomach and it ached like a bitch and she wanted to fill it up with something, and that something, she had decided earlier that evening, would be alcohol. But now that she had seen him, she wondered if the ache could be fixed by something else, and maybe he'd be the right person to fix it, because she did in fact hate him, so after tonight they wouldn't have to pretend that they meant anything to each other.
He looked like he was having such a goddamn good time, with his slutty girlfriends and his alcohol-induced smile, and she was sitting at the bar drinking by herself, as miserable as an Acromantula without legs, or some other shit like that.
Ginny kept looking back at his booth where he lounged with his harem, watching with disgusting fascination as one witch kissed his face and another rubbed his chest while another's hand crawled up his thigh. She tried to ignore the way her blood began to pound in her veins, in time with her heartbeat but completely and embarrassingly different from it. In her anger, she took a large gulp of her firewhisky and choked, and then, because she was deranged, she looked back at him again and saw something she hadn't noticed before.
He wasn't even fucking conscious anymore and those women were attacking him like vermin on carrion. And the sad part about it was that she was turned on by it. But she wasn't so turned on that she could ignore the blatant illegality of their actions, so, like the upright little Weasley her parents had raised, Ginny threw some money on the bar to pay for her drink and stormed over to his booth in a cloud of righteous indignation. The vultures—whoops, she meant witches—didn't remove their lips from his lifeless body until they felt the cold blast of her glare.
"Can we help you?" the blonde one with the possessive grip on chest said with supercilious, albeit drunken, coolness.
"No, you can't. I'll just be taking this," Ginny replied, grabbing Malfoy's wrist and tugging until he was in her arms, draped over her body. The witches were nearly as far gone as Malfoy and had no strength with which to constrain him or fight her. They tittered with displeasure at the loss of their toy but consoled themselves by going after each other's clothes instead.
Ginny Apparated with Malfoy back to her flat, where she laid him carefully on her sofa. The alcohol that she had managed to drink that night started to catch up with her, making her head go empty and squishy and directing her thoughts in all kinds of dizzying circles.
Just as they'd been doing since she'd entered the pub earlier, her eyes kept drifting back to Malfoy on the sofa. His fair hair fell across his forehead, untidy but fetching in his sleep. The fire from the fireplace glinted off of his eyelashes, which sat on his pale cheeks, drawing her attention to how very different his looks were from a certain other wizard she didn't dare to think of.
But it was too late, because he was already in her head, and the alcohol she had consumed made it harder for her to lock him up in her mind where she didn't have to face him.
"You're so stupid," she said to Malfoy's prone body. "Why the hell do you need more than one witch to satisfy you? What's wrong with one? They are sluts, every last one of them. Goddamn fucking sluts. They don't want you. They want your fame. And your money. You don't mean a fucking thing to them. Not a thing!"
But he had meant something to her, Harry had. Why hadn't she been enough for him?
By now, tears had started falling down her cheeks, but Ginny couldn't have that, oh no. She didn't want to think of Harry sodding Potter. She didn't want to think of Malfoy's whores fighting over his unconscious body. She wanted to fill up this fucking hole ripping her body into two halves from her middle.
So she stood up from the armchair she had fallen into and dropped to her knees in front of the sofa. Her fingers, listening to the sweet words of Mr. Ogden—but that was okay, because Ginny wanted someone else to be telling her what to do anyway—stroked the soft skin of his cheek and gently moved his hair off of his forehead. She hadn't expected his skin to be so smooth, and she didn't know why this interested her so much. Her fingers continued their stroking as her head lowered to his, and before she knew it, their lips were touching.
But it wasn't enough.
No. Not enough. So she moved her lips, slowly, just a little. Her free hand, the one that wasn't possessed and caressing his face, rose up to his chest to steady her and keep her from falling, and all the while her lips moved over his, willing his to move with her.
And then they did. And then there was a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her down with such force, she thought she would fall into him. Lips moved and tongues and teeth and hands and fingers, and then she was straddling him and she'd lost her shirt, somehow, and he'd lost something too, but Ginny didn't know what it was.
It was fast and hot and just what the hole in her stomach needed, because with every kiss, every touch, another brick covered it up, another stitch kept it closed.
It felt so fucking good, so goddamn good. Even his breaths, quick and desperate and hot on her skin, were like a salve, healing her wounds, making her whole again, sealing up the part of her where that chunk of Harry used to reside.
He stopped, staring up at her with shiny eyes, and she wondered if he was going to remember this in the morning and wondered if she would be filled with regret. Mr. Ogden told her she wouldn't regret a goddamn thing and that she needed to stop wondering about shit and just fuck him already. Malfoy's lips parted and Ginny leaned down to kiss him again, but his voice stopped her cold, froze the alcohol in her system so that she was thinking clearly for just one second.
"You're beautiful, you fucked up woman," he said. She wanted to laugh—uproariously and in the most obnoxious way. She really was fucked up. She was just as bad as the vultures she'd stolen him from.
But his words weren't enough to make her stop. No, they weren't, because he'd called her beautiful and it had been so long since someone had. So she disposed of her bra and crashed her lips to his, as his hands reached up to roam her skin, across her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. Right over the hole, holding it closed.
None of it was enough, so they didn't stop until exhaustion paralyzed their muscles and the sofa welcomed their slumber with open, comfortable arms.
When Draco woke up, he wished he hadn't. Sunlight burst in through a window and seemed to aim straight for his head, blinding him and making his brain throb with so much pain he wished he would die.
But then he found a naked red-headed woman draped over him and remembered the previous night—well, parts of it, anyway—and he didn't quite want to die just yet, because what he recalled of the night's activities was well worth a headache that felt like the Cruciatus.
The woman on top of him stirred and lifted her head, a grimace twisting her face into an expression of intense discomfort. To his surprise, it did not bother him to realize that she was a Weasley; only intrigued him more and made him wonder what had happened last night that had led to their current positions.
"Who turned on the goddamn sun?" she snarled, grasping her head. "Shit."
"I don't know but they need to fucking turn it off," Draco replied, wincing at the loudness of her voice.
"Fuck," they said at the same time.
She pushed herself up off his chest, giving him an eyeful of her breasts, which he stared at as if for the first time, but he knew it wasn't, because he remembered touching and licking and kissing them the night before. Draco didn't try to move; when he did, his head cracked down the middle and exploded several times per second, so he lay still as she gently repositioned herself until she was sitting on his knees.
He took this time to look around the flat and was surprised by how nice it was, considering she was a Weasley. Then he remembered—how could he have forgotten, really?—that she had been dating Potter since they'd left Hogwarts and the niceness of the flat made sense.
"Looks like Potter pays you well for your services, eh?" he said as he admired the brickwork of the fireplace.
She didn't say anything, but stood up and started gathering her clothes, her back facing him the whole time. It occurred to him, as she snatched clothing from the ground, that she was angry now, but what the hell did she have to be angry about?
"Hey, what's got your knickers in a twist?"
"If you'll notice, I'm not wearing any damn knickers," she snapped.
"Oh, I noticed." He eyed her bum as she straightened up and stormed into another room—to get dressed, he presumed. As soon as the door shut soundly, if loudly, behind her, he jumped up and started plucking his clothes off the floor as well.
When she reentered the room ten minutes later, Draco sat impeccably dressed in his wrinkled clothes, staring into a fire he'd taken the liberty to construct in the fireplace.
"You're still here?" Weasley asked dully.
"Of course," he replied. "It'd be rude to leave without notice, now wouldn't it?"
"You're giving me a lesson about rudeness?" she said in disbelief. "Has the world ended since I woke up this morning?"
"It's afternoon, actually." She rolled her eyes, but in the spirit of camaraderie—maybe—she reclaimed her seat in the armchair rather than toss him out on his arse. "Your language has improved."
"You aren't cursing nearly as much as I remember you doing last night, or even fifteen minutes ago."
For a woman who could curse like a naughty jobberknoll, she blushed impressively. It pleased him to see it for some reason. He'd managed to knock her off the stiff stool she stood on, staring down on this situation with cool objectivity, and force her to feel embarrassment for what they'd done. Draco wasn't embarrassed at all. He couldn't even remember the night in its entirety, and even if he could, what did he have to be embarrassed about?
"Why don't you tell me how I came to be here and participate in sexual intercourse with one such as yourself, hm?"
Her face and ears grew redder, which Draco thought was a rather fetching look on her, but as if to make up for her mortification, her eyes narrowed into slits. He met her glare with an innocent look of curiosity that he knew she couldn't compete against.
She blinked first, sighed, and looked into the fire.
"You were drop dead pissed and the vultures you were with were all over you like... like..." Her words faltered and her hands waved in the air as if trying to catch an acceptable simile. Draco stared back at her blankly, causing her to sigh again, this time in exasperation. "Well, I couldn't let them do that, could I? You were unconscious! That's... that's wrong, that is!"
"So you thought it would be a better idea to whisk me away to your lovely abode and have me for yourself?"
"No! No. No, I... That was an accident, really. I... Stupid of me, honestly. I was thinking of something else and you were here and... I never expected you to respond."
"I see," he said slowly, because it was obvious that she was worried and saying it slowly and calmly as he had made the two words sound much graver than he meant them. "No worries though. Whether it was you or the three harpies who had accompanied me yesterday evening, I would have woken up today a very satisfied man. Except for this headache."
"I see," she answered. Only, her "I see" was indeed meant in the gravest way imaginable, if the crease in her eyebrow and the dropping of the corners of her lips were anything to go by. Draco held his breath and waited for a typical Weasley explosion of some sort, but none came. She stood up, smoothing the material of her pants, and turned toward the kitchen. "I'm sure you can show yourself out."
But Draco didn't make a move to leave. He crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa, looking around once again at the posh décor.
He always was one for pushing buttons. "Where is Potter, by the way?"
She raced back to the doorway, a livid expression on her face and in her posture.
"I told you to get out!"
"Actually, you didn't."
"What the hell, Malfoy! Why do you have to fucking dig and dig and dig? Just leave it alone and get out of my flat!"
She pointed at the door savagely, her face splotched, not just from her anger but from the tears that had begun to fall down her cheeks as well. Draco became serious at once; he knew he had crossed a line, and maybe he should have just left like she wanted him to, but having grown up with Pansy Parkinson as a friend, he knew that some things just needed to be talked out. Her actions the previous night spoke of a desperation that he recognized now that he could see some real emotion on her face, and she wouldn't feel any better until she faced the root of the problem.
He stood up slowly, and she lowered her arm, but her chest still heaved with sobs she tried valiantly to suppress.
He said calmly, "Just tell me where Potter is and I'll go."
"Fuck you, you pointy little bastard. Just fuck you!"
The words "you already did" were on the tip of his tongue, but now was not the time. His arms were suddenly full of raging, crying woman and it took all his strength just to keep her from strangling him.
"Where is he, Weasley?" Draco was almost afraid that she had killed him.
"I don't know! He left, okay? He left me for someone else!"
She finally stopped trying to wrap her fingers around his throat and just collapsed against him, crying in earnest. It took every ounce of his decency not to sneer at her, it really did. What he wanted to do was rejoice. As it turned out, the great Harry Potter was a snotty human being, and a Weasley got knocked down a peg. He wanted to take advantage of his position in this situation. He wanted to sneer and make fun and laugh and smirk and do all the things he did best when looking down on people.
And he would have, too, if he had been walking down Diagon Alley and heard the latest gossip. If instead of sleeping with her, he'd met her on the street as she'd done some shopping. It would have been his pleasure to rub it in her face, to make sure she hadn't forgotten what Potter had done.
But they weren't strangers anymore. True, he didn't have a clue what her first name was, but he had seen every centimeter of her body, mapped it with his hands, marked it with his lips, and he'd also borne witness to the very unattractive tears of her pain.
Besides, she'd been a damn good shag—as far as he could remember—and if he ever hoped for a repeat, it would be unwise for him to belittle her now.
He patted her hair gently, and when her tears had slowed down and her sobs were few and far between, he lifted her chin and then wiped the wetness off her cheeks.
"There. Better?" She nodded, her eyes darting to the floor. Her face reddened in that fetching way that he had decided he liked. "Potter is an idiot, if that makes you feel any better. No? Damn. Thought that'd work."
Her lips quirked up into the tiniest of smiles.
And then Draco got the greatest idea he had ever had. There was a way for Weasley to get what she wanted—either to get Potter back (Draco shuddered) or to get back at him—and for him to get what he wanted—another shag with Weasley.
He sat her down on the sofa. "I'll make some tea," he said, giving himself permission to use her kitchen. When he came back a few minutes later with two cups of Earl Grey, she had dried her eyes and wiped her nose, and now looked much calmer.
"I've got a proposition, for you," Draco started. He took a sip of tea, glancing at her through his eyelashes as she eyed him warily. "And seeing how you took delicious advantage of me in my drunken and vulnerable state last night, I don't think you have any right to say no."
Lia's Avant-Garde Challenge
You never thought there'd come a time when you were forced (okay-given the option) to write something unconventional. Well, my dears, that time is nigh. And before you get your knickers in a twist, I assure you that this challenge is not nearly as daunting as it looks. All I want you to do is write something that you have never written before.
'What do you mean?' you ask.
I mean, try something new-something different from what you normally write. Be daring. Stray from (your) conventional mould. Do you always write fluff? Try your hand at angst. Do you ordinarily focus on Draco? Well, throw the spotlight on Ginny this time. Have you never written in the first person? Start now. See? Not so bad. If you want to write something completely 'out there', do that too.
All I ask is that you be creative and follow the simple rules below:
1. It must be D/G oriented.
2. It must have a T-M rating.
3. You must use at least one of the following phrases in your story: 'there's something about your eyes', 'we're all born innocent', or 'you're a beautiful, f *** k e d up man' (replace 'man' with 'woman' or 'girl' if you wish to address the other gender).
4. It must be 1,000 words in length, minimum (this is not including author notes).
5. It must be beta'd.
6. You must post it on FIA as well as FFN-it's time to get over your fears, ladies (just be glad that I'm not making you submit to MNFF).