This one's for you, baby
"Born Toulouse-Lautrec"
Ginny/Hermione
The girls have a night on the town.
R-ish.
They stay out late, too late, way past curfew and Hermione says this is wrong, we should go, we could get caught but her voice is breathless and giddy and Ginny doesn't even bother to reply. She's carefull not to brush against the newly-tattooed stretch of skin on Hermione's upper arm, so when she pulls her along she doesn't touch, just beckons, fingers curling and wagging like a whore's.
"C'mon, in here," Ginny says, dashing down the cracking concrete steps of some neon-greasy bar, flashing the ID she made in 7th year as Hermione tumbles after.
"Are you sure this is - " Because she's still uncertain, because under all the booze and magic there's that carefully-ordered part of her mind that knows she could wind up in Azkaban for this.
But Ginny swings an arm around her waist and pulls her close, bites her ear and then the underside of her chin and says "Of course it's okay, we're safe, all right?" as all the men in the bar turn around and watch. "You'll have to pay," she says to the room, "to see the rest," and turns to the bartender and orders a doublevodkatonic with a flair and wink while Hermione turns bright red and hisses her name.
"Could I possibly have that to go?" Ginny asks the bartender, leaning in real close so her cleavage shows. And, really, that's a crazy request but still the guy grins and reaches behind him and pulls out a dirty-looking plastic bottle, pours in the drink and says something like anything for you, pretty little girlie.
Ginny weaves her way over to Hermione, who's talking to a biker type about cats and the virtue of uniform skirts. "C'mon, let's go," she says, and drags her long red nails through Hermione's hair. "Up and at 'em, girl."
They leave, Ginny blowing kisses and Hermione fingering the scrap of napkin with a number on it in her pocket. The streets are dark and she holds back a few steps so she can watch the shadows curve their way down Ginny's spine. "I like your hair," she says, and Ginny doesn't turn around to look at her, just tosses her head.
"Yeah, I thought it was time for black again," Ginny says. "And it goes perfect with this skin. You should try it."
But no, Hermione thinks, I'd never go black. Too noticable. Too obvious. She self-consciously pats her straight ash-brown hair, and before she can start second-guessing herself, like hey maybe it's time for a change, Ginny's twisting her hips around a corner and down into another basement, this one dark and smoky.
"Having a good night, girls?" asks the bouncer, a muscle-bound black guy with a shaved head and earring. He looks familiar, but then again so do half the people in this town, and they don't spare him a second glance as they slip through the crowd.
"So, you'd go out with a Muggle?" Ginny asks in between sips of her martini. "And don't give me that look, I saw him give you his number."
This time last year, Ginny wasn't able to identify a telephone, let alone a number in a dimly-lit hole in the wall, but, yeah, things have changed and Hermione nods and says, "I think I would."
"Rebel, rebel," Ginny mocks, but she's already out of her seat, her fingers caught on someone's shirt, her skirt shifting under his hands. The music's too loud to think and Hermione just watches her for a while, studies the spotless skin and long neck, longer legs. Her body's starting to look familiar. The eyes, though, the eyes are still the same and they've been burned into Hermione's mind for the past two years. Only thing stable here, those fucking dead eyes like absinthe.
Hermione makes herself look away, orders another drink, and listens. A man and a woman at the next table are talking about pogroms and she knows it's code but she doesn't care anymore, doesn't have anything to do with that anymore.
"C'mon, c'mon, let's go," Ginny says breathlessly, her face flushed. "I've got it, let's go." She shoves the glass bottle of Polyjuice into her handbag.
Down the street they go, high heels clattering on the pavement, arms drunkenly flung around each other. But, then: "Shh, listen."
Hermione stops and frowns. "What is it?"
"Listen," Ginny says again, and holds up a finger.
Above them is the immistakable matte black of the Death Eater squadron, brooms in close formation. They hold their breath and try to look casual as the searchlights pass over them.
"Oh, not now," Hermione says, her hand going reflexively up to her new tattoo.
Ginny grins shakily and holds her hand tightly, nails digging into skin. "Don't worry, it'll work, Drake's an expert."
And he must be, because the lights keep going, and as soon as the street is dark again Hermione's legs give out and she slides roughly to the ground. "Oh, fuck," she gasps, laughing so hard her ribs ache. "Oh Merlin, oh jeezus. Fuck."
"Language, sweetie," Ginny whispers into her ear, and kisses her. "Are you okay?"
"Never been better," Hermione says, and giggles. "C'mon, let's go."
"Oi, Ginny," she asks later, when they're sprawled around each other, leaning against a warehouse wall. "Have you ever been in love?"
Ginny looks up at her with those eyes and traces the curve of her breast with the tip of her perfectly-manicured nail. "Every night, darling. I fall in love every night. That's the only way to do it now, you know."
"That's not what I meant," Hermione says, but her exasperation falls away when Ginny leans in to kiss her, moves a hand up her thigh and under her skirt. And now's not the time to think about that kind of thing, anyway, not the time at all. She stretches out on the thin grass growing through the concrete and watches the sun rise over Ginny's back.
Titled after the song of the same name by the New Bomb Turks. Inspired by the compilation Greaseball Melodrama. Don't you know that rock and roll will save your soul?
Ginny/Hermione
The girls have a night on the town.
R-ish.
They stay out late, too late, way past curfew and Hermione says this is wrong, we should go, we could get caught but her voice is breathless and giddy and Ginny doesn't even bother to reply. She's carefull not to brush against the newly-tattooed stretch of skin on Hermione's upper arm, so when she pulls her along she doesn't touch, just beckons, fingers curling and wagging like a whore's.
"C'mon, in here," Ginny says, dashing down the cracking concrete steps of some neon-greasy bar, flashing the ID she made in 7th year as Hermione tumbles after.
"Are you sure this is - " Because she's still uncertain, because under all the booze and magic there's that carefully-ordered part of her mind that knows she could wind up in Azkaban for this.
But Ginny swings an arm around her waist and pulls her close, bites her ear and then the underside of her chin and says "Of course it's okay, we're safe, all right?" as all the men in the bar turn around and watch. "You'll have to pay," she says to the room, "to see the rest," and turns to the bartender and orders a doublevodkatonic with a flair and wink while Hermione turns bright red and hisses her name.
"Could I possibly have that to go?" Ginny asks the bartender, leaning in real close so her cleavage shows. And, really, that's a crazy request but still the guy grins and reaches behind him and pulls out a dirty-looking plastic bottle, pours in the drink and says something like anything for you, pretty little girlie.
Ginny weaves her way over to Hermione, who's talking to a biker type about cats and the virtue of uniform skirts. "C'mon, let's go," she says, and drags her long red nails through Hermione's hair. "Up and at 'em, girl."
They leave, Ginny blowing kisses and Hermione fingering the scrap of napkin with a number on it in her pocket. The streets are dark and she holds back a few steps so she can watch the shadows curve their way down Ginny's spine. "I like your hair," she says, and Ginny doesn't turn around to look at her, just tosses her head.
"Yeah, I thought it was time for black again," Ginny says. "And it goes perfect with this skin. You should try it."
But no, Hermione thinks, I'd never go black. Too noticable. Too obvious. She self-consciously pats her straight ash-brown hair, and before she can start second-guessing herself, like hey maybe it's time for a change, Ginny's twisting her hips around a corner and down into another basement, this one dark and smoky.
"Having a good night, girls?" asks the bouncer, a muscle-bound black guy with a shaved head and earring. He looks familiar, but then again so do half the people in this town, and they don't spare him a second glance as they slip through the crowd.
"So, you'd go out with a Muggle?" Ginny asks in between sips of her martini. "And don't give me that look, I saw him give you his number."
This time last year, Ginny wasn't able to identify a telephone, let alone a number in a dimly-lit hole in the wall, but, yeah, things have changed and Hermione nods and says, "I think I would."
"Rebel, rebel," Ginny mocks, but she's already out of her seat, her fingers caught on someone's shirt, her skirt shifting under his hands. The music's too loud to think and Hermione just watches her for a while, studies the spotless skin and long neck, longer legs. Her body's starting to look familiar. The eyes, though, the eyes are still the same and they've been burned into Hermione's mind for the past two years. Only thing stable here, those fucking dead eyes like absinthe.
Hermione makes herself look away, orders another drink, and listens. A man and a woman at the next table are talking about pogroms and she knows it's code but she doesn't care anymore, doesn't have anything to do with that anymore.
"C'mon, c'mon, let's go," Ginny says breathlessly, her face flushed. "I've got it, let's go." She shoves the glass bottle of Polyjuice into her handbag.
Down the street they go, high heels clattering on the pavement, arms drunkenly flung around each other. But, then: "Shh, listen."
Hermione stops and frowns. "What is it?"
"Listen," Ginny says again, and holds up a finger.
Above them is the immistakable matte black of the Death Eater squadron, brooms in close formation. They hold their breath and try to look casual as the searchlights pass over them.
"Oh, not now," Hermione says, her hand going reflexively up to her new tattoo.
Ginny grins shakily and holds her hand tightly, nails digging into skin. "Don't worry, it'll work, Drake's an expert."
And he must be, because the lights keep going, and as soon as the street is dark again Hermione's legs give out and she slides roughly to the ground. "Oh, fuck," she gasps, laughing so hard her ribs ache. "Oh Merlin, oh jeezus. Fuck."
"Language, sweetie," Ginny whispers into her ear, and kisses her. "Are you okay?"
"Never been better," Hermione says, and giggles. "C'mon, let's go."
"Oi, Ginny," she asks later, when they're sprawled around each other, leaning against a warehouse wall. "Have you ever been in love?"
Ginny looks up at her with those eyes and traces the curve of her breast with the tip of her perfectly-manicured nail. "Every night, darling. I fall in love every night. That's the only way to do it now, you know."
"That's not what I meant," Hermione says, but her exasperation falls away when Ginny leans in to kiss her, moves a hand up her thigh and under her skirt. And now's not the time to think about that kind of thing, anyway, not the time at all. She stretches out on the thin grass growing through the concrete and watches the sun rise over Ginny's back.
Titled after the song of the same name by the New Bomb Turks. Inspired by the compilation Greaseball Melodrama. Don't you know that rock and roll will save your soul?