(no subject)
I've been meaning to post this for aaaages, but I keep forgetting. A while ago I participated in the dgficexchange. You can read the fic I received here, which was written for me by cliodnahpfan, and I am going to shamelessly post my own fic here, because I can. :)
Title: Some Sanctuary
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: HBP spoilers
Summary: She wasn't his, and never had been.
A/N: For sillysun22, who requested a dark and desperate fic (with a happy ending). I don't know how well I succeeded! Thank you to mynuet for the beta. :)
Some Sanctuary
The street outside the window was dark, only a distant neon shop sign casting wan red light on the rain-slicked cobbles. The air was chill out there, and inside the dingy, narrow room it was scarcely warmer. Even the rats avoided this place, as if in acknowledgement of its squalor.
Ginny's hair was spread across the grey pillows in a wave of red-gold fire, the only vibrancy in the colourless room. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even in the slow rhythm of sleep. She looked unreal, like a gilded angel. Soon she would wake up, rise from the bed, collect her scattered things and dress. She would smile, perhaps come to him where he sat in the window and kiss him lingeringly.
And then she would leave.
She always left. He had asked her to stay, only once, and she'd refused. People would miss her; her brothers, her mother, her father, her friends. He hadn't said what he was thinking-he would miss her, did miss her. She had family and friends, had all the things he'd lost in the war. He had nothing. Only her.
But he didn't want to tell her that. She treated this...liaison as if it were something casual, as if it meant nothing to her. They never went anywhere together, never met up with friends, never did anything that normal couples might do. Because they weren't a normal couple. She was beloved by so many, a veteran of the right side of the war, friend to Harry Potter, baby sister to a score of heroic Weasleys, and he was...well. None of those things, to be sure.
Ginny shifted in her sleep, turning her head so he could see her face. In the dim light he couldn't see the freckles on her nose, but he knew they were there, had counted them, kissed each one individually while she laughed and laughed. "Hold still," he'd told her, and, "I said, hold still," then had finally had to kiss her into submission, and forgot about her freckles altogether. The memory made him shift restlessly on the window seat, half-wanting to wake her and kiss her again, half-afraid that if she did she would push him off and leave all the sooner. She wasn't known for her patience, his red-haired girl.
Though really, she wasn't his, and never had been.
~*~
One year earlier
Draco pressed his back into the rough bricks and held his wand at the ready, pointed at the door. His palm was sweating, his hand trembling slightly-he liked to think it only trembled because he hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks, and not out of fear.
The cellar he was hiding in was supposed to be a safe-house, a hiding place that Snape had fixed up years ago, during the first war with Voldemort. It was ringed with spells, defensive and otherwise, nigh impenetrable. Draco had believed it, too, right up until he began to hear footsteps on the floor overhead, tromping up and down the stairs that led to the hidden door. He wasn't sure who would be worse; Death Eaters or Potter. Both wanted him dead, neither would be particularly gentle in going about it.
Draco bit his lip as the last of the spells broke and the door swung inward, a lighted wand-tip appearing as it did so. He flinched from the brightness, his eyes too used to the darkness.
It wasn't Potter, though it might as well have been. Ginny Weasley was scarcely an improvement. She gave the room a cursory glance and spotted him right off. The cellar was small, and there weren't any hiding places in it, the assumption being that if anyone got this far, the refuge-seeker was dead anyway. Draco sighed and lowered his wand.
"Toss it here," she said, her voice low and surprisingly pleasant. He did so, and she grabbed it out of the air with grace. She'd played Seeker for Gryffindor, he remembered, and later Chaser.
Her hair looked closer to brown than red in the gloom, her eyes in shadow so he couldn't read the expression in them as she looked at him. After a moment she tilted her head toward the door. "Come on, then. I'll take you in to Headquarters."
Headquarters turned out to be a series of tents ranged on the lawn of Hogwarts-Ginny Flooed them there and pulled him through the crowd milling about to a largish open tent near the lake. Potter was there, and several of her brothers, and Granger.
Ginny presented Draco with a certain air of smugness. "I found him in that abandoned cottage outside Uffington. The one you said Snape mentioned. He was hiding in the cellar. No one else around...no Death Eaters."
Pandemonium erupted. Draco followed the shouting with interest; it seemed the youngest Weasley wasn't supposed to have gone anywhere near his cottage, nor do what she'd been doing when she found him. She held her own, standing toe to toe with Potter and her brothers, the air around her practically sparking with her anger.
In the midst of it, Granger came and took his arm. She shoved the sleeve of his left arm up, examining the faded Dark Mark with a frown. It wasn't active anymore; with Voldemort dead it was nothing more than a rather ugly tattoo, a permanent reminder of a misspent youth.
"You'll have to see McGonagall," she said. "And then we'll decide what to do with you."
*
Eventually they decided not to do anything with him, except find him a flat in London and forbid him from using magic anymore. He hadn't actually taken part in any skirmishes, and his only crime was failing to kill Dumbledore, which really wasn't a crime at all to anyone but Voldemort. The government offered him a stipend-since having former Death Eaters starving in the streets was bad form-and he still had a small inheritance left over from before the war, which was good because the Ministry began passing laws preventing Death Eaters from holding down jobs. Not for the first time, Draco cursed himself for his naïveté, for believing everything his father told him.
The flat was in a poor section of town, and looked as depressed as Draco felt. He didn't go out, because that meant fielding the stares of non-Death Eater folk, and he didn't have visitors because that was forbidden by the latest Ministry statute preventing congregation of Death Eaters. He wouldn't admit to loneliness. After all, a London flat was a vast improvement over an Uffington cottage. The street below got lots of traffic, and he could sit in his window and people-watch all day if he wanted. He could order books (vetted by the Ministry) and he could write, and he could leave if he wanted to.
It was a complete surprise when Ginny Weasley arrived at his flat one night, pushed him up against the back of the door and slid her hand down his trousers. It was abundantly clear what she wanted, and it didn't even occur to Draco to object to having his flat invaded in such a way until well after she left. Even then, all he could think was that he was grateful his sheets were clean and he'd done the washing up.
He didn't expect it to happen again; she hadn't given any indication that it would, after all, and he was growing used to not having company. Still, he wasn't really surprised when she knocked at his door one night. This time she smelled faintly of Firewhisky and swayed on her feet as she fumbled with his robes.
Later, as they lay tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"Does it matter?" she replied, her voice muffled by the pillow and the edge of his arm, where her head was buried. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
Draco stared at the ceiling, flashing white and red with the pulse of the neon sign down the block. "No, I suppose it doesn't."
Ginny slung a leg over his hips and sat up, straddling him. Her hair tumbled over her bare, freckled shoulders as she leaned down and reached for his hands, bringing them to her breasts. He cupped them, since that was what she wanted, rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and watched as she threw her head back and moaned. She shifted and reached down with one hand to adjust his cock, sliding herself down onto him. "Oh God," she whispered. "God, Draco, that feels so good."
He nodded, too caught up in sensation to reply, and thought, at least she remembered who he was.
He learned enough about her over the next months to piece together her reasons. She was an impatient thing, and chafed at restrictions. He was her rebellion, her way of thumbing her nose at her family and friends without having to actually rebel, since no one knew she came here at odd intervals and shagged him rotten. He learned her reasons the way he learned her body, what things made her giggle, what made her catch her breath or moan, what sent her over the edge every time, without fail.
Draco began to worry he was growing too attached when he started to miss her when she wasn't there. After the first few times, she began showing up more often. Every two weeks, then every weekend, then several times a week. The sex was good-it was always good-but he wasn't sure what would happen if he admitted that it wasn't just the sex. He didn't know if she was still coming to him out of rebellion, or if there was more to this for her too.
He would ask, but he wasn't really sure he wanted to know.
~*~
Present Day
Ginny stirred, flinging one arm out, her hand grasping at the empty sheet where he normally slept. She woke frowning, her eyes searching the room until she spotted him at the window. She inhaled, as if to speak, then breathed out in a sigh and shoved a hand through her tangled hair. After a moment she shoved the sheets back and climbed out of the bed, picking up her scattered clothes in a sort of reverse strip-tease.
"I'm off," she said finally, balancing on one foot to slide her shoe on. She glanced at him, then came across the room to kiss him. Draco let her, curling his hand against his leg to keep from burying it in her hair. "I'll come 'round later, yeah?"
He hesitated, long enough for her to pull back and look at him, her auburn eyebrows pulling together in a frown.
"Yeah," he said. "Later."
And watched her leave.
Title: Some Sanctuary
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: HBP spoilers
Summary: She wasn't his, and never had been.
A/N: For sillysun22, who requested a dark and desperate fic (with a happy ending). I don't know how well I succeeded! Thank you to mynuet for the beta. :)
Some Sanctuary
The street outside the window was dark, only a distant neon shop sign casting wan red light on the rain-slicked cobbles. The air was chill out there, and inside the dingy, narrow room it was scarcely warmer. Even the rats avoided this place, as if in acknowledgement of its squalor.
Ginny's hair was spread across the grey pillows in a wave of red-gold fire, the only vibrancy in the colourless room. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even in the slow rhythm of sleep. She looked unreal, like a gilded angel. Soon she would wake up, rise from the bed, collect her scattered things and dress. She would smile, perhaps come to him where he sat in the window and kiss him lingeringly.
And then she would leave.
She always left. He had asked her to stay, only once, and she'd refused. People would miss her; her brothers, her mother, her father, her friends. He hadn't said what he was thinking-he would miss her, did miss her. She had family and friends, had all the things he'd lost in the war. He had nothing. Only her.
But he didn't want to tell her that. She treated this...liaison as if it were something casual, as if it meant nothing to her. They never went anywhere together, never met up with friends, never did anything that normal couples might do. Because they weren't a normal couple. She was beloved by so many, a veteran of the right side of the war, friend to Harry Potter, baby sister to a score of heroic Weasleys, and he was...well. None of those things, to be sure.
Ginny shifted in her sleep, turning her head so he could see her face. In the dim light he couldn't see the freckles on her nose, but he knew they were there, had counted them, kissed each one individually while she laughed and laughed. "Hold still," he'd told her, and, "I said, hold still," then had finally had to kiss her into submission, and forgot about her freckles altogether. The memory made him shift restlessly on the window seat, half-wanting to wake her and kiss her again, half-afraid that if she did she would push him off and leave all the sooner. She wasn't known for her patience, his red-haired girl.
Though really, she wasn't his, and never had been.
~*~
One year earlier
Draco pressed his back into the rough bricks and held his wand at the ready, pointed at the door. His palm was sweating, his hand trembling slightly-he liked to think it only trembled because he hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks, and not out of fear.
The cellar he was hiding in was supposed to be a safe-house, a hiding place that Snape had fixed up years ago, during the first war with Voldemort. It was ringed with spells, defensive and otherwise, nigh impenetrable. Draco had believed it, too, right up until he began to hear footsteps on the floor overhead, tromping up and down the stairs that led to the hidden door. He wasn't sure who would be worse; Death Eaters or Potter. Both wanted him dead, neither would be particularly gentle in going about it.
Draco bit his lip as the last of the spells broke and the door swung inward, a lighted wand-tip appearing as it did so. He flinched from the brightness, his eyes too used to the darkness.
It wasn't Potter, though it might as well have been. Ginny Weasley was scarcely an improvement. She gave the room a cursory glance and spotted him right off. The cellar was small, and there weren't any hiding places in it, the assumption being that if anyone got this far, the refuge-seeker was dead anyway. Draco sighed and lowered his wand.
"Toss it here," she said, her voice low and surprisingly pleasant. He did so, and she grabbed it out of the air with grace. She'd played Seeker for Gryffindor, he remembered, and later Chaser.
Her hair looked closer to brown than red in the gloom, her eyes in shadow so he couldn't read the expression in them as she looked at him. After a moment she tilted her head toward the door. "Come on, then. I'll take you in to Headquarters."
Headquarters turned out to be a series of tents ranged on the lawn of Hogwarts-Ginny Flooed them there and pulled him through the crowd milling about to a largish open tent near the lake. Potter was there, and several of her brothers, and Granger.
Ginny presented Draco with a certain air of smugness. "I found him in that abandoned cottage outside Uffington. The one you said Snape mentioned. He was hiding in the cellar. No one else around...no Death Eaters."
Pandemonium erupted. Draco followed the shouting with interest; it seemed the youngest Weasley wasn't supposed to have gone anywhere near his cottage, nor do what she'd been doing when she found him. She held her own, standing toe to toe with Potter and her brothers, the air around her practically sparking with her anger.
In the midst of it, Granger came and took his arm. She shoved the sleeve of his left arm up, examining the faded Dark Mark with a frown. It wasn't active anymore; with Voldemort dead it was nothing more than a rather ugly tattoo, a permanent reminder of a misspent youth.
"You'll have to see McGonagall," she said. "And then we'll decide what to do with you."
*
Eventually they decided not to do anything with him, except find him a flat in London and forbid him from using magic anymore. He hadn't actually taken part in any skirmishes, and his only crime was failing to kill Dumbledore, which really wasn't a crime at all to anyone but Voldemort. The government offered him a stipend-since having former Death Eaters starving in the streets was bad form-and he still had a small inheritance left over from before the war, which was good because the Ministry began passing laws preventing Death Eaters from holding down jobs. Not for the first time, Draco cursed himself for his naïveté, for believing everything his father told him.
The flat was in a poor section of town, and looked as depressed as Draco felt. He didn't go out, because that meant fielding the stares of non-Death Eater folk, and he didn't have visitors because that was forbidden by the latest Ministry statute preventing congregation of Death Eaters. He wouldn't admit to loneliness. After all, a London flat was a vast improvement over an Uffington cottage. The street below got lots of traffic, and he could sit in his window and people-watch all day if he wanted. He could order books (vetted by the Ministry) and he could write, and he could leave if he wanted to.
It was a complete surprise when Ginny Weasley arrived at his flat one night, pushed him up against the back of the door and slid her hand down his trousers. It was abundantly clear what she wanted, and it didn't even occur to Draco to object to having his flat invaded in such a way until well after she left. Even then, all he could think was that he was grateful his sheets were clean and he'd done the washing up.
He didn't expect it to happen again; she hadn't given any indication that it would, after all, and he was growing used to not having company. Still, he wasn't really surprised when she knocked at his door one night. This time she smelled faintly of Firewhisky and swayed on her feet as she fumbled with his robes.
Later, as they lay tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"Does it matter?" she replied, her voice muffled by the pillow and the edge of his arm, where her head was buried. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
Draco stared at the ceiling, flashing white and red with the pulse of the neon sign down the block. "No, I suppose it doesn't."
Ginny slung a leg over his hips and sat up, straddling him. Her hair tumbled over her bare, freckled shoulders as she leaned down and reached for his hands, bringing them to her breasts. He cupped them, since that was what she wanted, rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and watched as she threw her head back and moaned. She shifted and reached down with one hand to adjust his cock, sliding herself down onto him. "Oh God," she whispered. "God, Draco, that feels so good."
He nodded, too caught up in sensation to reply, and thought, at least she remembered who he was.
He learned enough about her over the next months to piece together her reasons. She was an impatient thing, and chafed at restrictions. He was her rebellion, her way of thumbing her nose at her family and friends without having to actually rebel, since no one knew she came here at odd intervals and shagged him rotten. He learned her reasons the way he learned her body, what things made her giggle, what made her catch her breath or moan, what sent her over the edge every time, without fail.
Draco began to worry he was growing too attached when he started to miss her when she wasn't there. After the first few times, she began showing up more often. Every two weeks, then every weekend, then several times a week. The sex was good-it was always good-but he wasn't sure what would happen if he admitted that it wasn't just the sex. He didn't know if she was still coming to him out of rebellion, or if there was more to this for her too.
He would ask, but he wasn't really sure he wanted to know.
~*~
Present Day
Ginny stirred, flinging one arm out, her hand grasping at the empty sheet where he normally slept. She woke frowning, her eyes searching the room until she spotted him at the window. She inhaled, as if to speak, then breathed out in a sigh and shoved a hand through her tangled hair. After a moment she shoved the sheets back and climbed out of the bed, picking up her scattered clothes in a sort of reverse strip-tease.
"I'm off," she said finally, balancing on one foot to slide her shoe on. She glanced at him, then came across the room to kiss him. Draco let her, curling his hand against his leg to keep from burying it in her hair. "I'll come 'round later, yeah?"
He hesitated, long enough for her to pull back and look at him, her auburn eyebrows pulling together in a frown.
"Yeah," he said. "Later."
And watched her leave.