Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Warning: ADULT! SEXUAL CONTENT! NOT FOR CHILDRENS EYES! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Summary: Basically, I just wanted fanfiction where Harry cheats on Ginny - don't ask why, I just did - and I couldn't find any, so I decided to make my own. Starts of with Daphne, will move on to other HP characters.
Confessions
When Harry looks back on it, he never, not once, ever thought he'd be that person. You know, the one that cheats on his partner, in body and in emotion, and keeps on cheating, for the simple lone fact that he likes to do it.
He has always, perhaps naturally, expected to be every other part of himself that he is – the part that is the wizarding worlds "Hero", the muggle worlds "Sir", the "Peace Bringer", the Auror, the Friend, the Husband, the Father and the Uncle – in fact, he had expected (and in some cases, completely hoped and longed for)all of those things that he is, but he had not, ever would have, expected that part of himself, the other part, the shameful part – the part that is the Cheater, the Lier and the Barely Remorseful…
The part that had, not even over a long heart-breaking period of time, chosen to take more than his wife to his metaphorical bed, before going home to her and acting as if he hadn't.
He hadn't (at all) expected that part of himself– but then again, he hadn't really expected a lot of things that had happened in his life, but that hadn't meant that they hadn't happened.
And, for what it was worth, to those that it was worth it to, his "Mistakes", well, they certainly did happen – and they happened a lot.
.
.
It starts with Daphne, he supposes, as she is the first one.
He is not yet nineteen, at the time, and it is Christmas – or Yule as the wizarding world calls it – and he decides to get completely and utterly wasted, for the first time, at the "magnificent" party the Ministry throws.
Ginny, his friend and fiancée, isn't there, as she is busy with her own party, her first invite, with the Holyhead Harpies, and they had jokingly decided, weeks previously, that going to two different parties, once, wouldn't break the world or them.
Hermione is there, however, to keep him company, but she spends the entire night talking to a sick Ron through a mirror, before finally deciding to leave at ten to eleven, with a quick hug and a kiss to the cheek.
Harry choses, almost immediately, to stay, and he drinks and drinks his way through the rest of the night, until he manages to laugh with those that he secretly wants to yell at, and yells at those who try to take away the vast amounts of alcohol he suddenly wants to consume.
And for once the night isn't such a bust.
After all, in what feels like a century, he is finally free, free of his problems, free of his scars and free of his still there grief.
It gets to two am, slowly yet quickly, and that's when it happens. When he sees her. The blonde woman he barely recognises from Hogwarts, who is talking to a middle aged political type, and looks oh so bored, but is clearly attempting to keep a look of polite interest on her pretty face and is so obviously failing. And, he… well, he, in his absolute drunkenness,finds it hilarious, and decides right then and there that he should save her – and so, naturally, he does.
He walks over and interrupts the boring words being spoken, much to the conversationalist's mutual surprise, before spiriting her – Daphne, she has to remind him four times, in amusement, before he remembers – away.
They escape outside, quickly and easily, ignoring the many random looks they get – including Kingsley's bemusement – from the many politician's who are politicking, and away from the basic "stuffiness" of the whole affair, and for two hours – two whole hours – as they roam the streets of London, he talks and she listens, and she talks and he laughs. And not once does he think, does he remember, in all that time, anything about his life, past or present.
In that moment, there is only Daphne and their silly pointless conversation – and then, seconds later, there is only Daphne.
It is she, he remembers, that pulls him into the Alleyway, but it is his mouth that is hot on hers, as she does so. It is his hands that touch her robe clad skin, his hips that grind against hers, as she groans and moans and pulls.
It is her, though, that backs against the wall and takes the next step.
Her, who wraps her legs around his waist, and drags his robes up so she can reach what she wants to – what he wants her to have.
It doesn't take long after that before the clothing in the way is gone – hers as well as his – and he is pushing himself, slowly and exquisitely, within her. And when they move next, as they change the pace to fast and hard, as she scratches at his back and moans in ecstasy, as he bites and kisses, he doesn't feel anything but her, either.
It is her, her, her.
Not as he moves against her and not as she chants his name, like it was always supposed to be on her lips. Not as her nails dig into his flesh, drawing blood, or when her quick breath fans his check and the wind blows against his bare skin.
Not when he feels her so fully; feels her pleasure, feels her body moulded against him, feels her walls tense around him and feels as she begins to shudder, as she calls out, loudly and to the heavens, for him to come with her.
And he most definitely doesn't feel anything but her, when he does.