Inspiration comes from the oddest places. In this case, it was just the fact that I stayed out until 7 in the morning and came home in my girlfriend's leather jacket. Hm. I think this one is gonna be good, but you be the judge. Remember to tell me what you think; it makes me feel special.
Disclaimer: Obviously, sex & cigarettes are NOT prevalent in J. K. Rowling's books (such a shame, too). The characters mentioned, with the exception of the magenta-haired barista Skye, belong to her and various companies. Suing will be met with many shed emo tears. And you really don't want to see me cry.
Leather & Cigarettes
Chapter One: coffee and tea
It was midnight, and Ginny Weasley was craving coffee.
Well, 11:47, she amended in her head, pulling on her faded leather jacket. And I want espresso.
The lights were already out in her apartment. She always spent the late hours in darkness, waiting, wondering, pacing, thinking. She could never sleep. She didn't know of anyone who did anymore, anyway. Not since her sixth year of school. Not since the proverbial held breath of Harry Potter's life was exhaled in such a large sigh that it created a shockwave of chaos, sending Muggles and half-bloods and full-bloods into a fray of melee fighting that would take them to this point, two years later. Ginny had spent her sixth year being trained in all the Defense and Offense magic that the Ministry of Magic had neglected to add to the academic curriculum during her previous years, and had spent her seventh making her first kills, her first captures. Any ethical bone in her body had been broken by now. She didn't even remember why she had vomited and been sick for days after performing her first Unforgivable Curse on a Death Eater - oddly enough, the same Death Eater that had killed her brother Charlie only a month or two beforehand. She'd been wearing his jacket, too, the one he had left for her in the case of his death. It was a perfect fit. She never left the apartment without it.
Her feet fell into a steady rhythm as she walked down the rain-soaked concrete. It had been raining earlier; it had been raining a lot as of late. Ginny couldn't decide if it was weather spells to make it harder for them or for the Death Eaters to attack, or if the earth was simply trying to cleanse itself as fast as possible of all the bloodshed and corpses and dark magic that was soaking into the soil.
No stars again, she thought as she glanced up at the sky. She missed the Burrow, with its multitude of stars shining in the sky, so innocently. She missed the bright summers before this consistent darkness settled everywhere. With the hours she kept, with the weather the way it had been, she hadn't seen sunlight in days. It was as if Voldemort himself had reached up and taken the sun away, twisted it to his own dark desires, and left it mutilated behind the rain clouds, left it there to drown.
"Bastard," Ginny muttered, surprising a Muggle man who glared at her as she passed. But she didn't notice his offended expression; she was busy fumbling in her jacket pocket for her pack of cigarettes and lighter. She giggled slightly to herself as she put the black cigarette into her mouth and cupped her hand around the flame of the lighter, inhaling until it flared and crinkled. She breathed in the lethal cinnamon-flavored smoke into her lungs. While in Rome, do like the Romans. Otherwise, she just would have used her wand, tucked safely away in the other pocket to avoid a sticky situation.
She reached the coffee shop after taking two turns and nearly being run over by two nighttime drivers too worried about catching the darkness than the people that were still prowling the streets. She flicked them off appropriately, but otherwise didn't draw any other attention to herself. She wasn't the only witch wandering out this late; if she wasn't careful, she could be spotted, and it wouldn't be her half-finished cigarette that killed her.
She pushed open the door and didn't even bother putting out her cigarette. The owner, a middle-aged Muggle woman named Skye whose hair reminded Ginny of a magenta Medusa, knew her well enough by now to not ask her to put out her cigarettes. Besides, Ginny always showed up around this time, when Skye was closing up and no one else was in the shop besides starving artists and writers who smoked anyway. Ginny liked to think that perhaps she was inspiring them, inspiring paintings of redheads in black leather jackets, smoking swirling from a cigarette held between delicate fingers, blue eyes dark and filled with the night and the pain that it brought; inspiring poetry of a dark goddess who always ordered three shots of espresso and nothing else. Immortal because of addiction. Ginny grinned in spite of its twisted implications.
"The usual," Skye stated, never asked. The pink-haired coffee queen was beyond asking. Ginny nodded once and said nothing, only dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out the necessary amount. She was sure to always carry Muggle money with her. She never knew when she would need it, for cigarettes, coffee, or simply escaping from a nasty trap via the subway or bus. She always had to watch her back. She always had to be ready.
Skye sat the paper cup, hot to touch, on the counter and slipped the money from the counter into her hands, not bothering to count it as she put it in the designated spots in her cash register. Ginny mumbled a thank-you and good night and snatched the cup from the counter before making her exit.
It took another half of a block to finish her cigarette; she drowned it in a puddle without missing a step, then stumbled as she tried to take a sip of her espresso. The bitter nectar scorched her tongue pleasantly and dribbled a little on her chin from her misstep. She wiped it from her chin and cursed her clumsiness, just as she came into contact with a black form.
Her coffee spilled all over the front of her jacket. She swore aloud at her misfortune and thanked Merlin it was leather before her instincts kicked in. She threw the cup out of her hand and reached for her wand, taking a few steps back at the same time. But the person in front of her was not who she expected.
"Good evening," said the polite, familiar voice. It belonged to a woman, an inch or so shorter than she, with dark eyes and cinnamon-brown hair, elbow-length and slightly wavy, still damp from the last rainstorm. She wore a long black overcoat and black pinstripe trousers, perhaps a little too loose, the bottoms wet and frayed from wear. Her hands were stuffed in the front pockets, but Ginny knew what they looked like: delicate and ink-stained, the nails bitten down. She hoped that some things never did change.
"Hermione," Ginny replied, her tongue betraying her awkwardness. "It's - been a while." Slowly, she lowered her wand and replaced in her pocket.
Hermione smiled softly and nodded. "Yeah," she agreed softly. "Yes, it has."
"How have you -?" they started together, then laughed weakly. Ginny finished the sentence for them. "How have you been?"
The night seemed to swallow Hermione up momentarily. Her eyes grew darker, and the streetlights cast sunken shadows on her face. Ginny felt her heart sink. The war had not been kind to Hermione, then. Ideals had made her hope that Hermione was somehow being exempt from the pains that it was bringing to everyone else.
"I've been," Hermione started, stopped, and sighed. "I'm sure you can imagine. It hasn't been easy." Her eyes met Ginny's questioningly. "What about you?"
Ginny thought back to the past year. The death of Charlie, still weighing down her; the constant melees she had encountered, the close calls. Losing the leader of her entourage and having Harry name her the new leader. Almost getting herself and her companions killed too many times now. Her first kills, her last ones. Rescuing her parents from Lucius Malfoy, but not being able to catch him.
She summed it up with a shrug. "I'm sure you can imagine," she repeated. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. Hermione was looking at her too closely. Hermione was too close in general. She wished she hadn't thrown away her coffee in a panic. She could really use something to do with her hands.
This isn't fair, she thought to herself, shoving her hand into her pocket for another cigarette. It's been a year, she's here again, and I can't even muster a decent conversation. She flicked the lighter with frustration in her fingertips and sucked in the familiar smoke. She noticed Hermione's incredulous look and couldn't help but grin. "I know," she said, voicing what she expected Hermione's thoughts of her to be. "I used to be such a good girl."
To her surprise, Hermione didn't reprimand her. The brunette only shrugged. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," she quoted the old proverb, then chuckled lightly to herself. "Or just a cigarette."
Maybe it was the nicotine making friends with the caffeine, as they always did at this time of night, but Ginny suddenly felt jittery and nervous and rash. She took a drag from her cigarette and then hooked Hermione's eyes with her own, not letting go, even when she noticed the blush on the brunette's cheeks. Especially when she noticed the blush on the brunette's cheeks.
"Do you maybe want to -"
A stranger from the shadows cut her off. His long cloak and hidden face immediately tipped both of them off to what he was: a Death Eater. Ginny swore under her breath and tossed her cigarette, taking out her wand in its stead. Suddenly standing next to her, she noticed Hermione do the same.
"Don't you know it's not safe for two women to wander the streets at night?" asked the cruel, almost inhuman voice.
A strange feeling washed over her body just as the Death Eater raised his wand, like water droplets slipping slowly down her skin. Surprise stilled her own tongue from reacting; he made the first move before she could react.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he cried. Ginny was about to mutter the counter spell when, to her surprise, the Death Eater's spell crackled and died when it came into contact with her skin.
She could tell he was surprised as well. A look of rage overtook his features, but they blurred suddenly as she was being pulled away, Hermione shouting at her to hurry.
They ran together down the side streets of the neighborhood, avoiding trashcans and parked cars. Lightning raced across the sky, as if to race them, and thunder shielded their footsteps from echoing. Ginny was happy for Charlie's jacket as heavy rain began to fall.
Hermione had them stop abruptly, in a place Ginny only vaguely knew. Giving Ginny a look she couldn't read, Hermione grabbed Ginny's hand with her own and the familiar feeling of Apparating trickled down her scalp. The dark buildings and the rain became fuzzy and disappeared, melting away to a dark apartment.
"Well," Hermione said, breaking the silence and Ginny's disorientation. "That was an adventure. Would you like some tea?"
Ginny nodded dumbly and collapsed on the closest sitting facility, an old blackberry-colored couch that was surprisingly quite comfortable. Guilty about getting what she assumed was Hermione's apartment wet, she performed a quick evaporating charm on her clothes, the carpet, and the couch where she had been and removed her shoes, setting them neatly on the floor under the coffee table in front of her.
From there, she wasn't exactly sure what to do. She couldn't see Hermione, but she could hear the girl - no, woman - in the kitchen, the hiss of the kettle as it heated. She was humming softly to herself, as if this was just another day. As if it weren't raining outside for the twentieth time that day.
At least it looks like she's been living comfortably, Ginny thought to herself, regarding her surroundings. The living room had the couch and the coffee table, hard wood surface covered in pieces of parchment, books, quills, and ink wells, both full and empty; a Muggle television set on top of a wooden stand, a few knickknacks here and there on shelves of books nailed to the walls around the room; a single bookshelf off to the side, over by the wall that also held the doorway to the kitchen, door missing; a hallway leading from behind the couch to what Ginny assumed was a bedroom and a bathroom. The front door was on the opposite wall, to the left of the television.
Ordinary. Safe. Untouched by pain, war, suffering. Seemingly like its resident.
But Ginny knew better. She guessed that the parchment were letters to family members, explanations of deaths - or, at least, the ones that they knew about. She knew vaguely what it was that Hermione did. She was the pitying Angel of Death because she was one of the only ones who had the strength to tackle the job. She was also the researcher, finding new combat spells and figuring out how to create new magical devices for Dumbledore's Army to use.
Lonely jobs, Ginny thought. No wonder she hadn't seen the brunette in a year.
"Here's the tea," Hermione announced, immerging again from the kitchen, holding a tray. Two cups, one black and one blue, and a dark blue kettle. Ginny opted for the black cup and stirred the dark liquid with the spoon provided. She watched Hermione sit down on the wicker chair next to the couch out of the corner of her eye.
She swallowed, mouth dry again. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, and it wasn't from the two cigarettes she had smoked earlier, and it wasn't from the brief gulps of caffeine she had savored. It was Hermione. It was old feelings coming back.
This can't happen now, she hissed mentally. There's a goddamn war going on, Ginny. You can't afford to love anyone.
Yet there she was, in Hermione's apartment, drinking tea out of a black cup and watching the object of her affection of three years watch her. It seemed like some kind of film, or what she understood of them, but someone had forgotten to give her the script to read beforehand. She had no idea what her lines should be.
So they drank their tea in silence, making eye contact for brief moments before dropping it, out of embarrassment, out of uncertainty. She didn't want to ask what Hermione had been up to because she didn't want to remember that there was a war going on. It seemed so normal to just sit there, drinking tea.
But minutes passed and they had both finished. Ginny was overwhelmed by the tension but didn't know how to break it.
"Er, Hermione," Ginny said, through clearing her throat, "it's rather late, and - do you mind if I -?"
She hadn't even finished when Hermione nodded. "Sure, you can stay here," the brunette replied with a small smile. "You're welcome to sleep on my bed. I'll take the couch."
The last comment stung, and Ginny didn't know why. Really, why would you expect her to jump into bed with you after not seeing you for a year? Sometimes, Ginny Weasley wanted to beat her head against the wall at her own stupidity.
Instead, she nodded. It was almost like giving herself head trauma, without the wall. "That would be fine."
At that, Hermione stood abruptly and took Ginny's empty teacup from her hands, retreating to the kitchen once again. However, her absence was much briefer, and she was gesturing now for Ginny to follow her down the hallway.
Hermione's room was simple, like the rest of the house. The bed, covered in dark sheets, was neatly made, save the plaid pajama pants and loose white tank top in a crumbled pile on the comforter. There was a bedside table with a lamp and a book, a dresser covered with candles, knickknacks, and more books, and another bookshelf, filled to the brim with books of all different sizes and genres. It was the room of a bookworm, of a woman who spent most of her days poring over pages trying to get them to reveal their secrets. It was the room of a woman who was always ready to go.
Hermione snatched the pajamas from the bed and tossed them over by the closet doors, across the room from the bed. The brunette went over to the dresser and from the drawers pulled out a pair of nondescript pajama pants and a faded t-shirt, the words no longer readable, and offered them to Ginny. Though Ginny preferred to sleep in the nude, she took the offered clothing with a soft smile. After all, this wasn't her bed. She had to play by Hermione's rules.
Don't, Ginny thought as thoughts of what she really wanted to do on the bed began to trickle in. This isn't the time or the place. Settle down.
"Will this suit you?" Hermione asked her gently, obviously feeling just as awkward.
Ginny nodded, mouth too dry again. She didn't have any spit to swallow anymore. "Yeah, it's fine," she replied vaguely. "Thanks."
They both stood there awkwardly for a few moments, the bed in plain sight and just behind them. Ginny realized she was still wearing her brother's jacket, and it was making her too warm. Or maybe that was Hermione. She blinked a little, then slowly pulled it off, then looked around wordlessly for a place to set it.
Hermione answered her mental call and came closer, reaching for the jacket with one hand. Their fingers touched - Ginny gasped from the raw feeling of electricity rushing through her, and if she were to look back on her life from a future time, she would pinpoint this moment as how it all started.
The jacket fell into a heap of leather on the floor. They reached for each other at the same time, lips and bodies coming together, becoming fiery need and passion and desire and so many things at once. It was a year's worth of vague longings and hopeless sighs and wishful thoughts, wondering what she's doing right now and I hope I see her again soon on every single dark lonely night that sprung upon them.
Ginny pushed away Hermione's long overcoat and didn't even bother admiring the pretty black knit top underneath before pulling it off, tossing it across the room. She was barely aware of Hermione breaching her own clothing, pulling off the black fitted tank top and already infiltrating her dark jeans. She wasn't even aware that there wasn't any clothing separating their skin anymore, until the softness of Hermione overwhelmed all of her nerve endings and she shuddered at the mere delight of it.
Hermione pulled them to the bed, lying with her head against the pillow and coaxing Ginny up to her. Ginny crawled up Hermione's body, hands roaming to the soft flesh of her hips and stomach, thumbs brushing against her nipples as their mouths never left each other, as Hermione moaned gently against her lips - and again, when Ginny pushed her thigh into the damp flesh between her legs.
"You're really wet," she half-mumbled, teasing Hermione again with her thigh, evoking another gasp from the smaller woman.
But Hermione had her own tricks. Suddenly, Ginny felt a delicate hand between her thighs, a slender finger slipping inside her. She bit down gently on Hermione's bottom lip, but couldn't quite repress the moan that bubbled in the back of her throat.
Hermione leaned her lips close to Ginny's ear, sending shivers down Ginny's spine as she breathed. "So are you." She nipped gently at Ginny's sensitive earlobe, and thrust two more fingers in.
Ginny felt a delicious prickling in the back of her head as the pleasure from Hermione's fingers registered in her brain. She moved her hips rhythmically and whimpered into Hermione's neck, her fingernails running over her stomach. Not in control, she bit down gently on Hermione's collarbone, making the brunette gasp - and then gasp again, when she moved her thigh to allow her fingers access to the sleek skin of Hermione's clit.
Hermione clutched at her as she moved her finger circularly around the fleshy nub of nerve endings, gasped out an "oh, god," and dug the nails of her free hand into Ginny's back. The other stopped its thrusting, only to change strategies as it began mimicking Ginny's own movements on her clit.
Their bodies were becoming sweaty, pressed up against each other's building heat and heavy breathing. Almost like magnets, their mouths came together again, tongues darting together over lips and tongue and teeth biting down on bottom lips gently when for a brief moment it was a little too much, or just wonderful enough, or just because. Ginny had no thoughts in her head; her body felt like it was swimming through clear blue water, sweet and intoxicating. For the first time in a long time, she felt as if the sun were shining.
And then it was as if she had broken the surface of the ocean. Her head came above and clarity rushed to her like waves. Her body froze, her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she saw nothing but white, felt nothing but hot magma dripping through her veins, dripping from between her legs. She vaguely heard her cry out Hermione's name; she was vaguely aware that Hermione was crying out hers, that she was shaking, shaking, and so was Ginny, and she didn't want the feeling to end -
It didn't. Not really. She collapsed on top of Hermione breathing heavily, barely seeing and feeling as if her body was floating. She gently pulled her hand away from Hermione's crotch and felt Hermione do the same, felt Hermione's heavy breath in her ear. It felt as if she should say something, but she didn't know what to say - or that she even could form words at the moment. She was in a far too blissful state to bother with spoken language.
So they said nothing. They simply curled into each other, holding on tightly as if they were the only things keeping each other grounded. Perhaps they were. Their eyes met briefly; Ginny could see something dark and husky in Hermione's normally calm brown eyes. And then, there was nothing but darkness.