A/N: Just a short little ficlet. It's set during the last book, when Luna, Ollivander, Dean and Griphook are trapped in the basement of Malfoy Manor.
Also, I have the dubious honor of being the first author on this site (or any website, as far as I have seen in searching) to write a fic with the pairing Ollivander/Luna.
Warning: If you don't like the pairing, don't read, don't flame, thanks. :)
Time and space and logic are gone, and in the darkness of the cellar, all that Luna knows is Ollivander's mouth against her clit.
Unreasonable, she thinks disjointedly. Her body shudders. Why have we done this?
And then all the hairs on her body stand straight up. Her hands are shaking; she's cold all over except in that one place, where she's dear God so warm; she hears a loud clang noise from upstairs and can't bring herself to care.
And why do I love it so much?
Loud footsteps all but shake the ceiling above their heads, approaching the cellar door. Ollivander scrambles to push her skirt back up with his teeth and turns to lie once more at her side. His head is leant on the wall beside Luna's, and his breath silently hits her face, her ear. She can feel him looking at her, but all she does is stare forward.
They don't have long to wait. After about thirty seconds, the door is opened, two figures thrust inside.
"No food until you learn to talk, dirt-boy," Scabior rasps at the back of Dean's neck, pushing him into a wall.
And yet the young man still manages to find the defiance inside him. "You call that 'food,' then?" he demands, voice hoarse from dehydration.
Griphook is kicked down to the floor, and then the faces disappear.
The door slams hard and fast as the Death Eaters depart (for, of course, it took two to physically manage him, and even in his deteriorated state, he gave them a run for their money). The sound of at least seven locks magically jarring into their holds follows.
Dean stumbles in their endless night. Once more, he and his eyes adjust. Invisibly he wipes a stripe of blood from the side of his mouth.
"Damn," he croaks.
Griphook the goblin is silent, used to this treatment. Bitterness has become his life's breath. He makes no attempt to find the others in the dark, only lies where he was kicked, unmoving, numb.
The boy begins to use noise to maneuver his way through. Meaningless vowel sounds are spoken against the space until he feels that he is facing something. That something speaks back.
"We're right here, boy," Ollivander whispers. He gently kicks Dean's ankle to prove the point. As his mouth shuts again, the sound is not dry as it usually is. It smacks as it he has just had something to drink. Luna is the only one to notice it. Hyper-awareness of her whole skin increases.
Dean sits on the floor where he stands, and in a moment he is pushing against their touching feet, causing their bodies to separate. He nudges himself up and backwards until he is sitting right between them. Shoulder to shoulder to shoulder they sit.
Suddenly, he smells the air around him. Without light, without sound, without movement, he knows. And Luna knows that he knows. Ollivander knows it, too, but he's beyond caring.
Because that one scent that Dean catches on their bodies is one he recognizes. He smelled it in the back room of The Hog's Head that night so long ago, in that other world; he smelled it on some other boys at school now and then (but never before sixth year); he smelled it on himself and he smelled it on Lavender.
God damn. What they smelled like was sex.
He knows. She knows. He knows, too. Even the goblin would know if he paid any attention.
Dean has many words, but in his usual manner, he decides only to use a few of them.
"None of them up there has any respect: for us, for themselves, for each other." His voice is heavy and quiet. "I thought you'd be different." He sniffs and tilts his head back until he stares at the ceiling.
And then: "God, you're fucked."