Ginevra's Body
Author's Notes: Inspired by the line "She could practically smell the galleons in his cologne" from Aerileigh's "Secret Revenge Doodles" and dedicated to Becca, without whom I would never have seen the quote. I appreciate any and all comments.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and universe belong to J.K. Rowling, et al.; only the words themselves belong to me.
She looks like six brothers, a dumpy mother, and a bumbling father every time he gazes at her face and it comes as no surprise because he always knew she would. Yet her body betrays them and her and him. She is lean like they are or used to be, but a series of aerodynamic curves set her apart. The union of form and function, though phallic symbol or not, she wasn't quite so appealing with her legs wrapped around a broom and her chest pressed low against the handle. At least, he never thought so, but he does now, even when he realizes a hundred freckles was, at best, a modest estimate. A thousand is more like it. A thousand tiny beauty marks—a thousand challenges—and he longs to kiss every single one. He never comes close. She never lets him; she is always too impatient for some other touch.
She feels like crumbling empires beneath his hands. She resists before she yields, and she never makes it easy for him to guess when she will or if she will, no matter how many times he presses his body into hers. Her skin is smooth—goose-pimples and scars like dust across cotton—because silk is still too rich for such a commoner. And silk lets you breathe, and catch your breath. Cotton suffocates, even cotton with a 1500-thread count and when his lips are pressed against the smooth column of her throat, he feels choked; like she's put a hand across his mouth and nose. Like he might drown for lack of air and all the hair he claims to hate is a noose around his neck. Too soft to abrade his pale skin, it will leave no evidence when she kills him at last. Just a scent that lingers on his fingertips and in his bed.
She smells like poverty. Like even now, she can't afford perfume—or remembers too well when she couldn't—because she only uses soap. No one else seems to notice and no one would agree with his assessment because she's rich enough these days. They don't pay attention; they don't have to. She smells like what she is. Fresh and sharp and clean—the same cut against his senses as her magic makes—and this is what makes her too good. Or him not good enough, but Draco doesn't care. She'd smell just as artificial as he is if she paid for it. It's just that she can't bear to, she'll choke on the scent, and he only wants skin: the musk of sweat and sex like velvet as he strips her robes away. He wants things the laundered layers tend to hide, wants to press his tongue against her just to see if she is as sweet as she smells.
She tastes like all the power she denies. She can pretend it's just the bittersweet leavings of red wine and dark chocolate, but it's blood and the dirt from which she came like a stain on her painted mouth. He never thought he'd be so hungry for it, but he licks her lips like they're his own just so nothing's wasted. His tongue burns against her skin, or her skin against his tongue, and he doesn't dare pull back. He needs this, for his reputation, yes, but mostly for himself and when she begs him 'please, please, Draco, it's too much,' he cannot hear because she's intoxicated him on the aftertaste of alcohol and something new—something like what he used to have—when she arches up and moans.
She sounds like mercy, lying through her teeth. Like she's been paid to lie for some greater good because he can't believe the breathy noises dropping from her lips like pins in the quiet. He can't believe she'd beg him, with a cry like a kettle coming to boil, because they both know he has nothing to give and no power to spare. Normally, her voice is strong—like velvet over steel—and while he'd known it could crack, he'd never really expected to hear it and he wants nothing more than to swallow every little sound as desperately and as reluctantly as he swallows firewhiskey after a hard day's work. She doesn't always let him and if it is mercy when she says, 'I love you,' he cannot imagine torment. It claws his heart from his chest every time and with his emotions lying like blood on the sheets, he cannot think of any way to deny it even when he presses his mouth shut tight and shakes his head.
Draco's body betrays him, too.