I fuck 'cause I need to
I fuck when I want

...

I'll fucking digest you
One kiss at a time
You wish I was yours
And I hope that you're mine.

"Lurk" - The Neighborhood

Harry was back at Hogwarts, sitting in his potions class. Snape sneered and towered over him, wand pointed at his face.

"Look at you," he snarled, grip tightening on his wand. "Still a sniveling, simpering coward. You can't hide anything from me, Potter. I know everything."

Harry panicked and tried his hardest to flex his ability to perform Occlumency. He knew he was failing, just like always. His eyes narrowed at Snape and he gritted his teeth.

"Stay out of my head!"

"Harry!" wailed a female voice next to him. He looked and saw Lavender Brown, all big curls and smeared makeup, on her knees beside him. "Harry, where is Won-Won? I want my Won-Won! I'm so alone!" Her fingers clawed at his arm.

Harry's eyes widened, confused. "Lavender?"

"Dobby misses you, Harry Potter. Dobby would do anything for you." Dobby suddenly materialized on top of Harry's desk, and was looking at Harry with adoration on his face. "Why didn't Harry Potter save Dobby? Dobby saved Harry Potter."

"I'm — I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything —"

"Well, well. This is who you grew up to be, eh?" Fred frowned at him. Glared, more like. "What have you been getting up to with my little brother's girlfriend, then? This is how you repay him? Repay me?"

He was interrupted by Teddy Lupin's wailing. He screamed hysterically, an unending cry of pain.

"Self-righteous, impudent, stupid — "

"I'm all alone! I hate this, I hate this!"

"Can't believe I died for you. And this is what you've become. Hope Georgie beats you bloody for me himself."

"Dobby didn't want to die, Harry Potter. Dobby didn't want to."

The bawling of an orphaned child.

Harry covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tightly, not knowing what else to do. As soon as he did, it went quiet. He looked up to see the figure of Dumbledore standing alone before him.

It was at that moment that Harry realized he could use his legs. He sprang forwards, going straight for Dumbledore's throat.

"You!" he shouted at his former headmaster, former mentor, former hero. Rage drove him forward, a kind of rage that could burn cities to ash. "You!" His hands tightened around Dumbledore's neck and he threw him against the wall.

"Harry, my boy," said Dumbledore, not at all hindered by the hands pressing down on his windpipe. "What is the matter?"

"You did this to me!" Harry yelled, feeling like his anger was the only thing that kept him from floating away. "I was a kid! You didn't have to make this all so hard!" Harry sputtered a bit, voice catching from his tears. "It was so hard."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed to slits. "I thought you could handle it, Harry. I hadn't factored the apparent weakness of your spirit. I apologize, then, for overestimating you. You were a child. And it looks as if you still are."

The words hit Harry like a barrage of arrows. He kept squeezing, wanting to make them stop, needing to. And then Dumbledore started to change. His white hair turned brown and curly, he shrank beneath Harry's grip into something feminine and soft.

"Go on then, Harry," Hermione said, bringing her hands up to meet his to encourage the murder at his fingertips. "Kill me or shag me. Only options. It doesn't matter, really. We'll all end up hating you regardless."

"It's true, mate." Ron came up behind him, followed by Ginny. "You're going to lose us all. All because you're a greedy prat."

"Pervert," agreed Ginny.

Despair.

"Please," begged Harry. "Please, don't."

Hermione took his face in her hands. Brought him close, like they were going to kiss.

"You did this to yourself."

Harry woke up in a brush of bright yellow tulips, gasping for air. He trembled from the memory of his nightmare and clung desperately to the relief of reality. His stomach rolled as he tried to sit up, and his head hurt so badly he was afraid it might have split open. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. A white fence, a sunny day.

A couple staring at him in alarm.

A balding, portly man was holding his even portlier wife as they gaped at him, still in their pajamas and robes. Harry slowly got to his feet and brushed off his clothes, which were covered in dirt and grass.

"Harry Potter?" the man said, mouth hanging open.

"...Hello," Harry lilted, groggy and in pain. The couple stayed rooted to the spot.

"Erm," the large gentleman stuttered, his curiosity outweighing how star-struck he was, "Why are you in my garden?"

"Uh." Harry racked his brain. "Doing a bit of reconnaissance, for the Ministry, you understand. We're tracking down, um — Nargles."

"In my tulips?" the woman questioned, looking anxious and puzzled.

"We're being very thorough," said Harry, his head pounding. "But don't worry, the threat is cleared here, so...you'll be just fine." It wasn't the best lie he'd ever told. Not the worst, either.

He took off. "Thank you, Mr. Potter!" the man exclaimed behind him, and Harry waved without turning around, sure that he would vomit if he attempted such trickery as turning and waving.

He did, in fact, make it home before vomiting. Well, very nearly. The outside steps that once led the way to the sanctuary of the Order of the Phoenix, the old stomping grounds of his parents and all who fought for what was good and virtuous, was now covered in a mixture of Firewhisky and steak and kidney pie.

Harry stumbled inside and collapsed on the couch, not bothering with trying to make it to his bed. The cushions smelled like dust, which meant Kreacher was in a mood. The house-elf's emotional status could be tracked by the scents of Grimmauld Place; if he is feeling particularly spiteful, particularly amnesic about the lengths Harry has gone to repair their relationship, Grimmauld Place smells of grit and rot. Likewise, if Kreacher is feeling especially appreciated, especially magnanimous, it smells like Lysol and Christmas dinner.

"Is Master not feeling well?" Kreacher's sardonic voice was right by his ear, and Harry jumped in surprise.

"Just tired, Kreacher," Harry grumbled bitterly. He didn't want the house-elf to know he was hungover.

"I see," Kreacher replied. "I'll clean up the mess you made outside," then, under his breath, "Though it serves you right, mixing with Mudbloods and blood traitors, the shame of it, their stinking, vile, filthy — "

"KREACHER!" Harry managed to muster a shout.

"Kreacher didn't say anything, Master, no, not a thing…"

After cleaning up his sick, Kreacher went about cleaning the dishes in the kitchen in the loudest possible manner. He clanged dishes together and banged steel pots and pans roughly on counters and in cupboards. Every noise set Harry's teeth on edge and made his headache thump behind his eyelids.

"Kreacher," he groaned, "You can do that later!"

The banging stopped. "Yes, of course, Master. Kreacher lives to serve, he does, lives to serve…"

Harry flung his arm over his eyes to help block out the light and willed his brain to shut off and allow him some sleep, but he did what he always did after spending too much time with Hermione; he thought and thought and thought about how in love he was with Ginny.

This was, presumably, what they call a vicious cycle. After having sex with Hermione and hating himself, hating how it made him feel, the Ginny in his mind becomes twice as beautiful, three times funnier, and all around more perfect. Harry then sees her through rose-tinted glass for a while, and he's more into her than ever. That is, until she does something that doesn't quite fit the Ginny in his head; snaps a little too harshly, jokes on him a little too meanly, and he's startled. Unnerved. Lost. Craves Hermione again.

It was despicable of him, horrendous, and Harry knew that. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to change this disturbed pattern of thinking. He was trapped in it, spinning round and round the centrifuge like a bauble on a string.

But sometimes the idealized version of Ginny lasted quite a while. The girl was damn near made in a lab just for him — she had everything he could ever ask for. Brave. Never cries. Gives him space. Same interests, same likes and dislikes, always takes the same perspective he does. Same sense of humor. Nice tits.

It was almost like she was too good to be true.

Harry hadn't even realized he had drifted off to sleep when the spark of Floo powder in his fireplace woke him up a few hours later.

"Harry!" Arthur Weasley's face peered out at him over the coals. Thinking that it was the most challenging thing he's ever had to do, Harry sat up to look at him.

"Mr. Weasley?"

"Oh, sorry to wake you, Harry, but, um, would you mind coming to the Burrow? Now, if you could? "

"Why? What's going on?"

Mr. Weasley's face looked...embarrassed? Worried? "It's — it's Ginny."

Harry jumped to his feet, which turned out to be a mistake. His head spun and he held onto the couch for support, nausea nearly overtaking him again. It was only through sheer force of will (And great concern for Ginny? Or was he just saying that to make himself feel better?) that he remained standing and drew his wand. "What's wrong? What's happened to her?"

Mr. Weasley tutted. "Oh, no, don't worry! It's nothing like that. It's just, well, she's...just come."

He disappeared. Harry immediately threw Floo powder into the fire and all but leaped into the green flames, shouting "The Burrow!"

Harry felt his stomach drop as he was whisked away, and he quickly jumped out of the Weasley's fireplace, adrenaline flooding his veins. The scene he came across shocked him.

And being Harry Potter, that was a difficult task for anything to do.

The Burrow was a disaster. Things were destroyed, blown to bits, shattered. George was holding back Ginny's arms as if stopping her from a fight, and she was screaming herself hoarse in his arms, her wand on the floor. It looked as if most of the abuse she spewed was being directed at Mrs. Weasley, and — had Ginny really drawn her wand on her own mother?

"How dare you! HOW DARE YOU? You think I'm still ten years old? You can control everything I do? Everything I think?"

Mrs. Weasley had tears dripping down her face, and she pointed her wand at her only daughter defensively. "Ginny, I didn't mean to suggest anything — "

"Like HELL you didn't! I know exactly what you were saying! Just like I knew what you were saying when you thought I was a slag at school!"

"I would never call you that — "

"Oh, the humanity!" Ginny threw her head back against George's chest, pantomiming anguish. "The daughter of the angelic Molly Weasley — a common whore! What went wrong? Oh, what in Merlin's name went so wrong?"

Molly locked eyes with Harry, who hadn't moved a muscle throughout the exchange. Ginny followed her mother's stare and finally saw him as well. Her eyes lost their fervor when they connected with his, she stopped yelling, and went slack in George's arms. Arthur emerged from the corner and put his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Harry's come to see you, Ginny." he said placatingly. Ginny's eyes narrowed at her father.

"Yes, Dad, I can see that, as I'm not blind or mentally deficient, shockingly enough." She shook herself free from George's arms and walked towards Harry, who still hadn't moved, genuinely frightened by his girlfriend. Wildly, he imagined this was how Hermione must have felt last night.

"Hi," said Ginny, forcing a smile so hard it looked like it hurt, and actually kissed Harry on the cheek. He flinched like she had struck him.

"Hey," he answered weakly, but she had already strode out the door. Harry followed after exchanging an ambiguous look with George, who looked like he hadn't slept in days. But that was kind of how he always looked now.

"I hate her," Ginny spat once they left the Burrow. Harry had taken her to walk on a path just outside of Hogsmeade, so they could be alone; but not too alone, he thought darkly, remembering the fit of violence she had left behind. She glowered at the ground and kicked stones that were in her way.

"No you don't," Harry replied. He also kicked a rock that had the audacity to exist beneath his shoe.

"Don't do that. Don't tell me how I feel," she snapped, rounding on him. He looked at her wearily. His head still hurt, and now that the adrenaline had faded, familiar apathy returned to settle in his bones.

"What happened, Gin?"

Ginny's mouth turned into a hard line. "She said that I ought to quit playing Quidditch after this year. Said that I should study up to be a healer instead. A bloody healer!" She kicked a rock with extra force. "I'm a Quidditch player! That's what I do, it's what I love! I told her that, and she goes, she goes — 'The aggression isn't good for you, young lady! Enough is enough!'" Ginny snorted. "Aggression. What a load of rubbish. What she's actually saying is, 'Ginny, dear, why don't you just settle down, already? Focus on learning how to cook, on how to pop out babies, that's what'll make you happy, if you'd be just like me!'"

She scowled at the face of the woman that wasn't even there. Harry tried to think of something comforting to say, something to appease her, but he still thought that she had overreacted. And he was out of practice; Ginny never really came to him with stuff like this, talk of her feeling sensitive or hurt or...anything. She was mostly just easygoing, all the time, or at least pretended to be. Maybe not right after Fred died, but back then, Harry had kind of checked out altogether.

God. Voldemort could've been a better boyfriend than he was.

Thinking about Voldemort made Harry think about his nightmare, and his mind drifted. Nightmares weren't something foreign to Harry, but that one lingered in his mind, was branded there. What bothered him most was his reaction to Dumbledore, the raw anger that even now he could feel breathing in his chest, waiting to be released. Harry had come to peace with Dumbledore, hadn't he?

Maybe I should tell Hermione about it, Harry thought, shuffling his feet. Might leave out a detail or two though…

"Harry? Are you listening?"

Oh, right, Ginny was still talking. At this rate, Harry had Worst Boyfriend of All Time in the bag.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, taking her hand. "Just, erm, you got to remember that your mum loves you and...yeah. She just worries."

She slid her hand out of his with a sour expression. "Whatever. Forget it. Let's talk about something else. Or we could go flying? I haven't practiced in a couple days. Or we could go get a drink, meet up with some friends, go for some curry, make a night of it..." Ginny was speaking very quickly, her eyes bouncing around towards Hogsmeade as if her plan was already in action and she was missing it.

Harry blinked. "Ginny...I have to ask. Did you pull your wand out while you were arguing? Were you actually going to hex your mum?"

It was like he could see her face crumble under the weight of his question. "No, I wouldn't I…" Ginny bit her lip, scratched at her arm. "I honestly don't know. I completely lost it, I just...I lost it."

Harry looked down, feeling disappointed in her. He was such a hypocrite.

"It's just," Ginny continued, her flaming hair falling over her face, "whenever I feel like someone's trying to control me, something just snaps. And I know it's awful, but after Voldemort possessed me…"

She trailed off and stared into the beginnings of the sunset, splashing gold and warmth across her alabaster skin. Harry stared at her long lashes casting shadows under her eyes, at the sleek tendrils of her hair blown backwards by the breeze, seemingly on purpose, as if she commanded nature to better enhance her aesthetic, and wondered if it were actually possible that Ginny was as beautiful as he thought she was.

Her eyes burned with smothered, molten anger. "After Voldemort possessed me I swore to myself I'd never let that happen again. I'd sooner die than not be in complete control of myself. I'd rather bleed and suffer and die."

Harry drew her into an embrace even though half of him wanted to push her away. Sometimes he and Ginny were just too bloody similar.

Of course, having a partner who's so much like you isn't necessarily a bad thing.

As long as you don't hate yourself.

She pulled away and smiled at him tightly, eyes dry. Harry thought Hermione would have cried, if she had been in Ginny's place at this moment. Her tears would catch briefly on her feathery eyelashes before sliding down her cheeks, and Harry would look away, look down, look anywhere else because he never knew what to do with crying girls or with crying in general because crying was never allowed for him, not even when he was a child; he was raised not to cry, never cry, get into the cupboard now stay silent and if you're hungry that's too damn bad we don't owe you anything stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about stop crying you ugly little worthless nothing stop crying stop crying stop —

"Blegh, let's stop talking about serious stuff," Ginny said with a shake of her head, breaking him of his reverie. "Butterbeer? Yes? No? Yes? Yes? YES?"

"Yes," Harry said with a rather poor excuse for a laugh, but she was already turning back to follow the road to Hogsmeade. Harry silently trailed after her and blinked away tears that were not there.

By the time they entered the bustling streets of Hogsmeade Harry realized the last meal he ate ended up on his doorstep, so he and Ginny decided on The Three Broomsticks for an early dinner. The walk there was a bit awkward and halting, as people would constantly want to stop the two for autographs and tearful expressions of their gratitude. Women would sometimes brake mid-step and stare open-mouthed, or giggle with nervousness, maybe even blow Harry a kiss, which Ginny always found funny. Men would stare at Ginny, then, realization dawning on their faces, turn to gawp at Harry. Then go back to stare at Ginny again. Harry never found that funny.

A small crowd of people had started to follow them as they neared the pub, though, so Ginny took his hand and just started running. She laughed over her shoulder as an assortment of fans and paparazzi realized they'd been spotted and the chase was on; behind an alley, over a fence, through a bush and back over the fence they went, Harry wearily dragging behind Ginny and slowing her down just enough to make it more difficult for her (and if that's some kind of metaphor for their relationship Harry didn't have the know-how or desire to analyze it).

"Why didn't we just Disapparate?" he asked irritably once they had given their quasi-fan club the slip and had arrived at their desired destination.

"Where's the fun in that?" she grinned back, catching her breath and kicking open the doors to The Three Broomsticks in triumph.

Her answer weirdly shocked him. Because, yeah, okay, maybe that should have been fun; he could definitely see how that could be fun.

It wasn't though. It was just tiring.

He wracked his brains and tried to recall the last time he had had "fun." Maybe he was just too old for it?

Because that's part of growing up, isn't it? Understanding that everything is just an expenditure of energy, nothing more and nothing less. Energy in, energy out; and try not to mess up too much in the middle.

Or maybe he was just being depressive again.

Still deep in thought, Harry ducked his head before going inside the pub, trying not to attract any more attention. But he still caught a glimpse of familiar curly hair in his peripherals and looked up to see Hermione settle into a booth with Ron on the opposite side of her, two waters in hand.

Don't see them, don't see them, please don't see them—

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, gliding cheerfully to their table in the corner. Harry walked stiffly behind her, cursing under his breath but at least grateful they were seated away from everyone else.

Hermione looked up and smiled at Ginny in recognition, and then did the same at him but the smile was different, somehow, and it made something strange and warm burst in his chest.

"Damn. My brother's here too. I was hoping you were having an affair and Harry and I could talk to someone interesting for a change," Ginny joked. Hermione laughed too hard and Harry's body went cold.

"Watch it, Gin. I've made you eat mud once and I can do it again," Ron threatened, though his words didn't have much impact since he looked so miserable. His eyes were bloodshot and he was resting his head on his arm as if he couldn't possibly hold it up himself.

"Oh, shove over. You look like warmed over Manticore dung, by the way," Ginny sniffed. Harry took the space beside Hermione and was weirdly self conscious about himself beside her, like he was taking up too much space somehow. Wished he could shrink.

"Well, you look sweaty, so there," Ron grumbled back, and flicked her with water, much to Hermione's displeasure.

"Goodness' sake, Ronald, we're in public—"

But before she could properly rip into him, a no-nonsense, painfully thin waitress approached the table, a tray floating dangerously behind her, piled with plates of greasy bar food.

"'Ello, I'm Priscilla, I'll be your server today," she said monotonously to her pad, not smiling, though Harry recognized her so he knew a severe change in disposition was coming soon. "What can I get you lot started with?"

"Some sausage and chips for me," said Harry, and then, noting the hollowness in his stomach, "Extra chips." (Energy in).

Ginny leaned forward, "I'll just have the—"

"Oh—! 'Arry Potter!" Priscilla suddenly exclaimed after recognizing his voice, snapping her neck up. "It's really wonderful to see you again, sir! Thank you so, so much for comin' by, but we could 'ave set you up with a VIP table if you wanted, you know, in the back, bit quieter, bit cleaner, eh? Someone's there now, but it's just some tart from the Daily Prophet and I can get 'er out of 'ere in no time at all, believe you me."

Harry faked a smile while shaking his head no, don't bother, we're fine here, and Ginny cleared her throat. "And I'll have—"

"I mean, who wouldn't give up their table for 'Arry bloomin' Potter, righ'?" she laughed, her body turned entirely to an increasingly uncomfortable Harry and no one else. "My other mates are gonna be so jealous when I tell them I served the 'Arry Potter again; oh they're gonna die —"

Out of nowhere, Priscilla's blouse was suddenly drenched in ice water.

She gave a shriek and jumped, her eyes darting around to find the culprit as the teetering plates behind her very nearly toppled to the ground.

Ginny's eyes were big and feigning innocence as she set Ron's glassware upright again. "Merlin, I am such a klutz! So sorry, sweetness. While you're cleaning up, though, mind getting another order of sausage and chips for me? Really appreciate it."

Priscilla was positively shaking with rage while Ron laughed into his palm, and even Hermione was guiltily swallowing her lips to keep from giggling at Ginny's performance.

Harry felt so disconnected from them all.

He pulled out his wand and spelled her shirt dry, just wanting this whole ordeal over with. (Energy out). "Sorry."

No longer soiled, the waitress softened, and stared at Harry with somehow even more adoration. "You're just — you're too kind, thank you. I'll just — just take everyone's order now."

"Fabulous idea!" Ginny smiled. "I'll have a butterbeer as well. You want one, Harry?"

Harry eyed her, not sure how to feel. "Yeah, sure."

"Are you quite certain you want butterbeer, Harry?" asked Hermione, glancing purposefully at Ron and then back. Ron's ears turned pink and he stared gloomily at the wall.

"Yes, I am certain, Hermione." Harry said severely, perhaps a bit too severely, but he was annoyed with Ginny and furious with Hermione because he couldn't decide which of the two had disappointed him more, and maybe it wasn't disappointment he was feeling but if it wasn't disappointment it was something worse, something like, like, exclusion; and because, well, she really didn't have to embarrass Ron like that.

Call it the last vestiges of loyalty to his best male friend.

"Ron? Do you want some butterbeer too? First round's on me," he said recklessly, feeling the need to challenge someone and for whatever reason, it was always more satisfying to do it to Hermione. In fact, the need to show her up was so strong right then he could scarcely understand it.

She'd always been just a little too easy to get mad at, even growing up.

Ron looked at Hermione and grimaced. "Nah, that's okay — "

"Thank you for your unwelcome generosity, Harry," Hermione said through clenched teeth. "But Ron and I are perfectly fine."

"Really?" He put his elbows on the table and set a hard gaze on her. "'Cause you seem pretty uptight to me."

Ron, Ginny and the waitress all pulled similar "yikes" faces. Harry could feel waves of tension rolling off Hermione, and he knew he was exuding the same as they silently glared at each other.

"I could come back..." Priscilla said, taking a step backward, but Hermione clasped her hands together and plastered a smile to her face.

"No need! We've already ordered," Hermione said crisply. "Two butterbeers, and only two butterbeers."

"And twelve whiskeys!" Ginny quipped, struggling to keep the grin off her face.

Hermione bristled. "Ginny, that is not funny—"

"Blimey, can we stop fighting and just have a nice dinner? Please?" Ron begged. "We're all hungry, and crabby, so let's just, wait for our food, and eat like normal humans. Sound good?"

There was a murmur of agreement; food was ordered, Priscilla was shuffled away, Ginny apologized, and Hermione apologized for making her apologize.

Harry didn't feel the need to.

He could feel Hermione glaring at him, but he refused to look at her and preoccupied himself with other things. Important things, like fidgeting with his napkin and watching the precipitation build and drip off of his water glass.

"So did you and Ginny have a nice day?" Hermione asked primly, turning towards the table after realizing Harry had no intentions of looking at her the rest of the night. "Do anything fun?"

Ginny had the good grace to look uneasy. "Um. Not really. Harry came in while me and mum were having...a spat."

"Ugh, what were you two fighting about now?" Ron groaned. "I hate it when your guys' cycles link up or whatever."

"Our cycles are not linked, you moron!" Ginny retorted. "She was just being controlling. As usual."

"Well, Ron and I had a very nice day," Hermione cut in before Ron could reply, a little too loudly. A suggestive smile crossed her lips as she took a sip of water. "Very nice, if you know what I mean."

Ron and Ginny simultaneously choked while a vein in Harry's forehead that he had not known existed before now began pulsing in overdrive.

"Aaaaand there goes my appetite," Ginny laughed, and then concluded by making gagging noises.

"Yeah, we're about to eat, Hermione," Harry said in a constricted voice, wanting to say a lot more but not trusting himself to. "Don't be gross."

The fact that she would go so far just to get a rise out of him was so...disturbing.

But damn it if he wasn't just a little bit impressed as well.

"Uh, thanks for calling me gross, twat," Ron chuckled, but his face and neck had turned an embarrassed shade of red, belying his laid-back response.

Regardless of what they all got up to in the privacy of their own bedrooms, they were all still distinctly British about talking about sex in the light of day. Especially when they were all mixed up in each other's lives like this; things could easily turn...incest-adjacent.

"It's weird. We shouldn't talk about stuff like that," Harry said gruffly to Hermione.

Hermione shrugged. "Don't see why not. It's not exactly the 40's anymore, is it? Surely we're all sexually liberated enough to discuss it without shame or judgment. It should be...meritorious."

"Hear, hear!" Ginny cheers-ed.

"Fuck no!" Ron cringed.

Everyone but Harry laughed and moved on; began discussing trivial subjects that were forgotten as soon as they were said, but Harry kept finding himself losing track of the conversation and just staring at Hermione, as surreptitiously as he could. The lack of connection frustrated him. She had, however, dropped the glaring and the needling and was now ignoring him. Steadfastly, resolutely.

The blackballing stretched on into the evening and Harry found himself growing more and more cross with her. He just wanted her to look at him. That was it! They had ended things on a pretty good note the night before. Sure, he broke some of her plates and had a bit of a meltdown in her kitchen, but in his defense, they really were some ugly plates.

And they had kissed. It was nice. Nice enough that he deserved to be spoken to. Looked at. Nice enough that she shouldn't have been vindictive enough to bring up sex with Ron.

This is so typical Hermione, Harry thought, chewing angrily at an ice cube. This is why he had to give her the silent treatment so frequently back at Hogwarts. No one on earth could push his buttons the way Hermione could. It was like she knew exactly how his brain worked, knew exactly where to poke and wheedle so that he felt so betrayed and resentful that he couldn't even think straight anymore.

This — this is why he and Hermione could never work above anything besides physical release. Harry couldn't keep up with her head games; she was too good at it, far better than him. It was an uneven playing field.

The food came and Harry dug in, hoping a bit of nourishment was what he needed to get his pissiness levels down. (Energy in).

He took a long sip of the frothy and sweet beverage but it stuck a bit in his throat when he caught Ron eyeing it enviously. Harry wondered if he himself was noble enough to give up drinking for Hermione, then reminded himself he'd never have to know the answer because it was entirely hypothetical. Entirely.

Ron was trying not to stare at Harry's drink and Harry was trying not to stare at Hermione and Ginny was trying not to stare at Harry staring at Hermione and Harry wondered if this was all life was as adults. The cyclicality of envy and misplaced anger.

"Harry, what's up?" Ginny whispered to him, pointlessly, since everyone could hear. "You've been oddly...quiet."

"I was just hungry," he answered, and to prove it, he quickly swooped down for another chip and inadvertently dipped the side of his hand in ketchup.

Ginny gave a quiet snort of laughter and Harry felt itchy with embarrassment.

"Can I get a napkin, Hermione?" he asked her, as she was the closest one to them.

She just stared into her glass of water, took a very long sip and made no movements to suggest she had heard his request.

Hermione could be such a dick sometimes.

"Uhh, Hermione?" Ron questioned, catching her eye. "Napkin? Harry?"

Her eyes widened at him. "Oh? I didn't hear."

With a flourish, Hermione grabbed a napkin and tossed it in Harry's direction, still without looking at him.

Okay. That was the last straw.

"Can I talk to you?" he murmured in her ear the first chance he could without Ron and Ginny hearing.

Hermione took a moment to admire her cuticles in an exaggerated fashion, and then daintily nibbled on a chip.

You can't say he didn't give her an out.

He rested his left hand on her knee, and felt her jump a little at his touch. She still refused to look at him, but Harry started to feel a stirring of excitement. He knew that Hermione knew if she just glanced at him he would stop.

He wanted to know how far she would let this go.

"Did you guys hear about the Turkey and Portugal match yesterday? Canan is brutal, heard she broke Barros' arm in three places." Harry said. His hand on Hermione's knee slowly inched upwards, pressed softly against the smooth skin of her leg.

"Barros is a wimp," Ginny replied, unimpressed. "A gently tossed feather could break his nose."

"I wouldn't go up against Canan, though," remarked Ron. "Built like a stack of bricks, that girl."

Harry's hand traveled further up Hermione's skirt now, and he smirked at her attempts to regulate her breathing. He wasn't entirely sure why he was taking such a risk just to get her back for ignoring him, but once he started it was like he couldn't stop. He stroked the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and the closer he got to her core, the more her legs opened for him whorishly. Harry had to suppress a moan at that. It was Hermione playing the game back; she knows what that does to him.

"Do you think Turkey could make it to the finals in the next World Cup?" Harry asked, voice slightly strangled, not really caring about their answer because his fingers just touched the edges of Hermione's cotton knickers and he leaned back for a better angle to touch her.

Ginny and Ron made incredulous noises. "Doubt it," said Ron, finally able to steal one of Ginny's chips. "Not with Krum playing for Bulgaria."

"And with me —" interrupted Ginny, banging her drink down with force, "playing for England after I graduate. Assuming I make the team, of course."

Harry slipped his fingers under her knickers and pressed them against her cunt. She was already wet, and it made Harry want to groan aloud, bend her over the table and take her in front of everyone. He tried to control his facial expressions as he stroked up her slit slowly, just teasing, wanting to make her yearn for his touch.

"You'll make it, Gin," Harry said, feeling a tightening in his pants. "I swear you get better every day."

Ginny beamed at him and went back to eating. "I'm so excited to get back once this break ends. You're coming to my next game, right?"

Harry nodded and pinched Hermione's clit, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. Hermione's face was flushed and her breathing grew ragged, to his great satisfaction.

"Force Hermione to come too," she said, eyeing Hermione and pointing an accusatory sausage at her. "She never comes to matches."

Harry didn't stop his torturous movements under her skirt, and Hermione gripped the table so tightly her knuckles turned white. Clearing her throat, she said, "Sorry. Just been busy."

Ron rolled his eyes. "The only person in the world who likes homework over Quidditch, and I'm marrying her. That's gotta be a paradox or a metaphor, or something."

"Actually, Ron — " Hermione started correcting before Harry slipped two fingers inside her and rubbed, hard, against the rough patch of flesh that made more wetness gush onto his digits — "it's, ah, ahh, it's irony."

Ron looked at her curiously. "You all right, Hermione?"

Hermione certainly did not look alright. Harry eased off a bit, liking the danger but not to a suicidal degree, and looked at her innocently. His face was full of concern but he knew his eyes were a mixture of amusement and lust.

She stared back at him, her gaze dark, and he realized she was too far gone. She bit her lip and he felt her clench around his fingers as she came, arching into his hand. Harry knew he was staring at her too intensely but couldn't help it; he swallowed hard and watched her come down from her pleasure, admired the blush that splashed her cheeks and breasts in rose. He slowly removed his fingers, mourning the loss of her tightness around him. When he wiped his fingers off on her skirt, her breath hitched.

"Actually, I think I need some air," she said shakily, and stood. Harry moved out of the way so she could leave the booth.

"I'll join you," he said, and she barely glanced at him before making her way to the door.

"Oi, I'm not paying for all this!" Ron called after them, and Harry just waved him off.

Cold air filled Harry's lungs and he followed Hermione as she walked steadily across sidewalk. She turned into an alley and Harry felt a thrill shudder through him. He was still hard.

She pulled him into the shadows.

"Lumos," she whispered, so that they could see each other in the icy light of her wand. She didn't look happy, but Harry smiled at her anyways. He didn't know which of them had won, but he was fairly sure he was about to get off in a few moments, which was a reason to smile in itself.

"Have you officially gone mad?" she asked him, loud enough to convey anger but not attract any onlookers. "What was that?"

Harry placed his hand on her neck, caressed her jaw with his thumb, lowered his head to hers. "You weren't looking at me," he said softly into her ear.

"That's a..." His teeth just barely scraped against Hermione's earlobe and she shivered. "That's a rubbish answer."

He brushed his lips against the corner of her toffee-colored mouth. "I really, really wanted to talk."

"You were such a prat in there," she breathed as his hands moved over her form, got her body buzzing.

"You were a bigger one," Harry murmured against the base of her throat.

This whole time, they both might have just been playing the world's most destructive game of I know you are but what am I?

He pressed his body against hers and felt her heart beat against his. An erratic, staccato rhythm; hot, fast, loud, alive, alive. Harry didn't know how she did it, how Hermione could irritate the hell out of him and then make him need her, need to touch and shag her just because it was the only certain way he could still feel like he was among the living, still feel present, still feel like a whole person.

She ground her hips into his and Harry hissed at the contact of pressure against his dick, sending goosebumps down his spine.

"You are immature. And rude." Hermione said, somehow still making the insults cut through him with her hand rubbing the front of his pants.

Goddammit, fuck — her — in every sense of the word.

"You are petty," he bit down on her neck, made her gasp. "And controlling."

His words just made her more aggressive, more tactile, and he quickly started moaning, needed to be inside her, about to flip up her skirt and tear down her knickers, but Hermione suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled, forcing him inches away from her face. Her eyes narrowed.

"And this what you wanted to 'talk' to me about?"

Harry paused for a minute, thinking. What did he want to talk with her about?

He wanted to figure her out. Wanted to un-weave the web of her thoughts, untangle the knots and crack the riddle of her. Undo her before she undid him.

And the closest thing to saying that was: "I want to take you on a date."

Hermione released him, and then gaped with over-large eyes as if he had sprouted another head. "You're joking. What does that even mean?"

"You know. A date. Dinner, drinks."

"I don't drink."

"Dancing."

"You're terrible at dancing."

"We'll play games."

"I hate games."

"Hermione," he brought his hands to her waist and his lips to her collar. "Just...humor me for once."

She was hesitant to his words but immediate to his mouth, and she tilted her head back so his tongue could reach the spot between her neck and her ear that always made her moan. "Fine. It's a terrible idea," she said breathlessly, kissing him fully on the mouth, and then biting his lip so that he hissed from the pain while simultaneously moaning for more, "but we'll have a date. This first, though."

Hermione worked away the buttons on his pants with shaky fingers until he raised her arms above her head, against the brick wall. "Yeah," he said huskily, pulling himself free and pushing her knickers out of the way. The crispness of the air, the murkiness of the alley, the possibility that someone, anyone, might stumble across them and catch them doing this just made it better, made Harry feel invincible and degenerate and deliciously fucked up. He pressed into her cunt, still sticky and hot and oh god yes right there, and she spasmed and whined when he closed his mouth around her clothed nipple and suckled it. "This first."

(Energy out).

A/N: I know I said I was gonna only make this story three chapters but I keep getting new ideas SO it's gonna be longer than that because I have no restraint. I just love these two. And thank you to everyone who's read/reviewed this I literally squeal every time I get new feedback and I appreciate every message, good or bad. xoxo