"You and your museum of lovers
The precious collection you've housed in your covers
My simpleness threatened by my own admission...

Wanted and adored by attractive women
Bountiful selection at your discretion
I know I'm diving into my own destruction…"



Chapter Two: Museum of Lovers

- Sixth Year-

There are dress robes littering the floor and Katie's snores echoing across the room, and most likely the universe. It's late. It's after. After…the fact.

I fucked Fred Weasley.

Right.

And now, here I am, lying in bed, with sleep still eons away, unwillingly replaying every moment through my already foggy head. And I'm sore. And I want to sleep. But I'm thinking. And thinking. And thinking.

I fear I have become another notch in his bedpost.

I've said it before: Fred Weasley is infamous for a reason. Yes, he has achieved infamy for the pranks he has pulled with his equally goofy twin. Yes, he's a joker, a slacker, even a grinning buffoon. But that's during the day…

I've heard the tales bounce off the foggy mirrors of the bathroom, filter up from the shower stalls. "Best sex I ever had...." "…quite a lay…" "…drove me mad, and that was when we still had our clothes on…" "Left me screaming till morning…" "…never been fucked like that…"

My best friend was the local Casanova.

I knew all about the girls. First, there had been Marg. She had that Swedish-ski-instructor look going on: blonde, blue-eyed. Always smiling. No one home upstairs. Then there was Hannah. Dirty blonde, dirty mouth. Dirty girl. There was Jenn, the perky one, and Kat, the dangerous one. Meredith, the American, Elisa, the Spaniard. There was Emily, with her cockney accent and Nina with her seductive tones. Naomi smoked a pack a day and Rachel was flunking out. Meaghan was lost in her heavy Irish accent, and a bottle of booze each morning. Becky was Muggle-born and preached the word of God, even in the bedroom. Mia left Hogwarts two years ago, and is rumored to be a whore. Madeline tried to commit suicide after he decided he was done. Julie was always shit-faced and Carrie was a regular bitch. There was Chrissy and Carla, Sara and Samantha. Gina, Yolanda, Tara, Miranda, Gwen, Betsy, Lizzy, Beth, Elizabeth. And there were more, more without names, more with faces that just merged together into one mess of smudged mascara, heavily glossed lips and hair that had come undone. The Weasley Whores.

And I had just joined their ranks.

Fred didn't have relationships. He just had sex. He had lovers. I always found it ironic that the word "lover" actually has the word "love" in it. Lovers are usually just those that are sleeping together, having sex, maybe secretly. There's usually no strings attached. No relationship to speak of. No love. Just lust, carnal lust.

It's always easier for the guy…

I am no virgin. I might as well confess. No, I have no lengthy stream of past conquests. There are merely a handful. A handful of men, boys rather, I dated. I date and fuck. I don't "do 'em and leave 'em." I always found that a little tacky. Well, until tonight.

Rob was my first. It was last year. He played Quidditch for the Ravenclaw team. He was smart. He was witty. He was quick. And he liked me. I was still a fifth year, and he was a lofty seventh year. So, we visited Hogsmeade holding hands, and occasionally talked in the halls, brief meetings after class, then the eventually frequent rendezvous in the library. Quietly, of course.

I had been the inexperienced one. He knew all the ropes. My first time was in a broom closet. How quaint.

We broke up soon after.

Over the summer came Tom. My neighbor. I live in a Muggle neighborhood. And he, he was a Muggle. We had grown up next door to each other. We had been friends, not great friends, nothing like what Fred and I had. But we were bored. We were sixteen and bored. And the summer was hot.

Use your imagination.

He told me he loved me. Luckily he waited until August to tell me this. Until then I had thought that we were just doing what those cheesy Muggle '80's movies expected of us: Two friends start dating and end up shagging in the back of his father's Oldsmobile. So I lied and told him that I loved him too.

I always considered him to be more of my first boyfriend. Rob never showed me affection. Tom did. We'd sit on his front porch eating popsicles. He'd kiss my neck and make me shiver. We'd lay out in the backyard with only the moon and the fireflies for company. He's whisper things to me. Things that to this day still make me blush. He was romantic.

And so I broke his heart.

I dumped him right before I left for the train station. Luckily I didn't have to stay in the aftermath.

And this year…well, there was the seventh-year Ravenclaw (apparently I'm a real sucker for them. At least he wasn't another Quidditch player. And there were no meetings in the broom closet.). And there was the sixth-year Hufflepuff. James, I think his name was.

And now Fred.

He's the player, and I'm me.

Was this a one-time deal? How do I look at him after seeing him...naked? Well, not completely naked...but...

The sun is struggling to rise and the room is getting brighter. I haven't slept. I'll have great big circles under my eyes for company today.

At least I'll fit in with his others…

- - -

"Why do the good girls always want the bad boys?"

A/N: Song lyrics from Bathwater - No Doubt

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