Part two for your reading pleasure. Sorry about the delay. I work, I go to school, I sleep and eat on an irregular basis.. I do like the feedback I've received, so please, give me more (basically, a cry for attention). Hope you all like it.
WARNINGS: drug references, public sex, funny-clored hair, emo lyrics
But now we speak with ruined tongues
And the words we say aren't meant for anyone
Just a mumbled sentence to a passing acquaintance
Where there was once you
You said you hate my suffering
And you understood
And you'd take care of me
You'd always be there
Well where are you now?
- Bright Eyes, Haligh, Haligh, A Lie, Haligh
The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Two
Four.
I come home from work two days after the Draco moving in conversation to find a living room of boxes and two male lovers on the couch pawing and cooing at each other waiting for me. I toss my bag at the kitchen table, the sound of rustling papers enough to wake the dragon and the phoenix from their state of lovers' oblivion. The phoenix blushes a flattering pink; the dragon flashes me a toothy grin, and untangles himself from the phoenix's wings.
"Good day at work, Hermione?" Draco asks smoothly, nonchalantly straightening his black shirt. Behind him, I can tell Harry is struggling to readjust his jeans.
I roll my eyes and shrug, then retreat to the comfort of my room, asking behind my shoulder, "Who's cooking tonight?"
"You are," Harry reminds me as I shut the door.
I change out of Ministry robes into a blood-red tank top and black flared jeans. I've preferred dark clothing since the beginning of the war, and though times are much different now, I can't shake the feeling of security that the dark colors bring. Harry keeps badgering me to get brighter clothes like I wore during our summers at school, when we would visit the Weasley family, but I can't bring myself to. It would be an insult to the memory of the youthful Hermione to wear her clothes on this broken woman's body. The only resemblance we hold now is the same cinnamon-tinted brown hair.
Before I return to the living room, my eyes catch on a picture trying to get my attention on my dresser. A seventeen-year-old Hermione Granger is waving frantically for me to regard the scene she's in, a distressed look upon her face. Meanwhile, a sixteen-year-old Ginny Weasley, eyes sparkling with mischief and happiness, is clinging to that girl's waist, trying to plait kisses upon her cheek. As I keep looking, Hermione takes on a calmer demeanor, and finally settles back into Ginny's arms. My eyes sting painfully. I look away and go back to the living room.
The boys watch television on the couch while I cook dinner. I can hear their jests and small quarrels over the laugh tracks and music on the screen. Maybe this is what school should've been like: Draco and Harry, friends instead of enemies, amiable competitors instead of harsh rivals. I can't help but believe, desperately, that things would have turned out differently for both of them. I can't help but believe that they would have saved each other.
"Ready," I call out to them, dishes in hand. We pile on the feast, designed for the ghosts of Hogwarts appetites at the very least possessing Harry, and we carry our shares to the uncluttered kitchen table. A new motley Golden Trio, with its new Golden Couple. Tarnished, maybe, but still visible underneath the rust of sacrifice.
We eat; we talk. A better description would be I eat a little, they talk around me. Their voices are thick with new love, tenderness; it's a sound I haven't heard in a while. Harry's last boyfriend was a lot like Hannah: very little understanding of whom Harry is and no chance of ever knowing. They lasted longer than Hannah and I did. A year, for them, yet no talk of ever moving in. Harry says a few months, and already we have the blonde's possessions in our living room. The thought makes me feel anxious for him, for myself. If Harry succeeds, if Harry wins this as a final prize, does that mean the same for me?
Ridiculous. I banish the thought immediately and talk with them again, about school, about work, about life. We don't mention Hannah, the war, or the fact that we're all broken and battered and missing pieces. The deepest we go is when Draco asks me if I'm tired.
"It looks like ghosts kept you up all night," he says, setting his fork down on the plate. "Bad dreams?"
I scoff, but don't answer. My mind races for some kind of response, something to both evade the topic and get onto a new one, but I can't. Inside, I've wanted to talk about my nightmares, my ghosts, with someone other than Harry, for years. Ever since she left, and took her listening ear with her. I remember: one of our fights, she screamed that she hated how sad I was. And then she cried about how she couldn't help me, she just couldn't help me…
"Yeah, I suppose," I reply. Easy. Incomplete.
Five.
Harry approaches me while I'm washing the dishes, the old-fashioned Muggle way. His body is at awkward angles; his hair is hanging in his eyes. I think that I need to give him a hair cut again, and then I tune into the almost guilty way he's looking at me. I prepare for the worst.
"Um, I just wanted to tell you that…" He hesitates, looks off to the side. I rinse off soapsuds from another dish. "Well, Ginny invited us to her flat for the evening… She's interested in seeing Draco and I together. I don't think she really believes it." Harry laughs nervously, as I fight to keep myself in check. I scrub furiously at burnt crepe at the bottom of the pan. Washing dishes without magic was the second most thing that Wizards found fascinating about Muggles. The first was driving a car.
"I hope you have fun," I tell him lightly, not quite trusting my voice.
He looks uncomfortable. I can tell he feels guilty, and it's this guilt that makes me his next offer. "Why don't you come with us?" he half-pleads. "It's been three years, Hermione."
I stiffen. "It would be rude, Harry. I wasn't invited." The last of the dishes is rinsed off. I use my wand to dry them and send them to their proper cupboards.
He sighs and I smile wanly. "Get some sleep, then, 'Mione. You really do look tired." His voice is stiff concern, distant care. He leaves the kitchen and I wipe my wet hands on a dishtowel, wondering what's really holding me back.
Six.
"Isn't this amazing?" she said, taking Hermione's hand and pressing it to the chest. Through skin, muscle, and cloth, the brunette could feel the quickening heartbeat.
"Yes," Hermione whispered, a bright smile tugging at her lips. The other girl grinned broadly and pulled them both down onto the grass. It was soft and still slightly damp from morning dew, but it was soft and comfortable. Hermione felt like she could curl up there and fall asleep content.
The other girl had something else in mind, however. Hermione felt a hand sneak under her shirt and start tracing circles on her skin, before snaking up to unclasp her bra. Hermione gasped, the sound stifled by a mouth on hers, lips and tongue coaxing her into a new state of elated oblivion.
"They'll see," the brunette protested half-heartedly, glancing towards the house to make a point. The other girl grinned again and transfigured the grass around their bodies into tall hedges, leaving them a circular, natural haven.
Hermione couldn't help but smirk. "You practiced that just for today, didn't you?"
"But of course," the other girl replied, red hair glistening tantalizingly in the mid-afternoon sun. She left no room for answer, but instead, continued her earlier ministrations until Hermione's body was quaking, as she stifled a moan in the redhead's neck…
I wake up from my dream, one hand shoved unceremoniously in my pants. I blush at the wetness soaking my panties and quickly pull away, looking around to make sure no one else is home. I'd hate for Draco to have something to mock me with so early on in this new relationship. Thankfully, the house is empty. I relax into the leather chair and reclaim the remote that had fallen from the armrest - probably once I started touching myself, I think, and blush again. No one saw me, but the very act makes me embarrassed - though many know I've done much, much naughtier things in my time…
Sexuality… Without a partner, it feels so useless. I could push myself over the edge, but where would be the gratification? I can't snuggle with myself. I can't breathe in my own scent and curl up naked in my own arms. I can't be responsible for my own emptiness. I hate forcing myself into that shell. I'd rather be sexually frustrated, waiting for a void to be filled, then constantly fill that void with white space. Unsatisfying and without gratification. A waste of energy.
Seven.
The club's music is so loud I can't think. Electric lights pulse with a heavy bass, dyeing everything shades of neon. I see the lace of wings in the crowd of dancers, rave kids and seasoned club-hoppers, brightly-colored hair to rival Tonks', and I feel so out of place I can barely stand to be here.
But their arms won't let me go. I feel them tug, first Draco, then Harry, towards the bar, to begin what they've referred to as my "night of rediscovery."
"Rediscovery of what?" I asked when they presented me with my new outfit, a black mini-skirt and green-and-blue slinky top, to "complement my green eyes," Draco told me.
"Your sex life," Harry told me straight faced. I glowered, but grudgingly pulled the clothing on. In front of them, just to mock them with my female form. Neither of them really seemed to notice.
"These heels are too high," I shout my complaint into Harry's ear, but he just grins roguishly and hands me my drink, salt already sprinkled at the sides of his mouth. The Boy Who Triumphed, getting shit-faced in some club with The Book Goddess and the Two-Sided Dragon. We have so many names; it's hard to keep us straight with all these electric lights. It's hard to find them, groping for their hands as they're constantly moving, pulling me along, forcing alcohol down my throat.
I feel dehydrated but find myself on the dance floor anyway. The hot, moving bodies press into me and make me feel weak, vulnerable. I could go limp here and not have to support myself, but who, in this sea of drug addicts, would catch me?
Someone notices my reluctance to be assimilated. She comes closer to me, locks eyes. They are bright blue and electric, too bright to be considered hers. And she is thankfully blonde, hair pulled into a plethora of blue-streaked braids. I silently agree to dance with her, and she pulls me into her, sweat dripping between us, creating a slick feeling as her skin presses into mine. I can feel the familiar throbbing between my legs and know that this is what the boys meant. I needed to rediscover my body.
She picks up on it, too, I know she does. Her eyes are twinkling and she's moving her hands over my overheated skin, fingertips feather light with just the hint of long nails leaving reddened trail marks. I am unashamed; I moan at the intimate touch, though she may not mean it sexually. I think the sound has disappeared into a cloud of smoke in the midst of all this noise, but she heard me. I can tell by the grin on her face, and then the sudden closeness - closer than before - and then her mouth on mine.
Her mouth is warm and pressed hard against my own. I press myself closer to her body, trying to convey my need without words, touch me, touch me. I feel so helpless and so vulnerable, and while there are warning bells in my head so against this exchange, my body is craving it like heroin, like ambrosia. I need to be reborn; this old skin needs to melt off my bones to be replaced with new.
My breath hitches when her fingernails come into contact with my inner thigh. We're still kissing as her hand trails upwards, under my mini, slipping fluidly under my panties. She giggles against my lips, amused at my very obvious arousal, then flickers her eyes at me mischievously.
My skin tingles; my blood boils and scalds my veins. Her fingers rub against me in rhythm with the trance beats, hard then soft, faster then slower depending on her disposition, depending on the speed and shallowness of my breath. I feel so shameless, standing here with my arms wrapped around her shoulders to keep myself standing, in the middle of this dance floor with hundreds of other bodies basically doing the same as me. And yet I deserve this; I can justify this to myself. My body deserves to be loved. My body deserves to be cradled, supported. I need to be rescued. Touch me, touch me, and she is, sending lightning bolts across my skin and around my brain, bouncing them around inside to jump start the beating of my heart, to make my abdomen convulse and my legs feel like they're going to give out completely.
And yet isn't there something wrong with this? Sexual favors from a beautiful stranger, some sex kitten with glitter dusting her body, bare midriff taut and pale, the blue outline of a fairy just south of her bellybutton, hovering above the top of her neon blue leather pants, hips jaunt. She's the embodiment of an absinthe or ecstasy based wet dream, wild sex in the backroom with a glow stick shoved deep inside, pulsing a new rhythm to make some boy wake up with an erection and ten minutes until class time. When did I sign up for this?
I'm too overwhelmed. My last amazing orgasm was three years ago, and while this was nowhere near "amazing", it was much better than mediocre, and around the lines of "good", but my mind's moving too fast, my breath isn't regulating, I'm getting a headache from the music and her thick perfume, I'm covered in sweat and her glitter, and I feel like I was used for my hurt doe eyes that attracted Hannah and other girls to me in the first place.
"T-thanks," I stutter, darting from her embrace like a deer taking that first step on the highway to start sprinting - and I am, heading back for the bar, the imprint of confused and disappointed neon blue eyes in my brain.
"I think we should go," I scream at Harry when I get to him and Draco. One of them (their limbs are so entangled with each other that I can't tell whose arm is whose) hands me a bottle of water, and I suck down the entirety of it in a few seconds. It's cold and makes my throat feel raw, but my head loses some if its fluffy qualities.
Harry frowns. "I figured the club scene wasn't your cup of tea, but I thought it would get you out of the house." He doesn't seem too crushed. I love him for that. "I guess we can go home."
I smile gratefully and we link arms, the two men on either side of me. I breathe in a sigh of relief at the sight of the door, then gasp when our way is barred by the blue fairy's glittering form.
She grins sheepishly, flips some of her braids. "You left so suddenly I didn't get a chance to get your name," she half-purrs. Her voice is high soprano, but mature.
I swallow. "Hermione," I reply. "My friends and I have to go."
"Hermione." She licks her lips and gives my body an once-over. Her gaze, and the reminder of her hands, makes me shiver slightly. Harry shoots me a look. "I'm Lucy." She leans in closer to my ear, her breath hot and uncomfortable. "I had fun dancing with you tonight. Maybe we can do it again sometime."
"I don't think so," I tell her, shifting seamlessly into Crucio mode. I'm ashamed. I'm dehydrated. I'm tired. I don't want to stand here being undressed by a pair of blue eyes.
She pouts and pulls away. "Fine." Rejection creates a whiny quality to her face. "Have fun playing with your boys."
"We're gay," Draco interjects, and as we leave the building, cold magic washes over us, and we're back at the apartment.
I unchain my arms and start stalking to the shower. I need to clean myself and feel more like me again, instead of like some dirty businessman just come back from a "club" in Thailand.
"Hermione, do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks after me.
"I'm going to take a shower," I yell into the bathroom, then slam the door and lock it. I run the shower scalding hot and wash away all the glitter, all the traces of my encounter.
Even after all these years, it still feels like I'm betraying her.