New chapter! More emotional turmoil! Suck it up and enjoy! Dedicated particularly to the girl who knows who she is.
Leather & Cigarettes
Chapter Three: angels and demons
Ginny lit a cigarette and looked up at the sky. It's going to rain again, she thought to herself, frowning at the mess of dark clouds, too dismal for even midnight. She needed coffee again. Her eyes were beginning to fog over with fatigue. She couldn't fall asleep right now. Not now.
I need to see her again, she thought, feeling unmerited frustration. I can't… I can't have ties like these. I can't get attached to her like this. It was only one night. It's only going to happen sometimes. But I told her I would come back tonight. I want to. I need to.
Her feet were carrying along the London sidewalks. She was too preoccupied to worry about where they were taking her. They knew better not to take her someplace dangerous; they had memorized the sidewalks, the shadows of buildings where she had fought. She wouldn't return to those places unless she absolutely had to.
That fling we had in her fifth year - it was just that. A fling. Internally, she flinched at the word. She didn't really have feelings for me. I suppressed my feelings for her. It's just like that all over again. We're just older and we know better not to let it get the better of us.
Sure, they had whispered "I love you's" and held hands in the hallways, but it hadn't meant anything. They had let everyone know, ignorantly unafraid. Fifth year ended, summer came, and they pursued their "relationship" until August, when Ginny herself had abruptly broke it off. Sex without love seemed so pointless, then. It seemed like such a dirty waste of emotion. Girlish temptation must be washed away with time, she told herself over and over again. Hermione moved on, dated Ron for a year. They broke it off when Ron fell in love with Lavender Brown. They were still together. They had almost gotten killed because of their emotions far too many times.
They're dumb if they think they can survive this with emotional attachments, she thought fiercely, throwing her finished cigarette to the ground more aggressively than needed. The heel of her boot came into contact with the still-burning cherry and stamped it out. No more glow. No more red fire. The black cigarette disappeared in the shadows.
Watching and hearing about her friends, people she knew, dying, always made her feel sick. What if she let herself love Hermione and something happened to the brunette? She knew she wouldn't be able to go on. She knew she would fail Harry, Ron, Dumbledore, everyone who was counting on her to do her job. She was a fighter; she was an interrogator of secrets. She killed and she brought in hostages and she killed them when they were finished. There wasn't any time for mercy or second chances, and she hated herself for it.
But just that night with Hermione made her feel - clean. New. Like she was a phoenix, born from the ashes of late nights under streetlights, surrounded by the bodies of the dead and dying and those who were still struggling to fight. She had woken up that morning and stretched out her newfound wings, fluttered to the kitchen to the woman who made her feel something other than pain, hate, and the remorse of too many deaths. Wasn't that worth getting even remotely attached for?
She just shook her head angrily at herself and Apparated to the apartment she remembered in her head.
Ginny found Hermione hard at work. Or at least, found the woman writing on pieces of parchment, a hard look to her usually soft features. She found a lump in her throat and she couldn't speak, and Hermione didn't look up. The Angel of Death, she thought despite herself, and shuddered. Despite everything, she had to remember whom she was sleeping with.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley died tonight," Hermione's voice was weary, and caught the redhead by surprise. "His parents are divorced; I have two letters to write."
She said it as an explanation not needing a response, so Ginny stayed silent. Instead, she moved to the kitchen and put a kettle of tea on. The Muggle stove burned red, like the ends of her cigarettes. Otherwise, the strange coils were charcoal grey, sleeping and cold.
Ginny leaned against the opposite counter and watched it, letting her eyes go out of focus as her thoughts took over. Her mother would have scrutinized her for watching the kettle; after all, even Witches believed that watched pots never boiled. It was the same with people, really. Those who were constantly in the limelight couldn't blow up, couldn't explode and display their hearts on their sleeves. Harry Potter was a man made of steel. He would get in front of all of Dumbledore's Army, the resistance's namesake standing off to the side with a wise half-smile on his face, and make speeches about horrific deaths and horrific victories, lead moments of silence and acknowledge the dead. Give orders, give commands. And everyone loved him for being so strong, so untouchable. He was like a God. He had never broken. Not like Dumbledore, whose blackened, useless hand was a huge letdown to all those who had thought him invincible; whose kind galaxy eyes had become weary and sunken. Dumbledore was fading. The Boy Who Lived was not.
High-pitched whistling dragged her out of her mental state and pulled her to the stove. She reached out to turn the stove off, and was about to grab mugs for them both, but she realized she didn't know where they were.
"Second cupboard to your right," came a voice behind her. A cupboard to the one right of her hand swung open. Ginny reached for two cups, one black and one blue. The same cups they had used the night before. Ginny liked routine where she could get it.
Arms snaked around her, making her breath catch in her throat. Then, a hand reached up and delicately dropped a tea bag into each mug, the clear liquid turning dark almost immediately. Ginny turned her head slightly to one side to get a glimpse at the brunette, but soft lips coaxed her eyes closed and her mouth to be captured most willingly. Ginny's head went fuzzy, thoughts swimming slowly then drowning in the waves of emotion and heat racing to her abdomen, glowing like fireflies through her veins. It was this electricity that had brought her back, right? Not anything else - it was just sex. It was just a comforting fuck.
They broke apart and Ginny hid her confusing thoughts with a sardonic smile. "Finished?" she asked, and handed her the blue cup.
Hermione nodded, smiled slightly. "After awhile, they begin to write themselves," she replied. "It's not hard."
"Physically, at least," Ginny finished for her, and noticed how her eyes flinched. "Don't worry, Hermione. At least their families can know."
Hermione nodded and sighed, led them back into the living room. They sat on the couch and talked pleasantly about their days, about the weather, about what books they had read recently. Ginny told her stories about her trip to Romania (leaving out the ones about Charlie) and made the brunette gasp and laugh, depending on the tale. It was nice, sitting there like they were, as if nothing had ever gone wrong in their lives. They were just normal women, enjoying a spot of tea.
At one in the morning, Ginny reminded herself, and stifled a sigh.
The tea disappeared, the conversation led to less than pleasant topics. Ginny heard herself asking the question that had been in the back of her head for a year now, but had never been brave enough to ask.
"Hermione, have you been with anyone else?"
Hermione looked taken aback by the question, blinking in the dim lamplight as if she had been asked to produce a particularly difficult fact. Ginny waited, wondering why it felt so important to ask, and why she was so dreading the answer.
"Like this?" Hermione finally asked for clarification, and Ginny nodded. The brunette sighed lightly, twisted her mouth into a frown. "Well, not really like this… I had a few, um, relations with Fleur Delacour, when she came to personally thank me for saving her sister…" She winced, shaking her head a little. "But it was nothing like this. She was only using me to make herself forget what a horrible person she is." Hermione scoffed a little, and Ginny felt her heart sink. Wasn't that what she was doing? "But this, this…" She seemed like she didn't have any other way to describe it. Instead of trying to find the right words, however, she just soldiered on through. "This feels different. I honestly don't think that's why you came back tonight."
Ginny swallowed and tried to think of something to say in response. Was she using Hermione? The woman did make her forget about the war going on outside, inside, everywhere. But Ginny already felt dirty about the things that she did - why would she give herself more reasons to hate the person that she was? Using Hermione, it wasn't worth it. The woman was so sweet, so blissfully wonderful, almost pristine. A fallen angel, tainted by circumstance. And Ginny, there was no way that the redhead could compare to Hermione. She was a fire-haired demon, a hot-tempered temptress, pulling other woman into bed to make herself feel more alive, just to toss them out of her apartment before the night was done. They had all been Muggles. Trying to bed her fellow fighters seemed like a ridiculous risk to take. After all, some of the Muggles had tried to contact her after their trysts, pleading love and commitment and all the things that Ginny just couldn't do.
So what was so special about this case? I'm screwing the Angel of Death, the woman who would be writing the letter of my death to my family if that were ever the case, the woman who protects me and my group and so many others from death, Ginny thought coldly. There's got to be something fucked up about this. So why am I here?
No, it couldn't be what she thought it was. If it was, she would be dead on the spot, and so would Hermione.
No, it wasn't that. That tiny, insignificant, glorious thing. No, no, it wasn't.
"Hermione," she heard herself begin, after sucking in too much breath. She let it all out on the last syllable of the brunette's name, just to be cut off from air altogether by the woman's gorgeous and tempting lips.
They groped at each other's clothes, ripping and clawing and pulling off the offending articles of clothing; black, black, they only wore black, just to be peeled away to reveal the scarred and battered pale bodies beneath. Except Ginny, her skin was golden-tinted from a childhood in the sun. Hermione was pale, so pale, so covered in pink-tinted scars. Ginny pushed the woman into the couch and started running her tongue over the old wounds, making her gasp, guttural moans. They were mostly naked now, save their soaking panties in baby blue and lace (Hermione) and simple black cotton (Ginny), and Ginny tugged them off hastily and without ceremony.
Ginny flicked her tongue over the smooth, taut skin of Hermione's stomach, dipping into her bellybutton to make the older woman giggle softly, then moan again as she moved lower, leaving love bites along her protruding hips. So helpless, Ginny thought wickedly to herself with a grin as she moved with deliberate slowness across Hermione's thighs, the skin as cut up as the rest of her, with freshly inflicted wounds red and scabbed over on her left leg. Ginny ran a gentle finger across the damaged skin and gave Hermione a brief understanding look. Hermione simply nodded, dark eyes glazed over with desire and anticipation.
Breathing hot air before giving her what she wanted. Ginny was a horrible tease, but she enjoyed the sounds Hermione made as she did so, enjoyed the sensation of Hermione's fingers wrapping into her already tangled hair and tugging, pushing towards her begging clit. Obliging, tasting the sweetness that was the brunette, making the woman's fingers tug more, making her throat constrict and open in heavy breathing and barely controlled whimpering, eyes tightly shut. Was it so wrong to enjoy this? Was it so wrong to indulge?
Hermione's thighs pressed into the side of her head; Ginny snaked her arm up and slid slender fingers inside of her, curling the tips and pressing, lightly, on the damp flesh. She couldn't help but grin in satisfaction at Hermione's sudden and almost painful intake of breath, and the way her hips were moving rhythmically to the ministrations of her fingers.
"Yes, Ginny - please - oh gods -"
Broken cries, breathing becoming more and more hitched, frantically bucking hips. Ginny's tongue darted and twisted, replaced her fingers within her briefly before returning to its former actions. Hermione's fingers dug into her skull, sending delicious chills down Ginny's spine, and a free hand reached down and gripped Ginny's tightly. Their eyes met and Ginny felt something indescribable flood her senses, just as Hermione's body shook and boiled over in orgasm - once, twice, thrice, and then she was still save her heaving chest.
Ginny wiped her mouth and chin off on Hermione's thigh and licked her fingers clean before being pulled by the mostly limp woman up and over her body, until her head was resting against the brunette's soft breasts. Their limbs twisted together and held onto each other's bodies, enjoying the warmth radiating off of both of them.
It was comforting. Hermione's body was soft in all the right places, and yet she was still so fragile. The brunette's pale, slender fingers began raking gently through Ginny's tangled auburn mane, playing with the red-soaked locks, taking in the scent of her shampoo. Ginny couldn't remember the last time she had simply laid naked with another body. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt good just because. She hadn't even come, yet the glow of orgasm was washing over her body like it had been her own.
Fuck, she thought, as the realization hit her, yet it wasn't as bad as she originally thought. It just was, had been, and would be. But what was she going to do?
"Ginny," Hermione said, voice soft and weak still from her orgasm, but sweet and gentle. Ginny met slowly focusing brown eyes and raised her eyebrows expectantly. The brunette hesitated for a moment more, then smiled shyly, as if she were about to pour her heart out in secrets. "I really care about you."
This is how it's supposed to be, Ginny thought with resignation, and smiled in response. "I really care about you, too, 'Mione." And she meant it. She meant it probably more than she could ever say.
Hermione's lips parted like she was about to speak; Ginny watched those luscious lips and waited for them to move. When they did, the words they spoke were deliberate and calculated. "I know there's a war going on," she said, "but do you think…"
"That we could be together when it's over?" Ginny finished softly, and Hermione nodded. Ginny found herself smiling again, the idea forming, spreading like a glorious disease, making her head and heart feel fuzzy with emotion. "I'd like that."
Ginny never knew that a smile could make her feel so good. The smile that appeared slowly like molasses was just as sweet, and shone brightly like the afternoon sun - the real sun, not the pale imitation that shined outside when it wasn't raining. This was the real thing, something that could only be imagined.
Their lips met by destiny, Ginny found herself laying on her back with the brunette on top of her, their joined sweat trickling slowly between them. Desperate, like they were trying to prove it, prove that yes, this is what I want.
Yes, Ginny thought, fuzzy-headed, to herself, as Hermione's tongue against her breasts, her navel, and finally her begging-to-be-touched clit made her climax more times than she could count, I want to feel your body against mine always. Waves were crashing against her body as the first signs of sunrise filled the apartment.
And they would worry about the consequences of the sunlight later.