Satisfaction, like the first rays of sunlight on a spring day, or the tapping of the rain on a thin window pane. Lazy and happy. Languid and playful. Like a childish laugh seeping through the walls, hiding in the cracks of the crisp cotton sheets. If a perfect day were perfect, it would start out like this. Her smooth skin free of any complexes or shame as she lay in bed, greeting the dawn naked as the day she was born. Next to her a comforting warmth of someone she wished to share this perfect moment with.
Her body, pleasantly throbbing, between her legs, on her hips, and her ribs, nose and face. She let out something between a quiet moan and a laugh as she moved her swollen ankles. God, this wizard would be the death of her. Harry stirred, sleeping on his back, his groin proudly presented to the world – and rightly so. But if he thought she was going to let him have any more sleep than she did, he would be sorely disappointed.
She swung her splayed out legs closer, and over him, hooking it around his, and hungrily kissed his neck in all the right spots she – now by practice, last night by instinct – knew drove him mad with lust. With a groan and turn of his hip, he locked her against him, stuck between frustration and admiration.
"Good morning," she said innocently.
"You know I love how flirty you are, but there are limits."
"Well if there are," she answered in a clinical tone, "we ought to figure out what those limits are. I never thought you would be the one to urge caution."
Harry was properly goaded, wrapped around her little finger and exactly where she wanted him to be. Appropriately rough, he wrapped long slender fingers around her thigh and lifted her leg. And yet, she was still in control – dizzy, moaning and incoherent control. Spurred on by his morning erection, it was no session of long lovemaking, not like last night. But it was exactly what they both needed. After all, they couldn't very well spend their entire lives shagging each other to bits, as seductive a thought that it was.
The sheets were charmed to keep them well cooled, something she was thankful for. Overheating and dehydration was a real killer, doubly so when mixed with intense physical activity. Harry thought it proper payback for him to spill water on her face as he fed her from a glass of water. He laughed at his improvised waterboarding and she found herself giggling as well as she snorted out the worst of it.
Being with Harry was fun, it was exciting.
"I hate you," she said, rubbing her nose.
He sighed and looked her over with an air of contentment, leaning back against his propped up pillow. "Want some breakfast? And if so, served by the wage-slave-elf or home-cooked?"
"You would cook me breakfast?" she exclaimed in mock surprise. Harry had cooked breakfast for her before, but it was nice pretending today was extra-special.
And he did try to make it extra-special. Kreacher ended up having to fetch some fresh strawberries, as Harry set to making crepes, eggs and bacon. It smelled delicious and Hermione was salivating as the crepes piled up on the dish. It was around that time the first owl passed through the window. It was a Daily Prophet delivery owl, and Hermione went to pick up the tied up paper with excitement.
"Harry, you are brilliant!" she exclaimed.
On the front page, the article showed off Hermione's bruised face, as it had been when she had been taken into St. Mungo's. WAR HERO LOSES IT – Granger taken in at St. Mungo's for spousal violence by disgraced ex-Auror Ronald Weasley. It was a stroke of genius on Harry's part, tipping off Skeeter and just lightly threatening her into giving the article a certain slant. It was an anonymous tip of course but Skeeter was never that stupid, so she could guess what new horrors awaited her if she stepped out of line.
She probably hadn't fully recovered from spending some time imprisoned in a jar. The memory of shaking it and hearing her rattle around against the glass was a fond one.
Harry received a kiss for his trouble, and they set to reading the article. Ron was viciously dragged through the dirt. Every slight mistake he ever made accentuated and exaggerated, it truly was some kind of work of art. Hermione came out of it looking decent enough, as the stalwart muggleborn defending witches, unfortunately having to live through this terrible ordeal.
Crepes were her favourite breakfast food, topped off with freshly whipped cream and strawberries. A meal her parents would surely frown at, much too sweet and un-British. They were the best she ever had, and the one who made them was probably half the reason for it.
As Magical Britain received their editions of the Prophet, a flurry of owls arrived with letters through 12, Grimmauld Place's open window. The Weasleys had obviously been notified of Ron's arrest, but only Ginny had sent a letter the day before, annoyingly asking if she should come over. Harry had written back that she should, in the afternoon.
There were too many owls and not enough treats to feed them all, so they sent the flock packing and Harry settled with her into the salon with a cup of tea to go over them. There were the letters of concern from a lot of DA members and colleagues, extending an invitation to talk or go out and such pleasantries. Kingsley had written her to reassure her that no matter what course she took, he would see that the process was quick and thorough.
George's letter was clearly showing his distress. He had been the one to go over and visit Ron in the Ministry holding cells. 'Ron is sorry for what he did, but we fully support you.' More such excuses and rationalizations popped up, desperately trying to save the toppling monument of the (near-)perfect Weasley extended family. Arthur was much more to the point, in fact he sounded like he was on the verge of disowning Ron. 'I taught him better than to attack a witch.'
It was mildly ironic, as he almost hexed his sister, Hermione remembered. No, generally speaking it seemed like their plan had worked out brilliantly. Ron was now a pariah, and odds were he wouldn't show his face for a while.
"You're not worried he will keep distrusting us?" Harry asked.
"No," she snorted. "Ronald has the mental fortitude of a Malfoy. He will probably exile himself."
Harry thought about it for a second and shrugged. "I'll trust your judgement. So you should probably write to the DMLE that you won't press charges. What about the protective charm?" She frowned at that, indicating it was a dumb question to ask. "Right," he said, "can't show weakness. I guess I'm not worried either."
"I'll send the divorce papers on Monday," she said. "To Ron, I know I can file them unilaterally but it would be more fun to let him go along with it of his own accord." She sat up and placed her hands on her legs. "So," she huffed, "what are you going to do about Ginny then?"
Harry groaned. "God, can't I just leave this for future Harry?"
"Fair is fair. I just want you to tell me how you're going to do it."
He eyed her, his lips in a frustrated pout. "I think… it would be all right if I asked to break up – but, but! She's going to be all… emotional and I'll have to be – damn it, supportive or something? It's exhausting, Hermione. I'm not looking forward to it."
"But you're fine as you are right now?"
He sighed again. "It's easier being inoffensive and charming to her. It's what she expects."
"And I," she said in a warning tone, "expect you to do your part. You'll break up with her after the elections, that's in –"
"Twenty-one days, I'm counting, don't worry."
He smiled at her. She knew what he meant by it: 'We can snog all we want until the ginger bitch gets here.' Although he probably was less vindictive about it. But that didn't stop her from snogging him all the same.
They did shower and brush their teeth eventually. Perish the thought that their adulterous relationship would get off to a bad start, and oral hygiene would be a pillar to build it upon, Hermione would make sure of it.
McGonagall's letter came last of all. No surprise there, as the school year had started the day before. She was so very sorry not to have done more. In other words: she wasn't ready to admit she had met with Ron in private but felt guilty about keeping it from Hermione. She wrote back a conciliatory response. It would be the height of irony to blame McGonagall for the staged beating.
Back in the library they (mostly Hermione) tried to find a solution for the rapidly dwindling mental health of their gaggle of whores. Easier said than done. Cheering charms were not a solution for traumatic depression. Neither was a curse that lobotomised someone into a mindless servant, although that might prove useful at some point.
"So," Harry said lazily, sitting in an inverted position with his legs on the back of the couch. "What are we going to do when we get elected?"
She eyed him curiously, an effort that was lost on him as he was flipping the pages of that ridiculous tome on necromancy again (Five Good Ways to Use the Remains of your Enemies). "You haven't thought about what we would do next?" she asked annoyedly.
He flipped around to an upright position and dropped his book next to him. "Not in detail. I mean I know the blackmail we have is going to be useful, and I'm sure I would find a way to do something interesting with it – you know, when we get there – but I haven't planned anything. You have?"
"Well, Harry," she said as she always did when she was about to go off on one of her rants. "It's important for us to gain political capital, with the Wizengamot, with the Ministry, and with the public. If we do it correctly, we could be dictating policy for a very long time. It would also be good for us to turn the blackmail we have into permanent connections."
She let out a deep sigh. "It pains me to admit it, but I'm not the most well-liked person in professional circles. I've ticked off more than my share of lordlings and Ministry rabble. There are thirty permanent Lords and double the number of elected officials. In order to pass a motion, we have to rally half of them, and even using what we have, we might not have a majority."
She paused waiting for his input.
"We're going to need money," he said. "I know everyone thinks the Black fortune is a bottomless pit of gold, but at the rate we're spending it's not going to last. And we'll need it for other things. Say, bribes?"
"Oh, yes, that makes sense." She clearly hadn't thought about that.
"Hey," he said, excitedly jumping up, "do you want to go on a trip tomorrow?"
She frowned. "Harry, I thought I was clear that we had to prepare! We're going to have to be familiar with the procedures once we attend our first Wizengamot session."
"Come on, Hermione," he plead. "I promise it will be fun… and productive!"
"Harry..." Her protest died on the last letter of his name.
"Awesome," he said giving her a kiss. "You won't regret it."
She slowly melted into a happy puddle and went back to reading.
Lunch didn't go so well. Hermione wanted to prepare something but both Harry and Kreacher ganged up on her not to. It seemed Harry still remembered the horcrux hunt and how his stomach didn't agree with her home-made pasta sauce. It wasn't her fault! The recipe should've been more clear.
-M-
It was awful, just downright awful. And practice was going terribly too. She had fumbled the quaffle twice already (Ginny Potter did not fumble the quaffle!), and coach Mattley was giving her the stink-eye. Yes, obviously she didn't care about her players having personal problems. That's why they were so good, why they were going to rip the league to shreds this year. She couldn't afford not to play her best, regardless of how much of a loser her brother was.
She read the article during break time, and had almost ripped a locker in half by kicking into it.
'THAT – SMASH – BLOODY – SMASH – IDIOT – SMASH – COCKHEAD – SMASH SMASH SMASH' Is how it had gone down.
Property damage was a tradition amongst the Harpies. Lea (the prodigal seeker) had loved the outburst, and could not give less of a shit about what had happened to such-and-such 'war hero' or family of Ginny. In fact the blonde dunderhead didn't care much for anything else besides quidditch. Ginny got along very well with her.
They finished off with a cooldown run around the pitch, with Lea chattering about her weekly trip to Quality Quidditch Supplies, where she had met a Nimbus engineer and rattled his head off about possible adjustments on their new line. "He didn't write back yet," she said without a hint of emotion. They never wrote back.
Hellish Harpy practice ended with Gwen's strategy meeting, where she would routinely conjure and lob pieces of chalk at anyone who got too distracted. They made a game out of it, dodging was an important part of quidditch too and it was much more interesting than the actual strategy. But even the usual Harpy antics couldn't lift her mood. It truly was bad what had happened, for a multitude of reasons. Not least of all was that Harry was now taking Hermione under his roof, while Ginny was still stuck in the doghouse.
Not fair, not fair at all. Well, maybe slightly fair. She had dated that blockhead Marcus Dwyre for all of six weeks, she'd even taken off her ring while doing so. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But back then it really did seem like he would never wake up. 'Likely to never recover, Mrs. Potter,' is what the healers had said. Useless, the lot of them.
And things had not been going well with Harry. Oh, yes she could smile, exchange pleasantries, be the courting wife. But something just didn't resonate. The hoops were slanted, the bludgers made of cake batter. The possibility that Harry would now fall for Hermione was very, very real. Ron might have thought that things were fine after the war, 'She's like a sister to him!' But Ginny knew better.
Tears in her eyes, a helpless look, a sniffle from her annoyingly cute broken nose, and it would all be over. Just one 'Oh, Harry, hold me please' and sweet, caring Harry wouldn't know what to do with himself. It didn't really matter if there was some mystical non-sexuality preventing them from acting on it. Men were simply creatures, even Harry Potter.
She sighed as she went to shower and change. She wasn't ready to give up the fight yet, not by a long shot. Checking herself in the mirror, Ginny admired how well she looked. Toned abs. Jutting hips. Soft, cherry-red lips. Her freckles, perfectly peppering her nose and cheeks. Head in the game, Ginny. Head in the game. She could do this and do it well. Sure, it might have taken her six or seven full years, but she had seduced and married Harry Potter, the love of her life, fire of her loins.
"Looking good, Gin-Win," Lea said. "Date night?"
"Not really. You?"
"Just staying in – AH!"
Kiera had passed by and slapped Lea's shapely arse.
"Stop that!" Lea protested.
"See you tomorrow," Kiera called back.
Lea giggled stupidly. "She's so stupid!"
Ginny bit her tongue not to point out the pot to the kettle. "I'm going Lee."
"Buh-bye," Lea called to her.
If things got really grim, Ginny could always use the itty-bitty bint as a bargaining chip.
She apparated to the quiet end of the street, nervous as a doped up pigmy puff. The sun still shone brightly between the houses and an unsuspecting muggle did his best to ignore the girl that had just appeared out of nowhere. With a fast tapping pace of her trainers, she walked to 12, Grimmauld Place. She never liked the house. Very dark, damp and stifling. Their apartment, as simple as it was, had been much better, and she had good memories of it.
A flash of anger passed through her again as she thought of the happy memories, now so distant and ephemeral. Chance of getting any tonight: near zero. She knew that. Just be nice and sweet to Hermione. Not that she hated her, but she hadn't exactly been competition so far. Oh, how easy it would be if Harry had just not gotten hit by that curse, or if Hermione hadn't – surely she had, it wasn't Harry's idea – suggested the political career.
Yet another thing to be angry about, that Hermione was capable of having him shake his world upside down and enter the Wizengamot. She groaned and grimaced at the thought. She knocked at the door.
Calm. Concerned. Compassionate. Deep breath. Rattle, rattle.
"Ginny, come in," Harry said with a subdued smile, stepping aside to let her pass. "Sorry about the floo, but I couldn't be bothered to do more than block it off right now."
"It's fine," she said. But no, it was strange. "How is Hermione?"
"You know her, she'll be back out there in no time."
Generic response. She at least expected some kind of fumbling on his part.
"Sleep much?" Push-push.
"Enough," he answered.
"You look a bit tired." Push-push.
"I got a few days off… you know."
Bad news.
"Does she want to talk?" Ginny moved next to him to study his reaction.
"Yeah, should be fine," he said with a smirk.
The place was much different than she remembered. Mouldy carpet replaced by dark hardwood floors covered by a red carpet in the parlour. It almost seemed warm and welcoming, though not quite, there was still a strange eeriness to it.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The hint of something in the air. Harry called Kreacher for some tea. Hermione appeared from a guest room. Not haggard, not in pieces, just seemingly a bit sad and with her visible wounds. Ginny ran over in a concerned rush and pressed Hermione into a friendly hug.
"Glad to see you," she lied. "How are you feeling?"
"Better with Harry letting me stay."
Ginny deflated internally. But she smiled, endearingly, to Harry and then to her. "It's nice of you. You know you're always welcome at my apartment if it gets to be too much?"
"Thank you Ginny," Hermione answered, "but I'm fine here. Plus we will have a lot of work in the coming weeks. It's for the best really."
For how long? Definitely too soon to start asking if she wanted to start looking for a place. They sat in the parlour, Harry next to Ginny but too far away. The more they talked, the more she had a bad feeling about the atmosphere in the room. Screw it, she decided, and broached the subject of Ron.
"You're not pressing charges?" Ginny asked in surprise.
"I'm asking for a divorce," she answered without meeting her eyes.
There it was. If she were honest with herself, Ginny was 50/50 on the odds of Hermione ending up a happily battered wife. After all, she had put up with much of Ron's unacceptable behaviour before. But alas, it was not to be. Ron going to prison was definitely preferable.
She simply nodded, she was here to be supportive. "I'm with you, Hermione."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, and Harry turned to Ginny. "That means a lot, Gin."
She stayed for dinner. Kreacher whipped something up. Lasagna, to Hermione's delight. She got lost in the casual conversation and friendly banter, some decent part of it being about quidditch. Katie Bell, their former beloved team member was starting off in Puddlemere, and speculation was made on her chasing after Oliver Wood.
They had some chocolates with coffee for desert, and Ginny left in a decent mood. It wasn't until she stopped, ten paces from the door, that the pieces started to lock into place.
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Are you bloody kidding me?"
Harry was cheating on her. With Hermione. Had she been this blind only to see it in hindsight? That glowing stupid look she gave him as she told one of his lame jokes. The smirk when they talked of Katie and Wood's imaginary relationship. And the darn smell. Something between a barn and a flower shop. They were probably shagging right now. What? Knock on the door and catch them half-shagged?
What the bloody hell was she supposed to do? She couldn't think, and as much as she would take pleasure in hexing them both to hell – Ron. She took a deep breath. Oh, quite the coincidence, all those things that happened. Did her cowardly brother really have it in him to go a few rounds with the wife he paraded around so proudly? Even if she was cheating. None of it made sense, but she'd be damned before she let whatever tar pit was being revealed under her feet drag her down.
No, even if dear Harry had made the unconscionable mistake of letting Ginny Flipping Weasley go for his bookworm playmate, Ginny would not let that end her.
