Posted 5/16/2015
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Sixty-Nine - Tempting
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Draco glanced around the Great Hall one last time. The Ravenclaws had their heads together, but were too busy studying to make any trouble. The Hufflepuffs were huddled around their table, cowardly bunch that they were. Good. He wouldn't have minded roughing a few of them up for a bit – especially some of the younger one squealed so hilariously when under pressure – but even that lost its appeal after a while. It lacked the delicious taste of triumph if the victim had already been down. As long as the Hufflepuffs did as they were told, Draco wouldn't bother them too much. With their spirit broken, the needs of the Dark Lord took precedence. Let them be loyal, Draco thought, as long as they were loyal to the Dark Lord. He had little more than three months left at school, and then he would finally fill the role he was meant for – serving the Dark Lord and the greater good of society, if he had understood the hints in his father's letters correctly. And once he'd have proven himself, once the Dark Lord would have seen just what Draco Malfoy could do, then nothing would stand in his way to the top, and no one would dare deny him anything.
With a smirk, Draco looked towards the last table. The Gryffindors were throwing glares around, but didn't dare to speak up any more. That one delighted Draco most, knowing it had taken just a little more force to break them into servitude than it had with the other houses. Now the proud and courageous lions had been tamed, and Draco only wished he could have seen Potter fall into line as well. But then, had he been there, he would have been squashed like the bug he was in reality.
Potter, Draco groused. What was so special about him anyway? For years, Draco had seen him bumble through school. There was nothing about him; he was just some stupid half-blood. Inferior. Only pure luck had allowed him to escape the inevitable time and again. How else could Potter have escaped in August? Draco had been there, he had seen it with his own eyes! Potter had been cornered and unprepared, so how had he managed to slip away? By pure luck, that was it. Through trickery instead of bravery. Cowering someplace, surely, hiding from view until the predator left like scared prey did on occasion.
Prey Potter, Draco thought with an angry sneer. Potter. But he would pay one day. The Dark Lord would see to it, and with a bit of luck, Draco would be there to see it.
As his eyes found Pansy patrolling between the Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs, she sent him a smile. He forced himself to return it, but once she turned away, his sneer was back. What had she been doing, he wondered. Why hadn't she managed to bring her friends into the fold? Why hadn't Bulstrode and Davis come to him like he had planned? What good was playing nice with Pansy if she couldn't even do that right? A waste of time, she was. Useless. All that time, and Pansy hadn't found out anything worthwhile. She had to be the worst spy in history if she couldn't trick two stupid half-bloods.
Three months, he told himself, three months and he wouldn't need to bother with her any more. Or maybe he could cut her off already? Replace her with someone more skilled? Or skilled at all? Stupid sentimentalities, making him watch her as she made a fool of herself and botched even the simplest of tasks. Pansy's friends, he thought, swallowing the hate rising in his throat.
Potter was the Dark Lord's. Greengrass, though... The disappointment of the family. Oh, he would enjoy making her pay, pay until she begged for death. Pay for daring to... Draco shook his head, angry at her and him.
He left the Great Hall, lost in thought.
Everything had its place, Draco had come to realize. Oh, at first, he had been annoyed with his mother taking the job at Hogwarts. He didn't need her around, he had thought, and it was true. He was capable, he had proven himself. He didn't need his mother to hold his hand. But after a while, he had come to see her for what she was and had understood just why she was there. She was no Death Eater in the traditional sense. She had a far more important role to fill. With people like the Carrows or even Professor Snape around, the students were longing for someone who would understand their needs and worries. They wished for a mother figure, and as if by fate, there was one. An understanding woman, beautiful, and pleasant, and proud, and powerful, and proper, and pure-blooded. Yes, Draco had been annoyed in the beginning, but he could see the undecided and frightened children running to her. And as was her job, she cared for them, she listened to their worries, and slowly, day by day, hour by hour, she brought one child after the other over to the proper thinking. She caught those who didn't answer to threats or promises of power. She collected those that needed persuasion to see the truth.
As his mother, so had the Carrows their place in life. They were the harsh teachers who prepared the children for the tasks at hand. Yes, some life lessons needed to be taught with a firm hand. They were the means to counterbalance the good his mother could do, and even worthless idiots like them, mere brutes, were able to do that. They showed the future grunts how they could find a place in life. Even a world under a Dark Lord still needed enforcers.
Of course, Mudbloods had their place as well, but as long as he was stuck in school, Draco couldn't do much about them. He could only listen to the stories he heard from the outside world, of bringing the Muggles to their knees and their disgusting spawn to their just punishment for daring to wish for more than they deserved. Mudbloods and their delusions of grandeur. Three months, he reminded himself and hoped there would be some left for him.
Then there were those who dared to deny his superiority, and Draco was disgusted to see some of them even in his own house. He had always known she wasn't of much use, but that Davis girl had to be wrong in the head. Something was wrong with her. Something needed fixing – if someone like her could be fixed in the first place. Little better than a Mudblood, too close to them. Maybe it was something in her blood?
And there was Bulstrode. She was many things, butt-ugly among them, but she had no brains. Couldn't she see where the wind was blowing from? Couldn't she realize what needed to be done? Couldn't she see servitude would do her well? That she could have a quiet life out of the public's eye, doing everyone a favour that way, if she'd just bent her knee once?
Worst of all stung Pansy's betrayal. She was there to clean up some loose ends for him, not be useless. A girl dared ridicule the new order? Pansy should flush her out, but she didn't even notice anything wrong. Someone was spreading nasty rumours? Pansy should use her connections to trace the stories back to the origin, but instead, Draco had to rely on others. He certainly didn't keep her around for her political clout or brains, and definitely not her appeal. If she didn't improve any time soon, maybe he'd have to replace her.
And Draco also had his place. He was no exception. He was finally on his way to his rightful place where he belonged – above the common rabble. Oh, he would have loved to keep that Bones girl around to show everyone what would happen to those who didn't follow. She had laughed; he knew she had. She had felt safe among her friends, hadn't she? Safety. Friendship. Why had she slipped through their fingers? But no matter, he decided. One day, she'd be found, one day, she'd be caught. And with a bit of luck, he'd be there when she'd be punished. It was just a question of when she would pay, not if. The Dark Lord would see to it. The Dark Lord rewarded loyalty.
As he strolled back towards his common room, he chuckled to himself. How much he had changed in just eighteen months, he mused, idly hexing a small Gryffindor. Back then, he had been very reluctant about violence. Oh, he had said the words before then, and he had had his little games, sure. But he had thought he could keep his work clean and below anyone's notice. Yet it hadn't worked that way, had it? No, Brooks had to stumble upon it. Brooks had to mess it up. She had to force his hand. She had paid for it.
He had debated about it, yes. He had tried to convince her to stay quiet. It had only incensed her further. She had taken his choice in the matter, but she had also given him his first taste of freedom and power. And he had liked it a lot. Little girl, foolish girl, easy to control, easy to guide to her doom and his liberation. When had it appeared to her, he wondered. When had she realized what would happen? Had it been when he had put her under the curse? Maybe, but she might have had hope back then. Hope of escape, foolish girl that she had been. Perhaps that firewhiskey, then. She had nearly suffocated from it. Perhaps that had been when she had known what would happen. When he had her undress and enter the pool, he had seen it in her eyes – the spark of life and the fear of prey. She had known back then. He had given her the order, and she had done it. His first taste of power like that, and it had been delicious. Her and McLaggen, his first taste of power. No one had suspected anything.
No one except Potter, Draco growled. Potter, always him, always there, always blocking his way, always knowing things. Even with him not telling anyone, Potter had still managed to do it. And even without him being there, he had still beat Draco again, by using his little bitch Greengrass. A trap it had been, it had to have been. A conspiracy – Potter, Greengrass. Perhaps even McGonagall or that halfbreed. They might have known something. But where were they now? McGonagall was only at school until an appropriate replacement could be found. That halfbreed Charms teacher was too insignificant to do anything, but going against him meant going against the Goblins. The Dark Lord would have to wait until he could deal with them. Potter was probably huddling somewhere, cowering at the might he had foolishly challenged. And then there was Greengrass of course.
Greengrass. Greengrass, Draco thought with a scowl. Greengrass, the one that got away, the one that had dared... She would pay. Day after day, hour after hour, he would repay her insolence thousand-fold. He might have been content if she had died that day. But no, she was still alive and out there, he knew it. He could feel it every waking moment of his life. He knew she was still alive. Yes, he would make her pay until her last breath, his mother had promised him that. They would destroy her, break her. And when the time had come, when Greengrass would finally be nothing but a shell, when she had no will left to beg for death, when there was nothing left of her and her pain would bring no amusement any more, then he might consider letting her drift off into eternal sleep. No one harmed a Malfoy without punishment; everyone would pay for it in the end.
Shortly after four, Daphne hesitantly closed her book and put it on the night stand. The Lady Sophie and her handsome lover who happened to be the stable-boy could and would have to wait for their reunion for a while. For some reason, Daphne's heart wasn't in it, and what good were soppy, saucy stories if you were preoccupied? Ignoring, of course, that Daphne already knew this one and had only picked it up to pass some time and lose herself someone else's life, the spark wasn't there. Or rather, it had reminded her of what she was missing out on at the moment – night-time with Harry.
She liked being open about her affections, even if she tried toning it down when they were around his friends. She didn't think it was a good idea to rub it in Weasley's face, and while she got along with Hermione just fine recently, Daphne knew very well how annoying being around couples could be. But at the end of the day, she still retreated to her room and waited for sleep to come instead of sneaking upstairs like she wanted to. Wanted to because it had been fun, wanted to because she liked him as well as the bed, and wanted to because she had slept in his room a lot better than in hers. Also, after years of sharing a dorm, having a room to herself that technically wasn't hers made her feel lonely.
But while running off to some corner for a bit of private time with her boyfriend and husband – who happened to be the same person, thankfully – was nice and fun, they hadn't done anything that would have required a fainting couch for her mother if she ever heard so much as a rumour about her daughter's indecent behaviour. However, the couples in Daphne's books certainly didn't stop at snogging, and neither, Daphne knew, did most teens at Hogwarts and around the world. There were still a number of steps left for Harry and her.
She had thought about it. One part of her was screaming at her, calling her out on her folly. But there was also a small part of her mind that wanted to take the next step, and whenever they spent some time together, she felt drawn to him. The time with him had awoken something she had thought long buried and dead – hope for a happy life, hope for a spot of sunshine in it, and as terrifying as that was, as horrible as the pain it brought with it, Daphne told herself that it was the suffering of a cleansing fire. Healing hurt, so not all pain was bad, she told herself, and days had already passed without some kind of punishment for her. Maybe Harry's brush with death after the Nott incident had been enough? Maybe she had passed a test and Fate would let her be? Or maybe love did conquer all?
She felt as if she were at the edge of a cliff and prepared for a leap of faith.
Was she ready? Was he?
But then, she also knew they might not have much time left. There was the war, for one. If either of them would get hurt or killed, it would be Harry – of that, Daphne was sure beyond a doubt. She knew Fate well enough to know she would be the one left behind and he taken where she couldn't follow. And with the war he was invested in, there was no lack of opportunities. Any time he left could be his last. Any risk he took could be the final one.
For a moment, she saw it. She knew Harry would die standing up. He'd fight Death Eaters and Ministry, likely taking with him as many as he could, possibly a last stand on the ruins of society. Maybe he'd get into a fight to protect some Muggles. Maybe he'd make a desperate attempt at taking the Dark Lord's life like a brave knight storming towards the mighty dragon.
A year ago, she wouldn't have expected that side of Harry, but she had come to accept it nonetheless. In a strange way, he was suited for the role of a hero. Not the brave knight in shining armour Tracey had talked about amidst giggles in their first year, but Harry did have foolish bravery that was often rewarded in life and stories alike. As a matter of fact, Daphne mused, Harry also had some roguish charm, an aura of daring and luck. Was it any wonder, then, that she'd fallen for him?
But she was still unsure about it. Should she really tempt Fate? It wasn't the temptation she minded – that thought alone surprised her – and she smiled at the idea of tempting Harry. Scratch that, she wanted to do it, if only for the sake of it. The scene played out in her mind, Harry lounging in a chair, shirt partly unbuttoned and glistening in the sunlight shining through the high windows of wherever southern they were staying, when she stormed in, the silken dress shimmering with every sway of her hips. The smell of salt in the air, the gentle rushing of the waves, his eyes on her as he gave her the cocky, lop-sided smile...
After a quick shower in equal parts to cool down and clean up, she got dressed, thinking about the best way to do it.
He loved her. She knew he did, it was the little things that told her. His smiles, his words, his kisses, all of which she enjoyed a lot. And even if she hadn't told him yet, she was quite sure she loved him back. It wasn't just a phase – or she hoped it wouldn't be – and she could feel a connection to him she hadn't anticipated at first. The way he smiled, the way he talked, the way he moved, she could see and feel there was something that drew her to him. However, she had come to know him well enough over the months to know and guess he had his own hang-ups. She knew he could be about as insecure and immature as any boy her age, but there also seemed to be something else as well – at times, he seemed oddly reserved and contemplating, looking older than he was, as if a shadow were looming over his shoulder.
At dinner, he returned from wherever he had gone. He was awfully quiet, seemingly lost in thought, and while he did offer the occasional comment, he didn't add anything meaningful to the conversation. Weasley had apparently had a bad day and grumbled to himself. Maybe Hermione needed to pay him a visit; that might relax him a bit. Kreacher and Hermione seemed to have done some work around the house – Daphne suppressed the smile at thinking about the odd change in their relationship – and had managed to clean up the dining room, from what Daphne could tell.
After dinner, Harry and his friends went off somewhere to talk about something – likely their preparations for some of their plans, but Daphne didn't feel like joining them.
As evening turned into night and everyone had retreated to their rooms, Daphne lay down on her bed, unsure of what to do. Hours before, it had seemed like a tempting idea to sneak into Harry's room and maybe take the next of many steps left to them, but now she wasn't sure any more. She had intentionally kept her distance, after all – they didn't need Hermione or Weasley stumbling in on them in his room, whether at night or in the morning. They really didn't need to give them the wrong idea, even if, depending on how things went, they wouldn't be entirely wrong.
The shadows grew longer and darker, clawing their way into the room and up the walls. A deafening silence descended, and clammy fingers of cold crept over her arms. From the shadows, unseen eyes were watching her every move. A whispering began, too low to understand the words that blended into one another, but Daphne knew them anyway. Or were those leaves rustling in the wind? It might just be, or perhaps waves on a shore, but it didn't matter – she could feel mocking and accusation bearing down on her from the unseen eyes.
The sound of a door slammed shut woke her up abruptly. Shaking her head, she gazed around the room. She was alone, and the light around her had gone out.
Nightmare, she thought gloomily. She wished she could leave them behind, but knew she likely couldn't any more than she could any other part of her.
The shadows seemed to laugh silently at her folly, and she knew she didn't want to spend the night alone. Maybe Harry would distract her enough. Hermione and Weasley be damned, if she wanted to visit her boyfriend who happened to be her husband in the main bedroom, then she would do just that. And if she felt ready for the next step, then so be it; it wasn't any of their business, was it?
A plan forming in her head, she opened her trunk and quickly found what she had been looking for. Well, she reasoned as she got changed, what better way to tempt him into the next step? What could be more appropriate?
The fabric felt just as good as it had the last time, maybe even a hint better than ever before. Or maybe it was just her imagination and the hint of giddiness. The silk still shimmered in the light. She quickly threw a bathrobe over it, not wanting to tempt Fate. The last she wanted now was having to justify the negligee to Weasley or Hermione, even if the latter already knew about it. But then, it was one thing owning such a piece of clothing and another trying to sneak into a boyfriend's room wearing it.
She peeked outside the door. No one was in sight, just as she had hoped. She tiptoed up the stairs, listening for any signs of movement around her, but heard nothing. Phineas Nigellus wasn't there, thankfully. She would have hated to deal with him, and knowing the obnoxious painting, he would have delayed her enough to make her lose her courage. Finally, she stood in front of his door. With a knock, she entered without waiting.
He turned away from the wall he had been staring at – one that was covered with notes, some so detailed the parchment looked almost entirely black. Since he wore a simple pair of pyjamas, Daphne guessed he had gotten side-tracked on his way to bed by some random thought. Or maybe he also couldn't sleep and had turned to planning.
"Ah, that night-time visitor," he commented, chuckling. With a quick wave of his hand, the notes came unstuck and stacked themselves neatly on the table. "Anything I can do for you?"
She steadied her breath, trying to come up with an answer that would sound both tempting and confident.
"I," she began, swallowing her nervousness down. It wasn't that difficult, was it? If Lady Sophie could do it, why shouldn't she? Ignoring, of course, that the Lady was fictional, Daphne added in her mind. That she'd just rip open her bathrobe, sway over to him and be charming, and all would work out in the end? Then again, she didn't particularly feel confident at the moment.
"I thought you might like some company," she said with a shaky, forced smile. She knew it was hardly convincing and, remembering something she had read a few weeks ago, added, "Been a while since we met like this, you and me."
Her chuckle didn't make it any better; she doubted he had bought the borrowed line. At least she was aware of the differences between the book and reality, for Harry was no bronzed Adonis and last she checked, she wasn't male.
"Well, now that you mention it," he replied, a grin appearing on his face that didn't reach his eyes. "A pleasant surprise, then?"
"Yeah, sorry about that," she told him, avoiding his eye, "didn't want to be caught sneaking in here. Too many watchful eyes around the house for my liking."
"Hermione –"
"Might still not be happy about it," Daphne interrupted. "And then there's Phineas Nigellus Black outside. Knowing our luck, he'd see me and tell Weasley or something to annoy us."
They fell silent for a long moment before Harry cleared his throat.
"Everything all right, Daphne?" he asked, stepping closer to her. "You look," he paused uncertainly, finishing after a second, "a bit pale."
Her fantasy from the afternoon bubbling up, Daphne felt a blush rise in her cheeks.
Before she could answer him, he shook his head, saying, "Trick of light."
A perfect explanation, Daphne realized, but sighed. "No. I... I had a nightmare. Nothing for you to worry about, but –"
"Try me," he spoke up.
Smiling, she continued, "So I came here for some company. Sorry if I interrupted you or something, it seemed like something important," she nodded towards the now empty wall, "but here I am."
"Don't worry about it," he told her, waving her off casually. "Just me thinking too much about inconsequential things."
"Hard to believe."
"But it's true," he insisted. "That's what you get when you don't just want something to work, but want to do it with a bit of flair and fancy magic. Believe it or not, it's a hassle making something look easy."
"Like neatly stacking notes with a wave of your hand?" she guessed with a genuine chuckle.
"Why yes," he agreed, smiling. "Exactly like that. It may look easy, but took forever to make it look casual and careless enough. And not set it on fire, which happened a bit too often for my liking when I began."
"Seems like a waste of time," Daphne commented.
"Well, it's a bit of psychological warfare," Harry explained. "Infusing displays of magic with a careless ease and flair, making it look as if it's no problem at all is a good way of hinting at hidden power and skill. What else can I do? Am I as skilled with offensive magic? Is it worth it to find out?"
"And that's why you learned it?"
"I wanted to see if I could, actually," Harry admitted. "But that's not a very good reason, just wanting something to show off."
"It certainly looked impressive," she told him with a smile.
"Thanks. So, here you are. It's been a while. I've missed it, you know?" he laughed easily before pursing his lips. "I really did. 't was lonely at times."
"You could have invited me up here," Daphne offered, putting a hand on her hip. The bathrobe slipped a bit, but she made no effort to correct it, adding, "Or gotten the paintings back to keep you company."
"Could've," he agreed, his eyes flicking down for the briefest of moments.
She cleared her throat, smirking despite the warmth spreading through her.
Knowing he had been caught, he smiled sheepishly. "Very nice, Daphne," he muttered.
"Glad you approve," she laughed, tempted to add that she had put it on in part for him.
"Remind me to thank... err..."
"Blaise," Daphne helped. "Zabini to you, I guess. Can't say it wouldn't be hilarious to see it. He'd intended it as a joke."
"Well, he's got... good taste," Harry said with a slightly too enthusiastic nod.
"Yeah, whatever," Daphne chuckled, waving him off and feeling a lot less nervous all of a sudden. "I just felt like wearing it again; it is a very nice piece." That it was, she thought once more, and vowing she'd find a way to make it up to Blaise somehow.
Harry held his breath for a moment. She could feel his eyes travelling over her with more than simple curiosity. Two month ago, she would have hated it. Then again, at the end of December, they had been friends with some unvoiced attraction between them. Now she secretly enjoyed it, knowing what she meant to him. Of course, watching him look her up and down gave her the perfect excuse to return the favour – even if he hadn't dressed up, she couldn't help but notice he looked good even in his nightwear. In fact, it seemed as if it had been bought for a slightly smaller Harry than the one standing in front of her. Of course, she had already seen just what was hidden underneath, even if he had been bleeding profusely at the time, allowing her to fill in the details.
"I like it even more now," he told her finally, closing the distance and whispering, "Very nice, indeed," in her ear. "And you decided to come here in that?"
Daphne was unbelievably glad he didn't see the brilliant blush rise in her face as very improper thoughts went through her head and scenarios played out. It got worse when his arms snaked around her waist and drew her against him, causing a slight shiver to run down her spine. Improper for teenagers, she thought, not necessarily for married couples. Even if it had been feigned, she wondered.
"So what now?" he breathed with a hidden challenge in his voice.
"Well," she began, forcing her voice to be light and unwilling to lose so easily, "we could start by telling each other about our day." She didn't think she'd managed to make it sound as unaffected as she had hoped, but he snorted, letting go of her immediately.
For a moment, Daphne tempted to throw herself at him and snog him senseless, but managed to stop herself.
"If that's what you want," he laughed, "fine by me. My day wasn't that interesting. Until a few minutes ago, of course," he added with a sly look at her. "I did a bit of spying here and there, managed to nick a Daily Prophet. One Death Eater – I won't name names, of course – has added a few new wards around his house. Decent work, of course, but rather unimaginative. Not very innovative, that lot. Just the same old ideas in new forms. They're not used to being the one's hunted down, you know?"
"If you say so," Daphne replied with a shrug. "I sat around, read a bit, I ate with you lot. And you know the rest."
"Ah, sounds like some dull day for both of us. Learned anything we could use?"
"I... Nothing I didn't know already," she told him, but couldn't quite contain the renewed blush at his question, not feeling quite ready to take hints from Lady Sophie's story, no matter how –
"Too bad," he said, bringing her out of her thoughts.
Shaking her head, Daphne forced a smile. "It wasn't a bad read?" she offered, stepping closer to him to put a hand on his chest as she raised a challenging eyebrow.
He seemed to have gotten the message, leaning in with a smile to be met by her halfway. The first kiss of the night began soft and light. While she sank her hands in his top and hair, one of his found its way to her side.
Their second kiss was filled with something else. A deep longing stole its way into it, both from Daphne and Harry. By the third, her hand had moved down his body, and while they kissed hungrily, by the time their fourth kiss ended, they had fallen on the bed.
She might have purred or not, but she could have sworn by the time they broke apart ten minutes later, he was growling at her. And they didn't stop. She didn't want to, and neither did he. Before she knew it, she had started undoing the knot of her robe; just as she realized just what she was doing, he pushed it off her arms and threw it aside, easily distracting her with yet another kiss.
His hands felt wonderful through the silk and she might have been content with that for a while under different circumstances, but not this time. This time, they were of one mind. His lips travelled along her jawline and down her neck to her exposed shoulder. It was sweet torment to her, his caresses eliciting new waves of desire, yet she also longed to kiss him again and fight his fires of passion with her own. Following her heart about which hunger to satisfy, her hands developed a mind of their own, fumbling with the buttons of his top as her toes curled in on themselves. This time, she knew she had purred amidst a shiver. One of his hands moved down her back, leaving her tingling and squirming under his touch.
And then his other hand touched her bared shoulder and the scarred skin, and she twitched violently and tried to twist away from his hand. That she didn't want, Daphne thought, that she wanted to hide. She'd so gotten used to it, but his skin on hers had brought her down like a bucket of cold water.
His grip slackened, giving her enough room to prop herself up. She had rolled on top of him. When had that happened? Last she had checked, they had been a tangle of limbs. Her hair curtained off the rest of the room. Their world consisted of only Harry and Daphne. His eyes found hers, worry and confusion shimmering in them. She turned, trying to move away from his hand.
He understood, smiling softly at her with a raised eyebrow that she couldn't quite place. His lips, his oh-so-kissable lips formed the words she read off of them. Hypocrite, he had mouthed, and once he had done so, he showed her the hand that had been on her shoulder – his left and the gnarled skin she hadn't been bothered by before.
"Sorry," she whispered, "just startled me, is all."
"We're an odd couple, aren't we?" he chuckled.
She leaned back down, and they kissed once more, most of the passion gone. After a moment, she broke the kiss, and holding his gaze, whispered, "Let's be odd, you and me."
He blinked once, twice, before he snorted, laughing quietly.
"... That came out wrong," Daphne admitted, blushing profusely. "I didn't... It sounded better in my head. Augh, stop laughing, Harry!"
He did by leaning up and kissing her. Together, they sank back down. His hand went from her arm up until it had returned to her shoulder, his gnarled fingers caressing her marred skin. It wasn't so bad and oddly fitting – two damaged goods finding each other.
And then, his hand moved again, down her back while his other one went up until they met at her waist.
His lips tasted wonderful, and a new fire sparked in her, spreading slowly up and down her body. Her head screamed at her to stop before it was too late, yet the shiver of anticipation and yearning ran down her spine, and her body was screaming encouragement.
Slowly, she rolled them over, never breaking the contact of their lips, until he was lying about halfway over her. His hands moved from their spots, his thumb brushing over the scars on her belly. Maybe she had imagined it, but for one horrible moment, she thought Harry had been frozen mid-movement. Damaged goods, damaged goods, her mind shouted at her, he knew it, and she could think of nothing to refute it.
Daphne decided to take a leap of faith. He'd accept it, she told herself. He loved her, damaged goods or not. She broke the kiss and locked eyes with Harry, hoping he could somehow guess the importance of the moment and wishing she could find the right words. Before he could do more than stare back, she took one of his hands and guided it around and under the silk of her clothes to her belly. And still their eyes were locked, hers showing determination, and his unreadable.
His fingers, cold on the scars, began their slow journey over the ridges that marred her skin. About halfway through it with no sign of him stopping, she pulled him down to her once more. This kiss too was something else. It was theirs and part of their private world in which only the two of them mattered for the moment. As his fingers trailed across her scars, her hands came to rest on his partly undone shirt once more. Amidst kisses and the sensation of his hand still on her stomach, she finished unbuttoning his pyjamas top. He didn't object, not even when his top hung open and her hands began their travel, skin brushing over skin. Consequences be damned, she didn't want to stop anytime soon.
And then he moved to be on top of her, propped on one hand and his knees. One of them came to rest on her leg, pressing painfully into it. And Daphne reacted before she really knew it, shoving him away roughly.
"Watch it, Potter," she hissed as the pain in her leg lessened the moment the weight on her shifted.
He fell off the bed. Daphne blinked in surprise. What had just happened? Had he lost his balance? A moment later, she woke from her stupor, rolling over and finding him staring back at her. Their eyes met, and a smile crept onto his face, small at first, but growing larger by the second.
"Potter?" he asked her. "Really?"
"Slipped out," she grumbled half-heartedly.
He started laughing. "If you say so."
She rolled her eyes, lying down on her stomach. His hand may be gone, but she could still feel it on her skin. The mood however seemed to be lost once more. She sighed a bit, saddened by it. She had rather liked it. Perhaps they could try another time, she mused, watching him shake his head in amusement. He wasn't too far, so she grabbed his head and pulled him closer to her. This time, it was a single kiss, and one without any deeper meaning. She just kissed him because she liked it, him, and of course the promise of more at a later date. Also, it shut him up, which she considered a good thing for once.
She made room for him once they broke apart, confident he would climb back on the bed. His bed, technically, but she doubted he would worry about small details like that. Instead, she crawled under the blankets, both to stake a claim and make a point.
True enough, before long, he joined her. Daphne considered herself quite lucky she was still facing him and he hadn't buttoned up, both of which allowed her a good look at him. Maybe it was for the best they had stopped when they had, she mused, and the sight of his exposed chest had her tempted to see what other kinds of magic he was skilled at.
Maybe it had been the intense moment from before, but their arms found their way almost naturally around the other. What a day, she reflected, chuckling.
They fell silent. She listened to his slow breathing. After a while, she settled in and sank into a shallow slumber, images of a beach and rolling waves under a warm sun filling her mind.
Is it odd that I want to give Harry and Daphne privacy and not go into detail about what they get up to?
