Unravel Me

Note: The beginning of this story was one of the first things I wrote after my 10+ year writing drought that I actually liked. It's also my first time attempting to write smut (oh God, what was I thinking), which first appears in the next chapter. Not sure how I'll manage to keep it up, but how else does a friends with benefits story work without smut?

Please avert your eyes from this fic if that is not your cup of tea.

The darkness in the room was causing a paradoxical stirring within him. He ached to see her in the light, whether it was daylight, the warm flicker of candlelight, or even the moonlight blue-white from a simple lumos. He longed to trace the seemingly endless freckles that sprinkled her nose and trailed down her navel with his lips. He wanted to find the constellations on her pale skin. But in the darkness, at least she wouldn't be able to read him and his desires.

When Harry kissed her, there was no way he could pretend this didn't mean more than it did. He couldn't hold back the forcefulness behind his grip, the possessiveness as he moved to mark her as his - even if only for this one night. Nor could he control the occasional tremble in his fingers as they skimmed over her, mapping her in his mind through tactile touch if not sight. Their bodies slick with exertion, it would be more believable that it was sweat, not the tangy salty taste of tears.

Yes, darkness was better. Her body was cradled against his, radiating warmth like the sun. He folded an arm over his eyes as if to shield from her brilliance. It was too much. It was more than he could have bargained for. He would take whatever she offered. It was not enough.

With his other hand, he played with her silky hair. He breathed as deeply as he dared, hoping she would not notice. Her flowery scent washed over him, sending prickles of comfort and bitterness through his veins.

He wondered how much longer he had with her. Already, reasons that could lead her to go waltzed through his mind — her family might be expecting her, last time she stayed only thirty-two minutes, she had somewhere to be, or maybe she got what she came for. His body tensed and he mentally cursed himself. Enjoy it. Enjoy it while it lasts. Don't break the spell. He forced the tension to let it ebb away. Any change and it might prompt her to leave earlier than she intended.

The first night, after a whirlwind of passion and inebriation, then the follow-up the morning after — torn clothes, bruising love marks, sounds he had never made before — he had asked her not to leave. He couldn't discern the many emotions that slipped over her eyes, which ultimately shuttered. Her smile made his stomach fill with ice. He hadn't asked again.

Harry wasn't one to plead.

She kept him on his toes. He would hear she was in town, but never know if or when she would decide. There was that time she had been watching him over the rim of her wine glass. She then excused herself from the table. He waited what he had hoped was a reasonable amount of time before he slipped away. Not entirely sure, he headed in the direction of the loo, only for a hand to thrust out and pull him into a broom closet. Her kisses were searing, leaving imaginary blisters on his lips, his skin. When he was with her, he felt like he was burning up. It was blissful oblivion.

When she would get bored? He wasn't sure what to do to keep the flame alive. Anger started drumming in his veins. He resented the imbalance of it all, the unfairness of it all, his complete lack of control.

He should end this, whatever this was. He had worked himself into a frenzy before, convinced himself that it was better if he were to do it, because then — then it wouldn't hurt so much. If he made the call, he could stop bracing for the fall. But then she'd wrap her arms around him, that blazing look in her eyes, and as his brain would short-circuit with her touch — oh yes, this was worth it.

She shifted in his arms.

Fuck it.

"Come here," he murmured. He tilted her chin toward him and, despite the darkness, could see in his mind's eye the way her eyes flashed, the way her lips parted. He let his dark mood dissipate as he slid his lips over hers once again.

He felt more than heard her chuckle.

"Up for another round?"

"If you are." He hoped he didn't sound as breathless as he felt. She kissed him almost as hungrily as he did. His heart sang when she moaned. He felt a deep loss when she pulled away.

"Damn, Ron and Hermione are expecting me later. It's probably best if we had a raincheck."

"Oh," his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

"Mind if I take a shower?"

"'Course not."

He sat up as she slid off the bed, pulling the sheet to her chest. He put his glasses on, his green eyes adjusting as she lit the candles in the room. He swallowed hard at the sight of her, bathed in an orange and yellow glow. Her hair, mussed from their lovemaking (he refused to call it anything else, if only to himself), shined like fire when she moved, revealing reds, oranges, golds.

She was looking at him expectantly, and he dragged his eyes away from her. He went over to the dresser and pulled out a clean towel for her. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks Harry," she smiled, leaning in to give him a soft kiss. He could almost believe in the tenderness, though he knew that would only feed the ache she'd leave in her wake. The kiss slowly deepened. When she began to pull away, his treacherous hand, tangled in her hair, moved with her. She gave him a sly smile. "Join me?"

He tried to tap down at the soppy grin that spread across his face. He skimmed his lips across her jawline, attempting to hide it.

"Don't mind being late?" he teased, wondering if he could distract her enough to simply stay.

This was the wrong thing to say because she was now really pulling away, gently pressing his face away.

"Mmmm, good point. Wouldn't want Ron to cotton on, now would we?"

A spike of fear went through him at what his best mate would think of whatever this was. Harry winced, his mind flickering between picturing a young Ron with a Beater's bat and adult, Auror-trained Ron with his wand.

"Right."

As she retreated, he watched her longingly. She glanced back, and he hastily pretended to be immersed in reading some parchment. He looked back up when he heard the door shut behind her. He raked a hand through his tousled black hair, relieving the tension building up at his scalp, and let out a sigh.

Needing something to do, he threw on a faded shirt and trousers. He picked up the bed sheet Ginny had left in her wake, rumpling it up and tossing it back on the bed. He paused when he gathered up her clothes that were strewn across the floor: the tantalizing sweater that hugged her curves over her head, watching her red hair tumble back down her shoulders; the swell of her breasts under the lacy black thing that even now his face heated as he gingerly touched; that burning look she gave that had him stirring all over again and tempted to try his luck in persuading her to stay a little longer.

He shook his head to shake off the desire that clouded his mind, focusing on folding the clothes.

If she wanted to stay, she would stay.

"Gin?" He knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yes?" she shouted over the sound of water.

"I've got your clothes, erm, if you don't mind me coming in for a sec."

Her laughter delighted him. "Are you asking permission?"

"I wouldn't want to presume…" he called back awkwardly.

"Of course you can. Thanks, Harry," she said, and he could tell she meant it.

He popped in and out, lifting a hand to cover his eyes, still feeling as if somehow he needed to preserve her modesty after practically fondling her bra. He simply couldn't resist stealing a glance. He was gifted with the sight of Ginny arching an elegant eyebrow as she laughed. She had pulled the curtain away just enough to reveal her face.

"Your stupid nobility knows no bounds!" She chortled.

Flushed beyond belief, and in no little part by how her darkened, wet hair clung to her skin, Harry shot her a grin. "All the Auror work has taught me to always aim for plausible deniability."

He was pleased as he left by the sound of her laughing harder.

Emboldened, he went to the kitchen, putting on the kettle. Maybe, maybe he could just casually ask to see her again. Maybe dinner. He enjoyed her company. Maybe if he spent some more time with her, just them, not simply in the bedroom, maybe she'd see him for more than a good shag — not that he wanted that to stop, but maybe she'd want to do other things as well. They were friends too; she had said it herself. He wasn't picky about the location or activity. Hannah could give them a more private booth at the Leaky Cauldron, or maybe he could cook her dinner or something, or they could go somewhere and fly (sure, she flew all the time, but it never dimmed her enthusiasm for it).

The kettle whistled and he automatically poured the water into the waiting mugs with tea bags. He could do this.

"Hey."

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Ginny smiled at him, casting a quick drying charm on her hair.

"Tea?" he asked, already stirring in the two spoons of sugar the way she liked it. Her smile warmed even more, and Harry blinked hard. Sometimes it was like looking straight at the sun.

"Thank you…but I really do have to go." She was gathering up the rest of her things, tugging on her robes, her eyes still skimming the room making sure she had everything.

"Oh, uh, right." Harry tried to recover from the jolt of panic, only to drink a scalding mouthful of tea. He mentally grasped at what to say to stall her, even a moment longer. "How long are you here?"

"Not too long. I'll see you next time," Ginny shot him a smile, hastily brushing her lips against his cheek in what could only be the most platonic of pecks as if everything that had recently transpired had just been a dream. Harry turned his head, trying to catch her lips once more, but she was already withdrawing, heading toward the door.

"What about dinner?" he blurted.

"What about it?" she returned, eyebrows raised.

"No matter how busy you are, you've got to eat," he said, trying not to squirm under her gaze. "You're a Weasley after all."

One side of her lips quirked up, but he couldn't quite read her. "That'd be nice. I'll — hopefully I'll have time. See you, Harry."

"See you, Gin…"

The sound of the door closing seemed to echo, and he slumped against the counter.

He padded back to his bedroom and flopped onto his bed, already replaying the conversation in his head. She hadn't said how long she'd be here. She hadn't said no to dinner, but they hadn't really set plans. Maybe he should owl her...but say what? Thanks again for dropping by, maybe next time we can meet and keep our clothes on? Would he be breaking some sort of unspoken agreement if he sent flowers?

Unspoken indeed. They'd never really talked about what this was. If she wanted something more, she'd say so.

Not that their jobs made it convenient for anything more than these brief, passionate stolen moments. She was a professional Harpes Quidditch player, who trained in Wales, and his last few missions had sent him all around the continent. He thought ruefully of last month when he'd been fighting off the cold in a wet tent, reading a letter from Hermione about the weekly Sunday Weasley dinner at the Burrow, where Ginny had made a surprise visit.

Maybe she just wanted to keep it…casual.

Harry felt a painful prick against his fingers. He'd curled up against the balled up bedsheet, which smelled ever so faintly of flowers. He raised the offending item close to his face. Something shiny and dangly glinted back at him curiously. A miniature Snitch earring pulsed playfully against his skin. His lips tugged up into a smile, his fingers closing around the earring.

Hm, keepsake or an excuse?