CHAPTER TWO- Sweet Dreams
She simply needed some sleep.
At least that's what Ginny Weasley was telling herself as she crept, knock-kneed, toward the showers, her towel and robe clutched in her hands, her eyes darting about covertly. The last thing she wanted or needed was one of her housemates to waylay her and ask her why she wasn't downstairs at the party.
After her vivid (disturbing, she tried to insist to herself) fantasy about Malfoy, she'd had to sit still, catch her breath, regain her wits. It had been exhilarating, certainly, and she'd never felt so compelled to satisfy herself before. But as the afterglow of the bizarre, consuming orgasm faded, she started to feel more than a bit disconcerted.
Had he hexed her? She wouldn't put it past him to point a hex at her back like the ferrety coward that he was.
She tried to push it out of her mind as she jumped into the shower and turned the water to its coldest setting, simultaneously punishing and controlling herself. Draco Malfoy, indeed. Why, he'd just as likely bite her before kissing her, and he'd probably push her off a cliff before he touched her-
She shut the water off with a decisive turn of the wrist, shivering and scrubbing dry with the nubby towel she'd grabbed.
A fast shower was best, she told herself firmly, rushing back to her room. After all, she didn't want to give everyone enough time to notice she was gone and come up to check on her. She just wanted to go to bed and sleep off whatever ridiculous curse had been cast on her.
But when she climbed into her bed and closed the curtains, she couldn't rationalize it, couldn't think of a single reason why he would hex her in such an ignominious manner. The last thing he would want was a Weasley fantasizing about him, having such striking images.
If it was a hex, it was a damned good one, she admitted grudgingly, tossing and turning and finally ending up flat on her back, her damp hair spread out over her pillow. They hadn't even been like daydreams-they'd been more like breaks from reality, swift forays into another world where she was actually doing what she was seeing.
She started to doze, and in dozing, let her guard down.
He lay face to face with her, his head propped up on one hand, his elbow seated firmly in the middle of his pillow, selfishly taking up most of it. He's trying to bait her, just like he always is, bait her into losing control before he does. He's shirtless, and she knows he took the shirt off himself. He's vain of that torso, of his arms so developed from gripping a broom, of his broad chest and muscled stomach, of the arrow of dark golden hair that extends from his navel down into the waistband of his ridiculously expensive pajamas.
He slides his leg between hers, teasing her already swollen lips with his thigh, making her breath short and her eyes narrow in frustration.
She knows he likes her angry, so she tries to rein in her temper.
She slides down, being careful not to show him how much the movement pleasures her, how much she likes the feel of his leg clamped between hers, how much she likes knowing she's soiling him with her wetness. But of course he can tell.
He always can.
She has a goal in mind, no matter how much he's trying to distract her, and as she tests each and every ridge of his stomach, Ginny sights in on the one thing he might be most vain about.
The tattoo of the Welsh Green curls just underneath his left nipple, its face fierce and its wings raised. A flume of fire spouts from its mouth, red and orange and beautifully dangerous.
It is there she plants her lips, sucking blood to the surface, knowing it will make the flames redder, make them look hotter and more real. And every time she does this, he moans and thrusts against her mindlessly.
It doesn't matter how many times she's done this, she always elicits the same reaction, and this time is no different. She trails open-mouthed kisses over his chest, scrapes her teeth over his already hardened nipples, but it is when she returns to the dragon, tracing her tongue over fire, wing, and tail, that he grips her hips and thrusts into her.
A moan escaped her lips and she jerked, now wide-awake. She could feel him, dammit, feel her lips on his skin, feel him buried deep inside her, pulsing, pushing. If she closed her eyes, she could feel him watching, could project him right there beside her, and in the dark, with her eyes tightly closed, Ginny pressed one slim-fingered hand tight between her legs and let out a shuddering breath.
It felt like he was watching her even then, as she stroked herself in desperation and need and confusion. The rush, the heady high of the feeling of being watched spun through her, like running down the hallways at night, like riding a broom for the very first time, like…
Like getting fucked with the whole world watching?
It was his voice, sinister and seductive right in her ear, and with a thin scream, Ginny jerked her hand away from under her knickers guiltily, her eyes wide, her breath tearing through her in wild gasps.
Where was he? She jerked back the curtains, uncomfortably aware of the sensation between her thighs, her folds chafing together as she rose to her knees in the bed to look around the room.
It may have been dark, but she could tell one thing for certain. Draco Malfoy was nowhere in the room. Her fantasy was twining itself into reality, inserting pieces of itself into her senses, infiltrating her private moments.
She slid back under the covers, pulling the curtains tightly shut and raising her comforter to her chin.
Though she wouldn't remember it the next morning, wouldn't let herself remember it, she dreamed of him when at long last she fell asleep.
~~~
The advantage of having a bedroom of your own was being able to freely pace when you needed to.
He rarely needed to, rarely allowed himself that show of weakness. A Malfoy was contained, controlled, and certainly never conflicted. There was no need to pace; on the contrary, a Malfoy could spend long hours in contented stillness, staring down a restless opponent.
And when an opponent got restless, that was the perfect time to strike.
But tonight, it was he who was restless, his long legs carrying him back and forth across the Head Boy's chamber, his bare feet making no sound against the cool stone.
She'd done something to him, bewitched him somehow, hexed him yet again. The thought doubled the speed of his steps, carrying him from side to side and corner to corner. He knew better than that, though. She may have been a proven sneaky hexer, but this was no hex he'd ever heard of, so he knew the goody-two-shoes Weasley couldn't have heard of it.
He shoved a hand through his hair and stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes lighting on his bed.
She's kneeling there, waiting for him, her knees planted firmly in the softness of his bed. She's taken his shirt again, liking the smell of him around her, liking him without the shirt, and he's not about to complain. She looks a hell of a lot better in it than he does, which is saying a lot. It's unbuttoned, hanging around her several sizes too large, and she's wearing nothing under it, nothing at all but freckles and pale skin and a thatch of curly red hair, and he feels his pulse double and redouble.
The shirt is covering her breasts, but he's not about to pretend he can't see her nipples poking at the expensive material, casting the slightest shadow behind the white linen, and as she moves her arms, he feels a surge of hope. But the shirt continues to conceal her, shifting slightly, exposing only the inner swells of her breasts. When he sees what she's doing, he stifles a groan.
He mustn't look too needy. It's not becoming to look so needy.
She's draping his tie around her neck, the green and silver looking dark against her skin, the ends dangling between her breasts and brushing against her in a way that makes him, for a frenzied moment, completely envious.
She looks hungry, predatory almost, and he's almost as proud as he is turned on by that look on her face, the look he taught her, and he slides onto the bed behind her, laying flat on his back with his hands behind his head. It's awkward for him to lay back, to play submissive, but he wants to know if he taught her well.
As she turns to face him, still on her knees, and straddles him, planting her hands in the middle of his chest, tensing her hands into potentially harmful claws, he hisses in a breath and suspects he's taught her a bit too well.
He tries to draw back, tries to set some part of the pace, but she's on him like a wildcat, snagging his silk pajama pants with her fingernails as she pushes them down just enough to get at what she wants, and before he even has time to register the sensation of her hands competently drawing him out-when did she get so damned good at this?!-she has impaled herself on him and is moving up and down, flexing and relaxing those beautiful thighs of hers, sending him in and out of her in short, tight strokes, panting in terse bursts of exhalation as her breasts bounce under that damned shirt of his-
His knees buckled just a bit, one of them jostling the bed and bringing him to. When had he even gotten close to the bed? He'd be buggered if he could remember. One minute he'd been pacing, and the next minute he'd been-
Fucking? she suggested coyly from just behind him, from just beneath him, in his ear, whispered in his mouth, from above him-
From inside him, he finally judged, scrubbing a shaking hand over his face. He was fucking imagining her voice now, husky and amused and more wicked than he'd ever guess her capable of. But he knew it was her voice, just as he knew what her nipples looked like, just as he knew that tiny birthmark under her right breast, just as he knew somehow.
Just as he knew he was going completely fucking mad.
He wasn't willing to take chances. No, Draco Malfoy definitely didn't play to leaving things up to fate. He shoved aside rows of shirts hanging in his bureau, finally withdrawing a glossy ebony box from the back and flipping it open.
No chances at all, he thought as he drained the sleeping draught in one swallow.
He wouldn't be vulnerable to that bint.
~~~
She awoke in degrees, stretching catlike in the bed, raising her arms above her head and grazing her fingertips over the headboard. A small smile lifted the corners of her lips as she thought of how she'd spent the previous night-
She is still straddling him, and he is still buried deep inside her, both of them spent and relishing the twinges, the aftershocks of their climaxes. Her hair hangs down, tickling his cheeks and throwing a fiery curtain around his face as she presses her forehead to his.
They are sated, and well they should be, as this isn't the first time in the night, as she lost count of her orgasms after the first three. She's never felt so good, or so completely smug. She lowers her head to his ear and whispers "It doesn't look like either of us will be getting much sleep."
And when he looks at her like that, with silver eyes surrounded by golden, half-lowered lashes, and he tilts his lips in that smirk, she doesn't want to sleep ever again, she wants to stay-
Awake. It only took an instant for her to be completely awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, her arms crossed over her chest.
Apparently whatever occurrence had sent her scampering to bed the evening before still sat with her, ruining her leisurely Saturday morning wakening ritual. For a moment, she'd felt-
Well and truly used?
Not his voice this time, but hers, satisfied as a cat with cream. Ginny shivered and, looking out the window at the pale early dawn light, tugged on the sky-blue satin kimono Hermione had gotten her for Christmas last. As she crept out of her bed, drawing back the curtains and smiling wistfully at her fast-sleeping roommates (each with candy wrappers scattered around their beds), she kept her movements ghostly silent, drawing in a hiss as her feet touched the cold stone floor.
The room had been warm the night before, too warm for an October night, and Ginny guessed it was as much a product of her heated thoughts than any sort of heating charm her mates had been kind enough to cast on the room. Shifting her weight from foot to foot to avoid freezing her toes off, she wondered how she'd managed to get to sleep wearing only a camisole and shorts.
If it were up to me, you'd be wearing much less, she heard him in her mind, and she bit her lip as she ducked out of the portrait hole.
He had to have done something, she'd finally decided, and she damned well wanted to know what it was.
If she were a true Weasley-and by Merlin, she was-she could certainly find a way to sneak into the library for a bit of weekend research.
~~~
He hovered in that half-asleep state where thoughts and memories mixed easily with dreams, where it was just as easy to slip back into sleep as it was to ascend into wakefulness. He'd slept hard, had barely moved all night, and though he'd taken the full vial of sleeping draught, he didn't feel logy as he'd expected. In fact-
He turns, ready to go back to sleep, and pulls her next to him, her hair brushing over his chest and her head coming to rest just beneath his chin. Her bottom cozies between his thighs, and he can feel at least one part of him waking up a bit more. That part of him certainly has no need for more sleep, and he rubs himself against the cleft of her buttocks, feeling her respond even in her sleep, the slight mewling noise coming from between her lips waking him up-
Completely. There was already a curse on his lips as he sat up in bed, rock hard with a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Had he dreamed of her? Had he done anything in his sleep? Mortified as he hadn't been for years, Draco threw back his black linen sheets and breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he'd been afraid he'd been… indiscreet… in his dreams.
It never occurred to him that he could have uttered a simple cleaning spell in the midst of his fantasies.
"Fucking weasel," he ground out between his teeth, beyond livid. A hex that lasted more than eight hours? Someone had been doing their bloody homework, he reckoned, and he intended to put a stop to it. This particular Gryffindor gag was going to be over, and in Draco's opinion, none too soon.
He snatched his black knit jumper off his bedpost and tugged it on with a few rough, economical movements, his head popping out the top, his face already arranged in a scowl.
It was never too early in the morning to start taking points, and if he could find the dirty little Weaselette, he was bloody well going to start.