**Author's Note: I'm really glad everyone seems to be enjoying the story… it's so much fun to write. It's definitely longer than I ever intended to be, so look forward to quite a few more chapters to this smutbunny. Now read, and give feedback if you so desire.**
CHAPTER THREE- Fact and Fantasy
One, two, three, four…
Ginny's reddish-bronze eyebrows drew together in concentration, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she tried to lengthen her paces to what the twins' would have been.
Five, six, seven…
She turned a sharp left as her memory told her to-why hadn't she listened more to the twins when they were blathering on about these things?-already off-balance because of the awkward length of her strides, and when she plowed into something in the dim early light, she thought nothing of it.
A suit of armor, perhaps. A wall. She could very well have miscounted-after all, when George and Fred had talked about sneaking into the restricted section of the library just to look up bawdier tomes from eras past, she hadn't given them much attention.
And then the suit of armor, such as it was, grabbed her.
She would have screamed but for the hand covering her mouth, and as she nipped sharp teeth into a slightly calloused palm, she thought she knew that taste, that smell. She'd been steeped in it all night, surrounded in it for hours, wanted to devour it and be it and pull it inside her-
And then he released her, jarring her to rights, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, they spoke simultaneously.
"What hex this time, Weasley?"
"What the fuck have you done to me, Malfoy?"
And though his sleek, pale brows shot up at her use of profanity, Draco recovered first, quick to respond, unable to stop the words from tumbling from his lips.
"Not nearly as much as I'd like to."
He was quicker than she was prepared for, jerking her in a semi-circle to position her back to the wall, and he pushed her into it, jolting her head a bit, sending long red strands scattering into scowling eyes.
"Get your hands off me," she said through her teeth. "I didn't do a bloody thing to you."
Or had she? The fantasies were getting a bit hard to distinguish from reality, with him standing before her in a pair of green pajama pants and a sweater that fit just a bit too well for her liking.
She should have stayed in bed.
It's this bed he never comes to, never can come to, thanks to the myriad charms that keep the boys from the girls' dormitories, and it is this she talks to him about. As she lays in his bed, sliding one foot up his muscled calf, she tells him what she does in her own bed when she thinks of him, the moments she sneaks between classes, the meals she cuts short to slip into her bed and satisfy herself, relieve herself from the heat that has built up all day long thinking about him, and she tells him every little detail, she loves to make him suffer-
He watched her eyes focus on him for a split second, and for a moment she'd looked ready to spit on him, then she… glazed over.
Draco smirked, figuring she'd gone into some slack-jawed survival mode common to Muggle-loving plebes. It was probably like playing dead, he reckoned, only playing idiot.
Peering more closely, he determined she didn't have to play idiot. She was a Weasley, so she had been born into that particular mishap.
And then a smile slipped over her lips, twisting them with an air of feminine mystique, a haughty smirk accompanied by a shuddering, whimpering moan.
She keeps her lips close to his ear while she rides him, her hips moving in rhythmic, torturous jerks. She keeps her lips there because she knows he loves to hear her, loves the sounds she makes, loves how she lets herself go even when he doesn't feel he can, and now, at this moment, she's panting in time with her movements, and with every breath she draws in, he can feel himself moving closer and closer to the edge, his brain filled with the sound of her, and he'll be hearing her all day-
She gasped in his ear and he shook his head, trying to figure out where the hell he was, what the hell was going on. His hands were pressed painfully into the stones just above her shoulders, and her hands rested on his hips. His chin nearly set atop her shoulder, and when he shifted, he felt her lips on his ear, her breath hot and moist and coming in quick, sharp pants with just the hint of vocalization, just the whisper of a promise of a moan later on.
"You sneaky fucking witch," he growled, angry at her for being here, crazed with what she was doing to him, and frustrated with himself for being so bloody fucking helpless against whatever she'd done.
But frustrated or no, he removed one hand from the wall and pressed it to the curve of her left breast, biting his tongue as he felt her heart beat, as he felt what he already knew, the softness, shape, size of her, the way she immediately responded to him, the feel of her nipple against his palm. He pulled his hand away from her, meaning to do it quickly but instead doing so with reluctance, and she thrust her hips into him, the slick satin covering her hips sliding slick over his pants with a hushed, secretive sound.
"Filthy… bloody… Malfoy," she said, leaning her head back and rapping it smartly against the stone. It was an Imperius, of course, it had to be. The smarmy little git just couldn't muster one powerful enough to make her do everything under his power. "Can't even curse me well enough to keep me quiet, eh?"
"Why would I want to?" he spoke as soon as he thought the words. "That dirty little mouth of yours is all part of the fun." He contemplated pulling the sash of that ridiculous little robe she wore, and instead raked his nails up her thigh, starting just above her knee and ending at the hems of her very brief shorts.
He wonders sometimes why she even bothers with wearing anything to bed. He's going to rid her of them eventually, anyway, but he knows she finds that part of the fun. He's come close to ruining her clothes more than once, but won't quite do it-he's not ready to start replacing what he damages, not ready to start buying her things.
But every time he works one of those silly, miniscule pairs of shorts down her long, long legs, he knows it would be money well spent, and he has just the thing in mind, black lace and satin and-
He could smell her, hot and sweet and dear Merlin, he was kneeling before her with those shorts in his hands, and how the hell did he get here?!
She tangled one hand in his hair, her teeth clenched, trying to find the words, the curses, the defenses she needed to get him the bloody fuck off of her but she couldn't concentrate for more than a minute or two, because every time she tried, she slipped back into something else, thinking of him-
Just there, it's one of her favorite spots to put him, and she keeps her fingers in that silky, pampered hair of his, a little envious of the shade, of the texture. After all, her own locks are so wavy, so thick and unmistakably red, and this is so different, so pale and shocking and lovely, and so she loves him here, where she can feel his hair under her fingers and his tongue deep inside her, and she knows he'll stay there as long as she holds him there, because he can undo her this way, he can make her come completely unhinged, he can make her say his name in reverent tones and in disrespectable screams, and he bites the inside of her thigh-
She came even as he stood, no hands on her, only his eyes, and he watched transfixed as she started to shake, his name spilling from her lips in a repetitive, engaging, addictive chant.
"Draco, yes, Draco, please…"
He could take no more, and with her shorts balled in his fist, his knuckles turning white as the material he held, he stepped into her and let her do her work, let those fingers he'd felt in his mind close around him, let her shove his pants down his narrow hips, and he braced one hand to the wall and drove into her, his pants still most of the way up, his pullover still on; she was still dressed, that little robe still belted and clinging to her curves, one hand now gripped into the material of his sweater, and he didn't think a whit about the cost of the cloth she was stretching out of shape, all he could think about was how she felt surrounding him, wet and hot and tight and clenching in arrhythmic, fluttering pulses from the climax she'd just had.
She pressed her face into his shoulder as he canted his hips up, grazing some spot in her that felt like bursts of light behind her eyes, ringing in her ears, water in her knees. His face was a study in concentration, in intensity, and he looked almost grim as he set the rhythm and kept to it unfailingly. Ginny shut her eyes, horrified at what she was doing, and-
He's looking down at her, the challenge clear in his eyes as he keeps her pinned to the cabinets in the Quidditch shower rooms. He still has his uniform on, the leather of his gloves warm and somehow impersonal against her breast, rough and formed to fit a Snitch, perfect just where he's cupping her nipple-
"Fuck!" she yelps as he hits that spot again, harder, and she opens her eyes, unable to keep them closed, perturbed and perversely pleased about the dual effect that was happening. She could feel him here, inside her physically, and in her mind, she could also feel him there, driving inside her in the same rhythm, but in another place, in another situation, with another attitude. "You're everywhere," she breathed, and it should have been incomprehensible, but he knew, he let his eyes close, his jaw clench, and he-
Pushes her up against the mirror, knowing it must be cold against her back and buttocks, seeing the gooseflesh break out over her, feeling her nipples harden against his chest, and he does it anyway, loving the reflection of all that smooth, freckled skin, the number of freckles now doubled and he has put his lips on every one, has felt each spot fevered under his lips until she was writhing beneath him and begging like she should, and only then, only when she begs does he give her leave and give her relief-
Her cry was muffled against his sweater, but nothing could check the way she was shaking against him, and nothing could stop the way her thighs flexed around his, her muscles holding him at the point of deepest penetration, and he opened his eyes as he spilled into her, a helpless, uncharacteristic, (and in hindsight, completely undignified) moan shaking loose from his throat.
His breathing was hoarse, untoward even, and hers was no better, unladylike pants that wracked her whole body, her breasts raising and dropping with each cycle, her kimono slipping into a state of disarray, hanging off one shoulder, covered only with the inadequate strap of a camisole.
Ginny looked at him with wide eyes, slowly forcing herself to loose the vice grip of her thighs, to take her sore fingers out of his sweater-they were cramped now, in that clawing, desperate position-and she didn't take her eyes off him, afraid he'd manage to curse her again.
She still hadn't determined how he'd done it in the first place.
He still had one hand braced against the cold stone wall, but he could see her more clearly now, the ambiguous half-light of pre-dawn giving way to a clearer light that bounced down the hallways, illuminating everything but the corners with a faint, cheerful glow. Draco looked down at her face-bloody Weasley-and found he could easily call it up beside him in bed, as though they were already there.
Whatever had happened, it wasn't through with yet, and he bared his teeth in negation of the fact.
He didn't even realize he was still buried in her, but when she moved, shifted away from that feral growl he was giving her, the sensation nearly killed him, the still-slick feel of her clinging to the tip of him as though unwilling to let go, the feel of her curls against his sensitive shaft, and the arm bracing him against the wall gave in, the elbow bending and sending his chin bumping into her head, hisses and cursing coming from both of them.
"Watch what in Merlin's dungeon you're doing," Ginny said crossly, her voice a whisper. She didn't think she could muster more, really. Every ounce of energy she had was being channeled into merely standing. Speaking above a whisper hardly seemed an option right this second. "I think you've done quite enough without breaking my skull with your pointy chin."
"I've done enough?" he asked in disbelief, jerking his pants up, his eyes nearly crossing. He wasn't quite ready to start scraping cloth over himself, not with the vigorous shagging he'd just had-with a Weasley, no less-but he'd be damned if he let her upbraid him while he stood there with his wanker waving in the wind.
So to speak.
"I think you did just as much, if not more, oh delicate flower," he bit out, still close enough to smell her, his own voice pitched low.
He'd probably go mad if he talked any louder, because heavens knew that would seem just a bit too real.
"Well," she hissed back, yanking her shorts back from him and refusing to be embarrassed about it-when the hell had he taken them off her?!-"I know this isn't my imagination, because at least in my imagination you have to good sense-ha!-to keep your mouth shut."
He gaped at her for a moment, truly at a loss for words at her stunning display of ironic hypocrisy. "Well, at least in my imagination you don't turn into a shrieking harpy post-coitus!"
"Isn't that an awfully sophisticated term for you to utilize, Malfoy?" Ginny retorted, stepping into her shorts with a little wince.
She was going to be sore, no doubt about it.
He started to respond, though only Merlin knew why he'd even bother rising to the bait-I'd rise to a hell of a lot more, too, the gleeful, fantasizing bastard in his head spoke up-and was thankfully interrupted by a pair of chartreuse eyes peering at them from the half-lit corridor.
The expression on his face would have been comical, Ginny thought, if she hadn't been so bloody shellshocked. His eyes popped wide open, and he looked downright frightened. Quite unlike a Malfoy, she thought.
And then he started to speak, over-enunciating in a ridiculously loud voice, shooting glances toward that devil's spawn of a cat. "And don't let me catch you in the halls after hours again, Weasley. I'll deduct points if I so much as think you're up to no good."
She snorted, and then the tart who had taken up residence in her brain tittered Actually, I was up to a whole lot of good, and she decided retreat was perhaps the best option.
"Fine," she said loudly, playing his game with twenty kinds of embarrassment. "I'll do my studying elsewhere, you ferrety git!"
Apparently satisfied with the exchange, the thrice-cursed cat trotted off, leaving two bewildered students staring at one another.
"So help me Merlin," Ginny said, pointing a shaking finger at him as she walked backwards, never once thinking to draw out her wand, "This had better be over. I want-I mean, I don't want another repeat."
Draco Malfoy never thought he'd be in agreement with a Weasley, but he was-right down to the stammer.