CHAPTER SIX - Saturday Supper
One of the many, many upsides to being a Slytherin, Draco supposed, was how wide open it left one to be completely and unabashedly hedonistic.
Yes, he'd shagged a Weasley. Twice, in point of fact. But he'd done it well-of course he had, Malfoys did everything exceptionally-and he'd rather enjoyed it.
And if he was enjoying something, he'd keep enjoying it until he got bored with it or it stopped being shiny.
He'd taken a long shower after the dotty beggar had all but tackled him-a hot shower, because he hadn't any real reason to show restraint-and he'd given more thought to how it had all come about. But the thoughts were detached, disjointed, because the truth of the matter was, Draco Malfoy really didn't care how he'd came to shag Ginny Weasley. He cared that she was bloody magnificent about it, and that she wasn't likely to say a word of it to anybody.
Malfoys may have been far removed from Weasleys, but Draco had a suspicion her brood and brethren would react in the same manner his family would if they'd been informed of the day's… distractions.
He strode into the Great Hall for supper fashionably late, as always, with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him. They hadn't noticed he was more relaxed, prowling instead of prancing, languid instead of leering. He'd had a successful day, and he didn't intend to behave in any other way.
He glanced sidelong at the Gryffindor table, his eyebrow lifting only slightly, his only change in expression. He could feel her eyes on him, and-
He's told her many times he'd take her right there on one of the ridiculously long tables, right in front of all her idiot cronies, and he's just told her this not hours ago, whispering in her ear that he'd love to see her laid out like the main course, would love to let them all watch and envy while he concentrated solely on her. "Perhaps Scarhead could learn a few things," he whispered to her just before she rolled away from him, and now he's watching her from across the room with that look, that smirk, because he knows she's thinking about him and her and that table, and she shifts and looks nervous and cuts her eyes at him in a censuring gesture, but he refuses to look away, and finally she can take it no longer. She makes her excuses and stumbles a little rising from the table, makes her way blindly to a bathroom, and he's there so quickly it's almost as though he's beaten her there, and he pulls her into a stall and onto his lap and she shoves her feet against the door as he lifts up her skirt, pushing back into him and onto him, and they don't care how much their grunts and pants and moans echo off the stones-
He sat down with an ungainly plop, swallowing hard.
It didn't do well to be so cocky.
With such errant thoughts, he concluded it would be best just to keep things as simple as possible.
He wanted her, for whatever reason.
He'd leave it at that.
~~~
She saw him out of the corner of her eye, the negligent, sweeping glance, the arched aristocratic eyebrow, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
It was funny, in a way-her friends didn't know what they were doing, he himself (his Highness, she thought snidely) didn't know what was going on, and for the moment, no matter how brief, she was the one with the knowledge.
It wasn't only the Muggle world which lived by the adage knowledge is power. Witches and wizards certainly took that to heart.
But her conscience was going to be a bit of a problem. No matter how much it tickled her to be able to get away with something, she didn't fully trust herself with having a secret. She may not have talked much about Tom Riddle and his doomed diary, but he was always present in her mind.
If a girl only got one big secret a lifetime, she figured she'd already had hers.
And so, as much as she wanted to get up and follow him, Ginny continued eating her meal and talking to her friends, trying not to watch him-
As he watches her. This is the first time he's watched her, sat across the room in that big plush chair of his, his arms draped on the armrest, his long fingers dangling over, and she knows it should seem bizarre, this pretense of a king on his throne, considering he's completely unclothed, but he seems perfectly at home, his eyes clothing him even though he's bare. She's not free to look at his body because he has her pinned with his eyes, and commands as much with them as he does with his voice, telling her what to do to herself, where to touch, where not to touch, what she's allowed to do, hinting as to what he'll do in return, and it never feels powerless as it should, because she can see in his eyes that he needs her, no matter whether he's controlling her or not, and so it is his eyes she looks at as she cups her breasts in her hands, and he's not even watching her, because he's looking at her eyes-
"Did you all like the bags the twins put together?" she asked faintly in a desperate attempt to rouse herself. It was so damned easy to slip into these forays; no wonder the twins had come looking for their fudge.
It was hazardous stuff. Lovely, really.
Harry shared a glance with Ron and they both burst out laughing. "We traded off a bunch of the stuff we knew was chancy to Dean and Seamus. I think that was the best part of all of it."
Ron's laugh obscured the first part of his sentence, but he picked up Harry's comment and began to tell of Dean's and Seamus's trials, running about the room with differently colored hair, or patches of fur. The best one, in Ron's opinion, had been the peppermint that had made Dean's hair grow ten times longer than its normal length, forming a comical cloud around his shocked face.
"I'm surprised they were allowed to bring those sorts of things," Hermione said primly. She'd tried one candy, which had made her see everything in shades of rose for an hour, and had given the rest to a passing first year. "No matter how harmless they seemed, some of those… treats could have caused serious harm."
Ginny choked on her pumpkin juice and sat it aside as Hermione looked at her solicitously. "Are you all right, Ginny?"
"Quite," she said, rubbing her throat. "Swallowed a bit too quick is all, getting tickled about Dean and all that hair."
Hermione thought that was harmful? She hadn't the iota of a notion.
~~~
"For Merlin's sake, you're going to have to get over it eventually, you know." The voice, one Draco had hoped he'd eventually become accustomed to rather than reacting with a cringe every single time, pierced his thoughts as effectively as a sharpened quill, and he forced himself not to look at Pansy with all the distaste he felt.
He was startled at her proclamation, but refused to show it. Instead, he stabbed a bit of beef with his fork and held it up, looking over it at her as though completely unconcerned. "Your cryptic comments are, despite what I'm sure is your fervent belief, neither fascinating nor entertaining. Spit it out, Pansy. What, pray tell, am I going to have to get over… eventually?"
She worked hard to control the flush that wanted to redden her features; Pansy Parkinson would be damned if she allowed him to get the best of her, ever. He was convinced, she was sure, that she was pining away for him. It was a ridiculous idea-but wasn't she allowed to worry about him even if she had absolutely no urge to spend the rest of her life popping out his little Death Eaterlings?
"Harry Potter," she said through clenched teeth, then let her anger cool and her snarl melt into a disbelievingly saccharine smile. "Short of a minor catastrophe-or miracle-you're stuck with Dumbledore's Darling for the rest of the school term. So really," she said condescendingly, "You could quit ogling him like a ponce and converse intelligently, because among you, Crabbe, and Goyle, you're really my only choice for said intelligent conversation." She finished her speech with a disgusting little bat of her eyelashes, and neither Crabbe nor Goyle had followed a single word she'd said.
"I'm over it," Draco spat back, satisfied that she'd misidentified the target of his stare.
It had only been hours, and already he wanted her again.
But he'd not ask her. He was too proud for that. Besides, she'd come to him willingly-more than willingly earlier that day.
She could do so again.
"I need a bit of fresh air," he said, standing and staring down at the assembled Slytherins. "Without someone breathing down my neck." While Pansy took the hint with a roll of her eyes, Crabbe and Goyle stood along with him, oblivious to what he had said.
"Sit down, trolls," she said, sounding bored. "He's going without you. I know that's quite a few syllables for you, but it's manageable, yes?"
They exchanged a look even Draco had to admit was comical and sat down as he mouthed "Thank you" at the young woman who had annoyed him on more than one occasion but watched his back on just as many.
~~~
"Oh!" The single, startled syllable made everyone at the table jump and look at Ginny expectantly.
She'd just seen him walk out, headed outdoors. There wasn't much time left at all before curfew, but hardly anyone would go looking for the Head Boy and a Prefect.
She wanted not to follow him, wanted to be in better control of herself than that, but surely she'd be able to control herself this once, just go out there, make a comment or two, maybe snog once, and then go inside.
She'd make it back in before curfew, she vowed.
"Yeeees?" Ron drew out the word, still watching her, and she kicked him under the table, trying to maintain a show of normalcy.
"Don't be an arse, Ron, I was thinking."
"He can hardly help it," Harry laughed. "It's his nature."
Ginny found she wasn't half as jealous this time when Hermione gave Harry an indulgent smile.
"Madam Pomfrey asked me to get a plant from the grounds and I'd totally forgotten. I'll have to do it tomorrow before our lessons." It was an easy enough excuse-none of the others were taking any courses in healing, so she could really spin whatever tale she liked. And she was comforted, also, in knowing none of them would venture out with her. Ron feared the spiders lurking in the flora around the castle, and Harry and Hermione weren't likely to separate.
She slipped out before there could be any offers of company, no matter how reluctant, and thought about how she'd spent the whole of supper hungry for something else. That was exactly the sensation, like starvation, drought, pure, mindless need.
It was disconcerting.
But here she was, seeking him out, trying to meet him for what would be the third time that day (like meals, she thought, but we missed our teatime). Just to talk, she wanted to insist, but couldn't, even to herself.
And when she saw the moonlight beaming off that bright head of hair, she didn't want to insist it at all.
"Come to relive the glory of your win?" she asked, but there was neither hate nor heat behind the comment. No, here was the one place (outside her fantasies, at least) where he looked human, where he looked pitiable and understandable at the same time. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his coat and he looked up at with the air of a man who knows, while there is no mystery in the skies, there is always adventure.
"No," he said. "I came to get a breath of fresh air and to see if you'd follow me." Truth from the lips of a Slytherin-it was ironic enough to please him and odd enough to take her by surprise. "It seems I was right."
Had he noticed ever before how she looked? How in her years at Hogwarts, she'd managed to go from a gangling, barely female version of Ron to a leggy, peculiar sort of appeal? Her top lip was a bit too full, her nose too freckled, her eyes set just a bit too far apart with their long eyelashes. Her hair should have been hideous, and her forthright, boyish way of staring should have been unsettling.
But La Weasley was the closest thing he'd ever had to an equal in Gryffindor. Potter was a joke unless surrounded by his friends, and Ron Weasley was a bumbling, hopeless mess. But this one had always stood toe-to-toe with him.
"It's a bit late to be staring at me," Ginny said, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. Shouldn't he have slipped into some sort of otherwordly fantasy by now? Shouldn't she? "You've already seen it all, there's not much else to look at."
"You've a foul mouth," he said, but sounded more admiring than censuring.
"You've a pointy nose," she retorted, but she'd gone breathless. The proximity alone made her lightheaded, and she stepped into him, knowing she'd need him to-
Support her when she falls, as her knees always go weak when he does anything, when he suckles at her earlobe, when he suggests things in her ear, crazy things, dirty things, completely improper things, when he rubs himself against her and walks around her in a circle as though sizing her up, and oh, how she sometimes wants to take him home to the bed she's known for years and years just to bring things full circle, and how she wants him to take her to his home so she can fuck him in his home where his father would stamp and likely tear himself to shreds if he knew what his son was doing, but instead they find their private places and say private things and perform private actions with the loudest of sounds, and she wonders how she'll live without it once they're found out and separated, once they're likely locked away-
She put her lips to his ear and suppressed the grieving shudder that wanted to pass through her. What in Merlin's dungeon had that been? Hardly a fantasy, but more like a nightmare, that melancholy feeling. "Curfew is soon and we'll be caught," she whispered, tugging at his earlobe with her teeth and feeling satisfaction start to run through her.
Hunger.
Thirst.
She would sate them both, and so would he.
They moved slowly, as though their thoughts were miles away, and though both thought the other deep in fantasy, they were both concentrating on the task at hand, breathing deeply the smell of fresh grass and dew, inhaling each other's scent as lips roamed over face and neck and lips.
Draco traced her lips with his tongue, catching that top lip between his teeth and relishing the cry, pain and arousal, that slipped from her lips.
He wondered if she knew how bad she really was.
Perhaps she should have been a Slytherin.
She stood on his toes, making him hiss in pain, and rubbed up against him, his hardness rubbing her through his clothes and hers, and she wondered how it could be so immediate, like a summoned fire, and then he was pinching her breasts through her thick jumper and she laughed, a jagged sound bordering too closely on hysteria, and thrust a hand down his pants, whispering "Let me" over and over in some weird sort of mantra, the words slowing as she started to stroke, concentrating on him and him alone, on relieving what she had wrought, and watching his face carefully.
He tilted his head back and she could see each swallow run the line of his throat. His eyes were half-closed, only slivers of pewter visible and unfocused as moisture slid from the head of his erection and over her fist and fingers as he pulsed beneath her. His lips were parted, and for once, he was blessedly silent.
He hadn't planned on this, hadn't planned on letting her touch him, but he wanted it, needed it.
It humbled him to need something, for a Malfoy was never at a loss for anything. And this wasn't gold, wasn't silver, it was nothing but a beggar adorned with copper, with her hand drawing down him in slow, deliberate movements. He should tell her to stop; pride told him that much. But he wanted what was happening, relished knowing she'd stroke him to climax and let him spill over her hand and not demand him inside her. He wanted to slide his fingers into her, knew she was wet just by the burning in her eyes, but he was selfish for now, selfish and concentrating on the fingertips sliding over the slit at the tip of his head, the near-scream that built in the back of his throat, and he fancied he could feel the ridges of her fingerprints passing over the flesh there, and that thought had him done for, had him pressing down on her shoulders so hard she cried out as every muscle in him strung tight on the pitch under the stars, under the sky he'd spent the morning conquering, and he moaned, long and loose and unguarded as he came in her hand.
Ginny was rising to her toes with the peak of each thrust, and with that last one, she stood shaking on her toes, on the verge of something, watching him tremble from the top of his pale head to his toes, and when she felt heat and stickiness on her fingers, she cried out, levels beneath his moan, and felt her knickers grow hot and damp in contrast. Her insistent "let me" had died on her lips several strokes back, and she felt her knees buckle as she moved back from him, both grateful and disappointed when he murmured a cleaning spell-thrice it took him to get it right-as she withdrew her hands from his pants, a deep line drawn across her wrist where his waistband had cut in.
It was like they were a couple of adolescents instead of nearly adults, she thought, bringing wide, wet eyes to him. And Merlin, how good it felt.
She wasn't planning on anything, wasn't even thinking clearly, but her reflex was to turn and run back to the castle. He didn't afford her the opportunity, however, catching her by the bottom of her jumper, one knitted seam stretching with a dull pop that was more felt than heard, and he hauled her up to him, sliding his hand between her thighs and pressing the fabric of her skirt against her knickers, an awkward bundle of tartan now shoved against her as he pressed upward with enough force to bring her to her toes and overbalancing, stumbling against him.
She tried to kiss him as he lowered his lips to hers, but her lips fumbled open in a half-pant, half-moan as he completed the climax her mind had started when he came, and she slumped weakly into his arms, breathing harshly and rather unattractively into his ear.
He slid his hand from between her legs with a trace of smugness-that had been rather easy-and did the unthinkable.
Draco wrapped his arms around her, supporting her even as he felt himself stir again. She was quite an armful, tall as she was, but her curves felt nice, and the way her entire body was heaving-well, added asset, he figured.
He might slightly regret when this whole farcical curse was over. He was getting more arse than a professional Quidditch player in a girls' dormitory.
Ginny tried to find the guilt, tried to feel dirty or used or stupid or bad. But she just felt…
Weak-kneed. And oddly, she felt safe. She realized she was in his arms and tried to move back.
Pointy he might be, but he was a strong bastard. It didn't really surprise her- after all, considering the actions of the past twenty-four hours. In fact, Ginny thought, nothing would ever shock her again.
"Come back to my room with me," he said clearly, looking down at her. "I'm getting bloody sick and tired of all this standing up."
It turned out she could still be shocked, after all.