Author's Note: This is the first story I've uploaded at Portkey. I hope you enjoy, and any H/Hr shippers that might be reading, please be warned: this story starts out as H/G, but the primary pairing is D/G - I hope you'll bear with me. Thanks for reading!
***
She wanted to call the owl back as soon as it fluttered away, was reaching for the parchment tied to its leg even as it left her windowsill. As it disappeared over the trees, she was considering whether she could catch it on her broom and how many owl treats would be involved in bribing it to return the letter.
Six days, 17 bottles of silver ink, and four quills had been sacrificed for that letter. She'd slept with it under her pillow, hoping she could dream the right words, since she certainly hadn't found them during her waking hours. She'd turned over possible phrases in her head as she washed her hair and then promptly forgot them as she reached for her towel.
She'd nearly driven herself crazy writing this letter. It was something she'd felt compelled to do, and finally, finally, she thought it was perfect, that she had said everything she needed to say. She signed her name with a flourish, proud that the letters were smooth and did not reveal the tremor in her hand.
But now the owl was bearing her letter toward its intended recipient, and now she was panicked. Two years without any contact. He might have forgotten her entirely, might laugh when he read her letter. Twisting the band of the sparkling ring on her left hand, Ginny Weasley accepted that possibility as she sank into a chair. The only thought that kept her from chasing after the owl was that he might not laugh. He might not have forgotten.
***
It had been three years, six months, and 12 days since the first time he'd set her on fire. Her hair like living flame against his skin. Moving as one, as if it had always been this way. Gasping, writhing, shuddering, then holding each other. He wrapped her in his arms and held her through the night, held her as if she was precious to him and he was afraid to let go.
She craved his touch after that, woke up sweating in the nights he wasn't with her, imagining phantom caresses traveling up and down her body. She swore she could feel him. She walked through Diagon Alley, weaving through a crowd of people, and stumbled as someone grabbed her hand, tugging her into a shadowy corner.
She knew it was him, would know that touch whether sleeping or awake, and her skin began to tingle as soon as he leaned her back against the brick wall. So hungry, so hot - he was tugging at her cloak, she was fumbling at his trousers, and they were lost. She would have shed her robes, shed any remnants of a moral code that might have deterred her from following through, but it was him who stopped.
With effort, he pulled away, his lips lingering on hers. "Not here," he murmured, throaty voice making her quiver with need. "Come with me."
They were laughing as they hurried together down the alley and into a building she had never noticed. A nondescript inn, a dark and creaky staircase, a small room. She used to dream of roses and romantic dinners, but their reality was made up of sex and secrets. Now her dreams were of him and him only, and he was enough.
She slipped her robes off her shoulders, and they puddled on the dusty floor next to her cloak. He had climbed into the bed, scooting backward until his back was flush with the headboard, and his eyes never left her as she was revealed to him, inch by inch.
When her body was bare before him, he reached out a hand, and she walked forward to take it. As she slid onto the bed, she leaned down to kiss him, fisting her hands in his hair to find some balance. A small sigh escaped her as their lips met and his arms wrapped around her, his fingers making her shiver as they followed an invisible trail up and down her back.
His lips were already curving into a smile as they parted, and she knew what should happen next, what he wanted. There were few things she would be unwilling to give him, and this unspoken request was perhaps the simplest of all to fulfill. She sat up, positioning herself carefully, and slithered down until she had him fully sheathed inside her. He groaned with pleasure, and his hands quickly moved to her hips. His touch was light, though - he was content to let her move, the change in his breathing the only guidance he offered. His eyes never left hers as she rode him, lifting herself up until their contact was almost broken and then lowering herself back down, taking him in with a slow, steady rhythm. He growled, and she thought she caught the word "torture," but he let her lead.
It was a position designed for female dominance, and she did feel powerful, knowing that swiveling her hips a certain way could turn the man beneath her into smoldering ash. His fingers were digging into her hips with bruising strength as his breathing quickened. She moved faster, and he grasped her hands, brushing his lips over her knuckles.
It was the most innocent of touches, but he combined it with a swift, powerful upward thrust, and it sent her flying. She gasped, abandoning herself to the delicious sensation of letting go completely, and clenched around him as her orgasm washed over her.
She barely heard him grit out her name as he bucked his hips one final time and spilled into her. He was still shuddering through the aftershock when his arms went around her again and he tugged her head down to his chest. She settled into his arms, and they were still locked together when they drifted off to sleep. From frenzied passion to peaceful repose, there were no awkward moments. Everything was right, closer to perfect than she dared believe, and she had been just naïve enough to think they could hold onto it.
***
Miles away from where Ginny sat remembering, a meeting was interrupted by a frantic tapping on the window. A lackey scuttled over to open it, and the owl that flew in went directly to the head of the table, scattering papers with the rush of air its wings created. There was no name written on the parchment the owl carried, which brought a frown to the serious face of the man to whom the creature was presenting its leg.
He untied the letter with a deft motion and began to unroll it. As the first lines revealed a familiar script, his face blanked and he ordered everyone out of his office. They obeyed instantly. Once alone, the man set the parchment down on his desk and walked to the window. The owl was twittering by his head, hoping for a treat, but he shook his head and it flew away.
He watched it disappear around a corner, thought briefly of following it, and turned back to his desk, where the letter waited. Sinking back down into his chair, he spread it out before him and began to read the only communication she'd made in two years. There was no salutation, no preamble - just her words.
First I wondered how to start, and then I wondered if you'd even read this. When I was done wondering, all that was left was what I want to say. What I need to say to you.
I can't forget you. Merlin, I've tried, and I even do a passable job of it during the day. I get up, I go to work, and I don't think of you. I don't think of you while I'm eating my lunch, and I don't think of you when I'm Flooing home. It's when I climb into bed at night that you come to me. Every night. Whether I'm awake or whether I'm dreaming, you're there with me.
Gods, do I ache for you in those moments. And if that were the worst of it, if that was my only shameful secret, I wouldn't have to tell you. I could go on like that, I think, if it ended there. But it doesn't.
Maybe you've heard that I'm getting married.
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