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wisdomeagleTitle: "Draw Back the Curtain"
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Timeline/Spoilers: In the distant future, semi-HBP-compliant (if, you know, you ignore the shippy parts)
Warnings: Various sorts of implied past badness.
Notes: Yes, this is Fireworks fic that got too long and, er, plotty. Prompt word was "closet."
Words: 871
Summary: When this war is over.
Draw Back the Curtain
Ginny finds herself at the Burrow despite herself. She'd meant to skip Ottery St. Catchpool altogether, make the pop straight to Hogsmeade, but she's not as strong as she ought to be and anyhow, the Burrow's as familiar a landing place as any. She focused on it without trying, and here she is. Even with her eyes closed in exhaustion, she can feel and smell the dreariness of the place, and feel its tininess closing in on her. The Burrow was never small when she was a child and small herself, but now she feels she's seen enough of the world that the Burrow is inconsequential, the tumbledown shack that the Ottery St. Catchpool smallfry and, later, the Slytherins and, later still, the Death Eaters, took it for. There are the trees she climbed, the stump where Hermione sat to watch her practice Quidditch, there is the shoddy field where she learned to fly, there's the garden, now nothing but weeds, and here's a place where she skinned her knee, and a place where she hexed George. If she went inside, there'd be further memories, further degraded: bedrooms, dusty halls, and the spot way up in the attic where she took Hermione one summer when she was too young to know better, and showed off all her hexes. There's her mother's closet, cobwebby, with, worst of all, dress robes long unworn (velvety and soft), still hanging, home to spiders and brownie eggs. She turns her back on it, and prepares for the trip to Hogsmeade. This evening she'll be with Hermione in Hogwarts, with its memories.
+
Hermione absently mends a pock hole in the stone stairwell with a flick of her wand; there are leftover Avada Kedavras everywhere, and she flinches every time she opens a door, for fear of wayward jinxes leftover from distant battles Hermione can hardly remember, drowned out by more recent recollections - France, and Germany, and others too terrible to dwell on. Hogwarts feels vast and empty and unprotected in the setting sun, although Hermione has been carefully respelling the castle into the fortress it was in Dumbledore's time.
She shivers, hardly unusual though it's only September, and turns around.
"There you are," Ginny says, and Hermione smiles despite herself.
"I've been waiting for you."
"You didn't clean on my account, did you?" Ginny asks, flicking at some dust with an absent housekeeping spell.
"Sorry. It's a big castle and I'm a very small witch."
"Large enough for my purposes," Ginny says, with unfamiliar appetite in her voice.
"Shall we get someplace a bit less stony?"
"Gryffindor Tower?" Ginny suggests.
It was in the Gryffindor Common Room that they studied together, heads bent low over spellbooks, Hermione whispering answers in Ginny's ear, the rest of the room fading when their fingers touched. It was in Ginny's dormitory that they kissed, and Hermione's where they went beyond kissing. They snuck into the boys' quarters when they were all off somewhere (Hogsmeade weekend? Quidditch match? It was the most brilliant and terrifying afternoon of their relationship, and now neither woman can recall the details, just a buzz of pleasant memory that's nothing like that slow kindled heat so long ago), and it's there they're headed now -- "Phoenix," to the Fat Lady, and then upstairs, Hermione a step behind Ginny, feeling like an old lady, holding her robes up in one hand and wondering if she ever had Ginny's energy.
"Harry's bed?" she asks, amused. "Or Dean's."
"I fancied him for all of half a minute," Ginny says.
"Dean? Or Harry?"
"Nevermind," Ginny says. "It's you I always really fancied, and you know it." She sticks out her tongue and Hermione's on her, one hand pulling the drapes closed around the bed they've landed on -- which boy, doesn't matter, this is just a Saturday afternoon and they're alone, for once, and Ginny's lips are plump and spread, her fingers drag through Hermione's hair and catch on her tangles, she leans backwards and Hermione leans with her, lets her weight sink into deliciously soft feathers and the sprawling body of Ginny Weasley, who who doesn't stop moving for an instant and is determined to relive every kiss, slow and soft, fast and earnest, surprised, familiar, haunted, the desperate exhausted grieving kisses that tasted of tears, the fluttering, quiet kisses hidden from Molly and Arthur, the long, slow, dreamy kisses on afternoons they could pretend the world was not collapsing.
Hermione does not care, for once she does not care, where they are or what she ought to be doing. She cares about Ginny's breasts, sliding out of her robe as if Ginny got dressed in a hurry, about counting Ginny's freckles and fingering her clit. She lets the last kiss linger, then with a last, desperate suction, she lets go, trails saliva down Ginny's chest and then kisses her cunt, peels away another layer of memory and tastes Ginny for the first time, and the times they thought were the last time, and this time, Ginny's lips flaring apart to let Hermione in, bright red hair, soft red skin, inflamed cunt and Ginny thrusting into Hermione's mouth.
"Oh."
Hermione takes a breath, whispers, "I missed you."
"You too, awfully. More," Ginny breathes.
And Hermione flicks her tongue, and, methodically, artfully, she mends another treasure left broken by Tom Riddle.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Timeline/Spoilers: In the distant future, semi-HBP-compliant (if, you know, you ignore the shippy parts)
Warnings: Various sorts of implied past badness.
Notes: Yes, this is Fireworks fic that got too long and, er, plotty. Prompt word was "closet."
Words: 871
Summary: When this war is over.
Draw Back the Curtain
Ginny finds herself at the Burrow despite herself. She'd meant to skip Ottery St. Catchpool altogether, make the pop straight to Hogsmeade, but she's not as strong as she ought to be and anyhow, the Burrow's as familiar a landing place as any. She focused on it without trying, and here she is. Even with her eyes closed in exhaustion, she can feel and smell the dreariness of the place, and feel its tininess closing in on her. The Burrow was never small when she was a child and small herself, but now she feels she's seen enough of the world that the Burrow is inconsequential, the tumbledown shack that the Ottery St. Catchpool smallfry and, later, the Slytherins and, later still, the Death Eaters, took it for. There are the trees she climbed, the stump where Hermione sat to watch her practice Quidditch, there is the shoddy field where she learned to fly, there's the garden, now nothing but weeds, and here's a place where she skinned her knee, and a place where she hexed George. If she went inside, there'd be further memories, further degraded: bedrooms, dusty halls, and the spot way up in the attic where she took Hermione one summer when she was too young to know better, and showed off all her hexes. There's her mother's closet, cobwebby, with, worst of all, dress robes long unworn (velvety and soft), still hanging, home to spiders and brownie eggs. She turns her back on it, and prepares for the trip to Hogsmeade. This evening she'll be with Hermione in Hogwarts, with its memories.
+
Hermione absently mends a pock hole in the stone stairwell with a flick of her wand; there are leftover Avada Kedavras everywhere, and she flinches every time she opens a door, for fear of wayward jinxes leftover from distant battles Hermione can hardly remember, drowned out by more recent recollections - France, and Germany, and others too terrible to dwell on. Hogwarts feels vast and empty and unprotected in the setting sun, although Hermione has been carefully respelling the castle into the fortress it was in Dumbledore's time.
She shivers, hardly unusual though it's only September, and turns around.
"There you are," Ginny says, and Hermione smiles despite herself.
"I've been waiting for you."
"You didn't clean on my account, did you?" Ginny asks, flicking at some dust with an absent housekeeping spell.
"Sorry. It's a big castle and I'm a very small witch."
"Large enough for my purposes," Ginny says, with unfamiliar appetite in her voice.
"Shall we get someplace a bit less stony?"
"Gryffindor Tower?" Ginny suggests.
It was in the Gryffindor Common Room that they studied together, heads bent low over spellbooks, Hermione whispering answers in Ginny's ear, the rest of the room fading when their fingers touched. It was in Ginny's dormitory that they kissed, and Hermione's where they went beyond kissing. They snuck into the boys' quarters when they were all off somewhere (Hogsmeade weekend? Quidditch match? It was the most brilliant and terrifying afternoon of their relationship, and now neither woman can recall the details, just a buzz of pleasant memory that's nothing like that slow kindled heat so long ago), and it's there they're headed now -- "Phoenix," to the Fat Lady, and then upstairs, Hermione a step behind Ginny, feeling like an old lady, holding her robes up in one hand and wondering if she ever had Ginny's energy.
"Harry's bed?" she asks, amused. "Or Dean's."
"I fancied him for all of half a minute," Ginny says.
"Dean? Or Harry?"
"Nevermind," Ginny says. "It's you I always really fancied, and you know it." She sticks out her tongue and Hermione's on her, one hand pulling the drapes closed around the bed they've landed on -- which boy, doesn't matter, this is just a Saturday afternoon and they're alone, for once, and Ginny's lips are plump and spread, her fingers drag through Hermione's hair and catch on her tangles, she leans backwards and Hermione leans with her, lets her weight sink into deliciously soft feathers and the sprawling body of Ginny Weasley, who who doesn't stop moving for an instant and is determined to relive every kiss, slow and soft, fast and earnest, surprised, familiar, haunted, the desperate exhausted grieving kisses that tasted of tears, the fluttering, quiet kisses hidden from Molly and Arthur, the long, slow, dreamy kisses on afternoons they could pretend the world was not collapsing.
Hermione does not care, for once she does not care, where they are or what she ought to be doing. She cares about Ginny's breasts, sliding out of her robe as if Ginny got dressed in a hurry, about counting Ginny's freckles and fingering her clit. She lets the last kiss linger, then with a last, desperate suction, she lets go, trails saliva down Ginny's chest and then kisses her cunt, peels away another layer of memory and tastes Ginny for the first time, and the times they thought were the last time, and this time, Ginny's lips flaring apart to let Hermione in, bright red hair, soft red skin, inflamed cunt and Ginny thrusting into Hermione's mouth.
"Oh."
Hermione takes a breath, whispers, "I missed you."
"You too, awfully. More," Ginny breathes.
And Hermione flicks her tongue, and, methodically, artfully, she mends another treasure left broken by Tom Riddle.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 12:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 03:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-07 04:59 am (UTC)