She didn't need to see him, she didn't need to hear him, she wished she didn't know him. He was inside her, living, breathing, moving. The Boy Who Lived, lived inside her dreams.


She didn't know when it started, this hatred of hers. Was it always there? No, it couldn't possibly have been. She'd loved the ground he walked upon: such an easy, casual stride. His eyes twinkled. She could see them from very far away, and they were very green. She'd invented so many words for green because of him. It started because of him, anyway. Green. Emerald. Jade. Spring. Ocean. Grass. Leaf. Frog. Peridot. Jealousy. Death.


Why did he smile so? What was with that coy look, that glint of spring-leaf-emerald-deathly green from under his lashes? Why were his cheeks so smooth, and pale, and sharp-looking. Could she cut herself on them? Would she bleed? Would she cut herself on the green in his eyes, on the edge to his smile?


She wanted him so much she was breaking. Pieces of her scattering behind her as she walked, cast off carelessly like bits of skin, like drops of blood. He couldn't see them, he couldn't see her looking at him, the slow burning hatred building in her eyes, the resentment, the disillusionment. They never spoke these days, not that they ever did, really. They had nothing to say, nothing she hadn't already said to herself and rejected. Nothing she hadn't cried over, nothing that she hadn't burned onto her skin.


She could no longer think clearly, she could no longer run. She no longer knew who she was, because he took up every thought she hadn't already given away to the other. It was all about them, and nothing was about her. She imagined running her dry fingertips across his mouth. His tongue flicking out, wetting her thumb. His breath catching. He would tug her closer, and their faces would hover, a mere hair's breadth apart. She imagined his breath would taste of lilac and winter's mint: flavored ashes.


She held the wand firmly in her fingers, her footsteps quiet and her shadow lengthening behind her in the corridor. It was simplicity itself to walk from the girl's dorms to the seventh-year boy's room. She wasn't smiling, or frowning, or breathing, even, and her heart was barely beating. She had nothing left to think, nothing left to say, nothing left to wait for. Her teeth hurt, imagining the taste of his lip, the blood welling from it, teasing her tongue. Her fingers clenched around her wand, and she gasped a little, a tiny indrawn breath betraying her. There was no one there to notice. They were asleep. She was asleep. Nothing was amiss.


She could hear shadows of voices, imprints, recollections.


"I will love you if you'll let me, Ginny," Neville had said, and his smile was painful to watch, it was so tentative and serious.


"There is nothing of me to love, Nev," she said, smiling a little at the way his eyes lit up, because no one's given him a nickname before.


"Don't be silly. You are-- you are--" Neville flamed a bright, Weasley-like red. "Beautiful. Beautiful. God, I can't believe you're letting me say this, I'm sure you're tired of everyone always telling you...."


She kissed his cheek. He was soft, and he smelled of baby powder, and he would hold her gently and never look at anything or anyone else. Neville.


She couldn't do it. She couldn't take this from him. She imagined his pale eyes darkening as she showed him, really showed him who she was, now. Maybe he'd like it. Maybe some kind of frightening light would come into his eyes, and he would no longer be Neville, and she would no longer be Ginny. Maybe he'd pull her hair, jerking her head back, exposing her throat, and bite her there.


"I told you I want you, Ginny," he'd say, before he sank his teeth into the soft spot at the base of her throat. She closed her eyes, smiling slightly at the image. Poor, besotted Neville. She didn't want to know if that was true. It seemed somewhat outlandish and wrong, just wrong enough to be true. That didn't mean she -wanted- it to be true.


She swallowed the potion in one big gulp, standing at the door. She felt empty, drained, but this was nothing unusual. She no longer felt herself, knew she wasn't herself in truth, but that too, was nothing unusual. Her hair no longer brushed the small of her back, and her hips contracted, no longer so painfully wide, so uselessly feminine. Her legs lengthened, along with her fingers. Such girly, endless fingers he had. Long and pale and soft, as if he'd never done anything even as arduous as writing long reports for his beloved Potions on the various properties of nightshade when mixed with belladonna with them. They said the right mix produced a noxious fluid which, if ingested, could reverse miscarriage or prevent death within the first forty seconds after passing, as well as cause it, of course.


She had pondered testing one or all of these theories at various points. Sleeping with Malfoy had been a mistake, she knew this, but it was essential. She had to know. Those fingers on her, in her, against her, were a small price to pay for this. She had felt his heartbeat inside her, as he sighed and cursed and bruised her hips, seeking his release. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was shut. She would not open her mouth for him, nor did he ask her to.


His hands were cold.


*     *     *


His breath had reeked of alcohol and he hadn't bothered to pretend he even knew who she was most of the time. It was probably easier that way. She had caught him coming back from some sort of Slytherin party, she imagined. He seemed unusually relaxed, smiling at her in a slightly disconcerting way. His frank gaze had lingered a little too long on her chest, his typical smirk in full attendance. She had played it up, looking back at him from underneath lowered lashes, swaying her hip slightly to the side, leaning against a wall.


"So," he had drawled, the slur markedly more pronounced than was normal. "A Weasley."


She'd blushed, and if you didn't know her, you'd have had no way of knowing it was in anger. He grinned at her and she wanted to tear his eyes out, to cut his stomach open, to tear out his eyelashes and leave him bald and possibly half-ferret for the rest of his days. She smiled back.


"What would a Weasley be doing in this part of Hogwarts, eh? Are you lost, little girl?" he'd said, leaning against the same cold stone wall, merely steps away from her. "Do you need the assistance of one of us scary Slytherins?"


She wanted to spit in his face, to step on his toe with the heel of her shoe, to jerk her knee up into his groin. Anything to wipe that evil smirk off his face. Bastard. "No. I-- think-- I just-- I was just in Gryffindor minutes ago," she stammered, looking innocent. She was really good at looking innocent. Sometimes she wished she was, but not very often, really.


"Well then, let me help you, little Weasley," he'd said, taking her hand in his. She didn't flinch. Even if she did, he probably wouldn't have noticed, being pissed off his arse, as well as being a bloody idiot.


She couldn't bring herself to actually touch him, but she didn't need to. He'd pulled her roughly to his room, not bothering to engage in any further small-talk. She was almost sorry for Harry. Is this what he had to put up with every day? Well, he could have it. They deserved each other, surely.


He had drooled on her shoulder, and whispered something that sounded like "sorry" or possibly, "Harry", she couldn't be sure, as he stuck one cold, clammy finger inside her, stretching her. How very considerate of you, you bloody desperate oaf, she'd thought, fighting not to clamp her legs together, fighting not to claw her nails across his chest. He did seem pretty out of it. Who knew what she could get away with, in the spirit of passionate abandon.


She had smiled in genuine pleasure when he gasped, hardening inside her and whimpering pitiously, when she scored her nails across his back for the first time. She should've known he'd like pain and being dominated. Maybe it didn't matter by whom. Maybe he didn't even know who she was. It was seeming suspiciously like that was indeed the case, especially when he started whimpering, "Harder, Harry, harder, yes. Yes! Ohhhh!"


His hips had bucked frenziedly, his spine arching away from her, his neck thrown backwards. His aristocratic face was slick, dripping with sweat, which was pooling between his collarbones. Hair was sticking wetly to his temples, curling slightly at the edges, framing his face in whisps of silver and platinum. His eyelashes were long, sticking together in clumps shadowing his cheeks. He looked almost beautiful right then. Almost.


It was ruined by the obscene torrent of heat suddenly rushing inside her, dripping down her inner thighs, making her feel inevitably sticky and used and sick to her stomach. She didn't have to look at him anymore, because his face was nestled in between her breasts, and he was nuzzling the one in front of him lightly, his tongue tracing lazy circles. She felt air move against her moistened skin, making her shiver. She felt sticky, and hot, and an uncomfortable flush was moving up to her scalp, making her ill at ease in her skin, desperate for a scalding shower.


She thought she would never want anyone ever again. Certainly not anyone she had wanted in the past. The slate was wiped clean. She was pure. Cured of all illusions. This delicate-looking boy, all knife-edge lips and cruel glances and moonlight skin-- he was just as heavy and just as loud and just as easy as everyone else. He was making small, contented sounds, sucking sleepily on a patch of skin, leaving a small pink circle that will turn into a bruise. Casual cruelties. She knew all about them.


She wound an arm around his neck, and he'd snuggled more comfortably against her, like a pet almost. She had thought her distaste, her derision, her pity could grow no further. She couldn't feel anything then, but if she could, she would imagine she'd find away to hate him even more than she already did.


Her palm rested on top of his head, gently stroking. If she pulled too hard, he only smiled and hardened slightly against her. She grimaced. She hoped he was too drunk and too sated and too -male- to want another go at it, especially this soon. He was. And when she left, he'd only sighed another one of those pitiful, content-sounding sighs, and murmured, "Harry," once again into his pillow.


*     *     *


Even though she wasn't anyone she could recognize, anymore, Ginny didn't give up. Not ever. From the first sight she had of him, she'd known he was hers. A beautiful stranger, with the magnetic smile, and the unforgettable walk, and the casual way of making everyone love him.


"Why do you love him?" Tom had wanted to know.


"Are you -insane-?" Ron had whispered, incredulously. And then, much later, "-Neville-??" She wanted to laugh. As if Neville wasn't much more reasonable, really. Even though he wasn't. The least they could do was be happy for her. Even though she wasn't, and she never even said yes in the first place. Still, better if they thought she was just shy about it, and Neville was held by an oath to secrecy. Neville had surprising strength of loyalty, when provoked, really.


"You'll grow out of it, dear," her mum had said, probably intending to be reassuring.


Tom had understood, of course, though it didn't really matter. It was the telling that mattered. The words spilling from her fingers, flowing as if she had been cut open, as if there was no healing for this sort of wound. She didn't know this self, she didn't recognize it, but in a way, all that mattered was that -it- recognized -her-. She wanted to have a presence, to have a voice, and she did. It didn't matter if it fit her, really. All that mattered was that it was hers, and hers alone.


She still had her voice, even now, she knew. Her body was unimportant. Having one, losing one. It didn't matter. Not if you had a voice. Not to Tom, and not to her. And soon, it wouldn't matter to Harry, either.


She didn't know why her cock was hard, standing there, so still and yet so breathless, her long, thin fingers motionless upon the door handle. She didn't mind. The rush of blood, the heady, luxurious intoxication. So this is what it was like. Her body seemed to know what to do, what was in store for it, even if she didn't. And it liked it.


She opened the door, blinking several times at the sudden rush of moonlight assaulting her dilated pupils. There it was. Harry's bed. She'd been there a few times, actually. In the afternoon, of course. Tagging along with Hermione, sitting shyly at the farthest corner, or on the floor, staring at Harry's feet and blushing. They didn't notice anyway.


She slipped quickly behind the curtain, whispering a silencing spell as she did so. She curled against the sleeping boy's prone body, her fingers trailing down the narrow ridge of his hips, the languid slope of his thigh. He shivered, and she felt a strange, bittersweet tightening in her chest. This felt so right. This felt so different. This was Harry, and this couldn't be wrong, no matter how it came about, no matter what her intentions were, no matter who he thought she was. This would always be right. The night with Malfoy ebbed further away from her with every delicate rise of Harry's chest beside her, with every gentle exhalation, with every quiver of his body against hers.


"Mmmm," he sighed, wiggling closer still against her, aligning himself flush against the straining erection pressing into his backside. It felt so painfully, hopelessly exquisite. She felt tears prickling at the back of her eyelids. Her fingers were kneading the fold just where his legs started, next to his groin. His skin was so smooth, so supple against her greedy fingertips. She was licking the back of his neck, and he was moaning, and she began to wonder when he was going to actually wake up and start questioning her and acting shocked and indignant and imposed upon-- something. Anything at all. He was only pressing against her, and making soft, mewling sounds at the back of his throat, which were doing strange things to her nerve-endings and to the rhythm of her heart. If she thought he did this for need of her-- she would-- she would never leave him. She would never hurt him. She would probably die, because she couldn't contain that sort of happiness.


"Draco?" he whispered thickly, sounding half asleep and half lost in waking dreams of lust and need and skin. "What-- what're you doing here? You'll be-- we'll be caught," he said in a low, scratchy bedroom tone, groaning as deft, cool fingers wrapped snugly around his erection. "Not that I -mind-," he added, thrusting a little into her grip.


"Mmmmm," she hummed in his ear, her voice equally low, her breath damp and sensual against his skin, promising a thousand pleasures he knew were his for the taking. "Couldn't resist your many charms, what else?" she said, smirking in what was probably a decent attempt at a Malfoy Patented Smirk.


"Naturally," Harry replied, turning around in her arms, his lips unerringly sliding across her own, tongue gliding tantalizingly between them. She almost forgot herself in that kiss, almost believed he was kissing her, because it really seemed as if he pulled up her soul and was tugging it free of her body with his mouth alone. She felt faint and light-headed, exhilarated, deliriously alive. He was nibbling on her lips with much expertise, flicking his tongue against them, teasing at the fuller bottom lip until he tired of that game and thrust his tongue into her mouth forcefully, moaning and grinding their erections together.


She moaned at the delicious sensation, increasing the friction enthusiastically, wrapping a leg around his, wanting to touch as much of his skin as she possibly could, with as much of hers. She wouldn't have thought she would know what to do, and her deception would be obvious, her relative inexperience, her lingering shyness. But she felt the furthest thing from shy or inexperienced. She felt like she knew every corner of him, every fold and crease and dimple on him, even as she discovered every one by feel. It was like their bodies were made to do this, because they just seemed to fit together, almost against her will. It was beyond natural. It seemed almost magical, in a way.


He made stars dance behind her eyes, he made her skin tingle and sizzle, he made her mind explode in a profusion of multi-colored fireworks. She really felt like he loved her, like she was all he knew, like she was all that mattered. He held her so tightly, and whispered meaningless phrases against her skin so fervently, and the look on his face when he came was that of someone who was seeing the face of his destiny and burning its contours permanently into memory. He looked like he was doing something sacred and profane and suffused with the most painful sort of blinding ecstasy. If the name he cried had been hers, she would have melted, the heat creating fusion, and been a part of him for the rest of her days, without another doubt or stabbing pain to ever disturb her again.


But it hadn't been. And the knife twisted. And she knew she couldn't live another moment, not another endless strangling moment, with him in it.


*     *     *


She waited patiently until she changed, listening to the even, regular sound of his breathing, watching his dark, thick lashes flutter innocently against his shadowed cheeks. These moments seemed so still, so timeless. They didn't really exist. She didn't really exist, and neither did he. She was naked, and so was he, and it was an easy thing to slip his still half-hard cock inside her. It went in with a little pop, and she felt almost better. She had climbed on top of him, her breasts right there above him, in direct line of vision, if he would only look and see. But he never looked, no, not Harry Potter. He would never look-- that was impolite. Offensive. Not something one did to one's best friend's sister. This was dangerous, but she liked it. She wanted to look the rightness in the eye, and tell it that it was wrong, after all.


Her lips moved, the sound barely escaping them, not much more than a loud breath: "Accio wand."


She felt slick and sexually charged and comfortable within her skin. Powerful. She was glad this was the body she wore, and she was glad he'd know it soon. He would know who she was, and whose legs clamped so tightly around his hips, and whose body was swaying lightly on top of his, bringing new life to his quiescent cock without his awareness.


She rocked harshly against him, feeling the thickness of him stretch her further, feeling him push back. His eyes snapped open, and he was just about to-- scream? gasp? say her name?-- when she said, softly, firmly: "Petrificus Totalus." He still looked shocked, bewildered, maybe a little afraid. She hated it, suddenly. And him. And herself. This was wrong, and she was wrong, and he was-- he was--


It didn't matter now.


She rocked more against his still-rigid cock, so hard and immoveable inside her. She liked the look in his eyes, the horror, the lack of comprehension. She felt powerful and alive and reckless, all of a sudden. Nothing mattered, really. These were just bodies. What she'd said were only words. He wanted this, he wanted to be taken. Just because she didn't have grey eyes or silver hair, what did it change?


Nothing. It changed nothing. He was nothing, just a bag of skin and bones and a veneer of lust and arrogance. He was unbearable, impossible, filthy. What did Harry see when he looked at him? Was it the pale skin? The delicate cheekbones? The pain promised by those silky sinful lips?


It was really too bad he had to be blind-- even more regrettable that she ended up being the one to blind him, when what she really wanted was to open his eyes. Because she held all that and more, inside her. He'd just never seen. He'd never seen anything. And when she clamped tight all around him, her whole body pulsing with barely-leashed energy, she laughed out loud. Her nails dug into his sides, drawing blood, her fingers finding purchase in odd places-- the slight swell beneath his navel, the hollow beneath his armpit. She twisted his nipples and liked it that he didn't squirm, or gasp, or move at all. She possessed him now, not the other way around. Things had shifted, and she had tasted all there was to taste, and now it was over.


She was coming hard, shaking and panting and oh, it was just-- so good-- and he was staring at her-- and it didn't matter. This was how she wanted to remember it. Just like this. Before the ashes settled into her mouth, the taste sinking into her tongue, something she could never wash away.



Her fingers were white-knuckled, clenched so tight around her wand now, as tight as she'd ever been around his cock. It was right. This was right, she'd always felt it, deep in her bones. They were right like this, and this was inevitable, painless, and perfect. Everything perfect had to end.


As the words drifted with a strange, liquid ease past her lips, she wished he could say something. He wished he could call her name. Say good-bye, maybe. Touch her heart with the palm of his hand, as she was touching his right now, telling her it was all right without even needing to say it. He understood. What else was she to do?


The perfect green of his eyes stared glassily back at her. Spring green, peridot and leaf and endless ocean. Green like death. Green like hers.


Green like the light in between two moments, colliding. And on the other side was the silence.


*     *     *


She doesn't bother dressing, as she pads soundlessly back to her own bed.


She doesn't bother looking around, or checking if anyone had seen.


She crawls into her soft, familiar bed, feeling more content and relieved than she would've imagined being able to feel, for years now.


And she dreams of the blinding light filling all her empty spaces, filling her until she could burst from the beauty of it.


There is no more silence, there. No more desire. No more illusion.


The light which would be attained at the end, but it had been with her from the beginning. She walks toward it, understanding.


It burns at the touch, searing her skin. She watches it burn, impassive. She can feel her skin melt away, her bones liquefy, her breath turn to steam within her throat.


She dreams that she is lost in the sky, which is brilliantly, impossibly green, and she doesn't wish for anything. Anything at all.
~~