wl_mods (wl_mods) wrote in wizard_love, @ 2008-02-18 19:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | *fic, ginny, neville, viktor |
Special delivery for syven - Part 1
Title: Smoke and Mirrors, pt. 1
Author: jairissa
Recipient's IJ/LJ name: syven
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Ginny/Viktor, Ginny/Neville
Word Count: 13142
Warnings: Dub-con, mentions of past underage sexual encounters
Authors notes: I hope you enjoy this, Syven. It is nothing at all like anything I've written before, but I have such an adoration for this plot bunny that I hope you like it too.
It is the screams that Ginny likes best. The roaring cheers, the pleased shrieks and the applause that is so loud that the stadium shakes with it. She loves the way it echoes, how she can close her eyes and almost think she is drowning in sound waves that are so overwhelming they almost become physical sensation. It makes her full, her smile so broad her face aches with it and Ginny loves that too. She will hover above the stadium, eyes closed, savouring the sound until her body shakes in excitement.
Then there is silence again and it is over until the next match, the next victory. Sometimes in the space between, when her eyes ring with the silence, she believes that it doesn't matter to her who is the victor as long as she can hear the noise again. The thought only lasts until she is next in the air, snitch released and has to be the first one to it, has to feel the thrill of the snitch beating in her hand like a small heart, hearing the groan of disappointment from her opponent before the cheers start. Then her ears are full of the blessed sound of people screaming for her, making her whole again.
Those are the times Ginny is happiest. It is the spaces between that bother her. She can fill some of them easily enough with practices and training. She fills others with the small, mundane details that she thinks are meant to take more time than she is willing to spend on them. She eats, occasionally, when she realises she is hungry and remembers to buy food. She showers more quickly than even her brothers and cares little for the boredom of making her hair into the 'pretty' styles her mother begs for. She cut it all off, once, which entertained her for weeks; Molly's outrage still makes her laugh when she thinks of it.
This moment, she decides, is tolerable. She is watching someone else fly which has never been her way; if she can't participate herself she prefers not to be involved at all. Where is the fun in watching when you're capable of doing it yourself? She remains because she believes the pay-off will be worthwhile -- despite the good six years since she first saw Krum play in person he is still the best and that is the one lesson Ginny has learned: you cannot win if you don't know the battle you're fighting.
The World Cup is coming again and Ginny intends to win it. It matters little to her that they have reportedly yet to make a final decision as to who will be on the team. If there is a spot, she will have it, regardless of how much she will need to practice first. She has all the time in the world for it and the determination to make it there. That has always been enough before.
"And Krum has the snitch!" She hears the excited commentator announce. Ginny closes her eyes out of habit, the sensation of hearing this from the stand almost entirely different to hearing it from the air. She closes her eyes, head falling back and her lips parting in excitement as the sound builds up to an inevitable crescendo. It flickers in every part of her, her body tingling from toes to the tips of her hair and she smiles with the beauty of it.
When she opens her eyes again it is to the sensation of being watched. She has become used to it, almost craves it sometimes and she smiles in amusement. It is him, it seems. She supposes she has been conspicuous in one of the player's boxes; Krum is certainly watching her with barely contained approval.
His mouth moves, forming words that Ginny can't decipher. She reaches for her bag, pulling out a stray piece of parchment and a self-inking quill that she has taken to carrying with her. She can't quite recall why, but it serves her well now as she writes one word, Hermione, and holds it up to him. If he really wants to contact her he will work out what that means. She rather hopes he will -- hearing his secrets from the source would be far more satisfying than spending countless hours here, puzzling them out for herself.
He nods and Ginny tosses her quill back in to her bag, abandoning the parchment carelessly. She doesn't look back as she makes her way out of the now unlocked door, mind already turning to her own match that night and the knowledge that even if, for the first time, she doesn't make it to the snitch she will have another of these lovely moments, filled with enough sound to make her quake.
~**.**~
There is a letter waiting for her when she gets home, alongside a wrapped parcel. She recognises the handwriting, of course. She would have even were it not Wednesday again and Neville's slower day of classes where he likes to keep in touch with all of his Hogwarts friends. She writes him back more often than not; Ron will occasionally, Hermione faithfully, Harry and Luna often not at all, although for entirely different reasons. She is not sure Luna will even get his notes, wherever she is now, and Harry...well, Harry never seemed to have much time for anyone but Ron and Hermione and occasionally Ginny herself, the latter of which hs become almost non-existant recently.
It will be a plant again. It is the same every week. Some type of flower or pot plant that always has some other small surprise to added, whether it had a cheering charm cast on it or healing sap for her bumps and bruises. She is running out of room for them, which isn't a bad thing. Her talent for Herbology is non-existent – she can, and likely will, use the lack of room as an excuse for disposing of the old ones before it becomes obvious that she has killed them through neglect.
She leaves this one for a later opening. She has spotted yet another of her flatmate's notes on her bed through her open bedroom door and she abandons her bag carelessly on the floor to see what vitriol he has left for her this time.
The dirt from the plant you knocked over when you left this morning remains exactly where it fell. Clean it up before I get home.
-H
Sighing, Ginny waves her wand at the offending mess. The fact that it takes less than a second to clean does little for her continuing annoyance; by the time she reaches the living room to ensure that not a speck remains on the soft, grey carpet she is stomping her feet, throwing her weight against the furniture rather than dodging around it as she usually does.
It is not that she minds cleaning up her own messes, she is more than content to take responsibility for any accident she has. It is, always, the fact that by trying to accommodate him it only makes things worse. She must have knocked the plant over as she was sneaking out of the house. His royal highness tended to prefer to rise a great deal later than she needed to be up for Quidditch practice, and if she had been able to turn the lights on as she left, she is sure she would not have knocked into anything.
Sinking on to the couch, Ginny closes her eyes as she relaxes against the fluffy cushions. She resolves to write back to Neville before she leaves for the night's game. If she leaves it longer than that she is sure that she will forget entirely and weeks will pass before she has time to think.
Time seems more fluid to her now – it passes without Ginny ever realising it has. It firms her resolve to live now, here, in this moment. If she does not think of it now, she is not sure that he ever will, and she has no desire to create any more gaps in her memory.
~**.**~
Ginny wipes herself off slowly, savouring the last drips of sweat cascading down her face as she peels her uniform off, layer by layer. The roar of the crowd as they realise the Harpies were making it to the finals again still echoes in her mind and she smiles as she walks to the shower.
Her team-mates have long gone, to celebrate in their various ways. She knows that she has a standing invitation to join any of them that she wishes, even if they vanish eons before she lands. Ginny prefers to celebrate alone, a glass of her favourite wine in her hand as she dances to the resonance of her memories of the match, spinning around in her flat until she is dizzy with it.
She takes pleasure in her leisurely shower, soaking in it and rejoicing in every individual drop of water she can detect. Her body is still alive with excitement, her chest constricting as she rests against the wall, using her wand to deflect the water from it's straight downward path to her overheated body, the coldness of it gradually sobering her.
It is only when she thinks she can walk straight again that Ginny walks herself out of the shower, dressing in the same clothes she had worn before the game. She needs to do laundry again, somehow she has managed to run out of clothes without realising. She is sure that His Royal Highness will protest her taking the Muggle washing machine for a full day, as he always does. She simply cannot be bothered to learn the spells her mother knows, not when there are far more interesting things to fill her time.
She pulls her hair into a tight ponytail as she walks out the door, resolving to cut it again soon. It's entirely too much bother for it's own good these days – if it weren't easier to pull back longer hair than it was shorter, Ginny thinks she would have been rid of it months ago. She is so occupied with this activity that she fails to notice that she is not alone in the stadium hallway, and that she has been surprised again without her consent.
"You are good," the voice says slowly. Even if Ginny had not been studying him carefully for the past week, she would have recognised that voice anywhere. It is unusually deep, the accent still not adept at its new language.
Ginny smiles, near smirks, as she tosses her backpack over her shoulder. "I should hope so," she retorts, taking a moment to look him over properly. He looks startling different without his Quidditch robes, the Muggle clothes he had clad himself in a fascinating contrast to the image of him that she has in her head. "I certainly practice enough."
He nods, face understanding and Ginny is glad that someone can relate to it. She is far too accustomed to her family's complaints that she works too hard, that they never see her. She thinks that a fellow Quidditch player's dedication might be a nice balm to her own frustration.
"It has paid off," he says, pushing himself away from the wall. His grace doesn't seem to translate well from a broomstick to the ground, his movements far more awkward than she remembered of him. "Even I vould not haff tried your last trick. I thought you vould fall."
Ginny remembers that play. She had designed it herself, claiming to the annoyed coach that it was designed to look as though she would hurtle to the ground, even as she remained perfectly in control of her movements. It was meant as something that would shock the other team into pause long enough for her to head for the Snitch. The last part, at least, was true; the first she exaggerated. As controlled as her movements were, she liked the feeling of falling; of the ground rising towards her and only her skill preventing her from reaching it at full speed.
"You can borrow it if you like," Ginny says cheekily, leaning against the wall he has just vacated. She feels his body tense and she moves away from him before he can move towards her, adjusting her bag so that it stopped digging into her shoulder.
She sees him realise her intent and he stops before he manages to start, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "It is impossible to pick sometink up when you haff not been taught it," he says. Ginny has to bite back a smile, pleased that he has picked up on her hint without her having to prod him further towards it.
"We'll have to practice it together sometime," she says lightly, gesturing towards the empty field. "Just let me know when you want to try."
~**.**~
"And don't forget your assignments!" Neville tells his departing class, voice entertained. Ginny can tell, before she thinks Neville himself realises it, that not a single one of those students will be penalised should they fail to get their projects in on time. He has always been kind-hearted, and she is sure that kindness will extend even more than usual towards students who have already been through far more than they should have.
Ginny remains lurking behind the doorway until the room is vacated of all but Neville, a soft smile on her face as she pokes her head inside. She had been glad when she finally managed to leave here, her bad memories of the place far outweighing her good, eternally glad that she had been offered a place with the Harpies so that she would not need to continue her education. Still, the odd trip back is still worthwhile, especially when it comes to seeing her friends.
"Gin!" Neville says, and there is genuine pleasure on his face. Ginny still feels guilty that she spent so much time thinking ill of Neville for his lack of confidence, considering how wonderful he was under all that shyness. She thinks sometimes that she will never be able to do enough to make up for it, however much she tries. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Popping in with a present," Ginny says promptly, holding out a wrapped package. It took her hours to track down the right thing, but thankfully Hermione was able to pull enough strings to find it for her. "To thank you for all the ones you've given me."
Neville's smile is broad, lighting up his entire face with pleasure. "You didn't need to do that," he says, happiness tinting his voice. This reaction convinces Ginny that she very much did need to do exactly that, but chose not to pursue the issue. "The pleasure of your company has always been enough, you know that."
"I do," Ginny says wryly, pulling herself on to one of the tables, careful not to brush herself against any of the potentially poisonous plants. "But I've hardly been generous with that lately either, have I?"
"Yes, well, none of us have had very much time for that lately, have we?" Neville asks jovially, and Ginny's smile falters a little. He's right, she knows; all of their 'old gang' has been busy lately, but she cannot help but think quite a bit of it is her fault. She is always being invited to things she turns down for what she considers to be 'better things'.
He reaches for the present she has put on the table in front of him and Ginny keeps her eyes carefully trained on his face. She wants to remember this, to see every flicker of Neville's expression as he finally realises what she has managed to track down for him after months of effort.
He unwraps the gift carefully, a direct contrast to her own habit of ripping at the paper to more easily determine what is waiting for her inside. She tears her eyes from his face to watch as his long fingers slide slowly along the tape, revealing the bright red box inside.
His cautiousness turns to curiosity as he opens the lid before turning to apparent confusion as he sees two wands inside. She knows he has read the inscriptions when that confusion turns to shock and then awe as he raises stunned eyes to meet Ginny's own.
"Frank and Alice Longbottom," he whispers, voice cracking on the last word. Ginny tries to smile, the bitterness that matches this sweetness almost stopping her from keeping the expression from her face. Instead she reaches her hand out to cover his own, softened by how much her present has affected him.
"I thought they would be better with you than they would be with sitting and gathering dust in the Ministry," she says softly, strangely breathless as his thumb brushes over the back of her hand.
"Thank you," Neville says thickly, turning his eyes away from her. It is not quickly enough, Ginny thinks; he does not quite manage to hide the brief shine of tears.
~**.**~
The milk you have left in the fridge is out of date and beginning to smell. Remove it before our home begins to smell more rotten than it does already.
-H
Ginny, in a more energetic and petty mood than she is used to, has decided that if His Royal Majesty intends to be pompous and overbearing about something as small as milk that is two days out of date, then she will scrub the entire fridge in an attempt to drive away any possible complaint he may have.
Normally she would excise this excess energy by practicing. Today, however, is Wednesday; her coach had insisted that Wednesday was to be a no practice day, where they were all to regain their energy by resting as much as possible. While she is there, she makes a note of any of his favourite foods that are reaching their used by dates so she will be able to remove them promptly, before they can cause a problem.
She is able to remove several such specimens this way, a few so old they are close to forming their own civilisations. His side of the fridge looks as it always has: perfectly organised, disgustingly healthy and containing enough mould to wallpaper her bedroom.
Wrinkling her nose, Ginny has to admit that her side is just as bad. The smell is much more pleasant when she is done with her cleaning, although she is slightly put out to realise that after her impromptu cleaning, there is little left there that she an actually eat. She mentally adds 'grocery shopping' to her list of errands, although she knows it may well be weeks before she gets around to any of them.
It is far easier to concentrate on the chores that are in front of her, rather than the ones that require her to haul herself around Diagon Alley. At least here, in her empty flat, she can have her small Muggle television on full volume as she dances around, cleaning anything that catches her eye.
The place is sparkling by the end of the day, and Ginny collapses on the couch in agitation. She is still not tired, and she knows that if she wants to become so she will need to venture out on the very chores that she has been avoiding. In an attempt to circumvent them, she checks the place that has been designated for mail, hoping that something will have been delivered since the last time she had checked.
Nothing waits for her, and Ginny makes a face as she turns towards where she has left her keys. It seems that she will, indeed, be forced to leave the flat. She has few enough moments when she is free from His Royal Majesty's presence, able to enjoy the space in relative peace. Giving up any of them seemed entirely unfair to her.
Reaching for her bag, she stuffs the quill that she seemed entirely unable to keep where it belonged back in its pocket, pulling the zip across impatiently. Somehow it is still not enough; somehow the place is still not clean enough. Not for him, anyway.
~**.**~
She passes him on her way out of the apartment, in their cramped hallway, his dark eyes showing the same disappointment she always seems to see. She hadn't realised he was home, he must have been hiding again. It has become almost a game for her, whether she can gain his approval. Once, in an attempt to prove a point, she had her mother over to clean the apartment from top to bottom. That was the last thing he said to her; everything since then has been in the form of a note, written in an immaculate handwriting that Ginny could not think to emulate.
Thankfully the Quidditch pitch calls to her, as it always does, and she is able to forget any smaller distractions as she hovers above the pitch. Even without her screams she is able to imagine, every movement causing an ache in her muscles that she knows would eventually result in a victory that no one will ever be able to take away from her.
She is imagining that, the ear shattering screams, on her broom above the pitch as she is rudely interrupted, her dream falling apart more easily than she had imagined it could. "You are better than I thought."
Ginny frowns, body tightening for a moment before relaxing in recognition. "I'm sorry you had such low expectations," she says, a smile on her face before she can consciously think of it. "I'd like to think that almost anyone in this league would have the ability to challenge you."
She examines Viktor carefully, brown eyes meeting his darker ones in challenge. He does not falter under her gaze and she feels a strange thrill at it. "I haff learned that challenges are hard to find," he says, voice more sure than it is arrogant. Ginny wants to argue, but finds it pointless; Viktor is the best. That is why she is so determined to defeat him.
"Then you're not looking hard enough," Ginny points out, stretching upwards until she is able to open her eyes without feeling giddy. The light is so dazzling when she opens her eyes that she has to shake herself, hair flying around her face as she tries to properly right her thoughts. "It's the standard rule of life, right? There's always someone better than you."
That does not sit well with him; Ginny can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, and the stiffening of his muscles on the broom he has brought out on to the pitch. "Surely you are used to being the best?" He asks, eyebrows rising as though he has scored some sort of point against her.
"Not as long as you're around," she says easily, smiling as though she admits defeat every day. It is worth it, she decides as he matches her grin, eyes sparkling as brightly as her own. "But surely that's half the fun?"
~**.**~
"You're not going out like that?" His royal majesty asks, lip curled in disapproval. Ginny takes it as a compliment, the old fashioned garb he prefers far out of her comfort zone. She can't help but feel a small thrill that she has managed to crack his self-imposed silence, the fury in his dark eyes showing her that he knows exactly what she's thinking. "You look like a harlot."
Ginny looks striking; even without the full-length mirror she is able to tell that. Perhaps she may never pass for naturally beautiful, but with the help of specially selected clothing and makeup she is able to make herself interesting enough to look at. The high leg-line, at least, makes her utterly fascinating for a first date.
"I am," she tells him loftily, twirling in front of the mirror. "Tell me you can't keep your eyes off me."
He does not answer and Ginny takes that as a victory, knowing that if he were able to refute her words, he would have done that by now. She exits the apartment with a thump of the door. It will annoy him, she knows, but it is a satisfying sound to her; crashes are as much a sign of an ending as sharp, piercing rings are of a beginning.
"You are early," are the next words Ginny hears and she is pleased with the surprise in them. Lateness is both a waste of her own time and the person that is waiting for her. She is not the kind of person to keep anyone waiting, least of all herself.
"It was for seven, wasn't it?" She asks, knowing full well that is the time they had arranged. It would be impossible to forget: in between the brightness of his eyes and the wideness of his smile, Ginny did not think she would have been able to refuse Viktor anything.
He clears his throat, standing awkwardly so that he can pull her seat out for her. "That is true," he says carefully, his dark eyes piercing into Ginny's with such intensity that she found her knees buckling and had to pretend that she had simply decided to sit rather than admit to the weakness she had shown. "But most vomen as pretty as you vish to prove a point."
Ginny smiled, shrugging her shoulders as though her collapse had been intentional. "I'm not most women," she said, plucking the wine list of the table, knowing that she had no intention of ordering off it. Wine evidenced more of a loss on control that she was willing to allow herself. "And I think that our time is limited enough as it is."
She focuses her eyes on the list so that she does not have to see whether Viktor approves or not. Despite this she can feel his approval thrumming through her, and when she looks up with her decision of a sparkling mineral water, she catches the faintest hint of a smile before her companion is distracted by the food menu.
"I feel like vater," he announces, closing the carefully decorated paper. "And I tink the chicken. Vot do you vish for, Ginny?"
~**.**~
Your flowers smell like Death. Remove them before they rot. Honestly, don't you have enough boyfriends?
-H
Ginny laughs, twirling on the spot. She is used to flowers, but these are different somehow. These mean something; they started arriving after her first date with Viktor and have arrived after every one since. Lilies, roses, gerberas...they are hardly personal, but the knowledge that he has chosen them himself is enough for her.
She has no idea what his royal majesty is talking about; at this moment they smell lovely. Even the ones that have no particular scent still smell fresh, hiding the subtle scent of magical decay that tends to follow whatever he choses to do while she is out.
The second they show the slightest hint of decay, I'll throw them in the garbage Ginny writes with the quill that he has conveniently left on her desk for her. She suspects that she will leave them a few days beyond that if only because they're so striking that she is not sure she can bear to throw them out. She would almost call them beautiful had she not received a particularly lovely Amaryllis Lily from Neville that has taken pride of place above her television.
It is the note with Viktor's flowers that Ginny finds the most enticing: I miss you. Short, simple, but still it manages to thrill her. She flops back against the green sheets of her bed, letting the feeling thrum through her. It is almost as powerful as the sensation of winning a near impossible Quidditch match, and Ginny enjoys it, savouring each second as it slowly fades.
What are you doing tonight? She writes back, revelling in the spontaneity of it. If he is anything like her he will have a thousand plans for tonight. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she finds the idea pleasing; Ginny prefers the knowledge that her life is not pre-planned for her; she supposes that it may be a test, whether Viktor fits into this or not, but she prefers to consider it a benchmark. If he is as enamoured as she is with the idea of freedom, then she can see herself dating him. If not...well, there are plenty of fish in the sea, as her mother says.
She could not say how long it is until he replies, relying as she does on her internal clock rather than a proper one. The most accurately she can define it is before she gets impatient rather than after, which Ginny supposes is enough for her.
I am. I will be finished at 11pm. Meet me at 11:15 at The Dancing Niffler?
It is the most notorious club in town; somehow that makes it even more exciting for her. I'll be there.
~**.**~
"You look lovely in black," Viktor decides. Ginny smiles, relaxing under the force of his gaze. She has lost count of their dates, as unexpected as they are. She is accustomed to counting things, whether they be days, moons or dates. Still she manages to lose track of her date with Viktor -- they are as unexpected as the final score of her matches: even when she wins, she will never know in advance by how much.
"I thought I looked lovely in everything," Ginny says tartly. Viktor has said that about everything that she has shown up in their dates for, from black to green to white to blue to gold. She is beginning to think that she can show up in one of her mother's Weasley jumpers and still look stunning, something that entertains her endlessly.
"You do," Viktor agrees. Ginny kisses his cheek in thanks, knowing full well that he is right. Beautiful she thinks she will never manage. Lovely is simply a result of effort.
Rather than answer Ginny smiles, reaching for Viktor's hand. It is calloused under her own, damaged from a thousand Quidditch games that she will never see. She runs her thumb over the palm of it, liking the feeling of his tanned skin against her own.
The song changes, as does the lighting. Closing her hand around Viktor's, Ginny pulls him gently towards the dance floor, pressing her eyes shut as she moves. The music enfolds her and she starts to dance around it, body twisting in time to the lyrics. Tilting her head Ginny exhales, falling into the pulsing light as the music palpitates around her. She can feel the pulse of it, replacing the beat of her heart as she twirls under the oscillating rhythm, breath falling into the pattern enveloping her.
It feels almost miraculous. Ginny shimmies closer to Victor, biting back a moan as his chest brushes against hers. She can feel the ghost of his warmth against her as she twists, hips brushing against his hardness as she loses herself in the music.
"I tink ve should leave," he whispers and Ginny shakes her head, eyes determinedly closed. She does not wish to leave yet; if she had her way she would stay here forever, the light of the disco ball pulsating under her closed lids, body brushing against Viktor's with every twist of her hips.
"I'm happy here," she say dreamily, clutching to him as he turns to move away. Her breath calms as she feels the press of his chest against her back, hard muscles folding around her. She thinks she could stay here forever, hair flying around her as she dances. "I like it here."
~**.**~
"Belladonna being, of course, one of the most potent poisons that a wizard can consume," Ginny hears, back pressed against the familiar wall of the Greenhouse. She is sure that it was 7th year that she heard this lecture herself, although it sounds far more interesting from Neville than it did her own teacher at the time.
Belladonna is nearly almost fatal, Ginny recall, running the lesson through in her mind. Painful, untraceable and almost impossible to detect: if Ginny were going to poison someone, Belladonna was the poison she would choose to employ.
The students file out with their usual sense of awe and Ginny cannot help but smile. She is still not entirely sure, after all her observation, whether it is the lesson or whether it is Neville that captures their imagination, although she tends to think it is the former. If Neville were that utterly fascinating, Ginny would like to think that she would have noticed it before this.
The students file out with their typical bewitched expressions, discussing the lecture in serious voices. A wry smile crosses Ginny's face as she waits for the to exit, a part of her wishing that she had found her lessons as interesting as Neville's students do his.
"It's also good for scrubbing one's cat," Ginny points out wryly, pasting on her best innocent expression as she watches Neville's face twist into a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "If, of course, your cat makes you want to strangle things with a pitchfork."
"Is that even possible?" Neville asks, a confused tilt to his mouth. Ginny smiles, angling her face to the floor with a bat of her eyelids. She waits for a moment, tapping fingers on her thigh as she does so. "I thought that, to strangle something...er...right. You're joking, aren't you?"
"I don't actually have a cat," Ginny confesses eventually, shrugging her shoulders. "If I did, I'm quite sure that I would have left it to clean itself of its own accord rather than bathing it myself."
Neville laughs as she leans back against the familiar wall, the stones cool under the flat press of her palms. "That was unfair," he says, leaning against the Professor's desk with a familiarity that makes her raise her eyebrows against her will. "You've always wanted a cat. Everything else you've wanted has come to pass, why not that?"
Ginny laughs along with him, pretending that his innocent comment hadn't cut her more than she is willing to consider, tossing her head in an attempt to hide it. "My flatmate won't allow it. I don't dare disagree."
"I didn't realise you were living with someone," Neville says, confusing Ginny with the distance in his tone. She had looked for a flatmate for...surely it must have been months before she found one? She had assumed that he would be happy for her.
"Someone who answered my ad," Ginny says, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes in a far too practiced movement. "We don't get along in the slightest. Next time I think I'll just move in with one of my brothers."
~**.**~
"You left me," Viktor accuses playfully, skimming a hand over Ginny's hip. She is dancing, the music playing in the imitation-Muggle club inspiring the twist of her hips, the shift of her legs, the careful movement of her neck. "In the middle off a crowded restaurant. I should be offended, Ginevra."
This is not a new development for him, the use of her full name. He adopted it after the first time that she dragged him to a Muggle movie, on the advice of her father. While it had endeared him to the greater Weasley clan, Ginny was not entirely sure that she was impressed; there were far too many gratuitous displays of nakedness to fully be able to entertain her. They were balanced, she supposed, by the part where something exploded every time she could turn her head, but it was not enough to distract her from the lack of...well, plot.
"I had to get home," she grins, biting her lip as he pulls her to him, the curve of her arse pressing against his hardness as she throws her head back with a barely repressed moan. "You know my flatmate hates me being late."
"I tink you give him too much power," Viktor says, and Ginny cannot help but grin. He has heard many tales from her on the injustices of having to live with someone when she does not want to. She almost thinks that if she had counted them, she would have reached enough to write her own novel. "You are stronger than that, Ginevra."
"Of course I am," she laughs, pulling on the collar of his black shirt so she can place a soft, wet kiss on his cheek. His skin is hot against her lips and she finds herself lingering slightly longer than strictly necessary. "Alas, I still don't earn as much as you do."
It is meant as a jest, at least to Ginny, although Viktor's face twists slightly. If she choses to be honest, she supposes that it is not at all about being able to afford living without a flatmate. It is about the fact that, in the end, she is afraid to live alone. She has not been alone at any time in her living memory and she does not want to start now; surely even a horrid flatmate is better than living without one entirely.
"I can pay for a new house if you wish," he says awkwardly. Ginny shakes her head exuberantly, sighing in pleasure as it makes the room spin in a cacophony of colour and sound, the music beating in her veins as though she had composed it herself in a fit of ecstasy.
"You wouldn't understand. I like mine," she says dreamily, pressing her chest against his hard one, the play of muscles under flesh against her fingertips inflaming her. "I like the colours. All reds and golds. They're like passion, you know."
Apparently he does, because he does not say anything else to her about it. Instead he focuses on the brush of her hair against her neck, the way it grazes against her freckled skin and how, when he strokes it away, she cannot help but sigh in pleasure.
"Don't stop," she whispers, her breath catching in her throat. He moves around her, far more graceful than she would have credited him with. She slides a hand around his neck, playing in the dark hair at the back of his throat as she twines her body around the thumping beat. "Please."
|Part 2|