Title: Opposite Ends
Author: pauraque
Pairing: Aberforth Dumbledore/Millicent Bulstrode
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Cross-gen (er, obviously!), underage sex, masturbation, fingering, loss of virginity, and a little inspiration from the scarification monthly prompt
Other Warnings: Hints of problem drinking, mentions of bullying
Word Count: 1500
Summary: She thought she'd feel different after they'd fucked. He's lived long enough to know that he wouldn't.
Author's Notes: Thanks to the mods for picking us out an alternative pairing that I'm sure I'd never have thought of on my own! I really enjoyed figuring out how to make it work.


***

She draws her finger lightly across her clit, over the fabric of her pyjamas. The dorm is pitch dark, but she closes her eyes anyway, doubly shutting out the world.

The sound of whisky as he pours it out with a practised hand, filling up the glass just so. The quiet of the dusty pub after all the other kids have gone, after they've finished playing at being grown-ups.

She slides her palm down between her legs and presses hard. Sucks in a hissing breath through her teeth, frighteningly loud in the stillness. She's intensely aware of girls' sleeping bodies in the other beds around her, so very near.

The wicked burn of the alcohol down her throat, how it erases everything she doesn't want to think about and everything she doesn't want to be.

She presses her mouth shut tight, arching up against her hand. Forces her hips to move slowly, letting the bed creak only as much as could be easily dismissed — just an idle shifting, rolling over in the night.

Scent of Firewhisky on his breath. Glint of blue eyes set deep with crow's feet. His oldness fascinates her; the more she looks at him, the more boys her own age look unfinished, too smooth and too soft. She traces along the grooves and rivulets of his hand, like the map of another country. Her throat goes tight at the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips.

She thought she'd feel different after losing her virginity, and is still a bit surprised at how much she doesn't. She has to remind herself sometimes, when she's away from him: I've had sex. I'm having sex. I fuck. She rolls it round in her head like chocolate, coating the inside of her mind with rich satisfaction as she slips her hand down into her pyjama bottoms.

His hands. His hands. The skin of them is tough, but his fingers are sensitive, finding all the places on her body that feel good. Touching her, not pawing like a desperate little boy. His arms encircling her from behind, the feeling of her breasts cupped in warm, dry palms. His body is easy and relaxed against her — calm. She has never felt more grown-up than at this moment, grown-up and real.

Biting her lip, she makes her fingers into the victory sign and rubs them firmly up and down the sides of her cunt. She used to touch herself the same way every time, the way she taught herself when she was little. But that's boring now, like having the same thing for dinner every night. Now she mirrors his touches, relives them every night she's alone.

Ridiculous how good she feels with his long fingers inside her, writhing and hot and getting his hand wet. She grabs him by his bony wrist and pulls his fingers deeper, harder into her, hungry for it. The insanely delicious stretch of three fingers makes her want his whole hand, but at four fingers it just hurts, and there's no question of the thumb. Perhaps with practice, he says with his curious little smile, curling three fingers up inside her cunt again.

Rubbing frantically, Millicent orgasms. She spasms three, four, five times, twisting on the bed and not making a sound.

As she goes still, face hot and heart pounding against her ribcage, that's when the other thoughts come creeping in. The thoughts of what they'd say if they knew.

Sniggering faces float before her mind's eye: Malfoy, Boot, Nott. She wants to feel her fist solidly connect with them, to split the lips that say of course she's with him, that fat ugly slag, who else would have her?

Millicent knows all too well what's expected of girls like her. She's meant to let one of those little boys take her behind the greenhouses and get rid of his virginity on top of her, inside of her, using her. She's a convenient tool for the purpose, because girls like her will take anyone, won't they?

It's not meant for her pleasure. It's meant to be fumbling, panicked and quick, and the boy's meant to run away laughing at the dirty joke he's made her into. And then she's supposed to feel grateful that she got that much, if she feels anything at all.

The corners of her mouth curl into a grimly triumphant smile.

To fucking hell with that.

***

Aberforth waves his hand absently at the door, locking it for the night. The tolling of the school clock tower echoes faintly in the quiet, as it sometimes does when the wind is right. She's asleep in bed by now, surely. He pushes in the chair where she likes to sit, his hand lingering on it for a moment.

"Running up quite a tab tonight, aren't we?"

"I'm good for it," she says defensively, her cleft chin jutting out with adolescent indignance. "My allowance should come in the post tomorrow."

He shakes his head and gets started mopping up the pub. There are times when he tries not to be such an unmitigated lech. Her face still has that awkward, half-finished look of youth, but sometimes he looks at her sidelong and fancies he can see what she'll look like with all the blanks filled in, who she'll be when she's all grown up.

He's utterly fooling himself, of course.

She slams the empty tumbler down on the bartop and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Grins at him, savage and pink-cheeked. "Now you."

He pours himself another, focusing extremely hard on not spilling. "I don't suppose I want to know how a girl your age learnt to drink old barmen under the table."

She laughs, humourless and a little wild-eyed. "Leave off stalling and drink."

Wiping off the bartop, he wonders, not for the first time, just how young the girl actually is. Sixteen? Fifteen? Does it matter? He doesn't even keep track of his own birthdays anymore. He can't believe, sometimes, just how long he's been alive, when he's thought so many times that he would soon be dead. On occasion he wonders if he is dead — if he did in fact meet one of those potential demises, and all the rest since then has been his soul's wild imagination.

It isn't all that difficult to believe.

She's face-down on his bed and he's got two fingers deep in her cunt, his palm pressing against her thick, smooth arse. She's shoving herself back and forth, fucking herself on him and growling out her pleasure, making noises like she's almost angry that it feels so good. When she's getting close, she pops her own hand down beneath her and rubs, and they get her off together; she comes on both their hands, squeezing and shuddering and wet as hell.

"Fuck," she sobs out afterward, heaving for breath, eyes screwed up tight and forehead pressed hard into his pillow. "Fuck..."

At his word, the chairs all slide into place beneath their tables, and the curtains of the dark, frosty windows fall shut. He does that, and all the other things he does every night after closing, just as though he isn't fucking a girl young enough to be his great-great-granddaughter.

Aberforth has lived long enough to know that you don't feel any different after doing something you shouldn't. You still feel like yourself, it's just that you've killed a man, or stolen something, or fucked a young girl. There's no fanfare; nobody leaps out and shouts caught you! The banality of wrongdoing used to surprise him, but he's grown accustomed to it by now.

She's straddling him, sloppy-wet on his prick, already having come once, muscles all loose and hair slicked back with sweat. He's holding her round hips as she rocks easily back and forth, no longer frantic for it, just exploring the feeling of a cock inside her. It's new to her, after all.

She reaches for his beard and twines her fingers in it like it's a novelty. A bit worried she's going to pull, he takes her stubby-fingered hand in his. He sees the pink new scars on her knuckles, the kind you get when you punch somebody and cut yourself on his teeth. When she sees what he's looking at, her body grips harder at him, and her usually sullen mouth twists into a proud smile.

As he turns the handle of his bedroom door, on his own fingers he sees the scars of a thousand punches, puckered and white with age. He still remembers the moment he became a grown-up: It was when he realised that some scars never fade, and that you only have so much skin.

He gets into bed, knees creaking. He's not going to sleep any worse than usual tonight, because he knows better than to think too hard on things. It was worse when he was young; he used to look for order in life, used to convince himself that things had some sort of a meaning beyond being a big bloody mess. That he ought to be getting wiser, year by year, and not just older.

He puts out the light with a whispered word.

To hell with that.