Fandom: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Order of the Phoenix, set post-year-seven.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury. You know the drill.
Summary: Showers, sparring, and sexual innuendo. Part of the same universe as “Red.”
She turns the knobs quietly, but they still squeak, and her wand is in her purse in the bedroom, so she can’t charm them quietly. Can’t be helped, Ginny supposes.
The water, when it finally descends, comes on cold and hits Ginny square in the face; a brief, sharp shock that finishes waking her up from muzzy dreams. It heats up fast enough for a small, ratty apartment in one of the middle-class barrios of Buenos Aires, and for that, Ginny is grateful. She suspects the rattling pipes, like the city itself, have seen better times.
Draco is still asleep across the hall, or so Ginny hopes. She suspects that he is. Malfoy has the distinct attitude that he’s used to stretching out alone across his distinctly lumpy double bed with the suspiciously posh feather pillows. Kept tossing and turning the whole damn night, and she wouldn’t have stayed…but it seemed the thing to do after the passionate bouts of shagging, snogging, and hateful taunting that spurred them into another shag.
It’s been a while since Ginny’s found someone who keeps up as long and as heartlessly as she does, and to discover that it’s Malfoy is somewhat discomfiting. The water spatters against her back as she ponders it.
She can almost smell him on her hair as she finds his shampoo and squeezes a little in her hand. A smile tugs at the corner of Ginny’s mouth as she realizes that really, it’s all her own fault.
Ginny had found Draco in a dim little nightclub at two in the morning, glowering at a few beautiful men who seemed offended by everything about Malfoy from his white-blond hair to his rumpled Englishness to the desperately superior sneer on his face. They had that in common with Ginny, at least: a pronounced distaste toward Draco Malfoy’s continued attitude and existence.
Water pours down Ginny’s skin as she twists around and lets it cover her face, hot enough to turn a redhead’s pale skin pink. She prefers it to the distinct chill of Malfoy’s bed as she lathers vigorously.
“What are you doing in Argentina, Malfoy?” she’d asked, giving Draco the opportunity to look at the slick little ensemble she’d put together. The translucence of her see-through black shirt over a skin-tight electric blue tank. Hair in long ringlets, mostly pulled atop her head with a messy elan. Skirt — black and leather and molded to her body — short enough to give everyone a bit of a thrill. And then the boots.
“I’m having a quiet drink in my neighborhood bar, Weasley,” Malfoy sneered, but his eyes were focused on the knee-high black leather stiletto boots and the sizeable gap between the black leather of the boots and the black leather of her skirt. He stared at her, and there was a thrill to it. To all of it. “Don’t mind if I keep at it.”
Ginny, rinsing her head, hears the doorknob turn, but doesn’t recognize that it must be Draco until the door closes and she can see his form foggily through the cheap vinyl shower curtain. Her hand, halfway toward the conditioner bottle, stops. Waits.
His indifference had been a tacit challenge — if he’d been completely disinterested in her company, his usual table was hidden enough to allow him to Disapparate. He remained. Ginny sat down beside him, put one of her boot-adorned legs in his lap brazenly, and turned her head to smile and order sangria in mediocre Spanish from the dark-haired, hazel-eyed Argentine waiter, who looked much more appreciative of Ginny than of her drinking companion.
“Planning on sneaking out, were you?” Malfoy asks as he opens the shower curtain. “Not much like a Gryffindor, I’d say. Then again, you’re not much as I’d expect, anyway. Scoot over.”
His shower stall is barely large enough for one, and Ginny is initially quite embarrassed that she’s going to have to share. Then she realizes in light of last night, a shower’s damn near innocence itself and she lets him join her awkwardly.
When he lifts her hair off her neck to give her a damp kiss on the back of the neck, Ginny realizes she’s not at all averse to another go.
Everyone she knows will have collective apoplexy, but that’s the point, isn’t it? Ginny’s healing her battle wounds as she best knows how, and if it’s by having a craven yet talented git like Malfoy run his hands over her wet, naked skin as though she were still possessed by his beloved Dark Lord, so be it.
“When did a blood traitor like you get so interested in a cabrón like me, in any case?” he’d asked with one of his distinctly bemused smirks that suggested he didn’t give a damn that Ginny’d had her foot in his lap.
His hand suggested otherwise.
“Watch your mouth, you cowardly prat,” Ginny replied lightly, her eyes half-closed as she let his hand move up her thigh. The waiter gave her a liquid smile as he handed her the sangria, which was rewarded with a flirtatious leer. “I could find something much more interesting tonight if I felt like it.”
Sunlight is just beginning to dapple the shower wall as Draco starts washing her back, the air thick with the smell of sex, soap, and steam. Ginny’s elbows are braced against the wall and she wishes, maybe, the water wouldn’t keep getting in her eyes. It stings.
Kills the mood. Though honestly, it’s almost charming, being meticulously cleaned by someone whose previous impressions of you included “yet another redheaded Weasley bastard” and “Potter hanger-on” and “Soon to be Crushed by Dark Lord” in about that level of intensity and interest.
That had hardly been the case in the bar last night, of course.
Malfoy’s hand was under her leather skirt as he looked up at her lazily, reminding her of all the rumors at school that had rustled just under her radar. Lavender Brown had said Draco Malfoy was like a snake with an invisibility cloak: all over you before anyone thought of seeing. Blaise Zabini had said something similar, and that silly sneaky bint Marietta from Ravenclaw. Hell, Ernie, the pompous bastard, had said the reason why Draco Malfoy had never actually become a Death Eater was because he’d gotten far too interested in examining every girl at Hogwart’s for signs of sympathy toward Lord Voldemort and simply forgotten to make it official.
Ginny looked back at him with the same nonchalance, wondering when she got turned on by danger. She couldn’t really help it, could she? Her entire family of insane heroic adrenaline junkies (even stupid, rotten, darling damn Percy) gave her the odd know-how, and now that all the battles are over, Ginny’s got a yen for a challenge and very little to interest her between missions from Gringott’s.
And despite Hermione and Ron and her mother fluttering about like bog-chickens, Ginny Weasley had few qualms about finding the rush in someone’s bed. Particularly someone as fabled and untrustworthy as Mr. Malfoy.
Draco’s thumb against the small of her back is strangely sexy, and Ginny arches into the touch, pushing herself into his slender body and finding herself rewarded by hands reaching around to clasp her by the waist.
He knows what he’s doing, that’s for certain. The water is getting lukewarm as it washes over both of them, and Draco mutters, “Bugger all, wand?” as he sticks an arm out to find his and heat the water back up for them.
It makes Ginny laugh, and she doesn’t know the last time any of her lover’s made her do that just by fumbling over his wand. She kisses him on the shoulder and Draco heats up the water using a simple Caldorus spell, both of them amused by the mess.
“Water, water everywhere!” Ginny mocks.
“And I suppose you’re wet?” Draco replies with a glint of nastiness in his eye.
Malfoy had laughed at her braggadocio before. “Now why would you want to leave when we’re getting quite cozy and intimate with the insults?” he drawled, trying to draw out Ginny’s purpose even as he was trying to discover whether or not she was wearing knickers. Probably Draco was half-certain that Ginny was an Auror, out for fun, profit, and the chance to string him up and let the Weasley boys kick the snot out of him for what happened with Charlie and Percy.
At the same time, Ginny could tell there was a little bit of the outlaw left in Malfoy, the boy who wanted to tell the old order to bugger off even when it was clear that Voldemort and his father’s way of the world was doomed. What better way to tell them all to sod off than get a nice juicy little piece of the littlest Weasley? It would make for a lovely fight the next time Ron or Harry or anyone happened his way down to Argentina for a holiday or the Quidditch World Cup.
“Sopping,” Ginny replies to Draco’s latest salvo, backing into the knob and wincing. There’s really not enough room in the damn shower. His hands are on her hips and if they’re going to do this properly, it’ll have to be on the bed. “I’ve got something jammed against my spine, Malfoy. If you’re keen on sparring, it’ll have to take place elsewhere.”
He regards her coolly. “I’m keen on getting clean, Weasley,” he says, grabbing the soap. “Don’t know what you’re on about.”
Predictability made for easy openings, despite being frustrating. Ginny took what she could get. She leaned over, brushing her lips against his cheek. “I heard you know what you’re doing,” she murmured, pulling back to take a long drink of her sangria, sickly sweet against the back of her throat. “I’d like a tour of the city.”
“Pay one,” Malfoy said flatly. “The only part of Buenos Aires I know well is my flat and a few markets where I get the news. As you might have noticed, the Argentineans don’t take to Anglos like me. I keep out of sight.”
Ginny set her glass, now drained, on the table with a flourish. “I want *you* to give me a tour,” she replied. “Show me the parts of town you know. I’m not terribly picky. Gringott’s paid for me to see all the tourist bits already. I’m interested in something off the beaten track.”
“Oh, are you?” Malfoy asked, abruptly casting her leg from his lap with near-bitterness. “Follow me, then. I’ll show you the door and many other exciting locations that only I know about.”
The air in the bathroom is surprisingly cold as Ginny promptly exits the shower and takes Malfoy’s only towel to dry off. The floor is drenched and Malfoy, unconcerned, reaches for the shampoo as she quickly towels off.
Dark Wizards. Bloody predictable lot.
Ginny leaves the towel in the puddle when she leaves, and goes to find her clothes with a haughtily miffed air. If that was Malfoy’s game, then she’d rather stop playing while she’s ahead.
Weasleys, she thinks viciously and self-mockingly, letting the door slam behind her as she walks into the brilliant sunshine and looks for a cab, can be just as predictable.
And then Ginny disappears into the sunlight and streets of Buenos Aires, not caring whether or not Draco Malfoy exists.
The thrill is gone.