Fic: Not Bad At All (Zacharias/Ginny)
Jan. 22nd, 2010 03:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cryptaknightTitle: Not Bad At All
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Ginny/Zacharias, implied Trio
Word count: ~5300 words
Author’s note: This is unbeta-ed, so I’d appreciate concrit, if you have any. I actually wrote half of this 6 months ago, and came back to it as a way to jumpstart my creativity so I could get on with some original writing. It’s probably the first thing I’ve posted in years, so be gentle. Oh, and beware of angsty!Ginny.
Disclaimer: Standard- I don’t own any of the characters; they belong to J.K. Rowling and the publishers of her books.
“I’m not quite so bad as you think I am,” Zacharias says, and for the first time since he swaggered over to her, he actually has Ginny Weasley’s attention. Not because she really cares about his opinion of himself, but because she wonders why he cares about hers. When he approached her, tumbler of firewhiskey in hand, she had figured that it was just a self-proclaimed ladies’ man’s obligatory attempt to secure the attention, at least for a few moments, of any and every even halfway attractive female in the room at a social gathering. She had mmmhmmmed and ahhhed her way through ten minutes of conversation, hoping he would soon move on to the next lucky lady and not taking in a word of what he was saying to her, but then this unexpected self-awareness on his part caught her. She slides her eyes up to look at his face, rather than looking pointedly unfocused at some spot over his shoulder, and finds his expression is alarmingly earnest, and knows she must nip this in the bud at once. She does not, after all, like the bloke. He is insufferable.
“I don’t think you’re bad, Smith.” She allows her lips to curve into a smile. His eyes flash surprise and pleasure. He’s taken the bait.
“Oh, is that right?” He’s smug. “I always knew you were one to look below the surface, Ginevra.”
Oh, ugh and ugh again. He’s used her full name. How smarmy. She goes in for the kill. With a low chuckle, she shakes her head. “I mean to say, Smith, that I don’t think of whether you’re a decent sort, or the biggest git alive, or anything at all. I don’t spare you a moment’s thought.” She takes a sip from her own tumbler, once more looking pointedly away.
He must be stung, although without looking at his face, she can’t know for sure; he says next, however, “Then why allow me to chat you up for the past fifteen minutes?” His tone is not as smooth as it had been just a few moments before, and Ginny thanks Merlin for small favors.
She shrugs, her attention once again across the crowded room. “Boredom, perhaps. Or maybe because it bothers my brother, which always makes something worth doing.”
Zacharias follows the line of her gaze, and his lip curls. “It bothers your brother, does it? Or is it more that it bothers his best mate? Potter’s not worth your time, you know.”
Surely enough, it is tousled black hair and the glint of light off of a pair of spectacles that her gaze rests upon, but the snarkiness of his tone snaps her attention to the boy in front of her once more. That’s twice in a few minutes; good on him. Too bad it’s this boy in particular. She can see in his hazel eyes that he knows he has scored a hit, and in that whisper of time, extreme indifference turns to a seed of loathing.
“Sod off, Smith; what business is it of yours?” She hears her voice becoming harsh, and she wills herself back to the aloofness she exuded earlier. “The point is, it’s nothing to do with you, at all. Crabbe or Goyle would have served just as well, and likely been more stimulating conversation.”
He snorts. “Crabbe and Goyle aren’t at this little fiesta. Merlin knows why I’m even here, myself, except the ladies at rebel parties tend to be a little more shaggable than the ones at the Future Ministers of Britain gatherings.” He lifts an eyebrow and glances down at her, as if to confirm this. “If it’s my last night here as a student, I at least want a chance at a decent piece of arse before I go.” He slouches back against the table they are standing near, as if the more piggish he becomes, the more relaxed he feels. “
Her eyes flash her ire at him. “I think you’re absolutely vile, Smith. You can take your filthy mind off my arse,” she snaps, appalled at his coarseness in spite of herself and her one-of-the-blokes persona. She is in fact unaccountably furious, perhaps made so by the fact that this is the first time since those crushy days of her first year at school that she has let any male have the upper hand with her.
He laughs, runs his eyes along her once more, and says, “At least now you’re thinking of me.” And with that he straightens up and strides away, that irritating swagger still pervading his walk.
It is only after he is across the room that it occurs to Ginny that he never did justify his claim that he is not as bad as he presumes she thinks he is, or prove it in any way by his behavior. Not that she cares a bit, she tells herself. Out of sight, out of mind, and after tonight, she will never have to deal with Zacharias Smith again, if she so chooses. It is, as he pointed out, his last night at Hogwarts; the same is true for Ron, and Hermione, and Harry, and nearly everyone she cares about.
A year behind them, she will return next fall to halls both blessed and cursed by her friends’ absence, for the first time defined only by herself rather than by her associations, and she is both elated and chilled by the prospect. Next year will be the first time since she was eleven that she will go without seeing Harry day by day, that she will sit in the common room and laugh, and have it be genuine rather than fueled by a need to appear stoic and accepting while filled with an aching longing so intense she thought at first it would surely crush her. She has remained uncrushed, having discovered the unfortunate truth that one can live in a state of heartbreak, and even become quite accustomed to it, as it becomes just another part of you: this is my hair, this is my knee, this is my broken heart. Yes, next year she can love Harry from afar, instead of up close, and she will be able to relax, no longer under the pressure to pretend to be fine with his decision, and bouncing along with her life. She will be able to breathe. She may even like it.
In the face of this, what do Zacharias Smith and his revolting comments signify? Why, nothing at all. Still, she gives a final glance to where he stands, deep in meaningless conversation with Padma Patil. She figures it’s the last time she’ll ever see him.
The next morning, bleary eyed and, like most of her classmates, slightly hung over, Ginny boards the Hogwarts Express, sharing a compartment with Ron, Hermione, and Harry for the last time. Luna and Neville are also there, cuddled together, Luna no doubt feeling some of the same sentimentality about the situation. Her brother and his best mates are huddled over some scrap of paper, as always seeming to form a single unit, a conglomerate person. She is certain that whatever they are concerned with is vastly important, and that when and if she finds out how it pertains to Harry, as everything always does, she will care very much, but at the moment all she can feel is tired. She stares out the window, watching the Scottish countryside fly by, and thinks about the solitude of her room, the one benefit of being the only girl, and how glad she is it awaits her.
This has been a trying year, after all. She’s not wrong to look forward to a few moments of escape. First had been Harry’s unexpected return to school, a surprise after his vow at the end of his own sixth year that he would not be back in the fall. Yes, he came back, with no explanation, not for her at least- she was sure Ron and Hermione knew- but his return was punctuated by frequent absences, and deep in her heart she knew his return was only because it somehow served his quest to destroy You-Know-Who, because his whole life, his whole being, was firmly concentrated on that goal. He had no focus to spare. And aside from her own petty concerns, there was the always disheartening awareness of what was going on outside the school walls. Every day, it seemed, had brought further news of death, destruction, darkness. Every time Harry had left without a word, she was certain she’d see his name appear on the death toll list in the Daily Prophet. She’d felt helpless all year, all the while being strong and brave and lifting other’s spirits. She’d spent a year in juxtaposition. Looking forward to a day or two of basking in her mother’s overbearing warmth, then, she feels, is not unreasonable.
So she spends the train ride in this fashion, not brooding, but vaguely disassociated from the five others in her compartment. She can’t help but feel that the mood here is very nearly the opposite of the boisterous party of the night before. She is surprised that any of them even attended, but, she supposes even leaders of a rebellion need to let off some steam from time to time. One can’t spend every free moment, when not facing off with dark wizards, fighting the idiotic bureaucracy. Still, faced with the choice of the tense plotting or putting up with being chatted up by Zacharias Smith, Ginny thinks she might almost prefer the latter. After all, an enemy easily and neatly vanquished is a breath of fresh air after months of that looming, hazy, and ever-present sense of threat.
Her mum swoops down on her when the Express finally discharges them at Platform 9 ¾. She placidly allows herself to be fussed over, then steps aside so her brother, Harry, and Hermione can be bear-hugged and inspected for damage. She watches as the crowd splits and rejoins around them, and notes, as always, the sideways glances at the three of them. She knows what the other students are thinking, though it has never been voiced to her directly; her status as not-quite-member of the group has kept her from having it spoken to her face, but in a place like Hogwarts, it is always impossible to avoid whispers and rumors. She knows they look at Harry and see now more than ever The Boy Who Lived, or, perhaps, The Boy Who Inexplicably Still Lives. She’s aware that they resent him for remaining untouched when so many of them have experienced such horrific losses; she knows they think it unfair that none of Harry’s group seem to have lost family or close friends, that those who stand closest to the specter of doom are also those who have seemingly suffered the least. She doesn’t blame the other students. They can’t know about Sirius Black, and how badly that had shaken Harry. They feel that Dumbledore was everyone’s loss. Most of all, how can they know the blow that she has personally suffered, to have her dreams come true after years of longing, only to have this bloody war rip them back from her. Petty of her, of course, in the face of such tangible losses, and even so, how can they know how she suffered the past year, when outwardly she was so quick to grin, to laugh, to pull a prank, to show no fear. There had been no point in moping when the greater good, the need to keep up morale, as it were, was at stake, and so she bears their looks as she has borne everything else. It is only one more thing.
The simmering resentment, of course, was why public opinion was still so triangulated. There were some people who wanted a way to fight You-Know-Who without supporting Harry. Zacharias Smith was one of them, and one of the louder ones, at that. Smith again, the git. Ginny shakes her head, clearing it of all thoughts pertaining to the wanker. The point is, if these types knew all the facts, knew that Harry was central to Voldemort’s defeat, whether he liked it or not, perhaps they would quiet down. The Order, however, is mired in secrecy out of necessity, and even she is not privy to more than the barest information. Harry does not confide in her any longer. He is never alone with her.
Her mum speaks her name, and Ginny is jerked out of her thoughts as she realizes they are leaving the platform. Ron, Harry, and Hermione are clinging to one another as they whisper their goodbyes. Ginny snorts at this, surprising herself, but honestly- they would be reunited in a matter of days, for everyone that could would be staying at the Burrow until further notice. The Order had made it Unplottable, and its members were already turning the lopsided rooms into command centers, or setting up camp in the Weasley tents, now serving a much more serious purpose than housing at the World Cup. To be honest, Ginny very nearly dreads heading home, but she nods and follows her mum, Ron reluctantly doing the same. She waves jauntily at Harry and Hermione, and turns from them with relief.
Back home, she pleads tiredness and escapes to her room. For a time, Tonk’s belongings had shared space with hers, but she had finally moved into a room in one of the tents, sharing with Mr. Lupin, and Ginny miraculously has this place to herself. Gratefully, she collapses on the bed, and for a time, shuts out the world. Eventually, she will have to emerge, to help with supper, and make sure everyone is seen to, but for now, she can be quiet.
After dinner, she sits in her room with Ron, and talks nothing much at all. It is nice to have her brother all to herself, and her smiles are genuine as she teases him about impending N.E.W.T. results.
“Oh, who can be bothered with all that now!” Ron looks at her incredulously. He gestures towards the hum of activity downstairs. “With everything that’s going on, I really doubt anyone’s fussed about Potions marks, honestly.”
He sounds like a demented version of Hermione, she thinks, but she shrugs, and tells him, “You’ll be wanting a job when all this is over, I’d wager, and you know your potential boss will still care.”
Ron’s eyes flash, and his skin flushes like it always does when his temper’s up. “God, Gin, how can you think of that? Who knows if I’ll even be around after? There’s a war on.”
Ginny can’t help snapping back at him. “Fine, then. And in a few days, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to get back to talking about it incessantly!” She falls back on the bed, turning her head to the wall. She doesn’t move her eyes from the wall until she hears the click of her door shutting. Then, hearing the stomping in the hallway, she sits up suddenly and flings her shoe at the door, wishing fervently that Ron’s head was still there to block it.
She can’t remember a time when her life was not consumed by Voldemort, and Harry, and the bloody, bloody war.
Things are cool between her and Ron for the next two days, and then Harry and Hermione arrive, and they have no reason to talk at all. It seems like everywhere she turns, there are the three of them with their heads together, brown, black, and red all spilling together as they plot in hushed tones. They are impenetrable, and Ginny watches them from across rooms and out of the corner of her eye, always smiling when one of them met her eyes. I am here for you if you need me, she silently tells them. So far, they do not need her. Sometimes, she wakes to find that they have left while she slept. They return late at night, often dirty and disheveled, sometimes glum, sometimes triumphant. She knows they are hunting for something, and they haven’t found it, but from the pleased looks they share on occasion, and frustrated faces they make while poring over some dusty text or other, she senses they are slowly but surely getting there.
Meanwhile, every day she feels the fear. She fears for her brother. She fears for Hermione. But most of all, she fears for Harry. She imagines them out there in the dark, fighting some unnamed evil, and she quakes to her core. It eats at her, and it makes her lack of knowledge almost unbearable.
All of this might be why she even considers in the least the letter that arrives three weeks into summer holidays. The spectacled owl that delivers the message is impeccable, beautiful, and incredibly haughty. She stares at the bird a moment, mostly because she is so unexpected, and so unfamiliar, before taking the parchment from her beak and giving her a treat in return. Ginny looks a long moment at the wax seal before breaking it, but the sea serpent set in black sealing wax is as unfamiliar as the owl was. With a sigh, she opens the letter. It is brief, and written in commanding, and again, unrecognizable, awkward block letters.
Are you tired of them yet? I’m more than happy to provide a diversion, you know. Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow? Ebrenn will bring me your answer. Why not make it a yes?
It is signed, almost predictably, Z. Smith. Without hesitation, she grabs a quill and scrawls “NO” across the bottom of the letter. Presumptuous arse. Why on earth should she socialize with him?
As she is about to reseal the parchment, she hears footfalls on the stairs outside her room, and the voices, urgent, tumbling over one another. The hush that falls as they pass her door is obvious, and Ginny feels something fundamental break inside of her. She is tired of them. Almost violent, she unfolds the paper and, before she can change her mind, crosses out the reply she had penned, and writes something else entirely.
I’ll be there at noon.
She is already cursing herself when Ebrenn takes flight.
The next day, lurking in the door of the Cauldron, Ginny is still questioning her sanity. She is here, and it seems silly not to go through with it, to tell him to bugger off in person, at least, and yet she hesitates. Perhaps it is because she knows that stepping through that shadowed entrance means something significant; maybe it represents a choice she has made, a path that she has veered from. Perhaps it is because she can see Smith sitting at a table for two across the room, and seeing him now, when no one is watching, there is an unexpected melancholy written on his face, and this is not the Smith she was prepared to deal with. She is certain that once he spots her his usual countenance will be in place, but she has already seen the truth, and she can’t forget it. Or perhaps, most of all, it is the sadness of the pub itself, which she remembered since early childhood as a boisterous place, bustling with magic folk crossing the threshold of the magical and muggle worlds. It is hard to walk into this cheerless and empty place, and allow it to replace the one in her memories.
She is spared a decision when Smith finally looks up. As she had suspected, his cocky grin slides into place, and he sits slightly straighter as he waves her over. With a sigh, she sets her booted foot through the door and makes her way over to the table.
Upon sitting, she tells him, “I’m not sure why I’m here, to be perfectly honest.” She manages to layer this truthful sentiment with just enough snark.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Hullo to you, as well, Weasley.” He signals for the barmaid, who arrives quickly, having few other patrons to wait upon. Smith gestures towards Ginny, and asks what she’d like.
Stifling an eyeroll, she orders a butterbeer, having no intention of getting intoxicated with Smith. He shrugs as if it’s no difference to him, and sips at his glass of firewhiskey.
Abruptly, she asks, “Why did you invite me? Are you that desperate that you ask out people who have told you they think you’re vile?”
“You came,” he says mildly. Then he pauses, studying his glass. When he looks up, he wears a slight frown. “I… these days… I thought you and I, we might be able to relate. It’s hard…” He trails off, and shakes his head as if he is trying to clear the thoughts from it. He seems to have surprised himself, and his frown deepens. Then his lips quirk, and Ginny knows he is about to say something dreadfully skeevy, to negate his burgeoning honesty.
“Stop,” she says, throwing a hand up to the level of his mouth. “Just don’t. Be real with me, or I’m leaving.” She glares at him, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
He stares, at her, startled. His lips twist again, and he says, “How would you know what’s real for me or what’s not?” He spreads his arms wide, his eyebrow lifting again. “What you see is what you get.”
She snorts and wraps her hands around the warm mug of butterbeer. “Have it your way. It just seemed like you were about to hold a decent conversation with me. It’s hard to what, Smith? Hard to articulate a thought that doesn’t have to do with your opinion of someone’s arse? I should have figured this would be a complete waste of my time.”
She’s about to push her chair from the table, when he speaks again. His voice is low and harsh. “It’s hard to find someone else who knows what it feels like to be caught in between.”
It’s her turn to frown. “Between?”
“Between them. Between wanting to fight for what’s right, and wanting nothing to do with Potter. Between wishing you could kill You-Know-Who with your bare hands, and knowing there’s no way to do it without joining up with the DA. Just…between.”
After this outburst, he swigs the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass away from himself with a bang. He meets her eyes dead on, daring her to contradict him.
She presses her lips together, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want nothing to do with Harry.”
“No, you want too much to do with him,” Smith says.
“What’s it to you?” she snaps. He has a way of drawing too much emotion from her, and she doesn’t like it. She considers that she’s having the same effect on him, but he’s right, she doesn’t know him well enough to tell. Perhaps he went around cross all the time.
“Like I told you at the party, Potter’s not worth your time.” He seems back in control, smooth, but she can hear the slight edge underneath.
“Oh? Elaborate.” She knows she is likely picking a fight, but she doesn’t care.
He gestures towards her. “Look at yourself. Anyone with half a brain can see how you feel about him, and he shuts you out, doesn’t he?” He carries on without giving her a chance to answer. “He does that to everyone. No one matters to him as much as he matters to himself.”
She opens her mouth to object, but Smith overrides her. “No, it’s true. Think about how he treated us Hufflepuffs after fourth year. Don’t you think we loved Cedric? We certainly knew him better, after all. Don’t you think we were upset to see Potter appear with him like that? Don’t you think we deserved some answers about what happened? You were at the Hog’s Head; you saw how it went. We could all go to hell, as far as Potter was concerned. All that mattered to him was that he didn’t feel like talking about it.”
He seems to realize that he is getting loud, and he takes a deep breath, and continues quietly, shifting his empty glass from hand to hand as he does so. “We had a right to know. I… Cedric was my friend. He was my Quidditch captain. He taught me… he meant the world to me. And he was taken from me. From all of us. Potter couldn’t be arsed to tell us why.”
Ginny feels the automatic need to defend Harry rise within her. “That’s not fair, Smith! You don’t know what he’s gone through. Goes through. He can’t please everyone. He carries on as he can best figure out to do, and he does so much, for everyone. For the whole wizarding world! How dare you judge him.”
Smith’s face shuts down, and he sits rigidly in his seat. “Never mind, then. I just thought you might understand. Watching you this year, I thought you might get it that some people might not fall down and worship him, even if we hate You-Know-Who.” He keeps his gaze focused on the table.
“Why on earth would think that I would have anything against Harry?” Ginny can’t help being huffy, and truth be told, doesn’t want to.
Smith looks up, sneering, and says simply, “Because he hurt you, too.”
She stares at him, unable to formulate a quick comeback to that. She reaches across the small table, stilling his busy hands. At this contact, he looks at her sharply, his eyes unwavering, silently challenging her to deny the truth of what he has said. She can’t. Suddenly, he grabs at her hand, twining his fingers with hers, holding tightly. She swallows convulsively as she meets his stare. All she can say is, “Yes.” She’s not sure what she’s agreeing to.
She doesn’t know how she ends up back at his flat. All she knows it that his mouth on hers is warm and insistent, and that he knows what he’s doing with it. He is snogging her breathless, senseless, and she can’t gather her thoughts enough to ask herself why she is a more than willing participant.
He nips at her lower lip as he slides his hands around her back, rucking her shirt up, and his hands, too, are warm on her skin. She finds herself melting against him, deepening the kiss again. She offers no resistance when his hands move the front of her shirt, tugging it up, up, over her head. She helps, sliding her arms from the sleeves and tossing it to the floor. Her own hands are on the waistband of his trousers, tugging him close. He lets out a small groan, murmuring, “Gods, Weasley.”
“I know, I know,” she whispers frantically, pulling his shirt from him. She wants to feel the rest of that warm skin, and she doesn’t much care right now that she’s not certain she likes what lies beneath it.
He cups the back of her neck, his lips blazing a trail to her collarbone. Still moving his lips on her, he pushes her back against the wall. She arches against him, asking for more, more. He reaches around to unhook her bra and slides the straps from her shoulders. She sighs and matches him, easing the button of his trousers from its hole, tugging the zipper down. His hands cup her breasts, and he bends his head to flick his tongue against her nipple. She moans, and he takes a nipple into his mouth, and his hands and his mouth and his breath are all hot against her, and it’s still not enough.
She slides her hand past the elastic of his shorts, her fingertips brushing the tip of his cock. He makes a savage noise and tears one hand from her breasts, but before she can mourn its loss, it’s under her skirt, his fingers rubbing her through her panties, and she knows he can feel how damp she is. She feels ferocious, and her free hand works its way back to his arse, pushing his trousers and shorts down. It is ungainly, but it gets the job done, and now she can wrap her hand around his cock, which is as warm and alive as every other part of him that has touched her.
Her panties are around her ankles now, and she steps out of them. His mouth claims hers again; his kiss has lost some of its finesse, but increased a hundredfold in intensity. As her hand strokes up and down his shaft, his fingers find her clit, and she cries out into his mouth at the fierce joy of it. He brings her right to the brink of release, til she is asking him please, please, because she needs him inside of her, and then he is obliging her. Her hand falls from him as he pushes into her, and she cries out again as her hips lift to meet his thrust.
She clutches his arse as he moves inside of her again and again, rhythmically at first, then frantically. It feels so good, better than anything has felt in a long time; his cock stroking inside of her is incredible, and all of that lovely intensity is building and building and building until she comes with a yell, biting down on his shoulder, spasming until she is limp in his arms. She holds him tightly as he thrusts once, twice more, and then finds his own release, her name on his lips.
Slowly, panting, with Smith’s breath coming just as raggedly as her own against her neck, she finds the strength in her legs again, and releases her tight hold on him, her hands just resting on him now. For several moments, they don’t speak. She can feel his heart thumping against his chest, and wonders if he can feel hers the same way. Finally, she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
“Have you really been watching me all year?” she asks quietly.
He nods, still finding his breath. “Yeah. Longer. Since… Quidditch.”
Since she began playing nearly two years ago. She’s taken aback.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything to me?”
He laughs. “Would you have even wanted me to?” he asks, low and soft. His hands find her hair, and he slides the red strands through his fingers. “Don’t answer that. We both know the truth, anyway.” He sighs. “I don’t like to come second, Weasley.”
“Smith, I…” In truth, she doesn’t know what to say to him. She won’t lie. “I never expected this.”
“I know. Me neither.” He looks down at her, and his cocky grin is back, although it’s not as irritating, now. “I’m glad it happened, though.”
She snorts and punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, I reckon you are.”
He kisses her then, but without any urgency this time. “Will you see me again?” He affects to look curious, and slightly bored, but she thinks that maybe she is getting to know him a bit better than to buy it.
“Maybe,” she tells him, because after all, he is right, and they do have at least that one thing in common. And, she thinks, rather than sitting at home, chafing at all the secrecy around her, she will have something to keep secret for herself.
“Maybe?” he asks, quizzically.
She simply grins. For the first time in a long time, she means it. “You know, Smith- you were right.”
“’Bout what?”
“You’re not bad, at all.”
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Ginny/Zacharias, implied Trio
Word count: ~5300 words
Author’s note: This is unbeta-ed, so I’d appreciate concrit, if you have any. I actually wrote half of this 6 months ago, and came back to it as a way to jumpstart my creativity so I could get on with some original writing. It’s probably the first thing I’ve posted in years, so be gentle. Oh, and beware of angsty!Ginny.
Disclaimer: Standard- I don’t own any of the characters; they belong to J.K. Rowling and the publishers of her books.
“I’m not quite so bad as you think I am,” Zacharias says, and for the first time since he swaggered over to her, he actually has Ginny Weasley’s attention. Not because she really cares about his opinion of himself, but because she wonders why he cares about hers. When he approached her, tumbler of firewhiskey in hand, she had figured that it was just a self-proclaimed ladies’ man’s obligatory attempt to secure the attention, at least for a few moments, of any and every even halfway attractive female in the room at a social gathering. She had mmmhmmmed and ahhhed her way through ten minutes of conversation, hoping he would soon move on to the next lucky lady and not taking in a word of what he was saying to her, but then this unexpected self-awareness on his part caught her. She slides her eyes up to look at his face, rather than looking pointedly unfocused at some spot over his shoulder, and finds his expression is alarmingly earnest, and knows she must nip this in the bud at once. She does not, after all, like the bloke. He is insufferable.
“I don’t think you’re bad, Smith.” She allows her lips to curve into a smile. His eyes flash surprise and pleasure. He’s taken the bait.
“Oh, is that right?” He’s smug. “I always knew you were one to look below the surface, Ginevra.”
Oh, ugh and ugh again. He’s used her full name. How smarmy. She goes in for the kill. With a low chuckle, she shakes her head. “I mean to say, Smith, that I don’t think of whether you’re a decent sort, or the biggest git alive, or anything at all. I don’t spare you a moment’s thought.” She takes a sip from her own tumbler, once more looking pointedly away.
He must be stung, although without looking at his face, she can’t know for sure; he says next, however, “Then why allow me to chat you up for the past fifteen minutes?” His tone is not as smooth as it had been just a few moments before, and Ginny thanks Merlin for small favors.
She shrugs, her attention once again across the crowded room. “Boredom, perhaps. Or maybe because it bothers my brother, which always makes something worth doing.”
Zacharias follows the line of her gaze, and his lip curls. “It bothers your brother, does it? Or is it more that it bothers his best mate? Potter’s not worth your time, you know.”
Surely enough, it is tousled black hair and the glint of light off of a pair of spectacles that her gaze rests upon, but the snarkiness of his tone snaps her attention to the boy in front of her once more. That’s twice in a few minutes; good on him. Too bad it’s this boy in particular. She can see in his hazel eyes that he knows he has scored a hit, and in that whisper of time, extreme indifference turns to a seed of loathing.
“Sod off, Smith; what business is it of yours?” She hears her voice becoming harsh, and she wills herself back to the aloofness she exuded earlier. “The point is, it’s nothing to do with you, at all. Crabbe or Goyle would have served just as well, and likely been more stimulating conversation.”
He snorts. “Crabbe and Goyle aren’t at this little fiesta. Merlin knows why I’m even here, myself, except the ladies at rebel parties tend to be a little more shaggable than the ones at the Future Ministers of Britain gatherings.” He lifts an eyebrow and glances down at her, as if to confirm this. “If it’s my last night here as a student, I at least want a chance at a decent piece of arse before I go.” He slouches back against the table they are standing near, as if the more piggish he becomes, the more relaxed he feels. “
Her eyes flash her ire at him. “I think you’re absolutely vile, Smith. You can take your filthy mind off my arse,” she snaps, appalled at his coarseness in spite of herself and her one-of-the-blokes persona. She is in fact unaccountably furious, perhaps made so by the fact that this is the first time since those crushy days of her first year at school that she has let any male have the upper hand with her.
He laughs, runs his eyes along her once more, and says, “At least now you’re thinking of me.” And with that he straightens up and strides away, that irritating swagger still pervading his walk.
It is only after he is across the room that it occurs to Ginny that he never did justify his claim that he is not as bad as he presumes she thinks he is, or prove it in any way by his behavior. Not that she cares a bit, she tells herself. Out of sight, out of mind, and after tonight, she will never have to deal with Zacharias Smith again, if she so chooses. It is, as he pointed out, his last night at Hogwarts; the same is true for Ron, and Hermione, and Harry, and nearly everyone she cares about.
A year behind them, she will return next fall to halls both blessed and cursed by her friends’ absence, for the first time defined only by herself rather than by her associations, and she is both elated and chilled by the prospect. Next year will be the first time since she was eleven that she will go without seeing Harry day by day, that she will sit in the common room and laugh, and have it be genuine rather than fueled by a need to appear stoic and accepting while filled with an aching longing so intense she thought at first it would surely crush her. She has remained uncrushed, having discovered the unfortunate truth that one can live in a state of heartbreak, and even become quite accustomed to it, as it becomes just another part of you: this is my hair, this is my knee, this is my broken heart. Yes, next year she can love Harry from afar, instead of up close, and she will be able to relax, no longer under the pressure to pretend to be fine with his decision, and bouncing along with her life. She will be able to breathe. She may even like it.
In the face of this, what do Zacharias Smith and his revolting comments signify? Why, nothing at all. Still, she gives a final glance to where he stands, deep in meaningless conversation with Padma Patil. She figures it’s the last time she’ll ever see him.
The next morning, bleary eyed and, like most of her classmates, slightly hung over, Ginny boards the Hogwarts Express, sharing a compartment with Ron, Hermione, and Harry for the last time. Luna and Neville are also there, cuddled together, Luna no doubt feeling some of the same sentimentality about the situation. Her brother and his best mates are huddled over some scrap of paper, as always seeming to form a single unit, a conglomerate person. She is certain that whatever they are concerned with is vastly important, and that when and if she finds out how it pertains to Harry, as everything always does, she will care very much, but at the moment all she can feel is tired. She stares out the window, watching the Scottish countryside fly by, and thinks about the solitude of her room, the one benefit of being the only girl, and how glad she is it awaits her.
This has been a trying year, after all. She’s not wrong to look forward to a few moments of escape. First had been Harry’s unexpected return to school, a surprise after his vow at the end of his own sixth year that he would not be back in the fall. Yes, he came back, with no explanation, not for her at least- she was sure Ron and Hermione knew- but his return was punctuated by frequent absences, and deep in her heart she knew his return was only because it somehow served his quest to destroy You-Know-Who, because his whole life, his whole being, was firmly concentrated on that goal. He had no focus to spare. And aside from her own petty concerns, there was the always disheartening awareness of what was going on outside the school walls. Every day, it seemed, had brought further news of death, destruction, darkness. Every time Harry had left without a word, she was certain she’d see his name appear on the death toll list in the Daily Prophet. She’d felt helpless all year, all the while being strong and brave and lifting other’s spirits. She’d spent a year in juxtaposition. Looking forward to a day or two of basking in her mother’s overbearing warmth, then, she feels, is not unreasonable.
So she spends the train ride in this fashion, not brooding, but vaguely disassociated from the five others in her compartment. She can’t help but feel that the mood here is very nearly the opposite of the boisterous party of the night before. She is surprised that any of them even attended, but, she supposes even leaders of a rebellion need to let off some steam from time to time. One can’t spend every free moment, when not facing off with dark wizards, fighting the idiotic bureaucracy. Still, faced with the choice of the tense plotting or putting up with being chatted up by Zacharias Smith, Ginny thinks she might almost prefer the latter. After all, an enemy easily and neatly vanquished is a breath of fresh air after months of that looming, hazy, and ever-present sense of threat.
Her mum swoops down on her when the Express finally discharges them at Platform 9 ¾. She placidly allows herself to be fussed over, then steps aside so her brother, Harry, and Hermione can be bear-hugged and inspected for damage. She watches as the crowd splits and rejoins around them, and notes, as always, the sideways glances at the three of them. She knows what the other students are thinking, though it has never been voiced to her directly; her status as not-quite-member of the group has kept her from having it spoken to her face, but in a place like Hogwarts, it is always impossible to avoid whispers and rumors. She knows they look at Harry and see now more than ever The Boy Who Lived, or, perhaps, The Boy Who Inexplicably Still Lives. She’s aware that they resent him for remaining untouched when so many of them have experienced such horrific losses; she knows they think it unfair that none of Harry’s group seem to have lost family or close friends, that those who stand closest to the specter of doom are also those who have seemingly suffered the least. She doesn’t blame the other students. They can’t know about Sirius Black, and how badly that had shaken Harry. They feel that Dumbledore was everyone’s loss. Most of all, how can they know the blow that she has personally suffered, to have her dreams come true after years of longing, only to have this bloody war rip them back from her. Petty of her, of course, in the face of such tangible losses, and even so, how can they know how she suffered the past year, when outwardly she was so quick to grin, to laugh, to pull a prank, to show no fear. There had been no point in moping when the greater good, the need to keep up morale, as it were, was at stake, and so she bears their looks as she has borne everything else. It is only one more thing.
The simmering resentment, of course, was why public opinion was still so triangulated. There were some people who wanted a way to fight You-Know-Who without supporting Harry. Zacharias Smith was one of them, and one of the louder ones, at that. Smith again, the git. Ginny shakes her head, clearing it of all thoughts pertaining to the wanker. The point is, if these types knew all the facts, knew that Harry was central to Voldemort’s defeat, whether he liked it or not, perhaps they would quiet down. The Order, however, is mired in secrecy out of necessity, and even she is not privy to more than the barest information. Harry does not confide in her any longer. He is never alone with her.
Her mum speaks her name, and Ginny is jerked out of her thoughts as she realizes they are leaving the platform. Ron, Harry, and Hermione are clinging to one another as they whisper their goodbyes. Ginny snorts at this, surprising herself, but honestly- they would be reunited in a matter of days, for everyone that could would be staying at the Burrow until further notice. The Order had made it Unplottable, and its members were already turning the lopsided rooms into command centers, or setting up camp in the Weasley tents, now serving a much more serious purpose than housing at the World Cup. To be honest, Ginny very nearly dreads heading home, but she nods and follows her mum, Ron reluctantly doing the same. She waves jauntily at Harry and Hermione, and turns from them with relief.
Back home, she pleads tiredness and escapes to her room. For a time, Tonk’s belongings had shared space with hers, but she had finally moved into a room in one of the tents, sharing with Mr. Lupin, and Ginny miraculously has this place to herself. Gratefully, she collapses on the bed, and for a time, shuts out the world. Eventually, she will have to emerge, to help with supper, and make sure everyone is seen to, but for now, she can be quiet.
After dinner, she sits in her room with Ron, and talks nothing much at all. It is nice to have her brother all to herself, and her smiles are genuine as she teases him about impending N.E.W.T. results.
“Oh, who can be bothered with all that now!” Ron looks at her incredulously. He gestures towards the hum of activity downstairs. “With everything that’s going on, I really doubt anyone’s fussed about Potions marks, honestly.”
He sounds like a demented version of Hermione, she thinks, but she shrugs, and tells him, “You’ll be wanting a job when all this is over, I’d wager, and you know your potential boss will still care.”
Ron’s eyes flash, and his skin flushes like it always does when his temper’s up. “God, Gin, how can you think of that? Who knows if I’ll even be around after? There’s a war on.”
Ginny can’t help snapping back at him. “Fine, then. And in a few days, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to get back to talking about it incessantly!” She falls back on the bed, turning her head to the wall. She doesn’t move her eyes from the wall until she hears the click of her door shutting. Then, hearing the stomping in the hallway, she sits up suddenly and flings her shoe at the door, wishing fervently that Ron’s head was still there to block it.
She can’t remember a time when her life was not consumed by Voldemort, and Harry, and the bloody, bloody war.
Things are cool between her and Ron for the next two days, and then Harry and Hermione arrive, and they have no reason to talk at all. It seems like everywhere she turns, there are the three of them with their heads together, brown, black, and red all spilling together as they plot in hushed tones. They are impenetrable, and Ginny watches them from across rooms and out of the corner of her eye, always smiling when one of them met her eyes. I am here for you if you need me, she silently tells them. So far, they do not need her. Sometimes, she wakes to find that they have left while she slept. They return late at night, often dirty and disheveled, sometimes glum, sometimes triumphant. She knows they are hunting for something, and they haven’t found it, but from the pleased looks they share on occasion, and frustrated faces they make while poring over some dusty text or other, she senses they are slowly but surely getting there.
Meanwhile, every day she feels the fear. She fears for her brother. She fears for Hermione. But most of all, she fears for Harry. She imagines them out there in the dark, fighting some unnamed evil, and she quakes to her core. It eats at her, and it makes her lack of knowledge almost unbearable.
All of this might be why she even considers in the least the letter that arrives three weeks into summer holidays. The spectacled owl that delivers the message is impeccable, beautiful, and incredibly haughty. She stares at the bird a moment, mostly because she is so unexpected, and so unfamiliar, before taking the parchment from her beak and giving her a treat in return. Ginny looks a long moment at the wax seal before breaking it, but the sea serpent set in black sealing wax is as unfamiliar as the owl was. With a sigh, she opens the letter. It is brief, and written in commanding, and again, unrecognizable, awkward block letters.
Are you tired of them yet? I’m more than happy to provide a diversion, you know. Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow? Ebrenn will bring me your answer. Why not make it a yes?
It is signed, almost predictably, Z. Smith. Without hesitation, she grabs a quill and scrawls “NO” across the bottom of the letter. Presumptuous arse. Why on earth should she socialize with him?
As she is about to reseal the parchment, she hears footfalls on the stairs outside her room, and the voices, urgent, tumbling over one another. The hush that falls as they pass her door is obvious, and Ginny feels something fundamental break inside of her. She is tired of them. Almost violent, she unfolds the paper and, before she can change her mind, crosses out the reply she had penned, and writes something else entirely.
I’ll be there at noon.
She is already cursing herself when Ebrenn takes flight.
The next day, lurking in the door of the Cauldron, Ginny is still questioning her sanity. She is here, and it seems silly not to go through with it, to tell him to bugger off in person, at least, and yet she hesitates. Perhaps it is because she knows that stepping through that shadowed entrance means something significant; maybe it represents a choice she has made, a path that she has veered from. Perhaps it is because she can see Smith sitting at a table for two across the room, and seeing him now, when no one is watching, there is an unexpected melancholy written on his face, and this is not the Smith she was prepared to deal with. She is certain that once he spots her his usual countenance will be in place, but she has already seen the truth, and she can’t forget it. Or perhaps, most of all, it is the sadness of the pub itself, which she remembered since early childhood as a boisterous place, bustling with magic folk crossing the threshold of the magical and muggle worlds. It is hard to walk into this cheerless and empty place, and allow it to replace the one in her memories.
She is spared a decision when Smith finally looks up. As she had suspected, his cocky grin slides into place, and he sits slightly straighter as he waves her over. With a sigh, she sets her booted foot through the door and makes her way over to the table.
Upon sitting, she tells him, “I’m not sure why I’m here, to be perfectly honest.” She manages to layer this truthful sentiment with just enough snark.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Hullo to you, as well, Weasley.” He signals for the barmaid, who arrives quickly, having few other patrons to wait upon. Smith gestures towards Ginny, and asks what she’d like.
Stifling an eyeroll, she orders a butterbeer, having no intention of getting intoxicated with Smith. He shrugs as if it’s no difference to him, and sips at his glass of firewhiskey.
Abruptly, she asks, “Why did you invite me? Are you that desperate that you ask out people who have told you they think you’re vile?”
“You came,” he says mildly. Then he pauses, studying his glass. When he looks up, he wears a slight frown. “I… these days… I thought you and I, we might be able to relate. It’s hard…” He trails off, and shakes his head as if he is trying to clear the thoughts from it. He seems to have surprised himself, and his frown deepens. Then his lips quirk, and Ginny knows he is about to say something dreadfully skeevy, to negate his burgeoning honesty.
“Stop,” she says, throwing a hand up to the level of his mouth. “Just don’t. Be real with me, or I’m leaving.” She glares at him, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
He stares, at her, startled. His lips twist again, and he says, “How would you know what’s real for me or what’s not?” He spreads his arms wide, his eyebrow lifting again. “What you see is what you get.”
She snorts and wraps her hands around the warm mug of butterbeer. “Have it your way. It just seemed like you were about to hold a decent conversation with me. It’s hard to what, Smith? Hard to articulate a thought that doesn’t have to do with your opinion of someone’s arse? I should have figured this would be a complete waste of my time.”
She’s about to push her chair from the table, when he speaks again. His voice is low and harsh. “It’s hard to find someone else who knows what it feels like to be caught in between.”
It’s her turn to frown. “Between?”
“Between them. Between wanting to fight for what’s right, and wanting nothing to do with Potter. Between wishing you could kill You-Know-Who with your bare hands, and knowing there’s no way to do it without joining up with the DA. Just…between.”
After this outburst, he swigs the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass away from himself with a bang. He meets her eyes dead on, daring her to contradict him.
She presses her lips together, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want nothing to do with Harry.”
“No, you want too much to do with him,” Smith says.
“What’s it to you?” she snaps. He has a way of drawing too much emotion from her, and she doesn’t like it. She considers that she’s having the same effect on him, but he’s right, she doesn’t know him well enough to tell. Perhaps he went around cross all the time.
“Like I told you at the party, Potter’s not worth your time.” He seems back in control, smooth, but she can hear the slight edge underneath.
“Oh? Elaborate.” She knows she is likely picking a fight, but she doesn’t care.
He gestures towards her. “Look at yourself. Anyone with half a brain can see how you feel about him, and he shuts you out, doesn’t he?” He carries on without giving her a chance to answer. “He does that to everyone. No one matters to him as much as he matters to himself.”
She opens her mouth to object, but Smith overrides her. “No, it’s true. Think about how he treated us Hufflepuffs after fourth year. Don’t you think we loved Cedric? We certainly knew him better, after all. Don’t you think we were upset to see Potter appear with him like that? Don’t you think we deserved some answers about what happened? You were at the Hog’s Head; you saw how it went. We could all go to hell, as far as Potter was concerned. All that mattered to him was that he didn’t feel like talking about it.”
He seems to realize that he is getting loud, and he takes a deep breath, and continues quietly, shifting his empty glass from hand to hand as he does so. “We had a right to know. I… Cedric was my friend. He was my Quidditch captain. He taught me… he meant the world to me. And he was taken from me. From all of us. Potter couldn’t be arsed to tell us why.”
Ginny feels the automatic need to defend Harry rise within her. “That’s not fair, Smith! You don’t know what he’s gone through. Goes through. He can’t please everyone. He carries on as he can best figure out to do, and he does so much, for everyone. For the whole wizarding world! How dare you judge him.”
Smith’s face shuts down, and he sits rigidly in his seat. “Never mind, then. I just thought you might understand. Watching you this year, I thought you might get it that some people might not fall down and worship him, even if we hate You-Know-Who.” He keeps his gaze focused on the table.
“Why on earth would think that I would have anything against Harry?” Ginny can’t help being huffy, and truth be told, doesn’t want to.
Smith looks up, sneering, and says simply, “Because he hurt you, too.”
She stares at him, unable to formulate a quick comeback to that. She reaches across the small table, stilling his busy hands. At this contact, he looks at her sharply, his eyes unwavering, silently challenging her to deny the truth of what he has said. She can’t. Suddenly, he grabs at her hand, twining his fingers with hers, holding tightly. She swallows convulsively as she meets his stare. All she can say is, “Yes.” She’s not sure what she’s agreeing to.
She doesn’t know how she ends up back at his flat. All she knows it that his mouth on hers is warm and insistent, and that he knows what he’s doing with it. He is snogging her breathless, senseless, and she can’t gather her thoughts enough to ask herself why she is a more than willing participant.
He nips at her lower lip as he slides his hands around her back, rucking her shirt up, and his hands, too, are warm on her skin. She finds herself melting against him, deepening the kiss again. She offers no resistance when his hands move the front of her shirt, tugging it up, up, over her head. She helps, sliding her arms from the sleeves and tossing it to the floor. Her own hands are on the waistband of his trousers, tugging him close. He lets out a small groan, murmuring, “Gods, Weasley.”
“I know, I know,” she whispers frantically, pulling his shirt from him. She wants to feel the rest of that warm skin, and she doesn’t much care right now that she’s not certain she likes what lies beneath it.
He cups the back of her neck, his lips blazing a trail to her collarbone. Still moving his lips on her, he pushes her back against the wall. She arches against him, asking for more, more. He reaches around to unhook her bra and slides the straps from her shoulders. She sighs and matches him, easing the button of his trousers from its hole, tugging the zipper down. His hands cup her breasts, and he bends his head to flick his tongue against her nipple. She moans, and he takes a nipple into his mouth, and his hands and his mouth and his breath are all hot against her, and it’s still not enough.
She slides her hand past the elastic of his shorts, her fingertips brushing the tip of his cock. He makes a savage noise and tears one hand from her breasts, but before she can mourn its loss, it’s under her skirt, his fingers rubbing her through her panties, and she knows he can feel how damp she is. She feels ferocious, and her free hand works its way back to his arse, pushing his trousers and shorts down. It is ungainly, but it gets the job done, and now she can wrap her hand around his cock, which is as warm and alive as every other part of him that has touched her.
Her panties are around her ankles now, and she steps out of them. His mouth claims hers again; his kiss has lost some of its finesse, but increased a hundredfold in intensity. As her hand strokes up and down his shaft, his fingers find her clit, and she cries out into his mouth at the fierce joy of it. He brings her right to the brink of release, til she is asking him please, please, because she needs him inside of her, and then he is obliging her. Her hand falls from him as he pushes into her, and she cries out again as her hips lift to meet his thrust.
She clutches his arse as he moves inside of her again and again, rhythmically at first, then frantically. It feels so good, better than anything has felt in a long time; his cock stroking inside of her is incredible, and all of that lovely intensity is building and building and building until she comes with a yell, biting down on his shoulder, spasming until she is limp in his arms. She holds him tightly as he thrusts once, twice more, and then finds his own release, her name on his lips.
Slowly, panting, with Smith’s breath coming just as raggedly as her own against her neck, she finds the strength in her legs again, and releases her tight hold on him, her hands just resting on him now. For several moments, they don’t speak. She can feel his heart thumping against his chest, and wonders if he can feel hers the same way. Finally, she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
“Have you really been watching me all year?” she asks quietly.
He nods, still finding his breath. “Yeah. Longer. Since… Quidditch.”
Since she began playing nearly two years ago. She’s taken aback.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything to me?”
He laughs. “Would you have even wanted me to?” he asks, low and soft. His hands find her hair, and he slides the red strands through his fingers. “Don’t answer that. We both know the truth, anyway.” He sighs. “I don’t like to come second, Weasley.”
“Smith, I…” In truth, she doesn’t know what to say to him. She won’t lie. “I never expected this.”
“I know. Me neither.” He looks down at her, and his cocky grin is back, although it’s not as irritating, now. “I’m glad it happened, though.”
She snorts and punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, I reckon you are.”
He kisses her then, but without any urgency this time. “Will you see me again?” He affects to look curious, and slightly bored, but she thinks that maybe she is getting to know him a bit better than to buy it.
“Maybe,” she tells him, because after all, he is right, and they do have at least that one thing in common. And, she thinks, rather than sitting at home, chafing at all the secrecy around her, she will have something to keep secret for herself.
“Maybe?” he asks, quizzically.
She simply grins. For the first time in a long time, she means it. “You know, Smith- you were right.”
“’Bout what?”
“You’re not bad, at all.”