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The Radiant
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Ginny
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
42
Views:
14,490
Reviews:
30
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Ginny
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
42
Views:
14,490
Reviews:
30
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not make any money from these writings.
Chapter 6
-
She never did receive an apology from him, but three days later while Draco was at work and she was at her flat doing some paperwork for the team, Xerxes delivered a tiger lily into her upturned palms and flew out again without waiting for a reply.
She sat now at her kitchen table, the tiger lily in a glass of water, and she staring at it.
It was probably bad to accept a flower from your lover’s father.
Ginny sighed and clicked her fingers on the table top.
She was, she was, she was, she bloody was.
Oh god, I am –
Attracted to Lucius.
She laid her head down on the table, savouring the cool, clean feel of the linoleum on her clammy skin.
She couldn’t deny it any longer. She was attracted to Lucius.
But –
But that was surely alright, wasn’t it? He was, after all, an attractive man. He knew it – the female commonwealth knew it. Draco even seemed to know it.
So –
So then she could openly admit to herself that, yes, Lucius Malfoy was a handsome man – beautiful, stunning – and that it wasn’t unnatural to feel a physical attraction for him.
Physical.
She kept her head on the table but turned her eyes upward to stare at the flower. It was gorgeous – a rich, bloody cream of an orange, with tawny speckles, the stem healthy and robust. She could smell its faint aroma already, saw the curlicued tips of the large petals.
Wealth and pride.
Of course he would like them, with a meaning like that.
Hatred and disdain.
Alternatively.
Both.
Ginny laid her head back down on the table and closed her eyes again, trying not to breathe too deeply and smell the scent.
She loved tiger lilies.
They were her favourite flowers.
---
When she hadn’t responded to Lucius after three days, Xerxes returned.
This time it was a black leather bookmark that fell into her hands. Ginny peered up at the circling bird, pushing open the window that had swung shut behind him in order for him to leave her flat.
Looking down, she noticed the motif on the bookmark – snakes, of course, but with an embossed likeness of Apollo in the background. The leather was smooth and tooled and when she lifted it to her face and inhaled, she could taste the richness of it.
She opened her desk drawer and put it behind her quill box.
---
Three days later, Ginny was sitting in her bed, trying to read. It was early – just before sunrise in any case – and she was bouncing a knee up and down on her bedclothes.
I am not waiting –
She tried to tell herself that she was not waiting for the grey owl.
I am not waiting.
The day came and went.
---
On the fourth day, she was making a cherry pie in the kitchen, methodically rolling out the dough onto the floured counter top, her rolling pin dusty and well-worn – a relic from her mother’s kitchen. She took a swig from the glass of sherry nearby and concentrated on fitting her crust into the pie plate. Precise movements – her slender fingertips wound around the circular edge of the pan, fluting and pinching the dough down, tamping it. And then the cherries – the bowl of lovely pitted cherries, oozing their juice. Ginny stuck a finger in and swirled it around, pulling it out and licking it.
“Oh!”
The tap at the window was abrupt.
She dropped the rolling pin she had been moving and a cloud of flour puffed up around her elbows.
It was a geode this time – she traced the flinty grey exterior and then turned the rock in her palm to expose the crystalline innards. Red. Of course the bastard would throw her off by making her wait an extra day.
She smiled.
---
Walking to the bathroom, Ginny opened the drawer on the left-hand side of her sink, and reached in up to her elbow. She rummaged around for a bit until she felt the heavy flatness of what she was seeking
This is a bad idea
and pulled the notebook out.
It doesn’t count because it’s not a diary. It’s a notebook, and I am using it to write a note.
She held the book in her hands, turning it over and over, sitting on the tiled floor of her bathroom until she finally opened it. Lovely, thick, cream-coloured paper. A ribboned bookmark. Faint lines for writing on. The smell of leather and library. Ginny pulled the quill from her hair, and as the curls fell around her shoulders, she wrote two words.
Apology accepted.
When she walked back out into the living room, she wasn’t shocked to see his owl still waiting for her, and she sent the note off.
---
Lying back on her bed, Ginny moved her hands down her neck to her breasts, cupping long, sweet fingers around them, feeling their weight in her hands. She pulled at her nipples and then slid her palms down the centre of her stomach, flying over soft flesh, until she was between her legs and sliding her fingertips into herself, pushing at her clitoris over and over again until she was coming so hard that her teeth her clenched and jarring with the shaking of her body, one hand up above her tightly grabbing the headboard, her heels crawling along the bedclothes.
---
He replied the next day. She grabbed the letter and sat down on her ottoman as she opened it.
I never said I was sorry.
Walking over to her desk, she grabbed a quill and scrawled a reply along the bottom.
Sanctimonious old prig.
The reply was exactly seventeen hours later.
I am not old.
She had laughed out loud at that but hadn’t replied. It seemed as though the tension had eased. There was still the matter, though –
That you’d fuck him. That you’d fuck him in an instant.
Anyone would. Anyone would a heartbeat and a pulse between their legs would. It was not a negotiable situation. But she had a lover – a good lover, even a great lover – and she didn’t need another, and so she would maybe just admire him from afar.
---
She was dreaming, now; more than she ever had before. Her dreams were lucid and lurid and all wet colour and scents and sounds. They were cornucopias of people and places and touch.
She had discovered, quite wonderfully, that she was capable of having an orgasm in her sleep. Draco had been happy to discover this, too, since he thought that it was he that she was dreaming about. And perhaps it was, because even though her dreams were at times blurry, she could still make out that light hair, so maybe it was.
But maybe not, because in her dreams she was bent over desks or footboards, and the man behind her – fucking her hard – had a foot on her head and was pulling her arms back so tightly that she was afraid her shoulders would be separated. And Draco had never done that and didn’t see prone to do that, so she didn’t understand why she could wake herself up, coming relentlessly to the image of her own body, held in stasis by strong arms, thrashing and yelping.
Or she would dream about the sun, and the heat, and the light, lying on her back naked on a beach – or maybe a field, or maybe just the plain ground – her knees bent and her arms stretched out over her head, face tilted into the rays.
She sometimes dreamt about swans and cicadas and once in a while a raven, too. She dreamt that she was on her belly on the ground in a clearing and that someone was taking her from behind, his chest pressed into her back, his big hands on either side of her face, caging her in. Those were the dreams where she came the most and the hardest.
Ginny never knew if she spoke out loud in her sleep.
---
“What are you doing, Gin?”
Reading Catullus, brain buzzing in her head like flies
“Just thinking.”
Watching thunderstorms, feeling a headache break into a thousand tiny pieces, being reminded of what real power was
“You seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
A laugh.
“Can’t help it.”
Thinking of deer, of wolves, of never-stopping music
A pause.
Of being fucked into a mattress, of being kindred in that dark side, that thing that sidle, unctuous, within
“Okay.”
Of knowing.
Just knowing.
---
They grew distant.
Draco was working more and she was fielding a part-time job as a sports correspondent for the newspaper, and they only saw each other at night and even then, one of them was often asleep, face down on the bed, before the other even got home.
They fought a little more. There was a little less make up sex.
But still it was good, or at least not bad. They still laughed.
And then they laughed a little less.
Ginny thought it over – that maybe they had just run their course, or maybe they were just in a dip, or maybe it was just a patch, or maybe they were both just really tired. She was tired all the time now – her dreams were exhausting her, causing her to fidget in her sleep, to lash out and to curl her legs and unfurl them rapidly, and this made her tired in the mornings. Not even the strongest coffee could help her. She found herself nodding to sleep at inopportune moments – a talk with her mother, a kiss from Draco, in the middle of writing an article. She was a little quieter, with darker purple circles under her eyes. She wrote in her notebook. She ate less but noticed more, spoke softer but wrote conspicuously.
Two weeks later, Draco left.
---
She never did receive an apology from him, but three days later while Draco was at work and she was at her flat doing some paperwork for the team, Xerxes delivered a tiger lily into her upturned palms and flew out again without waiting for a reply.
She sat now at her kitchen table, the tiger lily in a glass of water, and she staring at it.
It was probably bad to accept a flower from your lover’s father.
Ginny sighed and clicked her fingers on the table top.
She was, she was, she was, she bloody was.
Oh god, I am –
Attracted to Lucius.
She laid her head down on the table, savouring the cool, clean feel of the linoleum on her clammy skin.
She couldn’t deny it any longer. She was attracted to Lucius.
But –
But that was surely alright, wasn’t it? He was, after all, an attractive man. He knew it – the female commonwealth knew it. Draco even seemed to know it.
So –
So then she could openly admit to herself that, yes, Lucius Malfoy was a handsome man – beautiful, stunning – and that it wasn’t unnatural to feel a physical attraction for him.
Physical.
She kept her head on the table but turned her eyes upward to stare at the flower. It was gorgeous – a rich, bloody cream of an orange, with tawny speckles, the stem healthy and robust. She could smell its faint aroma already, saw the curlicued tips of the large petals.
Wealth and pride.
Of course he would like them, with a meaning like that.
Hatred and disdain.
Alternatively.
Both.
Ginny laid her head back down on the table and closed her eyes again, trying not to breathe too deeply and smell the scent.
She loved tiger lilies.
They were her favourite flowers.
---
When she hadn’t responded to Lucius after three days, Xerxes returned.
This time it was a black leather bookmark that fell into her hands. Ginny peered up at the circling bird, pushing open the window that had swung shut behind him in order for him to leave her flat.
Looking down, she noticed the motif on the bookmark – snakes, of course, but with an embossed likeness of Apollo in the background. The leather was smooth and tooled and when she lifted it to her face and inhaled, she could taste the richness of it.
She opened her desk drawer and put it behind her quill box.
---
Three days later, Ginny was sitting in her bed, trying to read. It was early – just before sunrise in any case – and she was bouncing a knee up and down on her bedclothes.
I am not waiting –
She tried to tell herself that she was not waiting for the grey owl.
I am not waiting.
The day came and went.
---
On the fourth day, she was making a cherry pie in the kitchen, methodically rolling out the dough onto the floured counter top, her rolling pin dusty and well-worn – a relic from her mother’s kitchen. She took a swig from the glass of sherry nearby and concentrated on fitting her crust into the pie plate. Precise movements – her slender fingertips wound around the circular edge of the pan, fluting and pinching the dough down, tamping it. And then the cherries – the bowl of lovely pitted cherries, oozing their juice. Ginny stuck a finger in and swirled it around, pulling it out and licking it.
“Oh!”
The tap at the window was abrupt.
She dropped the rolling pin she had been moving and a cloud of flour puffed up around her elbows.
It was a geode this time – she traced the flinty grey exterior and then turned the rock in her palm to expose the crystalline innards. Red. Of course the bastard would throw her off by making her wait an extra day.
She smiled.
---
Walking to the bathroom, Ginny opened the drawer on the left-hand side of her sink, and reached in up to her elbow. She rummaged around for a bit until she felt the heavy flatness of what she was seeking
This is a bad idea
and pulled the notebook out.
It doesn’t count because it’s not a diary. It’s a notebook, and I am using it to write a note.
She held the book in her hands, turning it over and over, sitting on the tiled floor of her bathroom until she finally opened it. Lovely, thick, cream-coloured paper. A ribboned bookmark. Faint lines for writing on. The smell of leather and library. Ginny pulled the quill from her hair, and as the curls fell around her shoulders, she wrote two words.
Apology accepted.
When she walked back out into the living room, she wasn’t shocked to see his owl still waiting for her, and she sent the note off.
---
Lying back on her bed, Ginny moved her hands down her neck to her breasts, cupping long, sweet fingers around them, feeling their weight in her hands. She pulled at her nipples and then slid her palms down the centre of her stomach, flying over soft flesh, until she was between her legs and sliding her fingertips into herself, pushing at her clitoris over and over again until she was coming so hard that her teeth her clenched and jarring with the shaking of her body, one hand up above her tightly grabbing the headboard, her heels crawling along the bedclothes.
---
He replied the next day. She grabbed the letter and sat down on her ottoman as she opened it.
I never said I was sorry.
Walking over to her desk, she grabbed a quill and scrawled a reply along the bottom.
Sanctimonious old prig.
The reply was exactly seventeen hours later.
I am not old.
She had laughed out loud at that but hadn’t replied. It seemed as though the tension had eased. There was still the matter, though –
That you’d fuck him. That you’d fuck him in an instant.
Anyone would. Anyone would a heartbeat and a pulse between their legs would. It was not a negotiable situation. But she had a lover – a good lover, even a great lover – and she didn’t need another, and so she would maybe just admire him from afar.
---
She was dreaming, now; more than she ever had before. Her dreams were lucid and lurid and all wet colour and scents and sounds. They were cornucopias of people and places and touch.
She had discovered, quite wonderfully, that she was capable of having an orgasm in her sleep. Draco had been happy to discover this, too, since he thought that it was he that she was dreaming about. And perhaps it was, because even though her dreams were at times blurry, she could still make out that light hair, so maybe it was.
But maybe not, because in her dreams she was bent over desks or footboards, and the man behind her – fucking her hard – had a foot on her head and was pulling her arms back so tightly that she was afraid her shoulders would be separated. And Draco had never done that and didn’t see prone to do that, so she didn’t understand why she could wake herself up, coming relentlessly to the image of her own body, held in stasis by strong arms, thrashing and yelping.
Or she would dream about the sun, and the heat, and the light, lying on her back naked on a beach – or maybe a field, or maybe just the plain ground – her knees bent and her arms stretched out over her head, face tilted into the rays.
She sometimes dreamt about swans and cicadas and once in a while a raven, too. She dreamt that she was on her belly on the ground in a clearing and that someone was taking her from behind, his chest pressed into her back, his big hands on either side of her face, caging her in. Those were the dreams where she came the most and the hardest.
Ginny never knew if she spoke out loud in her sleep.
---
“What are you doing, Gin?”
Reading Catullus, brain buzzing in her head like flies
“Just thinking.”
Watching thunderstorms, feeling a headache break into a thousand tiny pieces, being reminded of what real power was
“You seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
A laugh.
“Can’t help it.”
Thinking of deer, of wolves, of never-stopping music
A pause.
Of being fucked into a mattress, of being kindred in that dark side, that thing that sidle, unctuous, within
“Okay.”
Of knowing.
Just knowing.
---
They grew distant.
Draco was working more and she was fielding a part-time job as a sports correspondent for the newspaper, and they only saw each other at night and even then, one of them was often asleep, face down on the bed, before the other even got home.
They fought a little more. There was a little less make up sex.
But still it was good, or at least not bad. They still laughed.
And then they laughed a little less.
Ginny thought it over – that maybe they had just run their course, or maybe they were just in a dip, or maybe it was just a patch, or maybe they were both just really tired. She was tired all the time now – her dreams were exhausting her, causing her to fidget in her sleep, to lash out and to curl her legs and unfurl them rapidly, and this made her tired in the mornings. Not even the strongest coffee could help her. She found herself nodding to sleep at inopportune moments – a talk with her mother, a kiss from Draco, in the middle of writing an article. She was a little quieter, with darker purple circles under her eyes. She wrote in her notebook. She ate less but noticed more, spoke softer but wrote conspicuously.
Two weeks later, Draco left.
---