Fic: Only With You (Harry/Ginny)
Title: Only With You
Author: miss_celestine (fic journal)
Recipient's name: basilm
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Harry/Ginny (slight mention of Ron/Hermione and Draco/OC)
Warnings: none
Author's notes: Basil, feel free to post this on TBC.net if you like ;)


Harry glances at his watch anxiously as he stands behind Ron and Hermione, waiting for the door to open. Half past ten. Draco was expecting them at nine. Harry wonders how on earth they’ve managed to leave their flat so late.

“Ron, are you sure this is the right address?” Hermione asks in a low voice. The coarse ripples of her hair are smoothed out in curls, and as she turns her head Harry can see the carefully painted outline of her eye. Her makeup is discreet, hardly a flush on her skin, but it took what seemed like hours to perfect.

“I can bloody well read, love,” Ron replies. “It’s written right here.”

Harry squints at the parchment jutting between Ron’s thumb and forefinger. It’s a invitation to celebrate Draco’s twenty-second birthday. Harry smiles lightly; the design is to the point and elegant. In some ways, Draco hadn’t changed; in others, Harry is glad he has.

The November chill makes him shiver. Years ago, in what seemed like another lifetime, he imagined loathing Draco Malfoy until he died. He remembers the feeling well, thinking it was all forever: his friends and his enemies, the place he had, the anger inside, what made him laugh and the girls he thought of at night biting his lip. But in the end, he couldn’t stop little things from altering. Hermione grew into a quiet, beautiful girl, while Ron’s laugh deepened and his stride became proud and sure. Harry once caught them holding hands under the table in class, and has been watching them hold on to each other ever since.

One day in their seventh year, Draco returned from Christmas holiday sporting a split lip and a purple bruise on his brow. Lucius Malfoy was not taking his son’s doubt in him and what he stood for well.

Wounds take a long time to heal, Harry thinks, and forgiveness is a tricky craft, but they fought together. They were no longer quarrelling school boys, but frightened young men thrown face to face with death. All that was certain shattered then , and Harry supposes it did them all some good, in a way.

The door opens. Draco Malfoy peers outside, and his cautious frown is replaced with a cool smile.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says, letting them in. Harry’s ears are instantly flooded with the pulse of loud music and the low hum of many conversations going on at once.

“This place looks packed,” Harry says with a grin. “I didn’t know you had so many friends, Malfoy.”

“You’d be surprised, Potter,” Draco smirks, slapping his shoulder. “Though my humble home is too small to fit them all in.”

“You fixed this flat up really nicely,” Ron says appreciatively, looking around.

“Yeah, it’s not too shabby,” Draco replies, pushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. There are dark circles under his eyes, Harry notices, but still, Draco looks better than when Harry last saw him. Draco was preparing the exam to enter the Department of Mysteries then, and he hardly slept at night.

“When are you getting your results?” Harry asks as he slips off his cape.

Draco’s jaw tightens slightly. “A couple of weeks. I should be set before Christmas.”

“Well, no use in worrying about that now,” Hermione says, handing him a small wrapped gift. “Happy birthday, Draco.”

Draco looks taken aback, but pleased. “Oh – er – thank you, Hermione.” He awkwardly helps her out of her coat, as if she’s made of porcelain and he’s afraid to put a smear on her polished exterior. “Shall I show you in?”

The three friends follow Draco into the living room. People are dancing and drinking, and Harry’s eyes scan the crowd for someone he knows should be there.

“Want something to drink, mate?” Ron offers, leading Hermione by the arm to the buffet table.

Harry shakes his head. “No thanks, I’m not really thirsty. Maybe later.”

His heart gives a funny lurch when he realises the person he’s looking for is nowhere to be seen. Maybe she isn’t coming… Has Ron forgotten to tell him?

Sighing, he looks for a place to sit. Draco is slouched on the sofa, staring in front of him. Harry plops down next to him and watches, amused, the pretty witches shimmying to the Smoking Salamander’s latest hit.

“Which one is yours?” he asks.

The corner of Draco’s mouth lifts. “The brunette with the blue dress. She works at the Wizarding Library… Quiet, but Merlin, what a firecracker in bed.”

Harry chuckles. Draco is not known for his love of commitment, but he’s seldom single. Harry suspects he’s always had a weak spot for Hermione, which, in his earlier years, was made up for by extreme nastiness. But if such is the case, Draco has never acted upon his feelings, and Harry has never mentioned it.

“What about you, Potter?” he says in a low voice. “More groupie love?”

“Hell, no, I’m – it gets boring really fast. Not even enough to get you up.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. He’s still looking at his girlfriend flaunt her curves to the heavy rhythm. “Harry… Ginny’s here tonight. I saw her disappear in the loo just before you arrived.”

Harry’s insides flutters uncomfortably. He’s both thrilled and terrified to see her. “Is she hiding?”

“Checking her reflection in the mirror, more like it.” Draco sighs, then turns to look at him. “You want her pretty badly, don’t you?”

His throat is so tight he can barely get any words out. “You could say that.”

Ron and Hermione are dancing as well now. Her hands are clasped at the nape of his freckled neck, and their foreheads are touching. They have the relaxed, sensual aura around them of natural intimacy, and Harry finds himself envious of them, of Draco, of every one around him who’s found satisfaction one way or another. The women who have managed to make their way to his bed haven’t been able to keep him warm.

Suddenly, she appears before his eyes. She is standing in the doorway, a pout on her lips. Her hair spills onto her shoulders, red and shiny like crushed cherries, and she is wearing a tightly laced top that makes Harry instantly think of peeling it off her. Ginny Weasley is like a flower, like fire. A tiger lily, who soaks up attention like she would rays of sun, and conjures more fantasies in Harry’s mind than he knew were possible.

Countless times, while he felt himself falling in love with no way to land on his feet, Harry wondered when Ginny had transformed from a little girl running after the train – his first memory of her, foggy and unsure – to a stunning witch who could back-talk her six older brothers, handle a Quaffle to the stomach, and smile in such a way that the whole room seemed to light up. And some smiles she saves only for him, along with other postures he hopes are intentional. Leaning forward on a table so he can catch sight of the creamy strip of skin that leads to her breasts, tugging her skirt over her knees so he can picture tugging it up… She’s driving him to madness, or perhaps he’s already mad to begin with.

“Draco…” a soft feminine voice whispers next to Harry’s ear. Draco’s girlfriend is leaning down to kiss his lips. “Why don’t you come dance?”

“Gladly,” he replies, kissing her back. As he leaves the couch, he glances at Harry over his shoulder. “Get off your arse,” he whispers, nodding in Ginny’s direction.

She’s chatting with Ron and Hermione, and Harry decides this might be the right time to say hello. As he approaches, the familiar tightening in his loins starts, a tickle at first, before expanding into a full shot of lust when Ginny locks her dark eyes with his and grins.

“Hi Harry,” she says, touching his arm. “I wondered when you were going to get off that sofa.”

“He seems to be allergic to dance floors, like I once was,” Ron says. “I don’t think he’s found the right girl to change his mind yet.”

“Which can take years,” Hermione quips, looking at her boyfriend pointedly. “Even with the right girl.”

Ron shrugs. “Come on, sis. See that he enjoys himself a bit.”

“With pleasure,” Ginny replies, taking Harry’s hand and swaying her hips. Harry falls in step with her, feeling clumsy and ridiculous. It’s like being fifteen again, which wasn’t been so bad when Ginny was still a girl herself. But now she’s a woman. Women want to be seduced, not ogled at.

“You look ravishing tonight,” Harry says, shifting a bit closer to her. “More than usual, I mean.”

Ginny lowers her gaze for a brief moment, obviously flattered. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

He touches a strand of her hair, feeling brave. “It’s true, though.”

Both of them dance in silence for awhile, as if they’ve both agreed to let their bodies do the talking. The way Ginny dances is carefree, almost playful in a sexy way. For some reason, it brings to Harry’s mind one of his favourite fantasies: making her bite into a ripe strawberry, then slowly licking the juice off her skin when it has dripped all the way down her throat. Ginny would like that; she’d tilt her head back, giggle and look at him as if he was some naughty kid caught in the act. He can imagine a million other things that she’d like. He wants to count the ways to make her come undone.

“Harry, what are you thinking about?” Ginny says, her head cocked to the side.

“Oh, nothing much, just – strawberries.” He laughs softly. He can’t believe he told her that. “Sorry.”

“Strawberries, huh?” Ginny slides her hand to his shoulder. The music has become slower, like a boat rocking on lazy waters, and all around them couples are moving like flames fused together. But Ginny doesn’t press her body against his, not immediately. She’s mischievous like that, never one to make a direct attack. “Want to know what I was thinking?” she whispers in his ear.

“Tell me.”

She hesitates, but only a second. “I like to watch you move. I know it’s silly but – it’s the same as when you play Quidditch.”

“What do you mean?” he rasps, his hands fumbling on her waist. She’s so near now, he can smell her perfume. It’s a subtle, teasing fragrance he doesn’t recognise.

“You stand out without even trying,” she says. “You’re ahead and no one can ever catch you… But at the same time… Well, you can watch a dragon fly, and still wish you could ride it.”

A vivid image flashes before Harry’s eyes and the blood rushes down his veins. “Ginny…” He feels like he should pay back the favour. He hasn’t even drunk anything strong, but he feels daring, as if he’d downed a glass of Firewhiskey. “How would you like it, then?” he murmurs, playing with her hair again. “Slow and smooth, or a bit rougher?”

Ginny looks at him. She’s dead serious, he can tell. Then she says something he can’t make out, because the music is blaring again.

“What was that?”

“Only with you,” she repeats.

He’s stumped. He’s standing there, frozen. He’d like to take her hand, kiss her, tell her he loves her, but he’s afraid to find out he’s mistaken, and this is all a trick his senses are playing on him.

“Would you deny me something I wanted?” Ginny asks, running her finger along the edge of his collar.

“Never.”

She pulls him closer and she’s smiling again, that fresh, lovely smile, the one that makes Harry want to taste her. “In the dark, against something hard, so I have a small price to pay for this sin.”

His erection tugs against his trousers relentlessly and he’s going to explode, he’s sure of it, but Ginny is leading him away now, far away from the people, the coloured lights, the music, and up a narrow staircase. They arrive at a landing, and there’s a single room there. Harry locks the door behind them.

The walls are blank and the furniture is simple; Draco has added few personal touches to his surroundings. An abstract painting, a vase reflecting the glimmer coming from the streetlight outside the window. There are books and clothing, but no framed photos, no small tokens that might remind him of good times. Harry likes it better this way. He doesn’t feel like an intruder. He supposes the girls that come and go in Draco’s room feel more at ease this way as well.

Ginny is standing before him, expectant, and he senses she’s a bit nervous. Does she regret the words she spoke, now that the crowd isn’t there to drown them out? Harry doesn’t know where to begin, where to touch her first, because she’s so gorgeous he’d like to touch everything at once.

She lets his eyes roam over her hungrily, without saying anything. Then she grabs his hand and he doesn’t have the time to be startled because she says in one breath, “Take me, Harry.”

Their mouths meet in a bruising kiss, feverish at first, then increasingly urgent, as if they’ve been starving forever and at last have a chance to feast. Something inside Harry has snapped loose. The feel of her wet, plump lips under his is intoxicating, and her tongue is like warm velvet. He wants more – more of the small sounds she makes in the back of her throat, more bare flesh, more of her. He feels like tearing the tight laces his fingers are struggling with.

Harry breaks the kiss and looks down so he can see what he’s doing, because he has to hurry -- it can’t wait, he needs to see her, to see what’s trapped in beneath the layers of clothes – he needs it so badly it hurts. And it’s a good sort of pain.

“Fuck,” he curses as he tugs roughly at her top. She lifts his head and her mouth melts against his again, and they stumble backwards against a piece of furniture. Something falls to the ground and crashes.

“H - Harry,” Ginny stammers, tilting her neck back and helping him undo her top. “Harry – the vase -”

But she doesn’t care about the broken vase any more than he does, because her breasts have spilled free at last, and he can’t get enough of running his tongue over them, stroking them, feeling their heavy softness and the way their peaks gather and harden at his thumb’s command. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry is amazed she’s letting him do this, urging him on with her hands wound into his hair and the groans she can’t contain.

“Oh god,” she whimpers as he laps at her nipple. “Please – touch me -”

He pulls back and shoves her skirt up, revealing a triangle of satiny white texture. His hand grazes past her thigh and inches into her knickers, prodding at the tangle of curls until it finds something slick and swollen, and shaped as if it was custom made for Harry to slide his finger into it, slide it back out, plunge in again….

Ginny groans, her nails digging into his wrist. “Don’t stop…”

“I can’t…”

“I – I – oh, Harry - ”

The way her back arches as she rides his hand is all the encouragement he needs, and it feels like hell not to be buried inside of her right now. His body is on fire but it’s not enough. He knows there’s only one way to fill the numb, throbbing void that’s eating away at him. She has to let him in, trap him tightly, and drain him for all he’s worth.

Ginny grabs Harry by the belt and they stagger a few steps until her back hits a wall. He has kicked a pile of books out of the way and she’s pinned under him. She has nowhere to escape, and he’s too strong for her, but she’s not afraid.

“In the dark…” he whispers her own words back to her. “Against something hard…”

She pulls the front of his trousers open, and in her haste Harry can hear the fabric strain and nearly rip. Her hips are grinding freely into his, and her voice is breathless. “… Fast and deep.”

Harry thinks he might come right there. The way Ginny is turning him on is ruthless. It’s like being under attack, only this time, both sides are prisoners.

“Any way you want,” he growls, unable to control himself any longer, “but now.”

His arousal is set free and she steps out of her knickers to part her legs before him. In the past, it’s always been like slicing through butter, but the moment he enters her, Harry knows that it’s different this time, it’s right. It’s perfect. Ginny is firm and lush around him like a cushion logged with water. The friction is wrecking sweet havoc on his nerves and a strangled cry tumbles from his throat as he starts to move within her, trying not to rush, trying to remember that a woman’s pleasure is like complicated clockwork you have to wind up first. He’s never remembered before.

They move together, clasped, bound, but they don’t need any other music than the sound of their frantic breathing. Ginny grasps at the bookshelf to steady herself and Harry pushes hard, back and forth, back and forth, harder still. He’ll never be able to draw back from Ginny’s narrow core, he thinks. His body won’t allow it, and anything else will feel like regret, so he can only drive in deeper, over and over again.

“More – Harry – more,” she pants, a lose lock of hair curling in front of her face.

“Oh Ginny,” he moans, amazed beyond words at the vision before him. Her forehead is damp and her cheeks are flushed, and her teeth are dragging back her lower lip, and then her mouth opens in a gasp.

Harry watches her as she comes, overwhelmed with the sensation of being squeezed to his satisfaction, and he seeps into her with a single shudder.

“Merlin,” he croaks, falling still. He tries to catch his breath, but his chest is burning as if he’s just ran a mile.

Ginny kisses him tenderly as they sink to the floor. She reaches for her knickers and looks at him, her features alight with what Harry can only think of as pure contentment.

After she’s done straightening her clothes, she lets her head fall back against the wall. “I never thought – I never thought it could be this good,” she says.

“That makes two of us,” Harry replies. He hesitates before taking her hand in his. It’s ridiculous, really, but he wants to make her understand what she means to him. He’s never been good with words. He won’t let her walk away like the others.

They stay there for a long time, in silence. One floor below them, the party is still going strong, and they laugh together as they recognise the tone of Draco’s voice shouting something.

“Maybe we should go,” Ginny suggests.

Harry stands up and helps her to her feet. She notices the broken vase, and mutters a quick repairing spell, snuggled against him.

“Ginny?” he asks, stroking her hair.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Let me love you all the time.”

He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s smiling.