Entry tags:

draco/ginny, zacharias/daphne

FIC: A Lot Like Hope (Draco/Ginny, Daphne/Zacharias)
To: seegrim
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: A Lot Like Hope
Author: el_em_en_oh_pee (fic journal)
Pairing(s): Draco/Ginny, Daphne/Zacharias
Summary: The best way to react improperly to one's roommate shagging a Gryffindor is to find an appropriate Hufflepuff.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: N/A
Author/Artist's notes: seegrim, I really hope you like this. ♥. Thanks go out to my betas, to A for her encouragement, to C for helping me brainstorm approximately fifteen different potential endings, and to H for constant (unwitting) inspiration.

---

In the end, it's really the fact that Daphne doesn't care about Draco's sex life (apart from it being unobtrusive enough for her to get her work done) that causes him to ask her, rather than Blaise or Pansy, to be his flatmate after the war. Not that he has much of a sex life to speak of: since the war, and the Death Eater trials, and everything, no one (well. No Slytherin) has had much of any contact with anyone else in the Wizarding world, apart from work. And Draco won't touch a Muggle.

Life with Draco is very, very structured. Daphne, who is used to waking up at noon or later, who is used to wine with dinner, sometimes, and sometimes cocktails, Daphne who is used to eating when she feels like it and sharing toothbrushes (back in the dorms, she would use whichever toothbrush was closest at hand. Pansy developed a penchant for hexing hers against anyone but, well, Pansy using it), is not used to this structure. She quickly learns that Draco wakes up at quarter of seven every morning, eats one of three very specific breakfasts, and goes to work after putting on a carefully pressed robe. Daphne, who doesn't have a job, per se (because, really, being an escort is more of a temporary way to regain even a margin of the wealth she lost after the war than a job), lounges about the flat all day, generally making a mess and using up all of Draco's carefully-purchased avocados in sloppy sandwiches. She learns after a week that it's best to clean up before Draco gets back, just as Draco learns it's best not to comment on Daphne's chosen bedtimes (they range from even before Draco has his eight o'clock, punctual, dinner (with exactly one-half glass of wine), to just before Draco wakes up in the mornings, really, depending on who she's with and what she's doing). On the whole, within a month, they settle into some sort of an accord in regard to their respective schedules, and Daphne is amazed at how truly little she sees the man, for all that they're living together.

Six months into this arrangement, however, everything changes. Daphne comes home from one of her clients (a man in his mid-thirties with a small cock and deep pockets), approximately half an hour after Draco's self-inflicted bedtime, to find him (shockingly!) out of bed, on the sofa, desperately kissing some redheaded bint.

"Latent Weasley fantasies, Draco?" Daphne asks, crossing the room uncaringly to drop her bag on the counter Draco has appropriated as 'hers'. She turns around at the answering gasp, and gasps, herself, to see the redhead sit up, pushing Draco off of her.

It is Weasley.

☼

"I don't really," Draco starts saying, immediately after Weasley Apparates away (she's shocked to see Daphne, and Daphne thinks she heard the girl say something 'other woman' and 'I should have known' and 'fuck it' and 'owl me'), but apparently he doesn't know what he doesn't really, because he certainly doesn't finish his statement.

Daphne is really (surprisingly) unconcerned. She's shocked, of course, that Draco would snog a blood traitor on his (her? their?) couch, but she likes to think that basic carnal instincts sometimes get the better of people. The fact that she can hear the careful enunciation that marks Draco's inebriated states in his voice only serves to placate her. So, she flaps her hand at Draco and turns to go into the kitchen.

Draco follows her. "I mean," he attempts again, agitatedly, his sculpted words losing some of their edge.

Daphne rounds on him. "Draco, although I doubt I'll ever be able to comprehend why you might want to snog that Weasley girl, far be it from me to make a scene out of it." She stares at him, willing him to notice her earrings, her outfit, her everything, provided for by the money and gifts from her clients. One, maybe two of them had been somewhat opposed to her political views two years before, too, but she had no complaints about the money and, as such, no complaints about the men. Draco, apparently, gets the hint, because he nods, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his robes and letting his (rather mussed) hair switch over his eyes as he drapes himself against the door frame. Daphne stares at him for a moment, then magicks up a pot of boiling water for tea. "So," she says, morbidly curious, once the leaves are steeping. "Not that I'm curious or anything--" (Draco snorts) "--but how did this come to pass?"

"You mean Gi--Weasley?" Draco asks, after three long minutes of fiddling with something in one of his pockets. He studies Daphne for another moment. "I'm not going to tell you. You'll let everyone else know and they'll all scorn me utterly."
"They scorn you already, darling," Daphne says, busily getting some mugs out of their cabinet. "For existing. And me, for living with you, so I really have no reason to tell anyone else. Spill."

So Draco shoves his hands deeper into his pockets ("You'll ruin the lining," Daphne reminds him, but he just rolls his eyes at her) and flicks his hair out of his eyes as best he can. "Well. It was sort of. Sudden."

"I'll say," Daphne murmurs, poking at the teapot, willing it to hurry up and steep. "Sorry. Go on."

Draco takes a deep, deep breath. "Long story short, or short story long?"

"I'd rather have it short," Daphne says, matter-of-factly. Impatient with the tea, she pokes at it once more, this time with her wand. By the time she lifts the pot up and pours, it's completely steeped. "Sugar?" She knows Draco won't want any -- he always drinks his tea plain -- but she always asks.

Draco shakes his head. "She started working for the Experimental Spells department with me, Defence division, a month or so ago." (Draco works in the Potions division, of course. He's insanely lucky to have the job) "We struck up a water-cooler acquaintanceship once she realised that I wasn't there to do her in, and one thing led to another."

Daphne laughs at this. "Typical," she says, stirring sugar into her own tea. Going to a cupboard, she retrieves a bottle of whiskey (not the fire kind) and pours a healthy dollop into her tea. "Want some of this?"

Draco responds by taking up his mug and swallowing rather a large amount of the (really hot) tea. "I'm still a little bit drunk from earlier," he confesses, wincing at the way the tea burns his tongue.

"So I noticed," Daphne murmurs, sipping her own tea. "I presume that's why you brought Weasley to our flat?"

"Do you have a problem with this?" Draco asks, leaning against the counter and sipping at his tea, more tentatively now.

"Finish your story first."

"So after work today some of us went for drinks," Draco says, simply. "She was there, and then she was here."

Daphne nods slowly. She sips her tea-and-whiskey, considering her feelings towards this. She doesn't care, not really, but that likely has to do with the fact that if she did care, she might be short one flatmate and, though she is loathe to admit it, she didn't want to live alone. She doesn't say anything until she's almost finished her tea. When she does, she speaks and drains her mug: "Just see that she doesn't use my towels."

Before Draco can respond, Daphne walks off to bed.

☼

If Daphne had doubted Draco's devotion to that Weasley woman initially, she's very aware that the girl means more to him than he lets on after a month of walking in on them, on very unscheduled days, kissing on the sofa or Draco's bed or, once, on the kitchen counters. Daphne protests only the counters (the kitchen, she feels, is largely her domain, as Draco generally hates to cook), and generally avoids the pair when they're all three in the flat together.

And then, two months after that Weasley girl showed up in their flat, Daphne comes in to an invitation next to the kitchen sink, addressed to her, inviting her to a party, thrown by the Weasley girl. Daphne's shocked, at first, but also pleased. Even if the party is filled with horrid people who hate her for the tattoo on her forearm, it's a party, and it has been forever since Daphne's gone to one of those. She can stand the hypocrisy and insults and wary glances just once, she figures, if it means she gets to drink and dance and be around people, and magic, for a few hours.

Of course, the elation is slightly cheapened by discovering that today, Draco has the girl in his room, on his bed and, judging by what Daphne can see through the keyhole, they're both in varying degrees of nudity.

At least, Daphne tells herself as she turns away, slightly green, and heads to her room for sleep and possibly a good stiff drink, at least it isn't sex. Yet.

☼

Draco doesn't say anything about the party until two days before it's supposed to happen. "You're going, then?" he asks, not even prefacing his question with a mention that he is, indeed, talking about the party.

"Yes," Daphne says, nudging him pointedly. "Get your bum off of the stove."

He complies, moving to stand next to their table. "Gi-- Weasley says that people don't mind. Won't mind."

Daphne gives him a searching look. "I doubt that," she said, finally. "But we'll be okay, yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco agrees, smiling with something a lot like relief.

☼

The party isn't the best that Daphne's been to, but it's a far sight better than any of her social happenings have been recently. A good number of the people there are shocked to see her and Draco there, startled that Potter would let anyone in (but it's clear that he's mad for the Weasley girl, and even clearer that she's mad for Draco, so their presence is tolerated), and horrified to notice the edge of Daphne's tattoo under her shifting sleeves. Daphne almost even enjoys this horror -- she raises her hands above her head in a way that reveals the edge in an undeniable sense -- but after no one starts talking to her, she stops.

She hates that she stops.

She doesn't even think that Draco notices that no one but Weasley and her few closest friends are talking to him, but she, herself, notices all too well. And then.

And then, a Hufflepuff she knows as highly annoying, disliked by many, but with access to the best of almost everything slouches against a wall and gives a low whistle as she walks through a door. She whirls.

"They let just about anyone in here anymore, don't they?" he asks, giving her an ironic salute. "A Death Eater? I'm Zacharias Smith, by the way"

Daphne doesn't even bother to correct him with 'ex Death Eater'. "They let just about anyone in here, do they?" she returns, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "A boorish Hufflepuff? I'm Daphne. Greengrass."

"Touché. I know who you are," he says, smiling (smirking) in a way that lets her know that he is quite aware of her current business exploits.

They actually manage to carry on a conversation for almost an hour, which surprises Daphne. Smith eventually ends it to go speak to another Hufflepuff (Abbott? Perhaps), but before he does, he passes Daphne his business card. She stares at it in befuddlement for all of two minutes before pocketing it.

No one else really talks to her that night (although the Weasley girl does attempt to strike up a conversation, and Potter does warn her against Draco breaking Weasley's heart, which she finds somewhat curious) apart from Draco. They leave early, by eleven o'clock, and Daphne is marginally surprised to note that Weasley doesn't leave with them. When she asks Draco, however, he says that "Gi-- Weasley will be coming over later, probably."

And Daphne tells him, "Honestly, Draco, call her Ginny or Ginevra or Gingerbread Man or whatever you want to call her around me; my delicate constitution won't be jeopardised by your using her first name."

"You have a delicate constitution?" Draco asks, sniggering a little as they reach their flat.

"Just like china," Daphne says, solemnly. "I shatter in the presence of heavy footsteps."

"You're some pretty crappy china," Draco informs her, pulling out a chair around their kitchen table and sinking into it. "Did you have fun at the party?"

"For all that everyone was gawking at my arm and not being exactly forthcoming with their conversations," Daphne murmurs, pouring a glass of milk, "I think I rather did." She's shocked to note the touch of truth in her statement, so she says it again: "I actually think I did."

"Good," Draco says, snagging Daphne's cup and swigging from it. "Good."

☼

There's another party, and another. Draco gets invited to all of them, Daphne to a good many, and even some of the others (other ex-Slytherins) go to one or another.

At the fifth party, Daphne finds herself alone in the room, in the sense that Draco's nowhere to be found. It's about a month since Weasley's party, and, were it not for Smith carrying on a conversation (mostly one-sided, really), she'd Apparate immediately back to their flat. "I'm sorry," she says, after a few minutes of not seeing Draco, interrupting a detailed -- there is no word for it other than 'lecture' -- on the merits of something Quidditch-related and dull. "I, um. I have to go home now."

"I see," Smith says, although it's quite plain he doesn't.

Daphne gives him an appraising glance. "You can come with me, if you want?"

"Oh, can I?" he asks, smiling lewdly at her. "I might just take you up on that."

☼

Daphne Apparates the two of them directly to the kitchen, then freezes as she hears something coming from Draco's room. "I think they're actually having sex!" she hisses, after listening a moment. "For once."

Smith shoots her something of a shocked look. "You mean they haven't bef -- no, no, I don't think I want the answer to that question."

"I think they forgot their Silencing spells," she continues, entirely oblivious to Smith's statement. "I'm going to go make sure they're, you know. Right now." She tiptoes down to Draco's room, and peeks through the keyhole, ignoring Smith's "voyeur much?" statement.

Weasley is entirely naked, and covered with freckles, and Draco isn't much better (he just doesn't have those freckles). They're sort of --Weasley's head is tilted back, almost over the edge of the bed, and she's biting her lips as Draco lowers himself onto her, into her, and it's oddly mesmerizing for something so entirely disturbing. Daphne's mouth is suddenly dry, and she licks her lips unconsciously, swallowing hard as Weasley lets go of Draco's coverlet to grab at his hair, before turning away. "Definitely doing it," she tells Smith, shakily, once she reaches the kitchen again. She sinks down into the closest chair immediately.

"Would you like to be?" Smith asks her, with absolutely no deliberation at all, and Daphne must look very shocked, because he follows this question up with, "Am I that startling?"

"Definitely not," she says, distractedly, trying to put Draco and Weasley out of her mind. "Startling, that is."

"And, so..." Smith sounds nonchalant, sounds like he expects, more than wants, Daphne to agree to this, but the way the corner of his mouth deepens for almost no time at all, the way he shifts his weight, the way he can't quite mask the pleading look in his eyes...

He's anxious, she realises, looking him over with a critical eye. He really wants this. And she says "yes."

The look of relief is brief indeed, quickly replaced with the same feigned nonchalance as before. "Do you want to...?"

"Not my room," Daphne says, quickly, because it's sort of a mess, and, really, she doesn't want anyone else in there if she can get away with it. "The, oh, the sofa?"

"Here?" he offers in return. "It could be..."

"Yes," she says, immediately, and he nods and strides forward, tugging her out of her chair (he's being gentler, already, than I'd have expected, she realises) and kissing her.

Smith is a surprisingly good kisser. He's the right blend of gentle and rough, of cautious and carefree, and Daphne wonders, briefly, if anyone he's kissed before has swooned. "You're bad for business," she murmurs when they pull apart for air.

"What do you mean?" he asks, tilting her chin up so she's looking at him. She's shocked by his expression: part concerned, part caring, and part (the familiar part, the part she always sees, the smallest part with him) wanting.

"Nothing," she says, hurriedly. "Why -- why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Smith -- Zacharias -- kisses her again, almost tenderly, and although Daphne's done this before, a hundred times before, she's never done this. Never with compassion. This is bad for business. When did Zacharias -- when did she start... caring?

He tucks a hank of her hair awkwardly behind an ear. "This isn't business; I'm not paying you."

"Yes, I know, I--" Daphne suddenly sees an opening, a way out of this, this thing, this feeling of awkwardness and tenderness and tension and affection. Louder, rolling her eyes a little, she says, "so why am I doing this?"

Zacharias lets go of her, completely, quickly, as if he's been stung. "If that's how you feel, then..."

"No," Daphne says, already missing him, already chiding herself for missing him. "I mean, please."

And there he is again, hands in her hair, a thumb wiping something from under her eye (she hasn't been crying, surely!), kissing her and kissing her, on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips. He's murmuring something like 'it's okay, it's okay, it's okay' between kisses, and she's wondering since when she needed reassurance and mollycoddling, like some sort of Hufflepuff, and he's laughing, so she must've said it out loud, and then he's pulling on her shirt and she's pulling away.

"We can go to my room," she says, "if you like."

Zacharias beams at her, but he says, "it's okay. Thank you, but it's okay," and he's lifting her up onto the table and pulling her knickers down and her skirt down and maybe all men are the same and this is no different than ever before, but when he straightens up to take off her shirt he kisses her again, and his hands are so gentle for someone so rushed, so maybe it is a little different.

And then suddenly she's entirely naked, except for a necklace and a ring and that tattoo on her arm. He freezes, staring, and she says, "I can hide it momentarily, if you like," but he shakes his head 'no' and kisses it, right where the snake is coming out of the mouth. He straightens once more, pulling the chopstick out of her (already quite mussed) hair, and it comes tumbling down, in her face and all over her shoulders, and he freezes.

"What is it?" she asks, concerned.

"You're beautiful."

☼

Initially, Daphne tries to protest this, but he kisses her again, and then she's unbuttoning his shirt and pulling on his shirt and it comes off with the last two buttons still buttoned (they clatter as they pop off), and he pulls his undershirt over his head as she unbuckles his belt and undoes his trousers. She pushes them down, mesmerised by the tented cotton of his boxer-briefs, and presses the palm of her hand to the tenting. He shivers, hooks his thumbs over the elastic and pushes them down, down, stepping out of them as she grips his cock, squeezes it gently, rubs her thumb over the head.

He gasps, pushes her hand away. "Don't do that," he whispers, voice cracking. "It'll be over too quickly."

Daphne nods, understanding -- she's had requests like this before, usually for good reason -- and he kisses her, not quite so gentle as before but still so tenderly it's almost a heartbreak. She pulls closer to him, spreading her legs out, and he drops lower, kissing down her torso, down, down, down...

He's fantastic, and it's fantastic, and he's humming and licking and nibbling a tiny, tiny bit, and she clenches the edge of the table in her hands, hard enough to imprint, to keep from being too loud, to keep from pulling his hair. After a few minutes of this, though, she has to kick him gently. When he looks up, she shivers at his expression (still the tenderness, still the wanting, and this time the wanting elicits a fluttering inside her -- something that has never happened before), and tells him, "same as you."

Zacharias understands. He straightens, kisses her again, pushes her hair behind her shoulders, and leans his forehead against hers. "Are you ready?" he whispers.

"I am," she tells him, so quietly she's surprised he can hear. Nudging her legs slightly wider, bracing himself with one hand on the table by her hips, one hand on her back, he pushes slowly in.

"This isn't my first time, you know," she reminds him, eyelashes fluttering at the sensation. "You don't have to be so careful."

"I want to," he replies, but he does start moving with less concern. "Oh god, I've wanted to do this since that first party."

And then she's thrusting against him, holding the edges of the table so tight it hurts as he drops his head to her shoulder and pushes into her, moves against her at a rhythm that's only slightly slower than hers. It's slightly erratic, at first, but when she lets go of the table and grabs his back, instead, they start moving together. After a minute, she realises he's saying something, and focuses on this to hear a steady stream of whispered curse words. I often have this effect on men, she's thinking, when she realises that a similar stream is coming from her mouth, and she pushes herself into his thrusts with renewed energy.

And then, it's over, and it could have been five minutes or fifteen and Daphne wouldn't know the difference -- Zacharias is gasping, "I'm, I'm..." and she knows what he means. She isn't done, not yet, but she's getting close. As he climaxes, Zacharias moves his hands and then suddenly he's touching her, rubbing her and pinching her and stroking her, and he slips a finger in as soon as he pulls out, and kisses her, hard enough to push her back (she'd be lying down if she weren't somehow propped up by his supporting hand and her grip on his shoulders, his back), and then -- maybe one minute later, maybe three -- she's there, too, and she comes with a swallowed curse (or was it a prayer?).

They kiss once more, before Zacharias collapses into a chair and Daphne pushes herself onto his lap.

☼

"Do you usually bring your clients home?" Zacharias asks fifteen minutes later, with a sort of exhausted curiosity.

"No," Daphne says, the word catching in her throat and coming out mostly a broken murmur. "And I don't usually ask them to stay."

"Are you asking me to?"

"I'm asking you to stay here with me for the rest of tonight. In my bedroom. And I'm asking you to stay with me for longer than that," Daphne says, biting her lip anxiously and looking down and away, averting her eyes from their nakedness, their puddled clothes.

"As in, as your boyfriend?" Zacharias asks, but he already knows the answer and the both know that he knows. He asks another question: "Will you find another line of work?"

Daphne doesn't answer, technically -- not with words, not with a nod, not with a shake of her head. She kisses him like it's a promise.

☼

"So is she going to be moving in?" Daphne asks Draco a week later, hands on the counter behind her, propping herself up.

Draco's head shoots up and he looks at her, shocked and smiling. "No," he says, straightening up slightly in his chair. "She's only just agreed to -- she's just now officially my girlfriend. Someday, maybe," and his smile turns private, "hopefully, yes. But for now, no. We're, um. Taking it slow."

"I noticed," Daphne says, dryly, and they both laugh, embarrassed.

"Smith?" Draco asks, once the laughter subsides.

"Is, um. A decent sort, if irredeemably Hufflepuff."

"And the two of you?"

Daphne shrugs, but her smile belies her feigned nonchalance.

"Good," Draco says, decisively. "I think he'll be good for you." He smirks as Daphne's eyes widen, as she stares at him. "Seriously."

Daphne laughs, amazed. "You've -- you've changed. I kind of like it. I don't think Blaise or Pansy would, but I do."

Draco cocks an eyebrow at her. "You've changed, too."

Daphne has nothing to say to this, because it's really kind of true. They stand -- and sit, in Draco's case -- in silence for awhile, before Draco stands abruptly. "How about you make us some of those disgustingly messy avocado sandwiches you love so much?"

"I'd love to," Daphne says, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle on her. "As long as you make us some of those shockingly carefully prepared eggs you seem to adore."

And as they move around the kitchen, truly in sync for the first time in a very long time, their eyes meet, and they smile those private, private smiles at each other, and for the first time in a very long time, they can truly read the secrets behind those smiles.