MetaFic

After completing my last post, the phrase that begins this drabble barged its way into my mind. So I decided the go with it. As usual, no betas were harmed in the writing of this fic.

There were no great deeds in the life of Harry Potter, at least in his view, only barriers to everything he'd hoped or dreamed about. There were no victories, only barely avoided disasters, and no grand plans only hunches which had paid off.

And behind him was no tale fit for a hero, but a series of deaths and destroyed lives, not the least of which was his own.

Somewhere, lost amongst the violence of the previous year, was a glimpse into the life he had never had. Several sunlit days in the otherwise dark and cloudy sky that was his life.

There, surrounded by her family, was the source of that sunlight. But unlike their brief time together, the fire that had burned so brightly in her had been damped by a year of hell at Hogwarts, and all but extinguished by the death of her brother.

Perhaps in the years to come there would be the opportunity to rekindle that flame. To reignite the cold embers before they became mere ashes scattered before the wind. With a sigh he turned away and sought a distraction that would enable him to leave her to her loss.

She can tell what is going through his mind. In his eyes he is no hero, only a boy who got lucky. Whose foe had underestimated him just enough to keep making enough mistakes to fail.

To her that did not matter. All that mattered was that it was over. That Tom was dead. The price, even the death of a brother, was painful but worth it. Even the months of humiliation and torture had been worth it. Nothing that the Carrows could have done could have compared to her first year. A body heals much quicker than a mind.

She might have been like something out of someone else's life, but to her it was not a one off, but merely a prologue to a longer tale. One which would be years in the making, one in which she would see again the smouldering passion in his eyes and the fire in her loins would be rekindled.

Before the ashes of her friends and family had been scattered, she would seek him out, making sure that he knew. Now may not be the time to re-forge their love, but one smile or hug or kiss would be the spark that was needed to make sure that, whilst not glowing brightly, the embers would not grow cold.

But afterwards…

There is no time to think, only to act. No time to wonder where a scar had come from or why she flinched when he touched her in a certain spot or why she is wearing such provocative underwear beneath robes of mourning.

No time to question or to ask why; only to return the hot kisses with equal passion.

She has led him, no dragged him, to a secluded spot, away from prying eyes and before he can get his bearings her nimble fingers are already creating a pool of discarded clothes around his feet.

She is ready to burst, to explode, the pain is unbearable. He is there but he is distant, loving but respectful. And she hates him for it, all the while loving him for his putting her needs first. But her needs are not for respect, for decorum or for control. They are for the exhilaration of a fast broom, the shock of a first Fire whiskey and the loss of control when he kisses her neck.

The words have been said, the tears cried, and there is no more, at least not today. She grabs his hand and pulls him away from the crowd of mourners that are filtering into The Burrow. She pulls him with her as she rests against the trunk of a nearby tree, grabbing his hand in hers and shoving it into the depths of her robes.

His is an exclamation of shock but hers is one of pleasure; his hand is reticent but hers is insistent, and whereas hers is pleading his voice is questioning.

"No, Ginny," he says, finally. "Not here, not now."

"Okay," she replies, allowing his dampened fingers to withdraw from their forced caresses.

He is so surprised by her acquiescence and so misses the determined look in her eyes. She grabs his hand and leads him away from the house enjoying his confusion and the touch of his pomaded fingers as they entwine.

They reach her spot, her hiding place where she cried out the pain of her first year. Before he can open his mouth to question her, she is hard at work removing the barriers to her desire, bringing him to a point where he can't say 'no'.

Even in his dumbfounded state he is not so confused as to fail to act. She has brought him to the point where desire has overtaken reason and he no longer needs encouragement to follow when she sinks back into the long grass.

He has no thought in his mind other than to take her. No guilt over the timing or the setting. As a dry and thirsty soul longs for water so his whole being wants only to make her fully his. There is no subtly in his actions, only power. No careful consideration of her needs, only a desperate fulfilling of his. As his blood pounds in his ears he is deaf to her exclamations of pain and pleasure.

Her warm folds excite him in a way her fingers never could. No intimate kiss could ever have prepared him for such as this. As it becomes too much he is consumed by an exquisite pain. He calls out her name as he does so in a desperate attempt to express his love.

Her eyes can now see what she had imagined and felt earlier. It is proudly pointing towards her offering itself to her and, to remove all lingering doubt, she lets her fingers remind it and its owner that there is no going back.

A soft groan lets her know he has understood before she sinks to the ground, the last button of her robes undone.

She has no desire for subtlety, only power. The need to feel him take her is overwhelming. Many have tried to conquer her and failed. She has resisted all, but now she is ready to surrender, to give the most precious thing she has to the only man who would ever be worthy of it.

The pain of his penetration is as nothing when compared to the depth of the loss she felt when he hung limply in Hagrid's arms, her pleasure many times greater than her joy at his victory.

She cannot help but smile as he begins to lose control. It is she who has brought him to this point; an experience so alien to him that his face betrays his confusion as well as his pleasure.

There is no climax for her but her satisfaction is complete as he slumps against her, his desire fulfilled.

"I hurt you." It is a simple statement brought on by the small showing of blood that decorates her inner thighs. The word 'again' hangs unspoken between them.

"Not this time," she replies.