Disclaimer: I do not own HP.
A/N: This story is a one-shot broken into a few pieces. It is rated Mature for a reason and does contain sexual content. You have been warned.
If only he’d knocked! If he hadn’t panicked when he heard the sound of shattering glass, if he hadn’t rushed in so quickly, he might have never known about them. He might have never seen the two of them, together.Long, pale legs wrapped around his waist, her weight leveraged on the slight curve of his bare buttocks, her ankles white as they tightly held her body in place, all so that she could push herself up higher, make her wet back stick to the wall for that fraction of a second. She plunged down onto him with a gasp.
At the same time, the blond wizard grunted, shoving against the baby blue painted plaster in a wild, animalistic thrust. Together they worked, repeating themselves, steadily, as if they were made for those very movements.
Ginny moaned, arching her back, red hair sticking to her forehead, breasts bouncing into the man’s face, ready to be pampered by Draco Malfoy’s gracious mouth. . . .
Harry blinked the memory away, feeling his face flush in embarrassment and rage. He’d went to see Ginny, ask her if she wanted to go out for a bit of lunch before her shift at the hospital. When he’d heard a commotion, he’d forgotten to even knock, barging in as his tough life had always taught him to do in a situation. He’d entered the flat without a word, automatically turning to look into the slightly opened door to the witch’s bedroom.Oh, Merlin—why did I have to try to play the hero? Why couldn’t I have called for her at the bloody front door like a normal man?
Ginny, thankfully, hadn’t noticed her ex-boyfriend, and Harry had been able to slip back out of the girl’s flat without disturbing the entangled duo. Still, the wizard couldn’t shake that erotic imagery. He didn’t honestly know who he was angrier at: Ginny, Malfoy, or himself.This shouldn’t bother me so much! What Ginny does in her spare time is none of my damned business. Who Ginny does is, likewise, none of my business. . . . Oh, but for heaven’s sake! Draco-fucking-Malfoy? He was a school bully (once upon a time), a Death Eater (before he reformed and became an auror), and a married man! STILL Married! What sort of potion was she drinking?
Ginny wasn’t the type who would have an affair. Was she? No, not his Ginny, Harry was sure. So then, why was she sleeping with Malfoy? It didn’t make sense. It just wasn’t right!
Harry let out a frustrated breath he’d obviously been holding for some time. He told himself to calm down. Hadn’t he told himself a thousand times in the past ‘as long as Ginny’s, happy, I don’t care who she dates’? Right. That didn’t include Malfoy, apparently.
Head resting in his palms, Harry muttered out an impressive string of curses before looking up again. No. He wouldn’t be able to stay angry, not at something like this. He’d knocked the jealousy bug long ago, when he’d noted Gin playing intense footsy with a Latino wizard at a lunch outing. After all, Harry and Ginny had only dated a few months after the fall of Voldemort. They quickly realized that they didn’t make a great couple—they were friends, and that was all they’d ever be. Harry was fine with that. In fact, he’d dated some in the three years since, though not as much as the fiery, attractive red-head.
Still. . . .
Harry had thought he and Ginny had made splendid love the few times they’d been together, but everything had been so missionary. When had Ginny learned to use her body like that? Obviously, he had not been part of her education. He shuttered to think that the pose might be something from Draco’s book. . . .Or maybe he and Gin had simply never had that kind of passion. That could have been the answer.I can’t think about this anymore—if I do, I’ll go mad.
Instead, the wizard sat down, picking up a stack of mail off of this breakfast table. Hedwig and a post owl had came by earlier and dropped off several letters. Harry leafed through them lazily: a bill for his flat rent, a request for an interview in some witch magazine, an invite to Bill’s daughter’s birthday party, a postcard from Ron (Japan’s great but damned expensive! Hermione and I are having a great time blah blah blah), a newspaper, and, lastly, a sealed note with his name across it.
Harry picked up the suspicious letter, raising a brow at its green wax seal. It was an elaborate ‘M’. Oh, Merlin, this can’t be happening. The wizard’s eyes widened when he broke it open and began reading the folded parchment.‘Dear Mr. Potter,
You are cordially invited to attend a private dinner at Malfoy Manor with Mrs. Pansy Malfoy. Serving will take place promptly at nine pm. Dress is casual.’
There was an insignia at the bottom that Harry noted as a house elf symbol. That was certainly odd. Mrs. Malfoy, previously Pansy Parkinson, was inviting him to a private meal? In Harry’s mind, that could mean only one thing. Oh, Merlin, she knows her husband’s having an affair! She must know about Ginny—that’s why she’s calling on me, to confirm it. I’m screwed!
Harry thought about making up some excuse. Hell, he barely needed a reason ‘not’ to go to the Malfoy estate. Still, he realized that if this was about Ginny, he should be there, for her defense as much as anything.
With a groan, he picked up a quill off of the counter.I accept
, he wrote with a flourish and whistled for Hedwig.