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Once, after she had given herself to him entirely, Ginny awoke to him standing over her. His eyes a shade darker than she’d ever seen them, and with the moon casting shadows through their bedroom’s slatted binds, he looked more frightening and alluring than Ginny had ever thought he could. “Harry,” she whispered, “come back to bed.” He blinked, and then curled a hand over his cheek as if ashamed, then moved to lie next to her. Ginny felt strangely frightened when he pulled back the covers and spooned up against her body, wrapped his arms about her waist and drew her tightly against his chest. She felt her breath quicken when he tangled their legs together beneath the sheets and in turn responded passively to his kisses. Even when he dragged his teeth ever-so-lightly over her nipples she kept still. Then he had stopped. “Ginny?” He asked softly in the darkness. “Is there something wrong?” His soft voice was highlighted with concern. It was made obvious in the wrinkle of his brow, marking his him with his worry for her and obscuring the scar. The sweetness of his voice felt alien. “No, nothing’s wrong, darling,” she smiled at him from the pillows, her hair splayed red on white over the sheets. His body cast her in shadow as he leant over her. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it, but even after 12 years of acquaintance, friendship and eventually love. Ginny didn’t believe him. “I know you are.” The clouds shifted then and covered the moon. She let him kiss her. |