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The first time Ron takes his hand and places it lightly on his lower stomach, Harry nearly jerks his fingers away in shock. Then they settle more heavily on warm, taut skin, brushed with soft—Red? Harry wonders—peach-fuzz. Then Harry finds that he likes the gentle movement of Ron’s stomach beneath his hand. Up and down with the outtake and intake of breath, steady of a pendulum or the beating of his own heart. Harry likes the way Ron feels alive and so close. And so. So incredibly tangible. Ron doesn’t say anything. He just keeps on breathing and keeps on talking, and one of his own hands begins to stroke the back of Harry’s palm in long, strokes with blunt bitten fingernails. Hermione falls asleep in the Prefect’s bathroom. Her head slumps down the rim just to the point where her chin touches the surface of the water.
He chanted softly: “Your heart in my hands, your soul bled through your skin and into my own, and your mind—” Ginny giggled before she could stop herself. Tom met her eyes with his cool, burgundy ones and glared. She stifled her laughter and smoothed her skirt one-handed. Tom raised a ghostly eyebrow. “Sorry, it’s just….” She trailed off uneasily. “Just what, Ginny?” Tom shook his head and glanced down at her arm where he was drawing the delicate pattern of the Dark Mark with his fine hand. The skull was nearly done, and the snake protruding from its gaping mouth was just beginning to take shape. “It tickles,” she finished sheepishly. “It tickles?” He mimicked her. “I could make it burn, sting like a thousand wasp needles on this creamy skin of yours.” Tom clutched her arm more tightly and as if to prove his point, let his nails dig just-so into her skin. Ginny stopped herself before she pulled her arm from his grasp, or even grimaced. Instead she closed her eyes, took in the musky scent of him that seemed to come and go with the breeze and didn’t permeate her clothes like she always hoped it would after he held her. End |