Ginny/Fleur, Sept. 4, '04

[mandarinjazz]

It's a year of late snow when Ginny goes to France. She can't explain the heat that rises in her belly when she dreams of Paris in springtime and Delaroche's ladies reclining on Louvre canvasses – paintings, the one Muggle pleasure that did not cross worlds. The Burrow is hollow, anyway, devoid of the usual Weasley laughter – Arthur dead and Molly dying, Bill and Charlie buried somewhere in Rumania, killed bleeding Voldemort's dragons. She tosses restlessly in her bed alone on moonlit nights, bites her lip when the echoes of friends she used to smile with whisper through her nightmares. Beauxbatons will be a welcome transfer, she thinks, the farther distanced from her inheritance the better.

*

It's a fine morning, and Ginny's up early, as is her custom. This is a new custom since she became Auror. No more Hogwarts boys chasing her slim hips and putting their mouths through her brown tangles late at night in unlocked prefect's bathrooms – no more mischief. It is a surprise when she sees Fleur Delacor on the grass, bright white bangs flaying over slender shoulders, and – when she peers closer – half-naked, browning in the new day's sun. Fleur's eyes are closed and though Ginny hasn't seen her in many years, her breath still catches at the porcelain face, the gently sloped cheek, the- gulping, she clutches her trousers and turns to leave.

"Wait."

The word is silky but firm, and Ginny faces her.

"Come closer. I know you."

"I was at- Hogwarts-" Ginny's face blushes and dimples, and she hides her eyes from the other woman. Fleur's eyes are at half-slits, but she looks quite asleep from a distance. Bits of green travel quickly down Ginny's figure, which has perhaps become a bit slenderer because of Auror training, but certainly frumpier as a result of reordered priorities. Ginny swallows and licks her lips slowly.

"You are a sister, yes?" she says, her thick accent obscuring the timbre of her words. Ginny shivers, instantly affected – it's been years since she's tasted girls, but she knows she does like the glistening dew on Fleur's thighs. Fleur sighs heavy. "I was a sister."

Ginny looks down, cheeks flushing hot red. "Oh," she says. She knows the next two words don't ever help, but she says them anyway- a mechanical courtesy. "I'm sorry."

"You're barely a sister now, I think." A sigh. She places her sunglasses back over her eyes – conversation over? There's a tingling between Ginny's thighs that she knows quite well. She walks closer, bends down, peers sideways at Fleur's finely sculpted cheeks. Does she remember – that night –

Fleur raises her head, a quick motion, and takes Ginny's mouth, a quick and greedy exploration. Ginny's eyes widen and her breathing sharpens, but she eagerly kisses back. "You are like a painting-" Ginny gasps when she has a chance, but Fleur's fingers are already at her blouse, popping buttons anxiously. The sun warms Ginny's breasts and Fleur puts her hands on them, gently fondling. "One of those Muggle paintings at the Louvre-"

"I am not a Muggle," Fleur growls impatiently, kissing Ginny's throat and suckling the bones forming her shoulder. Ginny finds herself flush against Fleur's chest, reaches impatient fingers downward only to find that Fleur's only piece of clothing is a raffeta wrap skirt, easily torn off. She thrusts her hand between Fleur's legs, exploring, groping, taking pleasure in Fleur's sharp hisses. Fleur puts a hand on Ginny's buttocks underneath her thin cotton skirt and squeezes tight with her knuckles pressed firm. Ginny gasps and widens her eyes. Fleur sucks her nipples until they tighten and traces kisses slowly down her stomach. Ginny gasps when a finger and a sharp nail traces through her thighs. "I've missed you," she says quietly into her dewy skin.

"Ginny!" The voice calls from a distance.

Ginny pants sharply and raises her head. Fleur moans and brings her hips closer, impatiently kneading the white skin. The voice again, Ron's voice: "Ginny! I know you're here!" Ginny curses and scrambles off Fleur, rushing to buckle her skirt and tie her blouse with the belt she can't find. She stuffs Fleur's skirt back over her hips, but Fleur forces her fingers to remain between her thighs- nervous and twitching, flicking.

"There you are!" Ron doesn't smile when he sees her, but his face brightens. Ginny can't remember the last time Ron smiled. Ron's still learning to walk with one leg- there are some things even magic can't fix- and half of his stomach is tangled with dragon burns. Ginny's breath hitches.

"Ron?" she says. Fleur frowns and looks away. Both sisters, Ginny remembers with a lump in her throat. She also remembers her assignment here, ever since the foul-up she created in Shetland. Ron needs fresh air and warm sun- easy days and a girl to bathe him each morning. He nearly went mad in St. Mungo's.

"Dumbledore's here," he says, and his eyes are empty and placid. "Wants you." He turns his back, hobbles away. Ginny watches his back until his figure shrinks into the distance. She removes her hand from Fleur's thighs and flexes her fingers, wipes her hands on her robes. Fleur's taste lingers on her mouth and then disappears. She flicks her tongue across her lips, but she can't seem to regain it. Fleur touches her shoulder – rough. Ginny looks at her face. Her eyes are hard like metal, her mouth small and tight. She closes her eyes and removes the cloth that covers her breasts.

"The museum," she says. "Meet me there. You can explain-"

Ginny shakes her head, puts her fingers on Fleur's mouth. She can feel the beating of her heart. She could fall in love – she could. But she will not. She rises to her feet.

"Art," Fleur whispers when Ginny has her back turned.

"No time for art," she says quietly, drooping her eyes. "More important things to worry about."

As soon as she is some distance across the lawn, she turns her head and watches the sun twinkle over Fleur's languid body. She chokes and she thinks she probably should not have said that. But war fills her head and she returns to the school, head bowed in time for Dumbledore's presence.



1,017 words.. unedited.. R or NC-17 ish