Dangerous game | By : JaniS Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 9180 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
“What
will we do?
What
will we say?
When is
the end of this game that we play?
Will we
crumble into the dust, my friend?
Or will
we start this game over again?”
Late at night in number 12 Grimmauld
Place, the hallway was all blurry and awkwardly long under the yellowish feeble
glow of the dusty bulb, and Harry Potter thought he might have lost his glasses
somewhere in his way down the stairs.
His navy blue t-shirt was stained with a heavy looking substance. He
rested all his weight against one of the walls and inhaled deeply; the
intoxicating smell of fire whiskey filled his nostrils and he had to close his
eyes tightly not to throw up.
His shoulder caressed the unstuck wallpaper of the living room wall and
he stumbled on one of the chairs that stood solitary by the fire place, landing
flat on the carpet; his back hitting the floor with a loud ‘thud’.
He lay there for a while and focused on the shadows that decorated the
room, making the furniture’s ends stand out on weird angles.
“Wotcher Harry! Are u ok?” a female voice echoed through the air and it
sounded miles away. He managed to sit up and the world spun so fast around him
that he fell back again and breathed hard.
“Tonks?”
She was kneeling beside him but the
alcohol had messed the young boy’s senses so much that he had to reach out to
make sure she was there.
“Ouch!” He must had hit her nose accidentally because she was holding it
now in her hand with what looked like a pained expression.
“Sorry…” he murmured. She pressed her lips in a thin line and run her
hand across the wet stain on his shirt.
“Have u been drinking, again?” and it was not a question more than a
firm statement.
Her hair was pink and curly, and cascaded down her shoulders sticking to
her bed-sweaty skin.
She seized him up slowly and sometime along those brief seconds
something must had gone horribly wrong because all of a sudden his lips were on
hers, inexperienced and demanding, and wet and oh-so-soft… she moaned and
pushed him back down.
His caresses were bold as no normal 15-year-old boy’s should be; but
then again, Harry Potter had never been a regular teenage boy.
“Harry, not again, you’re very drunk”.
“Please… just… I need it…”
“No. We’ll get caught!”
“Please…”
Late at night in number 12 Grimmauld
Place, a crash of china was heard, followed by a moan of defeat and heavy
breathing.
Remus Lupin walked down the old staircase with his wand tightly clutched
in his hand. Down in the living room it was all quiet words and nervous
whispers, and ‘shhh, keep quiet’ and ‘oh, they’ll hear us’; and a wizard closed
his eyes determined to finish the intruders.
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