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Love On The Rock	By : sheherazade Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 7113 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of his heirs or successors or anything to do with him. I earn nothing from this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
I bundle her out of the door, across the road and into the crooked maze of streets that sit between the hill and the shore, climbing up the cliff to the quarries atop. She tries to speak but I shush her immediately, waiting until we are safely out of sight of the inn before pulling her against me and apparating away, just as far as one of the more obscure quarries.
We come to land in a shallow crater. It is almost completely dark now and we will need to tread very carefully if we are not to come a cropper up here. Perhaps I should have chosen a different venue. Perhaps I should have chosen a different course of action completely. Why on earth have I brought Ruby with me? Why didn’t I obliviate her with the others? What am I going to do now? Where am I going to go? I need to think and I sink down on the ground, my head in my hands. Ruby is hyperventilating gently beside me. It is most distracting.
“Can you calm down, Ruby?” I snap.
She forgets to breathe for a second. “Calm down?” she echoes shrilly.
“Keep the noise down,” I grit. “We will be heard.”
Her very presence is a self-reproach. What has happened to my circumspection? I will have us both arrested or killed if I don’t regain my composure.
“What?...How?...Who are you?” she wails, running her tiny hands through her hair.
I take them and hold on to them tightly.
“Ruby, now is not the time for lengthy explanations. I need to think of a way to get us to a place of safety. Or at least, to get me to a place of safety. You are free to go home whenever you choose. You may go now if you wish, if I have your word that you will not speak of this to anyone.” I look at her queryingly. “Do I?”
“I don’t want to go home,” she says quietly at length. “I want to stay with you.”
Bloody marvellous.
I bury my head in my hands again and consider my options. I cannot go back to the flat; even if Dawlish hasn’t recovered yet, no doubt the place is under surveillance. So I have no access to a floo connection. I have no owl with which to contact the Malfoys. I could apparate somewhere…but where? Nowhere is safe for me. My last resort – which I would vastly prefer to avoid – is to contact Voldemort directly by means of my Dark Mark. No, there must be an alternative. I just need space and time to think…
“I have nowhere to go,” I think aloud. “I can’t leave this rock without the Dark Lord’s permission…but I can’t go back to my living quarters…”
Ruby is listening to my muttering and she puts a hand on my arm. “I know a place,” she says gently.
I stare at her. “You know a place?” I echo idiotically.
“Yeah. A place where you can go tonight. It’s safe; nobody would guess you were there. You could stay there as long as you like.”
“Is it far?”
“A mile or so.”
I stand. “Then lead the way.”
“I…I’m not sure where we are. I can’t get my bearings.”
I light the tip of my wand and cast it around in the silent gloom. After adjusting, my eyes can make out distant earth-moving equipment, the outlines of some houses and, much further away, a flashing light.
“Oh, right, that’s the lighthouse. Head towards it.”
I take her hand and tread carefully, mindful of the uneven terrain and the ever-present danger of falling into a deep pit. We stumble along until we reach the perimeter fence, which is easily negotiated. Ruby directs me down the road, which I am unwilling to follow, as it is too public and well-lit, but after she has made a quick detour to the Eight Kings tavern, where she buys wine and snack foods, she takes us off into the fields again.
I raise my eyebrow at her purchases. I hope she doesn’t think she is spending the night with me. As soon as she has taken me to this safe place, I am sending her home.
“What did you buy?” I ask as we stagger blindly on through long grass and over stiles.
“Wine. Crisps. Pork scratchings.”
“Pork scratchings. How…proletarian.”
“Hey, that’s not nice.”
Damn, she understood. I thought words of more than two syllables were safe territory. “You aren’t completely illiterate then?” I note.
“We did Nineteen Eighty Four at school. The proles were the masses, weren’t they?”
“The great unwashed. Yes.”
“I’m not unwashed!”
“No, of course not. But I thought you were a vegetarian.”
“Well, I am, but…you know. Pork scratchings. Yummy.”
I cannot agree and am about to say so when the she drags my hand sharply down, causing me to lose my footing. A howl of pain issues from her lips.
“What are you doing?” I ask irascibly.
“I’ve…I think I’ve….done something to my ankle,” she gasps out effortfully. Perfect.
“Can you walk?”
“I’m not sure…I’ll put my weight…ahhhh…ooooooh…..”
I will take that as a no, then.
Heaving a sigh that must be audible in the mainland, I bend and lift her into my arms. She clasps her hands around my neck and whispers, “Sorry, Sir.”
It is fortunate she is such a featherweight; I frequently carry books heavier than her. “Do we continue in the same direction?”
“Yes, just head for the lighthouse.”
Ten silent minutes later, we are almost upon the Bill and she points out a row of wooden beach huts by the cliff. “Over there,” she says. “One of those belongs to my grandad.”
“Does he go there often?”
“Hardly; he died two years ago. The place hasn’t been used since, except by me and my mates in the summer.”
“I see.”
We halt in front of a green-painted wood shack and Ruby fishes a key from her handbag and gives it to me. The padlock snaps open and we enter.
Though it is tiny, it is comfortably appointed with a small table and chair and a makeshift bed of sleeping bags piled up in the corner. Cushions are scattered on the floor and, although there is a musty, disused smell, the place seems adequately clean. Keeping my wand lit, I deposit Ruby on the quilt covered bed and cast around for a more serviceable source of illumination, eventually finding an oil lamp and a box of tealights.
My next action is to take one of the packets of crisps from Ruby’s bag and put a freezing spell on it. I hand it to my patient and advise her to press it against her ankle; presumably it is sprained rather than broken. She applies it, closing her eyes painfully, while I set to opening the wine and pouring us a mug each. Then I take a cover off one of the cushions, tear it into strips and use one to bandage Ruby’s ankle. She sits obediently still while I tend to her, staring silently at me with eyes so full of questions I have to look away. When I have finished, I hand her a mug of wine and go to sit at the table, brooding on my lot. I can hear the roar and swell of the sea on the rocks outside, but other than that, there is no noise at all.
Ruby breaks the silence after a long draught of her wine. “Can I ask you a question?”
I want to reply in the negative, but I suppose she is owed some form of explanation, so I merely look over in her direction. Pale as she is, her mascara smudged under one eye and her hair flopping stupidly over her brow, she strikes me as unaccountably beautiful. Why is this beautiful girl here with me?
“Are you…real?” she asks in a very muted voice, her eyes like saucers. “Is this actually happening? Or am I…is it…?” She gasps for breath and there are tears spilling from the sides of her eyes. What on earth is the matter with her?
“It isn’t a dream, if that’s what you think,” I say morosely. “More like a nightmare.”
“No…I just thought…I might be getting ill again…I’ve only been out for a few weeks…”
I put my mug of wine down heavily on the table. Ruby was ‘away’ in a psychiatric institution. She has been treated for a mental illness. Of course she will have these doubts. I melt at her distress, join her on the bed and take her hands in mine.
“Ruby, you are not experiencing a psychotic episode, if that is your fear.”
She nods miserably. I brush the tears from her cheeks.
“I thought I was going mad again. Proper mad, this time, not just the cutting and wanting to die.”
“Oh Ruby.” I should tell her at least something. My options are: (1) to tell her nothing (2) to tell her everything and then obliviate her (3) to tell her everything and trust her.
What am I thinking? Trust? I don’t trust anybody. But I cannot tell her nothing. I have a sudden urge to unburden, to tell somebody all the things I have never been able to say to anybody, except Dumbledore. Before I killed him, that is.
Deep breath. “Ruby, you can ask me anything about what you have seen tonight. I will answer you truthfully. I may have to make you forget afterwards but… I hope I won’t have to do that.” It occurs to me even as I speak that Ruby cannot repeat what I tell her anyway; she will be back in the asylum quicker than you can say ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.
“I won’t tell a soul, I swear,” she whispers to me, her eyes shining and so full of faith it…what?...frightens me, I think. “What is that stick thing?”
“It’s my wand.”
She whoops with slightly hysterical laughter. “What, your magic wand? Have you got a pointy hat with stars and moons on too?”
“No, Ruby, I do not possess such an item. If, however, you mean to imply that I am a wizard, then yes, that is the case.”
“Get out! There’s no such thing as wizards.”
“I cannot agree with you. Has what you saw tonight made no impression on you?”
She shakes her head, sobering up. “Hmm, it was the weirdest… You shot that guy with a laser beam. And I don’t know what you did to Pinkie and his mates. And then…how did we get from Underhill to the Quarry? And…everything. OK, maybe you are a wizard. Where do you come from?”
“I am from a magical realm that exists in parallel to your world.”
“So why aren’t you there?”
By the time the bottle is finished, I have told her all she wants to know. The war, my spying career, the Order of the Phoenix, the Death Eaters, the killing of Dumbledore and its implications, Hogwarts, Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.
“So you can’t go back…and you can’t stay here,” she sums up with a yawn, draining the last drop of wine.
“This is my quandary,” I affirm. By now we are leaning against the wall and I appear to be stroking one of her hands.
“You could stay here with me,” she sighs dreamily. “I wouldn’t let them touch you.”
I take a sharp breath and stand up again. “I don’t imagine you’d have much say in the matter,” I admonish, pacing over to the table. I need some time to think. “Get some sleep, Ruby. It is nearly midnight.”
“You’ll need sleep too.”
“Unlikely tonight. I need to clear my head, Ruby, and make some kind of plan. Please try to sleep.”
She huffs and lies down, turning to face the wall. I take stock of her while she is not looking at me, distracted by the way her tight black velvet dress clings to the curve of her hip and delineates her bottom. I could touch her. She would want me to.
But I have to think. I tear my eyes away and keep them resolutely fixed on the small formica-topped table. I could apparate to the Malfoys. It is likely to be watched, but if I turn up inside, nobody need know. The Dark Lord will not be impressed, though…can I afford to go against his explicit order? My credit from killing Dumbledore should still be high, but all the same…. One should never second guess the response of Voldemort. It seems I must contact him directly. Activate the Mark and await his instruction. I will not be sorry to be gone from this desolate place.
Ruby stirs and I emerge from my contemplative stew to watch her. Confused little Muggle. If I leave, will she marry Pinkie? The thought chills my blood. There is nothing to be done, though. What can I offer her? Danger, uncertainty, pain.
She turns her head to me and struggles to focus. “Come and lie next to me,” she wheedles hoarsely. “I’m cold.”
It is past two, and I suppose I could try to rest until sunrise. I sit down on the bed, remove my shoes and stretch out beside her. I hope she does not think I am going to… she nuzzles her head into my shoulder. “I’m freezing,” she reiterates.
I take my wand and run it down the centre of her torso, uttering an ‘Aesto’ to send warmth through her body. “Oh my, that’s magic!” she exclaims.
“Indeed.”
“But I’d rather just…” She wriggles under my arm so her head is between my shoulder and my chest, stray blonde strands tickling my chin. I am torn by urges to both push her away and pull her closer. I compromise, wrapping my arm around her and bringing my hand up to fidget with her hair. Contented little noises issue from her throat. She feels so warm against my side. I am unaccustomed to it. We drift into sleep.
*
I wake again an hour or so later. My watch, by the flickering light of two remaining candles, reads just after four. The sun will rise shortly after six.
I try to move Ruby’s head, which is deadening my left arm, shrugging her down as gently as I can. I don’t want to wake her. But wake she does, lifting her head with a confused exclamation followed by a wince of pain as she remembers her sprained ankle. She looks down at me, then, extraordinarily, she smiles and runs her fingers down the side of my face, smoothing down my hair. “I’ve dreamed about waking up with you,” she says softly, and there is a breaking of will I can almost hear as I pull her down to me and crush her lips against mine.
She tastes of red wine and licorice; the threat of nicotine is faint enough not to repulse me, and the yielding sweetness of her lips would trump that anyway. I clamp a hand into her hair, ensuring that she cannot escape my explorations, and use my other arm to scoop her little body hard into me. She has her hands on my shoulders, pressing her fingers into my neck, urging me to continue, deeper and stronger, to nip with my teeth and seek access with my tongue to further recesses. I feel drunk with the sensuality of it; there is a sense of allowing years of inhibition to depart from me through the portal of this kiss. I am like an arthritic man whose gnarled limbs suddenly straighten and function again. I will allow myself to want her. I will allow myself to…love her.
We kiss for a long time, concentrating only on that point of intense communion between us, until our lips are swollen and sore and she has blotchy red patches on her chin from my stubble. Even so, I see no reason to stop unless it is to pursue the situation to a crisis. My conscience intimates that I should draw back but my cock will not have it. I am rampant with need for her, my hands are wandering from her hair and her back to the wilder shores of her hips and her breasts, my lips depart from hers to suck at her succulent neck. I admire the marks I leave on that pale flesh and my urges consume me, flinging all other considerations aside.
I remove her dress and feast my eyes on what lies beneath; her slight but womanly form in red satin underwear and fishnet stockings. Wide-eyed innocent playing vamp. Gods. My Achilles heel. She takes my hand and guides it to the contents of her bra, the little minx. Not that I am averse to taking a handful of this abundance. Nipping delicately at her throat and collarbone, I manhandle the breasts from their cups and prod and pinch at the nipples until they are quite rigid. The time has come to taste them.
Her moans indicate that I am giving pleasure, and I notice that her eager little fingers are working blindly at the buttons of my shirt, then pitter-pattering across my chest and around my back. I arch up and let the garment slide down my arms and on to the bed, falling back on to her overworked lips for another ravenous kiss, rendered even more pleasurable by the play of the air and her body on my naked skin and the increasing awareness of her female aroma.
I unclasp her bra and throw it aside, then I kneel up above her and run my eyes over her shivering form. “Is this what you want, Ruby?” I need clarification.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes it is. I want you. Please don’t stop. Nice tattoo, by the way.”
Ideally this scenario would proceed at a leisurely pace with long, lascivious stretches devoted to each step on the journey towards our sexual destination. But the situation is not ideal. Time is not on my side and neither is the thirsty surge of testosterone pounding through me. I am fighting a losing battle. I need to have her, and I need to have her approximately now.
I tear off her knickers, cursing under my breath at the fiddly suspender snaps and cursing again at my momentary forgetfulness of her sprained ankle which results in a shriek of pain from her.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter urgently, spreading her thighs and taking in the view, all the more breathtaking for my long absence from such a vista. I part the folds with fingers that still seem to know what they should do…it’s like riding a bicycle, I think irrelevantly, though hopefully she will prove more responsive than that mode of transport. I concentrate on preparing her for me, though she appears to need little in the way of additional stimulus judging by the slippery wetness that coats my fingertips from first contact. A little cry of “Oh yes” brings a smile to my lips; I leave one thumb on her engorged clit and use the fingers of my other hand to probe her passage, which is tight, hot and very, very lubricated. Perfect. She is ready.
I remove my lower garments and snake back up her body until our eyes meet again. Hers are wide with apprehension. “You’re huge,” she explains haltingly. I chuckle and kiss the tip of her nose.
“I thought you liked a little pain,” I tease and she inhales fearfully. “Don’t be afraid, Ruby. You will be full, but I promise I won’t hurt you.” She relaxes, and submits willingly to my further possession of her lips. I tilt her body slightly to take any uncomfortable weight from her ankle and line our pelvises up so that the head of my cock rubs against her small entrance, easing it gently forward while we kiss. Then I take her wrists and pin them above her head…Gods, how the sight inflames me…while I slide slowly into her tight….hot…wet…sleeve. It feels too good. It can’t be true.
“How does that feel?” I whisper to her, breaking off from the stinging kiss I have silenced her with.
“Oh, it feels…so full. I’ve never been stretched this much before. But it doesn’t really hurt…it’s…good.”
“Take it all, Ruby,” I command, packing myself in to the hilt and staying still for a few seconds while she adjusts to my size. Her eyes are drugged with desire and I cannot take it slowly; not while she looks at me in that way. I move rapidly into a fierce rhythm of bumping and grinding, taking her with as much force as I can without hurting her, but wanting to show her affection at the same time. I plant frenzied, nippy kisses around her face, neck and shoulders, and she returns the favour, taking my lower lip between her teeth and sucking on it until I think it may bleed. Oh gods. Why have I left it so long and so late? Why didn’t I take her the day she walked into my office? I could have had her in so many ways, in so many places… Best not to picture them or I may not last much longer…
I can feel her little body twisting sensuously beneath me and it is almost too much to bear. I release her wrists, realising as I do so that I have been gripping them far too hard; she bears red marks that will bruise tomorrow. She keeps them obediently above her head and I use my hands to lift her bum towards me, deepening my penetration of her so she has no possible means of eluding my powerful thrusts.
It is a considerable relief to me when, after a few minutes of merciless pounding at this new angle, I begin to feel the contraction of her inner walls. Her time is near; indeed I have never known a woman to be able to take more than a few minutes of this position before crashing into orgasm. I speed up accordingly, wanting nonetheless to prolong this exquisite friction, already regretting that it will finish, but knowing I do not have such iron self-control that I can hold myself back for more than half a minute now.
When her cries of completion reach my ears…(‘Oh Professor, fuck me, fuck me hard’, quite a turn-on in itself)…I allow myself to tumble madly over the edge, spinning into space with a parting moan of “Ruuuuuubyyyyyyyy”. I am bewitched. By a Muggle.
“Are you sure you’re not a witch?” I ask her afterwards. She is gazing up at me…adoringly. I am bewildered, but not displeased. At least she will have a good memory of me. She stretches langourously, like a cat and yawns.
“No, but you’re definitely a wizard. That was…magic.”
“I wanted to make it last longer…but you had a deleterious effect on my stamina. You should be less…desirable, Ruby. That is my advice to you.”
She laughs. Then she says, “I love you.” I tense. I have to leave her, and she is not making it easy for me. Turning my face to her, I brush stray hairs from her forehead and look at her gravely.
“You should not love me, Ruby. There isn’t a future for us. But for what it’s worth, if things were different…I would take you with me.”
She shuts her eyes and buries her face in my side. How long have I got? I can’t go to sleep now. But I do have time to take her once more, slowly and gently this time.
So that is my course.
*
At six o’clock, she is asleep. A flicker of tenderness crosses my face as I contemplate her exhausted, replete little body, arm flung out across the bed, face flushed, the scent of our exertions still upon her. I know it is cruel to leave her thus, but such is the nature of my life. I check her bag; she has her portable, or is it mobile? Portable makes more sense, but Muggles don’t tend to prioritise sense or clarity in their use of language. She has a small collection of coins and notes in her purse. So she will not be stranded here. She also has a notebook and pencil.
I think about it for a moment, then I take them and write her a short message.
“Ruby
I regret the necessity to leave you this way. As I have explained, my circumstances are impossible, and there is no space for emotional involvement at present.
Perhaps one day my life will change, and perhaps when that time comes we will meet again.
Until then, or if it cannot be, please be assured that you will not be forgotten.
With my strongest regard
SS.”
I leave it on the table. Then I go out to where the foam breakers crash against the rocks in the dawn light and make my call to Voldemort. I will not come here again.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Love On The Rock