Consequences

CONSEQUENCES
-Pandora J


Chapter 1: Nowhere Land.


As the mist leaves no scar
On the dark green hill,
So my body leaves no scar
On you, nor ever will.

When wind and hawk encounter,
What remains to keep?
So you and I encounter,
Then turn, then fall to sleep.

As many nights endure
Without a moon or star,
So will we endure,
When one is gone and far.
--Leonard Cohen

I think that’s probably the fifth time I’ve written out this poem today. I’ve just found myself scrawling it on the paper my chips came wrapped in. Don’t know why really. Boredom perhaps? It’s just in my head. The easiest thing in in my head to think about as I sit at the small table in Jon’s dingy excuse for a kitchen. Really, I keep bothering him to get a nicer place. It’s not as if he can’t afford it. But I don’t think he’s willing to give up the location. Mind you, it wouldn’t be so bad if he was willing to clean it once in a while. Ah well ... Chips are good. It’s well past ten and I can see now that if it hadn’t been for the chipper van I passed on my walk from the tube station I doubt I’d’ve eaten at all. There’s no food in the flat. The contents of the pantry includes: half a bottle of brown sauce, some custard powder, and a tin of tomatoes. Oh and beer, there’s plenty of beer. It makes me wonder if he’s been working late all week, or if he’s just waiting for me to get fed up and go to the shops for him. Lazy git.

I could have eaten at Number Twelve. Molly made a big meal for after the meeting, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. Couldn’t take a ‘family dinner’ at Grimmauld Place just yet. Not without Sirius.

Licking the salt from my fingers I crumple the paper, squash it into the nearly overflowing bin, and head for bed, stopping only briefly in the bathroom to clean my teeth.

Note to self: fennel toothpaste doesn’t taste very nice after malt vinegar and several bottles of Murphy’s.

His bedroom is in a state.

Honestly, Jon, I know I’m not the best housekeeper in the world, but at least my clothes aren’t all over the floor.

I manage to make the room presentable before I actually enter it. Waving my wand at the clothes they fly into the wash basket. Then, the papers stack, neatly, well, neatly for me, on the small desk in the corner. Lastly, I flick my wand at a the stray magazines. They pick themselves up from the floor and drop in a neat pile on the bedside table: This Business of Wizarding, Quidditch Quarterly, and Lascivious.

Lascivious?

Interesting?

It’s funny how these magazines always have such unassuming covers. Just a plain solid colour with its title, all lowercase, in a pretty script. Like nothing is meant to offend. As if it’s purely accidental that its pages are filled with naked tarts in ridiculous positions.

Well, lets see what’s new in pornography.

Lasses of the month?

You see, I’d probably make more money if I was willing to do that with my wand.

Arundel Aces - Britain's only all female Quidditch team. Hmm ...

Oh, and there they are. Bints with brooms.

But then, I have left him alone for almost a week.

Shaking my head I drop the rag back onto the pile, strip off my clothes, pull on one of Jon’s T-shirts and climb into bed. The sheets smell of him, of his cologne and just of him. It makes me smile.

But the feeling’s still there.

The cold clammy fingers of guilt balling in the pit of my stomach, weighing me down. Waiting to creep over me.

It’s been a shit week. I did what I needed to do to survive it.

Bollocks.

If that were true, why was I so disappointed when Charlie didn’t turn up for the meeting tonight? ‘Mr Weasley finds himself indisposed,’ is what Dumbledore had said. Moody had asked the question but the old man had looked directly at me and given the answer.

But even if he had turned up, what then? What do I expect? A cup of coffee and a laugh with an old friend, or something more? More along the lines of the night before last... Skin against skin and...

Stop it.

He didn’t turn up. Charlie Weasley promised he’d be somewhere and he didn’t turn up. Should I really be surprised? No. What the hell am I doing? It doesn’t work. I know that.

Turning my face into the pillows I inhale deeply. Jon. This is real. This works. This has been working for the past six months.

Until...

If I close my eyes I can see him, my red-haired boy, laying on his back, hands behind his head, stupid grin on his face.

Stop it. Enough.

*

I’m almost asleep when I hear the front door. After much rattling about, the bedroom door opens and light floods in. I hear him chuckle to himself. He lights the candle on his dressing table and extinguishes the main light. The bed creaks as he climbs into it and slides up behind me. Soon his arms are around me, his face buried in the back of my neck.

‘Now this is a nice surprise,’ he murmurs, between soft kisses.

‘Hi,’ I whisper.

‘Hi. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

‘No, not long. Why so late?’

‘Load of trouble in Manchester. Don’t think I’ve done that many memory modifications in ages. Accidental magic, my arse, that was Muggle-baiting if ever I’ve seen it. Had to call in Law Enforcement. Dreading all the paper work on my desk tomorrow.’

‘So, not so good a day then.’

‘No, but I think it may have just taken a turn for the better. You?’

‘It was okay.’

‘Did you work today?’

‘Yes. First day back.’

‘You know,’ he says softly, ‘you should owl me if you’re going to disappear like that again. You left the hospital without so much as a word.’

‘Oh gawd, I know. I’m sorry. I just ...’

‘S’all right, you don’t have to explain. Arthur filled me in on what he could. Told me to give you a bit of time. I understand. Fuck, Voldemort at the Ministry, and you taking on Bellatrix Lestrange. I’d be so damn proud of you if the whole prospect of it didn’t terrify me so much. And Sirius Black being innocent and then what happened to him ... I know he’s your ...’

‘Jon... Jon.’

He stops.

‘Please. I don’t want to have to think about that now.’

‘Sorry.’ And I know that he is.

His embrace tightens and he resumes planting soft kisses on my neck and shoulders until I feel myself relax.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmurs, his nose nuzzling behind my ear, his lips brushing my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

I’ve missed him too.

I roll onto my back so I can look up at him.

Chocolate hair falls in his face as he smiles down at me. His eyes are of the palest hazel; golden really, flecked with generous amounts of green and rimmed in black. After our first date I remember spending an hour in front of the mirror trying to duplicate that colour, but I couldn’t do it. I’m always missing something. A gentle brush of freckles covers his nose and cheeks. Twenty-seven freckles to be exact. I’ve counted them ... kissed them.

But then, I’ve always had a thing for freckles.

Jon’s hands are soft on my skin as they move under my T-shirt. His fingers tracing the line of my knickers, then moving deftly up my belly to my breasts. Smooth hands as he caresses. No calluses.

Stop it.

But it’s too late. It’s already started. The cold weight in my stomach is spreading. Spreading as his mouth covers mine. As he grinds his erection into my hip and his breath comes hot and ragged on my face. I moan into his mouth and revel in the sensations he is causing. But the cold still rises, tightening my chest, threatening to choke me. Its icy fingers sliding around my throat. I push it down hard and turn to him. Pull myself closer. Push him back to the mattress. My hands slide into his, pinning them over his head, as I straddle his hips. My mouth begins its assault on his; tongues dueling, teeth clashing.

Make me forget.

He’s frustrated. I can tell by the noises as he pulls, trying to get his arms free. Playfully, gently at first but as I press my pelvis into his, his moans become more fevered. Until a full growl passes his lips and he wrenches his arms free. And his hands are under my top once more, grabbing at my arse, fingers kneading into my back. Into the bruises I have once again concealed. It hurts. But he doesn’t know and I won’t tell. The T-shirt is pulled roughly over my head and dispatched to the floor, followed shortly by my knickers. His lips break from mine and he pulls my body up burying his face between my breasts. His own form of worship, lips, teeth and tongue. Oh Merlin ... Then he’s pulling away slowly carefully. His hand gently moving over the mark. A gift from my Aunt Bella.

‘Is this...?’

‘Where the curse hit me,’ I say, biting my lip as I look down and am reminded. I hate it. And I’m suddenly very self-conscious. I’ve lightened it as much as I can but it’s still very visible, a large red mark nearly covering my left breast and spidering out to my shoulder.

Charlie never mentioned it.

I need to forget, need to forget - everything.

‘Lose the boxers,’ I whisper in his ear.

He’s quick to obey. Kicking them off in seconds.

He sits half recumbent, tries to sit up, to roll over me, but I won’t have that.

‘Stay.’ I push lightly against his chest and he falls back to the bed in mock defeat, grinning.

My mouth meets his once more. His erection jumps against my belly as I move over him, his body begging me for the attention he so very much deserves. I’m more than willing to give it to him, lifting my body from the warmth of his and sliding back, running my palm down his length and sheathing his sword to the hilt. His hands find hips, he holds me still as he thrusts up into me in some desperate attempt for closer contact, a deeper connection. I reach back and slide my hands down my calves, wrapping my fingers around my ankles. I let him drive. My head falls back and I concentrate on the movement of his hands as he directs me: a pull, a tug, a squeeze, faster, slower, softer, deeper, bringing me to the edge and back. Making my toes curl.

It’s amazing.

But it’s not enough.

Not enough to push the memory from my head. The memory of another’s rough hands, warm mouth, harsh strokes ...

Jon’s moans fill my ears. He pulls my body forward as he reaches his breaking point, my hands fall above broad shoulders. I bite down hard as I come, hard so the name on my tongue doesn’t escape my lips. A name that isn’t his.

And I am spent. My body falls to him in sweet exhaustion, hoping that the feel of his skin on mine, the comfort of his arms around me will offer me some peace.

‘God, I love you,’ he groans, his hands sweep my sides and arms wrap tightly around me. He kisses the side of my face.

But his words have lost their usual power.

I kiss him in response and move to his side, pulling the sheet up around me.

I want to cry.

Or be sick.

I can’t believe I’ve ruined this.

He kisses my lips, slides off the bed and heads into the kitchen for his usual glass of water.

The cold weight is spinning, making me feel thoroughly nauseous.

I’ve got to go.

I pull on my jeans and shirt and sit on the edge of his bed to lace my boots.

‘You’re leaving?’ he asks, standing there in the doorway, glass in hand, in all his glory.

‘Sorry, I can’t stay.’ True. ‘I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.’ Lie.

‘So you’re just going to shag me and leave me?’ He grins picking his boxers up off the floor and pulling them on.

‘Planned to, yeah.’

‘You’re amazing, you know that?’

I laugh and am surprised it doesn’t sound as false as it feels.

‘Well, thanks for coming.’

‘No problem, couldn’t have done it without you.’

He laughs. ‘Well you could have ...’

‘... but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.’

When we reach his door he wraps his arms around me once more and kisses my forehead.

‘So have you thought anymore about it?’

‘’Bout what?’

‘Moving the rest of your things in.’ I’d forgotten.

‘To tell you the truth I haven’t had much time for thinking recently.’

‘Think about it, ‘kay? It’s nice, coming home to you.’

‘I will, if you think about tidying up occasionally.’

He smiles. ‘I will. Sorry.’

I force a smile. ‘Goodnight Jon.’

‘Night.’

After a parting kiss I slip out his door out into the London night, hoping that the cool breeze will help settle my stomach. But it isn’t working.

I make my way back to Piccadilly. Slowly. Trying to decide whether to go home or back to Number Twelve. By the time I get there I still don’t know. I cross to the statue, climb the steps and drop a handful of Muggle change into the fountain. Futile, I know. I doubt even Eros can help me now. I make my way through the crowds of Muggles and blinking neon lights to the tube station; my little universe slowly imploding.

What the hell have I done? To him. To myself. To us.

Fuck!!



~