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Mar. 24th, 2007 | 08:13 pm
music: Kate Havnevik ;; Unlike Me
HP Fic, set in the seventies/Marauders Era. Marauders are third years. But, since this is pretty standalone, and Definitely WIP, it doesn't matter much. Enjoy.
Uhm.. Discretion advised. Some mature content.
This was not romantic; this was a means to an end. Ivy knew that when his hand pressed its way downwards over her stomach, fingers working their way beneath the waistband of her pants, and all she could thinkg about was that she hadn’t shaved her legs. It was further confirmed when she shifted into a more comfortable position and he stopped everything (his hand had been rocking against her, and she had been almost there!) to scowl down at her.
He grunted. Roughly, his hand resumed it’s rocking and rolling and whatnot (she was too far gone as she crested the wave, to really know what he was doing to her), and biting her lip she felt her body pulse with ecstasy. Granted, it was a dulled ecstasy, rather than the keen blade she felt when she was alone in her room, but it swept through her in a tidal wave, leeching all of the energy from her body until she was left a drowsy heap beneath his heavy body.
Out of a deeply bred sense of good manners, Ivy let him finish.
He was snoring in the small bed that dominated the tiny room as she showered and dressed. She had no concerns over disturbing his post-coital slumber, and little care for his waking-mood. Clothed and something near to satisfied, Ivy left.
Romance was never a thing that had concerned her. She was the sort of girl that had lived through a love story – or thought she had, at least – and saw little else past its ending. Now she was content to let her body be a tool to aid her in her endeavours, most of them to do with gaining access to a new tomb or burial ground.
Ivy had heard of such a discovery – a tomb lost in London’s network of tunnels that weren’t quite old enough to be catacombs – in the Leaky Cauldron three nights ago. It had taken her two days to track down the official she needed to beg, bribe, or bed. It took one look to find which it would be.
Now, Ivy was free to wander London’s un-Catacombs as much as she liked, with keys to all of the known doors and a wand to aid with the unknown. She had herself a new adventure.
The darkness was claustrophobic, thrown over her like a weighted blanket as the entrance to the crypt swung closed. Ivy pushed, scared, but the door wouldn’t move.
Every breath was a landslide in here, every word the voice of god. She whispered more for her own comfort than out of any respect for the dead. The dead that filled this crypt, with it’s small darkness and it’s old-rot smell.
This was a smell that Ivy knew; old-rot and new meat. Inferius.
In films and in books, the walking dead moaned and groaned; they made noise to warn the Intrepid Hero (or Heroine, as the case may be) of where they were. Ivy was once again struck by just how easy films made life look as she cast a light from her wand.
Too cautious to line the room with fire yet – there could be interesting things on those walls, and she wasn’t going to be the idiot that destroyed them – Ivy stared at the crowd before her. She had thought the room small for the way it closed in on her, but instead she found herself at the mouth of an impossible cavern. She wasn’t deep enough for it to be that high, and hadn’t she rounded a corner where that wall now stood?
Sometimes, Ivy hated magic.