A Quartet of Red

He grins as he sees her struggling against the ropes holding her down. Her florid face complements her scarlet hair nicely. He laughs as he fucks her; watches her face contort in pain as he tightens the bonds. He knows she hates his - he also knows that she'll keep returning for more. He knows because he's done it before. He's seen the bruises he leaves on her body; he's seen the deep welts on her arms and back. And he's seen the scars she has on her wrists from the ropes - scars that look vaguely reminiscent of the one upon his forehead.

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He brushed his lips softly across hers, hands moving away from red softness to creep lower, glancing across the silky smoothness of her camisole and toying with the hem before lifting it over her head. He smothered the cries of pleasure escaping from her lips with his mouth, pushing her onto the bed. "Oh, Draco..." she moaned, squirming under him. "Draco, I love you..."

He climbed off of her and slapped her, hard, just like his father had done to him when a small, silver haired child had uttered those most poisonous of words for the first and last time.

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When Ginny started coming into the dorm room late at night, no one said anything, least of all Ron. He wanted his sister to be happy, just like he wanted his best friend to be happy. So he'd turn a blind eye to the marks on her neck, and he'd ignore the smell of sex that so often permeated the room. And at breakfast and lunch and dinner he'd joke about it with Harry. 'Looks like you two were busy again last night' he'd say, 'Do you think you could maybe keep it down tonight?'

The truth was, he didn't want them to keep it down. If they were quiet they might hear the way his bed would creak when she would scream Harry's name.

When Harry and Ginny got married, no one noticed the way their best man mouthed the words.

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History repeats itself. It always has and it always will, just like the sun will always rise and the ocean will always be wavy.

So when Harry sleeps with Ginny for the first time, and for the second time and the third time and every time after that, he doesn't think about the fact that his girlfriend, that Hermione could walk in at any second. He doesn't think about the fact that he promised Ron he'd never touch his sister after that one drunken kiss at the Burrow. He doesn't think about the fact that everything about this is wrong, and that he doesn't really love her, he just can't resist her, and that he says everything and means nothing, and he can tell that she can tell and neither of them seem to care about anything, except they both care about everything. All he can think when she is lying under him and his head is buried in her bright red hair is, "I should have seen it coming."