She was having one of those days again. The kind where she would have liked nothing better than to of locked herself away in her room –away from everyone else. She always thought of herself as acting peculiar on these days; she believed that everyone would see it, the change in her, no matter how much she tried to behave like her normal self.  It was as if she had forgotten how to be normal, as though her thoughts and body had risen up in a great revolt. A silent demand to give into the fact that she was human, a woman, a teenager.

It started in the wee hours of the morning with a dream made up of bits and fragments of her memories. Memories Potter helped her recover. She allowed herself a sardonic smile whenever she thought of that boy, of how he could help her, of the secrets and the truths that lay between them. Of course, the secrets were all hers, and the truths all his –it was ironic to think that they trusted each other as much as they did. She needed him more than she was comfortable with, but each memory she regained was worth it. Each moment recovered was like another crack in the wall holding back that night. In her dreams the memories would trickle through the cracks, slowly building into a fuller picture.

On this particular morning, the dream was at first frightening –it was just after her family had been murdered, every last one of them dead, save herself. She was blindly wandering the upstairs, drawn to the noise coming from the parlour. She didn’t know how she knew that the Death Eaters were gone because she had yet to recall them leaving, but in this detached timeframe of her mind she knew, knew that they were gone. And that’s why the noise from the parlour was so completely out of place.

The railing of the second floor landing stood out clearly in her mind, and as she walked toward the sounds from below, a floorboard creaked under her weight. She’d lived there long enough to know where it was exactly and why she hadn’t avoided it altogether still perplexed her. She figured at that state and time her safety must have been of little consequence to her.

Time seemed to stop when she looked over the railing, meeting eyes with the stranger below and then to skip forward to his arms coming around her. He held her, arms –more powerful than how they looked, enveloped her in smooth darkness. The heat within the folds of his robes was a comfortable feeling, seeming to reach beyond her flesh, making each new breath she took stronger than the last. She laid there in her rescuer’s arms wondering if she had been dying and if somehow he was saving her. She was dimly aware that she was bleeding somewhere, somewhere her mind couldn’t admit to just yet.

She remembered that she liked the way he smelt –smelt, of all things! She remembered his whisperings, the smooth murmur of his voice, the strange way it made her heart ache; as though she could cry with relief. Amid the numb feeling of death she began to feel slowly alive again as pain crept in. Comfort and agony clashed within her and she should recall the way her fingers ached with how hard she clutched his robes. She pulled and pressed her body against him, pleading with out words … hold me, save me, love me … please, I’m alone and empty.

“Please.” She had said to him, but the whispered voice barely sounded like her own.

And then it came, sweet oblivion.

She opened her eyes, awake, but not startled. Her mind was clear –devoid of the usual morning fog. She breathed a sigh of relief, not quite knowing why she felt relieved. The morning’s rays that filled her room were blue tinted and she rolled over, content to lie idly in bed until breakfast.

Ophelia thought of those arms around her again, just the way they had been and she snuggled into her bed, wanting to be held by him, even for just a second.

So his name is Perseus Evans. She smirked, even as she fought down the disquieting warmth that flooded her at the thought of him. She knew better than to think of him like that –it wasn’t right. No, she shouldn’t feel giddy or at all pleasured by thoughts of him tucking her away in his robes, stealing her away, making her feel safe and loved –because it wasn’t true. He didn’t love her; he was in fact little more than a stranger to her. But still, a weak, needy part of her that she hated, longed for the warmth of him, the solid feel of his chest as she clung to him, his smell, and his murmured words. Sometimes she imagined that she could hear what he said to her, his words were always of love. I’ll protect you, he’d whisper, and he’d mean it.

And sometimes she’d go for days, happy in her delusions –her own warped view of how it all really happened. She’d pretend this sad state of affairs wasn’t really her life. She knew it was childish, but it was really all she had.

The weight of reality was ever-looming, crashing down on her with Perseus Evans’s unexpected appearances at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. His visits were never very long, and no one ever called him by his name. He was like a phantom, coming and going with very little notice given to him. 

If only Harry knew, she thought mockingly.

Evans’s presence hurt her somehow, not that she would admit it. Seeing him for who he really was… it was always a sharp contrast against who she saw in her dreams. The person she wanted and yearned for didn’t exist –which was just as well because even if he did she couldn’t have him.

And on days like this, days when the ache in her heart became an ache in her groin, days when she needed more than anything just to be touched, she would have preferred to stay in bed with a pillow tucked tightly between her thighs. Being around other people only made it worse… and if he were to come around, well, she wouldn’t know whether to hex him for existing or try and strike up a conversation.

On these days it didn’t take much to set her aflame. On one occasion it was one of the older Weasley boys –the bloke with the ponytail, lightly resting his hand on her back as he scooted by her in the far too crowded kitchen; mostly it was Tonks with her damnable failure to recognise personal space –touching her shoulder, moving stray locks of hair from her face. Those little things made the heat rise to her cheeks and her heart beat a little faster and she cursed herself for being this way. Her mind would run off with wayward thoughts at the simplest provocation. Worst of all was that it felt good. It felt good to have that sort of need. She liked the rush of heat and the way her hips wanted to rock when she started to fantasize. She wanted to know what it was like to kiss and be kissed and to be touched there. Sometimes the image of Potter’s naked body came to mind, but she banished it before she could think much on it. She supposed that if she thought of him at all it was only because she’d never seen anyone else naked.

Ophelia was glad when the day had passed. She retired to her bed early, but was unable to sleep. So instead she dreamed while she was awake; dreamed of hands and arms to hold her tightly, touches that would sooth the parts of her that cried out for attention –cries which she steadfastly ignored. Ophelia would not touch herself. She was of the firm sense that it was wrong, but it was also because she was afraid. She didn’t know what she was doing –she just knew that is was something that was just not done. As shameful as it was to want what she did, it could only be more so if she actually gave into that want. And so, after lying awake for more hours than she would have liked to count, she got out of bed to get a glass of water.

Only, she wasn’t the only one awake.

Granger, that little twit, was up and padding silently down the hall. Glass of water momentarily forgotten, Ophelia followed. The little know-it-all looked to be headed in the direction of the library –Ophelia smirked at how predictable the Muggle-born was.

What could be so interesting in the library that it required one to be up and sneaking about in the early hours? Ophelia was still a ways back when the bushy-hair-brat disappeared into the library; she took her time, silently creeping until she reached the doorway and paused. She listened for cues of what Granger was up to, and heard another voice. Ah, so she was meeting her friends. No doubt plotting something inanely Gryffindor. She listened for a little longer before curiosity got the best of her and she peeked around the door frame.

Her breath caught in her throat instantly. They were lit by two candles on the large desk, and there were two of them and they were… A flash of breast was exposed as Granger’s shirt was lifted and she was propped up on the desk and that Weasley boy was standing just between her spread legs and they were rubbing their bits together through their clothes, but they certainly seemed to be enjoying it and then Hermione –Granger –let out a moan as one of her nipples disappeared in his mouth and oh god she couldn’t watch that any more. She looked away and out of compulsion she looked right back and they were still doing what they had been except now Granger was palming the bulge in his pants as they kissed.

Heat flooded Ophelia’s body and she felt her skin prickle with it. She was intensely aware of her nipples, hardened points of pleasure that echoed through her chest and made her breathe a little quicker. She could feel the dampness in her panties as the warmth seemed to concentrate in her belly and just below. She looked away again, her resolve firming as she set her mind on getting back to her room.

            It was nearly unbearable, but gods, she didn’t want it to stop. She clung to it, to the way every inch of her skin felt sensitized. She wondered if she would orgasm, she wondered what that would be like; she wondered how close she was.

            She closed her door and locked it. Feeling suddenly brazen, she laid down, taking a few deep breaths before she smoothed her palms down over her breasts, surprised at just how swollen her nipples were and how good it felt to touch them… She ran her palms upwards, barely touching the thin material of her nightshirt. A part of her wanted to stop, to remind her that this was ridiculous –that bringing one’s self this sort of pleasure was wrong. Ophelia didn’t listen to that little voice for more than a second, because the third brush of her palms flat against her nipples had intensified that strange feeling of need in her groin.

            Ophelia let loose a longing groan and was so stunned at the sound of her own voice that she stopped, wondering anxiously if there was anyone else in the room. Of course, she was all alone, and she knew that –there was no need to feel self-conscious, no one would know if she moaned a bit. Still, Ophelia clamped down a little on her lips as she resumed the timid exploration of her breasts. She laid both hands on her breasts now, giving them a tender squeeze. They barely filled her palms, but they were soft and she liked the way they felt. She wondered if Tonks had liked touching them too. She remembered how Tonks had scooped her small breasts in her hands, helping her into her bra –making sure she was fitting correctly. She mimicked the movements with her own hands, paying increasingly more attention to her nipples.

Ophelia noticed with mild shock that her hips were rocking against the bed in little thrusts and she wondered dimly when she had started doing that. There was hardly room to go back now; she was wildly aroused, desperate for more and wanting relief.

Oh gods, it hurts… Ophelia thought, feeling the muscles deep in her belly contract in a sweet pleasure-pain. The intensity of it made her gasp. The warm, singing tension in her belly melted downwards and the walls of her vagina gave an involuntary twitch. It was almost as if she could feel herself opening in invitation, begging to be invaded, to have something fill her in order to stop the ache or maybe increase it. She wanted to touch herself more but didn’t dare. She was frightened of the thought, afraid of doing something wrong that would end the way she was feeling right now.

What if she didn’t like it? It was wet and warm and Ophelia didn’t like the thought of it making a mess all over her bed sheets. But then, she reasoned, if it felt so good just to touch her breasts, what would it be like there? Down there where it was said to feel so good –when it felt good already. She trailed her own hand down her stomach, feeling her muscle jump at the touch. Slowly, slowly… she rested her fingers on the thatch of hair covered by her panties. Well, that was all right, feeling braver she inched her fingers forwards to where the hair was thinner and the heat and dampness began. That was all right too, she smiled a little, nervously licking and biting her lips. She liked the way her panties felt against her fingers, soft, comforting fabric. She wasn’t really touching herself after all –so it was okay. She kept going until her fingers were cupping her heat and oh, that felt wonderful. Just a little bit of pressure and, oh… yes, that was nice.

She whimpered when her fingers went from apply pressure to rubbing, just a little. Back and forth, a little pressure here, a little less there, stroking. Her nipples were aching again and she realised that in her exploration she’d neglected them. She fumbled at her nipples, her fingers shifting between rubbing and pinching and pressing and soon she found her hand doing more of the same below. She could feel her legs trembling; her body was so hot she’d begun to sweat, but she couldn’t stop, no, not now, not when it felt so bloody amazing. And the more she played with her nipples the better if felt down there too. She reached further down; to that needy little space that felt like it were a gaping hole. She pressed inwards, pleasantly surprised by how much she really wanted it and by the startling wetness of her panties. She pushed farther in but was restricted by the cloth covering her, but she didn’t dare reach beneath it. No, not just yet, she wasn’t ready for that.

The part of her nearer to the hair was screaming for her touch again and she moved her fingers back up, wishing she could figure out a way to touch both parts at once. She could move her other hand down, but that seemed a bit awkward and then she’d have nothing to satisfy her nipples. So she kept one hand above her waistline and one below , both hands taking turns in their attentions; one breast to the other, one aggravatingly sweet spot to the other deeper one.

She felt she were slowly loosing any control she had over her body –her hips were wriggling, her back would arch, her breathing was heavy and indecent noises were coming from her mouth. She pushed onward though; her fingers now rubbing in earnest, trying to hold on to that spot where it felt the best. Losing it and then finding it again and rubbing harder, and arching and pinching and she could feel her wetness sliding down her bottom –something that secretly thrilled and disgusted her, and she could feel her whole body as if it were winding tighter on a loaded trigger, her muscles clenching as an unholy rush so intense she had to stop touching herself claimed her womanly parts and she gasped and convulsed and … sighed.

She took deep, calming breaths, slowly coming back to herself … back from that wonderful high and self-revelation. She could feel some part of her throbbing, twitching in time with her pulse. It was nice, like a soothing lullaby, like being rocked to sleep. She rolled over to her side and was resting deeply within seconds.

End Part IV

Part III     Forum