Hermione

Ginny told me that she loves me, right in the middle of fucking my brains out. I want to tell her – to tell her what? That Ron is all wrong for me, that I know she would be truer than he ever could, that she is certainly a better lover and worlds beyond his blubbering intellect. All true. But damn it, I can't think like this. That is what Ginny gives me: a release from thought. Priceless.

So, instead of answering her like I know I should, I shut my eyes and continue to ride her hand, her lithe thigh. She's so good to me, Ginny is. She barely batted an eye when I kissed her the first time; the first time I crawled naked into her bed she said not a word and pressed two fingers against my lips, whispered, "Shh," and did magic that neither of us learned at Hogwarts.

I can't look at her. I can't face that I'm breaking her heart. I might let her break my body in recompense.

When Ginny slows her fingers inside of me and pulls me within a hair's-breadth so that she can breathe the same air, I want to eat her alive. I want to peel back her skin, cut through her muscles and tendons and fatty tissue, unwrap her heart from her chest and swallow her up.

I have already swallowed Ginny whole. I know it in the way that her body wracks with sobs against me, anticipating the moment when I will leave her alone in her bed with only her longings and my scent all over her. I can only hope that the concussion of our separation will jar Ginny out of love.