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She only goes because Harry asks her to.
To be completely frank, Ginny doesn't understand why in the fuck the idea of of fighting on the dock appeals to people like Harry's elusive and arrogant-arsed lover. She isn't interested in watching people knock each other out; it's fucking stupid—that's what it is.
But Harry asks—okay, forces; maybe pleads—her to go, pleading with a case of banana nut pancakes and a promise to stop selecting that weird robotic music to play in the car. So, yeah, Ginny's on her way to some shady dock at 2:37AM, listening to Tame Impala because maybe she pretends she's mildly Indie at times and putting up with the putrid smell of diesel smoke from Harry's run-down, seven-year-old Ford Cortina, his precious little baby.
She's driving. Yes, she's driving his car because Harry's too busy biting his nails and chugging down a mug of lukewarm Earl Grey blue flower tea to stop his dark purple circles from growing profusely because of his rubbish sleeping habits. Rubbish as in—a cup of a double-shot coffee followed by forty-five minute pick-me-up naps, sometimes paired with some mindfulness yoga. Harry read something about the schedule in Ron's geek freak magazines when Ginny and Harry were still doing the whole weird friends-with-some-sort-of-benefits thing before he realised he liked guys. A lot more than he liked girls. Like, a lot more.
"Stop chewing your skin—" Ginny leans over and smacks Harry's hand and he looks absolutely indignant, "—for fuck's sake, have some self control."
"You know—he invited me."
Here we go. Ginny clutches onto the tattered skin of the steering wheel with white knuckles and a firmer grip and huffs a bang out of her face. She's about to grind her teeth—but Hermione snaps at her for doing that; something about improper dental care and horrible anger control and how her parents would be so upset. So, Ginny bites her lip until she feels the blood flush up.
"I mean, he dodges me for five fucking weeks?" Harry continues—a faux question mark at the end of his statement, more of a front that Ginny loathes than anything. "And he pops out of nowhere with three texts yesterday night."
Ginny stifles a burp by closing her mouth before clearing her throat. "Why are we going to this rowdy boy-toy's match, then? He sounds like a cunt."
"Oh, he is," Harry concedes, rolling out his neck and cracking his ankles. At least it isn't the skin-biting-thing.
"You're whipped," Ginny jaunts, turning her head just enough to shoot him a fox grin. A dark look passes over his face, and he scrapes his hair over his raggedly-cut hair—a terrible attempt to get over his fuck-buddy two weeks ago by trying to give himself the whole new look, new me thing. Pathetic, really.
"I'm not." A long, drawn-out pause hovers over them. "Look, he invited me. He invited me. As in—I got an invite from him."
Even in the most inconsequential of events, Harry always has a tendency to be a wee bit—okay, more than a wee, but still—dramatic.
"Whipped."
—
Her hands are shaking. A lot. And her keys are tucked between her fingers, lanyard running down her palms, and her trainers squeak, squeak, squeak against the creaky wooden dock as Harry leads her down the trail. It smells like fish. And an orange, candle-glow streetlight is flickering above them—making Ginny believe she's in one of those cheesy horror movies rather than about to watch a bunch of overly-hormonal boys beat each other raw.
The noise in the shipyard grows as they round near the ring. People are already throwing out cries of joy or yelling out words that if Ginny's mum heard, she would literally wash their mouths with soap.
A flash of blond hair lights up and—
Malfoy jogs over, shirtless and shining with sweat down his sternum. A feral smile, full of white teeth and crow's feet, etches onto his face when he sees Harry. A small dribble of blood runs down the corner of his mouth, and a good ol' shiner is already developing between his eye and cheekbone.
"You made it," he breathes out in a whoosh of air—shifting his gaze relentlessly between Harry and her with blown pupils. Malfoy's jaw tics. The muscles in his forearms spasm as he clenches his fist wrapped in cream gauze. He merely says with a sage nod, "Ginevra."
"How much do these things cost to buy in?" she leans in and yells as the nearby ring erupts into a bellow of unrestrained yelling.
"Usually five large, but then there's the bets and stuff, too," Malfoy coolly replies. People actually pay to beat each other up—oh, how the world had changed for the absolute better. "Hey—stay by Potter tonight. It's not safe here for girls like you."
"Girls like me?"
"You know—smallish, short-tempered, bloody annoying sometimes, also redhead." His tongue swipes over the blood on his lips slowly, lecherously.
"You make it seem like you actually care," Ginny drawls, clutching a hand over her chest. A small shiver runs through her spine when she realises how cold she is in her simple hoodie and jeans.
"I really fucking don't, though."
Malfoy's jaw tics again before he smiles ferociously at Harry with something other than true intentions running through his features. He leans in briefly to whisper something to Harry; Ginny watches her best friend's eyes widen with disbelief. And then he's running off to yell at some guy named Dolohov about setting up a match between him and Theodore.
"He's charming," Ginny comments sarcastically. This time—she actually does relent into her desire and grinds her teeth in anger.
"He's — he's sometimes abrasive. And sort of hard to fathom."
"He must be a damn good fuck."
"Brilliant one."
—
Theodore—as the name insinuates—is not a seven-year-old boy.
No, not really.
He's more like six-and-a-half feet of dark, brooding man that has Ginny clenching the elastic of her hoodie to retain some sort of sense and seeing if Harry's gaydar picks up how physically attractive the man is as well. He obviously doesn't, so Ginny just sort of leeches her hand onto her hip and juts her chin out, squinting at Malfoy and Theodore poising in a straight-back stance, yet also looking like animals ready to prance on each other at any moment. The tension is palpable, and quite honestly, it seems less than endearing that Malfoy would want to invite Harry to one of these matches. The blond looks ready to tear into a sack of meat; and the guy opposite him, with veiny muscles and a clenched jaw, mirrors Malfoy's image perfectly.
"Fair fight, Theo?" Malfoy inquires just loud enough for Ginny and Harry to hear, pushing his shoulders back. He looks ready to tear him apart, limb by limb, regardless of the sickeningly sweet tone he puts on—more for show than anything, if Ginny understands.
"Fucking always." A savage smile replaces Theo's brooding look right before Dolohov announces the start.
Malfoy's clearly fought him before—because he anticipates the moves with clear a clear pattern of defence and dodges around like a cat prancing around, tail between its legs. He manages to get in a couple practice jabs—riveting stuff, really—before Theo surges forward. And then—Theo finally fucking gets him with a harsh uppercut that makes Ginny just—just gasp.
Harry winces at the sharp crack of bone meeting bone, and Ginny—Ginny just stares, blinking. Malfoy turns sideways, hair falling in his face, before grinning ferociously and spitting out a puddle of saliva and blood. And Harry just hugs himself tighter, putting on an appeased expression for the sake of Malfoy's unbearable giddiness. It's like he thrives off all this raucous energy; fuel to his fire.
Theo turns slightly, his look morphing into one of pure, undeniable hostility. His eyes are darker than his hair—and his his lips are flusher than his cheeks. And she's positive that if he burns his stare into her any longer, she'll melt. Ginny looks away, staring back at the flickering light at the end of the dock. If she focuses on something other than the warmth unfurling in her stomach, maybe she can get the hell out of here as soon as possible.
"He's got a nasty left hook," Malfoy explains later—much later—as he's walking them to Harry's car and toying with the strings of his ebony hoodie. He reminisces by rubbing the edge of his chin, Malfoy seems like one of those people who don't really smell after sweating—a profuse amount, she must admit—and it's terribly annoying to watch. "He's fucking legendary at the docks."
"Theodore?"
"Yeah. Fucking hell." Malfoy glances at his feet and shakes his head. "Theo Nott."
She sees his dark look burnt into her brain—so much so that she can probably wring it out of her memories and look at it anytime she wants because it's so untamed, so unmanageable, she can't help but relish in the mere image of it.
"Ginny—can you drive my car again? Malfoy's taking me back."
A two-finger salute is her only wordless reply as she hops backs into the car. Ginny twists the key and the engine roars back to life. Malfoy waves at her with that sardonic look on his face; she can't wait to throttle the life out of him one day. She scoffs and mutters something about how Malfoy's probably taking him in the back—right before she drives off into the dark.
—
Ginny has a penchant for drawing.
Drawing drunk.
Not the type of drawing that requires actual patience and attention—rather messily scribbled doodles of things that catch her attention—and not the type of alcohol that requires her to dig through her pockets for poorly crumpled bills when picking up a bottle at the market.
It's a talent she likes to express at those awkward beginnings of parties to which most people like to laugh it off with a tight smile or an overzealously expressed 'oh my gosh—you're so just so cute, darling!'
She's spending tonight sipping on some type of liquor that tastes eerily like rum and vanilla, while chalking herself with the sheen of charcoal as she sharpens the coal a bit with the edge of her ragged thumb nail, because she can't be bothered to go find a dull blade.
By the end of her bottle and the end of her patience, she finishes with charcoal-stained palms and a gleaming image of Theodore's blinding white smile—that really should have an epilepsy warning—and an image of his fist, bursting through her heart.
—
"You're Malfoy's friend?" a voice asks—not really out of curiosity but more of a confirmation question, wanting to know the details of her hanging by the docks, once again.
"We're not friends, no," she grumbles, swinging her hair behind her and meeting the dark eyes of Theo with no uncertainty lingering in his gaze. He's shirtless—again—and he's smiling—again. And it bothers the shite out of Ginny. "Friends isn't an acceptable term to describe the guy my ex-boyfriend is shagging the brains out of."
"What would be then?" He cracks his jaw with his palm and steadies his hot gaze at her. Slowly, but surely—
"A repellence by nature."
"Surely, he doesn't think so." Theo licks his chapped lips twice. "Better not let him know. He'll try to soothe his damaged ego with another one of his fervent stories of childhood regality."
"I've never had the pleasure of sitting in on one of those," Ginny comments off-handedly.
"It's eye-gouging worthy."
"Lend me a spoon?"
A slow, lazy grin. "I'm Theo."
"I know."
He waits for a long time, just staring at her. And then—
And then.
"Hi," he whispers. There's a loud cry off to their left side. Neither of them move.
"Hi."
And so, it begins.
—
Ginny draws him over a cheap glass of wine, huffing her hair out of her face and remembering the shine on his forehead from the simple light as he swept his hair out of his forehead and clucked his jaw shut. He was fighting a stocky, broad guy with muscles places that muscles shouldn't even exist—a bloke by the name of Yaxley—who by perchance is a a terrible fighter.
Theo had knocked the wind out of him in nearly forty-seven seconds.
—
"You've been drawing a lot, recently, haven't you?" Harry asks, biting his lip and gripping the clutch. "It's scenes from the docks, isn't it?"
"I told you to stop—"
"I'm just asking a questing, Gin." He gulps and his Adam's apple bobs against his poorly-shaven neck. "No need to snap at me."
"Fuck—" she scrapes her nails through her ponytail, "—it's just I lost my gig at that nearby studio, and my mum's pissed as hell. It's not you."
Ginny smiles lopsidedly to make sure that Harry knows that.
"You know," he starts off, eerily slow and nervous. They make a turn on the dirt road on the way to the docks. "I could always pay for a drawing of—"
"I'm not drawing you nude so you can send it to Malfoy."
"I wasn't—!"
"No."
—
Over a sharp pepper jack grilled cheese, sopping with oil, and a hard tumbler of whiskey, Ginny lets out a soft, dulcet sigh before scribbling in the contours by his nose. Theo had been duelling a rotund-bellied man—goes by the last name of Crabbe—who had a buzzcut shaven head and an affinity toward blowing the smoke from his fag into his hands before matches.
Without blinking, they fought like vipers, snapping at each other in a range of pre-planned moves that made them look more like ballerinas dancing around each other than actual boxers.
Ginny stifles a laugh—
Theo.
Like a breath of fresh air.
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply.
—
"He's not one for relationships, Weasley." Malfoy grabs another one of her chips out of her cardboard cradle. And Ginny, exasperated, shoots a look at Harry for him to leash Malfoy.
"Who?"
"Theo."
She immediately gapes. "I don't even have a dignified response to that."
"Just—just don't get your hopes up. He's a cock-face when it comes to that type of shite, you know? Something about him loving himself more or something pretentious." His pale hand reaches out again—and she slaps it down.
Her tongue rolls around her mouth before she releases a soft and low, "Yeah. Thanks."
—
"Back again?" he prompts. Ginny feels the warmth unfurl in her belly. "I'd expected some sort of impulse control, Weasley."
"Why limit yourself when you can indulge in a treat?" Ginny replies.
Theo's bundled up in a thick jumper over a white thermal, adorning a soft-looking pair of pyjamas with snowflakes on them.
"Just woke up?" She cocks her chin toward his legs, and he grins easily.
"Someone called me in the middle of a great dream. Wanted to dish out his best in front of his little lover, you see." He points toward a dark-skinned man and a soft-looking blonde.
"Ah," she hums with understanding. And the conversation dies down after that, but she watches him slam down his workout bag, pulling out a white wrap to place over his already purple knuckles.
Right before he leaps in the ring, he turns over his shoulder and shoots a barely-decipherable grin. A secret, private grin reserved for her. It hurts more than she cares to admit.
—
She wavers between putting down his entire range of facial emotions on paper—the face he makes right before he hits a rough uppercut on the right side of people's faces or the face he makes as he's breathing deeply and clutching his loose bottoms with his fists or the face he shot her yesterday (the small, cute grin).
Ginny chooses to draw all of them—in a plethora of drawings as she makes sure to include the blood dripping down his chin at the end of a match between him and his opponent. Just for shits and giggles.
—
His partner scrambles on his knees, lifting up his hands in a mock surrender, before Theo pulls him up by the wrists. A quick pat on the back from both opponents, and the match is over. Harry drove extremely slowly because he kept taking calculated drinks of his hot chocolate, so Ginny barely caught the last portion of Theo's fight. All she knows—he won, which isn't so much a surprise rather than an 'okay, moving on' type of thing.
"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you don't come for Malfoy anymore," he says later—much later—when she's pooling her thoughts in her mind as Malfoy and Harry grope each other behind a nearby supply compartment. She's wiggling her toes in her trainers and thumbing the Lilo and Stich keychain on Harry's keys.
"You'd be right," she says.
"Then who?" Theo questions.
And she gives him her so-called 'what the fuck' look because he knows. She knows. They both do.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I can't." He smiles grimly, tightly. "I'm mine. And you're yours."
"I know."
Neither of them say much of anything after that.
—
She draws him in between the mingling time of reality and dream because he hasn't been on the docks the last three times she's been there. And she's had to endure a nauseating exchange between her and Malfoy over burgers at Harry's flat one night—and she had. No. One. to fucking talk to about it.
So, she digs around her memory for something tangible.
When she finally finds it, it's all strokes of her hands and hearty gulps of alcohol.
—
The fourteenth time on the docks, Nott smiles one of those sinful smiles, greedily engulfing her in his hunger with just one of those looks.
"Not today?" she questions when he stands behind her. He smells like spice.
"Nah." He inches closer, and she can feel his hot breath against the curve of her ear. A shiver runs through her body. He shoves his fists gruffly into the pockets of his joggers. "Got better things to do with my time."
"You mean better than beating people to the pulp?" She indulges him in one of those sultry smiles of hers—full of lingering meaning behind the teeth. Theo side-eyes her, and his jaw clenches, once, twice.
"It's therapeutic," he whispers into the night later. A huffed cloud of dank air from his breath blows past them. "You know, 'beating people to the pulp' as you call it."
"I wouldn't know."
"Don't expect you to. Just—just don't diss it when you haven't tried it." A long, terse pause. "Most of these guys barely have anything left that's permanent in their lives anyway. Fighting is. You can do it anywhere."
"Then why're you here?" Ginny toys with the idea of blasting him with more of her questions, but she resists—a hard feat for her, don't get her wrong.
"You know." He sounds choked, torn up from the inside, as if he's been composing himself, practicing those simple words for months to come, mulling them around his mouth. It comes out slightly bitter, and harsh, but Ginny grasps onto that tiny bit of hope with her eyes wide open and arms outstretched.
"Oh."
He hands her a small glass jar of moonshine that they take turns passing back and forth over distilled conversations and sizzling matches. She ducks her head when Malfoy smashes a bloke in the side of his face—leaving the man to spend the next twenty cooling the cut with a dripping ziplock bag full of sloshy ice. And when Malfoy finally finishes, blood dripping and crusting over his chin, he pulls Harry by the lapels of his coat and sucks off his face with a sort of trepidation running through his bones in shivers—as if he could feel the loss of love transpire around them.
Ginny shifts her stance to look away, and Theo offers a cocked shoulder to the right, ushering her out of the scope where she can see the two boys' heated embrace.
She follows him into the dark. She's afraid.
—
That night, she spends her time sober, tangled up in his eggshell sheets, with their legs undecipherable from each other. He feels like struck matches against her kerosene-filled kisses, lighting her up from the inside out. His hands travel against the plains of her body until his calloused hands are surely familiar with every scar known to date. And when he finally slips in, all grunts of this dwindling fight with himself, she grips heartily onto his shoulders and tells him just how much she revels in his passion. They wash over each other time and time again that night, laving each other until the purity of pious intentions glaze over them.
Later—much later—she finds him with his head between her thighs. He looks up, glossed lips and speckled juices running down his chin. And he's so fucking beautiful, she wants to carve his feral smiley face into her arm just so she can look at it later.
Nearing the dawn of light, she finds his own etched words on his ankle, flushed a dark ebony against his pearl skin. His tattoo. I am mine—it read.
Mine to persevere, he explains. Mine to cherish. Mine to love.
Ginny draws him with charcoal-stained fingers; an image of his dedication to himself vivid on her blank, grey sheet. The drawings hangs on her wall, detailing the night in a slate of memories she wants to embrace forever.
And later when he kisses her hard and swift, bloody and sweaty and smiley, and throws his left arm around her shoulder, clutching her closer, after another one of his boxing matches, she leans back and he—
He smiles, once more.