Chapter 13: Ginny's tits
The heavy door sighed shut behind Hermione, leaving the three of them in the alcove’s charged silence. The image of her bare skin seemed to hang in the air, a phantom scent more intoxicating than the old books.
Harry shifted in his chair, the thick fabric of his robes a rough friction against his straining erection. He couldn’t let it end there. It was incomplete. Unfair.
“Hold up,” he said, his voice rough.
Ron was still staring at his hands, pale and shaken. Ginny had finished buttoning her shirt, her expression unreadable.
“That wasn’t a very fair comparison, was it?” Harry continued. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his green eyes burning. “Hermione went all the way. Bare. Ginny… you’re still covered. It’s not a proper contest if one’s still wrapped up.”
Ginny arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. It’s so.” Harry’s hand drifted back to his lap, not even pretending now. He palmed himself through the cloth, a slow, steady pressure. “She showed us hers. You should show us yours. All of them. Make it even.”
Ron’s head snapped up. “What? No. Harry, that’s—”
“That’s what, Ron?” Harry cut him off, his gaze never leaving Ginny. “Fair? It’s only fair. She won, but we didn’t get the full view from both sides. How can we judge properly?”
“You’re mental,” Ron whispered, but his protest was weak, hollow. His eyes flicked to his sister’s chest, to the shirt that now hid everything. A traitorous curiosity was eating him alive.
Ginny watched them both, her fiery gaze calculating. She saw Harry’s blatant touch, the desperate hunger in his face. She saw Ron’s conflict, the war between brotherly propriety and raw, base want. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips.
“You want a proper look, Harry?” she asked, her voice low.
“More than anything.” The words were a raw scrape in his throat.
“And you, Ron?” She turned her smile on her brother. It was sweet and poisonous. “You should stay. For fairness. Hermione’s… performance… was for all of us, wasn’t it? It’d be rude to leave now. Unless you don’t think you can handle it.”
Ron flushed a deep, painful crimson. “Ginny, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Point out that you’re curious? That you secretly want to see?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “My little, perfect tits. You’ve wondered, haven’t you? How they compare to Lavender’s. To Hermione’s. Just a peek. It’s only fair.”
Harry’s breath hitched. Perfect. The word echoed in his skull. His grip tightened. He was so hard it was a dull, consuming ache. The library, the war, Voldemort—all of it dissolved into the hot, singular need to see Ginny Weasley bare-chested in the dusty light.
Ron said nothing. He was paralyzed.
“Take that as a yes,” Harry murmured, a triumphant fire in his veins. “Come on, Ginny. For the sake of fairness.”
Ginny held Harry’s gaze for a long, charged moment. Then, with a grace that was entirely deliberate, she stood up. She didn’t look at Ron. This was for Harry now. Because he’d asked. Because he wanted it so badly he was vibrating with it.
Her fingers went to her buttons again. But this time it wasn’t a teasing, slow reveal. It was methodical. Efficient. Pop. Pop. Pop. The flannel shirt fell open.
Beneath it was the same simple white bra. She reached behind her back, never breaking eye contact with Harry. The clasp gave with a soft snick.
Harry stopped breathing.
She hooked her thumbs under the straps and slid them down her shoulders. The bra loosened. She let it hang for a second, a promise, a torment. Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled it free and let it drop soundlessly onto the table, atop the forgotten, leather-bound book.
And there they were.
Harry’s mind went blank, white static. All thought was obliterated by sight.
They were smaller than Hermione’s, a delicate handful. High and firm, paler than the rest of her freckled skin, with pink, taut nipples that peaked instantly in the cool air. They were exquisite. Not lavish, but flawless in their proportion, proud and young. The dust motes swimming in the window light seemed to kiss her skin.
“Fucking hell,” Harry breathed. The words were barely audible. He was touching himself openly now, his fist moving in a ruthless, rhythmic pattern beneath the table. The fabric was damp. He didn’t care. His entire world had narrowed to the swell of her breasts, the subtle shadow beneath them, the way they moved faintly with her breathing.
Ron made a small, choked sound. He was staring, his face a mask of horror and fascination. He couldn’t look away.
Ginny stood perfectly still, allowing the inspection. Her expression was defiant, but a faint pink flush had spread across her chest and throat. She was not unaffected. “Satisfied?” she asked, her voice remarkably steady.
“No,” Harry gasped, his hips pushing into his hand. “Not nearly. They’re incredible. Perfect. Just… fuck, Ginny.”
He wanted to reach out. To touch. To see if the skin was as soft as it looked. But even in his unhinged state, a last, fraying thread of sanity held him in his seat. This was the line. Looking was one thing. Touching was something else. For now.
He committed every detail to memory: the scattering of light freckles over the top curve, the exact shade of pink, the way her ribs showed just beneath. It was better than any fantasy. It was real, and it was forbidden, and that made it so much worse. So much better.
The silence stretched, thick and syrupy with desire and shame.
Finally, Ginny moved. She didn’t rush. She picked up her bra, slid her arms back through the straps, and fastened it with the same efficient calm. She began buttoning her shirt, covering the vision inch by agonizing inch.
The spell shattered.
Harry slumped back in his chair, spent and trembling, his robes a messy disgrace. Ron finally wrenched his gaze away, looking at the floor as if it held the answers to his ruin.
Ginny’s shirt was fully closed. She smoothed the fabric, her face now unreadable once more. The library’ ordinary sounds—the distant scratch of a quill, the rustle of a page—seemed to flood back into the alcove, loud and accusing.
“Fair’s fair,” she said quietly. Then she turned and walked out, leaving the two boys alone with the ghost of her skin and the heavy weight of what they’d done.
Harry let out a long, shuddering breath. The frantic heat was fading, leaving a cold, sticky hollow in its place. He looked at Ron, who seemed smaller, broken.
“Well,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “Now we know.”
Ron didn’t answer. He just stood up, woodenly, and walked away without a word, leaving Harry alone with the scent of old paper and the indelible, perfect image burned onto the back of his eyes.