Chapter 20: Reward
The silence between Sundays had a new texture.
It wasn’t just Harry’s anymore. It belonged to all three of them, a thick, invisible thread strung taut in every common room glance, every shared meal. Hermione was a statue of efficiency, her notes more meticulous than ever, her robes buttoned to the throat. Ginny was a live grenade. She’d catch Harry’s eye across the room and her lips would curl, not in a smile, but in a silent, searing reminder. Then she’d turn and laugh too loudly at something Dean said.
Harry felt it in his gut, a constant, low-grade hum. The memory wasn’t a single picture anymore; it was a flipping album. Hermione’s soft submission. Ginny’s furious bared skin. He replayed the comparison obsessively in the dark.
When the next Sunday finally bled into the castle stones, he was already in the bathroom, hard and waiting. The anticipation was a physical ache.
The door opened. They entered together, but not in unison. Ginny stepped in first, her posture defiant. Hermione followed, closing the door with a soft, final click.
No one spoke.
Ginny’s eyes went straight to his groin. A flash of something—contempt, curiosity—crossed her face. “Eager, aren’t we?”
Hermione smoothed her jumper. “The terms are active. You’ve complied.”
“Like I had a choice,” Ginny muttered, but she was already pulling her shirt over her head. No hesitation this time. No bra. Her breasts were there, sudden and perfect in the damp air. “Get on with it, then.”
Hermione, with trembling fingers, began her own methodical disrobing. Jumper. Bra. The unveiling was slower, more agonizing. Her skin pebbled instantly.
They stood close. Not touching, but near enough that Harry could see the subtle differences in the shadows beneath each curve, the way the light from the enchanted sconces caught Ginny’s freckled skin differently than Hermione’s smooth expanse.
“God,” he breathed, his hand moving on himself.
“We know,” Ginny said, her voice a low taunt. She shifted her weight, making the firm swell of her breast sway slightly. “We’re perfect. You’ve said. Spare us the poetry.”
Hermione said nothing. She was watching his face, her own cheeks flushed.
“Closer,” Harry heard himself say, his voice ragged.
Ginny snorted but took a half-step sideways. Her arm brushed Hermione’s. The sides of their breasts were almost touching now, a maddening sliver of space between them. The contrast was breathtaking. Hermione’s fuller, paler curve beside Ginny’s tighter, rosier offering.
“You’ve had a week to think about it, Potter,” Ginny goaded. Her anger was still there, but it was being channeled now, sharpened into a weapon of provocation. “Which was it? Hmm? Which ones kept you up at night? The sensible ones or the fun ones?”
“Ginny, please,” Hermione whispered, but it was weak.
“No, come on. He’s a critic. Let’s hear the review.” Ginny’s eyes glittered. “Or better yet. Let’s see it.”
Harry’s rhythm faltered. “What?”
“You pick,” Ginny said, a wicked smile touching her lips. “Not with words. You’re too good at filthy words. You pick with that.” She nodded toward his pumping fist. “This time, you don’t just get to look. You get to choose. All over the ones you want most.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward Ginny. “That wasn’t the agreement! That’s… that’s degrading!”
“It’s all degrading, ‘Mione!” Ginny shot back, her composure cracking for a second to reveal the raw edge beneath. “He’s jerking off to us in a bog! You think standing here like a mannequin is noble? At least this has a point. Let him choose.”
Hermione looked stricken. Her eyes darted from Ginny’s fierce expression to Harry’s awestruck face. She saw the raw, hungry need there. The choice was already being made in the frantic pace of his hand.
“It’s logical,” Hermione finally said, the words hollow. “A definitive data point.”
Harry couldn’t speak. The command, the possibility, sent a bolt of white-hot lightning down his spine. His eyes raced from one pair to the other. Hermione’s, so beautifully shaped, the archetype of his longing. Ginny’s, defiant and thrilling, a prize he’d never dared to properly want.
“Do it,” Ginny hissed, leaning forward slightly. “Choose.”
He was too close. The pressure was immense, a tidal wave building at the base of his skull. His gaze locked on the shallow valley between Hermione’s breasts, then flicked to the pert, tight silhouette of Ginny’s.
“Harry,” Hermione whispered, and in her voice was a plea he couldn’t decipher.
It broke him.
With a choked, guttural sound, he stumbled forward one step. His body arched, spine taut as a bowstring. The release wasn’t a wave; it was a violent, targeted eruption. He didn’t decide. His body decided for him.
A hot, stinging stripe landed across the upper curve of Ginny’s right breast, a second spatter just below it. She flinched, a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t retreat. Her eyes were wide, locked on his.
The rest spilled onto the tiles between them, but the choice was made. It was written on Ginny’s skin.
Silence, broken only by Harry’s ragged panting.
Ginny looked down slowly at the mess on her chest. Her expression was unreadable—shock, victory, revulsion, all at once. She looked at Hermione, who was staring, pale and horrified, at the same spot.
“The fun ones, then,” Ginny said quietly. Her voice had lost all its taunting edge. It was just flat. Numb.
She turned, grabbed her shirt, and wiped herself clean with a brutal, efficient motion. She didn’t look at Harry again. She just left, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft, definitive click.
Hermione was still bare, standing frozen. She looked from the closed door to Harry, who was buckling his trousers with trembling hands. The clinical facade was utterly gone. In its place was a profound, unsettling hurt.
“You chose her,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Harry couldn’t meet her eyes. The shame was immediate, a cold douse after the fire. But beneath the shame, a darker, more possessive thrill still pulsed. He had marked his choice. It was irrevocable.
Hermione dressed slowly, mechanically. When she pulled her jumper on, she hugged herself as if she were cold.
“Next week,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Just you and me. The original terms.”
She left without another word.
Harry slumped against the sink, the chill of the porcelain seeping into his bones. The choice was made. He had gotten what he wanted. The hollow victory echoed in the empty room, louder than any spell.