Chapter 1: Arriving at the Burrow
The Burrow smelled like baking bread and summer grass. Harry apparated just outside the gnome-riddled garden, the familiar lopsided silhouette of the house pulling a real smile from him for the first time in weeks. He hoisted his rucksack, the weight of the last year still clinging to him like a dusty cloak, and trudged toward the kitchen door.
It flew open before he could knock.
“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley engulfed him in a floury, lavender-scented hug. Over her shoulder, he saw the kitchen was its usual chaotic mess, but his eyes snagged immediately on the two figures sitting at the table.
Hermione looked up from a thick, leather-bound book, her brown eyes warm. She’d let her hair grow; it fell in a chaotic, bushy cascade over her shoulders, and she’d traded school robes for a simple, faded blue t-shirt. It clung to her in a way that was new, outlining the soft, surprising curve of her breasts. Harry’s gaze flickered there for a half-second before he snapped it back to her face, feeling a hot prickle on his neck.
“Hello, Harry,” she said, smiling.
But it was Ginny who stole the air from the room.
She was leaning against the sink, one hip cocked, wearing denim shorts so frayed they seemed to dissolve high on her thighs. A thin, white vest top stretched across her chest, and Harry’s brain stuttered. She’d filled out, powerfully. The fabric strained against the full, rounded shape of her breasts, and a glimpse of freckled skin showed in the V of the neckline. Her red hair was a wild flame down her back.
“Took you long enough,” Ginny said, her voice a low tease. She pushed off the sink, and the movement made everything shift. Harry’s mouth went dry. He forced himself to look at the clock, the stove, the floor—anywhere else.
“Ron’s upstairs,” Mrs. Weasley said, bustling to stir a pot. “Came down with a nasty case of Spattergroit, poor love. Highly contagious. He’s in isolation.”
“Oh no,” Harry said, genuinely concerned. “Is he alright?”
“He’ll live. Bit spotty. But it means we’ve a bit of a sleeping problem,” Molly continued, wiping her hands on her apron. She turned to face him, her expression shifting into something stern and knowing. “Bill and Fleur are in the room over the shed. Charlie’s room is a disaster zone from the twins’ last ‘experiment.’ So, you’ll be in with Ginny and Hermione.”
Silence, thick and sudden, filled the kitchen. The only sound was the bubbling pot. Hermione’s cheeks pinked. Ginny just arched an eyebrow, a slow, challenging smile playing on her lips. Harry felt a jolt, hot and immediate, shoot straight down his spine.
“Molly, I don’t think—” Hermione started.
“It’s fine,” Ginny interrupted, her eyes locked on Harry. “We can throw a mattress on the floor. It’s not like we haven’t all camped together before.” The way she said ‘camped’ felt loaded.
Mrs. Weasley fixed Harry with a stare that could quell a dragon. “Harry, dear. You’re of age now. They are too. I trust you.” She pointed a wooden spoon at him. “But I am their mother. You will keep your hands to yourself. And your eyes on their faces. Do I make myself clear?”
A wave of guilt, sharp and sour, washed over him. He nodded, unable to form words. His promise felt like a lie even as he made it.
“Good,” Molly said, the warmth returning. “Now, go on up and dump your things. Dinner in twenty.”
The walk upstairs was agony. Ginny led, her denim shorts pulling tight across the perfect, swaying curve of her backside with every step. Hermione followed, and Harry, bringing up the rear, found himself staring at the gentle swing of Hermione’s hips, the way her jeans hugged the full shape of her arse. He was painfully hard, straining against his trousers, and he had to angle his body awkwardly.
Ginny’s room was small, all warm wood and Chudley Cannon orange. It smelled like her—wildflowers and broomstick polish. One single bed, one narrow camp bed, and now his mattress on the floor between them. It felt like a trap.
“Home sweet home,” Ginny said, flopping onto her bed with a deliberate bounce. She lay back, arms stretched above her head, and the position pulled her vest top even tighter across her chest, outlining the distinct, soft weight of her breasts and the faint points of her nipples against the thin cotton. Harry looked away, his heart hammering.
Hermione busied herself organizing her books on a small desk, her back to him. “It’s only for a few nights, until Ron is non-contagious,” she said, her voice slightly too high.
“Right,” Harry managed, dumping his rucksack on the floor mattress.
Ginny rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her gaze traveled over him, slow and appraising. “Relax, Potter. We won’t bite.” A smirk. “Unless you want us to.”
“Ginny!” Hermione hissed, turning. Her eyes were wide, but there was a flicker in them Harry hadn’t seen before—not quite shock, but a nervous curiosity.
“What? He looks like he’s about to bolt.” Ginny’s eyes dropped, deliberately, to the front of Harry’s trousers. He froze, caught. A fresh wave of heat flooded him, equal parts shame and desperate arousal. She saw it. She saw everything.
She laughed, a low, rich sound. “See? He needs to relax.”
The dinner bell clanged from downstairs, a salvation. Harry practically fled the room.
Dinner was a blur of noise and food he couldn’t taste. He sat across from Ginny, and every time she leaned forward to reach for a dish, the neck of her top gaped, offering a devastating glimpse of the smooth, freckled swell of her cleavage. Hermione, beside him, would occasionally brush his arm as she passed the potatoes, and each touch felt like a static shock. He was in a constant state of painful, distracted arousal, Molly’s warning ringing in his ears like a curse.
Later, in the dark, the room was alive with tension. The girls had changed in the bathroom, returning in soft, thin sleep clothes. Hermione wore modest cotton pajamas, but the top button was undone, and in the moonlight from the narrow window, Harry could see the shadowed valley between her breasts. Ginny, however, had on a small, silky camisole and shorts that barely covered her thighs. She made no attempt to hide under the covers, just lay there on top of them, a pale, curved silhouette.
Harry lay rigid on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, listening to their breathing.
“Harry?” Hermione’s whisper was soft in the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Are you… comfortable?”
He almost laughed. “Fine.”
A rustle of sheets from Ginny’s bed. He couldn’t help it. He turned his head. She was facing him, her eyes open, glinting in the low light. One strap of her camisole had slipped down her smooth shoulder. Her bare foot dangled off the side of the bed, inches from his face.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she whispered, her voice a thread of sound.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
“Go to sleep, Ginny,” Hermione murmured, but there was no force in it.
Silence stretched again, thick and humming. Harry’s entire body was a live wire. Every sense was hyper-focused on the two warm, breathing bodies surrounding him—the subtle, sweet scent of Hermione’s soap, the sharper, wilder scent of Ginny. The soft sound of fabric shifting as one of them moved.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for sleep, for control. But behind his eyelids, all he could see were visions of freckled skin and straining cotton, of curves he yearned to touch. The promise to Molly felt like a distant, hollow thing, drowned out by the roaring pulse in his veins.
He was still wide awake, aching and desperate, when he heard the first, slow, rhythmic creak of the bedsprings above him.