Chapter 2: The Accidental Peek
The memory of Hermione’s shirt, the precise way the light had clung to the curve of cotton, haunted Harry through the next day. It was a ghost that lingered behind his eyelids during Potions, making his fingers clumsy with sopophorous beans. It was a tight, warm pressure in his gut during Transfiguration. He’d catch a glimpse of her, now demurely wrapped in a loose robe again, and the frustrated hunger would roar back, sharper than before.
It was a relief to escape to the pitch for evening flying, even if it was just solo drills. The cold, clean air of the November evening slapped the itch from his skin, momentarily clearing the image of deep cleavage from his mind. After an hour of punishing dives and sharp turns, his muscles burned pleasantly, and his mind was blessedly quiet. Sweat cooled on his back as he trudged from the pitch, the grounds dark and empty.
A wrong turn. That’s what he told himself later. He was tired, his mind elsewhere, and he pushed open the familiar heavy wooden door expecting the humid, masculine smell of the boys’ changing room—old leather, liniment, and wet grass.
Instead, the air was steamy and carried the faint, sharp scent of floral shampoo and clean sweat. He’d walked straight into the girls’ Quidditch locker room.
He froze, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. The room was large, lined with lockers, benches running down the center. It was empty, save for one person.
Ginny Weasley stood at the far end, leaning against a closed locker. She was fully dressed in jeans and a simple green jumper, her long red hair damp and clinging to her neck. She was tying the laces on her trainers. She looked up, and instead of shock or outrage, a slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
“Lost, Potter?” Her voice echoed slightly in the tiled space.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, his voice raspy. He made no move to leave. His eyes, traitorous and automatic, scanned her. The jumper was soft-looking, hugging her torso, and though she was slimmer than Hermione, the fabric draped in a way that outlined the distinct, gentle swell of her chest. Smaller, yes, but undeniable. Perky. The word flashed in his mind, sent a jolt straight down his spine.
“Boys’ is next door. Obviously.” She finished with her laces and straightened up. She didn’t seem in a hurry for him to go.
“Right. Yeah. Drills. My head’s still in the clouds.” He gestured vaguely upward, his eyes still on her.
Ginny chuckled, a low, rich sound. She walked toward a duffel bag sitting on a bench nearer to him. “Rough flight?”
“Cleared the cobwebs,” he said, watching the way she moved. There was an athletic confidence to her, a sway in her hips that was entirely unconscious and utterly captivating.
“Good.” She unzipped the bag and rummaged inside. “I need to change. Dean’s meeting me in Hogsmeade. Promised him I’d wear these trousers he likes.” She pulled out a pair of fitted, dark corduroys.
Harry’s mouth went dry. She wasn’t asking him to leave. She was stating a fact, her tone casual, almost challenging.
“Oh,” was all he could manage.
She looked at him, her brown eyes bright with amusement. “You can turn around. Or not. I don’t really care.” The statement hung in the steamy air, a direct hit to his already ragged control.
She didn’t wait for his decision. She turned her back to him, her fingers going to the button of her jeans. Harry stood rooted, a spectator to his own moral collapse. He heard the rasp of the zip, the soft rustle of denim sliding down her legs. She stepped out of them, standing for a moment in just her jumper, a pair of simple black knickers, and her trainers.
His gaze drank her in. The jumper ended just at the top of her thighs, the sight of her bare legs and the curve of her arse beneath the thin cotton of her underwear sending a wave of heat through him. She bent over, deliberately slow, to pick up the corduroys. The position stretched the jumper tight across her back and made the hem ride up, offering a devastating, fleeting glimpse of the full, perfect shape of her backside. It was an exhibition, pure and simple.
She straightened, stepped into the new trousers, and began to pull them up. The fabric clung to her legs, her hips, accentuating every line. She wriggled slightly to get them over her arse, a motion that was profoundly intimate. Once they were fastened, she turned around to face him again.
Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated mischief. She hadn’t stripped naked, hadn’t shown him her breasts, but she’d shown him something. She’d let him watch. She’d confirmed a power dynamic he was only beginning to understand.
“Better?” she asked, her voice a tease.
“They look… good,” Harry forced out, his own voice strange to his ears.
“Dean thinks so.” She said the name lightly, but it felt like a pinprick. A reminder. She gathered her old jeans, stuffed them in her bag, and zipped it up. She slung the bag over her shoulder and walked right past him, toward the door. As she reached it, she paused, her hand on the handle.
She glanced back over her shoulder, her damp hair swinging. Her eyes met his, and they held the same aware, calculating glint he’d seen in Hermione’s in the library. It was a knowing. A shared secret.
“Enjoy your shower, Harry,” she said. Then she winked. A slow, deliberate, and utterly brazen wink.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence roared in his ears, louder than any crowd. The room still held her scent—shampoo, clean cotton, and the faint, salty tang of her sweat. He was painfully, achingly hard. The images superimposed themselves: Hermione leaning, fabric straining. Ginny bending, the shift of muscle and curve. Two different offerings, two different kinds of torment.
He walked on unsteady legs to the showers, the cold spray doing nothing to douse the fire. He thought of Ginny’s wink, of Hermione’s knowing glance. This wasn’t accidental. It was a game. And he, with his hungry, obvious stares, had just confirmed he was a willing player. The clean, empty ache of flying was gone, replaced by a thrumming, frustrated need that felt infinitely more dangerous.