Chapter 6: Interrupted
The pounding wasn’t in his chest anymore. It was on the door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Ginny! You alright in there? Thought you’d drowned.” Dean’s voice, muffled but impatient, sliced through the humid, charged air of the bathroom like a deflating charm.
Reality crashed in, cold and abrupt.
Harry’s hand froze, his own touch suddenly feeling crude and stupid. Ginny’s eyes widened a fraction, not with fear, but with sharp, calculating amusement. In one fluid motion, she bent at the knees, a swift, graceful dip that made her breasts sway enticingly for one last, heartbreaking second before she snatched the red bra from the floor. She turned her back to him, a flash of pale shoulders and the elegant notch of her spine.
“Just a sec! Pumpkin juice catastrophe,” she called out, her voice impressively steady, even cheerful. Her hands worked behind her back, re-fastening the clasp with a speed that spoke of long practice. The straps snapped back into place, obscuring the perfect shapes, reforming the tantalizing curves under thin cotton.
Harry fumbled desperately at his own jeans, his fingers clumsy and thick. He stuffed himself back in, wincing at the painful constraint, and frantically zipped up, the sound obscenely loud in the sudden quiet. The cooling stain on his boxers was a humiliating testament to how close he’d been.
“Decent?” Ginny whispered, not looking at him as she smoothed her top down. It clung slightly, damp from the earlier spill.
He nodded, unable to speak, his heart now a frantic drum against his ribs for a completely different reason.
She turned, and the Ginny that looked at him now was different. The predatory, unveiled goddess was gone, replaced by the familiar, fiery girl he knew—but her eyes held a secret, a smoldering promise that made his knees weak. She stepped close, so close her repaired chest almost brushed his heaving one. She smelled of adrenaline and warm skin.
Her hand rose, and for a wild moment he thought she’d touch him. Instead, she adjusted the collar of his shirt, her fingers brushing his throat. It was an intimate, possessive gesture.
“Next time,” she murmured, her voice a honeyed whisper meant only for him, “I’ll make sure we’re alone long enough.” Her eyes dropped to his lips, then back up. “Long enough for you to properly worship these.”
To emphasize her point, her hands went to her own sides, just beneath the curve of her breasts, and she gave a deliberate, little bounce. The soft weight jiggled enticingly under the cotton, the motion imprinted instantly and permanently behind his eyes. It was a punctuation mark. A vow.
Bang. “Gin, come on!”
“Alright, keep your Hippogriffs on!” she sang out, never breaking eye contact with Harry. She gave him one last, slow smirk that promised chaos and release, then turned and yanked the door open.
The cooler air from the stone corridor rushed in, a shock against Harry’s feverish skin. Dean stood there, looking annoyed and bored, his frame blocking most of the dim hallway light.
“What were you two doing in there?” Dean asked, his gaze shifting from Ginny’s flushed face to Harry standing stupidly behind her.
“Told you. Juice explosion. Harry was just helping me clean up.” Ginny breezed past Dean, linking her arm with his. “It’s all sticky. Not a pleasant feeling.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly at Harry, a flicker of suspicion darkening his features. Harry forced himself to move, to step out of the bathroom threshold. His legs felt like they were made of wood. He hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.
“Yeah,” Harry croaked. He cleared his throat. “Messy.”
The hallway seemed too bright, too real. The distant roar of the pub was a mundane orchestra compared to the symphony that had just been playing in his head. He could still see them. The pale, perfect curves, the hardened peaks, the way they moved when she breathed. They were burned onto his retina, more vivid than any magical photograph.
Ginny was already leading Dean away, laughing at something he said, but she glanced back over her shoulder. Not a full look. Just a sliver of her profile, a glint of knowing brown eye. Her free hand came up and subtly, almost absently, traced the neckline of her top, right over the swell of her breast. Then she was gone, turning the corner, her laughter echoing.
Harry stood alone in the dim corridor. The damp patch on his abdomen had gone cold. The phantom sensation of her warmth, the sight of that defiant, teasing bounce, thrummed in his bloodstream like a curse. The door to the staff bathroom stood ajar, a dark slit revealing a sliver of the room where his world had just rearranged itself.
Worship. She’d said worship.
He leaned his head back against the cool stone wall, closing his eyes. The images assaulted him immediately, more intense, more real now that he had a true reference. He was thoroughly, completely ruined. Everything else—the weight of his name, the shadow of the war, the mundane worry of homework—faded into a distant hum. All that existed was a fierce, clawing want centered on a specific, perfect shape, and the echoing promise in a redhead’s smirk.
Next time.
There would be a next time. He’d make sure of it. Even as the guilt of Dean, of Ron, tried to surface, it was drowned out by a far more primal roar. He pushed off from the wall and walked, the ghost of her breasts moving in his mind, a tattoo of desire pounding in time with his steps. The night was far from over.