Chapter 10: The Pool
The silence after Ginny left had been absolute, broken only by the distant, cheerful clatter of pots from the kitchen below—a surreal soundtrack to the devastation in the room. Hermione had dressed with mechanical precision, her back to Harry, every button and zip a punctuation mark of finality. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t shouted. She had simply left, the door clicking shut with a sound far more damning than any slam.
That had been yesterday.
Now, the summer sun hammered down on the Burrow’s back garden, transforming the old pool into a sheet of liquid mercury. The heat was a physical weight, stifling and thick with the smell of hot grass and chlorine.
Harry found her there, alone. She was stretched on a lounge chair, a book open but ignored on her stomach. Her bikini was a surprise—a simple, deep green two-piece that showed more of her than he’d ever seen. The top cupped her breasts, the curve of them spilling slightly over the fabric. The bottoms were brief, riding high on her hips. Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the dark green.
She looked over the top of her sunglasses as he approached. Her expression was unreadable.
“Ron’s gone with your dad to the ministry,” Harry said, his voice sounding too loud. “Ginny’s in the village with Dean.”
“I know,” Hermione said. She closed her book and sat up slightly. “I have sunscreen. I can’t reach my back.”
It was an offer, a challenge, a test. He understood that. The memory of his betrayal—pulling out of her, choosing the sight of Ginny over the feel of her—hung between them. This was her reclaiming something.
“Okay,” he said, his throat dry.
He took the bottle. The lotion was warm. She lay back down, presenting her back to him. The line of her spine was a delicate groove, the knot of her bikini top tied precariously between her shoulder blades. He squeezed a dollop onto his palm.
The first touch made her shiver. He spread the lotion over her shoulders, working it in slow circles. Her skin was incredibly soft, hot from the sun. He moved lower, down the gentle slope of her back, his fingers tracing the bumps of her vertebrae. The silence was heavy, charged not with yesterday’s anger, but with a new, deliberate tension.
“You missed a spot,” she murmured, her voice muffled by her arm.
He applied more, his hands sliding down to the small of her back, just above the band of her bikini bottoms. His thumbs dipped beneath the fabric, just a fraction. She didn’t protest. She arched, almost imperceptibly.
His control, already frayed from a night of tortured dreams about pink skin and slick, presented flesh, began to unravel. His cock, treacherously responsive, stiffened against his swim trunks.
He needed more pressure, more friction. The logical part of his brain short-circuited.
Under the guise of applying the lotion more evenly, he shifted, swinging one leg over so he was straddling her, not sitting on her, but kneeling over the backs of her thighs. He poured more lotion, slicking his hands, and resumed rubbing her back, but his hips were now lowered, the hard ridge of his erection pressed against the curve of her bum, separated only by two thin layers of fabric.
Hermione went very still. Then, she pushed back.
It was a subtle, rolling motion of her hips, grinding the softness of her arse against his cock. A hot, jolting thrill shot up his spine. He groaned, low in his throat, and began to move with her, a slow, filthy rhythm. He rutted against her, the green nylon of her bikini bottoms growing damp under his frantic thrusts. He could feel the cleft of her arse, the heat of her even through the material.
“Harry,” she breathed, not a protest, but a recognition.
He was lost. He slipped a hand around her side, his fingers sliding under the fabric of her bikini top, finding the full, heavy weight of her breast. He squeezed, his thumb finding her nipple, rubbing it to a hard peak. She cried out, her back arching sharply, pushing her arse more firmly against his grinding cock.
“Fuck, Hermione,” he panted, his movements growing jerky, desperate. He was fucking her arse through their swimwear, a clumsy, urgent simulation. He was going to come. He was going to spill in his trunks like a teenager, humping her from behind.
“What a cozy picture.”
The voice was like ice water. Ginny stood at the edge of the patio, a shopping bag in her hand, Dean presumably dropped at his own house. She was dressed in denim shorts and that loose, cropped tank top, her hair a fiery cascade. Her eyes were hard, taking in the scene: Harry knelt over Hermione, his hand groping her breast, his hips frantically working.
Harry froze, a deer in lumos light. Hermione, however, didn’t flinch. She turned her head, her cheek resting on her arm, and looked at Ginny. A slow, defiant smile touched her lips. She pressed back against Harry one more time, a clear, possessive claim.
Ginny’s composure shattered. The shopping bag hit the patio stones with a thud. The jealousy she’d hidden yesterday now blazed raw and unchecked on her face. This wasn’t a game anymore. Hermione was winning.
“Get off her,” Ginny said, her voice trembling with fury.
Harry scrambled back, his erection painfully obvious, a dark patch of dampness on the front of his trunks. Shame burned through him. “Ginny, it’s not—”
“Shut up,” she snapped. Her eyes darted to the house, then back to them. The calculation was visible. She couldn’t make a scene, not with her mother likely in the kitchen. She couldn’t physically pull him away. The only weapon she had left was the one that had worked before.
She took a step closer, her gaze locked on Harry’s. The anger in her eyes melted, transmuted into something desperate and hot.
“You want to fuck something, Harry?” she said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You want to put that,” she jerked her chin at his straining cock, “somewhere real?”
Hermione sat up swiftly, pulling her top back into place, her face alarmed. “Ginny, don’t.”
Ginny ignored her. She kept her eyes on Harry, a prisoner offering the only key she had. “You want my pussy? The one you jerked off to? You can have it. Right now. But you stop touching her.”
It was an ultimatum with no negotiation. The prize was everything. The reality, not just the sight.
Harry was on his feet without deciding to move. The gravitational pull was absolute. He nodded, a dumb, animal gesture.
Ginny grabbed his wrist. Her hand was hot, her grip iron-tight. She pulled him away from the lounge chairs, toward the rickety, vine-covered tool shed at the far end of the garden, hidden from the house view. Hermione’s furious gasp followed them, but Ginny didn’t look back.
Inside the shed, it was hot and dark, thick with the smell of old grass clippings and motor oil. Sunlight sliced through cracks in the boards, illuminating motes of dust. Ginny pushed him against the rough wood wall, her hands going to the button of his trunks.
“She doesn’t get you,” Ginny muttered, yanking his trunks and boxers down to his knees. His cock sprang free, jutting upward, already leaking. “She doesn’t know what you need.”
“Ginny,” he breathed, his hands finding her hips.
“No,” she said, slapping his hands away. “This is my show.” She shoved her own denim shorts and knickers down just enough, not even bothering to take them off. She hopped up, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms locking around his neck. Her eyes burned into his. “You want it? Take it.”
He fumbled, his hand between them, guiding himself. The head of his cock nudged against her. She was already wet, slick with a heat that stole his breath. With a sharp, driven motion of her hips, she sheathed him inside herself in one brutal, engulfing stroke.
“Oh, fuck!” he cried out, the sound torn from him.
She was unbelievably tight, a scorching, velvet clutch that squeezed him mercilessly. Different from Hermione—tighter, hotter, a fiercely claiming grip. Ginny began to move, riding him with a frantic, angry rhythm, her body slamming down onto his again and again. The shed wall creaked in protest. Her breath came in hot, ragged pants against his ear.
“This is what you wanted,” she grunted, each word punctuated by a downward thrust. “This is mine. You came for me. Now you fuck me.”
He could only hold on, his fingers digging into the bare skin of her thighs. The sensation was overwhelming, a sensory bombardment of heat, tightness, and the raw, grunting sounds she made. He met her thrusts, driving up into her, the crude, slapping sound of their joining filling the dusty air. He could feel every inch of her, every ripple and clutch of her cunt as it milking him toward oblivion.
“Gonna… Ginny, I’m gonna…” he choked out.
“Do it,” she commanded, biting his shoulder hard through his t-shirt. “Come in my pussy, Harry. Mark it. Then you remember who you belong to.”
Her words, her ferocious, possessive rhythm, tipped him over the edge. His orgasm detonated, a white-hot wire of pleasure searing through his core. He slammed into her, holding her impossibly close as he pulsed, jetting deep inside her with a guttural, helpless roar.
She held him through it, her own body clenching around him in sharp, rhythmic spasms. She didn’t cry out, but a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips, her forehead dropping to his shoulder.
For a moment, they stayed like that, joined, panting in the gloomy heat. The reality crashed down. Dean. Hermione. Molly Weasley in the kitchen.
Ginny unlocked her legs, sliding down him. They both dressed in silence, not looking at each other. The act had been too raw, too full of angry possession to feel like a victory.
She straightened her top, her face closed off. “Dean’s coming over for dinner tonight,” she said, her voice flat. “You owe me. You keep your mouth shut and your hands to yourself.”
She left the shed first, walking back to the house without a backward glance. Harry stood amidst the gardening tools, the smell of sex and gasoline in his nose, the ghost of her tight, fierce heat still clinging to his skin. The debt was immense, and he had no idea how, or if, he could ever pay it.