Chapter 2: Dean's Visit
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the window, cheerful and bright, painting the dusty room in gold. It did nothing to ease the ache in Harry’s back from the floor or the sharper, hotter ache in his gut.
Ginny was already moving. He watched through slitted eyes as she stood by the dresser, rifling through a drawer. She wore only a thin, grey camisole and a pair of black knickers. The camisole was short, riding up to reveal the taut, defined plane of her lower stomach. The knickers were simple, but they hugged the perfect, rounded curve of her arse like a second skin. As she bent forward, the fabric stretched, and Harry’s mouth went dry. He could see the powerful line of her thighs, the subtle shift of muscle in her back.
He pretended to be asleep, forcing his breathing to stay even.
“I know you’re awake, Potter,” she said without turning around. Her voice was morning-rough. “You snore when you’re actually asleep.”
He gave up, sitting up and running a hand through his tangled hair. The blanket pooled in his lap, and he was grateful for it.
“I don’t snore.”
“You do. It’s adorable.” She finally turned, holding a faded Holyhead Harpies shirt. She didn’t put it on. She leaned against the dresser, crossing her arms under her breasts. The action pushed them together, creating a deep, shadowed cleavage that his eyes locked onto against his will. The soft cotton of the camisole strained. He could see the faint outline of her nipples against the fabric.
He looked away, out the window, at a gnome digging in the garden. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“Dean’ll be here after lunch,” she said, watching him. “Mum’s making a fuss. You’ll be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You’re brooding. It’s different.” She pushed off the dresser and finally pulled the Harpies shirt over her head. For a fleeting second, the camisole lifted, and he saw a strip of bare, freckled skin across her midriff, the gentle dip of her navel. Then it was gone, covered by the worn jersey. He felt a ridiculous sense of loss.
Breakfast was a cacophony of Weasleys. Hermione, in a long-sleeved linen shirt buttoned to the throat, discussed Ministry reform with Arthur. Ginny moved around the kitchen with effortless grace, stealing sausages from Ron’s plate—he was present via a talking mirror, his face a splotchy green—and brushing past Harry deliberately every time.
Her hip bumped his as she reached for the toast. Her hand, warm and faintly sticky with jam, brushed his wrist when she passed the butter. Each touch was a tiny electric shock, a promise of a voltage he couldn’t afford to touch.
He was drowning in her. In the way her laughter crinkled the corners of her eyes. In the confident set of her shoulders. In the maddening bounce of her chest when she argued quidditch tactics with George over floo-call.
He wanted to see her tits. The thought was crude, desperate, and it looped in his mind with a relentless beat. He wanted to peel that jersey off, to see if the skin there was as pale and freckled as her shoulders, if her nipples were the same pale pink as her lips. He wanted to taste her. The fantasy was so vivid he had to adjust his seat, his jeans feeling two sizes too small.
“You’re quiet, Harry,” Hermione noted, spooning porridge.
“Just tired,” he muttered. “Floor’s hard.”
Ginny caught his eye over the rim of her juice glass. She smiled, a slow, secret thing, and took a long, deliberate drink. Her throat worked as she swallowed. He watched the muscle move, imagining putting his mouth there.
The afternoon sun baked the Burrow. Ginny changed into a simple blue sundress for Dean’s arrival. It was deceptively modest at first glance—cap sleeves, a skirt that ended just above her knees. But the neckline was a wide, open square that fell forward with every movement.
She found him alone in the sitting room, pretending to read a Quidditch magazine.
“Do I look alright?” she asked, doing a little spin.
It was an act of war. The spin made the skirt flare. As she came to a stop, the neckline gaped. He was sitting. She was standing over him. From his angle, he could see straight down the front of her dress. The soft, pale swells of her breasts, the dark shadow of the valley between them, the edge of a lace-trimmed bra cup straining to contain her.
He stopped breathing. Time stuttered. The image branded itself behind his eyes: the freckles scattered there like gold dust, the delicate blue veins, the sheer, breath-taking fullness of her. He was so hard it was painful. He wanted to reach out, to hook a finger in that neckline and pull it down until everything was revealed. He’d come in his pants if he did. The humiliation of that thought was the only thing that kept him frozen.
“Ginny…” His voice was a strangled rasp.
She leaned forward, pretending to straighten a magazine on the table. The neckline fell even further. He saw the deep curve of her cleavage, the way her breasts pressed together. She was so close he could feel her body heat.
“Yes?” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
The front door slammed open.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Dean’s voice, cheerful and unfamiliar in this new, tortured context, echoed through the house.
Ginny straightened up smoothly, the provocative glimpse vanishing, replaced by a benign smile. She didn’t look flushed or guilty. She looked victorious.
“In here, Dean!” she called, her eyes still on Harry. They sparkled with mischief and something darker, more knowing. She had seen his face. She knew exactly what she’d done to him.
She turned and walked out to greet her boyfriend, the skirt swishing around her thighs. Harry was left alone, gripping the magazine so tightly the paper tore. The phantom image of her breasts, the smell of her skin, the teasing weight of her look—it all coalesced into a single, pounding need.
He heard their easy laughter from the hall, Dean’s deeper tone mingling with hers. The normalcy of it was a slap.
He had promised Molly to be a gentleman. He had promised himself to respect Ginny’s relationship. But as he sat there, aching and furious with want, he understood with crystal clarity that Ginny was playing a game with fire. And he was no longer sure he had the will to step away from the burn.