Chapter 3: Dean's visit
The laughter from the hall was a physical thing, a wave that washed over Harry and left him cold in its wake. He forced himself to stand, the torn magazine pages fluttering to the floor. By the time he made it to the kitchen, the scene was one of wholesome chaos.
Dean Thomas stood near the back door, his arm casually slung around Ginny’s shoulders. He was tall, broader than Harry remembered, his smile easy and uncomplicated. Ginny leaned into him, her sundress riding up a little on her thigh where his hand rested.“Harry! Good to see you, mate,” Dean said, extending his free hand.His grip was firm, confident.
“You too, Dean,” Harry managed, the words ash in his mouth. He could still see, superimposed over this polite scene, the deep shadow of Ginny’s cleavage from his angle on the sofa.
Molly fussed with a tray of lemonade.Arthur engaged Dean in a conversation about Muggle welding. Hermione offered a warm, if slightly strained, smile. And Ron’s head, still floating in the mirror on the mantle, was scowling fiercely.“Garden’s looking brilliant, Mrs. Weasley,” Dean said, accepting a glass.“Perfect for a kickabout. Bring the old football, Gin?”
“It’s deflated. Probably gnomes,” Ginny replied, her fingers tracing idle circles on Dean’s back. Harry watched her hand move, the delicate tendons flexing under her sun-kissed skin.They spilled out into the sun-drenched garden, the afternoon heat thick and heavy. The football was indeed limp, but George, who’d arrived via Floo, produced a dented Quaffle from his pocket. “Better than a bludger, anyway.”
The game was casual, messy. Harry played with a grim, focused intensity, channeling the furious energy in his veins into running, dodging, stealing the ball from Dean with more force than necessary. Ginny played with a fierce, fluid grace. When she ran, her hair streamed behind her like a banner of fire. When she jumped to intercept a throw from Hermione, the sundress strained against the full, rounded curve of her chest. The fabric grew damp with sweat, clinging to the narrow line of her waist, the swell of her hips.
She was a vision of intense, physical vitality, and every movement was a fresh torture.
During a break, she pulled the dress away from her chest, fanning herself. “Merlin, it’s boiling.” The action pulled the sweat-dampened cotton tight across her breasts, outlining the precise shape of her bra, the hardened points of her nipples. Dean handed her his water glass, and she drank deeply, her throat working, a trickle escaping to slide down the column of her neck and into the flushed valley between her breasts. Harry’s own glass shattered in his grip.
“Sorry,” he muttered, vanishing the shards with a flick of his wand.“Clumsy.”
Hermione gave him a searching look. Ron’s mirrored face was shouting something about fouls.
As the sun began to lower, casting long shadows, Dean stretched.“I should probably head off. Early training tomorrow.”
There was a chorus of goodbyes.Ginny walked him to the gate, her hand in his. Harry watched from the kitchen window, a cold stone in his gut.Dean kissed her. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but it was possessive, a closed-mouth press that lingered. His large hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. Ginny smiled up at him, that same, easy, genuine smile.
Then she turned and walked back to the house, and her eyes immediately found Harry in the window.The smile changed. It became knowing, edged with a private triumph.Dinner was a quieter affair.The space where Dean had been seemed to echo. Ginny, freshly showered, wore a thin cotton sleep shirt and shorts that exposed the long, toned length of her legs. She was quieter, but her presence was more potent, as if Dean’s visit had somehow charged the air between her and Harry. Every brush of her bare arm against his as she passed the peas was a brand.
Later, in the dim quiet of the guest room, Hermione was already asleep, her breathing steady.Ginny stood at the window, backlit by the moonlight. The cheap cotton of her shirt was translucent in the silvery glow. Harry could see the silhouette of her body clearly: the narrow taper of her waist, the flare of her hips, the unmistakable, perfect curve of her arse.She knew he was watching.She always knew.
She turned slowly.The moonlight caught the planes of her face, the challenging glint in her eyes. Without a word, she pulled the sleep shirt over her head.Harry stopped breathing.
She wasn’t naked. She wore a simple, black lace bra, but in the context of the dark room and her deliberate act, it was more exposing than nudity. The lace was delicate, a web against her pale, freckled skin. Her breasts were full and heavy, beautifully shaped, held and uplifted by the cups.The deep cleavage was a shadowy invitation. His gaze raked over the smooth skin of her stomach, the dip of her navel, the sharp cut of her hip bones above the band of her shorts.
He made a sound, a low, involuntary groan from the back of his throat.Ginny didn’t move. She let him look, her chest rising and falling a little faster now.A faint, proud smile touched her lips. This was the power she had, and she was wielding it without mercy.
Then, in one fluid motion, she reached behind her back, never breaking eye contact.There was a quiet snap.The bra loosened.
She didn’t remove it.She simply let it hang, slack, the cups gaping open. He saw the outer swell of one bare breast, a glimpse of pale, pink nipple.
His control shattered.He took a step forward.A floorboard creaked under his foot. Hermione stirred in her sleep, muttering something about arithmancy.The spell broke. Ginny’s smile widened, catlike, and she pulled the bra straps back up over her shoulders, fastened it with a casual efficiency that was utterly maddening. She pulled her sleep shirt back on, the fabric settling over the revealed contours of her body, hiding them again.
“Goodnight, Harry,” she whispered, her voice a husky promise and a dismissal all at once.
She slipped into the narrow bed beside Hermione, turning her back to him.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, aching, painfully hard, his hands clenched into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms. The phantom image of her body, so nearly revealed, burned behind his eyes. The promise of what could have happened if not for that creaking floorboard, that single, unlucky sound, hung in the air like smoke.
She had given him a taste.Just a taste. And now the hunger was a ravenous, howling thing inside him. The gentleman’s promise he’d made to Molly felt like a thin, rusted chain, ready to snap.