Chapter 5: The Aftermath in the Hallway
The hum from the bathroom cut off. The click of the latch was a gunshot in the silent hall.
Harry jerked back from the door, his heart hammering against his sternum. He couldn’t move, rooted to the spot as the door swung inward.
Ginny emerged, a fresh wave of lavender and warm skin flowing into the corridor. She wasn’t in a towel. She was dressed, sort of. A thin, worn white cotton t-shirt, so fine he could see the dark shadow of her areolas and the peaked points of her nipples pressing against the fabric. It clung to every curve, the hem skimming the waistband of a pair of impossibly small, frayed denim shorts that cut high across her thighs. They hugged the tight, round globes of her arse, the denim fraying where it bit into her flesh. Her hair was a damp, fiery cascade down her back.
She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering blatantly on the prominent tent in his pyjama bottoms. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
“Still here?” she asked, her voice a low purr. She leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. The action pushed them together, deepening the cleavage visible at the neckline of the shirt. “Didn’t get what you came for?”
“Ginny,” he breathed, the word strained.
“You look like you’re in pain, Harry.” She took a step closer. He could see the individual freckles scattered across her chest, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. “All tense. It’s not healthy.”
“Stop,” he said, but it was a whisper.
“I’m not doing anything. I’m just standing here.” Her eyes dropped again to his crotch. “You’re the one who’s about to burst through those trousers. It’s honestly a bit sad. All that wanting.” She uncrossed her arms and let one hand drift to her own hip, thumb hooking in the waistband of the shorts. “Just a peek wasn’t enough, was it? You got a glimpse of the goods through the towel and now your brain’s broken. You want to see them properly. My perky, little tits. That’s it, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t lie. Not with her standing there, her body a deliberate provocation in the morning light. The shame was there, a cold thread, but it was drowned by a torrent of need so fierce it blurred his vision. He nodded, a tight, jerky movement.
“Say it,” she commanded softly, taking another step until the heat from her body reached his. “How badly?”
“I want to see them,” he choked out. “So badly.”
“How badly, Harry?”
“Fucking… unbearably.” The admission tore from him. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Her smile was triumphant, cruel. “I know. I’ve watched you. All summer. Staring at my chest when I fly. Watching my arse when I walk up the stairs. You’re so obvious it’s pathetic.” Her hand left her hip and she reached out, not touching him, but gesturing loosely toward his straining pyjamas. “Look at you. You’re leaking already, aren’t you? Just from talking about it.”
He was. A damp, shameful patch had darkened the thin cotton. His face burned.
“Go on then,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his. There was a challenge there, a dare that bordered on something darker. “If you want it that bad. Take it out. Show me how much you want it.”
The world narrowed to her face, her parted lips, the impossible swell of her breasts under that sheer fabric. The honourable man, the loyal friend, the promise to Molly—it all crumbled to dust, blown away by the storm of his want. His fingers, trembling, fumbled with the drawstring of his trousers. He pushed them down just enough, freeing his cock, which sprang out, fully erect, flushed and desperate.
The cool air of the hallway was a shock on his heated skin. A strangled sound escaped him. He wrapped his fist around himself, unable to stop, unable to look away from her.
Ginny’s eyes dropped, watching. Her breath hitched, just once, the only crack in her cool façade. “There it is,” she murmured. “All that famous hero worship.” She didn’t touch him. She just watched, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Go on. Jerk off. Do it. Show me what thinking about my tits does to you.”
He began to move his hand, a slow, tight stroke. His eyes were glued to her chest, to the way her nipples were now hard, evident points against the cotton. He pictured the towel falling away again, the water on her skin, the reality of her bare.
“You imagine them, don’t you?” she pressed, her voice husky. “Their weight. How they’d fit in your hands. How they’d taste.” She let her own hands come up and cup herself through the shirt, giving a slight, teasing squeeze. The fabric stretched. “Is this what you see?”
“Yes,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming frantic, rough.
“You’d come in an instant, wouldn’t you? If I just lifted this shirt right now. If I showed you my tight, pink little nipples.” Her thumbs brushed over the fabric where her nipples were. “You’re so close. I can see it. Your balls are tight. You’re shaking.”
He was. Pleasure coiled, vicious and urgent, at the base of his spine. The hallway, the Burrow, the sleeping family—it all faded into a roaring buzz. There was only her, her words, her body, the imminent, catastrophic release.
A floorboard creaked down the hall.
They both froze.
Hermione’s door was still closed, but the sound was distinct. A sleepy movement from within.
Ginny’s eyes snapped back to his, the feverish moment shattered into sharp, dangerous pieces. She dropped her hands from her chest. “Put it away,” she hissed, her voice suddenly low and urgent, all teasing gone. “Now.”
Fumbling, panicked, Harry shoved himself back into his pyjamas, yanking the drawstring tight. The ache was excruciating, a brutal denial.
Hermione’s door opened. She shuffled out, dressed in a bulky, long-sleeved cotton nightdress despite the heat, her hair a massive cloud of sleep-tousled brown. She blinked, owlishly, at the two of them standing too close in the steamy hallway.
“Oh,” she said, voice thick with sleep. “Morning. Is the bathroom free?”
“All yours,” Ginny said, her voice smoothing back into casual ease as if by magic. She pushed off from the doorframe. “Harry was just… waiting his turn. Weren’t you?”
Harry could only nod, his throat too tight for speech.
Hermione glanced between them, a faint, confused frown on her face, but sleep and innate shyness prevented deeper inquiry. She mumbled something and slipped past them into the bathroom, closing the door.
The lock clicked firmly into place.
Silence descended, thick and charged.
Ginny turned back to him. The playful torment was back in her eyes, but it was edged now with a shared, secret panic. She leaned in, so close her lips were almost at his ear. He could smell her, feel her breath.
“Next time,” she whispered, the words a hot promise against his skin, “you’ll finish. And you’ll think of me while you do.”
She turned and walked away, the denim shorts pulling taut with each step, the thin shirt outlining the perfect, maddening shape of her back, until she disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
Harry remained in the hallway, alone, his body screaming in frustrated agony, the ghost of her whisper echoing in the hollow, lavender-scented air.