Chapter 6: Ginny's Return
The tension from the morning had simmered all day, a live wire strung between them during chores, over dinner, through the evening’s idle conversation. Every glance from Ginny was a brand. Harry could feel the promise in her whisper like a physical ache, a relentless throbbing that made sitting still agony.
Now, in the dim, lantern-lit bedroom, the door closed against the rest of the sleeping Burrow, the air was unbreathable. Hermione was already in her bed on a cot against the wall, buried under a quilt, a book propped on her knees. She was a still, quiet presence, oblivious.
Ginny was at the wardrobe, her back to the room. She was changing. Harry tried not to look, staring fixedly at the ceiling beams.
But he could hear the soft rustle of fabric. Then her voice, low and deliberate. “Harry.”
He turned his head.
She had pulled on a sleep shirt. It was black, lace-trimmed, and so short it barely covered the swell of her arse. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The shadows hid nothing; the lantern light carved out the long, toned lines of her legs, the dip of her waist, the full, heavy curve of her breasts swaying slightly as she moved toward him. Her nipples pressed against the thin lace at the neckline.
“You didn’t finish this morning,” she said, stopping by the edge of his bed. Her voice was a quiet taunt. “That’s not healthy. All that… pressure.”
“Ginny, please,” he muttered, his eyes darting toward Hermione’s still form.
“She’s reading. She’s not paying attention.” Ginny perched on the edge of his mattress, the springs groaning. The hem of the shirt rode up, revealing the bare, smooth skin of her upper thighs. “I told you you’d finish thinking of me. So finish. Do it now.”
“I can’t,” he hissed, his cock already hard and straining against his pyjamas.
“You can. You will.” She leaned over him, her red hair a curtain that smelled of wildflowers. One of her hands rested on his chest, the other gestured dismissively. “Take it out. All the way this time. Drop those stupid pants. Let me see what I did to you.”
Behind them, Hermione turned a page.
The sound was like a spark to tinder. His resolve, already ash, scattered. His hands shook as he pushed the blankets down, fumbled with the drawstring, and shoved his pyjamas down past his hips, past his knees, kicking them off onto the floor. He was completely exposed, his erection jutting upward, flushed and leaking.
Ginny’s eyes darkened. “See? It’s easy.” Her gaze roamed over him, a predatory appraisal. “So hard for me. All day, just thinking about my tight little body. My perfect tits.” Her hand on his chest drifted down, over his stomach, stopping just short of touching him. He arched into the empty air, a silent plea.
A floorboard outside the door creaked.
Footsteps. Slow, shuffling. Heading toward their room.
Ginny’s eyes shot wide with genuine alarm. “Shit,” she breathed. Hermione was stirring, looking up from her book toward the door.
Panic flooded Harry’s system. He was naked, fully erect, with nowhere to hide. He scrambled to grab his discarded pyjamas, but it was too late. The doorknob began to turn.
With a speed born of Quidditch reflexes, Ginny moved. She didn’t think. She planted a hand on his stomach and swung one leg over him, sinking down onto his lap, her back to his chest. The position was awkward, desperate. The heat of her, the shocking, intimate press of her bare arse against his stomach, the lace of her shirt rough on his skin.
But she missed. Or she didn’t miss.
The soft, full weight of her settled not across his thighs, but higher. His rigid cock was trapped, pressed firmly up along the cleft of her arse, nestled between the tight, round cheeks. The sensation was devastating—hot, impossibly soft flesh yielding against his most sensitive part.
She let out a sharp, stifled gasp as she felt him, a tremor running through her.
The door opened. Molly Weasley stood there, a shawl around her shoulders, looking sleepy and concerned. “Everything alright in here? I heard voices.”
Ginny’s body was rigid. Harry could feel every muscle in her back and thighs clenched tight. He was frozen, terrified to breathe, to move a millimeter. The pleasure-pain of the contact was a white-hot spike driving into his brain.
“Fine, Mum,” Ginny said, her voice miraculously steady, though higher than usual. “Just… talking. Harry had a nightmare. Woke me up.”
“A nightmare?” Molly’s eyes softened with concern, looking past Ginny to where Harry knew his own face was a mask of tortured tension.
“Yeah. You know. The usual.” Harry managed to grind out. His hands were fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms to anchor himself. He was inside the warmth of her, almost. The thin barrier of her lace shirt and his own heated skin was nothing. He could feel every inch of her.
“Well, try to get some sleep, dears. It’s very late.” Molly lingered for another agonizing second, then pulled the door closed with a soft click.
The moment the latch engaged, Ginny’s held breath exploded in a shaky rush. But she didn’t move. They were locked in the posture, her body a searing weight on his.
Hermione spoke from the cot, her voice quiet. “Was it a bad one, Harry? Do you need a Dreamless Sleep?”
“No,” he choked. “I’m… I’m okay now.”
Silence fell, thick and pregnant. Ginny still hadn’t gotten off him. Her head was bowed, her fiery hair tickling his chin. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart where her back met his chest.
And then, imperceptibly at first, she shifted. A slight, grinding roll of her hips. An adjustment. It wasn’t an accident.
The movement dragged her softness along the length of his shaft, a friction that was pure, unadulterated agony. A low groan built in his throat, which he strangled into a cough.
She did it again, bracing her hands on his knees, lifting slightly and settling back, this time with more deliberate pressure. The lace of her shirt rucked up. The contact was more direct, more intimate. He was slick with pre-cum, making the slide easier, more sinful.
He couldn’t help it. His own hips gave a minute, helpless upward jerk, meeting her downward pressure.
She stiffened, but then, slowly, relaxed into it. They began a slow, secret rocking, a silent, frantic conversation in the dark. Back and forth. The only sounds were their ragged, suppressed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets. Her arse was a perfect, warm glove, cradling him, driving him insane with the promise of what it would feel like to be inside.
He was so close. The coil from the morning, wound tight all day, was seconds from snapping. His forehead dropped against the back of her neck, his lips brushing her skin. He was going to come. He was going to come all over her back, under her little black shirt.
“Ginny,” he rasped, a warning and a prayer.
Her rhythm hitched. She stopped.
The reality of it—Dean, Hermione sleeping feet away, the treason of it—crashed back over them both like ice water.
In one fluid, tense motion, she lifted herself off him and stood up, her back to him. The black shirt was twisted. She didn’t turn around. She just stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, the shape of her body trembling.
Harry lay there, exposed, devastated, throbbing with unspent release. The warmth where she had been was already cooling into a clammy, shameful regret.
Without a word, Ginny walked to her own bed and slid under the covers, turning her back to the room.
The lantern flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. The only thing left was the unbearable, echoing memory of heat and the terrifying knowledge that a line, however fragile, had just been irrevocably crossed.