Chapter 7: The Morning After
The silence that followed Ginny’s retreat to her bed was a physical thing, thick and choking. Harry lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, his body humming with a frustrated energy that felt like a curse. He could still feel the exact, searing imprint of her arse against him, the phantom pressure of her weight. Sleep was impossible. Every rustle of her sheets from across the room was a fresh torment.
Dawn came as a gray, merciful relief.
Breakfast at the Burrow was a chaotic symphony of clattering plates, sizzling bacon, and the cheerful, overwhelming noise of the Weasley family. Harry took his usual seat, the wooden chair feeling particularly hard and unforgiving. He was painfully aware of Ginny as she floated into the kitchen, dressed in a simple, pale yellow sundress. It was deceptively innocent, tied at the shoulders with thin straps.
She smiled sweetly at her mother, accepted a kiss from her father, and slid into the seat directly across from Harry. Her bare legs brushed his under the small, checkered tablecloth as she settled. The contact was electric.
“Sleep well, Harry?” she asked, her voice bright. Her eyes, however, held a darker, knowing glint.
“Fine,” he mumbled, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth to avoid saying more.
Conversation bubbled around them—Ron debating Cannons’ tactics with Arthur, Hermione discussing Arithmancy texts with Percy. It was all normal. Perfectly, agonizingly normal.
Then he felt it.
A gentle, exploratory pressure on his instep. He froze. It was her foot, bare and warm. She rubbed it slowly along the arch of his foot, a casual, friendly gesture that could be nothing. But it didn’t stop. It traveled upward, tracing the line of his ankle beneath his jeans, then the curve of his calf.
His breath hitched. He looked at her. She was listening intently to George’s story about a confused customer, her chin propped on her hand, a picture of attentive innocence. But under the table, her foot climbed higher, the ball of it pressing insistently against his knee, then his inner thigh.
“Pass the toast, Ginny?” Hermione asked, reaching.
“Oh, sure,” Ginny said, leaning forward slightly to grab the rack. The movement caused the front of her sundress to gap. From his angle, Harry had a clean, devastating line of sight straight down the loose fabric. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The full, pale swell of her breasts was visible, the soft underside, the dark, taut peaks of her nipples. It was a glimpse of paradise, offered and withdrawn in a second.
He made a strangled noise in his throat.
“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, glancing over.
“Fine. Bit of pumpkin juice went down the wrong way,” Harry croaked, his face burning.
Ginny’s foot continued its relentless advance. It found its target, pressing against the growing, aching bulge in his jeans. She didn’t just press. She began to move. A slow, deliberate rub with the sole of her foot, her toes curling to apply pressure exactly where he was hardest, most sensitive. The rough denim was a brutal friction over the thin cotton of his boxers.
She was talking to Charlie about dragons, her laughter light and easy. Her foot worked him with a practiced, merciless rhythm. Back and forth. A steady, grinding pressure.
Harry’s knuckles were white around his cutlery. Sweat beaded at his temple. He was lost in the duel sensations: the secret, scandalous torture under the table, and the searing memory of the view down her dress. Her perfect tits, exposed just for him. The image fused with the rhythmic pressure. He could see them, feel them. He was there again, in the dark room, her warmth around him.
“So, Hermione,” Ginny said suddenly, her voice cutting through his haze. “That book you mentioned, the one on protective enchantments, does it cover nocturnal wards? For, you know, private spaces?”
Hermione, flushing slightly at the implied reference to their shared room, launched into a detailed explanation. As she spoke, Ginny leaned forward again, reaching for the jug of orange juice this time. She stretched, the movement slow and languid.
The dress gaped wider.
Harry’s view was unobstructed. The full, heavy curve of each breast, the deep shadow of her cleavage, the rose-red areolas, the nipples hard and pointed. It was a deliberate, blatant offering. Her eyes flicked to his, holding his gaze for one endless second as she poured the juice, her foot never ceasing its relentless, stroking motion on his cock.
It was too much. The visual, the physical, the terrifying, thrilling public risk of it all.
A hot, unstoppable wave gathered in his gut. He tried to clench, to hold it back, to think of anything else—Auror manuals, Quidditch plays, anything. But all he saw was Ginny’s bare breasts, all he felt was the sole of her foot riding him under the family table.
He came. A violent, silent eruption that ripped through him, a series of pulsing shocks that left him lightheaded and trembling. He felt the hot spread of dampness soaking through his boxers and jeans. His hips gave a minute, helpless jerk against her foot.
She felt it. A slight, satisfied smile touched her lips as she settled back in her chair, finally withdrawing her foot. She picked up her toast, taking a delicate bite.
“You’re quiet, Harry,” Hermione observed, finally noticing his frozen posture, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Just… thinking,” he managed to whisper, the words ash in his mouth.
Ginny wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, her bright brown eyes meeting his over the rim of her juice glass. They held no apology, only a cool, victorious spark. She had broken him, completely and utterly, in the middle of a sunny breakfast, with her family all around. And not a single person knew.
The knowledge was a humiliation and an addiction, all at once. He was still sitting in the evidence of it, the damp fabric clinging to him, a secret they now shared that was louder than any spell. Under the table, she tapped his ankle once, lightly, with her toe—a secret knock, a promise, a goodbye—before tucking both feet demurely under her own chair.