Chapter 2: The Pool
The summer heat arrived at the Burrow with a vengeance the next morning. It pressed through the crooked windows, turning Ron’s room where Harry now slept into a furnace. Downstairs, the chatter was louder than usual, punctuated by the twin’s whoops of laughter. Ron, miraculously recovered and sweating in his pyjamas, burst into the room.
“Get up, you great lump! Fred and George have done something brilliant for once.”
Harry shoved the damp sheet aside. “What? Not another swamp.”
“Better. They’ve conjured a pool. A proper, deep, cold one. Out the back.”
The thought of cool water on skin was enough to have Harry pulling on a pair of shorts before he’d fully processed the idea. He followed Ron downstairs, the promise of relief from the stifling heat and, if he was honest, from the coiled tension of the previous night, making him quicken his pace.
The backyard had been transformed. Where the chicken coop usually stood (the chickens now watching disgruntled from the sidelines) was a sunken rectangle of clear, shimmering water, easily large enough for a dozen people. Fred and George, already in garish swimming trunks, were doing cannonballs off an invisible diving board, sending sheets of cold spray into the air. The laughter was infectious.
Bill and Charlie were already shirtless, stretching in the sun. Arthur Weasley stood at the patio doors, beaming with pride at his sons’ magical engineering. “Quite ingenious, boys! The permanent cooling charm is a lovely touch.”
Harry’s eyes, however, slid past them to the kitchen door. His stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip.
Ginny emerged first. She wore a simple red two-piece that clung to the curves Harry had so painfully tried not to notice the night before. The scraps of fabric seemed to highlight more than they concealed, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the confident way she carried herself. She had a towel slung over one shoulder and her fiery hair was piled messily on her head, leaving her neck bare. She caught his stare and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She didn’t look away.
“Water’s brilliant, Harry,” she called, her voice bright with challenge. “You should join us.”
Then Hermione appeared in the doorway, hesitant, one arm crossed over her stomach. She was wearing a dark blue one-piece, modest by any standard, but on Hermione it was a revelation. The cut emphasised the gentle swell of her hips, the arch of her back, and Harry’s breath caught. She looked soft, and real, and utterly self-conscious. She was tugging at the strap, her eyes darting between the boisterous Weasley boys and the ground.
Ginny noticed her hesitation. “Oh, come on, Hermione. It’s a hundred degrees.”
“I know, it’s just… everyone’s here,” Hermione murmured, her voice barely carrying over the splashes.
“We’ve all got the same bits, more or less,” George shouted, earning a splash from Bill.
Hermione flushed a deep pink. It wasn’t about the bits, Harry understood with a sudden clarity. It was about being seen. The bookish, brilliant girl allowing herself to be looked at as something else. It was a vulnerability Ginny never showed.
“Ignore them,” Harry said, surprising himself by speaking. He walked towards her, keeping his eyes firmly on her face. “It’s just water. And it does look cold.”
She met his gaze then, and he saw the gratitude in her brown eyes, mixed with a flicker of something else—a awareness that his attention was fixed solely on her. She gave a tiny, decisive nod and stepped out into the sun.
The effect was immediate. Ron’s jaw went slightly slack. Charlie let out a low, appreciative whistle that he hastily turned into a cough when Ginny glared at him. Hermione’s skin, pale against the dark blue fabric, seemed to glow. She moved quickly, dropping her towel and slipping into the water with a minimal splash, submerging herself up to her chin.
“See? Not so bad,” Harry said, grinning. He pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after her.
The cold was a shock, a blissful erasure of the heat and the thick thoughts in his head. He surfaced, pushing his hair back, and found himself treading water right between them.
Ginny swam over with powerful, easy strokes. Water beaded on her shoulders. “Took you long enough.”
Hermione was floating a few feet away, her body relaxing, a small smile finally touching her lips as the water supported her. “It is lovely. The charm work is actually very stable.”
“Of course it is,” Fred said, bobbing up beside her like a cork. “We’re not animals. Mostly.”
The afternoon dissolved into a blur of splashing, laughter, and relentless sun. Harry tried to keep his focus on the roughhousing with Ron and the twins, but his awareness was a compass needle swinging between two magnetic poles.
He saw Ginny stretch out on the grass, her skin slick and shining, her eyes closed behind her sunglasses. He watched the rise and fall of her chest.
He saw Hermione, growing bolder, demonstrate a perfect butterfly stroke to a sceptical George, her form cutting through the water with unexpected grace. He watched the concentration on her face soften into triumph.
It was Ginny who escalated things. After a particularly heated water fight, she swam up to Harry, so close her legs brushed against his under the surface. The contact was electric.
“You’re staring, Potter,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. A droplet of water traced a path from her collarbone down into the shadow between her breasts. His eyes followed it before he could stop himself.
“I’m not,” he managed, his throat tight.
“Liar.” She grinned, all mischief. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
She pushed off him then, a playful shove against his chest that sent him backwards, but the place where her hands had been burned. He felt flustered, exposed, and incredibly aroused.
Seeking a distraction, he swam to the deeper end where Hermione was now floating on her back, staring at the sky. He floated beside her, their shoulders almost touching. The sounds of the others faded to a distant roar.
“You okay?” he asked.
She turned her head in the water, her hair fanning out like ink. “Yes. It was just… a lot. All of them looking.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look at me like they do,” she said quietly, studying his face. The rawness of the statement hung between them.
“How do I look at you?” The question was out before he could weigh its danger.
Hermione considered it, her brow furrowing slightly in that familiar, thoughtful way. “Like you’re trying to solve me. Like I’m a very difficult, very interesting book.”
He laughed, a short, relieved sound. “You are.”
She smiled, but it was softer now, private. She let her hand drift under the water, and the back of her fingers brushed against his. It was an accident, probably. It lasted only a second. But in that second, the chaotic pull he felt towards Ginny’s bold fire coalesced into something else for Hermione—a deep, resonant ache of familiarity and want.
A great splash soaked them both as Ron cannonballed nearby, shattering the moment. “Food’s up!” he bellowed. “Mum’s made sandwiches!”
The spell broken, they paddled towards the edge. As Harry hoisted himself out, water streaming down his back, he turned to offer Hermione a hand. She took it, her grip cool and strong. As she stepped out, the dark blue fabric plastered to her skin, outlining every curve, every dip. He swallowed hard, helping her steady herself before letting go as if scorched.
He felt a gaze on him and looked up. Ginny was sitting on her towel, sunglasses pushed up on her head. She had watched the whole exchange. Her expression was unreadable—not angry, not jealous, but intensely observant. She looked from Harry’s face to Hermione’s retreating back, and a slow, speculative smile played on her lips.
She had seen it. She had seen the fracture in his attention, the war he wasn’t fighting well. And as she stood, wrapping her towel around her waist with a deliberate slowness, her eyes locked with his, Harry knew the teasing had just become a game. And he was utterly, hopelessly out of his depth.