Chapter 3: The Reward
He stood there for a long moment in the quiet dark, the only sound his own slowing breath. The phantom warmth of her kiss on his cheek lingered, a brand more potent than the sticky cooling sensation between his legs. Just the preview. The words ricocheted inside his skull, sparking a fresh, dizzying heat low in his belly. He hastily performed a cleaning charm on the floor, the evidence vanishing with a silent swish, but the memory was seared into him.
He expected things to be awkward, charged, different. But the next day, Ginny was as she always was: sharp, loud, laughing with Luna at the Gryffindor table, rolling her eyes at Ron’s table manners. She met his gaze once over the toast rack, her eyes crinkling with a secret that made his stomach flip, before turning back to her conversation as if nothing had happened. The normality was its own kind of torture. Every casual brush of her arm against his in the common room, every time she stretched and the fabric of her jumper pulled tight across her chest, was a fresh torment. He was caught in a constant state of low-grade arousal, hyper-aware of her, the memory of her bare, freckled breasts superimposed over every mundane interaction.
Three days later, another note appeared, this time tucked into the sleeve of his robes as he left the Great Hall. Same place. Now.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he took the steps two at a time. The castle felt empty, a hollow shell around the singular, pounding purpose in his blood.
She was there, in the same pool of afternoon light, leaning against the same desk. This time, she wore a simple, faded band t-shirt—The Weird Sisters—and her usual jeans. She smiled as he entered, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.
“You came back,” she said.
“You told me to.”
“I did.” She pushed off the desk. The motion made the soft cotton of her shirt strain briefly across her chest, outlining the perfect, rounded shapes beneath. Harry’s mouth went dry. He could see the gentle bounce, the way the fabric dipped between them, and the memory of their bare weight, their peaked tips, flooded back with debilitating clarity. “I wasn’t sure you would. After… the other day.”
“I couldn’t not,” he admitted, the truth raw in his voice.
Her smile deepened. She took a few steps toward him, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “You liked that? What I showed you?”
“Yes.” The word was a hoarse whisper.
“Good.” Her gaze dropped to the front of his trousers, where the evidence of his answer was already becoming unmistakably clear. She didn’t comment, just let her eyes linger for a beat before looking back up. “A hero’s reward shouldn’t be a one-time thing, should it?”
He couldn’t form a coherent thought. He just shook his head.
Suddenly, she turned her back to him, bending over at the waist to pick up her schoolbag from the floor. It was a simple, innocent movement.
It destroyed him.
The denim of her jeans pulled taut across the full, perfect curves of her arse. The fabric hugged every inch, defining the sweet, heart-shaped swell, the powerful lines of her thighs. It was a view so suddenly, violently erotic that the air left his lungs in a shocked rush.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed, the words punched out of him.
Ginny froze, bent over. He saw her shoulders tense. Then, with a quick, instinctive motion, she straightened and spun around, her back now pressed against the desk as if to shield herself, a faint, startled flush on her cheeks. For a second, she looked like the first-year he’d once seen, caught off guard.
But then her expression shifted. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by that familiar, fiery composure. She remembered who she was. She remembered who he was. What he’d done.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across her face. “See something else you like, Potter?”
He was achingly, painfully hard. “Ginny…”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. She turned around again, presenting her back to him once more. This time, the movement was deliberate, slow. She planted her hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly, offering him the view. The denim strained beautifully. “Go on. You can… finish what you started the other day. Consider it an extension of your reward.”
His fingers trembled as he fumbled with his belt buckle. The metallic clang was obscenely loud. He couldn’t look away from the cradle of her hips, the incredible shape of her. He freed himself, his cock springing into his hand, already slick at the tip. He stroked once, twice, a groan catching in his throat.
He heard her breath hitch. She was watching him over her shoulder, her cheek resting against her arm on the desk. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “That’s it,” she whispered, her voice thick.
He pumped his fist, his rhythm desperate, his gaze glued to the denim-clad curve of her arse. He imagined the skin beneath, freckled like her shoulders, like the delicious tops of her breasts. He wanted to rip the fabric away. He wanted to touch.
As if reading his mind, she spoke. “You want to see.”
It wasn’t a question. He nodded, a frantic, jerky motion she couldn’t even see.
There was a long pause. He saw the muscles in her back tense under the thin t-shirt. This was a line, a threshold. The preview becoming the main feature. Her earlier boldness seemed to war with a sudden, palpable nervousness. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the side of her throat.
Then, with a resolve that seemed to steel her entire frame, her hands left the desk. Her fingers went to the button of her jeans. The snick of it opening was the loudest sound in the world. The slow rasp of the zip followed, a torturous descent.
Harry’s hand stilled on himself, spellbound.
Hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and her plain cotton knickers, she pushed them down in one slow, decisive motion. They slid over the swell of her backside, down the strong lines of her thighs, to pool at her knees.
The afternoon light gilded the exposed skin. Her arse was pale and flawless, a sculpted curve that made his mouth water. And above it, the hem of her t-shirt had ridden up, revealing the delicate dip of her lower back, the subtle hollows at the base of her spine.
But it was the secondary, unintended revelation that stopped his heart. As she bent forward, the loose neck of her t-shirt gaped open. From his angle, looking down the slope of her back and into the shadowed cavity of the fabric, he had a perfect, plunging view.
There they were. Her breasts. Fully exposed, hanging free, their beautiful weight swaying gently with her slight movement. The soft, pale undersides, the dark pink tips, the scattering of freckles he now knew by heart. It was more intimate, more stolen and breathtaking, than when she had proudly displayed them to him days before.
A ragged, broken sound escaped him. His hand moved on his cock again, faster now, driven by this illicit, double vision of her—the offered curve of her bare backside and the secret, swinging glimpse of her breasts.
“Harry…” His name was a whisper, strained. She was holding herself perfectly still, a statue of exquisite tension, allowing him this, giving him this. Her generosity, her fierce, shocking payment of a debt only she believed was owed, overwhelmed him.
It was too much. The visual, the implication, the sheer, burning want. His climax tore through him with a force that buckled his knees. He cried out, his release streaking across the ancient floorboards, his vision whiting out at the edges as he burned the image of her—bent, bare, and beautifully vulnerable—into his soul forever.
Silence, again. Broken by the rustle of fabric as she slowly, carefully, pulled her jeans and knickers back up. She fastened them, the sounds oddly mundane. She turned around, tugging her t-shirt back into place, covering the glorious sight. Her face was flushed, her breathing uneven. But her eyes held his, steady and sure.
She walked toward him, each step measured. She didn’t kiss his cheek this time. Instead, she reached out and, with a tenderness that shattered him, used her thumb to wipe a single, stray bead of sweat from his temple.
“Next time,” she said, her voice a husky promise in the quiet room, “you won’t have to use your hand.”
She picked up her bag and left, leaving him hollowed out, ruined, and aching for more.