Chapter 4: An Ask
The common room was a cavern of shadows and ember-glow, the last of the fire burning low in the grate. The usual cacophony had died hours ago, leaving only the settling sighs of the ancient castle and the occasional pop from the dying logs. Harry hadn’t been able to sleep. The memory of the deserted classroom, of her skin in the golden light, was a live wire under his skin, humming with relentless energy.
He’d come down for a glass of water, a walk, anything to calm the static in his nerves.
And there she was.
Ginny was curled in the largest armchair, a textbook open but ignored on her lap, staring into the crimson heart of the fire. The dancing light played over her features, gilding the edges of her hair, casting deep, thoughtful shadows in the hollow of her throat. She wore a thin, worn sleep shirt and shorts. The soft fabric of the shirt draped loosely, but as she shifted, pulling one knee up to her chest, it pulled taut across her torso, outlining the gentle, unmistakable slope of a breast.
His mouth went dry. The static became a buzz.
He moved before he could think better of it, his footsteps silent on the thick rug. “Can’t sleep either?”
She didn’t startle. She glanced up, her eyes reflecting the fire. They were serious, guarded. “Something like that.”
He stood awkwardly, the space between them charged with everything unsaid. The words left him in a rush, stripped bare of pretense. “Can I see them again?”
A long silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire. She closed the book with a soft thud. “No.”
The flat denial was a physical blow. “Why not?”
“Because my debt is paid.” Her voice was calm, final. She looked back at the fire. “We’re square, Harry. You saved my life. I… showed you my gratitude. It’s done.”
Frustration, hot and sharp, twisted in his gut. It wasn’t just about seeing her, though Merlin knew that was a burning, singular need. It was the loss of the secret, the end of the electrifying current that had been flowing between them for days. He couldn’t let it be done.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, the idea forming even as he spoke. He took a step closer. “I’m Quidditch Captain now.”
She looked back at him, a flicker of interest breaking through her resolve. “I know you are. Everyone knows. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Next year’s captaincy.” He held her gaze, feeling a strange, potent power unfurl within him. It had nothing to do with wands or Dark Lords. This was different. “It’s my decision who I recommend as my successor.”
He saw the understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by a flash of something hard. Not anger, not exactly. Calculation. “Are you bribing me, Potter?”
“I’m making a trade,” he said, his voice low. “A fair one. You make me come, right here, in under a minute. I don’t touch you. You do it. And next year, the captain’s armband is yours.”
The air left the room. The proposition hung between them, crude and undeniable. He watched the conflict play out across her face: outrage, temptation, a fierce pride, and beneath it all, a dark, answering thrill that mirrored his own. She loved Quidditch more than almost anything. The captaincy was a prize she’d coveted for years.
She uncurled from the chair, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. The firelight was behind her now, silhouetting her form, making the thin cotton of her sleep shirt translucent at the edges. He could see the shadowed outline of her body, the curve of her waist, the proud, full swell of her breasts against the fabric. They were high and rounded, the sort of generous curves that would fill his palms with a perfect, heavy warmth. The nipples, puckered slightly from the cool air of the room, pressed against the soft material, creating two points of tantalizing detail he ached to trace with his tongue.
“Under a minute,” she repeated, her voice husky.
“Yes.”
“And I decide how.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes never left his as her hands went to the tie of her shorts. She pulled the knot loose. The soft fabric sighed down her legs, pooling at her ankles. Then, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her simple cotton knickers. In one smooth, relentless motion, she pushed them down too, stepping out of the small puddle of clothing.
She stood before him, completely bare from the waist down. The firelight danced over the pale skin of her thighs, the neat auburn triangle at their junction. Harry’s breath seized in his chest. His blood pounded in his ears, a roaring tide.
But her eyes were on his, challenging, even as a faint blush stained her chest, creeping up to her throat. “Sit,” she said, nodding to the armchair she’d just vacated.
He obeyed, his movements wooden. The old leather was still warm from her body. He was painfully, overwhelmingly hard, the fabric of his pyjamas straining.
Ginny approached. She didn’t kneel. Instead, she straddled him, her hands coming to rest on the back of the chair on either side of his head, caging him in. Her scent—soap, sleep, and something uniquely, essentially Ginny—filled his senses. Her breasts, so close, were right before his eyes. The loose neck of her sleep shirt gaped open, offering a plunging view of deep, shadowed cleavage. The soft mounds swayed gently with her movement, their full, beautiful weight threatening to spill free of the fabric entirely. He could see the delicate blue veins beneath her pale skin, the way they curved so perfectly, begging for worship.
“Don’t you dare touch,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. Then she reached between them, her fingers deftly pulling the drawstring of his trousers loose, freeing him. He gasped as her cool fingers wrapped around his length.
She positioned him, then sank down onto him in one slow, exquisite, impossible slide.
She was tight and warm and wet, and the feeling of her taking him inside, of being sheathed in her completely, tore a ragged, groaning cry from his throat. His hands flew to her hips of their own volition, gripping the bare skin there.
“I said don’t touch,” she breathed, but she didn’t stop moving. She began to rock, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was pure, focused efficiency. Her eyes were locked on his, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Every rise and fall made her breasts move in a mesmerizing, captive bounce beneath the thin cotton. The shirt rubbed against her nipples with each motion, and he could see them hardening into distinct, eager points, straining against the fabric that was the only barrier left between his mouth and her skin.
It was too much. The visual of her bareness below, the hidden treasure of her breasts above, the intense, clutching heat of her around him. The forbidden, transactional nature of it all sharpened every sensation into a blade’s edge.
Her rhythm became faster, more urgent. She was panting now, her lips parted, her gaze still fixed on his with an almost fierce intensity. The shirt slipped further off one shoulder, revealing the graceful curve of it, and the very top of one breast, a glimpse of pale, freckled swell.
“Ginny,” he choked out, a warning, a plea.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the chair back, changing the angle, taking him deeper. The new position made her breasts hang free, swaying heavily just inches from his face. The neckline gaped like a promise, and he could see everything now—the full, heavy undersides, the deep pink areolas, the peaked, hard tips. He could feel the heat radiating from them.
“Come on, Captain,” she whispered, her voice strained with her own effort. “Clock’s ticking.”
That was all it took. The title, the sight, the feel of her. A white-hot wave of release crashed through him, tearing a raw, guttural sound from his chest. He shook, his grip on her hips tightening as he emptied himself into her, his vision dissolving into sparks that mirrored the dying fire.
He slumped back, boneless, spent. The room came back in fragments: the smell of sex and smoke, the rough texture of the chair under his fingers, the weight of her still straddling him.
Slowly, she lifted herself off him, a slight wince crossing her features. She stood on slightly unsteady legs, not bothering to cover herself. She simply looked down at him, her face unreadable in the dim light. Then she bent, picking up her knickers and shorts from the floor.
As she straightened, she looked at the old brass clock on the mantel. A slow, triumphant smile touched her lips. “Fifty-three seconds,” she said softly.
She pulled her clothes back on, the movements pragmatic. She didn’t look at him again until she was dressed. Her expression had settled into one of cool, contained victory.
“I expect that recommendation in writing by the end of term,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Then she turned and walked toward the girl’s staircase, leaving him alone in the dark, the ghost of her warmth slowly fading from his skin, the terms of their new, devastating agreement seared into the quiet air between them.