Chapter 2: Getting dressed
The strained silence of Ginny's room pressed in on Harry, thick as the scent of lavender clinging to the patchwork quilt. Sunlight, weaker here than downstairs, filtered through the small window, painting dusty stripes across the posters – his own determined face staring back at him from a faded Chocolate Frog card felt like cruel mockery. He stood rigidly near the door, his back mostly to the small bed where Ginny had ordered him to wait while she got dressed. Breakfast had been an exercise in exquisite torture. Every clatter of cutlery, every burst of Weasley laughter, had jarred against the raw, humming awareness still vibrating through him from the attic. He’d barely tasted Molly’s eggs, too focused on avoiding Ginny’s amused glances and the accidental brush of Hermione’s arm as she passed the toast. Hermione… Merlin, that moment in the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, the worn fabric of her old Weasley jumper stretching taut across her back, pulling snug over the gentle, undeniable swell of her hips, the curve of her spine leading down… Harry had frozen, mug halfway to his lips, heat flooding his face again. It wasn’t deliberate like Ginny; it was worse. Unconscious. Vulnerable. And it had ignited the same dangerous spark.
"Right," Ginny announced, her voice startlingly close. Harry flinched. "Shirt's damp. Need a fresh one." He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of discarded cotton hitting the floorboards near his feet. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the grain of the wooden door in front of him. Ceiling. Think about the ceiling. Or the posters. Anything else. But the scent of her – warm skin and lavender and something uniquely Ginny – intensified.
"Still looking at the ceiling, Potter?" Her voice was light, teasing. A challenge.
"Uh-huh," Harry managed, his throat tight. He heard the soft snap of an elastic waistband. The distinctive sound of denim sliding down legs. His traitorous mind supplied the image: smooth skin, the strong lines of her thighs he’d glimpsed that morning, vanishing beneath the jeans now pooling around her ankles. He could almost feel the displaced air as she stepped out of them. His pulse hammered in his ears, loud enough to drown out the distant sounds of the Burrow.
A longer rustle. The heavier sound of a jumper being pulled over her head. He pictured the movement – arms rising, the nightshirt lifting, the inevitable, breathtaking reveal of her stomach, the soft dip of her navel, the underside of her breasts… He fought the image down, a bead of sweat tracing a cold path down his temple. He was hard again, painfully so, pressed against the rough fabric of his jeans. Shame warred with a desperate, clawing need to look.
Silence stretched. Then, the whisper-soft sound of fabric sliding. Silk? His imagination ran wild. Stockings? Something else? His jaw clenched until his teeth ached. He heard her move, a small shift of weight. A faint sigh. Then, more rustling – the sound of her pulling on fresh jeans, the zip rasping closed. Each sound was amplified, dissected.
"Okay," Ginny said, her voice closer still. He could feel her warmth radiating behind him. "Almost done. Just need a top." He heard the hanger scrape on the wardrobe rail, the soft whisper of another cotton shirt being shaken out. "Keep those eyes skyward, hero. Wouldn’t want to scandalize you."
Harry remained rigid, staring fixedly ahead. The poster of the Holyhead Harpies seeker grinned manically. He heard the soft shhh as she pulled the shirt over her head, the whisper of cotton sliding down her torso. He pictured it settling over her shoulders, draping over the soft, rounded curves of her breasts, the fabric clinging slightly to the dip of her waist before flaring out. His knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe. He could feel her presence, the sheer physicality of her, just inches away. The memory of her body pressed against his in the attic bed – the heat, the soft weight, the maddening proximity – slammed back into him with visceral force.
"Right then," Ginny said brightly, stepping around him. He dared a glance. She was dressed now, in faded jeans and a purple t-shirt that accentuated the lean muscles of her arms and the gentle swell beneath. She was adjusting the neckline, her fingers brushing the smooth skin just above the neckline. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, met his. They flickered downwards, just for an instant, a fraction of a second. Harry felt it like a physical blow. Down to the obvious bulge straining against his fly.
A slow, triumphant smirk spread across Ginny's face. It wasn't cruel, but it was utterly confident, utterly aware. She tilted her head, her fiery hair catching the weak sunlight. "See something you like, Harry?" she asked softly, her voice a low purr that vibrated straight through him. Her gaze held his, daring him, challenging him to acknowledge the electric current crackling between them, the raw, undeniable physical truth he was desperately trying to hide. The flush that had been simmering under his skin roared into an inferno, spreading from his face down his neck. He was trapped. Exposed. The scent of lavender was suddenly suffocating. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, pinned under the weight of her knowing look and the relentless, aching pressure in his groin. The cheerful chaos of the Burrow downstairs felt galaxies away, muffled by the thick silence and the deafening thud of his own frantic heartbeat. Her smirk deepened, holding him captive in that small, cluttered room where every breath felt like a confession.