Chapter 4: Discovery
The slap of footsteps on the stairs outside Ginny’s door – too heavy, too fast, too Molly – hit them like a Bludger. Panic, cold and razor-sharp, sliced through the thick, humid air still charged with the scent of sex and lavender.
“Hermione!” Molly’s voice boomed again, closer now. “Get down here this instant or I’m coming up!”
Hermione gasped, a strangled sound. Her hands, which had been hovering near her open blouse, jerked up to cover her exposed breasts, fumbling desperately to pull the cups of her bra back into place. Her movements were frantic, clumsy. The clasp wouldn’t catch. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted from the door to Harry, still leaning against the frame, his cock glistening and semi-hard, Ginny’s hand only just pulling away, slick with him.
“Ohgodohgodohgod,” Hermione whimpered, finally snapping the bra closed and yanking her blouse shut, fingers scrambling at the buttons. Her face was a blotchy mess of crimson and tears welling at the corners of her eyes. She dropped her gaze to the rug, as if sheer will could make her vanish.
“Fuck,” Harry breathed, the word barely audible. Survival instinct kicked in, primal and urgent. He shoved himself away from the doorframe, his legs shaky, and fumbled wildly with his jeans. His cock, still thick and sensitive, protested the rough denim as he tried to yank the zipper up one-handed. His other hand dived into his pocket, seeking the comforting shape of his wand – useless against Molly, but a reflex. Instead, his fingers brushed soft, cool lace. Hermione’s bra strap, the one Ginny had playfully tucked there earlier, snagged on the edge of the pocket lining. He tugged, frantic. The delicate lace caught, tearing slightly as he finally wrenched his hand free, leaving the pale pink scrap dangling obscenely from his jeans pocket.
Too late.
The door handle rattled violently, then flew open.
Molly Weasley filled the doorway, her face flushed with exertion and righteous fury. Her gaze swept the room: Hermione, hunched over, frantically buttoning her blouse, face turned away; Harry, frozen mid-movement, jeans barely zipped, the torn pink lace bra strap dangling down his thigh like a damning flag; the faint, unmistakable smell hanging in the air; the scattering of Hermione’s books still on the floor.
Her eyes narrowed, zeroing in on Harry’s disheveled state and the scrap of lace, then snapped to Hermione’s tear-streaked, mortified face. Molly didn’t even register Ginny, who had somehow, in the split-second chaos, melted silently back towards her bed, adopting an expression of wide-eyed innocence mixed with carefully feigned shock, her hands tucked behind her back.
“WHAT ON EARTH?!” Molly’s voice was a shriek, vibrating with outrage. It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation detonating in the small room. Her eyes burned holes in Harry first. “Harry James Potter! Are you out of your mind?” She jabbed a finger at Hermione, who flinched. “And you, Hermione Jean Granger! In my house? Under my roof?” Disappointment warred with fury in her tone. “I thought you had more sense!”
“Mum, it’s not—” Ginny started, her voice carefully pitched with concern.
“QUIET, Ginevra!” Molly roared without looking at her daughter, her focus laser-intent on Harry and Hermione. “Don’t you dare try to cover for them! Look at this! Just look!” She gestured wildly at Harry’s pocket, at Hermione’s tearful shame. “Hermione’s… undergarments… on him? Hermione half-undressed? The state of you both! The smell! Don’t think I don’t know what’s been going on up here!” Her chest heaved.
Harry found his voice, thick with panic and guilt that wasn’t entirely misplaced. “Mrs. Weasley, please, it’s not… I mean, we weren’t… Ginny was—”
“Ginny was what, Harry?” Molly snapped, cutting him off. “Ginny was conveniently here while you were forcing Hermione to… to disrobe? While you had her…” she couldn’t bring herself to say it, her eyes flicking again to the dangling bra strap, “…her things… in your possession?” Her voice trembled with a mix of anger and something like betrayal. “I trusted you both! I treated you like family! And this is how you repay that trust? By… by debauching each other in my daughter’s bedroom?”
“We weren’t debauching!” Hermione’s voice cracked, finally looking up, tears spilling over. Her face was a mask of utter humiliation. “It wasn’t like that! Ginny was—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses!” Molly thundered, silencing Hermione as effectively as she’d silenced Ginny. Her gaze pinned Harry again, icy. “You, Harry. I expected better. Much better. You might be the ‘Chosen One’ out there,” she spat the title, “but in this house, you are a young man who will show respect! And you, Hermione,” her voice shifted to deep disappointment, “I thought you were smarter than this. Smarter than to let yourself be… be compromised like this.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to swell with the force of her decree. “Right. New rule. Effective immediately. You two,” she stabbed her finger at Harry and Hermione alternately, “are not to be alone together in this house. Ever. Not for five minutes. Not even to breathe the same air unsupervised! Is that understood?”
Harry’s stomach plummeted. The injustice choked him. Ginny’s smirk, visible just over her mother’s shoulder where Molly couldn’t see, was a tiny, triumphant curve of lips. She caught Harry’s eye and gave an almost imperceptible shrug, the picture of bewildered innocence.
“But Mrs. Weasley,” Harry protested weakly, “that’s not fair! We didn’t—”
“Not. Another. Word.” Molly’s voice was granite. “Fair? You think fairness comes into it after this? You think I’ll stand by while you take advantage of Hermione’s... her..." She gestured vaguely at Hermione's tearful state. "Her trusting nature! In my home? Absolutely not! Breakfast is downstairs. Hermione, come with me. Now. We need to talk. Alone.” The command was absolute.
Hermione flinched again, fresh tears tracking through the blush on her cheeks. She couldn’t meet Harry’s pleading gaze. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, she shuffled past Molly, avoiding any contact, her own shame a palpable cloak around her. Molly followed, casting one last scorching glare back at Harry. “And you, Harry. Make yourself decent. Then get downstairs. And get rid of that… that thing!” She nodded sharply at the bra strap dangling from his pocket.
The door slammed shut behind them. The sudden silence was deafening, thick with the lingering scent of sex, anger, and humiliation. Harry slumped back against the doorframe, the rough wood digging into his shoulder blades. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. His legs trembled. He looked down at the torn scrap of pale pink lace, a stark, intimate accusation against the faded denim. With clumsy, numb fingers, he pulled it free, the delicate fabric feeling heavy and alien in his hand. He shoved it deep into his pocket, out of sight but not out of mind.
Ginny let out a slow breath, the innocent act dropping instantly. She sauntered over, her earlier arousal replaced by cool amusement. She stopped inches from him, looking up, her eyes dancing. “Well,” she murmured, her voice low and tinged with dark satisfaction. “That escalated quickly, didn’t it?” She reached out, not touching him, but her fingers brushed the fabric of his jeans pocket where the bra had been. “Told you Mum wouldn’t get it.” Her smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Guess you and Hermione are officially forbidden fruit now. Shame.” She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Makes it more fun, really. Doesn’t it?”
She pulled back, gave him another infuriating smirk, and turned to straighten her already pristine quilt, humming softly under her breath as if nothing earth-shattering had just occurred. Harry stared at her back, a mixture of anger, confusion, and a terrifying, unwanted thrill churning in his gut. Below, the muffled sound of Molly’s voice, still sharp, and Hermione’s softer, tearful replies drifted up the stairs. The Burrow, usually a sanctuary, suddenly felt like a gilded cage, its walls closing in, thick with rules, misunderstanding, and the dangerous, electric current Ginny had deliberately ignited and Molly had ruthlessly misinterpreted. He felt burned. And utterly, hopelessly trapped.