Chapter 4: The Morning
Sleep was a shallow, fitful thing. Harry drifted in a grey place where the memory of Ginny’s weight and the scent of her skin blurred with dreams of searching, of doors that were always just out of reach. He woke to a different pressure: a hand shaking his shoulder, gentle but insistent.
“Harry. Harry, wake up.”
It was Hermione’s voice, hushed and strained. He opened his eyes. Morning light, strong and clear, flooded the room, banishing the intimate shadows of the night. Hermione was leaning over him, already dressed in jeans and a simple, loose-fitting jumper. Her hair was a chaotic halo, but her face was pinched with an anxious urgency.
“I need to get up,” she whispered, her eyes darting towards the door, then back to him. She was carefully not looking at Ginny, who lay sprawled on her back, one arm flung over her head, the thin blanket riding low on her hips. The neckline of Ginny’s camisole was stretched, revealing the sharp, elegant line of her freckled shoulder and the gentle beginning of the curve of her breast.
“Right. Sorry,” Harry mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and the residual fog of desire. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The movement made the blanket fall to his waist.
Hermione’s gaze, flickering nervously, snagged on his lap for a split second. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and a flush crept up her neck. She looked away, fast, focusing on a poster of the Holyhead Harpies on the far wall. “Could you… I don’t want to climb over… you know.” Her sentence trailed off, unfinished.
He knew. She didn’t want to crawl over the landscape of their shared bed, to navigate the territory where Ginny’s teasing and his own helpless reaction had painted the air thick with something unspoken. It was a considerate gesture, one that highlighted her own acute discomfort.
“Yeah, of course,” he said, swinging his legs out from under the covers.
The cool morning air hit his skin. He was wearing only the t-shirt and boxers he’d slept in. As he stood, the full, stubborn evidence of his night-long torment was blatantly obvious, tenting the soft cotton of his boxers. He’d been half-hard since waking, the image of Ginny’s near-revelation and the feel of her pressed against him etched into his nerves. Now, upright and blood-rushed, it was a flagrant announcement.
He realized it a second too late. He saw Hermione’s determinedly averted eyes, saw the deep red of her cheeks. He fumbled, grabbing a pillow and holding it clumsily in front of himself, which was arguably more suspicious.
“Right. There you go,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped clear of the bed.
“Thank you,” Hermione whispered, scurrying past him without making eye contact. She moved with a stiff, efficient grace, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if protecting herself. The loose jumper did little to disguise her form; as she bent to pick up her wand from the bedside table, the fabric pulled, outlining the soft, full shape of her breasts. Harry’s mouth went dry. He looked away, guilt a sour taste in his throat.
The door clicked shut behind Hermione, leaving him alone with Ginny.
Silence settled, broken only by the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen below. Ginny hadn’t moved. He stood there, pillow held like a shield, watching her. In the honest daylight, she was breathtaking. Freckles dusted the smooth plane of her chest visible above her camisole. The soft, worn cotton clung to the pert, small mounds of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples just discernible as subtle points against the fabric. The blanket covered her from the waist down, but one of her legs was entirely bare, toned and pale.
As if feeling the weight of his stare, she stirred. A slow, cat-like stretch arched her back, pressing her chest forward. A soft sound escaped her lips. Then her eyes opened, finding his immediately. There was no drowsy confusion in them, only clear, amused awareness.
“Morning,” she drawled, her voice rough with sleep and something else. Her gaze travelled down his body, lingering without shame on the pillow he clutched, then back up to his face. A sly smile played on her lips. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” he lied, the word coming out hoarse.
“You don’t look fine. You look… tense.” She pushed herself up onto her elbows, letting the blanket fall completely to her waist. The hem of her shorts was visible, the camisole riding up to expose a sliver of her flat, bare stomach. “Did you and Hermione have a nice little chat?”
“She just wanted to get up.”
“Ah. And you played the gentleman.” Ginny’s eyes were bright, predatory. “Very noble of you. Standing guard with a pillow.” She nodded towards his hands. “Is that for me? Planning on having a fight?”
He dropped the pillow as if it had burned him. “It’s not—”
“Relax, Harry,” she laughed, a low, warm sound. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, facing him. The movement made her camisole gap again, and this time, in the full morning light, he saw the shadowed underside of her breast, the smooth, freckled skin that promised everything. She made no move to adjust it. “We’re all adults here. Bodies do things. It’s natural.”
She said it so casually, while hers was on such blatant, tantalizing display. He was trapped, caught between the door and her knowing smirk, painfully aroused and utterly exposed.
“I should go down,” he managed to say, turning to grab his jeans from the floor.
“Probably should,” she agreed, not moving from her perch. “Mum’s making eggs. She’ll wonder what’s keeping you.” She paused, letting the implication hang. “Of course, if you’d rather stay… we could talk about why you needed that pillow.”
He yanked his jeans on, fumbling with the button, his back to her. He could feel her eyes on him, tracing the line of his shoulders, his back. It was like a physical touch.
“See you downstairs, Ginny,” he said, not turning around.
He heard the bedsprings creak as she stood. “Don’t be long,” she said, her voice now close behind him. He froze, his hand on the doorknob. He could feel the heat of her, just inches away. She didn’t touch him. She just let him feel her presence, her breath on the back of his neck. “I’d hate for you to miss breakfast. You need your strength.”
He fled, pulling the door open and stumbling into the hallway. The sound of her soft, victorious laughter followed him out, a echo that seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of his heart and the persistent, aching throb in his groin. The worn wood of the staircase felt unsteady under his feet as he descended, carrying the vivid, unbearable image of her—rumpled, glorious, and utterly in control—with him into the clamor of the Burrow’s kitchen.