Chapter 7: The night
The evening air in Ginny’s room was still and warm, heavy with the day’s residual heat and the scent of sun-warmed skin. Harry lay on the transfigured mattress on the floor, staring at the ceiling, every nerve alive. The memory of the pond—the water on Ginny’s skin, the threatening whisper of those bikini ties—played behind his eyes.
He heard the soft rustle of fabric. Ginny was at her dresser, her back to him. She pulled her damp t-shirt over her head in one fluid motion.
Harry’s breath stopped.
She stood in just a pair of thin cotton shorts, the line of her spine a pale curve in the lamplight. Her freckled shoulders, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. She was braless. The motion had caused her small, perfect breasts to sway slightly, and from his angle on the floor, he could see the full, pert profile of them. They were high, the undersides a soft curve, the tips pointing outward. He could see everything but the nipples, hidden just around the side of her torso, a maddening, fractional concealment that made his hands ache.
She knew he was watching. She always knew. She reached for a thin, sleeveless vest, holding it for a moment without putting it on. She stretched, arching her back, a catlike gesture that pulled the skin taut over her ribs and lifted her chest. The light caught the soft mounds, highlighting their shape against the shadowed room.
“Still hot,” she murmured, not turning around. Her voice was a low thrum in the quiet. “Don’t you think, Harry?”
He couldn’t form words. He managed a grunt.
She finally slipped the vest on. It was pale grey, thin cotton, and it clung. It did nothing to hide the fact she wore nothing underneath. The fabric draped over the distinct, eager points of her breasts, outlining them with a fidelity that was almost worse than seeing them bare. He could trace their exact shape, the way they pushed against the material, creating two small, taut peaks.
She turned then, leaning against the dresser, arms crossed beneath them. The action pushed her breasts up, making the twin peaks of her nipples—still hidden, always hidden—press unmistakably against the cloth. “Comfy down there?”
“Fine,” he croaked.
“You sound strained. Long day?” Her smile was all innocence, her eyes full of mischief. She pushed off the dresser and walked to her bed, the shorts riding low on her hips. She sat on the edge, directly in his line of sight, and began to brush her long hair. Each stroke pulled the vest tight across her chest, the material sliding over the curves.
The door creaked open. Hermione entered, already dressed for bed in an oversized football jersey that fell to her mid-thigh. It swallowed her frame, but as she bent to place her book on the desk, the loose neckline gaped open. Harry, from his low angle, saw a flash of smooth, pale skin, the inner slope of a breast, a shadow of cleavage. She straightened quickly, pulling the collar closed with a faint, self-conscious tug.
“All right?” she asked, her eyes darting from Harry, tense on his pallet, to Ginny, brushing her hair with theatrical slowness.
“Just getting ready,” Ginny said, her eyes locked on Harry’s. She set the brush down. “You know, this vest is a bit clingy. Might be cooler without it.” Her hands went to the hem, fingers toying with the fabric, lifting it an inch. A strip of flat, freckled stomach appeared.
Hermione froze, watching.
Harry’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. Don’t. Do.
Ginny’s smile widened. She held the hem for a long, agonizing second, then let it fall back. “Nah. Mosquitoes.” She laughed, a light, cruel sound. “Wouldn’t want to get bitten.”
She swung her legs up onto the bed and lay back against the pillows. The vest stretched. The lamplight poured over her, leaving the valley between her breasts in deep shadow, highlighting the rounded swells. She made no move to cover herself with a sheet.
Hermione stood by the desk, an island of nervous energy. “It is hot,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Her hands fluttered at her sides. Then, with a resolve that seemed to surprise even her, she grasped the hem of the bulky jersey and pulled it off in one quick motion.
She stood in just a pair of plain cotton knickers and a simple, white bra. It was sensible, full-coverage, but it couldn’t hide the generous, soft weight of her breasts. They were fuller than Ginny’s, a lush curve that filled the cups completely, the skin above them looking impossibly soft in the low light. A faint line of cleavage was visible where the bra met in the centre. She kept her arms slightly crossed, not quite hiding herself, but not flaunting it either. Her cheeks were flushed.
The room seemed to shrink. Harry’s gaze was torn between them: Ginny, a study in deliberate provocation, her small, proud breasts outlined under grey cotton; and Hermione, a vision of hesitant revelation, her body soft and full and real in plain white lace.
“Merlin, Hermione, going for it,” Ginny said, propping herself on her elbows. Her movement made her own chest shift enticingly.
“It’s too hot for that jersey,” Hermione said defensively, but she didn’t reach for a cover. She stood her ground, though her breath was shallow. Her eyes found Harry’s, held for a second, and then skittered away. In that glance, he saw a question, a challenge mirroring Ginny’s but tempered with a vulnerability that undid him completely.
Ginny watched this exchange, her gaze sharp. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re making the room look untidy.”
Hermione, moving as if in a trance, walked to her own transfigured bed. She didn’t put the jersey back on. She slid under the thin sheet, but pulled it only to her waist, lying back against her pillow in her bra. The shape of her breasts was a clear, rising contour under the fabric.
Silence descended, thick and electric. The only sounds were the distant hoot of an owl and the frantic rush of Harry’s own blood in his ears. He lay rigid on his back, painfully aware of his own body, of the two girls lying in their beds just feet away.
Minutes stretched.
Then the small, rustling sounds began. The shift of fabric on skin. A sigh.
He chanced a glance to his left. Hermione had turned onto her side, facing him. The sheet had slipped lower. The side of her bra was visible, the strap digging slightly into the soft, full flesh of her breast. Her eyes were open, watching him in the semi-darkness.
To his right, Ginny stirred. She flipped onto her stomach, the thin sheet tossed aside entirely. The back of her vest had ridden up, revealing the dip of her lower back, the top of her shorts. Then, with a slow, deliberate roll, she turned onto her back again. The vest was twisted now, stretched across one breast more than the other, the neckline pulled sideways, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone and the very top of one freckled breast. The very crest of the curve was exposed, the pale skin glowing. So close to the nipple. An inch away. A breath.
She didn’t adjust it. She left it there, a masterpiece of accidental exposure, her eyes closed as if asleep. But her lips, in the faint light, were curved into a ghost of a smile.
Harry stared, his mouth dry. He looked from the exposed, tempting slice of Ginny’s breast to Hermione’s wide, watching eyes from across the room. He was caught between them, suspended in a torture of his own desperate wanting. The promise he’d made to Molly echoed, empty and distant, drowned out by the pounding in his chest and the soft, shifting sounds of their breathing in the dark. The night stretched ahead, endless and unbearably hot.