Chapter 3: Breakfast Lies
The walk from the Ministry to his own doorstep was a haze of cold air and sharper guilt. He’d scrubbed his skin raw in the Auror locker room showers, but beneath the lather and steam, he swore he could still smell her—jasmine and salt and sex. It clung to him, a phantom perfume. The owl’s message, now crumpled in his pocket, felt like a brand against his thigh.
He pushed the door open, the familiar creak sounding like an accusation.
The warmth of the house hit him first, then the smells: burnt toast, frying bacon, the faint, sweet hint of Ginny’s sleeping draught from the night before. And underneath it, the lingering, acrid scent of her Pepper-Up Potion, the one she took for her chest. “Phlegm,” he thought, and the word tasted like bile.
She was a whirlwind in the kitchen, her red hair pulled into a messy knot, wearing one of his old Chudley Cannons jumpers and little else. The wireless played a Celestina Warbeck tune softly in the background.
“‘Lo, you,” she said without turning, flipping a pancake. “You’re late. Everything alright?”
The casualness of it, the domestic normalcy, was a physical blow. He stood frozen on the threshold, a stranger in his own home.
“Fine,” he managed, the word tight in his throat. He hung his cloak, the movement stiff.
“How’s Phlegm?” Ginny asked, sliding the pancake onto a stack. “Still wafting about the place, making everyone all dizzy?” She laughed, a light, unthinking sound. “Bet she had you lot doing wandless cartwheels or some other useless Veela nonsense.”
Each word was a needle. He saw Fleur’s face above his, the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the raw power in her body. Not nonsense. Not even close.
“She’s… fine,” he said, moving to the table. He sat down heavily, the wood cold beneath his palms.
Ginny brought over two plates, set one in front of him. She leaned over, her breast brushing his shoulder, and for a second, the scent of Fleur was overpowered by the warm, clean smell of his wife—soap and sleep and home. The guilt twisted, sharp and sickening.
“You look knackered,” she observed, sitting across from him and tucking her bare feet up under her on the chair. Her toes, under the table, brushed against his leg.
A jolt went through him. His body, still humming from the violent release in the training room, reacted with a traitorous, instantaneous stiffness. He was already half-hard, a fact that had nothing to do with Ginny and everything to do with the memory of Fleur riding him, the possessive grip of her body.
Ginny’s foot stilled. Then, deliberately, she slid her toes higher, rubbing against the inside of his thigh. A playful, familiar gesture. She didn’t look up from her pancakes, but a small, knowing smile touched her lips. She thought his arousal was for her. A morning impulse. Husband and wife.
The lie was a stone in his gut.
Her foot moved again, more insistent now, pressing against the hard line of his erection through his trousers. “Someone’s pleased to be home,” she murmured, a flirtatious edge in her voice. She took a bite of toast, her eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug. They were bright, mischievous. Unknowing.
He should stop it. He should pull away, make an excuse, go upstairs and drown himself in the shower. But a darker, more desperate part of him saw a path through the guilt. If he could lose himself in Ginny, fuck the memory of Fleur out of his system, maybe the sick feeling would go away. Maybe he could pretend it never happened.
He didn’t move his leg.
That was all the invitation she needed. Ginny put her mug down with a soft click. In one fluid motion, she stood, came around the table, and settled herself in his lap. Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him, deep and warm and tasting of tea and maple syrup.
He kissed her back, forcing himself into the moment, his hands coming up to grip her hips. Through the thin wool of his jumper, he could feel the heat of her. She was real, solid, his. He tried to pour himself into the kiss, to conjure the right feeling.
She broke away, breathless. “Bedroom’s too far,” she whispered, her voice husky. Her hand went between them, fumbling with his belt buckle. “I need you now.”
He helped her, his fingers clumsy. She wriggled on his lap, shoving his trousers and briefs down just enough. She wasn’t wearing anything under the jumper. She was already wet, that easy, familiar slickness. He lifted her slightly, and she guided him inside with a practiced hand, sinking down onto him with a low, satisfied sigh.
It felt good. It always felt good with Ginny. She was warm and welcoming and loved him. But as she began to move, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, he was brutally, painfully aware of the difference.
This was comfort. This was known territory. Her moans were familiar, her pace earnest and loving. He gripped her arse, helping her, meeting her thrusts. Her head was buried in his neck, her breath hot against his skin. “Yes, Harry… just like that,” she panted.
But his mind was a split screen. He saw the training room’s cold floor, not their sunlit kitchen. He saw silver-blonde hair, not red. He heard a voice whispering filth in French and English, not gasped endearments. Fleur’s hunger had been a conquering. Ginny’s was an invitation. The tight, clutching desperation of Fleur’s body was absent here, replaced by a welcoming warmth that didn’t demand, didn’t claim, didn’t ruin him.
He fucked up into her, harder, trying to outrun the comparisons. Ginny cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, her rhythm faltering. “Oh, god… yes, fuck me!”
He closed his eyes tight. The image of Fleur pinned beneath him, her eyes blazing with victory, wouldn't leave. The memory of her Allure, that golden, drowning haze, made this clear-headed coupling feel like a pale imitation. Ginny’s climax washed over her; he felt her body clench around him, heard her shuddering gasp. It triggered his own release, a mechanical, emptying spasm that left him feeling hollow.
For a moment, they stayed like that, slumped together at the kitchen table, amidst the crumbs and cold bacon. Her weight was heavy on him. The smell of their sex mingled with the smell of breakfast.
She nuzzled his cheek, planting a soft kiss there. “Wow,” she breathed, a happy, satiated sound. “What got into you?”
He couldn’t speak. He just held her, stroking her back, his eyes staring blankly over her shoulder at the forgotten pancake stack, now cold and greasy on the counter.
Later, after she’d gone upstairs to shower, he remained at the table, tired and torn.