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Chapter 1: The Counter
It's the steady pace of things.
She hadn't seen him in ages. Ever since The War, ever since he triumphed over He-Who-Was-Defeated and changed, in the span of an hour, from The-Boy-Who-Lived into The-Man-Who-Conquered.
That day, too, had faded over time. But images, fragments, still linger and haunt. Him, on one knee, visible across the steaming ground, his wand, glowing, thrust into the gray skies. His hair, plastered to his forehead from the rain, glasses miraculously still perched on his nose.
And then the horrible instant when a flash of green blinded everyone on the field for what seemed like an eternity, and Harry had fallen, limp, to the Earth…
They had thought that Voldemort had triumphed; that the world was doomed. But then; the Dark Lord, eyes flaming, had crumbled into ash, mixing with the muddy soil below him. Harry had won; all was well…
That was over ten years ago. The world had changed since then; magic laws had loosened slightly from the dictatorship-like hold that had been placed over all witches and wizards once Voldemort's rising had become known.
Hogwarts was running smoothly again; rebuilding finally complete on the ancient building. The Ministry of Magic was operating at twice the rate it had been before the war; Seamus Finnegan, newest Head Minister, was proudly rousing the Members to work harder as much of the magical world recovered from The War.
Even she had changed; her sparkling innocence exchanged for sometime a tad more sinister. Darkness had sparkled within her after the Dark Lord's defeat – she had rebelled against the world, against all that could have brought Voldemort into being, against all that kept her sheltered.
But she had returned from that rocky path, scarred from her brush with true evil. There was too much love in her for darkness to overcome, and she had come sprinting back to the light, hesitating only at the promise of love she had always wanted and couldn't claim – a love that she knew would be false and forced.
But even ten years didn't allow time to have its way on stirrings of the heart, and she found herself dreading Harry's arrival at Ron and Hermione's wedding reception.
He was said to be seeing some spry blonde witch that was said to be at least a quarter veela. And Ginny, well, she was seeing Dean Thomas almost exclusively now. But that didn't change the haunting flickers of past emotions, surging to the surface anytime anyone mentioned his name.
The Burrow was filled with people, all milling about the many tables that lined the garden, specially cleared out for this event. Past teachers, ex-boyfriends, old enemies mixed together like a hastily stirred soup, flavors mingling with some surprisingly interesting results.
"Harry's going to be late if he doesn't show soon," someone murmured at her elbow. She spun, only to find her mother hastily refilling trays with a flick of her wand all the way across the room.
She ignored it, turning back to focus on Fred and George, both fighting over handling rights of the latest set of Weasley twins, product of Tonks and Charlie's elopement – something that had occurred just after The War had ended.
Bill was seeing a pretty brunette that had shown up after the Dark Lord's fall. Her family had been killed by rampaging Death Eaters – those that hadn't believed the news of Voldemort's fall. And Percy…well… Percy was said to be married, but that could have just been rumor. Nobody had really heard from the ex-Ministry member since before The War. Fudge, in his fall from grace, had taken much of the old Ministry with him, sabotaging the staff and then disappearing into the night, supposedly headed for the Americas. Nothing was known other than Percy had survived The War. And Fred and George; they were still taking full advantage of their elevated status in the magical world as word got around about the Weasley's accomplishments in The War.
But Ginny… Ginny was alone as far as she was concerned. Following The Battle – that was what it was called and already it was being put in the magical history texts as such – she had taken a leave from her studies, traveling to France and Russia and the United States. Dumbledore saw to it that she received an honorary diploma from Hogwarts, but after all that had happened, it wasn't all that important. Just the sight of her cinnamon locks could send people into a frenzy as they gathered, crowding for the answer to the now-poplar question, 'Are you a Weasley?'
Yes, suddenly her family was almost as well known as Harry's was. It was a strange twist of fate in a strange period of time. This explained why her once flaming tresses were now a tousled brown, streaks of gold-red still shooting through. It was all she could do to disappear into the background; somewhere she wanted to remain, unknown and uncelebrated.
A telltale pop brought her back to the present and she jumped as Harry Potter appeared beside her, looking for all the world as if he were still eighteen and fighting the good fight. True, age had touched his classic features, but youth and vitality still sparked as if engrained with his very being. His thick-framed glasses had been exchanged for a wire-rimmed pair, the beginnings of crow's feet crinkling the corners of his eyes. He turned towards her and gave a half-hearted smile – Ginny knew it wasn't real only because she saw the vacant look in his eyes.
Ginny fought not to swoon right there, allowing her heart to harden at his forgetfulness. She hadn't changed all that much, so why would he not recognize her?
"How late am I?" He asked, gesturing to the beginnings of the rehearsal dinner, being spread with flicks of Molly Weasley's very agitated wand. He stood like he had always stood, watchful and alert, ready to go on prowl, to leap at the slightest inclination. He resembled a panther, taunt and lithe and covertly sexy on purpose.
Ginny tossed her hair resolutely, hand unconsciously flirting with the third button on her robe, releasing it and allowing the V to dip lower on her chest.
"Only late enough that Mum'll see to it that you don't get any torte for desert."
At the mention of 'Mum,' Harry's attention sparked to life, his eyes taking her in as if for the first time. She imagined was he was seeing and wrinkled her nose discreetly. Sloppy bun on a collision course with her ear, dress robes that were years outdated, and sandals that were tucked onto un-pedicured feet. Standard issue slop, if you asked Molly.
He stepped towards her and her heart lodged just under her left foot. Picking up a stray strand of brown hair, he glanced quizzically at it.
Before Harry could comment on her – in any way, shape or form – Mrs. Weasley had him in a bone-crunching hug, sounding for all the world she was greeting a long lost son. He was steered away, into the crowds around the tables, introductions being made and acquaintances forged or rekindled. It seemed that it wasn't just Ginny who hadn't seen Harry since that day – that magical, horrid day that he had collapsed yet triumphed…
Ginny ignored him. She tangled a hand in her hair, playing with the overly long strands. Too long, yet again. No matter what she tried, her hair had taken a liking to tickling her hips, and would resolutely grow back right after every trimming or cutting or hacking she demonstrated on it.
If she knew her mother could handle it, she'd just as soon shave her head and call it a night. Sometimes it bit; being magical and all.
Molly was calling her to eat, and she grabbed a plate and settled into her seat near Charlie's twins, suddenly wishing that she hadn't agreed to be Hermione's maid of honor, for then she could get an extra three hours of sleep. She desperately realized she needed them as her head lay itself down on the table, eyes closing on the drifting faces around her, the conversation stumbling into humming as sleep overtook her.
The threat of Charlie's twins did hurry her into climbing from the comfort of her warm covers and sprint for the doorway, across the cool floorboards. She realized the mistake of it as soon as she came across the shut door, with a smiling Harry Potter waiting patiently for the lavatories in little more than boxer shorts and a t-shirt.
True, the boxers were very becoming, but Ginny set her jaw and kept her eyes locked above neck level, wishing that Harry would do the same. She was wearing standard pajamas on her part; a tank top and shorts that revealed more to The-Man-Who-Conquered than she would have liked.
"How did you sleep, Ginny?" Harry asked, drawing out her name as though proud he remembered it. Funny; she didn't remember him being so cocky, so arrogant, so…
"You know, I almost took you up on that offer last night." He gave her a lazy wink that sent irrepressible shivers skating over her back.
So self-confident. It was almost as though he was a different person entirely.
"What offer?"
"You don't remember?" He looked decently appalled; a teasing light flashing like lightning as he winked again. Ginny almost hated herself when she realized that she could still read him oh-so-well.
"No, sorry to say, I don't."
Harry shifted against he door jamb, his head cocking to the side in a familiar gesture that reminded her of him as only an awkward teen and not an enticing man who was working much too diligently to seduce her for someone who was supposedly engaged.
"You fell asleep at the table last night and I carried you up to bed. And then you asked me to stay with you. And I did; I sat by the bedside for a bit until you fell back to sleep." Now here was the Harry she remembered, slightly unsure, curiosity melting into concern, both hidden in the depths of his unfaltering gaze.
She could feel the burning blush overtake her features before she could even find the sense to hide it. "I didn't mean anything by it," she snapped in retaliation for the blush if nothing else. "I was half asleep and probably not even talking to you."
Something – she didn't even want to know – snapped in his eyes and the concern hardened into a steely gaze that pinned her where she stood. "You sounded like you were pretty awake when I kissed you."
Her jaw must have hit Molly on the head three stories down, it fell that far. "You did no such thing." At least, she hoped to God not – if she were to ever be kissed by Harry Potter, she wanted to be completely and totally conscious. And not covered in drool after falling asleep on the dining room table in the middle of family festivities.
"Maybe I did. You were obviously half-asleep," he retorted, his voice high-pitched and whiny, annoyingly sarcastic. Ginny rolled her eyes. What was he, twenty-eight and mocking an already harassed witch at seven in the morning?
Sometimes she just couldn't get over her luck. Or her obviously disturbed state, as it was true she was feeling more than just annoyance at Harry's ridicule. Something much deeper, something she hadn't felt stir in over a decade, was working away at her heart below the surface, melting it into a pool of warm fuzzies.
Oh joy, she was falling for Harry Potter yet again.
Eventually the door cracked open, and a sleepy looking Fred stumbled out and up the stairs, a cloud of steam following in his wake. Harry waved it away with a smile, then started to close the door. Just before it snapped shut, it paused, and Harry's grinning face appeared at the gap.
"If you want to join me, you're more than welcome." And then, with a hearty wink, the door eased its way against the jamb. And Ginny planned on a cold shower, headless of whether or not Harry used all the hot water.
It was shortly after she emerged from the cramped lavatories that Molly descended on her yet again, bustling her downstairs. A muffin was placed in one hand, a crepe tucked in her ever-yawning jaw, and she was shoved into the glowing-green embers of a floo-fire.
Twenty or so grates later, she popped out, fighting not to stumble over the decorative fire screen that was in her way and tangling about her legs. Hermione was already there, her usually bushy hair falling in graceful waves down her back; empty canisters of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion lining the table behind her. She gave a hurried wave at the hairdressers lining the walls, and they advanced on Ginny with wands raised.
Hermione's hotel room (something decided by Hermione and not the Weasley brood) had been stuffed full of witches and wizards, all wearing lilac robes with crossed wands looking suspiciously like Muggle shears stitched on the front.
She was seated in a stiff hotel chair, while people buzzed around her, some murmuring in slightly worried tones. It took her several moments of deciphering a particularly thick French accent before she realized that she was, in fact, extraordinarily late. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were already zipping each other into their dresses, fussing over the Muggle inventions. ("They call them 'zippers.' Why, do you suppose?" Parvati giggled into her hand.)
Eventually, they work began on her hair, after the busy-worker-bees spent the better part of half an hour discussing the interesting spell work that made it muddy brown. Ginny ignored them, watching Parvati and Lavender exclaim over the television in the room. Ginny, it was true, had only seen the one her father had brought home. It had lasted four nights – and then it fell to Arthur's tinkering. All they could see now in the picture box was fuzzy snow that came with fuzzy noise to boot.
When Ginny was finally turned about to view her hair, she nearly heaved her muffin at the mirror. They had erased any trace of the bark brown color, restoring the coppery red of Weasley lore. The had it piled on top of her head, like the other girls, but with more curls spilling down on her like a golden wine, glowing in the fluorescent lighting. Random yellow and pink flowers were woven into the mane of curls, something that added elegance to the wild beauty of it all.
Hermione was also just about finished and Ginny finally had the chance to give her a one-armed hug. Hermione's hair was braided into a rope and twisted on top of her head like a coronet, ribbons of gold and white smoothed into the braid. The rest of her hair was lying in delicate curls.
The hairdressers seemed slightly putout by the simplicity of the hairstyles, but Hermione wasn't one to overdo anything, especially since she knew Ron wouldn't be one to notice.
Then came the butter yellow dress, something chosen with Ginny's red hair in mind, even though she was planning on being a brunette through the ceremony. Hermione's instructions had changed that, she thought as she glanced in the mirror one last time, realizing her golden freckles and giant honey-brown eyes before Apparating out of the hotel room and into the bedroom designated for Hermione's bridal attendants. Her features had faded when she was no longer a redhead, but the cinnamon color drew attention to the details she hadn't known to miss.
Lavender and Parvati were already there, and Hermione followed soon after, a sour look on her face after dealing with the hairdressers.
"They don't want to clean up," she explained, shrugging out of her button down flannel, a shirt Ginny was sure Ron had been wearing last night, before he and Hermione had disappeared upstairs. Arranging the slim bride in her gown was easy enough, and soon Ginny was escaping the flower-laden room to claim the veil from downstairs.
It was as the kitchen door swung closed behind her that she rethought her mission, for seated at the table was none other than Harry Potter, reading the Daily Prophet with half a smile on his face.
He glanced up, then back down at the paper, before doing a double take and staring openly at Ginny where she stood, just inside the door. She felt her cheeks flame red as he scanned her, taking in curves she was sure he didn't know she had.
"Much better than the brown," he said with a gesture at his own hair, which was still as tangled as it had been that morning. Ginny let her own eyes wander over the manly form of Harry, looking dashing in a suit straight from the Muggle magazines she had studied with Hermione.
True, it was a different sight for the witch, but the suit was invitingly handsome. It clung to his broad shoulders and lean frame, and suddenly the kitchen was entirely too hot and way too small for the both of them.
She fanned herself with one hand while scanning the room for any sign of the veil. Harry only sat back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, watching. She once again pictured him as a sleek panther, prepared for the hunt. As much as she wanted his attention, feeling like a steak dangled in front of him was grating on her nerves.
Finally spotting the box on top of the pantry, she gave a long sigh, kicking Harry's legs out of the way when he deliberately stretched them in her path. She felt his eyes on her as she reached, finding herself a good measure too short to even swipe at it.
She froze when she felt Harry come up behind her, pressing her into the shelves unintentionally as he lifted the veil from the shelf. When he didn't step back right away, she spun, planning on shoving past him. Her thoughts, as well as her determination to get out of the situation, flew out the window once her eyes caught his, just inches away from her own. Their depths searched her own, and felt all her barriers begin to crumble with the slightest whisper of his breath across her cheek. His hand trailed its way up the bodice of her dress, tracing the elaborate lacework, forging a burning path over her breast, before settling over her cheek, tilting her head so that, if he were to lean in, their lips would meet. Her heart had ceased to beat at his touch, but now it was stampeding through her body. Throbbing in her fingers, her toes, someplace just in between; her pulse was thundering like an approaching train. Her hands were pressed to his chest, pinned there by her own body, pressing against his just as fervently as his was pressing against hers.
And then time froze. His breath was skating over her chin, mouth hovering, far too close but far too distant all at the same time. A thumb was dragged across her lower lip, a heady breath following. Involuntarily, she tagged after it with her tongue, nerves singing when his eyes focused on the instinctive action. A rushing in her ears and Ginny gained control of her senses, scattered and twisted and deformed. This wasn't going to happen.
She pushed, managing to unbalance him enough to skirt past him, avoiding his wandering hands as they searched for her wrists, her waist, anything to bring her back to him.
Snatching the veil, she fled, cheeks burning and eyes running. This wouldn't do. After a brief interlude in the water closet where she splashed cold water on her already blotchy face, she returned to Hermione and crowned her with the maiden's veil, eyes downcast.
The wedding seemed to happen on fast forward – Ginny kept her eyes on the couple and not on the Best Man across the aisle, who was doing his best to catch her eye. It was strange for Ginny to be in such a situation. She had been chased by a handful of eager wizards but none… She had never loved one like she loved Harry. Yes, she knew she loved him. It wasn't even a question anymore, just a simple, reassuring knowledge that stayed with her, even as she dated Dean and Michael and Conner. But…but when Harry started pursuing her… And he was supposed to be engaged. And…
She was confused, and worse, on the verge of flirting right back.
The ceremony ended in a blaze of magic, and the reception started soon after, another festival that took place in The Burrow's backyard. Hermione changed, as did the majority of the bridal party, out of the Muggle dresses and suits and into robes or more casual clothing.
Ginny tried not to focus too closely on Harry when he reappeared in jeans and a green shirt that drew attention straight to his eyes, something she knew he knew. He's playing with fire, she thought, as Harry not so subtly brushed past her, his wandering hands unnerving her to no end. Snatching a glass from the nearest table, she downed the contents in a burning swallow, sucking in a breath to ease the searing heat of the Fire Whisky. Glancing down at her cup, she was miffed to find another mouthful still clinging to the glass and she bit that back too, praying that she'd find the resolve to make it through the evening without stabbing out a certain pair of emerald green eyes that wouldn't stay off of her.
After emptying three or four of the glasses – she lost count after someone, some rented house elf, damn them, swept away her empty glasses and left her alone with the bottle and the one glass. The made counting more difficult for Ginny, as she raised the bottle yet again, pausing halfway to the empty glass. She considered both the bottle and the glass for a moment, then decided to skip the unnecessary step and lifted the Whisky straight to her mouth.
When she didn't feel – not that she could anymore – the familiar burn of the Fire Whisky, she spun around on the stool rather crookedly, hanging on by clamping both hands on the seat and leaning a little too far left. Harry Potter – at least, it looked like Harry Potter, with the black and the green and the handsomeness that made her saliva glands kick into full gear – stood in front of her, Fire Whisky in hand, face somber.
"Drinking are we, Miss Weasley?" He was laughing at her!
"Not none of your business, Mr. Podd – Potter." She spat, reaching for the bottle and over balancing, landing in a muddled heap at Harry's feet
"Oof! Come now, let me walk you to your room." He picked her up and settled an arm around her waist. She melted into his embrace, feeling all at once secure and safe, no matter that the floor was beginning to spin around her head, while the ceiling stayed firmly glued to her feet…
Twisting their way through the people wasn't that bad; Harry's voice – suddenly so loud – kept telling people she wasn't feeling good. Which was starting to be true…a rumbling in her stomach kept her head down, focused on the three pairs of shoes she saw below her. It was the stairs that presented a challenge – she couldn't quite walk by the time they reached them. And so, Harry, being ever the gentleman, swept her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs and into her room, settling her on the full size bed with a gentle sigh.
Ginny barely registered Harry's gentle caress on the forehead before she was in dream world, embracing the memories her mind couldn't help but resurrect.
But apparently, with the headache and the nausea, she had already subscribed to some form of bottle worship and was going to be paying tithe very soon.
Stumbling out of bed, she lurched onto the landing, tottering hesitantly before surging towards the bathroom. It was, miraculously, unattended, and she swept into the porcelain temple and into a refreshingly warm shower, easing kinks and knots out of her back she hadn't known had been kinked or knotted.
After lounging in the shower as long as magically possible, she thrust her hair into two messy pigtails and fumbled down flights of stairs until she found herself glaring, with the pit of her stomach spewing nasty tastes up her throat, at a plate of French toast. Visible over the top of the mound was Fred – possibly George (she wasn't one to care with the pounding in her skull) – stuffing toast by the slice into his mouth.
Retching occurred, followed by Harry's inane chuckle. He was flirting unabashedly with a cup of coffee and Ginny was suddenly whipped into a jealous rage. She relieved him of his cup, and draping herself across his lap – Er, she'd meant to land on the bench next to Harry – she gave the beverage the fiery end it deserved.
And Harry watched, his throat moving as he swallowed forcefully, eyeing the empty mug with what appeared to be jealousy clouding his vision. Allowing an evil 'ha!' to escape mentally, Ginny watched the bewitched serving carafe refill her mug, adding two sugars and a dollop of cream. With a giddy sigh, she relaxed against the wall, favoring the brew.
Just in time to explode Ginny's one minute of peace – which had come complete with minute amounts of nausea and a reduced drum line in her skull – came Molly Weasley. She was bearing, with a wave of her wand, three hampers of laundry, a small crock-pot, six excited sheep, and a full-size cardboard cutout of Gilderoy Lockhart (something Ginny had surrendered to the twins shortly after first year).
"There you are, dear," she cooed, smoothing Ginny's hair distractedly. "Really should fix yourself up a bit. But never mind that now; I need you to hang this laundry outside. I'd just charm it dry, but I've got an army of Muggle Grangers to feed in two hours and the Crocker Charm's finally worn off that Muggle pot your father brought home. Blasted thing; I told him it wouldn't last and he wouldn't listen, would he? No – said it'd make delicious stews and all I had to do was prepare! All the darn thing is good for is kidney pie and treacle pudding – and I haven't made kidney pie in years. I'm on hiatus until Remus gives me the family secret. And I've got to go to market and find something that I can serve with mutton. Shouldn't have let the rabbits eat all the carrots…" By now Molly was mumbling to herself, flicks of her wand adding to the 'Get Done' list floating above the sink.
Ginny longed to spit at the hampers, but she refrained with a mighty effort and an extra long draught from her coffee cup. Molly breezed out of the kitchen, accidentally tearing Gilderoy's cardboard head off when she didn't lower him to pass through the door. Fred, having finished the better part of three entire loaves of bread made into French toast, sauntered from the kitchen, kicking up the head on his exit.
And then Harry did a most surprising and wonderful thing. He 'Wingardium Leviosa'ed the hampers outside, and through the top half of the Dutch door, Ginny watched as he began pinning the laundry to the several criss-crossing feet of twine and garland still woven among the trees from last night's festivities. Although not the manliest chore in the world, Ginny definitely felt a surprising rush of love and…desire…flicker through her still hung over mind.
She watched, enthralled to the point of abandoning her coffee to the magical version of a dishwasher, as Harry strung various linens on the lines. Bed sheets – some spotted with spilled potions – and towels and rags fluttering like festival flags. She'd never seen anyone hang laundry manually before – it seemed so masculine and primal and… Her eyes followed the taunt lines of Harry's still lean frame, tracing the bunching and stretching muscles as they worked under the early sun.
Lusting occurred, which wasn't anything new in The Burrow – Ron and Hermione had officially began the physical aspect of their relationship just upstairs, right around the intersection of Fred's bed and 'ew'-ville.
Now he was on to the twin's laundry – an assortment of matching sweaters, t-shirts, and jeans in slightly different colors. Pairs of everything, all in a row, looking for all the world like the twins had reinvented Vanishing Cream – illegal in magical Britain – and had forgotten to coat their clothing.
Harry kicked aside the second laundry basket, and Ginny's eyes widened as she watched him hang a delicate, pink lace camisole on the line. Following it were the pair of jeans Ginny had worn two days ago, with a flimsy blue tank top chasing it. Ginny's mind raced; delicates – had Mum washed the delicates yet? And if she had – would she want them hung outside to dry?
A cotton bra answered her question and Ginny buried her burning face in her arms, deciding that hiding in the kitchen was better than confronting him, especially if he was up to his elbows in her underwear. Peeking covertly through her fingers, she watched her one – and only – black lace bra appear on the line, followed by the knickers she had worn with them. There were the garters she'd worn yesterday, and the strapless bra, and the sheer knickers, and… A t-shirt soothed her nerves as he found the next load in the basket. Jeans, sweatpants, the occasional sock, her outdated dress robes, a lone glove, and more and more tank tops soon finished Harry's task, and he reclaimed the scattered laundry baskets from where they lay.
He spun towards the house and Ginny was treated to a first hand brush with the smugness that was Harry Potter. A twisted, mocking, self-indulgent smile creased his face, and she fought hard not to admit that she found it gorgeous – charming, even. As he swept into the kitchen, banishing the hampers to the laundry room off the kitchen, he gave Ginny a generous wink.
"Now you can't say that I don't know you intimately," he breathed, sounding slightly out of his mind. Ginny herself felt the same; just thinking about Harry handling her delicates and…
She found herself standing, stepping towards Harry, his height seeming to shrink as she approached, so that she was his level, if she wanted to, she could…handle his delicates right there in the kitchen. And against all better judgment, she was awkwardly right in front of him, face tilted to his, breath passing her lips in short gasps in time to his own.
It was highly inappropriate. But highly exciting, and erotic and…All her thoughts, of how wrong it was, of how she would be damned to the Muggle Mall for all eternity (hell, in her eyes), was forgotten as his lips settled over her own in Harry's second surprising and wonderful thing of the day, claiming her mouth and marking it as his territory. His hands were suddenly pulling her towards him, and her arms were around his neck – put there, she was sure, by none other than Harry himself – she was lost in a swirl of rising emotions and body temperature. He was pressing against her so forcefully that soon she felt the kitchen counter digging into the small of her back – just above where Harry's hands were wandering. Lifting her, he settled her on the counter, pushing in between her thighs to continue the only contact that kept her from protesting – his kiss.
She'd been kissed before – her lips were far from being virgin – but this… They kiss made her want to do things she hadn't done. Dirty, filthy thoughts streaked through her head and she tried to put her mind elsewhere. But her mind stayed resolutely in the kitchen – it was various articles of clothing that vacated the premises and – oh! What was Harry doing with his tongue? Her thoughts went crashing back to the kiss and to the various body parts they were handling on each other.
His hands – what dangerous creatures they were – had wriggled their way under her shirt, tracing ribs and stroking spine with touches that made a low moan escape, stifled only by Harry's continuing kiss. His lips had ventured far beyond her mouth, but their contact with her ear, her chin, her neck, her collarbone made her utter groans and whimpers that kept her insane.
Soon he was pulling her closer to him again - close enough that the buttons on his shirt were digging into her belly, close enough that his belt buckle was causing irreversible damage to her will to stop the inappropriateness. And his mouth was buried on her chest, a burning sensation following the march of his lips across the low cut of yet another tank top, over the swell of her breasts and into the valley between.
The sound of bleating drew them apart, each shooting the other a slightly frightened look, as if to ask, 'Are you the one that sounds like a sheep in the midst of an erotic tryst on the kitchen counter?' It became apparent, however, that neither was responsible – it was in fact Molly's entourage that made that particular sound, discovered when Molly swept into the kitchen a half an instant later, causing Harry to jump like a jackrabbit on crack, leaving Ginny feeling…hot and bothered and distinctively alone. It also gave her the chance to regain her equilibrium and shoot Harry a warning look, something that died in her gaze as she caught a glimpse of his mussed hair and crooked glasses, perched above swollen lips and a heartfelt look of…loss.
But, no. She was not going to shag Harry Potter. No. It couldn't happen. It was wrong. Bad juju; bad juju for everyone involved. He was engaged. She was as much as Dean's fiancée. It couldn't happen. It couldn't, it couldn't, it couldn't. At least, not today…
It didn't matter though. Her head was battering no into her limbs, while her heart was coaxing them to melt into his arms, never minding Molly or the confused sheep. Her Mum was stirring something that looked familiarly hot and bothered as it boiled away on the magical stove that Arthur had surprised Molly with two summers ago.
And then Harry did a most scintillating and, in Ginny's mind (but not heart), stupid thing. He wrapped his hand around hers – innocent enough in gesture – and pulled her out of the kitchen and up four sets of stairs to a familiar looking door on a familiar looking landing.
Once Ron's old bedroom – one could still almost make out 'R-O-N-N-Y' on the door – it had been transformed into a guest bedroom, which Harry now occupied. It had the honor of being one of the only locking doors in the house that 'Alohomora' wouldn't work on, and was also the only room where eavesdropping became a punishable offense (the Weasleys had hired a ghoul to guard with sixteen gallons of bat-bogey sludge).
And Ginny soon found herself barricaded in said room with Harry, him watching with the infamous 'hungry panther' look wrecking havoc on her desire to run like hell. Exactly 51 of her was pushing for the bedroom hunt, while 48 was screaming for her to sneeze when he tried to kiss her, and 1 was trying to remember if she'd shaved her legs that morning.
None of her was prepared for what happened. Instead of jumping her bones and being an egotistical, 'how-could-you-refuse-the-man-that-is-me,' version of Harry, he instead morphed into the sensitive, caring, 'let-me-buy-you-puppies-and-rainbows,' version of Harry, circa his fourth year of Hogwarts. Exactly the Harry that screwed everything up and sent Ginny tumbling back into love with the man sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like he had just lost his best friend (that look; circa end of fifth year).
"We need to talk."
And fuck; she was in trouble.
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