"Still Life of Summer" (fic)
Title: Still Life of Summer
Author: Tosca
Rating: Adult
Summary: A summer through the eyes of one Ginny Weasley.
Warnings: Sexual situations between teens (like, 18 and 17, people). Sceond person (EEEEEP.)
Word Count: 7,375
Notes: Okay. This was supposed to be a drabble. A drabble. Now, it's a 7,375-word monster of a fic. Post-DH, a really ramdom, steamy take on the summer after the war ends. I haven't written anything like this... um, ever. So I'm kind of just looking for some helpful feedback, whether it's good, whether it sucks, whether I should just stick to third-person, whether I should take up guitar... Kind of inspired by Dar Williams, if anyone knows her songs. She's amaaaaaazing.
Anyway. On with the monster.
When it’s all over and done, and the bodies are buried, and you feel like you’ve finally recovered your strength emotionally, you search Harry out, in the darkness of the Burrow on a hot night in late June
He’s kept his distance, in a rare moment of brilliance. The both of you had a spectacular row a week after the Battle of Hogwarts, right in the kitchen, with your mum two rooms away. He expected you to leap at him in relief, embrace him and tell him you didn’t mind that he had abandoned you for a year, didn’t even attempt to write, tried to lock you back up in that bloody ivory tower, and played dead right in front of you. Of course, you set him straight and proceeded to rail at him for a good twenty minutes about how bloody wrong he was.
You could have gone on for twenty hours, you think, but then he just grabbed you and kissed you harder than you had ever been kissed before. His hands were dangerously low on your back, searing your skin through your thin shirt, and his lips were strong and smooth against yours, intoxicating and lovely and warm.
Somehow, you found the willpower to shove him away. You can’t just snog me, you said angrily, hitting his arm, madder at yourself for liking it so bloody much.
He merely smiled, shrugging. You wanted to throttle him, but settled for turning on your heel and walking away.
So, here you are, three weeks later, tiptoeing through the creaky halls towards Harry’s room (Percy’s old room: you know the tricks of the floorboards from all those pranks you helped Fred and George pull on him), clad only in a thin, sleeveless cotton nightdress, and though it is incredibly warm and you can feel the sweat rolling down the nape of your neck to the base of your spine, you still shiver. You’ve ached for him for nights and nights now, and it has almost become unbearable to be in the same room with him, seeing him smile at you and wanting to snog him senseless, even with your father eating his breakfast right next to your chair.
Breathing deeply, you stop at his door, bare toes curling against the cool wood floor. You put your hand to the doorknob, stomach jumping with nerves. Suddenly there’s a draft between your thighs and the door is open; he’s standing there, watching you, catching your floating hand in his and pulling you inside before you can even speak. He shuts the door behind you and you see the rumpled bed out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you want very much to be in that bed with him.
Especially if he’s shirtless. Like he is now.
“Hi,” he says finally; his face looks odd without his glasses, but you could get used to it.
Your heart is jumping, and you’re afraid he’ll hear it in the silence of the room and laugh. Licking your lips, you manage a smile, fingertips rubbing against the cotton of your nightdress in an effort to stop yourself from leaping at him and touching him.
“Hey,” you reply after a very long moment. The back of your neck and the curve of your knees are slick with sweat.
There is a moment, as you gaze at him and he gazes at you, that you think that yes, you almost love him, and could possibly love him forever, as long as he always looked at you quite like that, like you were the only thing he ever needed.
Finally you take those few steps, which seem so giant to you at the moment, and kiss him, licking his bottom lip, twining your hand in his hair, telling him yes in every sense of the word.
His tongue is curling against your own, and your knees are pressed against his bed; as his hand clumsily covers your breast, you have soft sheets behind you, and a bright-eyed, lip-swollen Harry pressing his heady weight into your body. His lips trail over your neck; you gasp achingly at the feel of teeth grazing your collarbone. Sliding your fingers over his sweaty skin, you press your fingertips into his hips, rubbing teasingly as his fingers stroke your breast, cupping and kneading and generally driving you to distraction.
You think in that moment that you could go all the way (the thought echoes inside your ribcage and scares you as much as it exhilarates you). Your fingers trace the bulge in his boxers, and the hands on your body shake against your skin, which delights you. His breath is fast and hot against your breasts, even through the fabric of your nightdress, and god you never ever want him to stop until-
“Harry? You awake, mate?”
Ron's voice floats through the door, breaking the humid spell surrounding you and Harry; hands freeze, and you stop breathing, for fear your brother will just know.
“Can you Apparate?” Harry whispers, the tip of his tongue flickering out against the sensitive spot below your ear; you shudder as you nod, extricating yourself from underneath him, dizzy with the flesh memory of his hands on you.
There is still a bulge as he stands, calling softly to Ron to wait just a minute. You can’t help but smile, face growing hot. He smiles back and leans down to kiss you, a brief but hot press of lips, before you know you need to leave. The promise of more is still tingling on your mouth as you flee back to the safety of your own room, knickers damp and throat marked.
*
The next time Harry has his hands on you, the house is blissfully empty and you are pressed against your bedroom door, shirt already half off. It is mid July, and you have been sneaking around behind your parents’ backs, hiding in cupboards and snogging Harry until you’re sure you don’t even have lungs anymore. Now after weeks of all that, you are alone with him and it’s absolute heaven.
“Missed this,” he murmurs against your mouth as his hands knead your breasts, his dick hard against your hip.
You gasp softly, struggling not to just lose yourself completely in the heady daze his body is forming around you, fingers digging into the toned muscles of his shoulders. “We never did this,” you whisper with a laugh, voice husky like you’ve never heard before, and at the sound his skin breaks out into goosebumps, which you love.
He chuckles against your collarbone, a hand sliding lower to the waist of your jeans. “I know. I thought about it all the bloody time though,” he said. “I meant I missed you.”
Sighing deeply as your hips arch towards his fingers, you think you’ll never want to stop hearing him say anything like that. Your breath hitches as he tugs down your jeans to your knees, and you squirm a bit, hot summer air hitting your thighs; you’re thrilled you had the foresight to wear the cute black knickers today.
“I missed you too,” you reply breathlessly, hair falling into your face as his fingers trace the hem of your knickers teasingly.
He looks up, smiling sheepishly as his eyes sparkle at you through those thick lenses you’ve loved since you were ten years old. “Good,” he said quietly, slipping his hands along the sides of your knickers, inching them down with an aching slowness, and you’re not sure you’ve ever been so turned on in your entire life, as short as it’s been.
“You’ve got to let me know if I’m doing this wrong,” he tells you with a grin, kissing you quickly as his fingertips slip tentatively between your wet folds, and you inhale, moaning quietly. His callused touch makes you shiver uncontrollably, and the double stimulation of his teeth on your neck and his fingers on your clit drives you to distraction. Your hips arch unevenly with his strokes; the pure white heat from his body against yours curls your toes.
Tipping your head back, you moan his name breathily, sliding a hand around his wrist to keep his touch at your clit. His breath is a slow whisper against your skin, and if even if your mum stormed in right now, you feel as if you would pin Harry down and shag him anyway, as long as his fingers kept rubbing right there.
The air is thick with your mingling breaths, and you cry out softly as his teeth suck hard at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Your muscles shudder with pleasure, spine tingling in anticipation of what you’ve longed for from him for nearly a year now; again, you curse Ron for bursting in last year, because then having the memory of this would have been more than enough to get you through the agony of Hogwarts without Harry.
Shutting your eyes, you moan and shudder and press against his touch just so, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You clutch at him, shaking with a high you’re not sure could ever be equaled, and he’s murmuring in your ear, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, and you have to wonder what exactly he had imagined all those times, because this was so much better than anything she could think up during the dark lonely nights.
When you come back to yourself, you’re limp against the door and he’s pulling your jeans back up, kissing you gently, and you think you’ve fallen in love all over again.
“Your family will probably be home soon,” he says, regret lacing his tone. “After all, how long can it take to meet Hermione’s parents?”
You giggle, finding it hard to take your eyes away from him. He’s right, of course; her parents’ luncheon with Ron, Hermione, and Hermione’s newly-recovered parents would soon be over, spoiling the beauty of the afternoon.
Still… you can feel the hardness against your lower stomach, and he’s just so flushed and handsome…
“I doubt you’ll take long, right?” you tease wickedly, hands diving for his jeans, and before he can protest (like he’d really want to), your hands are stroking his dick firmly, your lips are on his throat, and he’s groaning hoarsely into your hair.
He whispers your name; you love the sound, wanting to draw it from him every single day, and you continue on. Your knees are still wobbly from his ministrations, but you are determined, and when Ginny Weasley is determined, nothing stops her.
As usual, you’re right; he doesn’t take long. Soon, with a moan and a shudder, he’s spent, and you smile, a little taken aback by the swiftness and stickiness of it all, but his face is pure joy and you wouldn’t trade that for anything.
You murmur a soft Cleaning Charm, pull up his jeans, and just as you’re about to tease him, he pulls you into his arms and kisses you until you can’t think, his tongue hot and insistent against yours. His body envelopes you; your skins stick together in the sweat and heat of the late July afternoon.
“You’re brilliant,” he whispers against your lips as he finally releases you. You’re dazed with pleasure and a lack of air, but you smile nonetheless, sliding your fingers through his hair and kissing him again, knowing you’ll never get enough.
By the time your parents and Ron arrive back home, you and Harry are in your separate rooms, but the smile still hasn’t left your face.
*
On Harry’s 18th birthday, after the cake and candles have been had, and after he’s opened his presents, and after everyone has gone to their separate rooms, you sneak back out into the corridor and slip into his room silently, aware that your mum might be able to sense lust even through two floors. Harry is waiting for you, sitting by his window overlooking the woods by the Burrow; when you shut the door behind you, he looks at you with a smile and beckons you with his outstretched hand.
“I didn’t get a present from you,” he teases as you sit on the window seat with him, fitting neatly against his shoulder. His arm rests heavily around your shoulders, comforting in its weight.
“My continuing affection is my gift,” you tease right back, sighing silently as he kisses your hair.
He laughs, and the air around you falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hooting of owls and the summer insects invading the lawn. You want to ask so many things, but nothing feels right; Harry has never reacted well to pressure, and (though you won’t admit it) you’re scared of losing him again. The fear haunts your dreams sometimes; gone are the days of dreaming of Tom Riddle; now all you fear is that life isn’t reality, and you’ll wake up one day, come downstairs, and Harry will still be gone.
His fingers span out and slide up your arm to your upswept hair, pulling the ribbon out and immediately tangling within the thick strands. The sensation sweeps down your spine and you immediately relax against him, murmuring softly as he runs his fingers in and out of your hair. You’re startled by the intimacy of the gesture, but it feels wonderfull, and you can’t help but feel like this is completely normal.
“If I want to be an Auror, will you support me?”
His question is totally out of the blue, and you sit up slightly, craning your neck to look at him. He is staring off into space, eyes distant; his face is lines with creases you haven’t seen in months now. You can almost feel the tension radiating off of him, and you sit up to face him. While serious conversation is not foreign to either of you, you hadn’t thought that he would choose his birthday of all nights for a chat.
“If that’s what you want to do, yes,” you say finally, pursing your lips. In a flash, you see a future of worry and concern, of long nights and arguments; but you also see Harry happy with his life, and you know you want to be a part of that.
“I’ve been getting offers from Quidditch teams, you know,” he said after a moment, staring out onto the lawn. You didn’t know, and you’re a little hurt he didn’t tell you, but you say nothing, just waiting for him to finish. “And I think I’d have fun with Quidditch. But I just have this sense of needing to do something with my life. I need to make sure nothing like Voldemort can happen again.”
Taking his hand, you push your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “I don’t think that’s ever certain,” you say softly, heart aching for him.
He looks at you finally, with eyes that sear you deeply. “I’ve got to try,” he says finally, voice hoarse.
Speechless, you shake your head and crawl over to him, settling yourself in his lap and kissing him gently. “Then do it,” you whisper, sliding your fingers over his temples into his hair.
He kisses you back, and you can feel the smile on his lips. “Maybe you can play Quidditch, and I’ll come watch you, finally,” he murmured, hands sliding over your back.
Laughing softly, you kiss him again, the cool evening breeze a relief on your hot skin. Later, he takes you to his bed and you show him just exactly what you would have done on his birthday last year. Your mouth covers his skin all over, leaving him a shuddering mess, and though it’s clumsy, and a little awkward at times, when you look up at him, wiping your mouth daintily with your hand, the bliss in his eyes is more than reward enough.
“Best birthday ever,” he murmurs finally, voice husky.
You grin. “Just think how last year could have been,” you tease, and he chuckles before pulling you down for a long kiss.
*
When August rolls around, it’s nearly too hot to move. Ron and Hermione are sneaking around and acting incredibly suspicious, but when you ask Harry about it, he merely changes the subject, though he does smile, which adds even more mystery to it all.
“You’ll find out,” he only says before kissing you and shutting you up quite well.
Your mother, sly one that she is, has begun to figure out that you and Harry are at least on the path towards reconciliation, and so she has taken to keeping you busy at all hours during the day, usually at her side. One day, while you’re shopping in Diagon Alley for new school supplies, she reminds you that she will not have fornication under her roof, and that you are just too young for all that anyway.
Tactfully, you don’t remind her that you can count, and Bill was born just shy of a year after she left Hogwarts, so there must have been something going on throughout your mother’s seventh year, though you don’t actually like to think about it.
Your 17th birthday is quiet; your brothers come home for a pleasant dinner, and though you note Fred’s absence, it isn’t a sad day. At least you don’t have to deal with any exploding presents this year; last year, you were almost glad Harry wasn’t there, because Fred’s gift singed your eyebrows off. Though, right now, you’re sure you’d give up your eyebrows altogether just to have Fred back.
Harry, who has been a little absent from your life lately, what with being busy packing his things to get ready to move to his new flat and having interviews at the Ministry, grabs you as you’re heading up the stairs for bed; there was a notable lack of a present from him at the table, and you don’t really mind, though you thought Ron was going to break his nose.
“Come outside with me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing teasingly along the top of your hand.
A delightful shiver runs through you, and you nod, following him out past the hawk-eyes of your mother. You think you hear your dad telling her to leave you be as you walk away, and you make a note to buy your dad an amazing Christmas gift.
The night, while unbearably warm, is clear and breezy. Thankfully it isn’t humid, so you’re not worried about how your hair might look as Harry tugs you along through the tall grasses to where you all play pick-up games of Quidditch. Against a tree, you see Harry’s Firebolt, and immediately anticipation fills you; your toes dance inside your shoes at the thought of really riding a Firebolt.
“So, I missed your birthday last year, too,” Harry says as you both stop in front of the tree.
Trying very hard not to look at the broom, you nod. “You don’t have to-“
He cuts you off with a quick kiss, and then pulls out a small box. “Broom ride is last, and that’s for last year,” he says with a smirk. “But this is your present for this year.”
You feel a little light-headed as you take the box (which could hold a ring, ohgod) and hold it in your palm, throat constricting on any words you might have tried to say (though none come to mind).
“I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone else,” he says after a moment. “It’s kind of personal, you know?”
You look up at him finally; he is red in the faint moonlight, and you can’t help but smile, still nearly unable to breathe.
“Open it, will you?” he says finally, looking down at his feet.
Biting your lip on a laugh, you look down and slowly open the box. A faint rush of relief runs through you as you pull out a coiled necklace of gold, with a small oval diamond pendant (because a ring would just be too much, too soon), but you’re still shocked. The diamond catches light beautifully, and you’re too full to say anything, merely holding it in your hand gently. You’ve never received anything like this before in your life.
Harry coughs, and you look up at him finally; he’s now very red, even in the dark. “Do you like it? Because I can take it back, or get you something else. I went by myself, which could have been pretty stupid, but I just really wanted to get you something special, and-“
You cut him off finally (though he’s cute when he nervously rambles) by throwing your arms around him and kissing him, the necklace clutched in your hand. He holds you tightly, kissing you firmly, and you already feel like you’re flying, because how could you deserve someone quite so abnormally wonderful, and yet still so normally awkward?
“Put it on me?” you whisper as your lips part, handing him the necklace and turning around. His breath is warm against your skin as the metal is cool, sliding over your collarbones and settling around your neck. The pendant is a gentle weight in the hollow of your throat, and it feels right. It’s so small, yet very appropriate; somehow, you don’t think even your mum could protest.
He kisses the nape of your neck, pushing your hair to one shoulder, and wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “Happy Birthday,” he whispers softly in your ear.
Shivering, you grin and turn in his arms. “How about that broom ride, and then we’ll say it’s happy?” you tease, laughing as he rolls his eyes and pulls you towards the broom.
Later, after the wind has rushed all around you, and you didn’t think there could be anything better than a ride on a Firebolt with Harry, he proves you wrong. His mouth, which has grown exceptionally talented in leaps and bounds over the summer, makes you shiver and moan and buck with pleasure, his body a perfect weight over yours. The air still burns with summer heat, but you’re enveloped in Harry, fingers digging into his muscles. You’re not sure how you’ll ever let go, but when morning nears, you have to.
As he Apparates back to his own room, the sun just beginning to color the horizon, you curl up in your bed and know that the birthdays can only get better after this.
*
He’s dancing too close, too close by far, and it kills you.
You bite your lip, blushing hot against Harry’s cheek as he holds you incredibly near, hips grazing yours. Your breasts push gently against his chest; his free hand cups your hip in an incredibly intimate gesture, thumb rubbing gently, and you can feel that one finger like a brand. A hard warm shiver makes its way through your muscles to your heart every time you feel his breath against you earlobe, and you grip his hand even tighter, fingers intertwined in his.
Other couples circle around you, but you only feel the change in the drafts as they pass, focusing only on Harry. He dances better than you thought he would; Merlin knows you imagined him sweeping you off your feet last year at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but you assumed he’d be a little clumsy and step on your toes a lot, because all the other boys you’ve danced with did. Not Harry; he seems keenly aware of your body, and though you catch him looking down every once in a while, you think it’s cute, and your feet are certainly thanking him.
“Can’t believe they’re engaged,” Harry says softly after a while, his breath warm against your ear.
Smiling, you glance over at Ron and Hermione, who are completely wrapped inside each other. This party is all for them, and for the end of one of the oddest summers you’ve ever known. Everyone they know and love are here at the Burrow, celebrating love and a new beginning, and it’s a relief; despite the joy of Voldemort’s death, the Wizarding World has spent the summer mourning those they’ve lost for good. Now, with Ron and Hermione’s amazing news, it feels as if everyone can take those giant steps forward into the new world.
You look back at Harry, licking your dry lips. “It’s good, isn’t it?” you ask softly, watching his face as he looks on at his best friends.
He nods, wistfulness lining his face. “Yeah. I just feel like it’s the end of something, you know?” he says, looking back down at you.
Your heart gives a sad little thump, thinking of a week from now, when you’ll be on the train to Hogwarts and he’ll be beginning Auror training, and the two of you will be apart again. It won’t be quite as sad, but after the summer you’ve had, you’re not sure how you’ll like not seeing him every day, or not being able to talk to him whenever you want.
Abruptly, he leans down and kisses you softly, and you jump a bit, hoping your mum doesn’t see. Your mum, while suspicious, hasn’t found out that you and Harry are completely back together yet (though her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair for good after she saw the necklace around your neck). Now, you’re not sure what she’ll ask about, and whether you’ll be able to fib truthfully enough if she asks that always dreaded question: What have you done in my house?
Blushing, you shut your eyes and kiss him back lightly, fingers tightly interlacing. He breathes your name softly, and a cool shiver floods your body.
“It’s not the end,” you say finally as he leans away, conscious of your mother’s eyes driving into your back. “It’s just a new chapter.”
He smiles widely, holding you closer, which you didn’t think was possible. “It’s definitely not the end of this,” he says seriously, keeping your gaze. “You better let me know when your Quidditch matches are, because I’ll be there.”
Stomach fluttering, you can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. “You’ll be busy in training, I don’t need you to be there every time,” you protest, but he cuts you off with another kiss, and your knees wobble.
“I’ll be there,” he promises huskily, and you suddenly wish no one else was there, because you desperately want to push him to the ground and show him how much you love him just for saying that, for knowing how much you’ll miss him.
You say his name softly; he meets your eyes and you know you are both thinking the exact same thing. The heat in his gaze would stop you dead in your tracks if he wasn’t guiding your way around the dance floor through the thick August air. Murmurs from others around you drift in and out of your ears; you think you hear your’s and Harry’s names more than once, but with the way he’s looking at you now, you just don’t give a damn.
His hand slides from your hip to your back, resting heavy on the lowest part. Toes curling inside your shoes, you sigh and rest your forehead against his throat, breathing in the sweat and cotton-leather meld rising from his skin. All you want to go is pull him inside and crawl inside of him, spending the whole night in his arms; Merlin knows you’ve wasted enough time this summer dreaming about it, and if this past year had taught you anything, life’s too short to waste time.
“You think people would miss us?” you ask him quietly, not moving your head.
He chuckles, and his chest moves under you. “If we’re sneaky, no,” he says, taking a step back.
Smiling as you look up at him, you watch as he nods his head at you and then turns to leave. You stand on the dance floor, watching him weave in and out of people, stopping only to say quick hellos. He is heading for the house; you have to control the urge to just race after him like a madwoman. Your fingers itch with the need to touch him again, feel his skin hot and taut underneath your own; your breath catches just thinking about it.
Finally, finally, after an age of wandering around the lawn, looking up at stars and taking in the breeze, you decide it’s safe. You Apparate right into the kitchen and immediately turn to head upstairs, limbs heavy with anticipation. The stairs creak under your heels, and you take your time, looking around anxiously, just waiting for your mother to pop out and start screaming about teenage pregnancy and safe shagging, which would just be bad.
Harry is waiting by the doorway to your room, which is appropriate; after all, your room had seen the last interaction between the two of you last summer, too. This time though, he is beckoning you instead of the other way around; his hand reaches out towards you, and slowly, though your hand is shaking slightly, you take it. He pulls you in, his dress shirt already half undone, and the glimpse of his chest is nearly too much to bear. You shut the door behind you, lock it securely, and just lean back, watching him stand there in the middle of your girlhood room.
You think nothing could be quite so wonderful to see Harry there, alive and well, looking at you like you’re the only person left on Earth; you wonder if he’s always looked at you like that, and you were just so blind that you didn’t notice. The power and presence in gaze makes you weak in the knees, and you lick your lips lightly, fingertips rubbing together lightly in anticipation of touching him again.
“You look wonderful,” he says quietly after a moment, walking over to you and sliding his hands over your bare arms and shoulders, fingers finally resting on the damp nape of your neck. His thumbs circle right underneath your jaw and you sink into the coming kiss on instinct, sliding your hands up his chest as his lips part yours, soft and sweet and achingly slow. He tastes of the treacle tart your mum made and the champagne you both had to toast Ron and Hermione. Heart beating fast, you press your chest against his, uncaring of the sticky heat and how your dress might wrinkle. All you want is to be as close as possible to him, for as long as possible.
All year, you’ve imagined life without him, because in the face was what was coming, that was all you could do. Even though you had hope he would come back, it was buried deep inside you under the pain of being left behind, the anger at being shuttled back to a Hogwarts you didn’t recognize, the feeling of being completely useless to the people you loved.
You thought about never hearing him whisper your name (like he is now, hoarse and gentle against the delicate skin of your throat). You forced yourself to forget how his hands felt against you (callused and insistent on your breasts and hips). You refused to imagine how taking off his shirt would work (not very well, but as you finally tug it past his arms, he laughs, and there is such joy inside the sound that you don’t care if you feel a little embarrassed). You tried so hard to not think about him that it actually worked.
Now, you have all of it in front of you, and somehow, you’re glad you didn’t think about it all those months ago. It’s such a wonderful experience to feel the slide of your dress over your skin as he lifts it from your body, to hear his trousers drop to your bedroom floor with a soft thump, to watch his eyes rake over you as if you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. All those months ago, you wouldn’t have imagined it well enough to what it is now, the pure beauty of it all.
He stands in front of you now, clad only in socks and boxers (which somehow works for him, though you’re not sure why). He is still thin, but the thinness doesn’t worry you like it used to. Now he’s filled out, and there’s a strength inside his slender limbs that echoes the strength in his eyes. Those eyes are fixed on you, and if you weren’t so bloody stubborn and proud, you’d grab a blanket from your bed and wrap it around yourself, because what if you’re not beautiful? You’re freckled, skinny in some places, curved in others, and scarred from Dark Magic. What if all that together turns him off?
“Quit staring,” you say finally, forcing yourself to tease, to make light, when all you really want to do is toss on your dress again and pretend this didn’t happen.
He lifts his gaze to yours, finally, and the total awe inside the intensely green eyes nearly knocks you to the floor. “I want to stare,” he replies finally, voice reverent (a tone you have never heard before). “You’re better than I ever imagined.”
You think you may faint; all the blood has rushed from your head and you think it all went to your face. “Don’t joke,” you say softly; you’re on unfamiliar, unsteady ground, and it scares you.
“I’m not joking,” he says firmly, grasping your upper arms and pulling you flush to him. “Does it feel like I’m joking?”
From the hardness against your hip and the fierceness in his voice, you think maybe it’s time to take him seriously.
Shutting your eyes, you lean up just the slightest to kiss him, the strains of the music from the lawn floating into the room from the open window. His skin is hot and damp to the touch; you slide your fingertips over his shoulders and down his spine, eliciting goosebumps as your lips move against his in a familiar dance. His hands hold your arms still, as if he’s afraid you’ll bolt, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving now.
Smiling against his lips, you slip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and tug gently, sliding them down to his knees before he takes over, kicking them off hurriedly. You pull away from his chasing mouth and look down, biting the inside of your lip as you wrap your fingers around his cock. He groans, releasing your arms and bracing himself on the door behind you; the muscles in his throat are taut under your lips and tongue as you stroke him unhurriedly. Right now, you have all the time in the world.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters after a few moments, sweat beading around his hairline. His voice is husky, nearly a growl.
“I’ve got a whole year to make up for, don’t I?” you tease cheekily, arching your back and pressing your breasts to his chest as one of your hands cups his balls. You’ve only ever done this to him, and only a few times, but he likes it, and that makes you nearly giddy.
He groans again, shaking his head and reaching down to grab your hands. “You were going to do this to me all year?” he asks with a smile, eyes dark with want as he presses you against the door.
Yelping softly at the sudden turn of control, you smile back slowly, enjoying the almost feral look to his gaze. So this is what Harry the “normal” teenager looks like. “Yes, if you hadn’t gone away,” you reply, voice low in your throat.
“Almost makes me wish I was going back this year,” he murmurs before sliding his hands over your breasts and down to your hips, sliding your knickers off. His mouth leaves a wet trail down the line of your throat, seeking the curves of your breasts hidden beneath the lace of your bra.
Gasping, you kick off your knickers and moan as his hand cups between your thighs. “Bloody hell, I wish you were coming back too,” you moan, unable to control the shivers streaking up and down your body.
He laughs at that, lifting his face to yours. “I’m visiting, you know,” he says; you can see anxiety lining the corners of his eyes, and you realize he’s as worried about being separated as you are.
“I know,” you reply softly, leaning into kiss him briefly. “Now, maybe we should use the bed now? I doubt this will feel better for me if I’m up against the door,” you add teasingly, grinning as he flushes.
He takes your hands and pulls you to your bed. While you’re not totally sure where to start, you lick your lips and set yourself to it, gently pushing him down onto his back. He says your name achingly soft, and you can’t help but smile as you straddle him, the press of his erection against your thigh a warm, welcome pressure. You reach back and unhook your bra, saving him the trouble (because Merlin knows you have trouble enough with the bloody thing sometimes), and as you’re finally completely naked before him, you think he’s going to pass out. His face is very red, he’s breathing heavily, and his hands on your hips are very tight.
“You’re all right?” you ask, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to cover your breasts with your hands.
Merely nodding, he slides his hands up over your stomach to cup your breasts; you moan softly, finding hard to breathe when he touches you like that. You’re ready and wet, and sliding your hand down, you cup him gently and shift your hips, ready to guide him inside. Your heart is beating incredibly fast, your skin is very hot, and you feel wonderful.
He seems average (not that you’ve seen a lot of these things, but you do have brothers), and it hurts some, but not in a terrible way. You look down at him, and his eyes are shut, his mouth open with a groan. He is beautiful and vulnerable, and you love the way he’s holding onto your waist like his life depended on it. He moans your name huskily and arches his hips into yours, pressing himself further inside you.
As you imagine, he doesn’t take long. After all, it is the first time. And you don’t come, but the pleasure on his face when he does satisfies you for now. After he finishes, breathing harshly and covered in sweat, you carefully slide off of him and stretch out beside him, supremely pleased with yourself. You ache, not unpleasantly, and you lie there waiting for him to breathe again, replaying the way your name left his lips over and over; you feel warm all over, filled with something like love. The breeze from the window catches your skin, and your toes curl against the sheets of your bed.
Finally, he turns his head and opens his eyes; you’ve never seen a wider smile on his face. “You are amazing,” he says after a moment of just looking at you, still flushed. “And I promise I’ll get better at this.”
You giggle at that, sliding an arm over his waist and leaning over to kiss him. “Well, I suspect we have another half-hour before my mum figures out that we’re both gone, and storms up to find us. We could get in another three times just in that alone,” you tease between kisses.
He snorts, wrapping his arms around you and breathing deeply; you feel his chest rise and fall underneath you. “Those three times will be it for us, because then we’ll be dead,” he says seriously, still with a smile on his face.
Laughing, you kiss him again and roll onto your back, bringing him with you. “Then we may as well die happy,” you whisper, the joy of having him like this filling your chest. You feel like the smile will never leave your face (though it is Harry, so you know it will), and as his lips trail across your stomach and lower, you don’t know if summer could have been any better.
*
On September 1st, Platform 9 ¾ is packed to the brim with giggling teens, nervous first-years, and families of all shapes and sizes, all ready to begin a new year in a new world. You have already said goodbye to your mum and dad, who are off to the side, waiting to see you board the train safely. You know your mum is terrified you’ll skip seventh year all together and just go live with Harry in his new tiny flat in London, and you can’t deny that the thought occurred to you, but you know that neither of you is ready for something like that quite yet. Besides, you know you need to finish school, as unnecessary as it seems after everything you’ve been through in your life.
So you stand with Harry, your trunk at your side, looking at the Hogwarts Express in all its scarlet, steaming glory. His hand is securely latched into yours, fingers interlaced, and you find you really don’t know how to say goodbye. Inside, you’re terrified that the joy of discovering each other this past summer will disappear as the steam from the train as you pull away. You know you love him, though you know it’s too soon to say anything quite like that, and you think he loves you, though you’re not sure when he’ll ever be ready to say it.
“I should get on,” you say finally, reluctantly, turning to face him.
He sighs, and the sound ripples through you. “I know. Is it pathetic that I don’t want you to?” he asks with a small smile, holding both your hands in his.
You can feel eyes on you both, watching you curiously, but damn it all if you care. “No,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him gently.
He kisses you softly, so softly that you almost feel like crying it feels so good; it isn’t any different than yesterday, but now it’s completely different, because you’re leaving and what if he meets some amazing woman who’s tall and lean and blonde and amazing at Charms?
“I’ll write every week,” he says once your lips part. “Maybe even more. I’ll write everything I wanted to say last year but couldn’t.”
Unable to keep from smiling, you hug him tightly, burying your face in his shoulder. The thought of Harry pouring his heart onto parchment just for you grips your heart; it’s everything you wanted over the past year, and could never have. You’ll never understand how he knows just what you need.
“You’re not that great with words,” you tease, breathing in his scent.
“I’ll buy a dictionary,” he retorts, squeezing you once before pulling away. “Let me know about Quidditch, and Captain.”
His eyes are bright behind his glasses, his hands are strong in yours, and you suddenly think you will be fine; after all, he’s not dead, like he could have been. And he said he would visit...
“I will,” you reply finally, squeezing his hands. “And you should visit sometime. I hear Scotland is lovely in the autumn,” you add with a grin.
He smirks, kissing you once more. “I’ll be visiting, don’t worry.”
You kiss him, squeeze his hands, and then turn away, grabbing your trunk and heading for the train without looking back. Settling yourself and finding Luna in your usual compartment (she is decidedly not weepy from saying goodbye to Dean, though when you glance out the window, he looks rather torn up about it, but that’s the Luna you adore), you sit by the window and look out, seeing Harry there, watching you with bedroom eyes, green and heavy even at a distance.
Shivering slightly, you wave; he waves and then he’s gone, Apparating away, disappearing, but not for good.
He’s probably late for training. You smirk, settling back and half-listening to Luna, your heart somewhere else completely.
*
Author: Tosca
Rating: Adult
Summary: A summer through the eyes of one Ginny Weasley.
Warnings: Sexual situations between teens (like, 18 and 17, people). Sceond person (EEEEEP.)
Word Count: 7,375
Notes: Okay. This was supposed to be a drabble. A drabble. Now, it's a 7,375-word monster of a fic. Post-DH, a really ramdom, steamy take on the summer after the war ends. I haven't written anything like this... um, ever. So I'm kind of just looking for some helpful feedback, whether it's good, whether it sucks, whether I should just stick to third-person, whether I should take up guitar... Kind of inspired by Dar Williams, if anyone knows her songs. She's amaaaaaazing.
Anyway. On with the monster.
When it’s all over and done, and the bodies are buried, and you feel like you’ve finally recovered your strength emotionally, you search Harry out, in the darkness of the Burrow on a hot night in late June
He’s kept his distance, in a rare moment of brilliance. The both of you had a spectacular row a week after the Battle of Hogwarts, right in the kitchen, with your mum two rooms away. He expected you to leap at him in relief, embrace him and tell him you didn’t mind that he had abandoned you for a year, didn’t even attempt to write, tried to lock you back up in that bloody ivory tower, and played dead right in front of you. Of course, you set him straight and proceeded to rail at him for a good twenty minutes about how bloody wrong he was.
You could have gone on for twenty hours, you think, but then he just grabbed you and kissed you harder than you had ever been kissed before. His hands were dangerously low on your back, searing your skin through your thin shirt, and his lips were strong and smooth against yours, intoxicating and lovely and warm.
Somehow, you found the willpower to shove him away. You can’t just snog me, you said angrily, hitting his arm, madder at yourself for liking it so bloody much.
He merely smiled, shrugging. You wanted to throttle him, but settled for turning on your heel and walking away.
So, here you are, three weeks later, tiptoeing through the creaky halls towards Harry’s room (Percy’s old room: you know the tricks of the floorboards from all those pranks you helped Fred and George pull on him), clad only in a thin, sleeveless cotton nightdress, and though it is incredibly warm and you can feel the sweat rolling down the nape of your neck to the base of your spine, you still shiver. You’ve ached for him for nights and nights now, and it has almost become unbearable to be in the same room with him, seeing him smile at you and wanting to snog him senseless, even with your father eating his breakfast right next to your chair.
Breathing deeply, you stop at his door, bare toes curling against the cool wood floor. You put your hand to the doorknob, stomach jumping with nerves. Suddenly there’s a draft between your thighs and the door is open; he’s standing there, watching you, catching your floating hand in his and pulling you inside before you can even speak. He shuts the door behind you and you see the rumpled bed out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you want very much to be in that bed with him.
Especially if he’s shirtless. Like he is now.
“Hi,” he says finally; his face looks odd without his glasses, but you could get used to it.
Your heart is jumping, and you’re afraid he’ll hear it in the silence of the room and laugh. Licking your lips, you manage a smile, fingertips rubbing against the cotton of your nightdress in an effort to stop yourself from leaping at him and touching him.
“Hey,” you reply after a very long moment. The back of your neck and the curve of your knees are slick with sweat.
There is a moment, as you gaze at him and he gazes at you, that you think that yes, you almost love him, and could possibly love him forever, as long as he always looked at you quite like that, like you were the only thing he ever needed.
Finally you take those few steps, which seem so giant to you at the moment, and kiss him, licking his bottom lip, twining your hand in his hair, telling him yes in every sense of the word.
His tongue is curling against your own, and your knees are pressed against his bed; as his hand clumsily covers your breast, you have soft sheets behind you, and a bright-eyed, lip-swollen Harry pressing his heady weight into your body. His lips trail over your neck; you gasp achingly at the feel of teeth grazing your collarbone. Sliding your fingers over his sweaty skin, you press your fingertips into his hips, rubbing teasingly as his fingers stroke your breast, cupping and kneading and generally driving you to distraction.
You think in that moment that you could go all the way (the thought echoes inside your ribcage and scares you as much as it exhilarates you). Your fingers trace the bulge in his boxers, and the hands on your body shake against your skin, which delights you. His breath is fast and hot against your breasts, even through the fabric of your nightdress, and god you never ever want him to stop until-
“Harry? You awake, mate?”
Ron's voice floats through the door, breaking the humid spell surrounding you and Harry; hands freeze, and you stop breathing, for fear your brother will just know.
“Can you Apparate?” Harry whispers, the tip of his tongue flickering out against the sensitive spot below your ear; you shudder as you nod, extricating yourself from underneath him, dizzy with the flesh memory of his hands on you.
There is still a bulge as he stands, calling softly to Ron to wait just a minute. You can’t help but smile, face growing hot. He smiles back and leans down to kiss you, a brief but hot press of lips, before you know you need to leave. The promise of more is still tingling on your mouth as you flee back to the safety of your own room, knickers damp and throat marked.
*
The next time Harry has his hands on you, the house is blissfully empty and you are pressed against your bedroom door, shirt already half off. It is mid July, and you have been sneaking around behind your parents’ backs, hiding in cupboards and snogging Harry until you’re sure you don’t even have lungs anymore. Now after weeks of all that, you are alone with him and it’s absolute heaven.
“Missed this,” he murmurs against your mouth as his hands knead your breasts, his dick hard against your hip.
You gasp softly, struggling not to just lose yourself completely in the heady daze his body is forming around you, fingers digging into the toned muscles of his shoulders. “We never did this,” you whisper with a laugh, voice husky like you’ve never heard before, and at the sound his skin breaks out into goosebumps, which you love.
He chuckles against your collarbone, a hand sliding lower to the waist of your jeans. “I know. I thought about it all the bloody time though,” he said. “I meant I missed you.”
Sighing deeply as your hips arch towards his fingers, you think you’ll never want to stop hearing him say anything like that. Your breath hitches as he tugs down your jeans to your knees, and you squirm a bit, hot summer air hitting your thighs; you’re thrilled you had the foresight to wear the cute black knickers today.
“I missed you too,” you reply breathlessly, hair falling into your face as his fingers trace the hem of your knickers teasingly.
He looks up, smiling sheepishly as his eyes sparkle at you through those thick lenses you’ve loved since you were ten years old. “Good,” he said quietly, slipping his hands along the sides of your knickers, inching them down with an aching slowness, and you’re not sure you’ve ever been so turned on in your entire life, as short as it’s been.
“You’ve got to let me know if I’m doing this wrong,” he tells you with a grin, kissing you quickly as his fingertips slip tentatively between your wet folds, and you inhale, moaning quietly. His callused touch makes you shiver uncontrollably, and the double stimulation of his teeth on your neck and his fingers on your clit drives you to distraction. Your hips arch unevenly with his strokes; the pure white heat from his body against yours curls your toes.
Tipping your head back, you moan his name breathily, sliding a hand around his wrist to keep his touch at your clit. His breath is a slow whisper against your skin, and if even if your mum stormed in right now, you feel as if you would pin Harry down and shag him anyway, as long as his fingers kept rubbing right there.
The air is thick with your mingling breaths, and you cry out softly as his teeth suck hard at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Your muscles shudder with pleasure, spine tingling in anticipation of what you’ve longed for from him for nearly a year now; again, you curse Ron for bursting in last year, because then having the memory of this would have been more than enough to get you through the agony of Hogwarts without Harry.
Shutting your eyes, you moan and shudder and press against his touch just so, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You clutch at him, shaking with a high you’re not sure could ever be equaled, and he’s murmuring in your ear, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, and you have to wonder what exactly he had imagined all those times, because this was so much better than anything she could think up during the dark lonely nights.
When you come back to yourself, you’re limp against the door and he’s pulling your jeans back up, kissing you gently, and you think you’ve fallen in love all over again.
“Your family will probably be home soon,” he says, regret lacing his tone. “After all, how long can it take to meet Hermione’s parents?”
You giggle, finding it hard to take your eyes away from him. He’s right, of course; her parents’ luncheon with Ron, Hermione, and Hermione’s newly-recovered parents would soon be over, spoiling the beauty of the afternoon.
Still… you can feel the hardness against your lower stomach, and he’s just so flushed and handsome…
“I doubt you’ll take long, right?” you tease wickedly, hands diving for his jeans, and before he can protest (like he’d really want to), your hands are stroking his dick firmly, your lips are on his throat, and he’s groaning hoarsely into your hair.
He whispers your name; you love the sound, wanting to draw it from him every single day, and you continue on. Your knees are still wobbly from his ministrations, but you are determined, and when Ginny Weasley is determined, nothing stops her.
As usual, you’re right; he doesn’t take long. Soon, with a moan and a shudder, he’s spent, and you smile, a little taken aback by the swiftness and stickiness of it all, but his face is pure joy and you wouldn’t trade that for anything.
You murmur a soft Cleaning Charm, pull up his jeans, and just as you’re about to tease him, he pulls you into his arms and kisses you until you can’t think, his tongue hot and insistent against yours. His body envelopes you; your skins stick together in the sweat and heat of the late July afternoon.
“You’re brilliant,” he whispers against your lips as he finally releases you. You’re dazed with pleasure and a lack of air, but you smile nonetheless, sliding your fingers through his hair and kissing him again, knowing you’ll never get enough.
By the time your parents and Ron arrive back home, you and Harry are in your separate rooms, but the smile still hasn’t left your face.
*
On Harry’s 18th birthday, after the cake and candles have been had, and after he’s opened his presents, and after everyone has gone to their separate rooms, you sneak back out into the corridor and slip into his room silently, aware that your mum might be able to sense lust even through two floors. Harry is waiting for you, sitting by his window overlooking the woods by the Burrow; when you shut the door behind you, he looks at you with a smile and beckons you with his outstretched hand.
“I didn’t get a present from you,” he teases as you sit on the window seat with him, fitting neatly against his shoulder. His arm rests heavily around your shoulders, comforting in its weight.
“My continuing affection is my gift,” you tease right back, sighing silently as he kisses your hair.
He laughs, and the air around you falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hooting of owls and the summer insects invading the lawn. You want to ask so many things, but nothing feels right; Harry has never reacted well to pressure, and (though you won’t admit it) you’re scared of losing him again. The fear haunts your dreams sometimes; gone are the days of dreaming of Tom Riddle; now all you fear is that life isn’t reality, and you’ll wake up one day, come downstairs, and Harry will still be gone.
His fingers span out and slide up your arm to your upswept hair, pulling the ribbon out and immediately tangling within the thick strands. The sensation sweeps down your spine and you immediately relax against him, murmuring softly as he runs his fingers in and out of your hair. You’re startled by the intimacy of the gesture, but it feels wonderfull, and you can’t help but feel like this is completely normal.
“If I want to be an Auror, will you support me?”
His question is totally out of the blue, and you sit up slightly, craning your neck to look at him. He is staring off into space, eyes distant; his face is lines with creases you haven’t seen in months now. You can almost feel the tension radiating off of him, and you sit up to face him. While serious conversation is not foreign to either of you, you hadn’t thought that he would choose his birthday of all nights for a chat.
“If that’s what you want to do, yes,” you say finally, pursing your lips. In a flash, you see a future of worry and concern, of long nights and arguments; but you also see Harry happy with his life, and you know you want to be a part of that.
“I’ve been getting offers from Quidditch teams, you know,” he said after a moment, staring out onto the lawn. You didn’t know, and you’re a little hurt he didn’t tell you, but you say nothing, just waiting for him to finish. “And I think I’d have fun with Quidditch. But I just have this sense of needing to do something with my life. I need to make sure nothing like Voldemort can happen again.”
Taking his hand, you push your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “I don’t think that’s ever certain,” you say softly, heart aching for him.
He looks at you finally, with eyes that sear you deeply. “I’ve got to try,” he says finally, voice hoarse.
Speechless, you shake your head and crawl over to him, settling yourself in his lap and kissing him gently. “Then do it,” you whisper, sliding your fingers over his temples into his hair.
He kisses you back, and you can feel the smile on his lips. “Maybe you can play Quidditch, and I’ll come watch you, finally,” he murmured, hands sliding over your back.
Laughing softly, you kiss him again, the cool evening breeze a relief on your hot skin. Later, he takes you to his bed and you show him just exactly what you would have done on his birthday last year. Your mouth covers his skin all over, leaving him a shuddering mess, and though it’s clumsy, and a little awkward at times, when you look up at him, wiping your mouth daintily with your hand, the bliss in his eyes is more than reward enough.
“Best birthday ever,” he murmurs finally, voice husky.
You grin. “Just think how last year could have been,” you tease, and he chuckles before pulling you down for a long kiss.
*
When August rolls around, it’s nearly too hot to move. Ron and Hermione are sneaking around and acting incredibly suspicious, but when you ask Harry about it, he merely changes the subject, though he does smile, which adds even more mystery to it all.
“You’ll find out,” he only says before kissing you and shutting you up quite well.
Your mother, sly one that she is, has begun to figure out that you and Harry are at least on the path towards reconciliation, and so she has taken to keeping you busy at all hours during the day, usually at her side. One day, while you’re shopping in Diagon Alley for new school supplies, she reminds you that she will not have fornication under her roof, and that you are just too young for all that anyway.
Tactfully, you don’t remind her that you can count, and Bill was born just shy of a year after she left Hogwarts, so there must have been something going on throughout your mother’s seventh year, though you don’t actually like to think about it.
Your 17th birthday is quiet; your brothers come home for a pleasant dinner, and though you note Fred’s absence, it isn’t a sad day. At least you don’t have to deal with any exploding presents this year; last year, you were almost glad Harry wasn’t there, because Fred’s gift singed your eyebrows off. Though, right now, you’re sure you’d give up your eyebrows altogether just to have Fred back.
Harry, who has been a little absent from your life lately, what with being busy packing his things to get ready to move to his new flat and having interviews at the Ministry, grabs you as you’re heading up the stairs for bed; there was a notable lack of a present from him at the table, and you don’t really mind, though you thought Ron was going to break his nose.
“Come outside with me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing teasingly along the top of your hand.
A delightful shiver runs through you, and you nod, following him out past the hawk-eyes of your mother. You think you hear your dad telling her to leave you be as you walk away, and you make a note to buy your dad an amazing Christmas gift.
The night, while unbearably warm, is clear and breezy. Thankfully it isn’t humid, so you’re not worried about how your hair might look as Harry tugs you along through the tall grasses to where you all play pick-up games of Quidditch. Against a tree, you see Harry’s Firebolt, and immediately anticipation fills you; your toes dance inside your shoes at the thought of really riding a Firebolt.
“So, I missed your birthday last year, too,” Harry says as you both stop in front of the tree.
Trying very hard not to look at the broom, you nod. “You don’t have to-“
He cuts you off with a quick kiss, and then pulls out a small box. “Broom ride is last, and that’s for last year,” he says with a smirk. “But this is your present for this year.”
You feel a little light-headed as you take the box (which could hold a ring, ohgod) and hold it in your palm, throat constricting on any words you might have tried to say (though none come to mind).
“I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone else,” he says after a moment. “It’s kind of personal, you know?”
You look up at him finally; he is red in the faint moonlight, and you can’t help but smile, still nearly unable to breathe.
“Open it, will you?” he says finally, looking down at his feet.
Biting your lip on a laugh, you look down and slowly open the box. A faint rush of relief runs through you as you pull out a coiled necklace of gold, with a small oval diamond pendant (because a ring would just be too much, too soon), but you’re still shocked. The diamond catches light beautifully, and you’re too full to say anything, merely holding it in your hand gently. You’ve never received anything like this before in your life.
Harry coughs, and you look up at him finally; he’s now very red, even in the dark. “Do you like it? Because I can take it back, or get you something else. I went by myself, which could have been pretty stupid, but I just really wanted to get you something special, and-“
You cut him off finally (though he’s cute when he nervously rambles) by throwing your arms around him and kissing him, the necklace clutched in your hand. He holds you tightly, kissing you firmly, and you already feel like you’re flying, because how could you deserve someone quite so abnormally wonderful, and yet still so normally awkward?
“Put it on me?” you whisper as your lips part, handing him the necklace and turning around. His breath is warm against your skin as the metal is cool, sliding over your collarbones and settling around your neck. The pendant is a gentle weight in the hollow of your throat, and it feels right. It’s so small, yet very appropriate; somehow, you don’t think even your mum could protest.
He kisses the nape of your neck, pushing your hair to one shoulder, and wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “Happy Birthday,” he whispers softly in your ear.
Shivering, you grin and turn in his arms. “How about that broom ride, and then we’ll say it’s happy?” you tease, laughing as he rolls his eyes and pulls you towards the broom.
Later, after the wind has rushed all around you, and you didn’t think there could be anything better than a ride on a Firebolt with Harry, he proves you wrong. His mouth, which has grown exceptionally talented in leaps and bounds over the summer, makes you shiver and moan and buck with pleasure, his body a perfect weight over yours. The air still burns with summer heat, but you’re enveloped in Harry, fingers digging into his muscles. You’re not sure how you’ll ever let go, but when morning nears, you have to.
As he Apparates back to his own room, the sun just beginning to color the horizon, you curl up in your bed and know that the birthdays can only get better after this.
*
He’s dancing too close, too close by far, and it kills you.
You bite your lip, blushing hot against Harry’s cheek as he holds you incredibly near, hips grazing yours. Your breasts push gently against his chest; his free hand cups your hip in an incredibly intimate gesture, thumb rubbing gently, and you can feel that one finger like a brand. A hard warm shiver makes its way through your muscles to your heart every time you feel his breath against you earlobe, and you grip his hand even tighter, fingers intertwined in his.
Other couples circle around you, but you only feel the change in the drafts as they pass, focusing only on Harry. He dances better than you thought he would; Merlin knows you imagined him sweeping you off your feet last year at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but you assumed he’d be a little clumsy and step on your toes a lot, because all the other boys you’ve danced with did. Not Harry; he seems keenly aware of your body, and though you catch him looking down every once in a while, you think it’s cute, and your feet are certainly thanking him.
“Can’t believe they’re engaged,” Harry says softly after a while, his breath warm against your ear.
Smiling, you glance over at Ron and Hermione, who are completely wrapped inside each other. This party is all for them, and for the end of one of the oddest summers you’ve ever known. Everyone they know and love are here at the Burrow, celebrating love and a new beginning, and it’s a relief; despite the joy of Voldemort’s death, the Wizarding World has spent the summer mourning those they’ve lost for good. Now, with Ron and Hermione’s amazing news, it feels as if everyone can take those giant steps forward into the new world.
You look back at Harry, licking your dry lips. “It’s good, isn’t it?” you ask softly, watching his face as he looks on at his best friends.
He nods, wistfulness lining his face. “Yeah. I just feel like it’s the end of something, you know?” he says, looking back down at you.
Your heart gives a sad little thump, thinking of a week from now, when you’ll be on the train to Hogwarts and he’ll be beginning Auror training, and the two of you will be apart again. It won’t be quite as sad, but after the summer you’ve had, you’re not sure how you’ll like not seeing him every day, or not being able to talk to him whenever you want.
Abruptly, he leans down and kisses you softly, and you jump a bit, hoping your mum doesn’t see. Your mum, while suspicious, hasn’t found out that you and Harry are completely back together yet (though her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair for good after she saw the necklace around your neck). Now, you’re not sure what she’ll ask about, and whether you’ll be able to fib truthfully enough if she asks that always dreaded question: What have you done in my house?
Blushing, you shut your eyes and kiss him back lightly, fingers tightly interlacing. He breathes your name softly, and a cool shiver floods your body.
“It’s not the end,” you say finally as he leans away, conscious of your mother’s eyes driving into your back. “It’s just a new chapter.”
He smiles widely, holding you closer, which you didn’t think was possible. “It’s definitely not the end of this,” he says seriously, keeping your gaze. “You better let me know when your Quidditch matches are, because I’ll be there.”
Stomach fluttering, you can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. “You’ll be busy in training, I don’t need you to be there every time,” you protest, but he cuts you off with another kiss, and your knees wobble.
“I’ll be there,” he promises huskily, and you suddenly wish no one else was there, because you desperately want to push him to the ground and show him how much you love him just for saying that, for knowing how much you’ll miss him.
You say his name softly; he meets your eyes and you know you are both thinking the exact same thing. The heat in his gaze would stop you dead in your tracks if he wasn’t guiding your way around the dance floor through the thick August air. Murmurs from others around you drift in and out of your ears; you think you hear your’s and Harry’s names more than once, but with the way he’s looking at you now, you just don’t give a damn.
His hand slides from your hip to your back, resting heavy on the lowest part. Toes curling inside your shoes, you sigh and rest your forehead against his throat, breathing in the sweat and cotton-leather meld rising from his skin. All you want to go is pull him inside and crawl inside of him, spending the whole night in his arms; Merlin knows you’ve wasted enough time this summer dreaming about it, and if this past year had taught you anything, life’s too short to waste time.
“You think people would miss us?” you ask him quietly, not moving your head.
He chuckles, and his chest moves under you. “If we’re sneaky, no,” he says, taking a step back.
Smiling as you look up at him, you watch as he nods his head at you and then turns to leave. You stand on the dance floor, watching him weave in and out of people, stopping only to say quick hellos. He is heading for the house; you have to control the urge to just race after him like a madwoman. Your fingers itch with the need to touch him again, feel his skin hot and taut underneath your own; your breath catches just thinking about it.
Finally, finally, after an age of wandering around the lawn, looking up at stars and taking in the breeze, you decide it’s safe. You Apparate right into the kitchen and immediately turn to head upstairs, limbs heavy with anticipation. The stairs creak under your heels, and you take your time, looking around anxiously, just waiting for your mother to pop out and start screaming about teenage pregnancy and safe shagging, which would just be bad.
Harry is waiting by the doorway to your room, which is appropriate; after all, your room had seen the last interaction between the two of you last summer, too. This time though, he is beckoning you instead of the other way around; his hand reaches out towards you, and slowly, though your hand is shaking slightly, you take it. He pulls you in, his dress shirt already half undone, and the glimpse of his chest is nearly too much to bear. You shut the door behind you, lock it securely, and just lean back, watching him stand there in the middle of your girlhood room.
You think nothing could be quite so wonderful to see Harry there, alive and well, looking at you like you’re the only person left on Earth; you wonder if he’s always looked at you like that, and you were just so blind that you didn’t notice. The power and presence in gaze makes you weak in the knees, and you lick your lips lightly, fingertips rubbing together lightly in anticipation of touching him again.
“You look wonderful,” he says quietly after a moment, walking over to you and sliding his hands over your bare arms and shoulders, fingers finally resting on the damp nape of your neck. His thumbs circle right underneath your jaw and you sink into the coming kiss on instinct, sliding your hands up his chest as his lips part yours, soft and sweet and achingly slow. He tastes of the treacle tart your mum made and the champagne you both had to toast Ron and Hermione. Heart beating fast, you press your chest against his, uncaring of the sticky heat and how your dress might wrinkle. All you want is to be as close as possible to him, for as long as possible.
All year, you’ve imagined life without him, because in the face was what was coming, that was all you could do. Even though you had hope he would come back, it was buried deep inside you under the pain of being left behind, the anger at being shuttled back to a Hogwarts you didn’t recognize, the feeling of being completely useless to the people you loved.
You thought about never hearing him whisper your name (like he is now, hoarse and gentle against the delicate skin of your throat). You forced yourself to forget how his hands felt against you (callused and insistent on your breasts and hips). You refused to imagine how taking off his shirt would work (not very well, but as you finally tug it past his arms, he laughs, and there is such joy inside the sound that you don’t care if you feel a little embarrassed). You tried so hard to not think about him that it actually worked.
Now, you have all of it in front of you, and somehow, you’re glad you didn’t think about it all those months ago. It’s such a wonderful experience to feel the slide of your dress over your skin as he lifts it from your body, to hear his trousers drop to your bedroom floor with a soft thump, to watch his eyes rake over you as if you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. All those months ago, you wouldn’t have imagined it well enough to what it is now, the pure beauty of it all.
He stands in front of you now, clad only in socks and boxers (which somehow works for him, though you’re not sure why). He is still thin, but the thinness doesn’t worry you like it used to. Now he’s filled out, and there’s a strength inside his slender limbs that echoes the strength in his eyes. Those eyes are fixed on you, and if you weren’t so bloody stubborn and proud, you’d grab a blanket from your bed and wrap it around yourself, because what if you’re not beautiful? You’re freckled, skinny in some places, curved in others, and scarred from Dark Magic. What if all that together turns him off?
“Quit staring,” you say finally, forcing yourself to tease, to make light, when all you really want to do is toss on your dress again and pretend this didn’t happen.
He lifts his gaze to yours, finally, and the total awe inside the intensely green eyes nearly knocks you to the floor. “I want to stare,” he replies finally, voice reverent (a tone you have never heard before). “You’re better than I ever imagined.”
You think you may faint; all the blood has rushed from your head and you think it all went to your face. “Don’t joke,” you say softly; you’re on unfamiliar, unsteady ground, and it scares you.
“I’m not joking,” he says firmly, grasping your upper arms and pulling you flush to him. “Does it feel like I’m joking?”
From the hardness against your hip and the fierceness in his voice, you think maybe it’s time to take him seriously.
Shutting your eyes, you lean up just the slightest to kiss him, the strains of the music from the lawn floating into the room from the open window. His skin is hot and damp to the touch; you slide your fingertips over his shoulders and down his spine, eliciting goosebumps as your lips move against his in a familiar dance. His hands hold your arms still, as if he’s afraid you’ll bolt, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving now.
Smiling against his lips, you slip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and tug gently, sliding them down to his knees before he takes over, kicking them off hurriedly. You pull away from his chasing mouth and look down, biting the inside of your lip as you wrap your fingers around his cock. He groans, releasing your arms and bracing himself on the door behind you; the muscles in his throat are taut under your lips and tongue as you stroke him unhurriedly. Right now, you have all the time in the world.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters after a few moments, sweat beading around his hairline. His voice is husky, nearly a growl.
“I’ve got a whole year to make up for, don’t I?” you tease cheekily, arching your back and pressing your breasts to his chest as one of your hands cups his balls. You’ve only ever done this to him, and only a few times, but he likes it, and that makes you nearly giddy.
He groans again, shaking his head and reaching down to grab your hands. “You were going to do this to me all year?” he asks with a smile, eyes dark with want as he presses you against the door.
Yelping softly at the sudden turn of control, you smile back slowly, enjoying the almost feral look to his gaze. So this is what Harry the “normal” teenager looks like. “Yes, if you hadn’t gone away,” you reply, voice low in your throat.
“Almost makes me wish I was going back this year,” he murmurs before sliding his hands over your breasts and down to your hips, sliding your knickers off. His mouth leaves a wet trail down the line of your throat, seeking the curves of your breasts hidden beneath the lace of your bra.
Gasping, you kick off your knickers and moan as his hand cups between your thighs. “Bloody hell, I wish you were coming back too,” you moan, unable to control the shivers streaking up and down your body.
He laughs at that, lifting his face to yours. “I’m visiting, you know,” he says; you can see anxiety lining the corners of his eyes, and you realize he’s as worried about being separated as you are.
“I know,” you reply softly, leaning into kiss him briefly. “Now, maybe we should use the bed now? I doubt this will feel better for me if I’m up against the door,” you add teasingly, grinning as he flushes.
He takes your hands and pulls you to your bed. While you’re not totally sure where to start, you lick your lips and set yourself to it, gently pushing him down onto his back. He says your name achingly soft, and you can’t help but smile as you straddle him, the press of his erection against your thigh a warm, welcome pressure. You reach back and unhook your bra, saving him the trouble (because Merlin knows you have trouble enough with the bloody thing sometimes), and as you’re finally completely naked before him, you think he’s going to pass out. His face is very red, he’s breathing heavily, and his hands on your hips are very tight.
“You’re all right?” you ask, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to cover your breasts with your hands.
Merely nodding, he slides his hands up over your stomach to cup your breasts; you moan softly, finding hard to breathe when he touches you like that. You’re ready and wet, and sliding your hand down, you cup him gently and shift your hips, ready to guide him inside. Your heart is beating incredibly fast, your skin is very hot, and you feel wonderful.
He seems average (not that you’ve seen a lot of these things, but you do have brothers), and it hurts some, but not in a terrible way. You look down at him, and his eyes are shut, his mouth open with a groan. He is beautiful and vulnerable, and you love the way he’s holding onto your waist like his life depended on it. He moans your name huskily and arches his hips into yours, pressing himself further inside you.
As you imagine, he doesn’t take long. After all, it is the first time. And you don’t come, but the pleasure on his face when he does satisfies you for now. After he finishes, breathing harshly and covered in sweat, you carefully slide off of him and stretch out beside him, supremely pleased with yourself. You ache, not unpleasantly, and you lie there waiting for him to breathe again, replaying the way your name left his lips over and over; you feel warm all over, filled with something like love. The breeze from the window catches your skin, and your toes curl against the sheets of your bed.
Finally, he turns his head and opens his eyes; you’ve never seen a wider smile on his face. “You are amazing,” he says after a moment of just looking at you, still flushed. “And I promise I’ll get better at this.”
You giggle at that, sliding an arm over his waist and leaning over to kiss him. “Well, I suspect we have another half-hour before my mum figures out that we’re both gone, and storms up to find us. We could get in another three times just in that alone,” you tease between kisses.
He snorts, wrapping his arms around you and breathing deeply; you feel his chest rise and fall underneath you. “Those three times will be it for us, because then we’ll be dead,” he says seriously, still with a smile on his face.
Laughing, you kiss him again and roll onto your back, bringing him with you. “Then we may as well die happy,” you whisper, the joy of having him like this filling your chest. You feel like the smile will never leave your face (though it is Harry, so you know it will), and as his lips trail across your stomach and lower, you don’t know if summer could have been any better.
*
On September 1st, Platform 9 ¾ is packed to the brim with giggling teens, nervous first-years, and families of all shapes and sizes, all ready to begin a new year in a new world. You have already said goodbye to your mum and dad, who are off to the side, waiting to see you board the train safely. You know your mum is terrified you’ll skip seventh year all together and just go live with Harry in his new tiny flat in London, and you can’t deny that the thought occurred to you, but you know that neither of you is ready for something like that quite yet. Besides, you know you need to finish school, as unnecessary as it seems after everything you’ve been through in your life.
So you stand with Harry, your trunk at your side, looking at the Hogwarts Express in all its scarlet, steaming glory. His hand is securely latched into yours, fingers interlaced, and you find you really don’t know how to say goodbye. Inside, you’re terrified that the joy of discovering each other this past summer will disappear as the steam from the train as you pull away. You know you love him, though you know it’s too soon to say anything quite like that, and you think he loves you, though you’re not sure when he’ll ever be ready to say it.
“I should get on,” you say finally, reluctantly, turning to face him.
He sighs, and the sound ripples through you. “I know. Is it pathetic that I don’t want you to?” he asks with a small smile, holding both your hands in his.
You can feel eyes on you both, watching you curiously, but damn it all if you care. “No,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him gently.
He kisses you softly, so softly that you almost feel like crying it feels so good; it isn’t any different than yesterday, but now it’s completely different, because you’re leaving and what if he meets some amazing woman who’s tall and lean and blonde and amazing at Charms?
“I’ll write every week,” he says once your lips part. “Maybe even more. I’ll write everything I wanted to say last year but couldn’t.”
Unable to keep from smiling, you hug him tightly, burying your face in his shoulder. The thought of Harry pouring his heart onto parchment just for you grips your heart; it’s everything you wanted over the past year, and could never have. You’ll never understand how he knows just what you need.
“You’re not that great with words,” you tease, breathing in his scent.
“I’ll buy a dictionary,” he retorts, squeezing you once before pulling away. “Let me know about Quidditch, and Captain.”
His eyes are bright behind his glasses, his hands are strong in yours, and you suddenly think you will be fine; after all, he’s not dead, like he could have been. And he said he would visit...
“I will,” you reply finally, squeezing his hands. “And you should visit sometime. I hear Scotland is lovely in the autumn,” you add with a grin.
He smirks, kissing you once more. “I’ll be visiting, don’t worry.”
You kiss him, squeeze his hands, and then turn away, grabbing your trunk and heading for the train without looking back. Settling yourself and finding Luna in your usual compartment (she is decidedly not weepy from saying goodbye to Dean, though when you glance out the window, he looks rather torn up about it, but that’s the Luna you adore), you sit by the window and look out, seeing Harry there, watching you with bedroom eyes, green and heavy even at a distance.
Shivering slightly, you wave; he waves and then he’s gone, Apparating away, disappearing, but not for good.
He’s probably late for training. You smirk, settling back and half-listening to Luna, your heart somewhere else completely.
*