A/N: Please take a few moments to read Blacktag189's story "Forbidden Fruit"; these two stories were written together and can be read in any order, but I believe that it's better to read her half first. This one kind of spiralled into an out-take from a larger story that's still in outline form, but I hope you still enjoy my first story ever, the result of a rather drunken dare.
Forbidden Fruit
But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shall not eat of it; For in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die. -Genesis, 2:17
It had been a strange and subdued summer for Harry Potter; filled with paranoia, nightmares, and phantom pains in his scar.
He had received one letter from Sirius since helping him escape the previous month, delivered by an exhausted-looking bird with rainbow plumage. Hedwig reluctantly shared her perch while it recovered from its long journey, giving a reproachful look at the tropical bird. For just a moment, Harry was convinced that Hedwig was jealous of the strange thing with its flamboyant colours, strange frills, and iridescent spots, but became too caught up in Sirius' letter to care. In it, he described white-sand beaches, little drinks served in coconut husks, and not-so-vague hints of the sorts of things the native girls were willing to do if you were handsome enough and had the nerve to flirt.
Harry couldn't help the blush that rose up his cheeks as Sirius delved very deeply into the details of his encounters; it was the closest thing Harry had ever received to a sex-talk, and Sirius' idea of a sex-talk seemed to be providing as much advice on technique as possible. Halfway through, Harry had to shift in his seat; his pyjama bottoms becoming uncomfortably constricting.
Harry was chilled by a sudden vision of his Aunt Petunia sneaking into his room and reading over his shoulder, and shrieking at the tenting in his pyjamas. Or even worse - not shrieking, but closing and locking the door with an expectant smile. He couldn't stop his shudder, preferring facing a basilisk again to either option.
After a panicked look behind him, Harry crawled under his bed and pried up the loose floorboard that had served him so well over the years. He folded the letter, and tucked it carefully between the pages of a magazine that Fred and George had slipped him last year. Both merited further study, and this was the type of summer memorisation that Harry was more than willing to work on.
After the Dursleys were asleep, of course.
Later that night, Harry tossed and turned, tangling himself in his threadbare, too-small bed sheets. Hedwig was out hunting, and the pale moonlight cast a silver glow throughout his diminutive room.
The confinement was too much; Harry kicked off the offending sheets and pulled his pyjamas and pants clean off. Uncle Vernon was snoring to wake the dead, and it sounded as if Dudley was snoring to wake the comatose, neither of which was helping his current predicament.
He was randy, and over stimulated, and frustratingly blocked. He had to be cursed; he'd never had this kind of trouble before this summer, and thought back to every time he'd been outside, trying to recall being near any magical folk who could have hexed him, but couldn't think of any. He tried, and tried, wanking himself raw, but never achieving relief.
He didn't know whether to scream or sob; both felt appropriate, and he was considering sending a message to Sirius for advice, but he was worried that Hedwig would be followed. There was always Ron and Hermione; but he could picture Hermione's appalled look while researching a cure, and Ron would just laugh, daring him to go to Dumbledore for help. Merlin help him if the twins found out, and the thought of sending that kind of letter to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley made his blood run cold.
For a moment, he thought of sending a letter to Madame Pomfrey, but he had no idea where she went during the summer holidays. He had an image of her in full Mediwitch regalia, relaxing on a beach chair next to Sirius, getting rousingly drunk and propositioning the native boys. Shaking his head, he wished he could use some Mrs. Skower's to scrub out his mind; there was something very wrong with him lately.
A tapping on the window interrupted his misery, and heedless of his nudity, Harry stepped over to let the small, fluttering form of Pigwidgeon race inside and fly circles around his head, hooting in paroxysms of joy.
He quickly reached up and grabbed the tiny bird in one hand, desperate to keep both it quiet, and the Dursleys asleep.
Untying the letter from its leg, he plunked Pigwidgeon down unceremoniously between Hedwig's accustomed spot on her perch and the . . . whatever the hell it was that they used instead of post owls where Sirius was living it up.
With a cheerful greeting, Pigwidgeon and the Thing seemed to strike up an instant friendship; Hedwig would not be pleased.
Harry recognized Ron's messy quillmanship on the envelope, and wasted no time turning on a lamp and breaking the wax seal on the back.
He read it, and reread it. And then read it again. It was his annual invitation to visit the Burrow; the highlight of his summers, but with a twist. He fell back against his lumpy pillow, all thoughts of his former arousal replaced with the rising excitement of what was to come.
Harry knew he was too excited to sleep. He found his pyjama bottoms and slid them back on, turned off the light so the birds could rest, and lay in the dark grinning like a madman; visions of the World Cup racing through his mind.
Neither the birds jabbering away, nor the tremendous snoring from the other rooms, not even the mattress spring poking his back could ruin his new mood.
He was leaving the Dursleys tomorrow, and he was invited to the Quidditch World Cup!
The hum of the streetlights filled his ears, the moonlight beamed across his face, and he beamed right back. Sometimes, Harry thought, life is good.
The next day, Harry stumbled out of the Floo and into the Burrow with his usual lack of grace, the emerald-green flames dying out behind him. He had smiled at first at the candy prank the Twins had pulled on Dudley, but it died as soon as he saw the stormy look on the face of Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley had yelled at Fred and George. Harry had never seen the normally calm man lose his temper like that, and it brought up uncomfortable memories of Uncle Vernon from when he was much younger.
Arthur had set Dudley to rights immediately, and then shooed Ron and Harry to the Burrow. As he stepped into the green flames, Harry was shocked to see Fred and George with their heads bowed and hands behind their backs, being verbally flayed by their loving father. It made Harry a little sick to see the satisfied smirks on the faces of the Dursleys, and he didn't think he would ever see Mr. Weasley in the same light again.
He had followed just after Ron, but by the time Harry righted himself and his trunk, Ron had disappeared up the stairs and he found himself enveloped in a crushing hug by Mrs. Weasley. She smelled like flour and affection, and was the closest thing to a mother that Harry had ever known.
"Harry dear, it's so good to see you again." She held him at arm's length, and pinched his cheeks and waist, 'tutting' at his skinniness and grumbling at all things Dursley. Harry would die before admitting such weakness, but he basked in Mrs. Weasley's attentions, and felt that after every hug, the world could see him glowing with contentment.
"Have you eaten yet?" She asked, and Harry opened his mouth to reply but Mrs. Weasley carried on relentlessly. "No, of course you haven't. Come into the kitchen and I'll make you a sandwich."
For such a small, kindly woman, she had a grip like iron, and Harry found himself being dragged into the cosy kitchen of the Burrow.
It was almost as good as going home to Hogwarts; there were plates scrubbing themselves in the sink; a cauldron simmered something delicious-smelling on the old red cooker which had seen better days; and the huge battle-scarred table, veteran of hundreds of family meals dominating the room.
Hermione was already there, and she and Ron's sister Ginny had their heads together poring over some girly magazine, giggling, until they noticed Harry enter the room. Hermione leapt up for a squealing hug, and Harry found himself with a mouthful of very bushy hair. He spat it out and grinned at Ginny, and she grinned back before turning scarlet, grabbing the magazine, and rushing out the back door bumping past a wizard that Harry had never met before.
He was tall, and looked very much like a young Arthur Weasley would have, had he a longish ponytail and a scowl on his face. The wizard, watching Ginny run off embarrassed, swivelled around to look at Harry, his leather outfit creaking and fang earring glinting in the light. He looked . . . cool, and Harry felt very underdressed in Dudley's castoffs. The scowl deepened, and as the man crossed his arms over his chest in what Harry guessed was intended to be an intimidating manner, Harry was amazed that he felt no fear at all. After confronting Voldemort, a basilisk, and dozens of Dementors, Harry reckoned that a single angry wizard wasn't so scary after all.
Hermione released him from her crushing squeeze, and sat back at the table before realizing that Ginny had disappeared.
Mrs. Weasley was oblivious to the little drama unfolding around her as she swished her wand, and the cupboard doors opened, bread began to slice itself thickly, and meat and lettuce danced out of the cold cupboard before all leaping together onto a plate.
Humming a tune that Harry dimly recalled hearing on the wireless, Mrs. Weasley set the plate on the table as a carafe of milk floated out of the cold cupboard and sidled up to Harry's glass, looking for all the world as if it would love nothing better than to be poured.
Mrs. Weasley turned around and startled at the man's presence.
"Oh! William!" she cried, clutching her heart and laughing, "What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?" She sat at the table and summoned the kettle. "Harry, this is my eldest, Bill. Bill, this is Ron's friend Harry."
Bill fidgeted under his mother's gaze, and she narrowed her eyes and thwacked his arm with a flannel.
"And stop trying to intimidate Harry, it won't work." She gestured to the seat next to her, "now sit down and have a cuppa."
Bill gave Harry an embarrassed and apologetic smile before sitting next to his mother and reaching for the kettle. He opened his mouth to speak, but the fireplace flared into life, and Fred and George tumbled out, sprinting up to their bedroom, followed closely by an enraged Mr. Weasley.
The kitchen was stunned into silence when muffled shouts drifted downstairs. Mrs. Weasley was out of her seat in a flash, and making her way up the staircase. Hermione just gaped with her mouth open, and Bill was the first to recover.
"What the bloody hell happened over there, Harry?"
Harry slept fitfully that night. Fred and George's prank on Dudley had been one too many: They were forbidden from attending the World Cup match. The twins had done something earlier in the summer, something bad, and this was the final straw. Harry had tried talking to Ron about it, but he was frustratingly tight-lipped. It had cast a pall on the normally boisterous household.
He sank deeper into dreams; filled with dragons and Ginny's smile, and Mr. Weasley throwing him into his old Cupboard, which turned into a cell in Azkaban, and Ron looming over him with a knife to cut his throat. Harry moaned and lay still as the nightmares passed, gradually changing into ever more erotic fantasies.
Harry woke when the cock crowed, tired and sore. Ron grumbled something profane and rolled over into sleep again.
Dawn was still just a smudge on the horizon, but even that thin light made the orange hangings on the walls seemingly burst into flame with vivid brightness.
Harry rolled onto his back and groaned in disgust at the wet, slimy feeling in his pyjama bottoms. This always happened at the Burrow; he reckoned it was something in the country air, or maybe just being free from the Dursleys, but he'd been cursed by wet dreams here every night since he began having them.
The first time it happened, he had panicked and sneaked down to the laundry room to wash the sheets, hoping that no one would notice, but Mrs. Weasley had caught him, and Harry had wanted to die from embarrassment. Mrs. Weasley had calmed the nearly hysterical boy and sat him down for a long talk. Having six other sons, she was well-versed in this business, and had managed to convince Harry that he wasn't a freak, that he was still welcome at the Burrow, and that it was a natural part of growing up, and that whenever it happened, to just sneak the soiled clothing into the wash and no one would ever be the wiser.
It worked, but he still hated the feeling of . . . stuff against his skin.
That, of course, had turned out to be the worst kept secret in the Burrow. The twins had teased him mercilessly whenever their parents weren't near, and even Ron joined in, which hurt Harry more than he could say. He had seriously considered asking Mr. Weasley to return him to the Dursleys for the remainder of the summer, until he heard a terrible ruckus in the back garden. Shy, timid Ginny Weasley had been telling her brothers off. For him, and it had worked; all of the teasing and pranks had stopped after that. He had never learned just what she had said, but Harry couldn't remember anyone else ever standing up for him like that, and he would be grateful for that kindness for the rest of his life.
Rolling out of bed, Harry checked to make sure that Ron was still unconscious, and sure enough, he was snoring away. Harry quickly stripped, wiping himself clean with his pants and searching for a fresh pair. Mrs. Weasley had insisted on washing all of the clothing he had brought with him from the Dursleys, leaving him without anything to wear.
Bloody fuck, he thought. There was nothing else to do. He slowly opened Ron's drawer, borrowing an old pair of pyjama bottoms and slipped them on, cuffing them several times to fit his leg length, and tying them tightly so they didn't fall off his narrower hips. He'd have to go without grundies until the laundry was done, and pray that he didn't become aroused. He had a feeling that he'd be doing a lot of sitting in the near future.
He wadded up his sticky pants and pyjama trousers, hoping that Ron wouldn't notice the cloying smell when he woke up. Harry's little "problem" had provided Ron with far too much material to tease Harry with over the years, and Harry was determined that this summer would be a turning point.
Deftly avoiding the squeaky floorboard by the door, he eased out into the hallway, and started sneaking down the stairs as quietly as he could, both cursing and praising the darkness of the stairwell. He had gotten off to a rocky start with Bill and Charlie yesterday, and the last thing he needed was for them to find him sneaking around with a handful of sticky bedclothes.
A single hooded candle was burning by the door to the loo, throwing ghostly shadows against the walls as he moved.
All was well, and he had almost made it downstairs when he ran into something very soft. Something that grunted with the impact and stumbled against the wall. Something that smelled very much like Ginny. Shit.
"Ow, Ron," she hissed, "Watch where you're bloody well. . ." she trailed off, looking up at Harry with wide eyes, a blush rising in her cheeks.
Quick as lightning, she moved the bundle of clothes she was holding behind her back. Harry's curiosity was piqued, but as she moved, he realised that she wasn't wearing a dressing gown, and her new position left her nightdress stretching tightly across her breasts.
Her nipples grew taut, straining against the fabric, and Harry's mouth went dry. It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, and he felt himself responding. He quickly pressed his thighs together, thanking Merlin that he was hanging down the leg of his pyjama trousers, so Ginny wouldn't notice. He leaned against the wall, hoping to appear nonchalant, so Ginny wouldn't become suspicious of any activity in his trousers.
She was so very close, and there was some welcoming scent tugging at the deepest part of his brain, making him lick his lips and draw closer to her. She licked her own lips in response, and took a step backwards, pressing against the corner.
A switch had been tripped in his brain, and Harry could only watch in horror as he followed suit, invading her space, feeling like a madman; a sex-crazed maniac like his Aunt Petunia had been so frightened of, but he was helpless to stop. He had her cornered, and some primitive caveman part of his brain was crowing in triumph demanding that he press himself against her, to claim her as his own.
Her eyes were so dark, and she was . . . beautiful in the candlelight. The flame flickered, bringing her hair to life, and Harry blinked, coming back to his senses. This was Ginny. She was a Weasley, and he wasn't allowed to feel like this.
He awkwardly cleared his throat. "So, um, Ginny . . ." he started, and stopped, feeling more like a fool every moment.
"So, Harry," she said with a smile, "fancy meeting you here." She tore her gaze away from his face and onto the bundle he was holding. "What have you got there?" She asked, a look of confusion crossing her features.
Shit shit SHIT! He cursed himself, throwing his hands behind his back, hoping that she didn't realise that he had been holding slimy pyjamas just inches from her; that would ruin everything; she'd think he was a pervert. THINK, POTTER!
"Absolutely nothing at all." He whispered, congratulating himself on how smoothly it rolled off the tongue. If he had learned anything from the Weasleys, it was how to deflect; he nodded his head at what she was hiding behind her back. "What have you got there?"
He was gratified to see her large eyes widen further, and heard her squeak, "Nothing. Same as you. We're just a couple of people on the stairs, holding nothing at all."
He couldn't help it; he laughed. The tension bled from the air as she joined him, chuckling softly.
"So," Harry began with a grin, "now that I have you here, do you know what the hell happened that made your Dad so angry with Fred and George?"
She smiled, and Harry's heart skipped a beat from the way her nose crinkled up when she truly smiled. She had opened her mouth to answer, when her mother's voice drifted up from somewhere near the kitchen, calling Ginny down to work.
It happened in an instant, but Harry could see Ginny's face turn pale as she realised just who she had been speaking so intimately to, and then flush scarlet a moment before she scampered down the stairs as quickly as she could.
Harry could still smell her; the flowery shampoo she used, and something muskier and more heavenly. He leaned his forehead against the corner she had just been pressed against and took deep breaths, trying to memorise this, to keep it safe with his other happy memories, and trying to ignore how his prick was demanding satisfaction. It was going to be a very long day.
He slowly made his way downstairs, hoping against hope that Mrs. Weasley had Ginny tucked away somewhere safe and far away from the maniac on their staircase. Looking left and right, there was no one to be found, and as he slinked into the laundry room, ran right into Ginny again.
She was blushing, and hurrying out the too-narrow doorway, and as they squeezed past each other, her breast brushed against Harry's chest, and Harry's Harry brushed against her hip.
They both stopped, and for one horrible moment, Harry thought he had let out a small moan. The sounds of breakfast being prepared floated in from the kitchen, and Ginny's ragged breathing filled his ears. Harry chanced a look over his shoulder, and Ginny was staring at him with wide, panicked eyes, but she wasn't looking at his face. She was staring at - Oh NO. Harry pressed his bundled pyjama's against himself, desperate to hide his shame, and that broke the spell. With a squeak, Ginny ran upstairs faster than he had ever seen her move before.
Red-faced and teary-eyed with shame, he latched the door and stripped down, wiping up as best as he could, and tossing all of his clothing into the large wooden tub that dominated the room. Harry rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and plunged his filthy clothes as deeply as possible into the sudsy water, and felt his heart stop for the second time that day. Right in front of him, rising from underneath the suds, was a lacy pair of purple knickers, which could only belong to one girl in the house.
He jerked his hands from the water, and right there next to the mangle was his salvation; freshly laundered pants and trousers. He thanked Merlin for small favours and dressed quickly, dreading what else the day would bring.
Ginny was avoiding him. Harry couldn't blame her; he wouldn't want to stay in the same room as a sex-crazed pervert, but it still hurt.
All of his sneaking had been for nothing; Ron had been snickering at him all morning, and after a few whispered conversations with the twins, he started getting looks from them as well.
This was shaping up to be Harry's worst summer since finding out that he was a wizard. Bill and Charlie were still giving him dirty looks; Merlin knows what lies the twins have been filling their heads with. Ron and the other boys were laughing at him behind their mother's back, and Ginny was avoiding him like he was a criminal. Only Percy still treated him like usual, for which Harry felt stupidly grateful. He had never thought that Percy, of all the Weasley boys, would end up being the kindest.
Harry sat at the great wooden table in the Weasley kitchen, hunched over his plate, trying to be as small as possible and to escape notice. Luck was not on his side.
"Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said, looking up from the morning fry-up, "we're out of eggs, could you walk out to the coop and get us some more?"
The table fell silent.
"Mum," Ron started, "why Harry? Why not have Ginny do it?"
Mrs. Weasley fixed her youngest son with a stern glare. "Because, Ronald," she said, "your sister is indisposed right now, and someone has to do it."
None of the boys were willing to tempt her anger, and they all shrunk back into their seats.
Confused, Harry stood up, and made his way towards the back door.
"Alright, Mrs. Weasley," he said, reaching for the egg basket hanging next to the door. He had seen Ginny do this every summer morning for years now. How hard could it be? As he stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, Harry heard the hiss and scrape of chairs, and saw the rest of the Weasley boys following him outside. Looking back, he saw Mrs. Weasley smiling at him from a curtained window before she ducked back to continue her work.
Harry inspected his basket closely; just woven reeds with a soft flannel on the bottom. No obvious prank spells.
"Alright, what's wrong?" He asked, turning to the boys. "This isn't a bloody show."
The boys just laughed, and Harry felt his anger rising. Fine, he thought.
He strode purposefully towards the chicken coop, the soft clucking of the hens already reaching his ears. Fred and George started singing a funeral dirge.
"Oh Harry," Mrs. Weasley called out from the open window, "Do watch out for Harry now."
Harry stopped in his tracks, confused. He looked over at the boys, and they were all perching on the stone wall surrounding the garden. He looked to his best mate.
"Seriously, Ron, what's this all about?"
"Alright mate," Ron piped up, "You remember how Ginny named my owl?"
Harry could only nod.
"Well," he continued with a laugh, "she names everything around here. THAT'S Harry."
Harry looked to where Ron was pointing, and a little rooster was strutting out of the chicken coop.
Harry's mind was boggled. "Are you fucking kidding me? Working me up over that!?"
"Harry James Potter!" A high voice cried out. Harry looked up, and Hermione was grinning at him from the first floor window, and he could barely see Ginny's bright eyes and the crown of her head peeking up over the window sill. "Watch your language, there are ladies present!"
Harry laughed, the absurdity of the situation getting the best of him.
"You're right, Hermione," he yelled back, "There are six of them right there on that wall."
A chorus of hoots, laughs, and jeers rose from the Weasley boys, and Harry relaxed. He realised that Mrs. Weasley must have done this on purpose, to ease the tension in the kitchen. He didn't think he could respect her more that he already did, but he found a way, and he discovered a newfound appreciation for her sneakiness.
Harry smiled, and took two strides towards his enemy.
The rooster puffed up to look fiercer, and Harry succumbed to a bizarre urge to push his own chest out, hoping that no one noticed, but he was blasted with catcalls from the Weasley boys. The twins, especially, seemed to be swooning over his masculinity.
Red-faced, Harry took another step forward, and was assaulted by a deranged mass of feathers and claws. He ran, to the merriment of all watching, until the rooster gave up the chase. Shocked, Harry just stood there, bleeding and amazed that such a small bird could be such a vicious little bastard.
"Now you know why only Ginny gathers eggs," Ron gasped out between huge gales of laughter, "she's the only one it won't attack!"
"What about your Mum?" Harry asked, "what the hell does she do during the school year?"
It was Bill's turn to answer. "She can use magic, Harry. She just stuns the little blighter."
That just set the boys off again. Right, Harry thought. It's just a bloody chicken. He began advancing again, using the egg basket as a shield, the various Weasleys calling out encouragement from the peanut gallery.
"Look out for his spurs, Harry!"
"Just jump on it, you poof!"
"Give it up, Potter!"
"Get him, Harry!"
That last one gave Harry pause. Looking up, he saw a blushing Ginny covering her mouth, but refusing to hide anymore. Harry smiled; maybe Ginny didn't hate him after all. He felt . . . stronger. He could do this.
"Hey Ginny. . . " he called out, using the egg basket to fend off the bird, "which Harry were you talking to?"
He could even hear Mrs. Weasley laughing at that one, and he felt a warm strength seeping into him. Regardless of all the horrible things he had done, he really did belong here. He really was accepted. He really did have a family.
He stalked towards the rooster. It fixed him with a baleful glare, and Harry was sure that it was part Cockatrice.
They rushed each other in a swirl of feathers and swinging basket, and separated once more, Harry clutching his bleeding arm.
"Spurs?" Harry cried out. "Spurs? What are 'spurs'? Why the hell couldn't you have just said 'stabby . . . claw . . . things!?'"
He wished he still had Gryffindor's sword. C'mon Harry. Concentrate, he thought. If you can kill a basilisk, you can beat a fucking chicken.
The rooster leapt to the attack, and it was quick, but the boy was quicker; as it landed, he lashed out with a swift kick.
Harry the rooster wobbled away, vanquished and dizzy, and Harry the wizard felt a moment's pity for his fallen foe, until he remembered that that bloody bird had a whole harem of his own, and was getting far more sex than he ever would.
Ginny and Hermione were cheering, the boys were yelling their congratulations, and Bill and Charlie were conjuring rose petals at Harry's feet. Even Mrs. Weasley had stepped outside and was clapping loudly. Flush with victory, Harry thought that it had turned into a pretty good day after all.
Harry triumphantly stepped into the shadowy opening of the chicken coop, and saw two-dozen hens sitting on nests, and fixing him with gimlet gazes. One or two gave an annoyed 'cluck'.
Oh bugger, Harry thought.
The night before they were to leave for the Quidditch World Cup, neither Harry nor Ron could sleep. The entire family had stayed up late playing games and listening to the wireless, except for Fred and George, who were too depressed to socialise, but the youngest boys felt far too excited to rest. Harry was relieved; no sleep meant no nightmares, and no more embarrassing 'accidents', but also meant that he had to listen to Ron's incessant griping about Hermione. But as midnight came and went, even they drifted off, and the Burrow was quiet.
It seemed like no time at all before Mrs. Weasley was gently shaking Harry awake. Ron grumbled and cursed, earning a swat from his mother, and then both boys were blearily rubbing their eyes and trying to dress in the pre-dawn darkness, wishing that they had gone to sleep far earlier.
They were under orders to dress as Muggles until they reached the campground, so Harry shared Dudley's whale-sized castoffs with Ron. The pair looked ridiculous; with Harry swimming in clothes several sizes too large and Ron's lanky frame showing far too much calf and forearm out the sleeves.
Harry gathered his rucksack and followed Ron down the narrow stairway. Ron took particular pleasure in tromping extra loudly as he passed Percy's room, and then the one Bill and Charlie were sharing. He looked back at Harry with a grin as they heard moaning and cursing from within.
"If we can't Apparate where we're going," he said, "no one's getting a lie-in."
Harry couldn't agree more.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley poked the hob of the cooker with her wand and the flames sprang to life, setting the sausages sizzling. Mr. Weasley was packing and repacking his rucksack, grumbling something about someone named "Perkins".
Mrs. Weasley looked slightly frazzled. "Oh, what is keeping those girls," she muttered, tucking her wand into her hair bun, which was quickly unravelling.
Ron was drafted to mind the sausages and start the toast while his mother went to round up the girls, and while no one was looking, passed Harry one that was just about done.
Mrs. Weasley reappeared, herding Hermione and Ginny down the stairs. Hermione's hair was wilder and even bushier than it had ever been, and she had to guide Ginny to the breakfast table; Ginny looked to be taking a nap on her feet. Hermione must've shared her clothes with Ginny; both girls could perfectly blend into a Muggle crowd.
Ron was duly shooed away from the sausages, and took his seat at the table to tuck in to breakfast with gusto.
Minutes later, Mr. Weasley clapped his hands.
"Alright you lot," he said with far too much pep for the early hour, "Up you go, time to leave."
There was much groaning as everyone shouldered their packs, and Harry felt Hermione's intense stare as he held Ginny's much lighter rucksack up for her to slip her arms into easily. He tried scowling back at her, but Hermione raised her eyebrow in an entirely too-knowing way, and Harry just shrugged and put as much distance between himself and Ginny as possible.
Mrs. Weasley was at the door kissing everyone goodbye and applying warming charms, which Ron tolerated patiently, and then they were off; Mr. Weasley in the lead wearing a porkpie hat, motorcycle jacket with tweed patches on the elbows, and hip waders.
It was a long hike; through dewy fields that soaked their clothes (Harry was envious of Mr. Weasley's hip waders), across empty roads, all the way around the town of Ottery St. Catchpole, to the looming dark mass of Stoatshead Hill.
Harry tried to follow Mr. Weasley's long conversation about Apparition and the logistics necessary to host a World Cup, but his eyes kept wandering over to Ginny, whose borrowed jumper was far too large, and was showing off a great deal of neck and shoulder. He caught Hermione smirking at him once or twice, but refused to acknowledge her looks.
At the crest of the Hill, Mr. Weasley found a manky old boot that was supposedly their Portkey, and Harry was introduced to the Diggorys. Amos, the father, never seemed to shut up about his son's Quidditch accomplishments. Harry knew Cedric from school, and they both looked thoroughly embarrassed as Mr. Diggory went on and on about who must be the better flier. Cedric seemed like a good bloke, and Harry couldn't hold it against him.
Ron however, was positively seething; and Harry had a nervous moment when he thought Ron's hair would catch fire as Ron stared daggers alternately at Cedric, and then Hermione.
Who was smiling. Brilliantly. At Cedric Diggory.
Harry elbowed Ginny, and they shared a grin. As much of an earful as this development would be, their entertainment was assured for the next several hours.
Harry had a headache.
Ron and Hermione had begun arguing as soon as they had parted company with the Diggorys, continued through the Obliviation of the old Muggle man named Mr. Roberts, and all the way to their campsite, marked with a crudely painted sign saying 'WEEZLY'.
"And what's so special about that Diggory bloke, anyways?" Ron began, for the fourth or fortieth time. "From the way you were staring at him like a mooncalf, you'd think the plonker sparkled in the sunlight or something."
Hermione's growl rose like an angry teakettle, only to be cut off by Mr. Weasley's shout of,
"ENOUGH!"
Everyone was shocked into silence, and Mr. Weasley took the opportunity to drop his pack and run his hands through what was left of his hair before opening his rucksack and taking out two buckets.
"Ginny, Hermione," he said, "take these, the map says that there's a pump just over that way; we'll need water." The girls grabbed the buckets and ran off, eager to escape Mr. Weasley's temper.
Mr. Weasley watched them go, and then turned to the boys. Harry swallowed. Digging once more into his pack, Mr. Weasley came up with two large bundles and a hammer.
"Boys," he said, "it's time to work off some of that energy. Let's build tents." Harry was very put off by the manic gleam in Mr. Weasley's eyes at those words.
Harry had never pitched a tent before, but he'd seen them on the telly, so he was currently the subject-matter expert on tents in their group. There was a bewildering variety of collapsing poles, cords, fabric and stakes. Once the girls returned with the buckets of water Harry felt an almost desperate need to take charge. Commandeering the hammer from Ron, he set to whacking the stakes manfully, not knowing exactly why, but feeling the need to flex and show off his strength. It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling.
Hermione and Ginny didn't feel like helping, and Harry couldn't blame them; it was dirty, sweaty work, but Ron was quite put out that the girls stood by in the shade, quietly talking and giggling as the boys worked in the sun.
"There, Hermione," Harry said, giving a stake one last whack and tossing the hammer to the ground. "All done." He looked at his handiwork with a critical eye, trying to ignore the argument brewing between Ron and Hermione. Both tents looked rather like drunken sailors he thought; listing this way and that, but all in all, he chalked it up as a job well done.
Hermione, at this point, was going on about propriety, which Harry felt odd coming from the girl who blithely entered the boy's dormitory at Hogwarts without so much as a knock. But he was forced to finally pay attention when she tried to drag him and Ginny into it.
With a huff, Hermione grabbed Ginny's arm and dragged her away towards their tent. Harry tried suppressing a laugh, and shared a pitying look and a small wave with Ginny right before the girls disappeared from view.
Ron flushed red from the laughter of Bill and Charlie, who had finally Apparated in minutes earlier and tossed their private tent to the ground at the boy's feet. "Come on, Harry, let's build this third bloody tent." Then he raised his voice and shouted at the girl's tent, "ALONE!"
"Well," Bill said as Harry picked up the hammer again, "at least you two have had plenty of practice." Both older boys laughed at the killing glare Ron sent Bill's way.
Bill and Charlie passed a flask back and forth while the younger boys worked, even sharing some with their father, and Harry and Ron looked on jealously. Bill and Charlie kept 'tutting' at the younger boy's lack of cheer, and adopted outrageous accents while claiming that hard labour somehow improved a boy's character.
This third tent belonged to Charlie and was obviously magical; it had a little chimney that puffed purple smoke, and a tiny dragon perched atop a weathervane that snarled and snapped at Harry every time his head bobbed too near.
Ron especially had seemed excited at the prospect of not having to share a tent with his father, but Bill and Charlie refused and wouldn't relent; they claimed to have 'business' to discuss that would be spoiled by the involvement of younger siblings. Harry and Ron suspected alcohol was involved, but no amount of wheedling could get the older boys to share.
Mr. Weasley was puttering around in the boy's tent; Hermione and Ginny were huddled in the girl's tent discussing Merlin-knows-what; Bill and Charlie were having a fabulous time together; and so Harry and Ron were left to their own devices. The boys decided that someone was going to regret that.
An hour later, Ron had a mad gleam in his eye as he sidled up to Harry. Harry knew that look; it was a Fred-and-George look, and it boded only mischief.
"I nicked Dad's wand," Ron said, looking fit to burst, "and I have an idea." Harry couldn't help the slow grin that stretched across his face as Ron detailed his scheme.
Minutes later they were 'shush-ing' each other outside the tent that Hermione and Ginny shared. Ron's arms were overburdened with the water globes he had taught Harry how to conjure, and he nodded for Harry to begin.
Not knowing how to properly knock without a door, Harry scratched at the canvas of the girl's tent.
"Hermione," Harry called out to entice her, "open up, I need your advice."
There was a thump and furious whispers from somewhere inside.
"Don't open the flap!" Hermione yelled, and Harry almost reconsidered, but Ron cleared his throat, and they focused on the task at hand. "We're not indecent, just stay there a moment," she said, her voice just on the other side of the flap.
That's what he'd been waiting for. Harry opened the canvas door wide, and Ron heaved all of the water globes inside. There was a sharp gasp and half a dozen splashes. Dropping the flap, Harry turned to run, not giving Hermione a chance to react. Oh, she would have her revenge, but that was almost as fun as pranking in the first place.
Hermione's damp squeal of indignation chased Harry and Ron as they ran down the thoroughfare laughing like loons. "Hey Harry," Ron forced out between laughing breaths, "let's find Malfoy's tent!"
Harry and Ron wandered through the tent city that had sprouted for the World Cup; the strange languages, brightly coloured tents, and foreign food appealed greatly to their sense of adventure. Small shops sold all manner of snacks and trinkets: from Kinolias and scarves with cooling charms, to little folded-paper animals that strutted and preened. Being unable to resist the lure of sweets, Harry had purchased a bag of Jelly Slugs, and he and Ron shared them as they took a tour of the world, ogling and learning to appreciate the myriad of young witches around them.
Harry was sharing a smile with a very pretty blonde wearing a yellow and blue scarf when Ron punched his arm. Hard.
"Ow, what the hell, Ron?"
As Harry turned to retaliate, he saw the woman Ron was staring at. He couldn't stop himself. He gaped. Even Madam Rosemerta, who had been referred to as Lady Heavingbosom by at least two decades of awestruck Third Years, would have felt inadequate next to her. There had to be magic involved, and to the eyes of two young men, magic of the best kind. She passed, smirking at their stares, and the boys' heads swivelled to follow. She turned, and blew them each a kiss before stepping into a tea shop, laughing. One of the Jelly Slugs, seizing its chance, made a mad dash for freedom and began crawling down Ron's hand, while the blonde witch Harry had been smiling with huffed and stomped away.
Harry blinked. And again. He looked to Ron and they both broke into uncontrollable laughter. Ron looked confused for a moment as he saw his empty hand, but reached into Harry's bag to grab another Slug.
"Harry," Ron said in a sage voice, wiping a tear from his eye, "Bill told me once: If they're any larger than a handful, you're risking a sprained tongue."
That set them off again, and they wandered away basking in the warm camaraderie of having fun with your best mate. It was the best day that Harry could remember.
It couldn't last. Like most things in Harry's life, the warmth and bonhomie fled too soon, and the evening soured for the boys. Their oversexed minds had been stimulated beyond reason, but the tent was far too crowded for them to comfortably take care of their needs. Harry and Ron were of a pragmatic bent; each knew what the other needed to do, and they would prefer to do their business in privacy. And so there was a Plan.
Their deal was struck with a maximum of body language, a minimum of conversation, a great deal of solemnity, and total avoidance of eye contact. Harry would first distract Mr. Weasley for half an hour or so with a long rambling talk about Muggle nonsense, leading him all the while away from the tent. Ron would later on suggest to his Dad that they go visit some cousins that were camped a few rows over, and ensure that they stay looking for said relatives for as long as he could. Mr. Weasley of course, would end up knowing exactly what was going on, but he was a kind man; and having once been fourteen, took pity on his youngest son, and the young man who'd had such a hard life.
Hermione would have been both mortified and very proud of their organizational skills.
Harry's voice was feeling rather hoarse later on. He had kept up a nonstop babbling stream of Muggle trivia and made up nonsense as he and Mr. Weasley had wandered about the camp, all for Ron's benefit. That wanker. More than once, Harry had had the feeling that Mr. Weasley was simply humouring him, but he shook his head and carried on. Mr. Weasley couldn't have suspected anything; The Plan was foolproof. It was with great relief that he finally looped back around to the tents that they were staying in. An hour later Ron had taken a perverse pleasure in sounding as insincere as possible as he ushered his father back out of the tent, and Harry squelched an urge to throttle the cheeky bastard. He heard Ron's voice fade away, and waited a minute before beginning to unbuckle his belt. He then remembered that Ron was related to Fred and George, and would probably love to lead his father back to catch Harry with his pants around his ankles; so he stopped, and waited a few minutes more. Hearing nothing but the murmur of the tent city, Harry released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Alone. Alone at last.
When he had first discovered wanking, Harry thought he was a perverted freak; no one could possibly be like him, and no one could be so depraved as to do it constantly. Then he returned to school, and Harry found that he was normal after all. For once. Sharing a dorm with four other blokes, a boy tends to learn far too much about that sort of thing. They all became very adept at politely ignoring the embarrassing noises coming from behind closed curtains, and expected that their noises would be ignored in return. So Harry had learned to jealously hoard his privacy, and now he would make the most of it.
Harry unbuckled his belt and began pulling his robes over his head, not for the first time glad that he was a bloke. While at the Burrow he had seen glimpses of the lacy foundational garments that witches wore, and they looked …complicated. Highly arousing, but complicated. He stripped even his socks off, hating the feel of confinement. He was sure it was some hereditary Potter trait, like his knobbly knees.
He wadded up his underwear and tossed them on his camp bed: Harry had learned long ago to keep something close at hand to catch any mess. He kneeled on his little bed and settled in for a long, leisurely wank. He stroked himself slowly, looking at the canvas flap of the tent. He couldn't use magic to seal it, so at any moment someone could throw the flap open and see Harry Potter himself in all his glory. The thought was surprisingly arousing. There were Veelas out there after all; and lonely young witches far from home, who could possibly …just possibly wander into the wrong tent by mistake. Or on purpose.
A few years ago, Harry would have been too shy to even undress with an unlocked door. But then he began playing Quidditch. The first time he had been forced to shower with the team, he thought he would die of embarrassment. He had never bathed with anyone before, and was cripplingly self-conscious. The steam from the showerheads played merry hell with the lanterns, so the lighting was blessedly dim. If he stayed as far away from everyone as possible he could hide most of his scars. The twins, especially, had laughed and carried on and the tension bled out of him. He couldn't help his curiosity; he did peek to see how everyone measured up, and the rest of his embarrassment fell away. Yes, the twins did tease him, but it felt like a good kind of teasing, and he had to try very hard to keep from strutting around the castle that evening like a little banty rooster.
Harry wasn't eleven any longer. He had six (SIX!) hairs growing on his chest. They had arrived at the start of the summer, and he was very fond of them. He rather thought that they made him look slightly fearsome. His muscles however, were slower to appear. Oliver Wood had taken a holistic approach to Quidditch training; convinced he was privy to 'ancient Muggle secrets', Wood had had the team doing several bizarre exercises for years now. Harry could do chin-ups for quite a long time, but was hugely disappointed that no matter how hard he worked, his muscles never got much larger. They became very firm, but he despaired at looking weedy for the rest of his life.
Quickening his strokes, Harry relaxed his mind, slowly easing into his favourite fantasies as he glanced around the room. Ron's little Viktor Krum figure had stopped stalking back and forth and was staring rather too intently at him. With a disgusted look and a vicious flick, Harry sent it flying arse-over-teakettle somewhere on the far side of the tent. Bloody pervert, he thought.
Harry resettled himself on his camp bed, his dream woman slowly coalescing in his mind. Harry felt like every girl at Hogwarts had had a starring role in his fantasies at one time or another. For the longest time, his favourite involved the Patil twins doing things that he was sure would get all three of them thrown into Azkaban. But lately he had decided he rather preferred more athletic girls, like Quidditch players. Always with long, shiny, straight hair, like Clemilla Gauge, the new starting chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. He had seen a poster of her in Diagon Alley, and had been captivated by the way her hair flowed like a living thing. Harry had blushed beet red when the poster winked at him.
He took his glasses off, and carefully folded the arms before putting them on the little end table next to his camp bed. Harry had learned long ago that the sweat from his forehead would just drip and smear his lenses, and that if he squeezed his eyes closed his fantasies seemed stronger somehow.
He tried to concentrate on Cho Chang. He remembered flying against her the year prior, and how he'd felt that perfect connection as their eyes met. They were both young, and fierce, and so alive. Lords of creation flying above it all, and Merlin, she was STRADDLING A BROOMSTICK. Afterwards, it was all he could think of. He'd lost count of how many Bludgers he had narrowly avoided after being distracted by a girl's bum as she bent over her broom. Fred and George had noticed and had teased him mercilessly at first, but had relented, and finally entrusted him with an ancient dog-eared copy of Mystères D'Amour . . . and it was as if the world had opened for him; the mysteries of the female form were laid bare. Very bare; the French witches in the magazine didn't have any modesty at all and Merlin, he could see EVERYTHING. But a blush would still creep up his face whenever he saw or even thought about a witch mounting a broomstick. Fuck Tutshill; he was a Harpies fan, through and through. He pictured Cho kneeling at his feet, taking him into her mouth and staring up at him with those dark eyes as her tongue worked him over.
He couldn't climax though, and he had no idea why. Since the summer began his regular fantasies have been failing him; he needed release and he was about to scream in frustration. The Cho in his mind turned around, he hiked her skirts up over her bum and then they were rocking together, moaning, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't feel any release building. Her skirts changed into the green uniform of the Holyhead Harpies and her hair lightened. Merlin, much better. She was moaning in his mind, and he swore he could almost really hear her as her hair colour changed yet again. Sweat was trickling down his spine and he could feel it, his entire body coiling up in his groin and he was so close. His dream girl's arse was high in the air and her arms couldn't support her anymore; her shoulders rested on the camp bed and her cries were being swallowed by his pillow. He could almost see freckles on the creamy white skin of her hips as he gripped them, driving as deeply as he could. Oh Fuck, oh Merlin, he could even smell her arousal, and then she turned her head to look at him; bright brown eyes unfocused with lust, peering through the red veil of her hair. Moaning his name, begging . . .
He was undone. His climax was on him instantly; his hips bucked in the blind instinct to push deeper and her name rose up in his throat. Harry clamped his jaw shut, desperate not to shout her name out loud as his world was enveloped in white, and he roared in triumph through his teeth. His makeshift rag lay forgotten in his throes as he spurted across the blanket. His mind was fuzzy, and his penis was still pulsing in his grip. He felt a cramp inside him as something deep within was overstrained, but his orgasm wouldn't stop.
He sat back onto his camp bed shaking like a lamb, dripping with sweat. The force of his climax was still thrumming through his body and he felt as if he were slowly drifting back to earth. He didn't care that he had barely softened, and that his penis was lying in a puddle of his own mess. For the first time ever, he wasn't repulsed by the slick warmth on his fingers. His lungs felt as if they were blown, and he tilted his head back, desperate for cool air. Gasping and gulping, he couldn't hear his own rumbling moans on each exhale. His pulse thundered in his ears and for one desperate moment he feared that it was too much; that he was dying.
As Harry's breathing slowed, his face tingled unpleasantly and the fog cleared from his mind. His eyes were still squeezed closed, and burning with sweat.
Harry felt sated. It was a new feeling: ever since he'd discovered how to touch himself just right, he had ended each session somehow more desperate and unfulfilled than he began. Now he felt something both brand new and as old as time within him purring in contentment. He had never thought of Ginny like that before; she was Ron's little sister, and to be protected, not . . . used. But nothing had ever felt so right before, and that rightness was terrifying. That rightness could ruin everything.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
He had almost moaned her name. Oh Merlin, he thought, I hope no one heard me. That would be disastrous. He thought that he heard the canvas flap of the tent open but he couldn't move his limbs, and he couldn't bring himself to care. Voldemort himself could waltz in demanding a duel and Harry couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. Maybe it was just Ron and he could get off with a stern lecture. Merlin, but if it were Mr. Weasley. . .
He couldn't look Mr. Weasley in the eye after this. He knew a confession would come vomiting out of his mouth and what could he expect afterwards? Sir, I just wanked thinking of your daughter bent over, moaning like Mrs. Norris in heat. Fuck. Bloody buggering fuck, he was a dead man. Ron, he could handle. But the twins, they were older than him. And owned Beater bats. They would hate him. Mrs. Weasley would hate him. The only family he had ever really known would kick him out of their lives, and he would deserve it. Fuck. The claws of panic were wrapping around his throat, stealing his breath.
He had a vision of himself being sent to live with Hagrid: Learning to whittle, growing a ferocious beard, and trying desperately not to hear him "take care of business" as they grew old all alone.
He knew what he had to do. He would forget about it. He would forget about Ginny Weasley, and he would just have to wank with discipline; thinking about Cho, or Lavender and Parvati. Or Lavender and Parvati AND Cho. Anyone but Ginny.
Harry shivered as the sweat on his body suddenly felt cold. Shaking himself out of his daydreams, he wobbled to his feet naked as the day he was born. It wouldn't do for the Weasleys to come back and see him like this.
Harry opened his eyes and goggled at the mess he had made. He wondered how he was going to clean it all up without magic. He reached for his grundies and mopped up as best as he could and oh Merlin how did it get over THERE!? He flipped his thin blanket over, praying that nothing had soaked through too badly. Seized with inspiration, he rose and blew out half of the candles lighting the small room. There we are. No wonder he ached; he had never made such a mess before, and it was worrisome. He hoped he wasn't broken; he could never face Madam Pomfrey with this problem. Stuffing his sticky pants down deep into the bottom of his bag, he realized that that had been his last pair. A desperate energy overtook him, and he tore his clothes out, needing to find something clean. Finding nothing, he sat back, making a vow that he would never again use his pants to clean up. No, he was a sock man now. At least until he learned how to conjure dish cloths. Hermione probably already knew how, but he dreaded that conversation; she wouldn't relent until Harry admitted why he was so interested in learning that particular spell, and he didn't think he could handle the disgusted looks she would give him for weeks afterward.
Harry pulled his robes back over his head and waited for the Weasleys to return; the ball of guilt in his gut expanding and contracting, making him feel ill. He heard them well before they entered. Mr. Weasley was being rather loud, and Harry's suspicious nature was roused. Could he . . . No. There was no way Mr. Weasley could know about The Plan. The canvas door opened and Ron and Mr. Weasley tromped down the steps into the tent. Harry studiously avoided everyone's gaze, hoping that the heavy musky smell in the air was a product of his imagination.
"Are you feeling well, Harry?" Mr. Weasley's voice was entirely too close, and Harry was mortified at the attention, "you're rather sweaty."
Harry clamped his jaw shut so fast his teeth clicked. Saynothingsaynothingsaynothing. Ron sniggered, and Harry shot him a look that promised retribution.
"Just," Harry cursed his voice that had to choose that moment to crack, "just rather warm down here. I think I need some air."
Harry shot to his feet, and scarpered out the door. He had never felt so grateful that Wizards couldn't read minds.
Harry paused just outside the flap, trying to calm himself. The night air was alive with drunken revelry, and wizards were lighting fireworks that streaked up into the night sky before blossoming into constellations and magical beasts that roared and fought one another.
As he watched, a Star-Bellied Sneetch vanquished a winged snake before they both exploded in a rainbow starburst, to the cheers of people all around. Harry felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise, and turning, he saw her: Ginny was leaning against the support poles holding up the girl's tent, as if she were waiting for him.
There was something different about her, he thought. Something that wasn't there yesterday or even this morning. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, but she seemed much more grown up, and much less likely to run away. It was nice.
"Hello, Ginny," he said, needing to fill the silence while he watched her.
She smiled, and Harry's heart lifted. She had such pretty eyes, and for once she held his gaze, and he saw something in her eyes that made his stomach feel very flip-floppy. It was as if she had some secret knowledge that he didn't. Maybe she did; as Harry grew, witches seemed more and more mysterious, and frustrating, and complicated, and wonderful.
Ginny's hair was wet, and Harry realised that she must have just been in the bath. Which meant that she had just been naked, and soapy, and slippery, and Harry wanted to slap himself, because she had started speaking, and now he was sure to sound like a berk if he asked her to repeat herself. Ah well, he thought. It's my lot in life.
"What?" He asked, and Ginny didn't seem to mind, so he shuffled closer, wanting to be nearer, but afraid of his body's reaction.
"You know," she said, smiling. "Before we left for the World Cup . . ." And she started telling Harry about what happened earlier in the summer, and what Fred and George did to earn their father's wrath, and before either of them realized it, Harry and Ginny were having an actual conversation. There was no awkwardness, and they talked as if they had been friends for years, rediscovering each other after a long separation.
Ginny brushed her hair back behind one ear and Harry was struck speechless by the movement, mesmerized by the line of her throat and how soft it looked. He took a step forward, and the air between them became charged and intimate. He leaned into her, needing to taste her, to find out if her taste was as addictive as her scent when a pot was dropped in the boy's tent, and Harry blinked, coming back to his senses.
Ginny was staring right into his eyes (when did we get so close to each other?), and Harry caught himself before he did something she would regret. Harry wasn't stupid; he knew that Ginny had fancied him once, but that was years and years ago, and she couldn't like him like that anymore. Opening an old wound for selfish reasons would just be . . . cruel. It was something the Dursleys would do, and Ginny deserved so much better. Mr. Weasley was cursing in their tent, and an enormous firework sailed into the sky, and the entire campground was cheering. Ginny bit her lip, and Harry had a hard time swallowing past the lump in his throat.
Harry realised he was blushing, and had made a total fool of himself, and he had to escape before he made things worse. They murmured their 'good-byes' and Harry rushed off as quickly as his dignity allowed. He knew with a certainty that he had just ruined a delicate new friendship, and his mood grew blacker as he stomped off into the darkness.
Harry lay in bed late that night, listening to Ron and Mr. Weasley snoring in unison like only a father and son could. His thin blanket was cold and sticky against his skin, a shameful reminder of his transgression against the family that sacrificed so much for him.
Sleep refused to come, and he couldn't stop thinking about Ginny Weasley; he just couldn't help it, no matter how hard he tried. He tried fantasizing about Cho Chang slowly mounting her broomstick, but all he could see was Ginny's teasing smile as she swayed her hips, swinging a leg over. He wondered if Ginny even knew how to fly. He had forgotten to ask her, but he had a feeling that she did. Fantasy Ginny flew a loop, and Harry was certain that the real Ginny loved it - she just had to. Maybe they could go for a fly together some day, if he hadn't ruined things between them. Fantasy Ginny slowed and swooped down to hover in front of him, slowly unbuttoning her uniform shirt with a sly smile before grabbing Harry's hand and sliding it inside to cup her breast.
Harry growled in frustration, and punched his too-flat pillow back into shape.
His libido knew what it wanted, and she was in the next tent over, wearing a thin nightdress. He wondered if witches needed to touch themselves as well. Oh Merlin, maybe she was still awake too. Maybe she was even . . .
No. It was too dangerous to think about, but he felt himself harden immediately. The thought of Ginny doing that was maddening. Lying awake, her hands slowly moving up between her thighs, up under her nightdress, ever higher, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake Hermione, but unable to stop the soft noises rising up from her throat. Watching the flap of their tent, dreading, praying that Harry would walk through it and see, and watch, and join her.
Dammit.
He hated wanking with company in the room, but everyone else was sleeping deeply, and he needed this. He would just have to be quiet. Hell, he could be quiet. Just one last time and then never again. Ginny Weasley was forbidden fruit, and he couldn't keep thinking of her this way. Never again.
. . . starting tomorrow.