Harry pushed her down onto the creaky mattress, one hand tangling in her hair while his other worked at his belt. The bed creak and he put on knee up on the patched and threadbare blankets, his jeans open and pushed halfway down his hips
"Turn over." He rasped, pulling at her sweater. Her face was blushed, her eyes bright, lips slightly parted. He didn't want to see her face.
On her hands and knees, facing the wall, all he could see was that mass of red hair and the baggy maroon sweater. It was one of Ron's old ones, over sized on her, the scent of broom polish and the grass in the quiditch pitch still clinging to it.
He grabbed her panties and yanked them down quickly, keeping his eyes trained on her hair. Grabbing that mass of fiery redness and pushing her face down into the pillows to stifle the high pitched noises she made as he pushed into her. He didn't want to hear her tinny mewls and whimpers, and he struggled to focus on the familiar rough wool clenched in his fists.
Harry had been there the Christmas morning that Ron had unwrapped the sweater from his mum. He could clearly remember the face the ginger boy had made when he ripped the paper off the gift, the small frown and quick flush spreading across his cheeks. That blush always tantalized harry. He could never help but stare it, creeping down his neck and under the collar of his jumper. He wanted to unwrap the taller boy and see just how far down it went.
He pushed hard at the though of Ron, naked, skin flushed and warm under him. Ginny moaned into a pillow, and the sound jerked him out of his daydream and back to reality.
It wasn't Ron moaning and squirming underneath him, his fingers were digging into soft hips, not hard muscle. It was Ginny. His best friend's sister, the girl who loved him, and the closest thing he could get to what he really wanted.