Chapter Summary: Harry's imagination fails him.

Note: What better way to celebrate my birthday than by finally sharing a very self-indulgent chapter featuring my favorite angsty idiots? This chapter was a bit intimidating because it has two elements I have never written before. I hope you enjoy it.


The pitter-patter of the rain was interrupted by the noise of beating wings against the tent.

"One second," Harry grumbled. He hurried over to unzip the tent opening, cringing when a tawny owl flew in, water scattering everywhere as it shook off its feathers. Wiping the moisture from his face, he reached into his pocket for a few treats before attempting to take the letter. He'd learned his lesson the first time.

As the owl nipped after the treats, Harry gazed at its tawny feather patterns. Before he left, he had told Hermione that her promised letters were unnecessary — excessive even. Another manifestation of her worry. But the mission had dragged on from one week to another. As Harry found himself trapped in a tent with nothing but the occasional disgruntled colleague exchanging shifts and rotten weather, soon the letters had become a much-needed reprieve.

The owl gave an appreciative hoot, finally satisfied enough to graciously allow Harry to untie the letter before it fluttered out the opening, back into the rough night.

Unfurling the parchment, Harry began reading, expecting the usual summary about the latest infuriating law Hermione was set on fixing or how Ron and the shop were doing. He was woefully unprepared for when his eyes caught sight of Ginny's name in Hermione's deliberate writing. The neatly written words contrasted greatly with the storm that clamored in his chest.

He had missed seeing her yesterday apparently. He quickly scanned the letter for more details, but the letter barely mentioned her elsewhere and instead provided cursory updates on all the Weasleys, Andromeda, and Teddy. A pang of regret shot through him at the missed opportunity, a reminder of how rare it had become for her to be home and those days he had hoped with little reason for her to appear and light up the room with her wit.

Just seeing Ginny's name brought back their last encounter with vividness. The memory of her skin against his hands, the way her coppery hair fanned around her on the bed.

Harry climbed onto his cot, propping himself up on a pillow while deflating with a sigh. He skimmed over Hermione's neat writing once more, apparently keen on tormenting himself.

Ginny was at the Burrow today.

He retraced the words, letting them repeat in his mind, even as he let the letter slide off the edge of the cot. He stared up at the tent canvas, the sound of the rain beating to the same tempo of the words in his head.

He tried to shut his eyes to it, to focus instead on the list of things he had to do tomorrow, the mission, all the very important reasons why he was stuck in a cold tent far, far away once again.

Ginny was at the Burrow today.

Had she expected he would be there? His heart squeezed with painful hope.

Harry's imagination began to run wild. He could see it — him having been luckily discharged for some injury, severe enough to send him back from the field but not so bad he couldn't make it to the Burrow. No, better yet, he had been sent back, and Molly had insisted he stay with them.

And when Ginny heard of his condition, she burst into his room, looking far too pretty in her tight Quidditch kit. One look at him and she rushed to his side, weeping over his lifeless form, confessing all her feelings of deep attraction and affection.

Her tears and words would wake him; he'd ask her what was wrong, and she would profess how when she was about to lose him, she realized that she wanted to be more than friends.

Harry groaned, realizing his traitorous hand was already lightly rubbing himself. His heart sped up at her imaginary words curling around his ear.

The weight of her knees sinking into the bed made his breath catch in his throat. He would look at her, only to catch that blazing look in her eye, her fingers trailing up his thigh.

Of course, she would insist on checking to make sure he was okay, every part of him…

As he kicked off his trousers, it was as if she were the one peeling them off. When he was freed of them, he wrapped his hand around himself, imagining it was her hand, gentle yet firm.

This wasn't the first time he had touched himself while thinking of her. It had been an unfortunate necessity starting his sixth year when wicked dreams of Ginny would wake him in such an embarrassing state, he didn't have much of a choice but to take matters into his own hands.

God, it had been awful having to do it with her brother nearby.

Worse still was when they were on the run the following year, in a tent with such tight living quarters. But even then, he hadn't been able to help himself when there was so little to feel good about.

When Ron had left, Harry had unfurled the Marauder's Map to see if Ron had returned to Hogwarts. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he had immediately found her dot and traced over her name. Those cold, lonely nights, he would torment himself by staring at it until he gave into his wretched release, missing the way she would flick her plait over her shoulder right before a game, when she would bump elbows with him as she slid into the seat beside him, when her eyes lit up with mischief before she'd perform one of her flawless imitations, when he nearly recklessly kissed her in another's body at the wedding, wondering if things would be different if he had someone else's life.

Harry bit down on his lip as he began stroking himself, pushing back those memories in lieu of what could have been this weekend.

"Things seem to be in order," Ginny said, her voice a low rumble, "but looks can be deceiving…"

She smiled deviously at him, her tongue flickering over her lips as her eyes roved his now miraculously naked body. She slowly stripped off her kit, the leather falling to the floor with satisfying thuds. She pulled her uniform over her head, revealing her devastatingly fit body.

Harry pressed his eyes shut tight as if to sharpen his imagination. A throbbing need pulsed through him.

This was the first time he had touched himself while thinking of her since that fateful night they had celebrated Ron and Hermione's engagement.

Before, his fantasies had been vague notions, nothing but an idea of how she might look at him with desire, what her lean, freckled legs in summer shorts felt like to touch, the wicked curve of her lips against his, her windswept red hair that reminded him of summer Quidditch days at the Burrow. Obscure, teasing dreams that woke him to embarrassment. All of these fantasies imprinted over the few actual experiences he'd had with others.

But now — now he knew. It wasn't just hazy impressions. Now he knew what she tasted like. He could sense the whisper of her nimble fingers trailing down his chest. The teasing nibbling at his jaw. The tantalizing pressure of her hips against him, her hand wrapping around him to slowly take all of him in.

His breath grew ragged, coming in urgent bursts. This was so much worse than before because he knew what she felt like, knew the scorching pleasure of being with her intimately.

"Ginny," he said, needing her closer as she straddled him from above. Caressing the hollow of her back, tracing the dip in her spine, feeling her arch toward him, her kiss-swollen lips forming a perfect oval.

Harry was unprepared for the dizzying joy and pleasure that overtook him. He whimpered, his muscles taut with longing, emotions clashing inside him.

He gripped her hips and flipped her over, pressing her against the bed, needing to show her, make her understand what she meant to him. A pressure built inside him, knowing she was wet for him. She wanted him. The look in her burning eyes as her nails bit into his biceps, telling him she was close.

"Ginny," he breathed, speeding up his movements.

Harry could hear her breath catch in her throat when he sunk into her heat. The feel of her softness pressed up against his hard angles, the way her legs wrapped around him, pulling him ever closer.

He was nearly there.

"Harry," he heard the tremulous way his name tumbled from her lips, saw the glow across her cheeks, the vulnerability in her eyes. "I want you. I want to be more than friends. I lo—"

Hot liquid flooding over his hand as blinding pleasure flooded his vision.

He moaned, shaking slightly from small aftershocks of gratification, the hammering of his blood resounding in his ears. As the stickiness in his hand cooled uncomfortably, his heart gave such a sudden icy twinge that he gasped.

Harry was accustomed to the low aching loneliness that came from his solitary sessions, but he was completely unprepared for the roaring emptiness in his chest, sharper, keener than ever before.

Pushing through the agony radiating inside, he grabbed his wand and cleaned himself. Still, the cool sensations lingered over his skin, like a stain. He curled into himself, burying his face into the pillow, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Was this what he would have to deal with from now on? Now that he had experienced the real thing, everything paled in comparison. Would he constantly be tormented by missed opportunities? What would happen if — when — she decided she was done with this?

Maybe this was too much. Before, watching her from afar, a distant dream, was enough. But now the longing was unbearable, the monster ruthlessly tearing him apart from the inside. These haunting, lingering touches, each seared into his body, were all he would ever get. She might touch him, but she would never want anything more.

Maybe Harry needed to stop, to end it. It would only get worse. Perhaps he would never recover.

But maybe it was already too late.

Harry fisted the cold, empty bed sheets beside him, trying to conjure the smell of flowers.

Ginny was at the Burrow today.


Harry let out an annoyed groan, clutching his bruised side as he rolled over gingerly. How long had he been tossing and turning? Exhaustion tugged deep behind his eyes, but the pain in his side prevented him from finding a comfortable position. He glanced at the purple vial of Dreamless Sleep Draught before he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

A knock at the front door drew his attention away. Ron and Hermione making good on their threat to stop by, no doubt.

Heaving himself off his bed, Harry sighed once again at the irony. Perhaps it was the universe taunting him once again for his farcical imagination. He'd been injured, but with a much less appealing outcome.

The knocking came again as he donned his glasses.

"Coming," he called out, trying to suppress his irritation as he trudged through the flat. Torn between annoyance and gratitude at his best mates' need to mind him, he wrenched the door open. "Ron, I'm fine—"

"Ron? I'm not sure that's a compliment," Ginny said, her eyebrows raised.

"Ginny?" He gaped.

Was this an elaborate scheme of his muddled mind to torment him? He grappled with the sight of her in front of him, looking too solid to be a hallucination.

His fantasies came back full force: her weeping over him, confessing her feelings —

"Mum sent me." Ginny held up a basket of prepared food, including an entire treacle tart. "Ron mentioned you were hurt, and she wanted to make sure you were taken care of."

Oh.

Harry shifted, the bubble inside him bursting.

"Right. Of course. That was really thoughtful of her. Er, come in."

As she walked by, his stomach twisted as the fragrant smell of flowers wafted over him.

He tried not to stare as she shrugged off her cloak. The well-worn Weasley jumper wasn't particularly revealing, but his blood hummed pleasantly in her presence. He still couldn't believe she was here.

With a jolt, he realized she was staring up at him quizzically.

"Let me get that for you," he rushed, taking her cloak from her. His side protested when he reached up to hang it. He turned back to find her appraising him. "I'm fine, really. There was no need to bring me anything."

Her lips quirked up. "You'd probably say that even if you weren't fine."

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled at her laugh. "Know me that well, do you?"

"I like to think so," Ginny said, her eyes flickering away. "Where should I put this then?"

"The kitchen."

"Are you hungry? Mum cast a warming charm on these earlier."

"No, I'm fine," he said, only to internally kick himself as he followed her to the kitchen.

Maybe she would leave now that her chore was finished. Surely she had other things to do… What was she doing home? Could she possibly be here to see Dean?

Harry inhaled sharply when he nearly careened into her. So absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed her setting down the food on the small space on the kitchen table not covered with work and suddenly turning toward him. He swallowed at how close she was. Heat crawled up his neck as the memory of the last time they were here flashed before him — when he lifted her onto the table, his hands sliding up her thighs, under her skirt.

He tried to conjure up unappealing images. Drowning kittens, yes, that was good.

"You look exhausted," she said, assessing him once more. Her eyes slowly slid down, lingering long enough on his injury that Harry unconsciously reached over to cover his side with his hand. She clearly had noticed the pain earlier.

"It's not as bad as it seems," he said.

She gave him an unimpressed look. "What happened?"

"I was careless," Harry said, trying to dismiss her concerns. "I'll live."

"Yes, you have a tendency for that, don't you?" she quipped.

"Oh no, I might not survive another Boy-Who-Lives joke," he said dryly.

"Yes, well, I reckon I should refrain for today. Some of us are quite fond of having you around," she said, folding her arms around her chest.

"Are you?" he asked before he could stop himself, his voice coming out more roughly than intended.

Ginny met his gaze unwaveringly, despite the pink that tinged her cheeks. "Of course we are."

His traitorous heart skipped a beat. Friends cared when another one got injured. Nothing to get excited about.

"Good thing I have every intention of sticking around then," Harry said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Good," she said with a small smile. "So how are you really?"

Despite his best efforts, her concern warmed him. "It's only residual spell damage. Your mum is great; I really appreciate it, but I don't want to be a bother."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "You're never a bother, Harry."

He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers rubbing against his lightning scar out of habit. "Healers said I need to rest. I don't need to be fussed over, Ginny."

Strange that what flashed in his mind was his small hands covering his mouth, don't cough, don't cough, unable to suppress his inflamed chest from rattling noisily, only to be met with a shrill, sharp rapping against the cupboard door that clanged in his feverish haze.

The feel of Ginny's hand on his arm brought him back. Her warm brown eyes regarded him intently. "We all need a bit of fussing now and again, Harry."

He swallowed the large lump that was lodged in his throat.

"You should let us take care of you."

She released his arm and turned to mutter a spell for the contents of the basket to arrange themselves in his larder. Despite the tingling absence her touch left behind, he wondered if she had done it to deliberately give him a moment to collect himself.

That would be very much like her.

"Well," Ginny said, clearing her throat. "I suppose I should let you get some rest."

"No, I — would you maybe like some tea?" Harry flushed at her raised eyebrows. To avoid looking at her, he shifted his attention to rubbing a small stain of ink left on the table. "I can't fall asleep. A bit of company might…help." He paused, mortification building up inside him. "Unless you have other plans, of course."

"I can stay," Ginny said slowly. He tried not to sag in relief.

"Molly won't mind?"

"She was very explicit about making sure you were comfortable." She nudged him, finally making him drag his eyes away from the table. "Why don't you make a fire and put your feet up in the living room? I'll bring out the tea."

"I can help," he said immediately, only to find her guiding him toward the door.

"I may not be a culinary genius, but I can manage tea on my own, Harry."

"I'm the host," he began.

"I'll only stay on the condition that you let yourself be fussed over a little." She arched a challenging eyebrow at him.

"All right, all right, you win, Ginny." He made a show of sighing dramatically.

"Did you really expect otherwise?" She chuckled, giving him one last push before turning to fiddle with his kettle.

Not really.

Harry dropped onto his couch with more gusto than he had expected, sinking into the soft cushions deeply. Merlin, he truly was exhausted. A glance at the clock over his mantle confirmed his grim suspicion that he had been awake for over thirty-two hours. Yet, despite the fatigue deep in his bones, he still felt wired. Harry gave a lazy flick of his wand at the fireplace and it came to life.

"Isn't that better?" Ginny walked towards him with two mugs of steaming tea. The smile she gave him warmed him more than the heat coming from the fire. She held one of the mugs out to him. "Just herbal so you can hopefully sleep."

"Thank you." He accepted a mug from her. She settled beside him, one leg curled under the other, leading to her knee being pleasantly pressed against his thigh.

Absently, he rubbed his sore ribs. He was likely failing at hiding how he watched her over the rim of his mug. Warmth spread through him at the sight of her there, the glow from the fire illuminating her in warm oranges and yellows. It was such a comfortable, domestic setting that he had to force himself to focus lest he got lost in his foolish daydreams again.

That's not what this is.

"What brings you home?" he asked.

"Oh you know," she said, staring at the fire and taking a tentative sip of her tea. "Becoming a starter is great, but it makes being around the other team members all the time a bit…grating. We all get along, but the breaks are nice. It's easier to relax at home."

With family, Harry reminded himself as he absently rubbed his side. Not him.

"I'm sure everyone is happy to see more of you," he said, trying to keep his voice light.

"Except you," she said casually.

"What?" He straightened.

"You seemed to be expecting a different ginger earlier," she teased.

He eased back with a scoff. "More like shooing him away."

"Admit it, you miss him."

He made a noise of complaint but didn't deny it. "I asked you to stay."

"So you did," she said softly, a small smile breaking through, and damn if it didn't make his stomach swoop.

They listened to the faint crackling from the fire in companionable silence for a moment. Harry tilted the mug to his lips when Ginny spoke again.

"Is it hard?"

"What?" he sputtered, the liquid traveling down the wrong pipe, causing him to cough and choke. He quickly set down his mug.

"Was it something I said?" She laughed, seeming to revel in his discomfort as she gave him several firm pats to his back. "Unless you're telling me…"

"You'll be the death of me." Harry sighed, grateful that the hot flush could be explained by his choking, not the memories of wanking to her a week earlier.

"Don't worry, I'm well aware that you're not up for…other activities."

"I wasn't—"

"Weren't you?"

"Ginny." He made a strangled noise, covering half of his face.

"All right, all right. I'll stop taking the mickey out of you." Ginny tried to hide an amused smile.

"Is what hard?" Harry asked, desperate to change the topic.

"Being without Ron," she said, seeming to take mercy on him.

"Oh." He frowned down at the tea. "Well, it isn't the same without him. I still see him plenty, of course, just…" He shrugged, not sure how to put in words how different it was not to have Ron and Hermione by his side after all those years. The comfort of Ron's laughter and Hermione's huffs. It had been hard enough when only he and Ron had become Aurors. And now, he was alone.

"I'm sure he misses you too."

"He has George and Hermione," Harry said, pulling at an errant thread from the couch.

"You have people, Harry," Ginny said, voice soft, her cheek pressed against the curve of the couch. The way the light danced against her fiery hair captivated him.

"I know I still have Ron and Hermione. It's just…different." He felt like he should look away, but he couldn't seem to. Something tight pressed against his chest.

"Different isn't always bad. And you have other friends. Neville, Hannah, Luna." She bit down on her lower lip. "Me."

"Yeah," he said, his heart pounding loudly. A tremor went through him as he let his hand fall on her knee, a short distance from her own. "Friends."

It meant so much and yet wasn't nearly enough.

Ginny gave him a small smile before straightening. The moment broke as she adjusted her position to put her mug down. Harry snatched his hand back, flexing it by his side.

"As your friend, I need to tell you that you look dead on your feet."

"Way to make a bloke feel good, Gin," he said, smiling sadly as the heavy weariness returned.

"Is the pain too much? Did they give you anything?"

Harry pulled a face. "I already took some pain potion, but it doesn't seem to help much with the residual spell aftereffects. And some sleepless draught, but."

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah. They didn't know that. Well." He shrugged, pulling at a frayed string he found on his couch.

She had been there after the war when the potion became less and less effective, unable to drown out his grief and guilt.

"All I need to do is 'just relax,'" he said, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what Ginny's face looked like.

"Maybe I can help with that."

Harry froze when he felt the couch beside him creak as her weight shifted.

"Ginny, what—" he started, turning to her, only to realize how close she was. He could barely breathe as her fingers brushed against his cheek as she reached up to slowly, carefully remove his glasses.

"Take off your shirt."

His face warmed. "Ginny."

"If you want," she said, placing his hands on her hips, sliding them up just under her jumper. His thumb roughly skimmed over the slip of warm, exposed skin. "I can help you relax."

Harry could hardly breathe when she was looking at him that way but managed a small nod. And then she was leaning in to kiss him. Her lips pressed gently against his, a slow pressure building, swirling deep inside him. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, needing to drown in her proffered relief.

"Ginny," he breathed against her lips, which provided her the opportunity to trace her tongue over his lower lip before dipping it into him. Without conscious heeding, his hands delved further under her jumper, finally gratifying the gnawing need to touch her since the moment he opened the door, needing to prove that she was here, she was real, and for a moment, she was willing to be his.

Keen urgency surged up in him as she rolled her hips against him, sending waves of pleasure rippling through him. He shifted to press her closer, to pour the relentless need into the kiss, only for a razor-sharp pain to slice through him. He broke away with a gasp.

"Harry?"

The spasm in his side told him he would likely regret partaking in other activities afterward. He took in a breath to steady himself, only to inhale her sweet scent.

Fuck it.

"'S fine," he gritted out. He went to kiss her again, only to have her pull away.

"Harry—"

"It's nothing," he insisted, pressing his lips against the soft curve of her neck, hoping to distract her. He attempted to lower her onto the couch, only for the pain to rip through him once again.

Harry hissed, jerking back.

"Stop," Ginny demanded.

"I'm sorry, fuck, I —" His grip on her tightened. He felt weak and useless, afraid if he let go, she would disappear.

"No, Harry." Her calm voice cut through his panic.

She cupped his face, kissing him deeply until his heart slowed. When she pulled away, he was gratified by her breathiness that suggested she was just as affected. Her firm hand pressed against him seemed to order him to ease back, and he let himself relax back into the couch, relieving the discomfort some.

"Don't move — you're hurt," she said. "You'll only make it worse. Leave it to me."

Harry's breath hitched when Ginny pulled her jumper over her head, revealing a thin cotton vest. Her red-golden hair tumbled down her shoulders in a beautiful mess. He tried really hard not to stare. He wasn't very confident he pulled it off.

"Your turn," she said, her fingers tracing the hem of his shirt.

Unable to resist her, he could do nothing but raise his arms, allowing her to gently tug the shirt off. He could feel her eyes traveling on him, no doubt taking in the angry, red-purple bruise.

In the glow of the firelight, this felt strangely more intimate than any of their previous rendezvous, most of which had been in the dark under not a little influence of alcohol. Both of them were sober, and with little chance of Harry being able to do much without further injuring himself.

The urge to know what she thought of him was as strong as the urge to hide from her gaze.

When he glanced up, he realized she wasn't staring at his new injury, but his old scars. Her fingers lightly traced over the oval and lightning scar over his heart. Did she know what they were from? Had Ron or Hermione ever mentioned the locket?

"Ginny…" Harry said, a small break in his voice. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but he needed to do something to fight against the roiling feeling that threatened to swamp him.

She lightly guided him onto his back, against the cushions, horizontal on the couch. Her long hair surrounded her like a red curtain, her lips descending back onto his, easing away the tight ball of tension inside him. When she moved to kiss his pulse point, he made an embarrassingly urgent sound.

"I reckoned two weeks alone in a tent, with no one but your right hand…if that's not stressful, I don't know what is," she chuckled, a low rumbling that sent shivers up his spine. "Consider it a friendly pick-me-up."

Ginny slowly shimmied lower, her hands and lips and oh God tongue trailing down his chest, skimming his hip bone, lower and lower until she was settled between his legs.

Harry's mouth went dry at the sight. Her lips curved as she undid his trousers where she had undoubtedly noticed his growing arousal. He attempted to blink away the fog of desire that clouded his thoughts as she fumbled with the straining buttons.

"Tell me if anything hurts."

"But I can't — return the favor," he said, his voice hitching as she removed his trousers. It didn't feel right, him not being able to make her feel good.

"Mum did say to make you comfortable," she teased, her fingers skimming over a sensitive area, making him jump slightly.

Harry groaned. "Ginny, I really don't want to be thinking about your mum right now."

She laughed as her hand wrapped around him lightly, making it really difficult for him to focus. "Then stop thinking."

She leaned in, her tongue dangerously close, but Harry's hand shot out to stop her. "Really, you don't —"

"I want to," she said.

His brain stuttered, struggling to catch up with what was about to happen — what Ginny wanted to do.

No one had done that for him before.

Ginny gave him an odd look, firelight catching in her eyes. "Let me take care of you, Harry."

He stilled, unable to comprehend, let alone respond to her. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, his mind unable to count the times anyone had done that for him. There weren't many. His throat narrowed painfully, a rawness choking up inside him. He turned his face into the couch, letting his hand fall away and jerking his head in assent.

And then Harry couldn't think at all.

Inarticulate words tumbled from his lips, and he would be embarrassed if it weren't for the mind-blowing sensation of her warm, wet mouth around him. He whimpered when her tongue swirled around him, overstimulated already, all the more so by the traitorous thought that she could taste him.

"Fuck," he gasped.

Ginny stilled her soft lips that had been gliding over the tip of him. Harry made a strangled noise at the sight of her flushed face, her fingers tenderly curled around him, glistening with wetness. Her eyes sought his, her brow slightly furrowed. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," he blurted out, winded by the desperation that sprang up. "Yes, please—"

Don't stop. Please don't stop.

For a moment, as she seemed to hesitate, he squeezed his eyes shut to push down the impending cold in his chest. Of course he would ruin this. Already he could see her changing her mind and leaving him.

He groaned when her tongue slowly dragged over him, obliterating his ability to form thoughts. Sweet agony shuddered through him.

Harry was burning up, engulfed in the unbelievable sensation of the hot pressure of her mouth. He couldn't breathe as her fingers and tongue explored, taking turns brushing over his most sensitive areas. He gasped and strained his head further into the cushion, his body strumming with overwhelming pleasure.

After everything they had already done, why did this make him feel so utterly exposed?

"Gin," he moaned, feeling himself hanging on by the cliff's edge. Fear pierced through the haze of desire. His hands clenched the cushions, praying he could hold on, hold back, refrain from shifting his hips or helping her torture him further.

For all his fantasies, he had never imagined this. Ginny wanting to do this for him. Wanting nothing in return. The thought made him soft and weak inside.

It couldn't be real, it couldn't be real.

"Relax, Harry," she whispered against him. The feel of her hot breath made him tremble. One of her hands found his, entwining their fingers together, anchoring him. "It's okay. Let yourself feel good."

With great effort and trepidation, Harry looked down through half-lidded eyes to see Ginny taking more of him than he ever thought possible, her hair wild and mussed, a sight that elicited a low moan from him. His trembling hand in hers squeezed tightly, afraid of letting go of his tentative control as she dragged him closer and closer to the edge.

A shiver ran through him at her unrelenting gaze as she took in what she was doing to him, watching him come undone for her. The curl of a smile on her rosy-red lips — that she was enjoying doing this to him.

Let me take care of you.

He slammed his eyes shut as the barriers he'd tried to build came tumbling down. She didn't mean it that way, she didn't, but knowing this did nothing to prevent the flare of longing and hope inside him.

"Gin, I—" Harry panted, the intensity becoming too much. His body began to arch off the couch. "I'm going to—you don't—"

He clenched his jaw, straining to pull away, but she only tightened her hold on him, moving harder, confirming her intentions.

Oh God, she was going to—could it mean that she—

Harry threw his head back, his entire body tightening and convulsing as he came, something in him spinning out of control. Stars burst behind his eyes as he toppled off the cliff's edge. When he managed to lift his eyelids to see her swallowing, a last quiver of pleasure tore through him.

The entire time, her hand remained in his, holding his fingers as tightly as he did hers, promising that she would catch him when he let go.

He felt boneless, his body either floating off or melting back into the couch, he couldn't be entirely sure.

Something heavy spread over him, covering the warmth that unfurled from his chest. His mind grappled weakly for the word to place it.

"Ginny," he mumbled, his voice thick and slow.

"Sleep, Harry," he heard her say. Her voice sounded distant. As the last of his strength ebbed away, fingers threaded through his hair, lingering. Vaguely, something brushed against his lips as he faded into blissful oblivion.

Harry awoke to his hand grasping at the cool air.

Blinking blearily, he noticed the dying fire, the last of the embers fading quietly. His eyes swept the room, taking in the thick blanket laid over him. His glasses glinted from the coffee table. The pain in his side had receded but had been replaced with the dull ache in his chest.

Ginny was gone, taking all the warmth with her.