Fic: Around the Twist (Harry/Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione)
To: jenadamson
From: antoshevu

Title: Around the Twist
Author: antosha_c (fic journal)
Recipient's name: jenadamson
Rating: NC-17/Adult
Pairing(s): Harry/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione/Ron, Harry/Ginny
Warnings (if any): Wankery, angstery, smutty talkery, jiggery pokery...
Author's notes (if any): It was great fun writing this to order; I'd never done anything like this. Jen--hope you enjoy what Harry... gets up to. :-)


Around the Twist

The scratching sound from the ceiling begins again, and Harry groans. Within a minute, a soft, rhythmic thumping joins in time with the scraping, and he curls in upon himself, trying to bury his head under the pillow.

He could have chosen the upper bedroom—the one that was Fred and George's during the summer before fifth year—but he thought it polite to let Hermione and Ron have it. It is bigger.

He could have taken one of the bedrooms on the top floors, but the master bedroom is still a mess from Buckbeak's days there, Sirius's room is too full of memories... And the Weasley's room is too full of reminders.

A soft sigh from above penetrates his pillow, and he finds himself answering it with a whimper.

Ginny and Hermione's old room is right out. Even walking past the door he is sure he can still detect...

They've been using Grimmauld Place as their base for months—Hermione renewed the Fidelius Charm, and only the three of them are in on the Secret, so it is the perfect place for them to research and stage their raids. The larder and the library are well stocked, most of the Dark objects have been cleared out—not RAB's locket, which Kreacher conveniently left in his nest, and which provided them with their first tangible bit of progress. In many ways, the past four months have been a schoolboy's fantasy of hiding out and fighting Evil.

Only Hermione isn't a schoolboy. Strictly speaking, neither are Ron and Harry any more. And Ron and Hermione have been acting very much their age.

A giggle upstairs breaks the steady rhythm of scrape-sigh-thud, scrape-sigh-thud.

Blessedly, Harry has only actually walked in on them once—when they'd apparently surprised themselves by succumbing to their own desires in the sitting room. The image of Hermione's breasts gamboling against the cushion of the couch that Ron was leaning her over took an immediate and indelible place in his imagination.

For two days after, the three of them went about their business in utter silence. Madam Pince would have been proud.

In his mind's eye, Harry sees her now, twelve feet above his head, on her hands and knees. Her bathrobe—was he too stupid to see her nipples through the fabric before, or is he just imagining them when he sees her now?—is piled up over her bum: round,and magnificent, jiggling with Ron's thrusts, jiggling in time with her swaying breasts.

Ron groans.

Perhaps she is on her back, her thighs blooming pink on the insides where Ron's hips slap against them, Ron, his mouth open and eyes shut, Hermione, her head thrown back...

Ginny, the soft flesh of her belly beneath his lips, scent of flowers, a hungry whimper as he presses himself between her legs...

For the third time that day, Harry feels himself stiffening, his cock swelling within the hand that has unconsciously looped itself around the one piece of his flesh that even Madam Pomfrey hasn't poked at—flesh secret to himself.

And, on three miraculous occasions, Ginny. Her clever fingers slipping past the waistband of his trousers and evoking sensations that Harry would never have believed possible. All that groaning and giggling about wanking from Dean and Seamus and grunting late at night from Neville’s bed, Ron’s sighing Hermione’s name in the loo, and Harry never knew. Never understood how flesh on flesh can perform such magic, can coax you out of yourself.

Now he knows. Now he can’t stop.

The first time that Ginny rubbed him to explosion he cried when he came and she cradled him, kissing his forehead. And then he slipped his fingers beneath her skirt, past the elastic of her knickers’ leg to the moist, warm flesh beneath, and, trembling by the lake-side, she showed him how to return the favor.

That is where he longs to be now. Cuddled against her secret flesh, his own cock pressing into her…

Hermione screams Ron’s name, and the bed above slams against the wall one last time and skids to a stop.

Harry’s fingers are stroking, grasping tightly at his cock—the head is dark red and the flesh stings with use and need. I have to take a shower, he thinks, and with great, unwilling determination detaches hand from rod. A girl’s high voice sighs Oh, oh, oh, and he cannot tell if he is hearing Hermione from the room above or Ginny in his own mind, and he knows that if he does not do something right now he will go mad. Around the twist. And that wanking isn’t doing something. Not any more.

He stumbles into the bathroom and sheds his glasses and pyjamas, jumping beneath the shower before he has time to think about the fact that it’s going to be frigid; it’s been a chill autumn. The cold water sears his flesh and deflates his erection, and the pain of its shrinking is almost a relief.

Dumbledore talked about Love. About it being the greatest force in the universe, at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature. When the headmaster told him that, Harry scoffed; in fairness, Harry was furious at the time, and love wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But now... Now he can feel love—his love for Ginny, his love for Ron and their family, his love for Hermione—he can feel all of that love twisting him, warping him like the wet clay that his primary school art teacher had shown them how to shape on a wheel.

Potter. Potter the Potter, Piers Polkiss sneered. But Harry didn’t mind because the cool, smooth feel of the wet earth beneath his fingers felt good, and shapes formed—magically formed—as the clay spun between his hands: a lovely flower-blossom cup.

A lily.

And Dudley quietly smashed it when the teacher wasn’t looking, but Harry didn’t care. Much. He made something. And the feel of it, alive and slippery...

Ginny’s slit, slick and soft and warm beneath his fingers. Her fingers, slim and strong around his shaft...

Hermione’s breasts, shock waves rippling through them as Ron thrusts into her, their love and lust animal and terrible, their faces twisted...

“FUCK!” With a frustrated scream, Harry turns off the water and collapses in the tub. His cock is as erect and demanding now as it ever was, and Harry knows it won’t go away, but knows too that if he tries to assuage it now while it is wet or uses soap it will only shred his overused skin until he bleeds and it still won’t satisfy its hunger. His hunger. His desire. “GOD!”

The door bursts open and a wide-eyed, wild-haired Hermione flies in, Ron just behind her. Her gown is at best haphazardly closed and even as Harry scrambles to hide himself, to cover his adamant shame, he cannot help but notice a berry-colored blur of a nipple bouncing near the hem.

“Harry!” Hermione gasps.

“You... You okay, mate?” asks Ron, and the only mercy is that there isn’t even the hint of a smirk in his friend’s voice.

“I’m f-f-fine,” Harry manages to splutter, but he knows he isn’t fooling them, lying there with tears flowing down his wet cheeks and his hands cupped over his engorged penis.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs, and her compassion only makes Harry feel worse—or perhaps she is merely giving him permission—and the floodgates open and Harry begins to weep in earnest.

Two sets of hands pull him up, lead him out of the tub, wrap him in a towel and dry him off. Two sets of arms pull him into a warm, trembling hug.

Through the towel, Harry’s cock strains against Hermione’s round, wide belly.

“Harry,” Ron says, and Harry can hear the hesitancy in his friend’s voice. “Harry, how can we?...”

“We’re so sorry, Harry. We didn’t think to put Imperturbable Charms on the floor as well as the door. That really wasn’t fair of us.”

“No, no, no, it’s not you,” Harry hisses. “It’s me. I’m just... twisted. I’m sick. I...”

“You miss her, don’t you, Harry,” says Ron, and Harry feels what little blood isn’t pooled in his pelvis rushing to his face. Wanking himself bloody thinking about Ron’s sister...

“Harry, we understand.” It is Hermione’s voice this time and new shame floods Harry, knowing that Hermione knows. That Hermione, who thinks of him as a friend, as a great wizard, knowing that she knows that he dreams of girls’ pussies and bums and breasts. Of her pussy, even when he dreams of Ginny. “We’re sorry, Harry.”

“Maybe...” Ron mutters. “Maybe we can help you out a bit. Maybe Hermione...”

“Ron?” snaps Hermione, and Harry feels his innards tear.

“I know what it’s like,” Ron snaps back with deadly urgency, and Harry isn’t sure whether he was talking to Hermione or to Harry or to himself. “Being around you for months. Wanting to touch you, to... to fuck you and not being able to and feeling like I was going to bloody explode. Like if someone didn’t touch me, I was going to bloody die. For real, die.”

Harry moans, and he feels Hermione shift against him and hates himself for noticing that her cotton-covered nipples are stiffening against his chest and shoulder. Hates himself for noticing that the two of them reek of sex.

“Ron, are you suggesting?...” Hermione begins, but a wet sound closes her mouth; Ron has kissed his verbacious girlfriend into silence. The nipples press harder against Harry’s flesh, and it is only because he is terrified and because the two of them are already holding him that he restrains his hands from grasping those breasts, from pinching those nipples, from pulling her... “Harry,” Hermione says quite breathily. “Harry, I... I could... help you. If you wanted. If that didn’t seem too disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Harry finally manages to say, an angry laugh. “Why the bloody hell would the idea of you touching me be disgusting?”

“Well,” Hermione murmurs, “I know I’m not exactly as pretty as Ginny, or as Cho...”

Ron begins to grumble but Harry once again beats him to it. “Fat bloody lot you know. You’re bloody gorgeous, Hermione. Ron’s the luckiest fucking bastard in the world, and he knows it.” Harry can feel her shiver against him, and it doesn’t help matters. “But... You two love each other. And I... I love Ginny, and I fucking sent her away and I fucking miss her so fucking much and I’m so bloody randy I can’t take it, and you two, I don’t want you not to enjoy... But the sound or even the thought of the sound fills my fucking head and my fucking body and it makes me so bloody hard, and I... FUCK!” Harry collapses in frustration against his friends’ embrace, furious with his body that it doesn’t seem to care that Hermione is Ron’s girlfriend, not his, that Ginny is the one he wants. Furious with his body that what it really wants to do just now is push his best friend up against the counter and shove itselfinto whatever hole is available.

“Harry,” Hermione says, and it is the rational, logical Hermione voice, and Harry thanks whatever stars are watching over him, because that voice returns him to something like himself. “I’d be happy to help you—but only if you think that it would help. That it wouldn’t just make you feel worse.”

“Please,” Harry moans.

Ron grunts and Hermione gives a quick gasp. “All right, Harry. All right. I’d be.. Goodness.” Leaning forward, she gives him a quick, fluttery kiss on the lips, and he can feel her grinning against his mouth. Then, stepping back out of the group embrace, she squares her shoulders. “Ron, Harry, I’ll only do this if I know you both understand that it doesn’t change anything. That we’re still friends.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, and his voice is low with something Harry have guessed in a different situation was anger. Harry nods emphatically.

Hermione speaks again, and her voice is edging higher; she knows they are doing something terribly dangerous: “Good. And I won’t... won’t fuck you, Harry, because I know Ginny would never forgive me, and I wouldn’t forgive myself. And I won’t do anything unless Ron stays. I don’t want you imagining things that didn’t happen, love. And I don’t want you feeling like we’re doing anything sneaky, Harry. Because I...” Something chokes her voice off, and Harry wishes that he could see the blob that is her face more clearly. “Do you both understand?”

In his peripheral vision, Harry sees Ron’s fuzzy profile nodding vigorously. He follows suit.

Trembling hands—Hermione’s, callused and fine—take his shoulders and move him back. “Perhaps... Here, Harry, why don’t you have a seat?”

Suddenly, he is feeling cold—colder than he did in the shower. Shaking, he complies. The wooden lid of the toilet presses up flat against his balls, pushes his erection up into the towel. Hermione is moving in front of him, arranging the bathmat, kneeling down. “Wait... Uh...” Harry says with a swallow. “Could I?... I’d like to see. May I have my glasses?” Out of the indistinct fog, Harry sees a large hand clutching the familiar black frames. Ron’s hand. “Thanks, mate.”

“’Snothing, mate.”

Sliding on his glasses, Harry sees them both: Hermione, ashen, eyes wide and bright; Ron dark with some emotion that Harry can’t even begin to fathom. “Guys... You don’t have to do this, Hermione. I don’t... Ron, it’s okay. I’ll survive.”

A grin flashes across his friend’s wide face and he says, “I... I don’t mind at all, Harry. As long as it’s okay with Hermione.” He strokes her hair, and she gives a small smile. “It’s actually kind of... a turn-on, you know?”

Hermione’s white face pinkens.

Harry doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t think he can take talking about this much longer.

“Do you know what fellatio is, Harry?” When he shakes his head, Hermione continues tentatively. “A blow job?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.”

She runs her fingers along his towel-covered leg. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

Choking on his heart, Harry glances up at Ron. His redheaded friend is grinning even more broadly. “Trust me, Harry, you would like it. Her mouth is amazing.”

Gulping for air, Harry gasps, “Okay.”

Hermione’s brown eyes search up into his, and Harry is struck for the first time at just how different this brown is from the bright cinnamon in Ginny’s irises. Hermione’s eyes are dark, piercing... and uncertain, just now.

“Hermione,” Harry pleads.

She favors him with a nearly imperceptible grin and peels back the towel.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Harry has no idea which of the three of them took it.

Her fingers, ink-stained and long, reach out and touch his cock gently.

Another gasp, and this time Harry knows it’s his.

“Does mine look that fucking huge?” Ron groans, his face dark again.

“I’m not going to play adolescent male comparison games, Ron. But yes, yours is quite nice.” Her fingers curl around the cock they’re both staring at and suddenly Harry can’t look anymore.

“Oh, god, Hermione!”

It’s easy to forget, rubbing your knob night after night, day after day, hour after hour, that having someone else rub it is a very different, very nice feeling.

And then Hermione, prim, perfect, prefect Hermione lowers her mouth to the head of his cock. Circles the head with her tongue. Her eyes on his the entire time.

This is not a nice feeling. It is a feeling that is so good that it hurts.

“Merlin,” Ron groans.

Ginny offered to do this once, out by the lake, but Harry was so nervous and so eager that he’d spurted before she’d even gotten his fly all of the way down. Ginny didn’t mind. At least she said she didn’t.

Her lips over her teeth, Hermione slowly takes Harry’s head into her mouth; he can feel the flare of his helmet pressing against the roof of her mouth. Can feel the bursts of excited breath from her nostrils along his length.

Ginny’s mouth, small and hot, her tongue against his, sharp-tipped and searching...

Harry finds his hands fisting in Hermione’s bushy hair and it is only through a supreme effort of will that he keeps himself from pulling his friend’s mouth all the way down the length of his cock. “Fuck, Hermione!”

She pulls back off of him just a touch and beams when he whimpers. “Do you like that, Harry?”

“Oh, god! Fuck yesss!”

She takes him back into her mouth, deeper this time, and slowly begins to bob, her fist running up and down his shaft as her tongue swirls over his tip. Glorious.

One night, late, Ginny revising for her History OWLs, and Harry kept her company, just because he hadn’t seen her all day, and when Colin, Romilda and Euan were finally the last ones to disappear up the dormitory stairs, she pounced on him, straddling him in the couch, her hair blinding him, her crotch, thin cotton clad, grinding against his own until she shrieked and he screamed...

“Fuck, Hermione, that’s so fucking hot,” Ron cries out, and he moves up behind her, his hands running under the gown, a breast bouncing free. A hand running down past her belly, past where Harry can see.

Hermione groans around his cock.

“Suck his cock, love,” Ron growls into her ear. “Take Harry’s cock in that swotty, smartarse mouth and make him come.”

Her eyes still locked on his, Hermione’s cheeks glow red as they fill and hollow. Shame? Desire? With the hand that had been resting on Harry’s thigh, she reaches up and roughly squeezes his nipple.

A tingling, like the most painful pins-and-needles ever, a contraction deep within. Ginny, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed bright red, nipples hard as diamonds as they pound their pelvises together, “I’m yours, I’m yours!”

“GINNY!”

Even after two bouts of masturbation earlier in the day, the force of the orgasm threatens to destroy Harry. His hips buck and a flood of warmth explodes out of him and into Hermione’s hot, soft mouth. Not just one pulse but a dozen, each releasing its own bit of the shadow that has been smothering him.

A brief cough, and Hermione swallows, releasing his penis from that incredible mouth, staring up into Harry’s eyes with a look of ferocious pride.

Then Ron turns her to him and they kiss, and Harry can see her jaw working as she presses her tongue into Ron’s mouth. Harry’s jism into Ron’s mouth.

And Harry can see their bodies arching together, kneeling there on the bathroom floor, the head of Ron’s cock poking purply out from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Hermione’s nipples appropriately enough the shape and size of pencil erasers against Ron’s chest. Her hands tangled in his mane of hair.

Harry stands on shaky legs. “Thanks, guys,” he says, covering himself with the towel again. They break apart. Barely.

“Thank you, Harry,” says Hermione, blinking up at him, her voice low as he has never heard it.

“Hope it helped,” Ron grunts, biting the inside of his cheeks, and Harry smiles, knowing that they are both doing everything they can not to fuck at his feet.

“It did,” he says with a smile, and leaves, casting an Imperturbable Charm on the door once it closes behind him.


***


Once Harry returns to his bed—cursing the fact that he’s forgotten his pyjamas—he realizes that it has helped. But it hasn’t.

The randy insanity into which Harry was about to lose himself is gone—the edge of it taken off, at least—but as he settles naked between the sheets he finds himself hard as ever. Thinking about Ginny. And about what’s just happened.

Has he betrayed Ginny? Or Ron?

How would he feel if he saw Ginny sucking off a friend of theirs—Neville? Dean? What did she do with Dean? She’d never wanted to discuss it, and Dean was always unwilling to talk specifics about what he got up to with Ginny—out of fear of Ron’s wrath as much as out of delicacy, probably. Did she take him in her mouth? She jerked Harry off expertly enough—had she practiced on their friend and teammate? Or on Michael Corner, the git? Had either of them buried his fingers or tongue or cock in her blessed folds? She’d told Harry she was still a virgin, but what did that mean?

And what about now? They’ve talked and—very carefully and infrequently—written since Dumbledore’s funeral, but Harry made it very clear to her that, feel for her as he still did, they couldn’t be together just now. She said she never gave up on him. But he has no claim on her. Maybe she’s seeing someone. Maybe she is fucking him right now.

Would watching that excite Harry as watching Hermione clearly excited Ron?

No.

No, he’d want to kill the boy, and then himself.

Not Ginny. No. He couldn’t blame her; he gave her free rein.

He loves her.

But he’d rather die than watch some other boy’s dick press through her lips, or her... lips.

And yet he’s just come in Hermione’s mouth. Not Ginny’s. How is that fair?

And here he is, hard as iron again, and Harry knows that he can’t go back to Hermione, that she and Ron are busy—they must have retired to the bedroom; he can hear the bed above him beginning to move again—and that he has no right with anyone but Ginny (small breasts bouncing on either side of his face), but he has no right with her...

Her thin lips tracing the length of his cock as his tongue traces the line of her labia...

Clear liquid is spilling from the tip of his cock and—in spite of himself—Harry uses his palm to spread the slick stuff along his penis and he feels a kind of panic sweeping over him. What the fuck’s wrong with you, Potter? Can’t you leave it alone?

Evidently not.

Circling the nub of flesh at the front of her, her clit, flicking it, making her squirm, feeling her swallow him to the root...

Ginny.

Harry’s cock swells, pulsing in his hand; not soon, this round. He’ll last for a long, long time, and hate himself from beginning to end.

The beast within him stretches, pleased at being given so much exercise, its wings spreading at the thought of those thin, pale lips against his, of her tongue—salty with his come—dancing with his own, and he begins to wail, knowing that he could rub himself bloody, could rub the fucking thing right off, but that still wouldn’t satisfy his need, his hunger. “Oh, god, Ginny!”

“—Oh! Harry! SHIT! Harry?”

Harry’s eyes fly open and are dazzled. There she is, face barely visible through her wild, red hair, shirt open, bra pulled up over her breasts, skirt pulled up over her hips, knickers dangling from an ankle, sex open and flushed. An aureole glimmers about her, the remnants of a flare of gold and red.

“Harry? Are you all right?” she pants. “What the fuck?...”

His lips find her lips. His hands find her breasts—heaving, nipples diamond-hard. Her hands find his bum and pull him to her until the head of his cock begins to press into the slick cleft that it has been straining to plow for months. “Wait. Wait. Ginny. Hold on,” he mumbles into her mouth

“Don’t want to hold on. Want to fuck you.”

“Ginny. Bugger. Want you so much...”

“Want you too. Want you so fucking much...” She mashes her slit along the shaft of his cock. “Bugger? Want to stick that beautiful thing of yours in my bottom, Harry? You can. I’m yours. My arse. My cunt. My mouth. My tits. Anything you want. All yours. But please, Harry,” she urges, an edge of mad desperation in her voice. “Fuck first, talk later. Or fuck and talk. But please!...”

He may be a git, but Harry Potter is not completely stupid. He spears up into her tight heat. “Fuck!” they both shout, and laugh, their pelvises finding a comfortable rhythm almost immediately. Harry feels her laughter around his cock, and that makes him happier than anything, happier even than the smooth, soft flesh that is clutching his penis.

As much as being inside of Hermione’s mouth transcended his own ministrations, this outdoes that: body against body, her cunt tight and grasping around his thrusting cock, her breasts bouncing against his chest, mouth searching mouth and it’s Ginny...

Hermione. Fuck. He’s gone from one girl to another before his dick has even had time to dry.

Pelvis still rocking against pelvis, he pushes back just enough to look down on her. Sees her, beautiful beyond words, eyes and mouth wide with wonder. “I love you so much, Ginny. I never said. I’m sorry.” As if to give her the measure of his love, he withdraws his cock to the tip, almost to the point of losing contact, and then plunges it back in to her. Sheathing himself in her. Losing himself in her. And every ripple of her as he does is like some ridiculous, miraculous explosion; he feels like one of the twins’ never-ending Roman candles, flares and sparks of sensation connecting him to Ginny.

“Love you, too, Harry. It’s okay.” Her eyes fly wide as he thrusts back in again. “Fuck!”

They laugh again, but Harry feels a tinge of sadness coloring his joy. “Didn’t hurt you, did I? Aren’t girls?...” A thought passes through his head and he mentally tries to bat it away, banish it.

“Not girls who’ve been riding broomsticks for ten years, silly boy.” Her eyes glitter mischievously.

“Broomsticks? Whose broomstick you been riding?” It’s a joke. A tease. But it isn’t, and he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Her hands push back on his hips, stopping his thrusts. “Hey! For that matter, boys are supposed to explode within the first thirty seconds, not bang away for ten minutes. Anyone been riding your broomstick while I’ve been pining away for you at Hogwarts, Potter?”

“No!” Harry says, but his face falls, and she sees it and her chin juts out dangerously.

“What’s going on, Harry?” she asks, twisting away from him so that they almost disengage.

“No, Ginny, stop. Please. Talk while fucking, right?” He kisses her and holds her tight. After a moment he feels her legs pull him back in.

“Okay,” she sighs, her face still not quite open. “So what gives, Harry? What’s turned you into Mr. Everlast?”

Sighing, Harry looks into her eyes, willing her to believe the truth. “I’ve been dying here, Ginny, thinking of you every day. Every night.”

She peers at him, gauging his honesty. Slowly, she begins to rock against him again, and he groans. “Thinking about me, were you, Harry?”

“More than thinking, Ginny.”

She grins, a hint of wariness flashing in her eyes. “Always said you were a wanker.”

Now it is his turn to laugh. “Yeah, well, I pretty well earned that title lately.”

She leans up and kisses his nipple. “Poor boy.”

“But... Ginny...”

She looks at him now, trusting but nervous. Their movement together is small, now, but exquisite. The sparks all the brighter for being fewer.

“Tonight...”

“Tonight, what? You pick up some Muggle girl to fill your lonely nights, Harry? Capture some Death Eater slag?”

“No, Ginny, no, it’s not like that, I swear, I...”

A shudder passes through her. “Just tell me, Harry. You shagged some girl. Then you hadn’t had enough so you sent that bloody bird off to yank me out of...”

“Bird? What are you on about?” They are belly to belly, resting, neither moving. This really isn’t how Harry wanted his first time with Ginny—with anyone—to go.

“That bloody phoenix of Dumbledore’s, of course. What bird do you think?” She’s looking at him now as if he may perhaps have lost a few brain cells since she saw him last.

“Fawkes? Fawkes came and brought you here?” Harry thinks about the ephemeral sparks that were fading around Ginny when Harry first opened his eyes. Of course.

“Yeah. Appeared in the bed, latched on to me, and poof, here I was, ready for ravishing.”

“You were in your bed?” Harry grins, beginning to slide into her again.

Her eyes get bright and cagey. “Didn’t say it was my bed, now did I?”

The beast is back in Harry’s chest, scaly and furious, as he thinks about her state when she arrived. Clothes undone. Face flushed. Cunt wet and ready. Nipples hard as pebbles. “No? Whose, then, Ginny?”

He is beginning to thrust harder, and she meets his thrusts, her hips slamming against his. “Jealous, Harry?”

Furious as he is, he is also ashamed. And feeling very, very good everywhere except inside of his head. And he owes her the truth, whatever she has been doing; he was the one who broke it off with her. As he is about to tell her about Hermione, about Ron’s offer and Hermione’s mouth, there is a loud scream from above the ceiling and a crash that shakes dust from the plaster.

She blinks. “What the bloody hell was that?”

He can’t help but grin. “Your brother. Hermione. I think they just broke the bed.”

She favors him with a red-cheeked smirk. “You’re fucking joking.”

Shaking his head, Harry laughs. “No, honest. They’ve been going at it so hard lately, I’m amazed it’s lasted this long.”

“So they finally managed it! Good on them... Can’t blame them,” Ginny says, shuddering again. “This feels pretty damned good.”

“Yeah.” Harry suddenly remembers the whip-like, rolling motion that Ron had been employing in the sitting room. I wonder...

As his pubic bone bucks against her clit, Ginny’s eyes open wide and she gasps. “OH! Fuck, Harry... Just... I don’t care who you fucked, I really don’t, but please don’t ever do this with anyone else, okay?”

“Don’t want to...” Amazingly, Harry can feel pressure building up behind his bollocks, the bollocks that are slapping against Ginny’s bum. Time to confess and demand confession later. This is where he wants to be. “No one else. Ever. Never fucked anyone.”

She is clawing at his back, the high, bubbling sigh in his ear signaling that she is as close as he is. “Me either, Harry. I swear. You’re. Only. Boy. ’Ve ever. Fucked.”

“Good!” he cries. And he is crying, his cock pressing into her, his heart opening out to her. “Couldn’t stand it, Ginny. Kill me. If you...”

“Ah!” The bed is rocking against the wall, and Harry knows precisely how it would sound if he were on the floor below.

“Yours!” they both howl and orgasm overcomes them both and they collapse, tangled in each other irredeemably.

“I love you, Harry.”

Harry’s glasses seem to have flown off of his face. Sweat, tears and astigmatism make her a pink-and-orange blur. He leans to the center, knowing he’ll find something to kiss. Her nose. “Love you, Ginny.”

They lie there, each gasping for breath. Finally—finally—Harry’s cock begins to soften, satisfied at last. He starts to withdraw, but she holds him close, arms and legs clasping.

“So,” she says, her voice small, “who do I have to thank for getting you all... ready for me?”

He hides his face behind her ear. “Hermione,” he whispers.

“Hermione!” she yelps. “Harry, how could you two do that to my brother?”

“It was his idea, Ginny.”

“What?”

As he tells her—as he describes the whole evening, including the two early wanking sessions, the cold shower, and his friends’ solution—Ginny’s grip on him begins both to tighten and to soften, and he realizes that she’s now crying, she, who never cries. “Oh, Harry, you poor sod. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, tasting the salt of her tears as he kisses her. “You’re here now.”

“I’m not going away, Harry. I won’t leave you again. I won’t.”

Harry rests his forehead against hers. Can feel her heart beating against his chest. Around his cock. Being apart from her nearly drove him around the bend. Can he stand to do that again? On the other hand, could he stand it if she were hurt? She’s safe at Hogwarts. On the other hand... “Let’s think about it. We’ll talk with Ron and Hermione. I just... I know I can’t think straight just now. Oh, and we’ll need to let Professor McGonagall know that you’re safe.”

“Oh!” Ginny says and chuckles. “Hadn’t thought of that. Harry,” she asks, looking about, “where is here, anyway? I feel as if I should know this place, but I can’t put a name to it...”

He takes a deep breath—feels her chest and belly beneath his—and says, “Ginny, look into my eyes. Are you? Good. Now listen carefully. The headquarters of Dumbledore’s Army is number twelve, Grimmauld Place. ”

He feels a frisson pass through her whole body, from the toes that are resting against his bum to the quim that still holds him, to the shoulders resting on his hands. “Oh! Oh! Harry... Of course! How could I not have thought to come look for you here before?”

“We recast the Fidelius Charm. Hermione did. I’m the Secret Keeper. And she, Ron and you are the only people in the whole world that I’ve told.”

“Oh. I... Thank you, Harry.”

“Who could I trust if I can’t trust you?”

She is crying again.

“It’s okay, Ginny. Really. How could I not? I love you.”

The sound that escapes Ginny’s mouth is a high, keening sigh, not unlike the sound she makes when she’s about to come; but this time she sounds as if her heart is breaking, and he pulls her tight against him. He rolls on his back, her body still joined to his, her face still buried in his neck. For a long time, he rocks her there, kissing her, stroking her back.

Eventually, she stills, only hiccoughing occasionally. She leans back and sits up on him, his cock still planted limp inside of her. Her hair blazes against the dull white of the plaster ceiling, but her skin is so pale that he can barely tell where she begins and ends. Her eyes, though—those he can see, black smudges. And her mouth and nipples, bright in a sea of white and softer pink. “It’s so amazing to see you without your glasses,” she sighs. “Your eyes are so beautiful. So bottomless. You really can’t see without them?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh. Well, it’s probably just as well. Because... Harry, you’ve explained the state you were in tonight...”

A heavy weight suddenly settles into Harry’s middle—and it’s nothing to do with the light pressure of Ginny’s pelvis against his. “Ginny, I told you. I don’t blame you. I broke things off with you last June. You had every right to see any boy at Hogwarts. I just—“

Her hands clutch at his shoulders. “Harry! Believe me, please! I haven’t been seeing—or snogging, or shagging, or blowing, or touching—any bloody boys. I swear—“

“Thank god,” Harry moans, reaching up to her face. “I’m not like Ron, Ginny. The idea of another boy’s hands on you... When Ron and I saw you and Dean snogging in that corridor, I wanted...” He takes a shaky breath. “I felt as if I had a dragon inside of me trying to claw its way out and kill him. And that was before you and I ever... The idea of you with any other boy is more than I can stand, Ginny. I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Harry,” Ginny says, touching his cheek. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. But...”

“What, Ginny?” Dread settles into Harry’s gut again. “Please just tell me so I don’t have pictures of you and every wizard at Hogwarts in my head. Just tell me who.”

“Please, Harry. Promise you won’t be... Promise, no matter how upset you are, you’ll forgive me.”

Malfoy? Snape? No, they’re as deep in hiding as Harry is. “I promise.” Zabini, perhaps? He said he thinks she’s pretty. Zacharais Smith?

“What if...” She takes a slow, steadying breath; it’s a technique he taught all of the DA members. “Harry, what if it wasn’t a boy?”

The monster is back inside of him, but it isn’t cold or scaly; it’s hot and chuckling. “What?” A grown wizard perhaps, or an adult Muggle? A centaur? No, Harry knows that’s not what she means...

“Luna. Luna’s the only friend that I could talk to about you, Harry, she’s the only one I could trust, and she’s your friend too, and she’s been very... Um... She’s so... helpful.”

Helpful. Like Hermione.

Harry’s cock twitches inside of Ginny and begins to grow.

“Oh!” she gasps.

Luna’s wide mouth on Ginny’s breasts. Her wandtip circling Ginny’s clit as Ginny calls out Harry’s name. “Oh, god, Ginny...”

“Harry?” Ginny laughs, relieved. She begins to move up and down on his incredibly-erect-once-again penis, her pleated skirt splashing against Harry’s belly. “Bloody hell, Harry. Guess you didn’t mind too much.” Luna’s tongue running along Ginny’s open, wet lips. Pressing her wand gently into Ginny while Ginny pinches at her nipples... just as she is doing now. Luna’s white arse high in the air...

He begins to thrust up into her—fluid from their first fuck flowing down—and Ginny moves against him. “Feels so... Bloody hell! You’re a right twisted bastard after all, aren’t you, Potty?”

“You have no idea,” grunts Harry. “I have no idea. But let’s find out.”