Hey!! Your writing is absolutely incredible - I love all of your stories so much! Your grasp on the relationship between Harry and Ginny is so perfect. Would you ever consider writing an intimate moment for them when they’re a little older - maybe 30s or 40s?? I just love reading your stories in order and seeing how their physical relationship evolves and would love to read how you see them as 30-40 year olds.
Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts for the beta and thanks to my frans on the HG Discord for the discussion that prompted this! ;) On AO3.
Ginny’s up early this morning, not that he’s surprised.
He pretends to be asleep as she gathers her dressing gown and ties it at her waist, but he’s been awake since she rolled over and stepped out of bed. He’s too used to her by now, he reckons. Too attuned to her movements. Especially when they’re different.
They’ve been on a schedule for the past several weeks: No more lie-ins. No more lazy shags at half past nine. They’ve gotten reacquainted with things like silencing charms and a “lock/knock” system, just in case.
From first September until last Friday, they’d had three solid weeks of doing whatever the hell they want, wherever the hell they want, for the first time in fifteen years. They’d adjusted to the silence instead of madness and constant chaos. They’d replaced sadness and nostalgia and feeling sorry for themselves by walking around starkers and shagging on countertops.
That’s come to an abrupt halt, though. So to speak.
Still, though, Harry doesn’t complain. He’d never even dream of finding fault with the life that fate handed him, about getting what he’s always wanted, even if he often feels like he hasn’t earned it. Like he hasn’t done enough good in life to deserve what he’s got. And this time of year, there’s always somehow too much time to ruminate on that — and nowhere near enough. He’s fifteen years out, but family is still a concept that feels strange in his mouth. The undeniable fact that he gets to spend Christmas with a real-life, actual family is more surreal than he can describe.
Ginny continues puttering around to get ready as Harry counts the days in his head. Today’s the 22nd, isn’t it? Which means Christmas is in three days. Three days! Merlin, where the hell has this year gone? Where the hell have any of the years gone? Every single day with his children is a bittersweet reminder that his babies aren’t babies.
As such, he’s certain no one actually believes in Father Christmas anymore, but in the sweetest possible plot twist, James and Albus have nonetheless gone out of their way to preserve some of the magic for their sister. Just last night, they’d swiftly kicked Rose beneath the table at the Burrow when she’d nearly blurted as much. This little display had made Harry’s heart to swell in his chest until his eyes watered with adoration — and he knows it doesn’t make him Father of the Year, but for the life of him, he couldn’t have found it in himself to scold them. Not when they’d been working together so selflessly (for once!) to keep the illusion from shattering.
So. Yes. Harry can concede that having them home is lovely. All of it’s cozy and heartwarming and brilliant to see. He just wishes someone had given his libido the memo that having children around (again) would… interrupt the habits to which they’d become reaccustomed.
Ginny closes the door behind her so softly that Harry knows she thinks he’s sleeping. And although this wouldn’t be his top choice of how to spend his morning, he accepts he’ll have to settle for the next best thing: Waking up early. To fondle his wife in the kitchen. Before the kids join them.
He gives her a seven minute head start, though, before rising himself. Just long enough for her to be properly distracted, her brow furrowed in concentration as she bends down, perhaps to remove a pan or collect something she’s dropped. The possibilities are oddly arousing through a golden haze of domesticity, and on rare occasions like this, Harry wonders if it’s weird that the prospect turns him on so much: The fact that she’s his wife and she had his children and she’s probably puttering around in the kitchen right this second, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When Harry finally slinks in seven minutes later he’s not disappointed with what he finds. Ginny’s busying herself with breakfast, just as he’s predicted; rather than feel guilty that she’s doing all the work, though, he allows himself a rare moment of indulgence to rest his shoulder against the doorpost. And he just watches her.
Ginny’s hair is pulled in a messy bun, her pajama bottoms dipping scandalously low. The band hovers just above those little dimples on top of her arse... the ones he’s long-since learned are the perfect size for the pads of his thumbs. Like when he’s bending her over the couch. Or the table.
He reckons these dimples would fit his fingertips fairly well too, but he’s never gotten a proper look. At least not when she’s straddling him and rocking back and forth as she bites her lip. He winces, adjusting himself in his trousers. It’s been a week — which is far, far too long.
Ginny adds three sausages to the pan, and when she speaks, she regards the sizzling meat in thoughtful consideration. “Huh. I should really speak with Hermione about the surplus of time turners.”
Harry smirks, unsurprised he’s been found out. Ginny always knows when he’s watching her — but once upon a time, she hadn’t known why. During their brief time together at Hogwarts, she’d confessed to months of denial, weeks of pretending he’d simply been ogling her with no emotional attachment.
The notion that he’d ever be suave enough to eye someone up for a one-night stand is still rather hilarious to him, but that’s one of the few things Harry keeps to himself.
He pushes off from the wall and walks forward until he’s angling his pajama bottoms against her bum. “Good morning to you too,” he rumbles into her ear, his voice raspy with sleep and lust. He feels rather than sees her smile when his hand slips beneath the waistband of her pajama trousers, but Ginny remains silent as the pan sizzles.
“Now, then,” he prods — both literally and figuratively. “What’s this about time turners? You’ve got to take pity and explain it to me, Ginny. I’m old.”
She reaches for the spatula, her bum gliding across the strategically-placed tent in his trousers. “That doesn’t feel old.”
Harry snorts. “Shows how much you know. Been like this since I woke up. Only got worse when I stared at you.”
She playfully rolls her eyes and adds another sausage. “And whose fault is that? I was perfectly content making breakfast—”
“—making breakfast while hot,” Harry corrects, nipping at her ear. “Big difference.”
Ginny ignores this and settles for stating the obvious. “Well. I reckon it wouldn’t be breakfast in the Potter house if you weren’t trying to cop a feel. And risk burning the place to the ground.”
A ghost of a chuckle crawls up his throat, but Harry’s on a greater mission. He tries his hardest to keep his voice serious, even as his fingers begin their descent. “You,” he notes, nipping at her jaw again, “were about to explain time turners to your poor, confused husband.”
He delights in the nearly-imperceptible goosebumps that erupt across the back of her neck as his breath dances across it. She’s good at hiding when he’s turning her on; he’ll give her that.
“I was trying to convey that you haven’t stared at my arse like that since I was sixteen,” she explains, her eyes still trained on the pan. “But really, I don’t see the point. Pun most certainly intended.”
“I beg to differ,” Harry rumbles, moving his mouth to caress the shell of her ear. “I stare at your arse a lot, actually.”
She manages to nonchalantly flip the sausage as Harry dips his hand lower, his fingers skating the bare swell of her bum. He says the thousandth silent prayer that she never wears knickers to bed.
“Is that so?” She sounds genuinely intrigued as he palms her right arsecheek, his fingers splayed over the soft freckles he knows by memory.
“Mmm. While you’re flying, for example,” he continues, brushing his erection against the small of her back as his index finger dips lower and lower. Ginny hisses and bites her lip, and he relishes in the flush that blossoms on her chest.
Before he knew her better, he might’ve thought that color meant embarrassment. Now, though, he doesn’t need to slip his fingers between her folds to know it means she’s wet.
Of course, though, he does that anyway — and of course, he’s rewarded the moment he does.
She parts her legs and releases a breathy moan, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks, and Harry continues doing something with his hand that he’s had half his life to perfect.
“It seems I wasn’t the only one ready a little early this morning,” he notes, the pad of his thumb shifting to caress her clit. And then, before he can help it: “Why didn’t you let on that you’re absolutely gagging for it, Mrs Potter?”
Ginny rolls her eyes from over her shoulder as his humble-brag breaks the spell. She lifts the spatula again and continues to cook, but at least she doesn’t move away from where his middle finger is tucked inside her. Still, Harry winces and berates himself for getting too confident. She could be panting in his arms by now; he’s clearly doing something wrong if she still has it in her to banter.
“Eh. Reckon that information is on a need-to-know basis,” Ginny manages, her features carefully schooled into nonchalance. “After all, bringing me off has always been far more torturous for you.”
He laughs against her neck, his fingers drifting where he knows she needs them the most. Naturally, her assertion is correct. Making her come is the sweetest, most delicious torture. Watching her fall apart and writhe and pant his name has haunted his fantasies since he first watched her do it.
But if she’s not quite ready to surrender, neither is he.
Ginny relaxes against him as his fingers inch forward, and Harry’s surprised he has the presence of mind to switch off the cooker. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the fact that she wants him as much as she wants him. And during times like this — when it’s obvious she craves his touch as much as he craves hers — his life feels particularly fictitious. Ginny just gasps, arching her back as he slides up and begins working her clit with the pads of his fingers.
“Now then,” he starts again, clearing his throat. Sometimes he needs to do that, he thinks, to tether himself to earth. To remain focused. “You’ve nearly interrupted me from pointing out all the millions of times I’ve stared at your arse, but I’m happy to point them out — even one by one, if that’s what it takes.”
Ginny lets out a giggle, which makes her muscles clamp around his fingers. Harry clenches his teeth and swears, slamming his eyes shut to collect himself against the aroused buzzing in his ears.
“Merlin, Ginny,” he moans, his fingers still swirling in her trousers. They both love it when he talks about how much he loves her; now is no exception. He also knows she knows that he still finds her ludicrously attractive — but for some reason, occasional reminders do something for both of them.
“That first year after we started shagging nearly killed me,” Harry admits, his voice ragged. Ginny whimpers as his fingers continue to swirl; her brow furrows, and he reckons she’s not far from bucking into his hand. “After all,” he continues, hoping to get her there. “I knew what your bare arse looked like, but I still had to watch you conducting day-to-day business with your clothes on! It wasn’t fair.” He clucks his teeth, nipping at her ear, and yes… she’s just starting to move her hips. Brilliant.
“How dare I wear clothes?” she breathes, her hips slipping forward and back. “I’m sure I did it to personally anger you.”
“Felt like it.” He brings his other to cup her arsecheek. She stands on her tiptoes, arching into him even more… and in retrospect, Harry will realize that this — her eagerness to let him bring her off — was the final straw to his fraying concentration and he’d walked down memory lane.
“Honestly, I might’ve wanked more then than I did sixth year,” he gravels into the shell of her ear, relishing how her hips are now grinding against his erection, “and if you’d had an insider look into that thought process, you’d have thought I was some sort of sex maniac. Merlin knows I could barely contain myself when I brushed against you going through the portrait hole, and—”
But like a thunderclap, something changes. Everything changes. Ginny stiffens in his hand, her body rigid, her hips still.
There’s a beat of silence.
Harry pauses, his finger in a place far more delicate than when she usually speaks to him in that tone of voice. “Erm…?”
She whirls around to face him, her brow now furrowed for a totally different reason. “Repeat that!” Ginny demands, her voice shaking. Harry’s hand cramps as she moves; he yanks it from her trousers, his horror-struck eyes never leaving hers, even as she stares at him like he’s burned down a nunnery. Her chest is flushed and heaving, but from arousal or confusion, Harry doesn’t know.
Because really, truly, he hadn’t thought it was a secret. Or not much of one, anyway. Ginny knows about Felix. She knows about Slughorn. He’d just assumed it common knowledge that he’d been lucky that night — in every possible way.
Granted, it’s also been over twenty years since he’s given it much thought.
But from the way Ginny’s eyes are flashing, withholding this seemingly inconsequential bit of trivia has been the wrong choice.
“Erm…” he starts. “I… erm… kind of thought you knew? Maybe?”
He gives her a hopeful smile, but Ginny’s eyes narrow even further. “I most certainly did not know that, Harry,” she replies — but there’s a smirk flirting with the edges of her tightly-drawn lips.
Harry shrugs apologetically and reaches around to turn the cooker back on. Ginny turns to deal with the sausages, but her expectant silence tells him she’s waiting for an explanation. After a few moments, he summons the proper words to give her one.
“Well,” Harry says through a tentative swallow. “Now I’m telling you.”
“Obviously,” Ginny mutters as she bends to remove the tomatoes from the oven.
Harry jumps in to help with the rest; breakfast is nearly done, not that he’s contributed much. He reaches above her to get the plates, and he’s pleasantly surprised that by the time they’re both in front of the cooker again, she’s already pressing back against him and leaning into his warmth. He smiles. At least she’s not angry.
“I honestly didn’t think it mattered much,” he confesses to the back of her neck, his fingers brushing the creamy skin below her vest.
Ginny shakes her head and leans in further. “Harry,” she purrs, grinding her arse against the erection that hasn’t died down in the slightest. “Haven’t you learned by now you’re meant to tell me literally every single mundane thing that’s ever happened to you? Because chances are, I’ll somehow find it fascinating. Especially if it relates to me.”
He laughs, his fingers drifting lower still. “Fair enough. I always assumed you knew. Look at who you’re dealing with. What are the chances I’d ever be that lucky on my own?”
She swivels her hips; Harry hisses and places his palms against the counter on each side of her, pinning her waist against him.
“Well, I know you find this impossible,” she murmurs, rubbing her arse against him more insistently. Bugger. Harry reckons he should’ve known she’d use this opportunity to turn the tables. It’s almost a blessing when she spins around to drape her arms over his neck instead.
“But I find you plenty charming on your own, Harry,” she chides, tapping the end of his nose. “Case in point — you could’ve bloody asked me out sixth year instead of staring at my arse all the time! But I suppose public snogs and physical violence are more appealing when you’ve got a weird” — she waves her hand dismissively — “danger fetish.”
Harry quirks an eyebrow and leans in to brush his lips against hers. She greets him with a soft gasp and he revels in it for a few moments, kissing her back with the sort of languid heat they’re used to in an empty house. It’s not long before pulls back to trail his hand down her side and cup her arse again.
“Is your name Danger?” he asks, nipping at her neck.
“Mmm?” Ginny’s back arches in aroused confusion, and he doesn’t need to see her eyes to know they’re heavy-lidded.
His hand full-on grips her arse as he presses the point. “Are you called Danger?” he repeats, a bit coyly. “Cause you said I had a Danger fetish, and I just wanted to clarify that—”
“Mum, have you seen — oh fuck, MY EYES!”
Ginny chokes out a swear as they leap apart. In a flash, Harry drops his hands from her trousers, and in a blur of creamy skin, she pulls them up. He clears his throat and whirls around, trying desperately not to think about what his eldest has seen, exactly. Harry screws his eyes shut, determinedly thinking of anything else, but for once, his body behaves like the middle-aged man he is; there’s nothing more deflating than an interruption.
Somehow, Ginny still manages a stern, “Language, James!” even though Harry’s certain her face is the same shade as her hair. Harry just snorts and reaches over to wash his hands at the sink. Pot, kettle, black, love…
Harry dries his hands and exchanges an eye roll with Ginny, but their mortification isn’t over; in an instant, their other two offspring appear behind James in the corridor.
“Gah, no!” James bellows bravely, his hands and feet splayed on the doorpost in a star-shape. “Turn away! Save yourselves!”
Harry groans as he and Ginny carry everything to the table, but yeah, the message has been received: The kids are here now. Be careful.
This alleged trauma hasn’t been severe enough to keep their kids from their breakfast, of course. James continues squawking about “going blind” and “plucking his eyes out” as everyone lumbers into the kitchen, but Harry’s certain everyone knows this is for dramatic effect.
Lily and Albus settle at the table with looks of mild disgust, even as James continues whining; apparently, he hasn’t got the validation he feels he deserves.
“We leave in just days!” James cries, throwing his hands in the air and plopping into his seat. “Days! And you can’t keep your sodding hands to yourselves long enough to—”
Ginny cuts him off with a snort and passes him the tray of sausages. “First of all, you leave in nearly two weeks — and second?” She smirks at Harry down the table. “Do you want to tell them, or…?”
“Tell me what?” James demands, his head whipping between his parents.
Albus just moans, his head slumped on his arms. “James. Please. I’ve no idea what they mean, but for the love of Merlin, I don’t want to!”
“I want to know!” Lily pipes up defiantly, scraping some tomatoes onto her plate. “You lot are always leaving me out!”
James snorts. “If you want to be part of that, there’s something seriously wrong with—”
Harry clears his throat and flashes James a look of warning. “Your mother only meant,” he says, his face flushing, “that it’s almost worse you’re about to leave, actually, because the erm… new lifestyle to which we’ve… erm… adapted… is so close, yet so far away, and—”
“—GOT IT!” Lily shouts, slamming her eyes shut and raising her hand. “Stop. Stop right there. Please.”
Albus rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his tea. “Told you so. Next time you’d better listen to your smartest brother.”
James nudges Lily with his shoulder. “Exactly, Lils. And that smartest brother happens to be me.” He puffs out his chest.
Lily snorts and takes a swig from her mug like she’s downing a shot. “Eh, you’re both bloody morons,” she says fairly. “So saying one of you is smarter would be like crowning you King of the Stupids.”
“Language!” Harry and Ginny chorus.
Lily just puts down her mug and arches an eyebrow. “Does one tiny little ‘bloody’ really matter, Mum?” she asks tersely. “Given the circumstances, you should be thankful it’s not worse.”
“Oi! You didn’t even have to see it!” James cries, indignant. “Don’t even try to understand my pain!”
Albus and Lily laugh as Ginny waves them off, and with that, the chatter lapses into contented silence. By the time they’ve finished their breakfast, Harry naively allows himself to believe they’ve dropped the subject.
He’s more surprised than anyone when Ginny’s the one to bring it up again.
“Dean and I could’ve been soul mates, you know,” she blurts, brandishing her fork in a way she evidently finds menacing.
Harry gives her a plain stare from down the table. “Yes, darling. I’m sure you were madly in love with him.”
“Besotted,” Ginny deadpans. “Ready to walk down the aisle.”
James smirks. “Yes, Mum. I hear many marriages are built on the rock-solid foundation of ditching your boyfriend when he tries to help you.”
There’s a chorus of laughter from around the table.
“You’re not far off, James,” Harry allows, sipping his tea. “But that’s not really what I meant.”
Ginny quirks a brow. “No?”
“Nope,” he says flatly. “You see, Ginny Potter is melodic — but Ginny Thomas?” Harry pulls an exaggerated grimace. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it; I’m sure you agree.”
“Yeah, Mum,” James adds, his tone almost thoughtful. “Who wants two first names? Not you, that’s for sure!”
Harry barks out a laugh he turns into a cough.
“Oi, sexist!” Ginny retorts. “Who said anything about changing my name?”
“Shit, yes!” Lily slips her palm beneath the table for a low-five, which Ginny provides.
“Language,” Harry says idly, but he’s more focused on watching the events that are about to unfold; Ginny’s walked right into something, and he can only hope she’s apprehended. Harry just puts down his mug, crosses his arms over his chest, and waits for one of his offspring to point out the flaw in her reasoning.
This is one of the best parts of having kids, really. Getting them to help take the mickey.
Albus gets there first. As Harry’d known he would.
“Erm, but Mum,” Albus points out, blinking at her over the edge of his mug. “You did change your name.”
Harry beams and ruffles Albus’ hair. Yeah. That’s his son, all right.
Ginny dismisses this with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, but Harry’s different.”
James clasps his hands in front of his chin and bats his eyelashes dramatically. “Ooo,” he croons, “Harry’s different!” He shakes his head a little sadly. “Merlin, Mum, you should get that slogan tattooed on your face. Might save everyone some time!”
Harry snorts into his palm before he can help it — but then he promptly catches himself. “Watch how you speak to your mother,” he warns, raising his eyebrows. And then, from the corner of his mouth: “Even if she does walk right into it.”
Everyone laughs as James spreads his palms in surrender. “Let’s just call it fair, then,” he says in a stoic voice. “My behavior is the result of witnessing something truly traumatic.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “James, trust me, there are far worse things than having parents who love each other.”
“Dunno,” Ginny says, heaving a grave sigh. “It seems catching your parents snogging is right up there with witnessing a murder!”
“Pfft, I can tell you which I’d pick!” James insists. “I reckon you two were about ten seconds from—”
“—Enough!” Ginny says firmly, her eyes flashing. “We get the picture, ok? We get what we’re meant to do in future.”
“Message received,” Harry agrees. “Your mother and I are meant to hate each other and never touch ever, and you lot are meant to pretend we didn’t make three of you in five years.”
Then — in unison — the family Harry never thought he’d have reacts exactly as he’d expected: James gags. Albus winces. Lily moans in disgust.
And Ginny narrowly avoids spraying tea across the table.
“That’s so much more than we needed to think about!” Albus moans, running his hand down his face.
“Not our fault you can’t do maths,” Ginny mutters.
Harry turns to James with a shrug. “It’s unbelievable to me too, if that helps.”
Harry laughs and shakes his head, patting his son on the back. “Nothing for it, then. Buck up. You’ll be fine.”
James shoots him a dark look, but a playful grin tugs at his lips. “Easy for you to say, Dad. You’re the one who’s been lucky!”
Harry’s eyes drift down the table until they land on Ginny — and the moment they do, he breaks into the same besotted grin he’s given her for over twenty years.
Bloody right, he’s been lucky. Deliriously lucky. Insanely lucky. Hitting-the-lottery type lucky. And Ginny just stares at him, cupping her face in her hands, her brown eyes twinkling with bittersweet mirth — and just like that, he knows exactly what she’s thinking: Luck had nothing to do with it, Potter. You deserve everything you got.
Harry manages a weak nod, raising a hand in surrender, and as he stares at his wife and his family, his heart bursting, his chest full, he considers that perhaps she’s right. Perhaps he does deserve it. Perhaps he’s earned the happiness that fills his home and the peace that’s replaced the darkness in his head. But of everything he’s done in his life, every accomplishment and accolade, nothing will ever compete with what it’s been like to love her.
Harry swallows against the unexpected lump in his throat, but for once, he accepts what she’s been telling him for decades. Because if loving him has brought her even a fraction of the joy thrumming through his chest? Then yes, Harry supposes...
