Chapter Text
“There’s nothing more I can do.”
Adrian, General Manager of Hinxworth Manor, and Ginny’s brand new nemesis, looked down his imperiously pointed nose as he shut the reservation book on the desk between them with a definitive thud.
“There has to be something,” Ginny tried, eyes wide and pleading, trying to appeal to a better nature that less than half an hour in Adrian's company had already assured her he didn't have.
What was that saying about doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result?
There was a significant chance she was descending into madness.
Still, she flashed Adrian her most winning smile, the one she usually reserved for hordes of ravenous press photographers. “I’m the groom's sister, you can’t just turn me away.”
Clearly, being named manager of Wizarding Britain’s most exclusive wedding venue — or so Ginny had been assured by Percy on multiple occasions, most of them against her will — had gone to Adrian’s already-large head; he pursed his lips in an expression that betrayed not even a flicker of sympathy. “The groom was given plenty of notice to book the rooms required for family and friends.”
“But I’m here as a surprise,” Ginny explained. Hopefully, Adrian’s general haughtiness didn’t come with an ability to detect she was stretching the truth to its absolute limits with that statement; her arrival was as much a surprise to her as it was to anyone else.
“Heartwarming,” Adrian replied drily. “In future, however, I suggest you plan your surprises with a little more forethought if you want a room for the night.”
He flicked his wand definitively, sending a pile of papers on the edges of the desk whizzing towards various pigeonholes behind him as though Ginny’s presence was keeping him from the very important task of filing.
Her hands clenched on the desk; employing every last bit of her swiftly eroding restraint, she swallowed the growl of frustration building in her throat.
She’d been standing at the receptionist's desk in the grandly decorated lobby for what felt like an eternity. Her high heels were starting to pinch; the ache that had taken up residence in her shoulder yesterday, following a monumentally disastrous run-in with a bludger, was starting to scream for more of the prescription-strength pain potion waiting in the overnight bag at her feet, and the explosive argument she'd escaped only moments before apparating here was still ringing in Ginny's head; all of which had left with her very little patience for Adrian's condescension.
“It doesn’t have to be a nice room,” she said, forcing as much sweetness into her tone as possible (which, admittedly, wasn’t much). “Really, it doesn't even need to be a room at all… I'll take one of your more spacious broom cupboards – I can conjure a bed if that –”
“Miss Weasley, we are a seven-shooting star-rated establishment,” Adrian said, clutching his chest over his golden name badge in a very dramatic display of shocked horror. “We would never allow a guest to sleep in a broom cupboard.”
“But I'm not a guest,” Ginny countered immediately. “You won't let me be a guest, so what's the harm?”
“The harm?” Adrian repeated incredulously. “What would people say if they found out I let a Quidditch sensation sleep in a broom cupboard?
“I'm hardly a sensation,” Ginny waved a hand to dismiss both the compliment and the uncomfortable knot in her stomach that now tightened every time she thought about work.
“You're the top goal scorer in the league.”
For now, she thought.
“I didn't take you as a Quidditch fan,” she said.
Adrian snorted derisively. “You don't have to be a Quidditch fan to know who Ginny Weasley is.”
Something told her Adrian found Ginny's infamy about as charming as she herself did; her notoriety certainly didn't appear to be swaying him towards finding her somewhere to sleep tonight.
Unless it would…
“You know,” Ginny said, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning across the desk. “If you give me a room, I'll be sure to mention the fabulous amenities and… wonderful customer service here in my next interview.”
The mere suggestion made her feel dirty, but desperate times called for desperate measures and this was the very definition of desperate times.
“That would be excellent,” Adrian said; Ginny's heart leapt in anticipation of a victory, she could already imagine the simple bliss of sinking down on a soft mattress, her head hitting a plump pillow, release from the torturous heels she'd stuffed her feet into and, hopefully, some loosening of the tightly wound ball of stress forming in the pit of her stomach– “But I don't have any rooms available.”
The slow smile that had been spreading across her face fell in an instant.
“Please!” She cried desperately, not even bothering to throw a glance around the lobby and see if anyone was around to witness her humiliation.
Adrian merely shook his head. “I'm sorry, Miss Weasley, but –”
“Ginny?”
Her back stiffened at the sound of her name.
“No,” she whispered under her breath, but her denial did nothing to bend reality to her will; a hand, warm and gentle, landed on her injured shoulder. Ginny swallowed her gasp of pain before it could escape.
“Ginny?” Ron said again, leaning against the desk beside her. “What are you doing here?”
Ginny forced her smile back onto her face as she turned to face her brother. Even with the extra height afforded by her shoes, she had to tilt her head to look up at him.
“Ron,” she said, willing an air of casual nonchalance into her voice. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see me?” Ron repeated, frowning in confusion as his eyes studied her face. “You're not supposed to be here until tomorrow. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” Ginny protested, a little too quickly judging by the disbelieving way Ron's eyebrows shot upwards. “I'm here for Percy's wedding, obviously.”
“A day early?”
“Well, I wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity for family bonding, would I?”
Ron's obvious incredulity at the statement shouldn't have hurt; Ginny had been forced to sacrifice a lot for her career, time with her family being top of the many items on the casualty list. Still, his sceptical grimace stung more than the ache in her shoulder, intensified exponentially by the fact that she knew his doubt wasn’t entirely ill-placed.
“Seriously, what's wrong?” Ron persisted, giving her no chance to recover from the blow.
“Nothing,” Ginny tried again, but she could feel Adrian still staring at her from the opposite side of the desk and Ron's nose scrunched in a silent show of brotherly concern that only added to the weight of everything else that had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, and before Ginny could do anything to stop it she could feel heat pricking at the back of her eyes.
“Ginny?” Ron prompted.
She blinked furiously. She absolutely was not going to cry in public, in front of her brother. In front of Adrian: her archenemy. He'd bloody love that, and Ginny simply wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
She cleared her throat and pasted her smile back onto her face with renewed determination.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said once more, narrowing her eyes in a way she knew would make Ron think twice about questioning her again. “Except I can’t get a room for the night. I suppose I’ll just have to apparate home after the rehearsal dinner and come back in the morning.”
It was a solid plan for anyone who had a home; a distinguished group that, as of an hour ago, Ginny couldn’t count herself as part of, but Ron didn’t need to know that.
“You don’t want to be messing around like that,” Ron said, already turning to face Adrian with a smile that actually looked genuine. “Come on mate, you must have one room available, surely? What would you do if the Minister of Magic walked in here right now, you wouldn’t turn him away, would you?”
“I wouldn’t have to,” Adrian replied, his stern glare still fixed on Ginny. “Minister Shacklebolt booked his room weeks ago, unlike some people.”
Her head fell to the desk in defeat. “Fine,” she mumbled dramatically into the solid wood. “You know, this is quite comfortable, maybe I’ll just sleep here.”
Adrian's gasp of horror at the suggestion was immediately drowned out by a much louder gasp behind them, one that Ginny recognised instantly. Her head snapped upwards, a forced smile returning to her face in preparation for the onslaught she knew was barrelling towards her.
“Mum,” she said, allowing herself to be swallowed by her mother's all-encompassing embrace.
The effect was instant; instinctively, Ginny’s eyes fluttered close and she allowed herself only the luxury of a moment’s relaxation before she stepped out of the comforting circle of her mother’s arms.
Predictably, Mum didn’t release her entirely.
“You’re early!” she cried, holding Ginny at arm's length and giving her a thorough once-over. “What are you doing here?”
“Surprising you!” Ginny declared without elaborating further on her reasons for doing so.
“She says she was desperate for some family bonding,” Ron added.
Mum’s eyes narrowed in a familiar look of suspicion. “But what about Quidditch?”
Ginny’s stomach flipped at the reminder of where she should be right now, but she worked to keep any hint of her discomfort off her face. “Some things are more important than Quidditch.”
Neither Ron nor her mother looked entirely convinced by that. Ginny couldn’t really blame them; it certainly wasn’t a sentiment she’d ever professed previously.
“To sane people,” Ron agreed. “Not to you.”
Lacking any defence, Ginny gave him nothing more than an eye roll in response.
“Your sister is not insane, Ron!” Mum snapped, though she was too busy giving Ginny another once over to shoot him her customary admonishing glare. “Although I have to tell you, darling, I think you might have your head up in the clouds a bit too often. There’s more to life than quaffles and broomsticks, you know?”
“Right,” Ginny agreed, forcing every retort she actually wanted to make back down deep inside. It would be wasted breath, she knew from experience.
If it was up to Molly Weasley, Ginny would’ve given up Quidditch after her first league win — ‘you’ve made your point, sweetheart‘ — and embarked upon a life of domestic bliss with a husband and a gaggle of grandchildren for her to add to her growing collection.
Ginny could well imagine her mother’s reaction if she knew how close she was to getting her wish — as far as Quidditch was concerned anyway.
‘Hopefully not career-ending,’ and ‘we’ll see,’ weren’t the words she’d wanted to hear from the team healer after her mishap with the bludger yesterday. And they’d played on a loop in Ginny’s mind since the stomach-dropping moment she’d heard them.
“…and where’s that boyfriend of yours?” Her mother, who hadn’t stopped talking for long enough for Ginny to answer the myriad of other questions that had been thrown at her in the last few seconds, asked now.
Typically, now that Ginny absolutely didn’t want to give a response, Mum paused to wait for one.
“I told you I wasn’t bringing a plus one, remember?” She replied evasively. “I even checked the box for solo on the invitation.”
And really that had been her first mistake. Or, as she quickly coming to realise, her salvation.
To say that Ben, her live-in boyfriend of three months, had not taken her refusal to introduce him to her family well would be an understatement.
She’d assumed, when he’d asked about it when she’d been filling out the RSVP, back before she’d agreed to move into his flat, that he’d appreciate her giving him the out.
Who actually wanted to meet their partner's family?
Ginny had been completely blissfully oblivious to the resentment that had been building since then; that was until it all blew up in her face as she was attempting to leave the aforementioned flat with her wedding finery earlier that afternoon.
She refused to think over the uglier parts of the fight that had ensued, though she suspected her brain would be much more willing to cooperate with her plan of ignorance if she had somewhere to sleep tonight other than the flat she’d already assured Ben he’d never see her in again.
“You’re going to have to introduce him to us eventually,” Mum continued, happily unaware of how untrue her words were.
“Maybe in a few months,” Ginny lied.
She was going to tell her family about the breakup, obviously, but it didn’t need to be right now, when all Ginny wanted was ten minutes alone to get her head straight. What she needed right now, was a change of subject.
“I’ll have plenty of opportunities — it’s not like this is the only happy event taking place this summer.” She gave Ron a meaningful look and took great pleasure in the way his ears still turned pink at any hint of his recently announced engagement. “Where is Hermione, anyway?”
“Oh, she’s upstairs, in our room.” Ron’s blush spread from his ears to cover the entirety of his face. “I told her I’d get us some champagne.”
Adrian, still hovering at the desk, apparently not that busy, cleared his throat importantly. “I shall arrange for a bottle to be delivered to your room immediately, Mr Weasley.”
With a solicitude Ginny hadn't come close to bringing forth in him, Adrian gave a little bow before hurrying from behind the desk, evidently to fulfil Ron's request personally.
“Oh sure, he’ll help you,” Ginny snapped, rounding on Ron as though Adrian's lack of aid to her cause was his fault.
“What can I say?” Ron shrugged with affected nonchalance. “I'm naturally charming.”
“And you couldn't use any of that charm to get me a room?”
“I tried, didn't I?”
“A room?” Mum repeated. “You don't have a room?”
“No,” Ginny sighed. “The Manor's booked to capacity – something about a wedding…”
“Well, you'll have to stay with me and your father,” Mum said.
Ginny made a sound halfway between a gasp and a choke; suddenly, homelessness didn't seem like such an unattractive proposition if the alternative was a night stuck in a tiny hotel room with both her parents.
“That's not necessary,” she disagreed as soon as she regained her breath. Some prospects were too humiliating to contemplate. “I'll figure something out – either a room will become available or I'll –”
Ron slammed a hand on the receptionist's desk, fortunately cutting off Ginny's sentence which she'd had no end to at any rate.
“Harry's room,” Ron supplied with a bafflingly satisfied expression.
The tiny spark of hope Ginny had felt flare within her at Ron's expression quickly dimmed. “Excuse me?”
“You can stay in Harry's room –” Ron held up a hand to silence Ginny's obvious protests before she could make them. Lucky, as she wasn't sure she’d be able to speak with her heart suddenly lodged in her throat. “ – he's not using it – I didn't think until you said about a room becoming available – He got called into work. I checked him in so he didn't lose the room, but he sent a message to say he’ll be here tomorrow for the wedding.”
Ginny's heart descended back into her chest, and then, inexplicably, seemed to sink into her stomach; not at Harry's absence, of course. That would be ridiculous. She rarely ever saw him anymore; she definitely wasn't emotionally invested in his whereabouts. Any crush she might've once harboured for him was long dead.
“He definitely won't be here?” she asked, eyeing the key Ron had just fished out of his pocket and was now holding out to her.
Ron snorted derisively. “That would require him leaving work at a reasonable hour – he's almost as bad as you.”
Beside Ginny, her mother tutted in disapproval. “Ron's right, you both work too much.”
“And yet, here I am,” Ginny muttered under her breath, still not quite able to fathom how exactly that had happened.
“Take the room,” Ron said, thrusting the key into her hand. “There's no point in wasting it.”
“I suppose not,” Ginny agreed, but something about taking Harry's room felt odd.
There had been a time, a lifetime ago, in her fifth year at Hogwarts, when Ginny had naively allowed herself to believe that an evidently growing attraction between them was leading somewhere.
In the few short weeks between breaking up with Dean and the eventful Quidditch final (that had seen Ginny catch the snitch but at the cost of a bludger to the head and neck which had landed her in the hospital wing for two infuriating weeks), she'd genuinely believed there was a future where she was something more to Harry than his best mate's little sister.
It had been nothing but childish fantasies, ones that had been cruelly snatched from her shortly after in the wake of Dumbledore's death.
Since then, Ginny could probably count on her fingers the number of conversations she'd had with Harry. He'd been on the run for a year; she'd been busy running the resistance at Hogwarts and then, just like that, it was all over and there was nothing but a grief so loud no one could hope to be heard over it.
Harry had joined the Aurors; Ginny had gone back to school, and then to Holyhead for the Harpies and their silly little teenage flirtation seemed exactly that: silly.
Privately, Ginny thought she should probably be glad circumstance had ended whatever had been building between them before it could begin. It would only have led to heartbreak, and she'd experienced enough of that for a lifetime already.
Still, something about spending the night in Harry's hotel room, even without Harry there, seemed a little too close to the universe's idea of cruel irony for her liking and the small gold key felt deceptively heavy in her hand as she reluctantly accepted it from Ron.
“I'll see you at dinner,” Ron announced as soon as he was unburdened of both the key and Ginny's predicament. “I told Hermione I'd be right back.”
“You should go and rest too,” Mum said, turning her attention fully on Ginny as Ron retreated across the lobby. “You look dead on your feet, dear.”
“That's just the shoes,” Ginny said with a weak attempt at a smile. Now that the urgent predicament of securing a bed for the night had been resolved, the weight of everything else was beginning to settle on her.
Mum fixed her with an unhappy expression. One that betrayed her disbelief; fortunately, she didn't press Ginny for further details. “Dinner’s not for a few more hours – go and take a nap.”
By nature, Ginny’s first instinct was to protest at being ordered to nap like a toddler, but her exhaustion won out. A rest did sound tempting, and she'd need a clear head to face a full Weasley interrogation at dinner.
She'd managed to get through her first interaction with her family without having to dissect the painful details of her injury – or the less painful but equally inconvenient specifics of her break up – she doubted she'd be as fortunate tonight.
Any argument she might have made was swiftly silenced at the prospect. Instead, she bent to kiss her mother on the cheek and stooped to gather her bag from the floor.
She took her first step towards the staircase but was quickly halted before she could take any further ones by her mother's hand, grasping gently at her wrist. Ginny turned her head back quizzically to find an expression so unexpectedly soft on her mother's face that it caused a painful pang in the vicinity of Ginny's chest.
“I'm so happy you could make it,” Mum said quietly. “It's so rare that I get all of you together – well, most of you.”
For the second time in less than half an hour, Ginny felt her throat grow tight with the kind of emotion she usually avoided at all costs. The fissure in her heart that would never fully heal, the crack that contained all the people that she'd lost, seemed to gape open. Accepting that words were out of her reach, she swallowed thickly and hoped her nod said what she was unable to.
“Get some rest,” Mum said again, releasing her wrist.
Ginny stumbled back a step before regaining her composure. Once, a wave of grief like that would've threatened to drown her; now, she was practised at letting it wash through her, stealing her breath only temporarily before she broke the surface again.
Her legs steadied as she crossed the lobby. As she took the first step up the grand staircase, her chest loosened. By the time she'd reached the second floor’s East Wing and navigated to the room number etched on the key's golden fob, her breathing had returned to its usual even state.
The door slammed shut definitively behind her. Ginny kicked off the torture devices masquerading as shoes as she leaned heavily against it and surveyed her room for the night.
Seven-shooting stars were a rare honour, bestowed on only the finest of establishments, and Ginny could see immediately that Hinxworth Manor had earned it.
The room was spacious enough that the frankly enormous four-poster bed didn't make the space feel cramped. A staggeringly large mirror in a gilt frame was affixed to the far wall, giving the impression of additional space despite the ostentatiously carved dressing table in front of it.
On the way past, Ginny popped her head into the bathroom, noting the claw-footed bathtub and the double sink's gleaming golden taps.
She let her bag fall to the floor at the foot of the bed, giving no thought to the two dresses she'd stuffed inside it on her way out of the door earlier. Doubtless, she’d spend the better part of an hour trying to charm the wrinkles out later, only for Mum to sigh at her shoddy domestic skills and surreptitiously fix them when she arrived in the dining room.
Wincing against the movement caused to her injured muscles, Ginny pulled her shirt over her head and let it land next to her bag. She didn't pause to dwell on the ache; instead, stooping to retrieve the bottle of vibrant purple potion awaiting at the very top before she flopped onto the cloud-soft mattress with a groan of relief.
The potion slid smoothly down her throat, assuring her that an easement from the ache in her shoulder would find her shortly.
Her other issues couldn't be resolved so easily. There was no potion to cure her increasing list of problems, the weight of which seemed to be sinking her deeper into the mattress.
Ginny let the potion bottle slip from her grasp as she closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.
Despite the simplicity of the task, her mind continued to whir, whizzing incessantly through the series of unfortunate events that had landed her here, in Harry Potter's bed of all places.
The injury seemed less significant as the pain potion began to spread a relieving warmth from her neck, through her shoulder, down her arm, all the way into her fingertips. The dire warnings she'd received from Healer Thompson, however, seemed heavier now that Ginny really had the opportunity to focus on them.
Relax. She was going to relax.
Restlessly, she shimmied her jeans off and kicked them to the floor beside her already abandoned shirt while she tried to dispel her anxiety.
In a way, the break-up with Ben served as a preferable distraction compared to contemplating the risk to her career. The parting words he'd thrown at her were not easily dismissed, despite the hyperbole of them.
She wasn't emotionally unavailable. She simply valued her independence; something that men seemed absolutely incapable of respecting. That was hardly Ginny's fault, and she suspected the accusation was only lingering because she'd had no time to recover from their tension-filled argument before her run-in with Adrian, who had done nothing to help ease her stress levels.
And she still had a formal dinner with her family to get through, during which she'd need to ensure none of them got even a hint of just how thoroughly her life had come apart at the seams.
Ginny’s whole body tensed at the prospect.
Stressed wasn’t a strong enough word. She needed to let off some steam. She needed a release.
Her fingers stroked lightly at the spot on her shoulder that was now radiating a warmth so perfectly soothing it could only be magical.
Usually, when she was this tightly wound she’d grab her broom and spend a good few hours flying, but she was grounded until further notice. Healer’s orders.
Her hand slipped downward, fingers tracing lightly over her collarbone.
She and Ben had managed a solid six months — longer than most of Ginny’s ill-fated relationships — but she’d had to take matters into her own hands often enough during that time.
Her palm slid slowly, gently over the curve of her breast. Her thumb brushed over the thin lace covering her nipple and she felt it harden beneath her touch.
A wave of warmth, wholly unrelated to the potion, surged through her, setting Ginny’s nerves alight with anticipation.
Her breath shallowed as her fingers continued her slow exploration of her body.
Already, she could feel the ache beginning to build between her legs, growing more urgent as Ginny’s other hand began to slowly drag up her bare thigh.
Everything else began to fade away. The tumultuous thoughts battling for attention in her mind quietened to a whisper.
She pulled the thin fabric covering her breast to the side, gasping sharply as her thumb began to softly circle the sensitive peak now bare to the cool air.
Ben had completely slipped from her mind now, the last vestiges of him smothered by the heady fog of desire that had settled in his place.
Ginny’s hand moved torturously slowly to her other breast, making no further move towards the growing ache at the centre of her thighs.
It wasn’t surprising that he would be the first of her problems to slip into oblivion; she and Ben might have officially called it quits today, but really their relationship had been over months ago. Ginny had resorted to seeking her own release with increasing frequency of late.
She already had a reliable collection of fantasies to keep her company in moments like this. It was none of her usual imaginary companions that stepped forward in her mind at that moment again.
A small gasp escaped her at the vision of a familiar face. Her fingers stilled momentarily where they’d just reached the hem of her underwear.
Stubbornly, she attempted to dispel the image of Harry, his expression set in the look of quiet concentration she’d seen so many times before, the one that had always sent a tiny thrill up Ginny’s spine and was even managing to do some from within her own mind.
The Harry in her head refused to be evicted. The secret smile he usually saved for her slid onto his face as Ginny’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of her underwear and met the hot flesh beneath.
She touched herself slowly, so lightly she could almost pretend it was his hand stroking her instead.
In reality, he’d never touched her, not in the way she’d once craved, but that was part of the thrill of imagining what it might be like.
Would he give her the same intense concentration he applied to so many other parts of his life?
Her fingers dipped lower; edging with a maddening lack of speed to the spot right at her centre that was crying out for attention.
She was intensely aware of everything — the long strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder to brush against her still-exposed breast, the softness of the sheets that were supposed to be Harry’s, and the slow drag of fingers that could, with a little bit of imagination, be his over her most sensitive parts.
A low moan escaped Ginny as she slowly circled her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her body crave more.
What would Harry do if he was here? Would he take her hard and fast, releasing years of built-up tension in one explosive moment?
Or would he take his time, like Ginny was doing now?
Maybe he would slowly swirl his fingers over her, pulling a sharp gasp from her lungs as pleasure spiked up her spine.
He’d give her that secret smile again then, green eyes smouldering with a promise of more.
Ginny’s hips bucked as another moan escaped her. Her free hand moved to her exposed breast, but it wasn’t her hand; it was Harry’s.
Harry’s thumb pinched her tender nipple while his other hand worked over her centre, circling the increasingly sensitive collection of nerves in progressively rapid strokes that made Ginny’s breath hitch in her throat.
His rhythm never faltered as he applied more pressure to the throbbing ache between her legs until heat was radiating from every one of her nerves and she felt as though she’d been set alight
“Yes,” she breathed, feeling her release begin to build in her core, ripples of pleasure undulating throughout her. Ginny’s toes curled into the mattress. Her back arched. Harry’s name tumbled loudly from her lips as a wave of pure ecstasy broke over her.
Usually, a crescendo like that would be followed by a slow, hazy comedown, her body and mind both sated enough to finally relax while the echoes of Ginny’s orgasm continued to undulate through her body.
Usually, a very real, very not imagined voice wouldn’t loudly say, “What the fuck,” before Ginny had even caught her breath.
Her eyes flew open, but she was temporarily blinded by the sudden flare of light someone had just switched on.
“Oh my god,” Ginny squeaked, yanking the covers up to her chest at the evidence of someone else in the room.
“No.” Her eyes adjusted in time to see Harry, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Just me.”