The chaos of the Burrow was a distant din, for the Weasleys and their many assorted guests were outside in the garden, preparing for the impending nuptials of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour. For the first time all day, Harry Potter could hear himself think. The sitting room was a sanctuary of mismatched cushions and worn-out furniture, the afternoon sun painting dust motes gold in the air. On the coffee table, his birthday presents sat in a silent, bizarre congregation: a brand new Sneakoscope from Hermione; the elegant, enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur; a box of garish joke products from Fred and George's Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes that promised unspecified mayhem. Molly Weasley's heirloom wristwatch —formerly belonging to her deceased brother Fabian Prewett's—ticked against his wrist, a steady reminder of time running out.
He popped another of the Delacours' exquisite French chocolates into his mouth, the sweetness of the confection clashing with the bitter knot in his stomach. Tomorrow, the wedding. Then, the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes. The end of everything.
With a soft snort, he flipped a page in Twelve Fail-safe Ways to Charm Witches. Ron's gift. A bit late for that, he thought, the memory of soft red hair and a fierce kiss by the lake surfacing, sharp and painful. He'd already charmed a witch. And then he'd let her go, pushed her away to keep her safe. The book's advice—tip number seven involved complimenting a witch's familiar—seemed laughably, tragically absurd. Why Ron chose this book to give him was beyond Harry. Perhaps his best mate was having a laugh, just taking the piss.
Harry chuckled, a dry, hollow sound, and tossed the book onto the cluttered table. It skidded, knocking against the Sneakoscope, which let out a brief, indignant whistle.
The door to the sitting room creaked open.
"Light reading?"
Her voice. It washed over him, a sensation as physical as a touch. He looked up. Ginny stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a familiar, knowing grin playing on her lips. Her eyes flicked to the book's title and her grin widened.
"Ron's gift," Harry said, his own smile feeling awkward on his face.
"Ron's a prat," she stated simply, pushing off the doorframe and stepping fully into the room. The sunlight caught the fire in her hair, and she seemed to bring all the stifled energy of the house inside with her.
"So—" he began, unsure what to say. So, how's the wedding prep? So, are you okay? So, I think about you every second.
"So... I have your present ready. In my room," Ginny said abruptly, cutting off his stumbling thoughts. Her gaze was direct, unwavering, a challenge.
"Er… okay," Harry managed, the awkwardness thickening the air between them. He stood, his body moving on autopilot. She didn't wait, just turned and led the way through the kitchen, her steps confident on the creaking stairs. He followed, the old watch ticking a frantic rhythm against his pulse point.
Ginny's bedroom was as he remembered it—Quidditch posters, a faint smell of broomstick polish and flowers, a small, tidy bed. The door clicked shut behind him, and he heard the soft, definitive snick of a door-locking charm. His heart hammered against his ribs.
She turned. The playful grin was gone, replaced by something raw and intense. Her eyes were bright, fierce.
"Something to remember me by," she said, her voice low.
And then she was on him. Her hands framed his face, and she kissed him. It wasn't the gentle, exploratory kiss by the lake at Hogwarts. This was possession. Her lips were demanding, hungry, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a desperate urgency that stole his breath. He kissed her back, instinct overriding caution, his hands coming up to tangle in her hair. The scent of her—spearmint toothpaste, soap, her flowery perfume—was intoxicating.
She walked him backwards, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of her bed. He sank down, and she came with him, straddling his lap.
"We shouldn't be—" he gasped against her mouth, the voice of duty a feeble whisper in the roaring rush of his blood.
"Shut up," she breathed, the words hot against his lips. Her hands went to his belt, fingers fumbling only for a second before the buckle gave way. The button of his jeans popped open. The zipper sounded deafeningly loud.
"Ginny, really, after tomorrow I—" he tried again, even as his hips lifted to help her.
"I said shut up, Harry," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She yanked his jeans and boxers down just enough, her small, strong hand closing around him. He was already painfully, fully hard. The touch, so sudden and sure, ripped a choked gasp from his throat. All protest died, incinerated by pure, blinding sensation.
She didn't hesitate. She bent her head, her hair forming a fiery curtain around them, and took him into her mouth, hot and wet.
The thought fragmented. His head fell back against her quilt, a moan tearing from him. Her mouth was a revelation—enthusiastic, practiced, insistent. She used her tongue, flat against the sensitive underside of his shaft, then swirling around the head. Her lips created a tight, perfect seal as she took him deeper, her hand working the base in a slick, synchronized rhythm. He could feel the back of her throat, a gentle, welcome pressure.
"Oh, God… Ginny…" Her name was a prayer, a curse. His hands flew to her head, not to guide, but to anchor himself, his fingers twisting in her soft hair. Pleasure, sharp and electric, coiled tight in his gut. The world narrowed to this point of contact, to the sinful, sloppy sounds, to the feel of her eager mouth claiming him. He was hurtling towards the edge, the climax building with terrifying speed, a tidal wave about to break and flood her throat.
With a monumental effort, he gripped her the sides of her head and gently, firmly, pulled her up. Her lips left him with a soft, slick pop. She looked up, her lips swollen and glistening, her eyes clouded with passion and a flicker of confusion.
"Please," Harry panted, his chest heaving. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her damp bottom lip. "If this is the last time… let's do it proper. Let me… let me feel you."
Her eyes softened. She nodded, a single, decisive movement. Without a word, she stood up from the bed. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her own jeans, and she pushed them down, along with her simple cotton knickers, in one swift, graceful motion. She stepped out of them, kicked them aside. She was bare, beautiful, and completely unselfconscious.
Harry drank her in. The curve of her hips, the neat triangle of red hair at the junction of her thighs, the long, Quidditch-toned legs.
She climbed back onto the bed, kneeling over him. He reached for her, but she shook her head, a small, secret smile on her face. "My present," she murmured. "My way."
She guided him, her hand steadying him as she positioned herself above him. He could feel the heat radiating from her, see the evidence of her own desire glistening on her inner thighs. Then she lowered herself, an inch at a time.
The first touch was electric. The slick, hot head of his cock nudged against her entrance. He held his breath.
She sank down.
It was a slow, deliberate, exquisite slide. She was tight, so incredibly tight, and so wet she gave way around him with a delicious, burning pressure. He felt every millimeter of her inner walls yielding, clasping, welcoming him in. A loud, sharp yelp of pleasure escaped her as he finally, fully sheathed himself inside her, his hips meeting the softness of her thighs.
"Oh, Merlin… Harry…" she gasped, her body going rigid for a second, her head thrown back.
He could only groan, a deep, ragged sound of pure bliss. He was buried to the hilt in her warmth, in her wet, clutching heat. It was more than he'd ever imagined.
She began to move. Slowly at first, a gentle, rocking rise and fall. Her hands braced on his chest, her eyes locked on his. He reached for her, his hands sliding up her bare thighs, marveling at the smooth strength of them. He squeezed her backside, pulling her down harder onto him with each descent, earning another breathy cry.
The pace quickened. Her movements became more urgent, more rhythmic. She rode him in earnest now, her body a perfect, fluid machine of pleasure. Each time she lifted, he felt the cool air, the loss, and each time she sank back down, it was a homecoming, a jolt of searing pleasure that shot straight up his groin.
He let his hands roam, committing her to memory through touch. The perfect round curves of her arse, The dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her breasts under her t-shirt. He pushed the fabric up, and she helped him, pulling it over her head and tossing it away. Her breasts were small, perfect, tipped with tight, rosy peaks. He cupped one, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and she moaned, the sound vibrating through her and into him.
He sat up, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. He captured her mouth again, the kiss messy and desperate. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples hard little points of sensation. The new angle drove him even deeper, and she broke the kiss with a sharp cry, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.
"Don't stop… please, don't stop…" she begged into his ear, her breath hot and frantic.
He was close. The coil was winding impossibly tight, a spring of pure, molten need. Her inner muscles were fluttering around him, clenching and releasing in a frantic, irresistible rhythm. She was getting there too. He could see it in the wildness of her eyes, feel it in the tremors running through her thighs.
He held her tighter, as if he could fuse them together, as if by sheer will he could stop the dawn from coming. He kissed her like it was the last kiss in the world, pouring every ounce of his fear, his longing, his desperate love into it.
"Ginny…" he gasped against her mouth.
"I'm there… Harry, I'm there…" she whimpered against his.
Her body went taut as a bowstring. A sharp, broken cry was torn from her throat, and he felt her climax, a series of violent, exquisite spasms that gripped his cock like a velvet fist. That was all it took. The wave he'd been holding back broke.
With a guttural groan, he buried his face in the curve of her neck and came. It was a torrent, a release so profound it felt like his soul was spilling into her. Pulse after pulse of hot seed filled her, each spasm wringing a fresh, shuddering sigh from her body as she continued to milk him, her own climax gentling into slow, rippling aftershocks.
They collapsed together onto the bed, a tangled, sweaty, breathless heap. He was still inside her, softening, but loath to separate. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, happy shouts from the garden below.
Her head lay on his chest, her hair fanning out like spilled red wine across his skin. After a long moment, she shifted just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss over his heart.
"Happy birthday, Harry Potter," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
He tightened his arms around her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the smooth skin of her back. The watch on his wrist ticked on, counting down the seconds of peace. He savored the weight of her on top of him, the feel of her warmth surrounding him, the scent of her hair and their joined bodies. He committed it all to memory—the salt on her skin, the rapid thrum of her heartbeat slowly calming against his, the perfect, heavy languor in his limbs.
For this stolen moment, there was no war. No Horcruxes. No fate. There was only Ginny, and the profound, aching gift of her.