Knickers

Knickers

Ginny Weasley - 18, accomplished, gorgeous - stretched luxuriously.

The velvety sheets pooled around her fair sanguine limbs. She eased back onto the pillows, a smirk on her lips and ecstasy in her eyes.

Harry Potter rounded the doorway into the bedroom, met her eye.

There she was, post-coital and glossy with sweat - he, personally, was aching with blissful exhaustion - lying on his bed. Naked. And smirking.

He shook his head, taking in the smooth contours of her skin, the chocolate moles on her stomach and right hip. A rush of blood from the head reminded him of the big cocoa freckle on her bottom.

She grinned at him. "Morning."

"Morning, Gin," he said, handing her a cup of coffee.

~

The first time Harry remembered fooling around - the end of his sixth year - she had been wearing an old, slightly ill fitting cerulean bra and mismatched periwinkle knickers.

He remembered the furrowed tension in her brow, and the way it had relaxed into a look of languorous pleasure.

She had been fifteen then, fifteen and slim and leggy and pale, her bright hair glowing peacefully, damp in the very back with sweat - it was late May, and sweltering.

She had been so beautiful.

~

The first time they had made love, it had been late April, balmy and clear outside - but they were indoors. She had been wearing lacy pink knickers, full-bottomed but so sheer, he could see the dark mole on her rear. Her bra had been the color of sand, lacy and insignificant. She had grinned at him from her place on his lap, and he had winced, mostly because he was afraid to hurt her.

Afterwards she had smirked lazily at him, looking pleased if not surprised in herself.

"Any regrets?" she asked, teasingly, her lips on his ear, teeth on his neck.

"Yeah," he replied, turning away.

Silence.

"What?" She sounded disgusted, petulant, and - above all - hurt.

"I wish we'd waited."

She was out of bed in an instant, slipping the rose knickers on - damn that mole, he thought - and then her sweatshirt and jeans and then she was gone.

"Ginny," he called after, his heart rushing to his mouth, plummeting to his gut.

No reply.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmured, inaudible and wounded.

She had been so beautiful.

~

They had gotten back together 8 months later - over her last winter holidays at Hogwarts. He remembered kissing her, her lips the same as ever, the clicking of teeth and the way she felt under his hands.

"Do you still-" he began, hands on her waist, eyes almost closed, drunk on her scent.

"Yeah," she said, leaning in closer, guiding his hands under her shirt. "Yeah."

She had been wearing simple white knickers and an equally simple white bra. "Nothing fancy," she had apologized half-heartedly. "I wasn't expecting you."

"But that's what I love about you," he said, reaching for the clasp at the back of her bra. "You're gorgeous any way."

Her ears and cheeks glowed rosily and her hair - the color of a polished Knut - fell into her face and tickled his neck.

"Hey," he said gently, lifting her face to his. "I love you."

She had stared back for a moment, brown eyes like molten chocolate, and she had grinned shyly. "Don't say that if you don't mean it."

"I mean it."

She smiled at him, her face alight. "Yeah." Pause. "Yeah, I love you too."

They had made love - and she had been so beautiful.