The next day was a waking fever dream. Harry went through the motions—classes he barely heard, meals he didn't taste, conversations with Ron and Hermione where he nodded and grunted in what he hoped were the right places. But his mind wasn't there. It was trapped in the moonlit corridor, replaying the exact moment Ginny’s fingers had wrapped around his arm.

The memory was a physical thing. He could still feel the shocking, electric heat of it, a jolt that had bypassed all his defenses and lit a fuse deep in his gut. The Horcrux hanging against his sternum felt like a cold stone, but the memory of her touch was a brand on his skin. All day, he was plagued by a low, persistent throb of arousal that was both infuriating and consuming. Every time his thoughts drifted to her—the way her eyes had widened, the quick, shallow breaths she took, the sudden, sharp awareness of her body so close to his—his dick would harden in his jeans, a blunt, insistent ache that demanded his attention. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, hijacked by a need so powerful it drowned out even the constant fear of Voldemort.

He had to find her. The thought wasn't a plan; it was an imperative, a primal urge. The silence that had fallen between them after they’d scrambled apart couldn't be the end of it. It felt like a cliffhanger, a question left hanging in the air that was screaming for an answer.

He saw her after dinner, heading out of the Great Hall with a group of her friends. Their eyes met across the crowded Entrance Hall, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The noise of the other students faded to a dull roar. Her friends’ laughter died on her lips as she saw him, her expression shifting into something serious, knowing. He gave a short, almost imperceptible jerk of his head toward an empty antechamber. She murmured something to her friends and, without a moment's hesitation, broke away from them and followed him.

The second the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, the air grew thick again, charged with that same humming tension from the night before. He could smell her scent, that mix of wildflowers and clean skin, and it made the muscles in his stomach clench.

"Harry," she said, her voice quiet but steady.

"We need to talk," he said, his own voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Not here. Somewhere... completely private."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. This wasn't about Horcruxes or patrols. This was about the jolt of heat, about the way they’d looked at each other, about the sudden, undeniable lust that had slammed into them.

Ginny didn't ask why. She didn't feign ignorance. She just searched his face for a long moment, her brown eyes intense, and then gave a single, decisive nod. "Where?"

"I know a place," he said. "Follow me."

He led her out of the antechamber and up the grand staircase, acutely aware of her presence just a step behind him. He didn't look back, but he could feel her eyes on him. The swish of her robes, the soft sound of her shoes on the stone, every little noise was amplified in his ears. The walk to the seventh floor felt like the longest journey of his life, each step tightening the knot of anticipation in his gut. They passed no one. It was as if the castle itself was holding its breath, giving them this path. He finally stopped in the familiar corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet. The wall opposite it was blank, unremarkable. Just a stretch of empty stone.

Ginny looked from the blank wall to him, her expression unreadable but for the trust in her eyes. "Okay," she said, her voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate right through him. "What now?"

"Just… wait here," he managed, his mouth dry.

He turned to face the stone wall. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate, to push past the frantic thrumming in his veins. He needed a place. Not just a room, but a sanctuary. He pictured it in his mind, pouring all his desperation and longing into the image. I need a place where we can be alone, he thought, his mental voice raw with need. A place where no one can find us. No Ron, no Hermione, no Dumbledore's ghost, no fucking Voldemort. Just us. A place where we can say what we need to say. A place that’s safe.

He began to pace, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. Back and forth. Once. His mind sharpened, the image becoming clearer. He saw a fireplace, warm and crackling, casting a soft, golden light. He saw a plush rug, deep and soft, big enough for two people. He saw comfortable furniture, but not the sprawling, public setup of the common room. Just one sofa, deep and inviting. A small table with two glasses and a bottle of butterbeer. A place for them. Only them.

He paced again. Twice. The need for her, the pure, physical ache of it, was a roaring fire in his blood. He wanted to touch her again, to see if that lightning would strike a second time. He wanted to close the door on the entire world and just be Harry, with Ginny. Not the hero. Not her brother's best friend. Just a boy who was drowning and saw her as the only solid thing to hold on to.

He paced a third time, his focus absolute. A place for me and Ginny. Just for us.

He stopped, his breathing ragged, and opened his eyes.

Where the blank stone had been, a door was now forming. It shimmered into existence, faint lines etching themselves into the stone before solidifying into a simple, dark wooden door with a plain brass handle. It looked solid, real, as if it had always been there.

Ginny let out a small, quiet gasp beside him.

Harry didn't say a word. He reached out, his hand slightly trembling, and closed his fingers around the cool brass. The handle turned with a soft, satisfying click. He pulled the door open.

A wave of warm, fire-scented air washed over them. The room was exactly as he had imagined it, a perfect, private miniature of the Gryffindor common room. A fire blazed merrily in a stone hearth, its light dancing across a single, overstuffed sofa and a thick, burgundy rug. The walls were hung with warm, dark tapestries that absorbed the sound, creating a pocket of profound silence. It was a haven. A bubble of peace in the heart of the war-torn castle.

He looked at Ginny. Her eyes were wide, taking in the impossible room. She looked back at him, a question and an answer all in one glance. He held the door open, a silent invitation.

She stepped past him, over the threshold and into the warm light. Harry followed, pulling the door shut behind them. It closed with a heavy, final thud, the sound sealing them inside, cutting them off completely from the castle, the war, and everything else. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the crackling of the fire, the warmth on their skin, and the suffocating, exhilarating tension between them.

For a long moment, they just stood there in the profound quiet, the air thick and warm. The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy, filled with everything that had been left unsaid in the corridor the night before. Ginny drifted toward the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows over her, turning her hair into a river of fire. Harry’s eyes tracked her every movement, the sway of her hips beneath her robes, the delicate line of her neck as she looked into the blaze. His dick was already hard, a solid, aching pressure against the zipper of his jeans.

The pretense of a simple conversation was a flimsy shield, and it shattered the moment he spoke. "I didn't bring you here just to talk," he said, his voice rough in the still air.

Ginny turned from the fire, her expression unreadable but for the intensity in her dark eyes. "I know," she said simply.

He closed the distance between them, stepping onto the plush rug. The soft material under his shoes did nothing to ground him. He felt like he was floating, tethered only to her. "Last night," he began, forcing the words out. "When you touched me... I haven't been able to think straight since. It's like you lit a fucking fire under my skin." He raked a hand through his messy hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "All I can see is you. All I can think about is... this. Us. I look at you and I'm not seeing Ron's little sister anymore. I haven't for a long time. I see you, Ginny. And fuck, I want you so badly it hurts."

He let the confession hang there, raw and exposed. He felt a tremor run through him, a mix of fear and exhilarating relief.

Ginny’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. It wasn't teasing; it was confident, powerful. She took a deliberate step closer to him. "Good," she murmured, her voice a low thrum that went straight to his groin. "Because I've been thinking about you too."

She took another step, closing the space until she was right in front of him, forcing him to tilt his head down to meet her gaze. "I spent years dreaming of the Boy Who Lived," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "A silly, schoolgirl crush. But I'm not a girl anymore, Harry. And what I want from you has nothing to do with saving the world."

Her eyes dropped from his face, down his body, and then she slowly, deliberately, reached out. Her fingers didn't go to his arm this time. They brushed against the front of his jeans, a feather-light touch directly over the rigid length of his cock. A jolt, a hundred times more potent than the one in the corridor, shot through him. He let out a sharp, involuntary hiss of air.

"I want this," she whispered, her fingers tracing his hardness through the denim. "I want the man who looks at me like he's starving. I've been thinking about what you feel like. How you'd feel inside me. I've been wet just imagining it." Her gaze lifted back to his, fierce and challenging. "So tell me, Harry. What are you going to do about it?"