He Needed a Sanctuary From the War, So I Gave Him My Body in the Room of Requirement

The only sound was the soft scuff of his worn trainers against ancient stone. Moonlight, cold and white, sliced through the tall, arched windows of the third-floor corridor, painting long, distorted shadows on the flagstones. The portraits were silent, their subjects snoring softly in their painted worlds, oblivious. For them, it was just another night. For Harry, the silence was a physical presence, pressing in on him, amplifying the cacophony in his own head.

Horcruxes.

The word echoed in his mind, a venomous hiss that had become the backing track to his life. The locket, hanging cold and dead against his chest beneath his shirt, was a constant, hateful reminder. The diary was gone, the ring destroyed, but there were others. The cup. The diadem. The snake. And something else, something Dumbledore had been maddeningly vague about. The Headmaster's final words were a tangled mess of riddles and half-truths that Harry was supposed to unravel while simultaneously dodging a genocidal maniac.

He paused, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of a window, looking out over the dark grounds. The Forbidden Forest was a black, jagged line against the paler sky. Out there, somewhere, Voldemort was waiting. Planning. Growing stronger. The thought sent a familiar, sickly throb through the scar on his forehead. It wasn't pain, not exactly, but a low, simmering ache—a connection he loathed but couldn't sever.

He felt impossibly alone. Ron and Hermione were with him, of course. They were sleeping now, safe in the Gryffindor Tower, and he was grateful for it. But they couldn't truly understand. The prophecy hadn't named them. Dumbledore hadn't laid this impossible burden at their feet. It was his. His to carry, his to see through to the bitter end. He was the Chosen One, a title that felt less like an honour and more like a death sentence.

A profound weariness settled deep in his bones, a fatigue that had nothing to do with the late hour. It was the weight of it all, the constant fear, the gnawing uncertainty. He was seventeen, and he felt ancient. He pushed himself off the window, his own reflection a pale, haunted stranger with tired green eyes. The corridor stretched on before him, empty and endless, a perfect mirror of the path he felt he was walking. Alone.

"Figured I'd find you up here, being all moody and dramatic."

The voice, soft but laced with familiar sarcasm, cut through the silence. Harry spun around, his wand half-drawn from his pocket before he saw her. Ginny was leaning against the opposite wall, bathed in the same stark moonlight that had been illuminating his despair. Her red hair was a shock of dark fire in the gloom, and she held a small, napkin-wrapped bundle in her hands.

A corner of his mouth twitched, the first hint of a genuine smile he’d felt in hours. "Patrolling, Ginny. It's called patrolling."

"Right," she said, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between them. The scent of cinnamon and something uniquely her—wildflowers and clean air—followed in her wake. "And I'm just out for a midnight stroll." She held out the bundle. "Peace offering. Stole them from the kitchens. Dobby was surprisingly complicit."

He took it, the warmth of the pastry seeping through the thin napkin into his cold fingers. Treacle tart. His favourite. Of course she knew. He sank onto a wide stone window ledge, and she sat beside him, their shoulders not quite touching. He took a bite. The sweet, sticky warmth was a sudden, sharp comfort, a taste of home and simple happiness in the oppressive darkness of the castle.

They ate in a comfortable quiet for a moment, the only sounds their soft chewing and the distant sigh of the wind outside. It was easy. With her, it was always so easy.

"It's not just the patrolling, is it?" she said, her voice losing its teasing edge. She wasn't looking at him, but at the grounds below, the same dark expanse he'd been staring at moments before. "You get that look. Like you're a million miles away, fighting a war no one else can see."

Harry swallowed the last of his tart. He didn't answer, just stared at the floor. He didn't want to lie to her, but the truth was a dangerous, heavy thing.

"Ron and Hermione think they have to be brave for you," she continued, her voice low and serious. "They follow you and they fight with you. But they don't always see how much it costs you." She finally turned her head, and her brown eyes were fiercely intelligent in the pale light. They pinned him in place. "They see the hero, Harry. The Chosen One. But I see you. I see the boy who's terrified he's going to fail everyone he loves."

Her words sliced right through the armour he wore every day, the carefully constructed facade of the Boy Who Lived. He felt a raw, painful lump form in his throat. He couldn't look at her, couldn't let her see how close to the truth she was. He just stared at his own hands, calloused from Quidditch and gripping his wand too tightly.

"Sometimes I think I'm just… following a ghost's instructions," he admitted, the words feeling like stones being pulled from his gut. "Dumbledore left me with riddles and a suicide mission. I lie awake at night, going over the same conversations, trying to find a clue I missed. But there’s nothing. Just me, and this… thing around my neck." His hand instinctively went to the locket beneath his shirt. "What if I can't find them all, Ginny? What if I'm not enough? What if he wins because I missed something simple?"

The confession hung in the cold air, stark and ugly. He braced himself for platitudes, for a 'Don't be silly, Harry,' but it never came. Instead, he felt a sudden, searing warmth on his forearm.

Ginny had reached out, her fingers wrapping around his arm over the thin fabric of his sleeve. It was meant as a gesture of support, a simple squeeze of reassurance. But the moment her skin made contact, a violent jolt shot through him, a current of pure heat that bypassed his skin and went straight into his blood. It wasn't magic, not like a spell. It was something else, something primal and shocking. His breath caught in his lungs, and every nerve ending in his body screamed to life.

His head snapped up, his green eyes locking with hers. Her own eyes were wide, her pupils blown huge in the dark, her lips parted in a silent gasp. He could see the pulse fluttering in the delicate skin of her throat. She felt it too. He knew she did. The heat wasn't just in his arm; it was radiating from her, a furnace of shared sensation.

As one, they yanked their hands back as if they’d both touched a hot coal. The sudden absence of her touch left his skin feeling cold and hypersensitive. They scrambled apart on the stone ledge, putting a foot of charged space between them. The comfortable silence of moments before was gone, shattered. In its place was a thick, humming tension that vibrated in the air.

He stared at her, really looked at her. He wasn't seeing Ron's kid sister anymore. He was seeing the curve of her hip, the line of her collarbone in the moonlight, the way her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. He was acutely aware of the scent of her skin, the fiery glint in her hair, the sheer, undeniable fact of her body next to his. The air in the corridor seemed to thin, making it hard to breathe. The world had tilted on its axis. Everything was different now. And as they stared at each other across the impossible new distance between them, Harry knew, with a terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same.

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?"