What if Ginny is the only girl at Hogwarts?

CH.8 - The compensation

Harry expected a jinx to his face. A shouted denial. A storm of outrage from Ron. He was prepared to laugh it off, to say he was only kidding.

Instead, Ginny’s blush deepened to a crimson wave, but she held his gaze. There was a long, pulsating silence where the only sound was the distant clatter of plates from the Ravenclaw table. She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in her lap.

Then, in a voice so small and shy it was almost carried away by the hall’s noise, she said, “Okay.”

Time seemed to stop. Five hearts hammered against five ribs. Ron looked like he might be sick. Dean’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. Neville made a small, choked noise.

“Okay?” Harry repeated, dumbfounded, all pretense of joking gone.

Ginny nodded, finally breaking eye contact to stare resolutely at her hands. “Okay.”

That night, under the cloak of darkness and silencing charms powerful enough to numb the walls of the boys’ dormitory, the agreement was fulfilled. The air was thick with the scent of nervous sweat, awe, and rampant arousal. It was awkward at first, a tangle of limbs and hesitant touches, fueled by a years of friendship suddenly inverted.

Ron couldn’t meet her eyes at first, mumbling apologies that Ginny silenced with a shaky kiss, telling him it was alright, that she wanted this. Harry was surprisingly gentle, his touches almost reverent, as if trying to overwrite the memory of the squid’s brutality with something warmer. Neville was nervous, all fumbling hands and whispered questions—“Is this alright?”—until Ginny guided him, her confidence growing with their attentions. Seamus and Dean were less hesitant, their enthusiasm a direct contrast, fueled by pent-up fantasy and the sheer unbelievable reality of the situation.

Ginny let herself be passed between them, a whirlwind of sensation. There were moments of surreal weirdness—catching her brother’s eye, hearing Harry’s familiar voice whisper her name in a completely new context—that made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously. But as hands and mouths explored the body that had been so publicly claimed and that she had secretly offered again, the initial awkwardness melted away, burned up by a rising tide of pure, unadulterated pleasure. They worshipped her, each in their own way, and she, in turn, arched into their touches, moaned into the pillows, and let the complicated feelings be washed away by the physical reality of it. It was intense, overwhelming, and somewhere in the frantic, hour-long haze of moving from one boy to the next, she ceased to think altogether and simply felt.

For the five boys, it was a surreal, intoxicating dream. It was every forbidden fantasy they’d ever half-formed, amplified a thousandfold by the fact it was Ginny—vibrant, fierce, beautiful Ginny—moaning beneath them, because of them. It was a night of shared, illicit bliss they knew would be seared into their memories forever.

And as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky, leaving them all sprawled and exhausted across the dormitory, tangled together in a sweaty, satiated heap, Ginny lay awake for a moment. Her body ached in the most delicious way, thoroughly used and thoroughly pleased. A weird feeling, indeed, to be surrounded by her brother and her best friends like this. But as she listened to their steady, sleeping breaths, a slow, deep, and utterly content smile spread across her face. In the end, tangled in the familiar, she had enjoyed it.