A/N: I meant to have this out before Christmas. Chapter 2 should be out tomorrow :) Thanks for all of your support, and Happy Holidays!
Disclaimer: This story takes place after Hogwarts. All characters in this story are consenting adults (18+).
The cold bit at Harry's cheeks as he trudged up the snowy path toward The Burrow, his breath misting in the December air. The crooked house rose before him like a warm beacon against the grey winter sky, its chimneys puffing smoke, its windows glowing with golden light. Christmas decorations sparkled from every available surface, and he could already smell the rich aroma of Molly's cooking drifting out to greet him.
Harry stomped the snow off his boots on the doormat and pushed open the door, a wave of warmth washing over him as he stepped inside. The entryway was chaos incarnate, as it always was at The Burrow during the holidays. Coats hung haphazardly from hooks, boots were piled in corners, and the sound of laughter and conversation spilled from deeper within the house.
He had barely managed to shrug off his coat and hang it on the nearest available hook when a blur of bushy brown hair launched itself at him.
"Harry!"
Hermione threw herself into his arms with such enthusiasm that he stumbled back a step, his hands automatically going to her waist to steady them both. She squeezed him tightly, and Harry became acutely aware of her breasts pressing firmly against his chest. She wore a cosy cream jumper with a low neckline that offered a tantalising glimpse of cleavage, the soft wool doing nothing to hide the generous swell of her chest. Her tight jeans hugged every curve of her hips and thighs, and as she pulled back slightly to beam up at him, Harry found his eyes drawn inevitably downward to where the neckline of her jumper gaped just enough to reveal the shadowy valley between her breasts.
"Happy Christmas!" Hermione said brightly, apparently oblivious to where his gaze had wandered. Or perhaps not so oblivious, given the slight pink that crept into her cheeks as she stepped back.
Before Harry could respond, another figure swept in, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise by several degrees.
"'Arry!"
Fleur Delacour-Weasley appeared as if summoned by his very presence, her silvery-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like moonlight on water. She wore a thin silk blouse that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Harry could clearly see the lace of her bra through the gossamer fabric, the delicate pattern doing little to conceal the perfect mounds of her breasts beneath. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a generous expanse of creamy cleavage that seemed to glow with an inner light. Her clinging skirt hugged her hips and thighs like a second skin, and as she approached, her heels clicked against the wooden floor in a rhythm that seemed almost predatory.
She leaned in to give him the traditional French greeting, her lips brushing first one cheek, then the other. But where a normal kiss would have been brief and polite, Fleur lingered. Her lips were soft and warm against his skin, and Harry could smell her perfume. When she finally pulled back, her ice-blue eyes sparkled with unmistakable mischief.
"Eet 'as been too long," she murmured, her accent thick as honey. "You 'ave grown even more 'andsome, I theenk."
Harry's mouth had gone rather dry.
"Harry, dear!"
Molly Weasley bustled forward, her arms already outstretched. She enveloped him in one of her signature bone-crushing hugs, and Harry returned the embrace warmly. But then her hands began to wander in ways that seemed decidedly un-motherly. She squeezed his biceps appreciatively, then ran her palms over his chest.
"My goodness, just feel these muscles!" Molly exclaimed, her eyes wide. "You've filled out so nicely, dear. All that Auror training, I expect?"
Her hands continued their exploration, moving down his sides, over his stomach. Harry stood frozen, uncertain what to do as Molly's inspection became increasingly thorough. And then, with a boldness that made his eyes nearly pop out of his skull, her hand dropped lower and squeezed his cock through his trousers.
"Very nicely indeed," she said, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
"Mum!" Ginny's scandalised voice cut through the moment.
Molly's hand withdrew instantly, her expression shifting to one of perfect innocence. "What? I'm just checking that the boy's been eating properly! You can tell a lot from a firm grip, you know."
Harry wasn't sure that was true, but he was in no position to argue. His cock had stirred traitorously at the unexpected contact, and he found himself grateful for the loose cut of his trousers.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly," came a new voice, rich and accented.
Harry turned to find another vision of Veela beauty approaching. This must be Apolline Delacour, Fleur's mother, and good Godric, the resemblance was striking. She wore a cashmere sweater with a deep V-neck that plunged daringly between her breasts, and tight black trousers that clung to her curves like they'd been painted on. Her silvery hair was slightly darker than her daughter's, her features more mature but no less stunning, and her eyes held the wisdom of years along with an unmistakable appreciation as they roamed over Harry's form.
"'Arry Potter," she said, her voice a purr. "I 'ave 'eard so much about you."
She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned in, ostensibly for the same greeting her daughter had given. But her lips landed dangerously close to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. Her fingers traced down his arms, squeezing the muscle beneath his shirt.
"Magnifique," she murmured against his skin. "Fleur was not exaggerating."
Exaggerating about what? Harry wondered, his brain struggling to keep up with the onslaught of beautiful women throwing themselves at him.
"My turn!" Ginny appeared at his side, her eyes bright with amusement. She wore a tight red top that hugged her athletic figure, showing off the swell of her modest but perky breasts, and a short skirt that showed off her toned, Quidditch-trained thighs. She rose on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, her lips soft and warm, her hand resting briefly on his chest. "Happy Christmas, Harry."
"Happy Christmas, Gin," he managed, his voice only slightly strangled.
And then the crowd seemed to part, and Harry's breath caught in his throat.
Gabrielle Delacour stood at the edge of the group, and she looked... Merlin, she looked like a bride ready to step down the aisle. Her silvery-blonde hair fell in soft waves around her face, framing features that were somehow both innocent and knowing. She wore a white sweater that hugged her generous breasts with loving attention to detail, the wool stretching over curves that seemed almost too perfect to be real. Her short skirt left her long, pale legs bare, and as Harry watched, she seemed to fold in on herself slightly, her arms pressing together in front of her chest in a gesture of shyness that had the unintended effect of squishing her breasts together, creating a valley of heavenly cleavage that made Harry's mouth water.
She approached him slowly, her blue eyes holding his, and rose on her tiptoes to give him a single kiss. Not on the cheek. Not quite on the lips. Right at the corner of his mouth, where the boundaries blurred and possibilities opened like flower petals.
"'Ello, 'Arry," she said softly, her breath warm against his skin. "I 'ave been looking forward to seeing you again."
Harry's cock twitched. There was no hiding it. The combination of all these beautiful women, their touches and kisses and lingering gazes, had left him in a state of semi-arousal that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
"Come," Gabrielle said, taking his hand in hers. Her fingers were soft and warm, and she gave him a gentle tug. "Dinner ees almost ready."
Harry allowed himself to be led into the living room, his eyes dropping inevitably to Gabrielle's backside as she walked ahead of him. Her short skirt swayed with each step, riding up just enough to offer glimpses of her creamy thighs. Her arse was a perfect, rounded peach beneath the fabric, bouncing slightly with each movement, and Harry found himself utterly mesmerised by the sight.
Get a grip, Potter, he told himself firmly. You're a guest in this house. These are your friends. You can't spend the entire holiday walking around with a massive erection.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was going to be a very long Christmas indeed.
...
Dinner was chaos.
Wonderful, delicious, overwhelming chaos.
The long table in the Weasley dining room had been magically extended to accommodate everyone, and Harry found himself squeezed between Hermione and Gabrielle, with Fleur directly across from him. Food covered every available surface, Molly had outdone herself, and the conversation flowed as freely as the mulled wine.
But Harry could barely focus on any of it.
Every time he reached for a dish, Hermione seemed to lean across him, her breasts brushing against his arm. Every time he tried to take a bite, Gabrielle would shift in her seat, her bare thigh pressing against his beneath the table. And every time he looked up, Fleur was there, her ice-blue eyes holding his gaze while she slowly, deliberately, licked gravy off her fork in a way that seemed far more sensual than any utensil had a right to be.
At one point, Apolline leaned forward to ask him a question, and the V-neck of her sweater gaped open, giving him a clear view of the lacy black bra that struggled to contain her impressive cleavage. Harry's answer came out as an incomprehensible mumble, and he had to repeat himself twice before she seemed satisfied.
Molly kept loading his plate with seconds and thirds, her hand lingering on his shoulder each time, her fingers occasionally straying to brush the back of his neck. Ginny, seated further down the table, kept catching his eye and smirking, as if she knew exactly what he was going through and found it deeply amusing.
By the time dessert was served, Harry was wound tighter than a spring. His cock had been in various states of arousal throughout the meal, and he was fairly certain that if one more beautiful woman touched him, he was going to explode.
...
After dinner, the group dispersed. Arthur retreated to his shed to tinker with some Muggle contraption, Bill and Charlie engaged in a heated debate about dragons versus curse-breaking, and the twins disappeared with suspicious grins that suggested they were up to something.
Harry grabbed his bag from where he'd left it at the bottom of the stairs and was about to head up when Molly caught his arm.
"Harry, dear, you're in the attic this year," she said, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry, but the men's room is a bit cramped with all the boys home. I hope the attic is alright?"
"Of course, Molly. That's fine."
She beamed at him. "You know the way, don't you? Up the stairs, through the top floor room, and the ladder's in the corner."
Harry nodded. He'd spent enough time at The Burrow to know its layout intimately. The top floor was the men's room, where he'd bunked with Ron and the twins in years past. The attic above it was cosy and private, if a bit dusty. He didn't mind at all.
What Harry didn't think about, as he climbed the narrow stairs, was that the usual sleeping arrangements might have changed. That Bill and Fleur, as the married couple, might have taken Ginny's room. That this would mean Ginny, Hermione, and Gabrielle would need somewhere else to sleep. That the "somewhere else" might very well be the top floor room he was about to walk into.
He reached the top landing, pushed open the door without knocking, and stopped dead.
Hermione stood in the middle of the room, her cream jumper pulled halfway over her head, her arms tangled in the fabric. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her perfect breasts were fully exposed, round and full and topped with soft pink nipples that seemed to harden even as he watched. They were even more magnificent than he'd imagined, firm and supple, the kind of breasts that begged to be touched, kissed, worshipped.
Harry stared.
He couldn't help it. His brain had simply stopped functioning, replaced entirely by the primal urge to drink in every detail of the sight before him. The gentle curve of her breasts, the way they rose and fell with her breathing, the slight bounce as she struggled with her jumper...
Hermione finally freed herself from the tangle of wool, and her eyes met his.
She shrieked.
"Harry!"
Her hands flew to cover herself, but her breasts were too large, too full. They overflowed her palms, soft flesh spilling between her fingers no matter how she tried to arrange them. Her face was scarlet, her eyes wide with shock and embarrassment, and she looked utterly, devastatingly beautiful.
"I... door... knocked... meant to..." Harry's mouth was moving, but coherent sentences seemed to be beyond him.
"Turn around!" Hermione squeaked.
Harry spun on his heel so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He stared fixedly at the wall, his heart pounding, the image of Hermione's naked breasts seared into his memory for all eternity.
Behind him, he could hear frantic rustling, the sound of fabric being hastily manipulated.
"What are you even doing here?" Hermione demanded, her voice muffled. "This is the girls' room!"
"Molly said... attic... I thought this was still..."
"The men's room? No! Bill and Fleur took Ginny's room, so we had to move up here!" More rustling. "Alright. You can turn around now."
Harry turned, expecting to see Hermione wrapped in a dressing gown or perhaps a jumper, something that would allow his poor, overstimulated brain to recover.
Instead, she stood before him in just a bra.
The garment was clearly too small. Her breasts overflowed the cups, creating an absurd valley of cleavage that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The lacy edges dug into the soft flesh, pushing her breasts up and together until they looked like they might burst free at any moment. She had her arms crossed beneath them, which only served to enhance the effect, creating even more devastating cleavage.
Harry's cock, which had begun to subside during his wall-staring, roared back to full hardness with a vengeance.
"Eyes up here, Harry," Hermione said, though her voice wobbled slightly,
"Right. Sorry. Yes. Eyes. Up." Harry dragged his gaze to her face with a herculean effort of will. "I'm just... attic. Going to the attic. The ladder's in here?"
"In the corner," Hermione said, gesturing. The motion made her breasts bounce, and Harry bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.
"Everything alright in here?"
Ginny appeared in the doorway behind him, her eyebrows rising as she took in the scene. Her eyes flicked from Harry's flushed face to Hermione's barely-contained breasts, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Well, well," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "Someone's having an eventful evening."
"Ginny!" Hermione's blush deepened impossibly. "It's not... he just... the door..."
"Relax, Hermione, I'm just teasing." Ginny stepped into the room, still wearing the tight red top and short skirt from earlier. She gave Harry's shoulder a playful shove. "Come on, I'll show you the attic ladder before you give poor Hermione an aneurysm."
She moved past him toward the corner of the room, her skirt swishing around her thighs. The ladder leading to the attic was built into the wall, a simple wooden affair that disappeared through a trapdoor in the ceiling.
"Up you go," Ginny said, gesturing for him to follow as she started to climb.
Harry moved to steady the ladder, his hands gripping the wooden sides. "Careful," he said automatically. "I've got you if you fall."
The words were barely out of his mouth when he realised his mistake. To watch Ginny in case she fell, he had to look up. And looking up meant looking directly up her skirt.
The view stole his breath.
Ginny wore a tiny red thong that barely covered anything. The thin strip of fabric disappeared between the perfect, rounded globes of her arse, leaving her cheeks almost entirely bare. As she climbed higher, Harry could see the outline of her pussy, the fabric stretched taut over her mound, revealing every curve and contour with devastating clarity. Her thighs flexed with each step, and the tiny thong shifted, riding up even higher, offering glimpses that made his cock throb painfully against his trousers.
Harry stood frozen, his eyes locked on the heavenly sight above him, his brain utterly incapable of processing anything else.
A hand smacked his shoulder.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice was a strangle hiss.
He tore his eyes away, heat flooding his face. Hermione stood beside him, having apparently thrown on a dressing gown at some point, though it did little to hide the impressive swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide, and she seemed just as flustered as he was.
She saw it too, Harry realised.
"Come on, slowpoke!" Ginny's voice drifted down from above. "Are you coming or not?"
Harry grabbed his bag and climbed the ladder with perhaps more haste than was strictly necessary, his eyes fixed firmly on the rungs in front of him. He emerged into the attic, a cosy space with a sloped ceiling, a comfortable-looking bed, and a window that looked out over the snowy garden below.
Ginny stood by the trapdoor, her arms crosse, that wicked grin still playing at her lips. She knew exactly what he'd seen. And she didn't seem to mind one bit.
"I'll leave you to get settled," she said, her voice a purr. "Try not to think about us too much, yeah?"
She winked, then disappeared down the ladder, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and his painfully hard cock.
He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying every moment of the evening in vivid, torturous detail. Hermione's naked breasts. Ginny's barely-covered arse. Fleur's see-through blouse. Apolline's plunging neckline. Gabrielle's heavenly cleavage. Molly's hand on his cock.
This is going to be a very long Christmas, he thought, not for the first time.
...
Ten minutes passed.
Harry gathered his toiletries and headed back down the ladder, his bladder and basic hygiene needs finally overriding his embarrassment. The room below was seemingly empty. Ginny and Hermione must have left to wash up themselves, their toiletry bags and dressing gowns conspicuously absent.
He was halfway across the room when he heard a soft sound and froze.
Gabrielle was there.
She stood with her back to him, bent over her bag near one of the beds, searching for something among her belongings. She wore nothing but a towel, her silvery-blonde hair damp from the shower and cascading over her shoulders. The towel was short. Far too short. And as she bent lower, rummaging through her things, it rode up over the perfect curves of her backside.
Harry's breath caught.
Her arse was a work of art. Perfect, rounded globes of creamy flesh, smooth and unblemished, the kind of backside that artists would weep to paint. And as the towel rode higher, slipping up past the point of decency, Harry found himself staring directly at her exposed pussy.
She was pink and glistening, either from the shower or... or from something else entirely. The soft folds of her sex were slightly parted, revealing the delicate inner flesh, and Harry could see moisture gathering there, a dewy sheen that caught the candlelight and made his mouth water.
He stood transfixed, his cock surging to full hardness so quickly it almost hurt, his toiletry bag forgotten in his hands.
Gabrielle straightened and turned, catching him in the act. Her blue eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Then, instead of the embarrassment Harry expected, the shriek of outrage, the hurried covering of exposed flesh, Gabrielle smiled.
It was a slow, knowing smile, one that held secrets and promises in equal measure. Her eyes dropped from his face, travelling down his chest, past his stomach, to where his erection strained so obviously against his trousers that it might as well have been naked. Her smile widened, appreciation clear in her gaze.
"I see you 'ave been enjoying yourself zis evening, 'Arry," she said, her voice a soft purr. She made no move to adjust her towel, letting it remain hiked up over one hip, exposing the curve of her bare arse.
Harry's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
Gabrielle's eyes lingered on his bulge for another long moment, then rose to meet his gaze. The innocence he'd seen in her earlier was gone, replaced by something far more interesting.
"Do not worry," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Zere will be plenty of time for you to show me what you are 'iding in zere."
And with that, she finally pulled her towel down, turned back to her bag, and began calmly searching for her nightclothes as if she hadn't just turned Harry's world upside down.
He fled to the bathroom, his heart pounding, his cock aching, and the promise in Gabrielle's voice echoing in his ears.
Disclaimer: This story takes place after Hogwarts. All characters in this story are consenting adults (18+).