Breasts - H/G - PG-13
Title: Breasts
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Words: 2137
Rating: PG-13

For lnavgd, in the sure and certain knowledge that she loves her Harry best of all.


Breasts
****
How many times have I seen Ron eating an apple? None of the other thousand, or so, apples... aroused me. How well do I know Ron’s hands? I’d recognise them, anywhere; the sight of them – I don’t mean not detached from the rest of him... maybe reaching out from under an Invisibility Cloak.

The strength of them, just squeezing my shoulder.

So, the scene opposite me, at lunch at the Burrow, shouldn’t have me this flustered.

Ron’s hand cupping an apple, glimpses of pink flushed skin visible between long fingers. And, OK, I’m pretty sure Hermione’s boobs aren’t green, with pink flushed skin, but I can almost see his thumb brushing the nipple, rather than the stalk.

I don’t know why I am suddenly this aware that he has touched her boobs. He has never mentioned it, and I don’t get like this in the presence of the actual... bosom. Hermione’s boobs are... factual.

Not that they can spout facts from Hogwarts: A History; and now I’m picturing them spouting something else, as Ron pinches the nipples and lowers his head to... suckle on her.

What is the matter with me?

I mean, they are factual; a fact; they exist. Hermione has boobs, tits, knockers.

Which was originally a bit of a shock, admittedly, September third year, ‘though not as much for me as for Ron, who seemed to take them a bit personally, as if they were aimed at him... which, yeah, come to think of it, they were, so yeah.

But I barely think of them as boobs; not girls’ boobs. More like Ron’s boobs. Or something just a little less weird. It’s not the boobs, themselves, that have me all hot and bothered, anyway, even if I have just used the word eight times.

It’s Ron touching them.

My Ron, my best mate, my second, my right hand.

That Ron’s right hand was clearly sexually active, putting rather clearly into rather stark contrast the fact that I rather was not. My hands will be eighteen in a couple of weeks, and they ache to fondle breasts, like Ron fondles that apple.

Breasts.

I sighed heavily, my eyes still fixed on Ron’s hands as he gripped the stalk firmly between finger and thumb and began rotating the apple with his other hand. No one else even noticed, no matter bit through their tongue at the thought of Hermione hanging, suspended by her nipples, and revolving like a circus act.

Though I'd bet ever Sickle in my vault that no one else was picturing it, either.

I got up from the table, plonked my plate in the sink and stomped out into the garden.

I stalked through the long grass, clenching and unclenching my fists, grumbling to myself about breasts and betrayal and best friends who do one to get their hands on the other.

Ron caught up with me as I slumped under an apple tree and started ripping up grass.

"What's the matter?" he asked, folding up his legs and sitting beside me.

"Nothing," I muttered.

He cleared his throat significantly and wound a blade of grass round and round his finger.

I shrugged one shoulder and shook my head

"You glared at me eating a bloody apple, and then you stormed out of the kitchen," he said in an annoyingly reasonable tone of voice. "What is the matter?"

"It wasn't 'cos of you and an apple," I said. "It's… bigger than that."

"A melon?" he suggested.

"Shut up."

"I like apples," he said.

"It's not the apple."

"Come back in," he said soothingly. "Mum's got some strawberries…"

I groaned at the image of him ripping the stalk from a ripe strawberry and balancing it on Hermione's breast, her nipple tight inside the hole left by the… ripping… the juice running down her breasts as Ron bends and bites into it.

"Seriously," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Breasts," I said in a very small voice.

His eyebrows shot up, under his fringe and he sniggered.

"Breasts?"

"Breasts."

"You saved the world and now you freak out over breasts?"

"Maybe."

"You daft sod – you had me worried."

I thunked my head back against the tree trunk and looked at him.

"I want breasts," I pouted.

He looked at my chest.

"Um," he said.

"Not like that, you git," I said. "I'm nearly eighteen and my hands are empty and they want to touch breasts and I was watching you eat the apple because your hands are usually full of breasts and I'm so jealous I can't stand it."

"Wow," he said. "Um."

"Not jealous that you touch Hermione's… Bristols; just that you fondle any, at all, and I know that makes me sound like an idiot."

"Bristols?"

"What?"

"I'm the one that's…accessed Hermione, and she hasn't got – what are Bristols?"

"Tits."

"What?"

"Bristol City: titty," I said. "It's slang and they're a football club."

"Oh," he said, grinning broadly. "Tornados."

"What?"

"Titshill Tornados."

I snorted. "Yeah, exactly."

"So," he said slowly, "you ran out of the kitchen because I was fondling an apple and you thought I was rather too good at it, and got all jealous of my vast experience."

"Maybe."

"My vast mammary experience."

"And now I can't stop thinking of strawberry nipples."

"My nippular experience." He nodded knowingly.

"I told you it'd sound stupid."

"Well, look, Harry," he said. "I don't wanna sound like I'm pimping out my sister, here, but…"

"But?" I asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

"But she'd take you back, you know that - and in ten, twelve years you can get married and touch her Bristols."

I looked down at my hands

"I've already touched them," I muttered.

"Ah," he said. "Right."

"Right."

"Not sure if I'd rather that was when she was fifteen, or if you've been molesting her, in her sleep, since we got home."

"Ron, stop it," I said. "Yes, she was fifteen, but I was sixteen, not thirty. But now my hands miss them and I watch your hands and they're happy hands and that's ridiculous."

"They are happy," Ron said. "Partly because you're such an idiot they don't need to punch you, but mainly because they get to play with Hermione's boobs."

I grunted.

"The ones you… have you even spoken to their owner, since we got back?" he asked.

"I've spoken to her," I muttered.

"Not just 'can you pass the potatoes?'"

"Potatoes," I sighed.

"Pull yourself together!" he said. "How d'you expect t get back together if you don't even talk to her."

"She deserves better," I said pitifully.

Ron smacked me on the back of the head.

"Ow!" I protested.

"For reasons that escape me, she doesn't think she can do better," he said sternly. "Now, if Hermione doesn't let me get away with self-pity crap, then I'm certainly not gonna let you."

"She needs someone who isn't obsessed with breasts," I muttered.

"Like… Terry?" Ron suggested.

"What? What has she said about Terry?"

"Nothing, idiot," Ron said, sighing heavily. "I meant she'll need a boyfriend who likes blokes, if you want us to find her a teenage boy who isn't obsessed with breasts."

"Very funny."

"You don't have to actually say 'I missed your breasts, can we try again'," he said.

"Her breasts are too young for a serious relationship," I said. "I should give her some time."

"Some more time?" he asked. "Don't be ridiculous. And they're, what, thirty-two, if you add them together."

I laughed, slightly hysterically.

"I don't think the age of breasts is cumulative," I pointed out.

"'Course it is," he said happily. "For teenage girls it is cumulative and equal to cup-size, so you know whether to fondle them, or not."

"Ron," I protested.

"This is brilliant, actually," he crowed. "We should tell all blokes how it works."

"Ron."

"Say a girl is fifteen, her boobs are thirty; too small, don't touch."

"Ron!"

"My sister is sixteen, and you're right, you really shouldn't touch thirty-two inch boobs… but they're nearly thirty-four."

"Ron."

"My Hermione's are nearly thirty-eight – but my hands are bigger than yours - and they're fantastic."

"And do they continue accumulating?" I asked, smiling, despite myself, at his happy face.

"Don't be silly," he scoffed. "It's a system for groping teenage girls. Once they're in their twenties they expect them to be fondled."

"So you think I should say something," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"To Ginny," I qualified.

"Yes," he confirmed. "It's time."

He made an encouraging breast cupping gesture.

"Ginny," I rehearsed, squeezing my own chest. "Your breasts are nearly thirty-four, and my hands are a thirty-four cup size. They are a perfect match and I think they should get back together."

"What the bloody, bleeding hell is that supposed to mean?" Ginny snapped, coming round the tree, a furious look on her face.

"Oh, shit," Ron said.

"Um," I said. "No."

"Look," Ron said.

"Go away, Ron," Ginny said.

"This is entirely my fault," he said bravely. "Just let me explain."

"I don't doubt that for a minute," she said. "Go away."

Ron got to his feet, pulling an I'm-really-sorry-Harry face, and walked back towards the house.

"I'm so sorry," I said to her knees.

"I think I have been really patient," she said.

"You have," I agreed swiftly.

"I've waited for you to say something; I've watched you get weirder and twitchier every day."

"I know."

"And today, at lunch, you spent the whole time drooling over Ron, and then ran away."

"I wasn't drooling…"

"What happened?" she interrupted. "Have you realised it's him you want?"

"Ron?"

"You can't take your eyes off him," she said.

"No," I protested. "Ron? What? No!"

"Then what happened?"

I sighed.

"I can't keep my eyes off you," I said. "Honestly. Except that I really should, because we're not together, or anything, and that's why I was watching Ron eating that apple."

"Very… symbolic?" she asked.

"What?"

"Apple. Temptation, and all that."

"No, not really," I said bleakly. "Just watching Ron's hands and thinking how he gets to touch his girlfriend's breasts and that they got together before he was in a state of blind, 'oh my god I want to touch your breasts', so it wasn't a big deal, but that I can't think of anything else and so I can't ask you."

"Can't ask me what?"

"To take me back."

"I never got rid of you, in the first place," she pointed out.

"I know."

"But now," she said slowly, "the thing stopping you asking me to try again is that you can't stop thinking of my breasts."

"It's not very… respectful, is it?" I asked.

"And that thing about your hands being a perfect match for them?"

"Was Ron's system of judging a girl's breast accessibility, based on their cumulative age and cup size."

"I'm not going to ask what cumulative age means," she said decisively, raising her hands and starting to unbutton her shirt.

"Ginny?"

"And I'm not going to wait for you to come up with something more romantic," she said, stepping forward and sitting down astride my lap. "Because clearly that is as sweet talking as you get, but I'm going to tell everyone it was simply beautiful."

I resolutely kept my eyes on her pretty face, my hands flailing between us and settling on her thighs.

"I'll try, if you want," I said. "It's important."

"No it isn't," she said, pulling her shirt off her shoulders and revealing a white blur to my short sighted peripheral vision. "It's important that we don't waste any more time, not the words you come up with."

"I'm not very good with words," I said, my hands automatically inching up her body and pausing on her hips, thumbs hooked inside her jeans.

"I know," she said. "You never actually asked me out, in the first place; I don't know why I should be surprised."

"I'm sure I did," I protested, stroking slowly up her back.

"You kissed me in front of everyone and that was it," she said sternly.

"God, I'm bad at this," I said sadly, finally bringing my hands round to her front.

"That is what I counted on, while you were away," she said, as we both watched her perfect breasts filling my hands perfectly.

They felt even better than I remembered.

All thoughts of Ron with the juice of strawberry fake nipples staining his lips fled, as his sister's nipples hardened beneath my thumbs.

Luckily she didn't expect me to speak, because all I could do was sigh and press her breasts together, admiring the way they spilt over the edge of her bra.

Luckily she just smiled and bent her head to kiss me.

Luckily those breasts weren't even jointly thirty-four, yet, so I had another couple of hundred of cumulative years to touch them.