Paging Dr. Freud

Paging Dr. Freud

She's perfect.

He kept thinking this over and over as she kissed him and moved her hand slowly up his thigh. His hands were up under her hastily un-tucked shirt, one at her waist feeling the soft skin around her middle and the other inside the cup of her brazier, gently squeezing a breast.

Their mouths had been together for so long that he was starting to wonder what it felt like before he was kissing her. He thought he might forget. She tastes perfect too. He was going mad. He knew it. No one could taste like this -- feel like this. She was too much.

She had cornered him earlier that day during classes, before Quidditch practice and their walk around the lake that had thankfully--finally stalled and turned into this groping, kissing, wonderful session they were part-way through now. She had him away from everyone else, all alone in the corridor between lessons, when she lifted her skirt and flashed him an eyeful of white cotton with a small embroidered dragon in the front. It was the first time he had ever remembered drooling over something that wasn't food.

“Maybe later tonight,” she'd said as she moved close to him, “you can get a better look.”

The rest of the day he'd been both very distracted and incredibly grateful that the robes at school were loose fitting.

He shifted his position next to her under the tree on the far side of the lake, and moved his hand down to her hip. She shifted too, her legs suddenly wrapped around him, straddling him face to face. His hand moved up under her skirt and he twisted a finger playfully in the waistband he found there.

She made a noise somewhere between a moan and a laugh and ground her hips hard against him. His mind raced, counting the layers of fabric between them as she gyrated against him. Was it three or four?

He spread the fingers cupping her breast and caught her nipple between them, pinching gently as he kneaded her flesh a little harder.

“Mmm -- Harry…” she moaned as she broke the kiss and pulled just far enough away to speak. He felt her grind hard against him again and he moved that errant finger slowly inboard along the waistband.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

She froze. Had he just said? Had she just heard? What was that?

“Harry?” She wasn't grinding anymore. In face, she wasn't kissing or moaning or - anything anymore. What had he done? Not four hours ago she was flashing him, surely she didn't object to his going south now - did she?

“Ginny?”

She stared down at him, her face flush, though at this point he wasn't sure if it was passion or anger causing the color. Did he do something? Not do something?

Shit, why are women so complicated! Don't do this now!

Her eyes searched his; piercing, probing trying to find an answer to a question she didn't dare ask. He just started back at her, bewildered.

“Come on Harry, lets go,' she rose and tucked her shirt back in to her skirt, not looking at him.

“But - what's - Ginny what happened?”

He really didn't know.

I shouldn't be angry, she told herself, it was a mistake, a slip, a faux pas. Nothing more.

Her temper got the better of her when she at last met his baffled gaze and saw, not her poor, stunned, horny boyfriend begging her to sit back down with him on the grass, but every experience and emotion that he and Hermione had ever shared, looking back at her.

The Time Turner, the Hungarian Horntail, the Department of Mysteries, it was all there, written across his face in huge, indisputable print. She suddenly wanted to scream.

“Ginny, are you ok?” He stood next to her, not sure if he should try and comfort her or go for his wand and ready himself for a fight. She looked about to detonate.

“Let's go, were going to miss dinner,” she said, tonelessly.

Harry stood agape and wondered if the Weasley urge for a good meal could possibly overpower the urge to procreate. He retraced the events of the last ninety seconds in his mind, trying desperately to find a flaw in his conduct, but there was nothing.

Maybe girls really are just insane.

“Ginny, can't we -- just talk about this? I'm sure whatever I did--,”

“No, Harry. We can't,” she wouldn't dare confess the contents of his whisperings. The discussion that would follow was the last thing she wanted.

She extended her hand to him to led him back towards the castle, “Come on, I'm hungry.”

He took her hand. At least she isn't going to get loud about it. Whatever it is.

They walked in silence; him still in the dark on the whole matter, her trying to decide which would be a more reasonable excuse for her behavior when they would eventually discuss the meltdown at the lake.

PMS or approaching O.W.L.S.?

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