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Queen Ginny	By : Wimp36 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Ginny Views: 532 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, any of its characters, premises, or related information from either the books or movies. I make no profit from this story.

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With a grunt, Harry ejaculated, splattering the wall of the shower with semen. He glowered at it for a moment before reaching for the shampoo and continuing to wash up from his pre-dawn workout. He massaged shampoo into his shaggy mane of hair and then let it rest as he lathered the rest of his body, hands tracing over hard bulging muscles and lingering for a moment at his slowly deflating cock, briefly considering another pre-work wank but deciding against it.

It had been months since Ginny had deigned to have sex with him, and it was really starting to get to him. As Sports Editor for the Daily Prophet, she was busy, especially with the World Cup around the corner, but it wasn’t like his job was a cake walk. The Minister of Magic had important duties, after all, yet his sex drive was undiminished. If anything, it had increased as he’d entered his thirties, inflating alongside his power and responsibility.

Ginny, however, seemed to throw all of her energy into her work, leaving nothing for her husband. Like Harry, she’d maintained all of her youthful good looks with the addition of slight curves from her two pregnancies and continued to dress well. She was, in his opinion, fucking sexy. She just seemed not to have any interest in sex despite his attentiveness.

Sighing, Harry turned off the water and stepped out of the shower onto the heated Turkish marble to towel off. He admired himself briefly in the mirror before trimming his beard and tying his hair into a top knot. Gone was the gangly, underfed and underground boy he’d been at school. It seemed that serving as a horcrux had dampened his puberty, and after the final battle with Voldemort, he’d shot up like bamboo, growing so fast that he often expected to hear creaking. The reflection that looked back was of a six-foot-seven, heavily muscled man with thick black hair and a sleek beard. The beard was a recent acquisition, and the new look had been dubbed “piratical” by the press, which he didn’t mind in the slightest.

Finished in the bathroom, he re-entered the bedroom to see Ginny at her vanity, putting finishing touches on her makeup. Not yet fully dressed, she wore nothing but a green silk bra and matching knickers with beige stockings. Harry could feel his cock pulse as he cut across the room to his closet. He paused to kiss Ginny on the side of her neck.

“You look incredible,” he said, meaning it.

“Thank you, dear,” she replied, not taking her focus off her mascara.

With an internal eye roll, Harry stepped into the walk-in closet and selected his clothes for the day. Grey silk boxers, a three-piece hand-tailored charcoal cashmere suit lined with grey silk, a deep blue shirt, a grey and blue tie emblazoned with the Potter family crest in gold thread, gold cufflinks, and bespoke oxblood leather shoes. Lastly, he selected an understated gold watch with a simple leather band — one belonging to his great-grandfather that he’d found among various other personal effects in the Potter manor when he’d restored it to its former glory — and slipped his signet ring onto his finger. As he swung his overcoat around his shoulders and reached for his briefcase, Ginny called from the other room.

“Remember that we’re meeting Hermione for dinner tonight, Harry. Dinner’s at seven, but she said to come any time after five. I’ll probably be closer to seven. I have a four o’clock interview with the German team manager and she likes to ramble.”

Harry kissed his wife on the cheek and spun on the spot, reappearing just inside the front door of the official ministerial residence in Westminster. While he could apparate directly to his office, he liked to walk at least a few blocks through London and to enter through the ministry’s main atrium. As he strolled towards Whitehall he became aware of his bodyguards closing rank behind him even as the head of his detail, Demelza Robbins, became visible ahead of him. He couldn’t see her face, but knew that her eyes would miss nothing on their short walk to the far side of the palace where a bespelled door allowed senior members of the ministry to enter. Though she maintained perfect concentration and vigilance, Demelza’s appearance gave not a hint that she was taut as a coiled spring, able to shift in an eye-blink from casually strolling uni student to death incarnate; whether she opted for her wand, the gun concealed in her jacket, or her bare hands and feet.

Demelza reached the door just ahead of him and held it for him.

“Morning, Sir,” she said, nodding as he approached.

“Morning, Robbins,” he said. “How was your vacation?”

“Very enjoyable, Sir. I’m glad that Williams worked out while I was gone.”

“He did just fine. I’ll be in meetings all day, so you can stand the detail down to half strength for the day.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be on hand if anything comes up.”

Harry nodded and headed for his office, stopping in on several of his department heads along the way and greeting most staffers by name as he passed them by. His day sped by with its usual unrelenting speed, made tedious only by a midafternoon tribunal that he’d recused himself from, but had to attend nonetheless. The verdict, that Ron Weasley be dismissed from his position in the Department of International Magical Cooperation for gross incompetence, was predictable, but no less difficult for all that, made worse by Ron’s belligerence at the verdict.

After the hearing he’d broken away from the security wizards meant to escort him from the building and had almost made it to Harry before Demelza materialized and put him into a wall.

“What the fuck, Harry!” He shouted. “I thought we were friends and you let them do this to me?”

“Ease up, Demelza,” said Harry, sighing deeply. “Ron,” he said, “you’re lucky you’re just being fired. Half the committee wanted to hand you over to the Chinese Ministry for a full trial, imprisonment, and, probably, having your magic stripped away. My recusing myself was the price of you being spared that. Frankly, I think we should have done it, but Molly and Arthur asked for the favor. Just be grateful.”

Ron spat at him, or tried to at least. A casual flick of his wand halted the spittle almost as soon as it was out of Ron’s mouth, and Demelza handed him back to the security wizards.

“Do you want him charged with assault, Minister?” Asked one.

“No,” said Harry. “Just get him home to Molly and Arthur” He turned on his heel and headed back upstairs, tailed by Demelza, leaving Ron massaging his throat as he was lead away.

Ron had been spiraling for a while. After his divorce from Hermione three years ago — it was a miracle it had lasted that long in the first place — he’d started drinking heavily and displaying less and less reliability at work. He’d been pulled from active service with the aurors for the attempted use of excessive force, and then, when his pursuit of one of the junior aurors crept too close to the line of stalking, had been shunted into the DIMC where, after being told it was his last chance, he’d been put to work organizing support staff for diplomatic missions: a solitary and, presumably, low-stakes task. Yet, even there, he’d managed to bollocks things up royally, leaving a folder meant to be labeled “Chinese Delegation Details” (but actually labeled with a derogatory slur instead) among materials sent ahead of Harry’s first delegation to Asia.

That alone would have been a sacking offense, but Ron had realized what he’d done and taken it on himself to break into the Chinese ministry in an attempt to remove the incriminating evidence, managing to injure three Chinese officials badly enough that they needed healers and to destroy a number of priceless artifacts being stored in the ministry office in the act. His status as a war hero was the only mitigating factor that lead the Chinese ministry to ship him hime instead of imprisoning him immediately.

The rest of Harry’s day passed without incident and he wrapped up his final meeting just before four, making it a late day by his standards. His immediate predecessor in the position had spend much of his tenure rooting out redundancies, unnecessary ceremony, and red tape from the position. He and Harry had also cleaned out many of the nepotism hires in the Ministry, replacing incompetent but connected functionaries with accomplished and efficient professionals, a move that, while unpopular at the time, proved its merits quickly. Given the new climate, Harry was often done with official duties by noon, meaning that he could devote time to mentoring junior staff, learning the ins-and-outs of various departments, liaising with the muggle government, and even having a semblance of a personal life.

He filed his last report and buzzed his secretary. She popped her head into his office, followed by the rest of herself when he waved her over. Mireille Johnson (Angelina’s half sister) was twenty-four and had been his assistant for the past three years. In a rare move for a witch, she’d followed her time at Hogwarts — which she’d spent simultaneously in correspondence classes for her GSCE and A-Levels (something Hermione had done as well) — with a university degree in business management and several internships that made her an invaluable asset.

“Anything else today, Mireille?”

“No, Minister,” she said, striding across the room to collect several stacks of papers from his desk. “I’ll send these off, but there’s nothing else requiring your attention.”

“Great. Thank you. I have to kill an hour before I get up to Hogsmeade. Care for a drink and a chat?”

“Always. One moment.” She left the office to send the papers to their final destinations and Harry crossed to the drinks cart, helping himself to a beer and pouring a glass of white wine for Mireille. She accepted the glass and sat on one of the office’s sofas, crossing her legs carefully. Harry noticed, not for the first time, that she favored skirts on the shorter side of acceptability. He sat in his favorite armchair and they talked for a while.

Mireille filled Harry in on the various doings of the Ministry that ticked away out of sight, and then switched, at his request, to news about her family. Angelina and George had moved to America several years ago and Mireille had a constant stream of news from them. Harry listened attentively, but found part of his mind wandering, dwelling on the soft curve of his assistant’s breasts, the way she licked her lips after each sip of wine, the way the ends of her hair trembled when she laughed, and the tantalizing flash of bright color each time she recrossed her legs.

He mentally shook himself away from such inappropriate thoughts. While he and Ginny were still having even occasional sex, he’d never noticed (or had never lingered on) his assistant’s appearance. Now it was an all too common occurrence, whether it was Mireille’s legs, Demelza’s breasts, or the seeming flirtatious and seductive smiles he received from staffers in various departments. Not that he ever acted on anything, but he was having a harder and harder time maintaining focus. He checked his watch.

“I should get going. Would you call Demelza for me?”

“Of course, sir,” said Mireille, collecting his empty bottle and her glass before picking up a phone and paging the security office. Demelza arrived moments later and she and Harry apparated together to Hogsmeade.

“Will you be apparating straight home?” she asked as she and Harry approached Hermione’s front door. He nodded. “Then I’ll leave you here. Hermione’s wards are more than enough to keep you safe."

“Thanks, Demelza.” He knocked and a few moments later the door was opened by Winky. Despite her dislike of the traditional role of house elves, Hermione had employed Winky as her housekeeper for many years, providing a generous salary and vacation time. While married to Ron, this had been necessitated by his inability to clean up after himself and her own busy schedule teaching. After their divorce she’d kept Winky on, as it freed up time to write, paint, garden, and pursue other activities. Winky took his coat and suit jacket before leading him through the house.

“Miss Granger is in the sitting room. Would sir care for a drink?”

“A Manhattan, please, Winky. Thank you.”

Hermione was waiting for Harry in her small, cozy, sitting room. She wore a red blouse and flared black trousers and was sprawled on a fainting couch with a Martini in one hand and a novel in the other. She set both down when Winky showed Harry into the room.

“Good afternoon, Minister Potter,” she said in mock formal tones, kissing him on the cheek.

“Good afternoon, Headmistress Granger,” he replied, bowing. She laughed and punched him on the shoulder.

Winky returned with his drink a moment later and Harry sat across from Hermione as the elf laid out small dishes of nuts, dried fruit, and olives.

“So,” she said, clinking glasses with him, “how are things?”

He filled her in, starting with the Ron situation, which surprised her not a bit, and continuing through various other Ministry activities.

“And how’s Ginny? I see your kids every day, but I haven’t seen her in forever.”

“She’s good,” said Harry. “She said she’d be closer to seven tonight. You can get details from her.”

Something in his tone must have alerted Hermione to a deeper, hidden truth.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

He sighed.

“I’m not sure that I’m really comfortable…”

“Sex?” Asked Hermione, astute as ever. “Let me guess. It’s been…” she paused, looking at him intently. “…five, six weeks? Unenthusiastic even then?”

Harry winced.

“Three months.”

“Fuck, Harry,” she said. “Have you talked to Ginny about it?”

“And say what? ‘Why aren’t you putting out?’”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, exactly, but you can have a serious conversation. A healthy sex life is part of a healthy relationship, but sometimes what that looks like changes with time. Look at me.”

He did, and was momentarily made uncomfortable aware of her breasts, contained by a lacy bra that he could see courtesy of her having several more buttons undone than she would in a formal setting. Like Ginny, Hermione had kept her figure in their years since the end of the war, and have become more confident in her appearance on top of it.

“When Ron and I were together, I put up with all sorts of crap. I never did anything I didn’t want to do, mind, but I pretended to enjoy things more than I did. A few slobbery kisses, thirty seconds of ineffectual rutting and grunting, and then straight to sleep. Sorry for the graphic imagery, but that’s what it was. I’d look at him, all tall and muscly, and we’d flirt, and I’d be ready to go, and then it would just be a disappointment. Every time. I tried to steer him towards more foreplay, but nothing doing. After a while I just took care of myself in the bathroom once he was asleep.”

Harry squirmed slightly, but Hermione took no notice.

“It didn’t take long for the resentment to build up and we just stopped having sex regularly. I wanted more than he was willing to give me. The raw passion was there, but he didn’t give a toss if I got off, too. If he’d bothered to notice, maybe we could have made it work…then again, maybe not. I finally had enough and told him that I hadn’t ever cum from sex with him and that if we were going to have sex he needed to make sure that I enjoyed it, too.

“He was furious. No guy likes being told that his natural talents aren’t enough for a woman, but that opened the floodgates. He started venting all of his jealousy…of my career, of your career and family, of George’s success…all sorts. And it made me realize how much I bottled away, that it was more than a tiny cock, no stamina, and no attempt to compensate for it. It wasn’t just unmet needs, it was a bad match. I should have seen it from the beginning.”

“So that’s why you got a divorce?” Asked Harry. “And you think I might be in the same situation?”

“Not at all. I know that Ginny loves you; I’m just saying that problems in the bedroom are often a mask for something else. Make sure you’re honest with each other. And with yourself. What do you want?”

Harry was silent again.

“I mean,” said Hermione, “after the divorce, I stopped pretending that I wanted to be married and have a kids. I’ve never wanted that. I love kids, obviously, I just don’t want any of my own. And I don’t need a spouse, either. I like my solitude. When I’m horny, I take care of myself, or I get together with a partner — I’ve got a couple who all meet different needs and moods.”

Harry stared and Hermione blushed, realizing that she might have given too much away.

“I think I need another drink,” she said, calling Winky for refills. “Tell you what. I didn’t plan dessert for tonight, so after dinner, I’ll send you out to pick something up, and I’ll try to get some intel from Ginny. Now, though, I’ve got to fill you in on Luna’s latest craziness, and I need to finish dinner.”

They chatted for another hour in the kitchen before Ginny arrived. Hermione’s summers in France had included plenty of time cooking and she kept a repertoire of French classics that she pulled out for guests, so Harry nursed another Manhattan while she put the finishing touches on a dish of duck with olives. After dinner, as promised, Hermione made her move.

“I didn’t think I’d still be hungry, but I could go for a dessert. Ginny? Harry?”

“Sure,” said Ginny, who possessed the Weasley appetite.

“Always,” said Harry. “What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a great bakery in town and they should still be open. I was thinking that a cherry tart might be perfect. I’ll just nip out real quick.”

“I’ll do it,” volunteered Harry. “You and Ginny haven’t really had a chance to catch up yet, and stretching my legs will be good for me.”

Harry excused himself and Hermione turned to Ginny.

“The beard looks good on Harry,” she said by way of opening. “Very sexy.”

“I guess,” said Ginny, uncomfortably.

“What’s that mean? Come on, Gin, he’s an absolute hunk these days.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Well what?”

Ginny stared at the table in silence with a peculiar look on her face.

“What is it, Ginny? You know you can tell me. Has Harry been ignoring you? Spending too much time at work? What?”

“None of that,” she said. “He’s always there for me and I love him, and you’re right, he’s fucking sexy, it’s just…he’s too nice.”

“Too nice?”

“Yeah. He’s always so tender and gentle and always puts me first, you know? It’s just that there was one night, right after I won the World Cup. I’m not sure he remembers…lots of booze. We got home and kept the celebration going, and we got going right in the living room. He usually won’t do anything unless we’re in the bedroom, but we were both fizzing pretty good, and he tossed me down on the sofa and dove in to eat me out, which he’s great at — and usually it’s soft and gentle, just a way to make sure I’m ready and to make sure that I cum — but this time he was super energetic with it and I was cumming like a fire hydrant and I decided to return the favor, so I started blowing him. Usually he’ll just lie there and I’ll blow him a bit and then he’ll eat me out and then we’ll make love.”

Ginny was on a roll now, so Hermione just let her go at her own pace, though she did find one of her hands crawling towards her own lap.

“I was so horny, and he’d gone in like an animal, so that’s what I did. I’ve never gotten more than half his cock in my mouth, but all I was slobbering on it and all of a sudden he put his hand on the back of my head…just put it there…he didn’t push at all, but in my mind, he did. And I tried to shove his cock in as deep as I could. I gagged a bit, which I think turned him on even more, because he pulled my head up, kissed me super hard and told me to bend over. And then he fucked me. Holy shit, he fucked me! It was insane! Then he picked me up and fucked me against the wall and I was cumming so hard I pushed his cock out and he sprayed all over my stomach and my tits…it was the most intense thing ever!”

Hermione was staring, gape mouthed, at her usually circumspect friend.

“And ever since that night that’s what I’ve wanted, but we’ve never been that drunk since then, and it’s all been tender and sweet. Don’t get me wrong, I cum every time we have sex, but it’s just not the same. I can’t help thinking back to that night and imagining what it would be like if that was every day…what could happen next. And I think that it’s what Harry wants, too! He just doesn’t know it!”

“So you don’t want vanilla?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

Ginny raised her trembling glass to her lips, and told her friend what she wanted.
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Queen Ginny