Work Text:
It was late evening, and Harry Potter, Private Investigator, was in his office. His suit, once sharply tailored, was rumpled and threadbare, his appearance made respectable only by his polished boots and fedora hat. The only source of light was from the brass lamp on the battered desk in front of him, the one with the cracked, green glass shade, casting shadows across the peeling wallpaper. A dented filing cabinet and an elderly coat stand occupied opposite corners, somehow making the room feel even emptier and more down at heel.
Potter could have gone home, but what for? Just swapping one empty room for another didn’t appeal to him. Besides, instincts honed over years as an investigator told him that now wasn’t the moment to leave. He poured himself a shot of cheap whiskey from the bottle he kept in the drawer, and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk, waiting.
Sure enough, in the distance, he heard the sound of heels clacking against the tiled corridor outside, drawing ever closer. Moments later he saw her, just the outline of a dame through the frosted glass. She hesitated outside, looking left then right, checking that she was unobserved, before raising her hand to knock.
“Come in,” he called.
Potter stood, as the dame opened the door and slid into the room, his eyebrows raising a little, because she was an absolute knock-out. Her red hair fell in perfect waves down the side of her face, where wide, wanton eyes blazed brown above cherry painted lips. She wore a pillbox hat, and a trench coat belted at the waist hinted at a bombshell figure hidden below.
“Are you Harry Potter? The private detective?” she asked, her voice low and breathy.
He shrugged, playing it cool. “That’s what it says on the door. How can I help you, Miss…?
She dropped her chin and looked up at him seductively, lips curling into a smile. “Weasley. Ginevra Weasley.”
Potter moved around the side of the desk and approached her. “Let me take your coat, Miss Weasley,”
Obediently, she slipped out of the coat and handed it to him, and he tried not to stare when the dress below was revealed, cut demurely but clinging to every curve of her body as sinfully as anything he’d ever seen.
The dame turned and leaned back against his desk, her palms spread to either side of her and her hips turned to the side, ankles crossed, looking like a goddamn oil painting. She fixed Potter with those alluring brown eyes again. “I need your help, Detective. I believe I’m in danger,” she announced, dramatically.
Potter moved a little closer to her, intrigued. “Danger, you say? What… kind of danger?”
“Yes! I’m being threatened! Followed!” The dame lifted her hand to her chest, tilting her chin upwards, showing him a long expanse of pale throat. “I’m scared for my life, detective! Can you… protect me?” She turned her face towards him, her expression beseeching and her scarlet lips parted.
Potter took a step towards her. “Well, Miss Weasley. I’m afraid that protection isn’t normally part of the services I offer.”
“But, you’re the best, Mr Potter!” she protested. “Everyone knows that. Name your price!”
Now Potter was standing right in front of her, towering over her. His pulse quickened. “I don’t think you’re ready to pay it, Miss Weasley,” he growled.
She gazed up at him, defiant, pupils dilated, perfect breasts heaving with her rapid breathing. “Oh, Mr Potter,” she whispered, raising her hand and placing it softly against his chest. “I assure you that I am.”
For a moment, they stayed like that, frozen in time. Then unable to hold back any longer, he wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her up towards him. Their lips met in a kiss that was urgent and messy, filled with hunger and need, mouths open, tongues connecting.
Potter pushed the dame back against his desk, and she curled her stockinged leg around behind his calf as he ran his hand up her thigh. She, in turn, pulled at the waistband of his trousers, untucking his shirt, letting her fingers trail across the taut skin of his abdomen, the muscles tingling at her cool touch.
Just at that moment, the door burst open. Potter and the dame sprang apart as a tall, red-headed man strolled in.
“What the fuck are you doing here Ron?” demanded Harry, blushing furiously, attempting to tuck himself back in as quickly as possible.
“Oh!” exclaimed Ron, looking surprised. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to be here at this time of night. We’ve been out for dinner, and Hermione thought she must have left her umbrella in here when she was down here to review the case prep earlier so I said I’d pop in and grab for her.”
“Merlin, Ron! You had to pick tonight to be helpful?” asked Ginny, tugging the hem of her dress back down.
“Ginny! You’re here too?” Ron greeted her cheerfully. “But… why would you be here, at this time of night?” Slowly, he looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time, appearing confused. “What the fuck have you done to your office, Harry? Have you transfigured it? And… why are you dressed like that?” Then a horrible realisation seemed to creep across Ron’s face. “Oh fucking hell - is this… did I just walk into some sort of sex game?”
Harry couldn’t meet his eyes. “Erm…”
“No!” spat Ron. “Forget I asked - I do not want to know! I am leaving now, and we are never mentioning this again.”
“Er, Ron?” said Harry, as Ron turned to leave. Ron glanced back, and Harry sheepishly handed him the errant umbrella. Ron snatched it from his hand and scuttled out.
Utterly mortified, Harry looked to where his wife was still sitting on his desk, to find that her eyes were dancing with amusement. She burst out into a peel of giggles as he glowered at her.
“Well I’m glad you find it amusing,” he muttered, raising his wand. “ Finite!”
Harry’s office blurred a little around them, and then was suddenly returned to the much more familiar, and far less scruffy, office the Head Auror usually inhabited.
“Oh, relax, Harry. You don’t want to pick up where we left off?” she asked him, sounding disappointed.
“I think your brother might have killed the mood a little,” he told her, wryly.
“Oh. That’s a shame,” she pouted, looking down at the floor. Then she straightened her back, crossed her legs and shot him a look filled with some much fire that he inhaled sharply. “It’s just that my house is in a rough neighbourhood,” she told him, her voice soft and breathy again, “and I thought that maybe Potter P.I. could escort me home and check that there aren’t any bad guys lying in wait for me?”
Harry couldn’t help smirking at her. His wife really was both incorrigible, and irresistible. He retrieved her trench coat from the (now much less shabby) rack by the door and handed it to her. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess I could help out. You know me - I never could resist a dame in distress.”