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The Unfulfilled Wife - Chapter 01
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 03:52:21 +0000 UTCHere's a silly one for all you Harry/Molly shippers. Harry spends the summer with Molly and discovers her hidden collection of steamy novels, sparking forbidden desire within him.
July heat hung heavy over the Burrow.
Harry Potter was sprawled on the worn sofa, a Quidditch magazine laid forgotten on his lap. At nineteen, he’d finally grown into his frame—broad shoulders, squared jaw, the faded lightning scar now just another feature rather than his defining mark.
“Harry, you haven’t touched your tea,” Molly called from the kitchen doorway, wiping flour from her hands. Her voluptuous figure filled the entrance, distracting Harry from his depressed thoughts. He looked up and was momentarily struck by her beauty, something he’d noticed only recently.
Molly Weasley had every bit of her daughter’s beauty, only enhanced with age. The same brown eyes that twinkled in the right light, as if they held the world’s biggest secret. Freckles that perfectly accentuated a gentle nose and plump lips. Silver streaked auburn hair framed a face that had aged gracefully.
Harry’s eyes moved down, tracing over the thin fabric that hugged the swell of her large breasts, barely containing them. Sweat from the summer heat had dampened the worn cotton dress, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
“Just thinking,” Harry replied, forcing a smile as he caught himself staring.
“About Ginny?” Her voice softened as she entered, the floorboards creaking beneath her. She sat beside him and patted his thigh. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, illuminated her soft curves and a hint of pale, freckled skin where her dress had ridden up her thighs.
Harry averted his eyes, heat rising in his cheeks. His traitorous cock stirred, and he shifted the magazine to hide it. “Among other things.”
The breakup had been amicable, if you could even call it that. Ginny’s career with the Holyhead Harpies had taken off while Harry’s post-war life stalled. “We want different things right now,” she’d said, and though kind, the words cut deep.
As if building a life with the wizard who died for you wasn’t enough.
Molly settled closer, smelling of honey and fresh bread. “I’m sorry it happened, Harry. I can only apologize on Ginny’s behalf.”
“It’s alright Mrs. Weasley. I can’t fault her for chasing her dreams.” Even if it doesn’t involve me.
“Still, I wish she hadn’t just left us like that. This place would be a lot livelier with her around.” She sighed, toying with a loose thread on her apron. “Arthur’s working late again. The Ministry keeps him busier than ever. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers he has a home.”
She patted his knee again, her touch lingering longer than usual. “At least you’re here,” she added, her fingers just inches from his semi-hard cock. “Keeps the place from feeling empty.”
Harry nodded, aware of the silence surrounding them. No explosions from George’s room. No bickering from Ron and Hermione, or Ginny’s melodic laughter as she egged them on. Just two lonely survivors, left behind by the people they loved the most.
“Happy to be here,” he said, and meant it.
“Mind that step, it’s loose,” Molly warned as they climbed to the attic. Dust motes danced in sunlight that streamed through the cracks of the attic walls, illuminating their path. “Arthur keeps promising to fix it...”
“But he’s discovered electric can openers?” Harry finished, earning a chuckle from Molly. He slowed his climb, his mind distracted by the motherly figure in front of him. He locked his gaze on the sway of her hips, admiring the way her skirt pulled taut against her ass with each step. Harry cursed himself when he almost tripped, grimacing once again at how easily his mind had wandered.
The attic housed Weasley history—school trunks, broken toys, and even Ron’s frilly dress robes. Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, with the only organization coming from labels marked with Molly’s neat handwriting: “Boys’ Christmas Sweaters,” “Bill’s Egypt Souvenirs,” “Arthur’s Muggle Things (DO NOT TOUCH).”
“We should start sorting through some of this,” Molly said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the chaos. The position thrust her breasts forward, causing them to jut out and strain against the thin cotton.
“Where do we begin?” Harry asked, swallowing hard. He rolled his sleeves to reveal toned forearms, ready to help with whatever task Molly needed him to do.
“Those boxes by the chimney, I think. Careful, they’re—“
Too late. Harry knocked over a tower of boxes with his elbow. They tumbled, spilling their contents across the dusty floor.
“Sorry!” he exclaimed, dropping to gather the fallen items. “I didn’t mean to—“
His words died the second he saw what he held—a book with a cover featuring a witch with heavy breasts, barely hidden by torn robes, lips parted as a young wizard caressed her. The title, in purple script, read: “The Widow’s Wand: A Tale of Magical Pleasure.”
Harry blinked, certain he was mistaken. But the other fallen books showed similar covers—writhing bodies, suggestive titles, all featuring older women with younger men.
“Cauldron of Carnality,” he read aloud, picking up another. “Midnight in the Potions Mistress’s Chamber.”
A strangled sound made him look up. Molly stood frozen, her face as red as her hair.
“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, grinning as he held up the books, “I had no idea you were such an avid reader.”
Molly snatched them from his hands. “They’re just silly old things,” she stammered. “From before the children. I’d forgotten they were here.”
But Harry noticed how carefully she handled them, how her fingers caressed the worn spines. These weren’t forgotten relics, but old friends.
“They must have been very important to you,” he teased, reaching for another that had slid under a trunk. This cover showed a matronly witch bent over a table, skirt hiked up to reveal a voluptuous ass. A young man stood behind, his cock poised to enter her.
Molly lunged for it, but Harry held it out of reach, flipping through the pages. His eyebrows rose. “Merlin’s beard. This is downright filthy.”
“Mind your manners, Harry!” she scolded, but beneath her embarrassment hid amusement, even pride. “A woman my age is entitled to private diversions.”
“No judgment,” Harry said, handing over the book. Their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through him. “Everyone has their hobbies.”
Molly huffed, shoving the books back into their box. “These aren’t for young eyes.”
“I’m not as innocent as you think,” he replied, his voice deeper than intended. “I’ve seen my share.”
Her gaze raked over him, taking in his height, his shoulders, the stubble on his jaw. For a heartbeat, Harry felt exposed, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. Not as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, or her son’s best friend, but as a young man. “I suppose so,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “But these aren’t meant for you. Not yet. I’ll let you borrow them, after you’ve gained more...experience.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with implication. Molly cleared her throat, turning to fuss with the box. “Let’s get back to sorting.”
They worked in silence after that, Molly avoiding the novels, Harry’s mind racing with newfound knowledge. When they finished and headed downstairs, he ignored the weight of the book he had slipped into his back pocket.
—
The mattress creaked as Harry shifted in Percy’s old bed. The Burrow’s nighttime symphony of settling wood and wheezing pipes accompanied his restless thoughts.
He reached under his pillow for the book he’d nicked. Its cover was subtler than the others—a curvy woman in modest robes, her hand cupping the face of a man half her age—but the title made its content clear: The Potion Mistress’s Pleasure.
He’d intended to return it. But curiosity gnawed at him, along with something darker. What fantasies captivated Molly Weasley as she turned these well-worn pages?
He opened to a random chapter, the spine cracking in protest:
”Apprentice,” Mistress Hawthorne murmured, her fingers tracing his straining breeches. “You’ve been diligent. Perhaps it’s time for a more...practical demonstration.”
Aiden swallowed hard, his youth apparent in his trembling hands. “Mistress, I don’t—I’ve never—“
”Hush,” she whispered, pressing her bosom against his chest, her nipples hardening through the thin fabric. “I’ll guide you. That’s what a teacher does.”
She unlaced his breeches with practiced ease, freeing his cock from its restraints. A smile curved her lips as she took his thickness in her hand, stroking with a rhythm that buckled his knees.
”My, my,” she said, “such potential. Let me show you how to use this tool properly...”
Harry’s cock hardened painfully. The idea of an experienced, older woman initiating an eager young man stirred something primal in him. He found himself replacing the characters: himself as the apprentice, and Molly...
He imagined her not as she might have been in her youth, but as she was now—voluptuous, with tantalizing curves that promised comfort, warmth and forbidden experiences.
He pictured her massive breasts, freed from the confines of her tight dress. He ached to see her nipples, wondering how they’d taste in his mouth. Harry slid his hand under the sheets, gripping his cock as he imagined Molly’s fingers guiding him with the same patience she used during their cooking sessions.
The image should have repulsed him. This was Ron’s mother. The woman who had practically adopted him, who knitted his Christmas sweaters. The forbidden nature only made his blood run hotter.
He thought of her hands. How would those experienced fingers feel wrapped around his cock? How would her lips taste? How would her pussy feel as he pushed his cock inside her?
A groan escaped his lips, and he slammed the book shut, shoving it away. His cock throbbed, but he forced desires back. This was madness. Arthur Weasley was like a father to him. Ron was his best-friend. He dated her daughter, for Merlin’s sake!
Molly deserved better than to be used as fantasy for a quick wank. She was kind, fierce, brave—the heart of the Weasley family. The woman who faced Bellatrix Lestrange for threatening her daughter. The woman who gave a lonely, neglected boy his first taste of family.
Yet as Harry drifted into uneasy sleep, it wasn’t Ginny’s face in his dreams but Molly’s. Chocolate eyes dark with desire, voice husky with promises, begging him to take her.
—
Harry stood by the doorway, silently watching Molly knead dough under the morning’s early light. The golden hues that streamed through the kitchen windows made her auburn hair glow with radiance. Her hips swayed to the low humming of a Celestina Warbeck classic, captivating him. The confidant, firm motions of her hands, coupled with the undulating of her large breasts made his blood boil.
Harry’s throat tightened as he recalled last night’s dreams. He should have dismissed those fantasies as products of loneliness. Instead, it had only invigorated his obsession over her—how her dress hugged her hips, the strain of fabric across her breasts as she leaned forward, the way her curves jiggled ever so slightly with every motion...
His cock hardened in his jeans as he imagined approaching her from behind, pressing himself against that generous ass, reaching around to cup her breasts and feeling her nipples harden against his palms.
“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, startling him from his brief fantasy. “Harry, you gave me a fright. How long have you been awake?”
“Just got here,” he lied, moving into the kitchen, grateful that Dudley’s baggy shirt provided some cover for his arousal. “What are you making? It smells amazing.”
“Cinnamon bread,” she smiled. “Your favorite. Thought it might cheer you up.”
Guilt twisted in his stomach. Here she was, comforting him after his breakup, while he lusted after her like a randy teenager.
“Thank you,” he managed, reaching for the teapot. “For remembering. That’s really kind.”
Molly returned to the bread with a soft smile, happy for the recognition. “Arthur’s got another late night,” she said. “Problem with the Muggle Liaison Office. A cursed kettle found its way into a Leeds department store.”
Harry poured his tea, trying not to focus on the sweat that trailed down the curve of her neck, disappearing into the damp cotton dress that clung to her gorgeous back. “That’s too bad,” he answered hoarsely. “You must get lonely with him gone.”
Harry grimaced when he realized the double meaning of his words. Molly’s hands stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed. “The quiet takes getting used to,” she admitted. “After years of chaos...sometimes I miss the noise.”
“I could make some noise if you want,” Harry joked. “Maybe conjure a spider the next time Ron comes by.”
Molly chuckled. “Peace was all I dreamed of when the boys were destroying my house, but now I’d give every knut I own to have them back here. Be careful of what you wish for, I suppose.”
Harry sipped his tea and studied her. The hollowness in her words—the way her shoulders sagged—broke something inside him, urging him to take action. “Those books,” he said suddenly. “The ones in the attic. Have you read all of them?”
Molly’s hands faltered, flour dusting the floor. “I—that’s hardly appropriate breakfast conversation.”
“Just curious,” he pressed, emboldened. “They looked well-read.”
She shot him a look half-scolding, half something else—something that quickened his pulse. “A woman is entitled to her diversions,” she repeated yesterday’s words, this time with less conviction.
“Of course,” Harry agreed, setting down his mug and moving toward her. “But I wonder...those stories. Do you ever think about trying them?”
The words hung, brazen and irretractable. Molly’s eyes widened, lips parting in shock. For a moment, Harry thought he’d crossed the line, and an apology was quickly forming on his lips.
Instead, a surprised laugh escaped her. “Harry Potter,” she said, hands on hips, “you’re too young to tease an old woman like me.”
He almost missed it, but he caught her eyes dip to the bulge in his jeans before darting away. It made his heart race. There was relief in her dismissal, but also—was he imagining it?—a flicker of regret. As if part of her wished he were serious.
“I’m not that young,” Harry replied, stepping closer until he could smell cinnamon on her skin. The kitchen suddenly seemed too small, too warm, for the two of them. “And you’re not old.”
Molly’s cheeks darkened, eyes dropping to the dough. “Flatterer,” she murmured, but smiled. “You sound like those young boys in my novels, so eager to please.“
“Maybe they’re on to something,” Harry suggested, his voice dropping to throaty whisper. “Women like you deserve to be worshipped.”
The tension between them was palpable, thick and heavy in the air. Molly’s hands trembled as she patted her apron, leaving white handprints over the gentle curves of her waist. She turned to face him, eyes half closed, tongue wetting her bottom lip.
“Harry,” she began, voice low and sultry, “Perhaps we should—“
The kitchen door banged open. They jumped apart as Ron stomped in, yawning, oblivious to the charged atmosphere.
“Morning,” he mumbled, heading for the teapot. “Late night with George. Any breakfast? I’m starving.”
“When aren’t you?” Molly replied, her strained voice betraying the easy smile on her face. “Sit down, I’ll make eggs.”
The moment was broken. Harry retreated to the table, watching Molly busy herself at the stove. The ordinary routine resumed, Ron’s Quidditch chatter filling the silence, but beneath it all, something had shifted, a line had been crossed.
And as Molly placed breakfast before him, her fingers brushed his shoulder in a way that promised more. Harry knew with certainty that nothing between them would ever be the same. Anticipation pooled in his stomach, reminding him that this forbidden attraction was far from over—it was only beginning.
