Chapter 1: The Common Room Temptation
The fire in the Gryffindor common room hissed and popped, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn carpets and squashy armchairs. The warmth was a physical blanket, heavy with the scent of burning wood, old books, and, faintly, the sugared perfume Lavender Brown seemed to trail everywhere. Harry slumped in his chair, a Potions text lying forgotten on his lap. His gaze, however, wasn’t on ingredients or incantations.
It was fixed, with a detached, almost clinical fascination, on the far couch.
Ron was there, draped awkwardly like a oversized ginger quilt. And Lavender was practically in his lap. Her giggles were a constant, high-pitched counterpoint to the low murmur of other seventh-years studying. She had one arm coiled around Ron’s neck, the other hand playing with the buttons on his shirt. But it was her top that held Harry’s attention. It was a shade of pink so pale it was nearly white, and it was cut in a deep, sweeping V that plunged down her front. Every time she leaned forward to whisper something, which was often, the fabric gaped open.
Merlin, they were huge. They looked soft, the rounded curves swelling against the thin material, straining it. A careless movement and everything would just spill out. He imagined the weight of them. He shifted in his seat, his own body reacting with a blunt, straightforward interest that felt disconnected from his brain.
Hermione, in the chair beside him, was a statue of tightly wound disapproval. She held her own book so rigidly the pages creased. Her knuckles were white. She wasn’t reading. She was staring a hole into the opposite wall, her lips pressed into a thin, severe line. Every new giggle from Lavender made her jaw tighten.
“Would it kill them to get a room?” Harry muttered, not looking away from the spectacle. The sight was somehow compelling and repulsive at once.
“It’s a common room, Harry. For common use,” Hermione said, her voice clipped and too precise. “They have every right to be here.” She turned a page with a sharp snap.
“Yeah, but do I have the right to see Lavender’s tits every time she breathes? It’s like a fucking reveal. Every time.” He said it flatly, matter-of-fact.
Hermione flinched as if struck. “Must you be so crude?”
“I’m just describing the view.”
A particularly loud squeal erupted as Lavender nuzzled Ron’s neck. Ron’s ears turned a spectacular shade of maroon, but he was grinning, a dazed, stupid grin. With a final, theatrical kiss on his cheek, Lavender untangled herself. “I simply have to go, Won-Won! Parvati’s waiting. Don’t think about me too much!” She floated away, the scent of roses and spice lingering behind her.
Ron sat there for a moment, looking pleasantly concussed. Then he shuffled over, collapsing into the armchair next to Harry with a heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, his goofy smile still in place.
The moment he landed, Harry leaned in. His voice was a low, urgent whisper, but it carried in the sudden quiet. “So? Have you seen them yet? Properly. Uncovered.”
“Harry!” Hermione hissed, her book slamming shut. Her cheeks flushed with anger and something else—mortification. “That is an incredibly private and inappropriate question! Ron’s personal life is none of your business!”
Ron’s smile froze. The maroon flush flooded from his ears down his neck. He blinked, his eyes darting from Harry’s intense green stare to Hermione’s furious brown one. He swallowed.
“It’s… it’s just a question, Hermione,” Harry said, shrugging. His eyes were still on Ron. “Well?”
Ron’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like a goldfish. A very red, freckled goldfish. Then, a slow, boastful grin broke through the embarrassment. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial mutter. “Yesterday. In the broom cupboard near the greenhouses.”
Hermeroine made a small, choked sound and looked steadfastly into the fire.
“And?” Harry prompted, his own grin forming.
Ron’s eyes glazed over, remembering. “They’re… fuck, Harry. They’re so fucking big.” The words tumbled out, hushed and awed. “I mean, you can see they’re big, right? But seeing them… it’s different. My hands could barely… you know.” He held his hands up, curving his fingers into wide, uncertain cups. “So soft. And the nipples are this perfect pale pink, like little sweets—”
“That is quite enough!” Hermione’s voice sliced through the muttered description, sharp as a crystal shard. She stood up, her body trembling. All the tension she’d been holding all evening vibrated through her. Her eyes were bright, not with tears, but with a furious, wounded fire. She wasn’t looking at Harry. Her gaze was locked on Ron, who shrank back under it. “You are disgusting. Both of you. Reducing a person to… to body parts. To things to be gawked at and described like… like cuts of meat!”
“Hermione, we were just talking,” Ron said, defensive, his momentary swagger gone.
“Just talking? That’s what that is to you?” She hugged her own arms, as if suddenly cold in the room’s warmth. The conservative cut of her robes, the high neckline, seemed like a deliberate rebuke to Lavender’s pink top. A statement. “She’s your girlfriend. Doesn’t she deserve more than being gossiped about in a common room? Doesn’t she deserve some respect?”
“He asked!” Ron protested, pointing at Harry.
“And you didn’t have to answer! You chose to. You wanted to.” Her voice dropped, quivering with an emotion so raw it stunned both boys into silence. “You enjoy it. Bragging. Making it into some kind of conquest.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and Ron saw something in her face he couldn’t quite name—a deep, profound disappointment that seemed to reach far beyond this one conversation. It was a glimpse into a chasm between them.
Without another word, she snatched her book, gathered her bag, and strode toward the girls’ staircase. Her footsteps were quick and angry on the stone.
The silence she left behind was thick and uncomfortable. The cheerful crackle of the fire felt mocking.
Ron stared after her, his freckles standing out against his pallor. “What is her problem?” he mumbled, but the bravado was hollow.
Harry watched the empty staircase, then looked back at Ron’s confused, guilty face. The thrill of the crude gossip had evaporated, leaving a sour taste. He thought of Hermione’s hunched shoulders, the way she’d hugged herself. He thought of the fierce, protective blaze in her eyes when she’d said ‘respect’.
For a moment, the common room felt less warm. The shadow of the war outside, the weight of everything they’d seen and done, seeped back in, making a conversation about breasts seem not just crude, but terribly, stupidly small.
“Dunno,” Harry said finally, his own voice quiet. He picked up his Potions book again, but the words swam on the page. “Just dunno.”