Chapter 11: Unwilling Participation
The third button gave way.
The soft chambray of Ginny’s shirt fell open, revealing the entirety of her bra. It was a simple thing, white cotton with a tiny lace trim, but against her freckled skin it seemed both innocent and indecent. The alcove’s enchanted lamps cast a warm, low light that pooled in the hollow of her throat and traced the gentle curves the fabric cupped.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Harry let out a slow, deliberate sigh. His hand settled in his lap, a casual, almost thoughtful gesture. Under the heavy wool of his robes, he began to stroke himself, a firm, gradual pressure through the fabric. He didn’t try to hide it.
“There they are,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Fucking perfect.”
Ron flinched as if struck. His eyes were glassy, fixed on his sister’s chest. He wrenched his gaze away, staring at a knot in the wooden table, then a paragraph in his book. But it was useless. His eyes, dragged by a force stronger than shame, slid back. The pink of his cheeks deepened to a furious scarlet.
“Dean’s a lucky bastard,” Harry continued, his hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm beneath the table. “Tell me he’s seen them. Properly. Without the lace in the fucking way.”
Ginny didn’t move to cover herself. She held the position, her chin slightly raised, watching the others watch her. “What do you think?”
“I think he has. I think he gets his hands on them whenever he wants.” Harry’s green eyes were dark, intense. “I think he probably sucks on them. Leaves marks. Right, Ginny?”
A faint, defiant smile touched her lips. She didn’t confirm or deny.
Hermione made a small, choked sound. It wasn’t a word. It was pure, raw reaction. Her own arms were locked around herself so tightly it must have hurt. She wasn’t looking at Harry or Ron. She was staring, transfixed, at the swell of Ginny’s breasts above the bra’s cup, at the way the material strained just slightly with her breath. A coil of something hot and unpleasant tightened in her stomach. It wasn’t disgust. It was a startling, painful twist of envy.
Ginny was so… unapologetic. So free.
Hermione’s own body felt like a prison of wool and principle. She suddenly, violently, hated the high neckline of her blouse, the way her cardigan itched against her skin. She imagined, for a blinding second, the weight of Ron’s gaze on her like that. The thought was so shocking it made her dizzy.
“Ron,” Harry said, not taking his eyes off Ginny. “Your turn. Dean ever walk in while you were changing? Catch a glimpse? Or do you just imagine it?”
“Shut up, Harry,” Ron hissed, but there was no force behind it. His protest was a whisper, a formality. He was still looking. The conflict in him was a physical tremor in his hands.
“Why? It’s just a body. Just skin and… what did you call them? ‘Fine.’” Harry’s breath hitched slightly. His movements under the table grew more deliberate. “But they’re better than fine, mate. Look at the shape. The way they sit. Perky. Begging for it.”
“Stop,” Hermione whispered. The word was meant to be a command. It came out a plea.
“You stop,” Harry shot back, his attention slicing to her. “You’re the one staring holes through her. Comparing. Admit it. You’re wondering if yours are better. If they’d get that same look from everyone in the room.”
Hermione’s face burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. She couldn’t formulate a denial because it was true. A horrific, shameful truth.
Ginny finally moved. She didn’t cover up. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, which deepened the shadow between her breasts. “Well? Hermione? You’re the expert on everything. What’s the assessment? Be clinical. You’re good at that.”
The invitation was a dare. It was a knife sliding between Hermione’s ribs. Clinical. She could be clinical. She tried to summon the terms: mammary tissue, adipose distribution. But all her mind supplied was the memory of Ron’s fleeting, guilty glance. The way his eyes had widened. The way Harry was now, openly touching himself, his gaze hungry and approving.
She wasn’t clinical. She was furious. And aching.
“They’re… adequate,” Hermione forced out, her voice brittle. “They suit your frame.”
Harry barked a laugh. “Adequate. Brilliant. So you’re saying yours are superior. You should prove it.”
Ron’s head snapped toward Hermione, a look of pure, stunned panic on his face. As if the possibility had just exploded in his mind. As if he was both terrified and desperate for it to happen.
Hermione met his eyes. Saw the chaos in them. The want, buried under layers of loyalty and fear. It mirrored the chaos in her. The carefully constructed wall of propriety she’d spent a lifetime building was cracking, and through the fissures poured a wild, terrifying light.
She stood up. The chair legs screeched against the flagstones.
“This is pathetic,” she said, but her voice wavered. She wasn’t looking at Ginny’s exposed skin anymore. She was looking at Ron. “All of you. Just… pathetic.”
She turned to leave, her body trembling with unnamed emotion.
Before she could take a step, a loud, familiar voice echoed from the main library corridor, startlingly close.
“—I swear I left it here yesterday, Padma! It has to be in this section!”
Lavender Brown’s high, carrying tone pierced the silent tension of the alcove like a shattering spell.
The spell broke. Ginny straightened, her hands flying to her shirt buttons with swift, practiced efficiency. Harry’s hand went still in his lap, then retreated. Ron jerked backward as if released from ropes, his expression one of dawning, catastrophic horror at what had just almost happened, at what he had almost seen, at what he had felt.
Hermione froze, one hand pressed to her stomach, her back to them all. Her escape was cut off. The real world, with all its complications and judgments, was steps away.
The only evidence of the last few minutes was the rapid, ragged sound of four people trying to remember how to breathe normally, and the heavy, secret knowledge now lodged in the space between them, throbbing like a fresh wound.