Chapter 4: Still on
The silence in the library alcove on Thursday was a different beast than before. It was charged, brittle, a thin layer of ice over deep, churning water. The memory of Hermione’s revealed bra, the shocking white of it against her skin, hung between them as palpably as the dust motes swirling in the slanted afternoon light.
Ron hadn’t been able to look at her directly since. His eyes would skitter toward her, then fix desperately on his textbook, seeing nothing. His face was a tumult of freckled confusion.
Harry, conversely, watched her with the focus of a seeker spotting the snitch. His textbook on defensive theory lay forgotten. His gaze was a physical weight on the front of her robes, tracing the shape he now knew was underneath.
“So,” Harry said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. “Saturday. Room of Requirement. You ready, Ron?”
Hermione’s quill jabbed a period onto her parchment with enough force to tear a small hole.
Ron flinched. “Don’t,” he muttered.
“Don’t what? It’s happening, isn’t it?” Harry pressed, leaning forward. He wasn’t talking to Ron anymore. He was talking to Hermione, his words aimed at the careful part in her hair. “Lavender’s probably planning the soundtrack. Bet she’ll want rose petals. Big, dramatic tits, big dramatic gestures.”
“Harry, please,” Hermione said, her voice low and strained. She kept her eyes on her work. “Some of us are trying to concentrate on our futures, which, for your information, require passing exams that do not involve commentary on Lavender Brown’s… anatomy.”
“Just making conversation,” Harry said, shrugging. He tilted his head. “Yours are better, anyway. I’ve been thinking about it. What you showed. They’re not big, but they’ve got this… defiance. Like they’re pointing right at you. Perfect handfuls. High. Makes a bloke wonder what they’d look like without the cotton.”
Ron made a small, choked sound. His textbook slid from his fingers and thumped to the floor. He didn’t move to retrieve it.
Hermione finally lifted her head. She met Harry’s gaze, and for the first time, there was no outrage there. Just a cold, calculating assessment. She could feel the heat of Ron’s attention, a frantic wave beside her. He was still thinking about it. The hook was set. Now she had to pull.
She slowly set down her quill. “You spend an awful lot of time thinking about my breasts, Harry,” she stated, her tone clinical. “And a correspondingly small amount of time thinking about the properties of moonstone in drought-alleviation potions. Which, incidentally, is almost certainly going to be on Slughorn’s practical.”
Harry blinked, thrown by the pivot. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It has to do with your abysmal last essay score,” she said smoothly. She leaned back in her chair, and she saw both pairs of male eyes drop to the front of her robes as the fabric tightened slightly. A flush crept up her neck, but her face remained placid. “You want to keep… ogling me, instead of studying. Fine. I’ll make you a bargain.”
Ron finally found his voice, hoarse and tight. “Hermione, don’t.”
She ignored him, speaking only to Harry. “You answer one question. One potions question, right now. Correctly. If you do…” She let the sentence hang. She took a slow, deep breath, making the offer visible. “I will unbutton my robes. Just the top. So you can see. The blouse. Not the bra. But you can see the shape properly. Without wool in the way.”
The air left Harry’s lungs in a sharp exhale. Ron stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head.
“You’re mad,” Ron whispered, horrified.
“No,” Hermione said. “I’m pedagogical. He clearly needs motivation. And he clearly has a single-minded focus. I’m simply aligning his incentives with his education.” Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure they could hear it. This was a cliff edge. But Ron’s Saturday was a guillotine. “Well, Harry? Are you just a voyeur, or do you have a brain behind those eyes?”
Harry’s green eyes glinted with a fierce, competitive light. This was a challenge he understood. “Fine. Ask.”
“Moonstone,” she said immediately, her voice steady. “When crushed for the Draught of Peace, what is the critical time window for adding the powdered moonstone after the hellebore infusion, and why? Ten points if you get the window. Five for the reason.”
Ron buried his face in his hands. “Merlin’s pants.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. He looked away from her, into the middle distance, his mind racing. The library’s silence became absolute, waiting. Hermione counted the beats of her own pulse. Thirty seconds. Ninety seconds. He doesn’t know it.
“Forty-five seconds,” Harry said suddenly, his eyes snapping back to hers. A triumphant, lopsided smile touched his lips. “Because the hellebore infusion creates a temporary alkaline base that begins to break down after a minute. Add the moonstone too early, it dissolves into nothing. Too late, and the base turns acidic and the reaction creates a toxic gas.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped. He knew it. He’d actually been studying.
The smile on Harry’s face widened, predatory. “Pay up, Granger.”
Ron’s head jerked up. “Hermione, you don’t have to—”
“A bargain is a bargain,” she said, cutting him off. Her fingers, cold and steady, went to the clasp of her school robes. The click was obscenely loud. She parted the heavy black wool.
Beneath, she wore a simple, pale blue button-up blouse. It was cotton, modest, but thinner than her usual choices. She began on the buttons, starting at the top. One. The hollow of her throat was visible. Two. A glimpse of her collarbones. Three.
She stopped. The blouse was open just enough to show the dramatic slope of her breasts, encased now not in white cotton, but in a faint, lacy pattern of her everyday bra, visible through the thinner material of the blouse. The curves were unmistakable, the peaks taut against the fabric. It was more revealing than the bra-flash. This was slower, more intimate, a deliberate unveiling of the topography Harry had been obsessing over.
Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t speak. He just looked, his earlier triumph softening into something closer to awe.
Ron was statue-still, his eyes wide and pained, fixed on the V of her open blouse, on the shadowed valley between the undeniable, perky swells of her breasts pushing against the lace and thin cotton.
Hermione held the pose for five heartbeats. The cool library air whispered across her exposed skin. She saw the conflict in Ron’s face—want, guilt, a dawning, agonizing understanding of what he was about to casually discard for Lavender’s more obvious offering.
“Satisfied with the view?” Hermione asked Harry, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s a good start,” Harry managed, his own voice rough.
Without another word, Hermione re-buttoned her blouse with swift, efficient motions. She pulled her robes closed and re-fastened the clasp. The moment was sealed away.
“Now you can get back to studying,” she said, picking up her quill as if nothing had happened. “You have the capacity, Harry. Use it for something besides crude speculation.”
She returned to her essay, her script neat and flawless. But the atmosphere was shattered. Ron was breathing as if he’d just run a mile. Harry stared at the spot where her blouse had been open, a new, more dangerous calculation in his eyes.
The unspoken words screamed in the space between them. This wasn’t over. It was a gambit, and Saturday was bearing down on them all, a deadline now charged with the electric, undeniable image of Hermione Granger, unbuttoning her blouse in the silent, sacred library, her body becoming a weapon and a plea in the war for a boy who didn’t know what he wanted until it was shown to him, piece by agonizing piece.