Chapter 7: The Aftermath
The silence in the library was a brittle thing. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of study, but a thick, loaded pause between three people who knew too much. Dust swam in shafts of grey afternoon light filtering through the high windows.
Hermione was a statue of concentration, quill scratching methodically across a length of parchment. She had chosen a table deep in the Restricted Section, a strategic retreat, but Harry had followed, and Ron, after a hesitant pause, had slumped into the chair beside her. The aftermath of yesterday hung on them like a smell.
Ron hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. He stared blankly at his Defensive Magical Theory textbook, his ears perpetually pink. Lavender’s scent—a cloying cloud of honey and flowers—still clung to his robes.
Harry watched Hermione. He’d been watching for an hour. The way she leaned forward, the wool of her sensible, charcoal grey jumper stretching across her back. The way it pulled just slightly across her chest when she reached for the inkwell. It was maddening. A conservative, high-necked garment that revealed nothing and everything. It outlined the shape beneath: the firm, rounded swell of each breast, the gentle slope that ended in a pert, upturned curve he could now imagine in painful detail. His trousers felt tight, restrictive. His mind replayed the library stunt from days ago—the flash of lace, the hint of cleavage—and spliced it with Lavender’s blatant offer in the common room alcove. Hermione’s would be perfect. Sculpted. Untouched.
“This is useless,” Ron muttered, slamming his book shut. The sound echoed off the silent shelves. “Can’t concentrate.”
Hermione didn’t look up. “Perhaps if you applied yourself, Ronald, instead of ruminating.”
“Ruminating? I’m not a cow.”
“Debatable.”
Harry saw his opening. A pressure valve. He kept his voice low, conversational, aimed at Ron but his eyes on Hermione’s profile. “Hard to focus after a big show, isn’t it? Leaves an imprint. On the retina. On the hands.”
Hermione’s quill stopped. A small blot of ink spread on her parchment.
Ron went from pink to scarlet. “Shut up, Harry.”
“Just saying. Some offers are… graphic. Hard to forget. Makes ordinary things seem dull.” He leaned back, the legs of his chair groaning. “Makes you wonder about other… presentations. The ones you haven’t seen fully. The subtle ones. They haunt you more, maybe. Because you have to fill in the blanks.”
Hermione slowly placed her quill down. She turned her head, her brown eyes cool and sharp. “Is there a point to this psychoanalysis, Harry, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own vulgarity?”
“It’s an observation. About comparative value. Market forces.” He let a grin play on his lips, reckless. “Ron got a private viewing. A full, bare-faced presentation. I’m just trying to understand the appeal. Was it the size? The… availability?”
Ron looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. “I’m not talking about this.”
“But you saw them. Properly. You can tell me. Lavender’s. Big, right? Soft. A handful. Two big handfuls.” Harry’s words were deliberate, crude stones dropped into the quiet. “Bet they jiggle. A proper weight to them.”
“Harry!” Hermione’s whisper was a lash.
“What? He knows. He was there. He touched them. Didn’t you, Ron?” Harry pressed, his own pulse thrumming. This was the lever. Use Ron’s shame, his experience, to pry open Hermione’s defiance. “So tell me. Since I’m only working with theoreticals here. Hypothetical tits. How do they compare? To, say, a different pair. Smaller. Perkier. The kind that wouldn’t need much support. The kind that would sit up all on their own, like they’re proud of themselves.”
Ron’s eyes flickered, against his will, towards Hermione’s chest for a fleeting second. It was a micro-gesture, a confession. Hermione saw it. A flush crept up her neck.
“See?” Harry said softly, triumphantly. “He’s comparing right now. It’s involuntary. Once you’ve seen, you can’t stop seeing. You inventory. You measure.”
Hermione stood up abruptly. The legs of her chair screeched against the stone. Madame Pince shot a furious glare from her distant desk. Hermione began shoving books into her bag, her movements jerky.
“Where are you going?” Ron asked, his voice strangled.
“Anywhere that isn’t here. This isn’t studying. This is… psychological voyeurism.”
Harry stood too, blocking her path to the aisle. He was close now. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath that damned jumper, the way the wool brushed over the hardened points of her nipples. The cold of the library, or something else? His own breath hitched.
“You’re running,” he murmured, for her ears only. “Because you know I’m right. You used Ron to make a point yesterday, and it backfired. Now he’s seen the competition. And so have I, in my head. Your move, Hermione. Theory isn’t enough anymore. You need empirical evidence.”
Her eyes blazed. “My body is not an experiment for your validation, Harry Potter.”
“Everything’s an experiment now. You started it. The buttons. The lace. That was a hypothesis. ‘If I show a little, he will choose me.’ The result was inconclusive. The variable of Lavender’s bare tits corrupted the data.” He leaned in, his voice a hot whisper. “So run your experiment again. Properly. With a control. Show me. Let me be the control group. Then we’ll know. We’ll know if it was the size, or the owner, that he really wanted.”
She was trembling, but not with fear. With fury. With a kind of electrified, horrific fascination. He had framed it in the language she understood. Methodology. Variables. Hypothesis.
She glanced at Ron, who was staring, horrified and captivated, at the standoff. His presence was the catalyst. Harry knew it. She wouldn’t do anything with Ron just sitting there, a witness.
“Ron,” Harry said, not looking away from Hermione. “Go and find us that book on advanced shielding charms. The one by… something. Go look for it. It’ll take a while.”
Ron blinked. “What? I—”
“Now, Ron.”
It was an order, flat and cold. The tone he used in Dumbledore’s Army. The tone of someone used to being obeyed in life-or-death situations. Ron flinched. He looked from Harry’s intense, hungry face to Hermione’s frozen one. Something in the air—the raw, sexual tension, the outright hostility—was too much for him. He swallowed, nodded, and stumbled away from the table, disappearing into the labyrinth of shelves.
They were alone.
The silence deepened, pregnant and dangerous.
“He’s gone,” Harry said. “The witness. Just the scientist and the control. So? Prove your theory. Prove yours are better. Not bigger. Better.”
Hermione didn’t move for a long moment. Her chest kept rising, falling. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to cost her everything, she reached for the hem of her bulky grey jumper.
Harry’s mouth went dry.
She pulled it up, over her head, and let it fall onto the chair behind her.
She stood before him in just her white blouse. It was simple, buttoned to the throat, but the material was fine, almost sheer in the dusty light. And without the jumper, everything was different. The fabric clung, revealing the elegant lines of a lace-trimmed bra beneath. He could see the pattern of the lace, the gentle shadow of the cups, the way they lifted and presented her breasts. They were exactly as he’d imagined: not large, but perfectly, defiantly shaped. High and round, each one a pristine curve that pushed against the confinement of the lace. The blouse tightened across them with each breath, the buttons at her sternum straining slightly.
“There,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Your control. Not bare. Not offered. Just… evident.”
Harry could only stare. It was more intimate than Lavender’s crude display could ever be. This was revelation, not donation. The intelligent architecture of her. The perky, splendid arrogance of her breasts under the sheer cloth. He could see the dark circles of her nipples, hardened peaks pressing against the lace and then the blouse.
“They’re perfect,” he breathed, the vulgarity gone, replaced by something like awe.
“They’re mine,” she corrected, a flicker of victory in her eyes. She had done it. On her terms. Not bare, but seen. “And your experiment is flawed, Harry. You can’t quantify desire.”
She held his gaze for three more heartbeats, letting him look, letting the image burn into him. Then, swiftly, she pulled the jumper back on, shrouding herself again in grey wool. The glorious outline vanished, replaced once more by suggestion.
“The results are inconclusive,” she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. Her composure was returning, a shield snapping back into place. “Because Ron isn’t here to see it. You are. And you… don’t count.”
She walked past him, her steps echoing softly, leaving him alone between the endless shelves. He was painfully, exquisitely hard. He had seen it, and it was better than any fantasy. And she was right. It changed nothing with Ron. But it changed everything with him.
He sank slowly back into his chair, the ghost of her shape imprinted on his eyes. The war wasn't over. It had just found a new, far more dangerous front.