Chapter 14: The Reveal
Hermione’s plea hung in the dusty air, a fragile, desperate thing. “Harry’s my friend,” she said, her voice cracking on the word. “Just my friend. He shouldn’t… he doesn’t need to see that. He shouldn’t think of me that way.”
The irony was a physical weight in Harry’s gut. He thought of her that way constantly. The memory of that single, glorious glimpse of her breasts through the lace was a film he replayed nightly, his hand moving in the dark, his teeth gritted to keep from saying her name. She had no idea. To her, he was just Harry. Safe. Neutral. The knowledge was a sweet, private torture.
Ron shifted, a sly, calculating look replacing some of his earlier blunt aggression. He’d latched onto something. A bargain. A twisted fairness.
“Right. He’s just a mate. And you’re embarrassed.” Ron drummed his fingers on the table. “So fine. Let’s even it out. You’re shy? I’ll be… not shy.”
Hermione stared, uncomprehending. Harry held his breath, watching Ron’s mind work behind his pale blue eyes.
“You show me yours, with Harry here, and it’s uneven. Two against one, all eyes on you. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Ron continued, a thread of excitement in his voice now. “So I’ll show you mine. Right now. I’ll stand up, right here, and I’ll get my cock out. Then it’s even. We’ve all seen something. Then you do it.”
The proposition was so absurd, so crude, it seemed to short-circuit Hermione’s brain. Her mouth opened and closed silently. A faint, disbelieving noise escaped her.
“You’re mad,” she finally whispered.
“You said anything,” Ron shot back, his cheeks flushing. “I’m just making it a proper exchange. A show for a show. You think I’m not nervous? I’m putting mine on the line first. That’s me returning the favor to Harry, too. So he gets a proper show.”
Harry’s pulse hammered in his throat. This was spiraling far beyond his fantasies. It was raw, real, and charged with a devastating tension. His gaze, almost against his will, dropped to the front of Ron’s trousers. A confusing mix of rivalry and primal curiosity surged through him. But then his eyes snapped back to Hermione, to the way her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, pressing her breasts together, creating a soft, tempting swell above the neckline of her cardigan. That was what he craved. The curve, the weight, the hidden reality of her. Ron’s offer was just the bizarre, frantic gateway to it.
“This is insane,” Hermione breathed, her eyes darting towards the library aisles. It was late, and their corner was secluded, but not impervious. The risk of being discovered was a palpable, choking presence.
“Insane or not, it’s the offer,” Ron said. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape that made them all flinch. He stood up, his lanky frame towering over the seated Harry and the frozen Hermione. His hands went to his belt buckle.
A violent tremor went through Hermione. “Wait!”
Ron paused, his fingers on the leather. He looked at her, a challenge in his eyes. “Yes or no, Hermione. I do this, then you do it. Then we talk about Lavender. Or I walk out that door right now, and you never ask me again.”
The ultimatum was absolute. Harry could see the calculation in her eyes now, a mirror of Ron’s earlier one. Weighing humiliation against heartbreak. Weighing her dignity against the searing image of Ron with Lavender. The jealousy she couldn’t even name was winning, corroding her principles from the inside out.
Her chest rose in a deep, shuddering breath. The movement drew Harry’s eye like a magnet. The soft wool of her sweater stretched, outlining the gentle, perfect shape of her. He imagined the fabric gone, the cardigan parted, the simpler cotton of a shirt beneath. He ached to see it.
Her eyes found Harry’s. In them, he saw a profound apology, a shamed plea for understanding. She thought she was violating their friendship. He had to look away, his own guilt a hot coal in his stomach.
“Do it,” she said, the words barely audible.
Ron didn’t hesitate. His belt clinked. The zip was a loud, harsh sound in the silence. Harry kept his eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden table, the grain swimming before him. He heard the rustle of fabric, a quick, fumbling movement.
A sharp intake of breath from Hermione. Harry’s head jerked up.
Ron stood beside the table, his trousers and underwear pushed down just enough. His erection was exposed, flushed and urgent in the dim library light. He looked both defiant and terrified, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale skin. His gaze was locked on Hermione, watching her reaction.
Hermione’s face was a mask of stunned, clinical observation. She wasn’t looking away. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted. There was no desire there, only a shocked, hyper-real awareness. A study in anatomy. A fulfilled term of a brutal contract.
“There,” Ron said, his voice strained. “Now it’s even. Now you.”
The momentum was brutal and unstoppable. The price had been paid. The demand was back, heavier than ever, transferred from Ron’s bare skin to hers. Hermione’s hands, which had been clamped over her own stomach, slowly unclenched. Her eyes drifted from Ron, past Harry’s shoulder, into the shadowy depths of the bookshelves. She seemed to be retreating inside herself, finding that strange, detached calm once more.
Her fingers went to the buttons of her cardigan.
Harry’s world shrank to the space between her hands. Every sense heightened. The rustle of her clothes was deafening. The dusty smell of books transformed into the scent of her shampoo, of clean cotton and warm skin. His mouth went dry.
One button slipped free. Then another. The grey wool parted, revealing the plain, cream-colored blouse beneath. It was modest, high-necked, but it clung to her just enough. It outlined the gentle, firm swell of her breasts, the subtle hint of her bra beneath.
She pushed the cardigan off her shoulders. It slithered down her arms to catch in the crook of her elbows, pooling there. She was half-undressed, trapped by the fabric at her elbows, her arms slightly bound. It was a posture of vulnerability that sent a jolt of pure heat through Harry. Her chest was now fully visible, the shape of her breasts undeniable under the thin cotton.
Ron was breathing heavily, a ragged sound. He hadn’t moved, his own exposure forgotten.
Hermione’s hands, trembling visibly now, rose to the hem of her blouse. Her eyes were glassy, far away. She gripped the fabric.
And she began to lift it.