Chapter 18: The Accidental View
The quill slipped from her fingers, rolling across the worn hearthrug before coming to a stop against the leg of Harry’s armchair. It was a Thursday evening, and the common room was mostly empty, a few fifth-years huddled over homework by the window, the fire crackling low and hot.
“Blast,” Hermione muttered.
She was bent over from the sofa, one hand braced on the low table cluttered with books and empty mugs. Ron was dozing beside her, his mouth slightly open, an Advanced Potions text limp in his lap. He’d been complaining about a headache since dinner.
Hermione’s skirt, a soft, bottle-green wool, was tighter than anything Harry had seen her in before. It hugged the curve of her hips, the swell of her backside. As she reached, the fabric pulled, riding up her thighs. Harry, frozen in his chair, had a perfect, devastating line of sight.
The firelight glowed through the thin material of her underwear. They were pale, lace-edged, a delicate contrast to the warmth of her skin. The fabric was taut, revealing the full, perfect shape of her. He could see the shadowed cleft between her legs, the way the lace hugged each curve. His breath hitched, a sharp intake that sounded deafening in his ears. Blood rushed south, a painful, immediate thickening against his flies. He shifted, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it was useless. His whole world had narrowed to that glimpse of lace and skin.
She straightened up, quill in hand, and smoothed her skirt down. She turned, and her eyes met his. She knew. He saw it in the sudden widening of her brown eyes, the flush that started at her collarbone and swept up her neck to her cheeks. She’d felt the direction of his stare, the absolute stillness of his fixation.
Ron snorted in his sleep, mumbled something about lacewing flies, and adjusted his position without waking.
The silence stretched, thick and syrupy with what had just been seen and acknowledged. The crackle of the fire was like a ticking clock. Hermione didn’t look away. Her chest rose and fell a little quicker. Her fingers tightened around the stolen quill.
Harry’s voice, when it came, was a low rasp, barely