Chapter 1: A Study in Temptation
The scent of old parchment and drying ink should have been comforting. It usually was. But tonight, the familiar smell of the Hogwarts library did nothing to calm the restless energy buzzing under Harry’s skin. An enchanted candle flickered on the table between them, casting long, dancing shadows across the open pages of Advanced Potion-Making and highlighting the faint frown of concentration on Hermione’s face.
He’d been staring at the same paragraph on the properties of powdered moonstone for twenty minutes. The words swam, refusing to cohere into any meaningful understanding. His focus was shot, shattered into a thousand useless pieces.
All because of Hermione’s blouse.
It was just a simple, white, button-up school blouse. But she’d taken off her robes in the warmth of the library, and it was tighter than he remembered. Or maybe she’d filled it out more. As she leaned over the table, her quill scratching diligently, the fabric strained ever so slightly across her chest. The top button was undone, revealing a tantalizing sliver of skin and the gentle swell of her breasts.
His gaze, treacherous and utterly beyond his control, kept dropping from her face to that shadowed space. Every time she shifted, he held his breath, a silent, desperate hope flaring in his gut that another button might magically give way. His trousers felt suddenly, painfully tight.
“Harry?” Her voice cut through the static in his head. “You’ve been on that same sentence for ages. Is it the moonstone? It can be tricky.”
He jerked his eyes up to hers, feeling a hot flush creep up his neck. Her brown eyes were warm with concern, utterly unaware of the graphic, unwelcome film playing in his mind.
“No, it’s… fine. Just tired,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat to try and alleviate the pressure in his groin. It was a lie. He wasn’t tired. He was wound up, a live wire of frustrated desire.
“Well, try to focus. Slughorn will eviscerate you if this essay isn’t up to snuff.” She gave him a small, encouraging smile before turning back to her own work, her bushy hair forming a curtain between them.
The reprieve was short-lived. She reached for her inkwell, stretching across the table. The movement pulled her blouse taut across her front, outlining the full, soft curve of a breast. Harry’s breath hitched. His cock gave a hard, insistent throb against his zipper, a blunt demand for attention. He could almost feel the weight of her in his hands, the softness of her skin under his thumbs.
Merlin, what was wrong with him? This was Hermione. His best friend. The one who’d faced down Death Eaters with him, who cried over house-elves, who always had ink smudged on her nose. He’d seen her covered in dirt, screaming in terror, laughing until she cried. He’d never once looked at her and thought… this.
But now he couldn’t stop.
It had been building all summer, this new, physical ache. It had started with noticing the way Parvati Patil’s hips swayed when she walked, the low cut of a Slytherin girl’s top in the corridors. It was a constant, humming distraction. And now, it had zeroed in on Hermione with terrifying intensity.
“This is useless,” he growled, slamming his book shut more forcefully than he intended.
Hermione jumped, her quill skittering across the parchment. “Honestly, Harry! What’s got into you tonight?”
“Nothing. Everything. I can’t think in here.” He ran a hand through his already messy hair, desperate for an escape. “It’s too… quiet.”
She looked at him, her head tilted, and for a terrifying second he thought she could see right through him, right into the filthy, swirling mess of his thoughts. He saw her eyes drop to his lap for a fraction of a second, then dart back to his face. A faint pink tinge coloured her cheeks.
Had she noticed? The possibility was both mortifying and electrifying.
“It’s a library,” she said, her voice a little quieter, a little less sure. “It’s supposed to be quiet.”
The air between them felt thick, charged with something unspoken. The hum of magic in the ancient books seemed to grow louder, syncopating with the frantic beat of his heart. She wasn’t looking at her essay anymore. She was just looking at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and something else he couldn’t name.
He stood up abruptly, the wooden legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor like a gunshot in the silent room. “I need some air.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, his body thrumming with a chaotic mix of shame and a desperate, clawing need. He felt her eyes on his back the entire way out, a silent question hanging in the scented air between the bookshelves. A question he didn't have an answer for.