Chapter 1: Temptation in Ink
The ink was all Harry could see. A dark, spreading bloom on white cotton, clinging to the curve of Hermione’s breast. It was hours later, back in the common room with the fire popping and Ron grumbling over a battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making, but the image was burned onto the back of Harry’s eyelids. Every time he blinked, it was there: the wet fabric, the deliberate shadow of lace beneath, the way she’d pressed that heavy book to herself like a shield.
He tried to focus on his own parchment, a half-finished essay on the uses of moonstone in calming draughts. The words swam.
“You’re tapping your quill again,” Ron muttered, not looking up. “Driving me mental.”
“Sorry,” Harry said, stilling his hand. He hadn’t even noticed. His gaze drifted, as it had all evening, to the armchair by the window.
Hermione was there, tucked into the cushions, frowning at a thick tome on her lap. She’d changed, of course. The stained blouse was gone, replaced by a simple, close-fitting jumper in a soft shade of grey. It wasn’t tight, not really, but it followed the lines of her. It sketched the slope of her shoulders, the gentle inward curve of her waist, and then…
Harry’s throat went dry. The wool hugged the fuller shape of her chest, the soft swell of her breasts as she leaned forward to turn a page. There was no lace now, no shocking revelation. Just suggestion. A quiet, relentless outline that demanded his attention. It was worse, somehow. More intimate. This was just Hermione, studying. And he was watching her like he’d never seen her before.
He felt a hot coil of guilt tighten in his gut. This was Hermione. His best friend. The one who’d stuck by him through everything. He shouldn’t be thinking about the weight of her breasts in his hands, about what they’d feel like without the wool, without anything. He shouldn’t be wondering if they’d be warm, how her skin would taste.
But he was. He so fucking badly was.
“Getting anywhere with that, Hermione?” Ron asked, flopping back in his chair with a sigh.
“Somewhere, yes,” she said, her voice a familiar, focused murmur. “It’s just dreadfully convoluted. The argument about wand loyalty in post-medieval goblin relations is purely theoretical until you cross-reference the Gringotts accords of 1621…”
Ron made a face, tuning out. Harry didn’t. He watched her mouth form the words, noticed the faint, concentrated crease between her brows. He saw the way the firelight caught the gentle movement of her chest with each breath. The jumper dipped slightly at the neckline, revealing a hint of collarbone, a shadowed hollow he wanted to trace with his finger.
“You’re quiet, Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, looking up.
His eyes snapped to hers, caught. A flush crept up his neck. “Just thinking.”
“About moonstone?” Ron snorted. “Blimey, no wonder you look miserable.”
“About a lot of things,” Harry said, holding Hermione’s gaze for a second too long before looking into the fire. The guilt was a live wire now, sizzling under his skin. She’d trusted him with her life a hundred times over. And here he was, reducing her to a collection of aches in his body.
She studied him for a moment, her head tilted.Then she marked her page and closed the book with a soft thud. “I need a break. My eyes are crossing. Anyone for a game of Exploding Snap? Or are you two too intellectually stunted now?”
“I’ll play,” Harry said quickly, too quickly. Anything to stop the silence, to give his hands something to do. Ron just shrugged, already reaching for the deck.
They moved to the rug before the fireplace, the worn cards between them. The game was a distraction, but a flimsy one. Every time Hermione reached to play a card, the grey wool stretched. He saw the faint, sure outline of the side of her breast, the soft give of it.
Ron was winning, cackling as he set off a chain of explosions that singed Harry’s eyebrows. Hermione laughed, a real, unguarded sound that did something dangerous to Harry’s insides. She leaned back on one hand, her body arching slightly. The position pulled the jumper taut across her front, defining her completely for a heart-stopping second. The shapes were full, rounded, impossibly real.
Harry’s card slipped from his fingers.
“Lost your grip, mate?” Ron grinned, scooping up the pile.
“Something like that,” Harry mumbled, his voice rough.
Hermulier0 was grinning too, her cheeks pink from the fire and the laughter. She didn’t know. She had no idea of the war going on inside him, the violent, hungry push against the wall of his friendship. She just saw Harry, her friend, being clumsy. She shifted to gather the cards for the next deal, and as she bent forward, the neckline of her jumper gaped.
It was just an inch. Less.
But it was enough.
He saw the soft, pale upper curve of her breast, the shadowed valley between them where a silver chain lay, a tiny pendant lost in the warm darkness of skin. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible intake.
Hermione straightened, the moment gone, the secret concealed again. But the image was branded into him, sharper and more devastating than the ink stain. It was real skin. It was hers.
The game continued, but Harry was lost. Every laugh, every movement, every casual touch of her hand to her throat was a fresh provocation. The common room felt too small, too hot. The air was thick with the smell of wool, old books, and the bis..was lawless, elemental, a current pulsing beneath his skin.
“I’m beat,” Ron announced finally, yawning wide. “That’s me for the night. Coming, Harry?”
He should say yes. He should walk up those stairs to the dormitory, lie in the dark, and try to will these thoughts away.
“In a minute,” Harry heard himself say. “Go on.”
Ron clapped him on the shoulder and trudged to the staircase. Hermione began to slowly stack the cards, her movements neat and precise.
Silence settled, heavy and expectant. The fire cracked.
“You seem… distracted,” Hermione said softly, not looking at him.
“Do I?”
“Yes.” She finally met his eyes. Her gaze was clear, intelligent, searching. “Is it… is it about the war? About everything that’s coming?”
He could lie. He should lie. Nod, let her think it was the weight of the world. It would be a kindness to them both.
But the words that came out were raw, pulled from a deeper, darker place. “Not exactly.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then what?”
He couldn't tell her. He could never tell her. But his body was a traitor. His eyes dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to the soft wool covering her chest. It wasn’t a leer. It was a helpless, starving glance.
Hermiere followed his look. A faint, confused pink touched her cheeks. She looked down at herself, then back at his face. Her own expression shifted, confusion melting into a dawning, wide-eyed comprehension. Her mouth parted slightly.
She saw. She understood the heat in his gaze, the tension in his jaw. The knowledge hung in the air between them, fragile and shocking.
She didn’t recoil. She didn’t slap him. She just stared, her breath coming a little faster now, making the wool rise and fall. The silence was no longer heavy. It was electric, charged with something that had been unnamed for years and was now screaming to be heard.
Slowly, deliberately, she placed the deck of cards aside. The simple action felt monumental. She was still looking at him, her eyes dark in the firelight.
Harry’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
Then, from the staircase, a loud, giggling voice shattered the moment.
“Ronald? Are you up there?”
Lavender Brown appeared at the foot of the stairs, her curls perfect, her lips glossed. She was wearing a pyjama set that was little more than pink silk and lace trim. It left very little to the imagination, showcasing the full, buoyant swell of her breasts pushed together by a tight camisole.
Harry registered it mechanically. The sight that would have paralyzed him an hour ago now barely registered. All he could see was Hermione, watching Lavender with a face gone suddenly, carefully blank.
“He just went up,” Harry said, his voice strangely flat.
Lavender simpered and floated up the stairs after him.
The spell was broken. The charged air vanished, replaced by a sudden, awkward chill.
Hermione stood up, smoothing her jumper down with a quick, sharp gesture. She wouldn’t look at him. “I should go to bed too,” she said, her voice clipped.
“Hermione…”
“Goodnight, Harry.”
She gathered her books with brisk efficiency and walked away, her posture rigid. He watched her go, the curve of her back, the set of her shoulders, until the door to the girls’ dormitory clicked shut behind her.
He was alone with the dying fire and the phantom scent of her, and the crushing weight of what had just almost happened. And beneath the guilt, beneath the confusion, the want remained—a hard, aching knot in his stomach, fiercer now that it had seen a flash of recognition in her eyes. It wasn’t over. It had only just begun, and the thought filled him with equal parts fear and a dark, fizzing shock of anticipation.