Chapter 6: The Water
The morning light felt accusatory. Harry moved through his classes in a haze, the memory of Cho’s bare skin in the steamy bathroom superimposed over every flick of a wand, every spoken spell. The guilt was a sour taste in his mouth, but beneath it, the hunger throbbed, fresh and sharpened by success. He’d done it. He’d seen. And it had only made the specific, maddening image of Hermione—of what he hadn’t yet seen—burn brighter.
He walked beside her and Ron after dinner, trailing them back to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was prattling on about the Chudley Cannons, his voice a distant buzz. Harry’s attention was pinned to the swing of Hermione’s hair, the way her school sweater fit just a little more snugly across her shoulders than it used to. She’d been quiet all day, her posture stiff around him. The library moment hung between them, a silent, unresolved chord.
They were crossing a narrow corridor on the fifth floor when disaster struck in a cackling, silvery blur.
“Wheeeeee! Drip-drip, drip-drip, little Mudblood’s getting a drip!”
Peeves the poltergeist swooped from a torch bracket, a massive, spongy ball of what looked like chilled pumpkin juice clutched in his spectral hands. He took aim and squeezed.
A torrent of ice-cold, orange liquid drenched Hermione from head to toe.
She shrieked, stumbling back. The smell of pumpkin and cinnamon flooded the corridor. The liquid soaked instantly through her sweater, her white blouse, her skirt. It plastered the fabrics to her skin, turning them dark and transparent. Harry stared, his breath catching. The wet white cotton of her blouse was nearly sheer, clinging to every curve, revealing the clear outline of a pale blue bra. He could see the lace, the full cups straining with the weight of her breasts, the distinct, tight points of her nipples against the chilled fabric.
“PEEVES!” Ron bellowed, drawing his wand, but the poltergeist was already somersaulting away with a shriek of laughter.
“Oh, Merlin, it’s freezing!” Hermione gasped, hugging herself. Her teeth began to chatter. The wet cloth pulled tighter, delineating the soft swell of her stomach, the dip of her navel. Water droplets traced the valley between her breasts.
Ron looked from her to where Peeves had vanished, furious but useless. “I’ll kill him! I’ll find Filch!”
“Don’t be stupid, Ron,” Hermione snapped, her voice trembling with cold and a sudden, volcanic frustration. She glared at him, her eyes blazing. “Just—just help me! I need to get out of these before I catch my death.” She looked past him, her gaze landing on the nearest door. It was a disused classroom, marked by a slightly tarnished brass handle.
She grabbed Ron’s wrist, her cold fingers biting into his skin. “In here. Now.”
“What? Hermi—”
“Now, Ronald!” she nearly shouted, yanking him towards the door. She flung it open and pulled him inside. Over her shoulder, she called to Harry, her tone abruptly dismissive. “It’s fine, Harry. Ron can help. Go on ahead.”
The door began to swing shut.
Harry moved without thought. His feet carried him forward. His hand shot out, catching the heavy oak door before it closed. He saw Ron’s confused face, Hermione’s wide, surprised eyes.
“Don’t be daft,” Harry said, his voice sounding remarkably calm, normal, even as his pulse hammered in his throat. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, leaning against it. “You’re soaked. You’ll need more than one pair of hands.”
The classroom was dark and dusty, smelling of old parchment and chalk. Moonlight filtered through high, grimy windows, painting silver streaks across the floor. Desks were stacked against the walls under ghostly sheets.
Hermione stood shivering in a pale shaft of that light, the wet fabric glowing. She looked from Ron to Harry, a conflict playing out on her face. Annoyance. Vulnerability. A deep, exhausted frustration. “Really, it’s fine. Ron’s… sufficient.”
Ron, finally catching up, puffed out his chest slightly. “Yeah, mate. I’ve got it.”
“No,” Harry said, softer now, pushing off the door. He took a step towards her, his gaze earnest, playing the part of the steadfast friend. The part he was supposed to be. “I’ll always help you, Hermione. You’re freezing. Your fingers are blue.”
It was true. Her hands were clasped together, the knuckles white with cold. She looked down at them, at her own trembling, useless fingers. The fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a wave of miserable acceptance. Last night’s wall was still there, but the cold was a more immediate siege.
“Alright,” she whispered, her voice small. “Just… turn around for a second.”
Ron immediately spun to face a blackboard, scuffing his feet. Harry turned more slowly, giving her his back but listening to every rustle, every shift of wet fabric. His heart was a drum against his ribs. This was different from the cloak. This was invited. This was real.
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “My fingers… I can’t… the buttons.”
Harry turned back. Ron did too.
She had managed to get her soaked outer sweater off. It lay in a soggy heap on the floor. Now she stood in just the translucent blouse and her skirt. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but the action only pushed her breasts up, making the wet lace of her bra even more prominent beneath the clinging cotton. Her cheeks were flushed. She uncrossed her arms, holding her shaking hands out helplessly. The little pearl buttons at the front of her blouse, from her collar down to her waist, were still fastened.
“I can’t feel them,” she said, a note of pure exasperation in her voice.
“I’ve got it,” Ron said, stepping forward.
“Let me,” Harry said, his voice cutting through the dusty air. He moved before Ron could. “You’re all thumbs, Ron. You’ll tear it.”
Ron looked offended but shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Whatever.”
Harry stepped into the moonlight with her. He could smell the pumpkin on her skin, mixed with her usual scent of books and something flowery. This close, the details were devastating. Every peak and valley of her bra was mapped perfectly under the soaked blouse. He could see the darker circles of her areolas, the texture of the lace.
He raised his hands. They were steady. He focused on the top button, just below her throat. His knuckles brushed the damp, warm skin of her neck. She flinched, a tiny intake of breath.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not looking at her face. He looked at the buttons, at the path they traced down her front. He freed the first one. A sliver of skin appeared. Then the second. The blouse gaped slightly, revealing the hollow of her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone. The third button. The fourth.
With each release, the blouse fell open a little more. He saw the top of her bra, the pale blue lace riding the smooth, moon-pale swells of her breasts. The fifth button. The sixth. His fingers worked deftly, deliberately slow. The backs of his fingers trailed down, barely touching the damp cotton over her sternum, over the gentle rise of her flesh.
He was hard, the pressure agonizing and thrilling. He could feel Ron’s gaze on them, a dull, uncomprehending presence in the room.
The final button, near her waist, came free. The blouse hung open, held only by her arms. The bra was fully visible now, containing but not concealing. The cups were full, lacy, beautiful. He could see the deep cleavage, the way the curves strained against the material.
“Arms out,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
She obeyed, shivering violently. He gently tugged the soaked blouse off her shoulders, down her arms. It fell to the floor with a wet slap.
Hermione Granger stood before him and Ron in nothing but her skirt, her shoes, and her bra. The cool air pebbled her skin. Goosebumps traveled over her arms, her stomach, the tops of her breasts rising from the lace. The moonlight loved her, caressing the slope of her shoulders, the elegant line of her spine, the incredible, heart-stopping fullness of her chest.
Harry’s mouth was desert-dry. This was better than the cloak. This was permission. This was her, exposed and shivering because of him, in front of him. He wanted to burn the image into his mind: the perfect shape, the weight, the reality of what was only inches away, separated by a whisper of blue lace.
“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron blurted out, his voice strained. He was staring, his ears bright red. “You’re… you’re really…” He didn’t finish.
Hermione hugged herself again, covering herself modestly, but the gesture was futile. The sight was already imprinted. “My skirt,” she managed through chattering teeth. “It’s soaked through. I need to get it off too.”
Harry knelt. The stone floor was cold through his trousers. His hands went to the waistband of her pleated skirt. His thumbs hooked into the fabric, just beside the button and zip. He looked up at her from his position on his knees. Her face was in shadow, unreadable. The curves of her breasts were level with his eyes. He could see the individual stitches in the lace.
He undid the button. He slid the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud. He peeled the drenched wool away from her hips, letting it fall around her ankles. She stepped out of it, leaving it in a sopping circle on the floor.
Now she stood in only her bra, her knickers—simple white cotton—her kneesocks and shoes. Her legs were long, pale, sculpted. But Harry’s gaze, rapt and starving, was fixed upwards. The bra was the final gate. The soft weight of her breasts moved with each rapid, shallow breath she took. The lace was a tantalizing barrier, showing everything and nothing.
“We need to get you warm,” Ron said, his voice oddly high. He was fumbling with his own robes, starting to shrug them off. “Here, have my…”
“I have a better idea,” Harry heard himself say. He rose to his feet, not breaking his gaze from her chest. He drew his wand. “Tergentize.”
A wave of warm, dry air pulsed from his wand, washing over her. It was a stronger, more focused charm than the standard drying spell. It fluttered the hair at her temples. It brushed over her skin, making her sigh in instant relief. It kissed every inch of her.
And it shrank the cotton of her plain white knickers, tightening them against her skin. More critically, it reacted with the delicate, magical fibers often woven into fine lingerie.
The pale blue bra, warmed and dried instantly by the charm, tightened perceptibly. The cups constricted, the lacy material tensing. For a breathtaking second, it became a second skin, outlining every perfect, granular detail of her nipples, the full, heavy roundness beneath. It was more revealing than if she’d been naked. It was a promise, a blueprint.
Hermione gasped, her hands flying to cover herself, but the damage—the revelation—was done. Harry had seen it. The explicit shape, the hardened peaks, the sheer, bountiful reality of her.
Ron saw it too. He stared, utterly silent, his mouth slightly open.
The spell faded. The bra relaxed back to its normal fit, but the image was scorched into the room.
The silence was thick, charged, different. Hermione’s arms were crossed tightly, her face a mask of extreme confusion, embarrassment, and something else—a dawning, sharp awareness. Her eyes locked on Harry’s. She wasn’t looking at a helpful friend anymore. She was looking at the intensity in his gaze, the undisguised fixation that had just lingered below her chin.
Harry couldn’t speak. The hunger was a roaring in his ears. He’d seen it. Not all of it. But enough. More than enough to fuel a hundred new, desperate fantasies.
Ron cleared his throat, the sound like cracking stone. “Right… well… you’re dry now.” He thrust his robes at her. “Put these on.”
She took them, her movements stiff, her eyes never leaving Harry’s. She wrapped the bulky fabric around herself, hiding her body, burying the vision. But it was too late. The classroom, the moonlight, the wet clothes on the floor—it was all a testament. A line had been crossed not in shadow, but in plain sight.
“Let’s go,” Hermione said, her voice flat and final. She walked to the door, clutching Ron’s robes at her throat. She didn’t look back.
Ron followed, throwing a bewildered, slightly troubled glance at Harry.
Harry stood alone in the silver-dusted dark, surrounded by the scent of pumpkin and her. His hands still tingled from the buttons. His eyes still saw the way the warm magic had shaped the lace to her skin.
He had helped her. He had always helped her. And now he knew exactly what that help had been worth. The cost, and the reward, were still beating hot in his blood as he finally turned to follow them into the dark corridor, the ghost of her shape hovering before him, more real than anything else in the world.