Chapter 24

The corridor outside the abandoned classroom was empty when Harry stepped out. He stood for a moment, letting the door click shut behind him, and took stock of his evening. Pansy was handled. Sorted, properly instructed, and set on a useful trajectory. Greengrass would be circling back soon enough, and when she did, Pansy would be ready.

He had time before dinner. The library seemed like the obvious next stop.

The castle corridors were mostly quiet at this hour, students either still outside enjoying what remained of the daylight or holed up in their common rooms avoiding the homework they’d inevitably leave until Sunday evening. Harry’s footsteps echoed softly against stone as he made his way toward the library, hands in his pockets.

The library doors were propped open when he arrived, and he stepped inside. Madam Pince was at her desk near the entrance, quill scratching across some ledger or another, her sharp eyes tracking him as he passed. He nodded politely. She didn’t return it, just went back to her work with a small sniff.

‘Stuck-up old bint,’ he thought with a sneer on his face.

He found Hermione exactly where he expected to find her.

She was at her usual spot at the far table by the windows. Books were stacked around her in neat piles, quills and parchments arranged neatly. She had a book open in front of her, her head bent over it, and tracing lines of text with one hand and absently twirling her quill in the other.

Harry let himself look at her for a moment. She was completely absorbed, the way she always was when she was reading something that actually interested her. He could see the small furrow between her brows, the slight parting of her lips, and the way her eyes moved quickly across the page, taking everything in and filing it away in that formidable mind of hers.

It was objectively not remarkable. Hermione reading was as common a sight as the castle itself. But there was something compelling about watching her like this, unguarded and focused, completely in her element.

He walked over and pulled out the chair across from her.

She glanced up as he sat down, her expression shifting from concentration to mild surprise. Her eyes met his briefly before flicking to the stacks of books, then back to him.

”The session’s already over,” she said. ”Everyone left about an hour ago.”

“I can see that,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m more interested in personal attention than one that’s divided in a group.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, just slightly, and her eyes widened a fraction before she pointedly looked back down at her book. She turned a page she probably hadn’t finished reading.

“Right,” she said, her voice a touch higher than usual. “Well. I guess I can answer questions if you have them.”

Harry’s mouth curved. She was trying very hard to pretend she hadn’t caught the double meaning, and it was amusing to watch. He waited for a moment before speaking again.

“What are you reading?”

Hermione’s shoulders relaxed slightly, clearly relieved by the shift to safer territory. She held up the book so he could see the title. “It’s about the previous Triwizard Tournaments. Historical accounts, task descriptions, that sort of thing.”

“Why?” Harry asked, though he already had a reasonable guess.

She set the book down and looked at him properly, her expression resigned and slightly exasperated. “Because I know you’re going to enter,” she said flatly. “So the least I can do is know everything about the previous editions. That way when you inevitably get yourself into some ridiculous situation, I’ll actually be able to help instead of just worrying.”

Harry tilted his head, his smile widening. “You think I’m going to get myself into ridiculous situations?”

“I think ridiculous situations actively seek you out,” Hermione said. “And the Triwizard Tournament will be no different. So yes, I’m preparing.”

“You’re assuming I’ll be selected.”

“Of course you’ll be selected,” Hermione said, as if it were the obvious thing. “You’re Harry Potter. Things like this always happen to you. It’s practically inevitable.”

“So you’re doing research on my behalf before I’ve even entered.”

“Someone has to,” she muttered, turning back to her book.

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Hermione.”

She didn’t look up. “It’s practical. Not thoughtful.”

“If you say so.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Hermione was clearly trying to read, her eyes moving across the page, but Harry could tell she wasn’t absorbing anything. She was too aware of him sitting there, watching her. Her posture had gone slightly rigid, and she was holding the book with more force than was strictly necessary.

After a minute, she set the book down with a small sigh and looked at him directly. “Was there something specific you needed? Or are you just here to distract me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

Her lips pressed together, fighting a smile and losing slightly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Harry gestured at the stacks around her. “Let’s get back to what you said this morning. About the Transfiguration essay.”

Hermione’s expression turned more serious. “Please say you’ve at least started on it.”

“Not yet.”

She made a small sound of exasperation. “Harry, it’s due Thursday. That’s only four days away.”

“I know.”

“Then why haven’t you started?” she asked. “McGonagall specifically said this one requires actual research, not just regurgitation of class notes. The theoretical limits alone are going to take at least three sources to cover properly, and that’s assuming you can actually find the right sources, which isn’t guaranteed because half the library’s reference section is still being reshelved from last week’s reorganization.”

She was getting properly worked up now, her hands moving as she spoke, her voice rising slightly. “And you can’t just cite Switching Spells Simplified because that barely touches on theoretical applications, let alone limitations, so you’ll need to look at Transformation Today or possibly Essential Transfiguration, though the latter is more focused on practical methodology than theory, which means—“

“Miss Granger.”

Madam Pince’s voice cut through the library. Hermione froze mid-sentence, her eyes going wide. The librarian was glaring at them from her desk, her expression promising dire consequences if the noise didn’t stop immediately.

Hermione’s face flushed bright red. “Sorry,” she whispered, sinking slightly in her chair.

Madam Pince gave one final disapproving look before returning to her ledger.

Harry was grinning. He couldn’t help it. The combination of Hermione’s passionate rant being cut short by the one authority in the castle she genuinely seemed to fear was too perfect.

Hermione glared at him. “Don’t laugh,” she hissed.

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re smiling. It’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not,” Harry said. He leaned forward again, dropping his voice. “I appreciate the passion though. About my essay.”

She looked away, color still high in her cheeks. “Someone has to care about your grades.”

“You care quite a lot, it seems.”

“Because you don’t care enough,” she shot back, but her voice had lost some of its heat. She was flustered now, not angry.

Harry waited for a moment before speaking again. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Hermione blinked at him. “What?”

“The library. Pince is already irritated with us, and you’re clearly not going to be able to discuss this properly without risking another reprimand.” He gestured toward the door. “My books are in my dorm anyway. We could work on the essay there. Might be more productive.”

There was a moment of silence. Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, and he could practically see her mind working through the implications of that suggestion. Harry, inviting her to his dormitory. Alone. To work on homework.

Her cheeks went pink again.

“I… guess that makes sense,” she said slowly. “Since your materials are there.”

“Exactly,” Harry said pleasantly. “Just practical.”

“Right. Practical.” She looked down at her books, clearly trying to compose herself. “Let me just… I need to check this one out. The one on Triwizard history.”

“Take your time.”

She gathered her things with slightly unsteady hands, stacking books and organizing parchment. She looked like she was forcing herself not to think about what she’d just agreed to. Harry watched her work, his expression neutral but his thoughts anything but.

This was going to be interesting.

XXXXX

Hermione made her way to Madam Pince’s desk with the Triwizard book, and Harry followed at a leisurely pace. The checkout process was quick, and Pince’s disapproving gaze followed them as they left the library.

The corridors were slightly more populated now, students making their way back from the grounds or heading to dinner early. Harry led the way toward Gryffindor Tower, Hermione walking beside him with the book clutched to her chest like a shield. She wasn’t saying anything, which was unusual. Hermione always had something to say.

“You’re quiet,” Harry observed.

“I’m thinking,” she said quickly.

“About the essay?”

“Yes. Obviously.” She didn’t look at him.

Harry smiled to himself and said nothing.

They reached the Fat Lady’s portrait and Harry gave the password. The entrance swung open and they climbed through into the Gryffindor common room.

The space was nearly empty. Most students were still outside, and the few who were present were scattered around the room, absorbed in their own activities. A couple of second years were playing Exploding Snap near the fire. A fifth-year girl was curled up in one of the armchairs with a book.

No one paid them any attention as Harry headed for the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

Hermione followed, though he could feel her hesitation. She’d been in the room dozens of times, had climbed these stairs for various reasons, but this was different and they both knew it. This time she was following him to his dormitory with the explicit purpose of being alone with him.

The fourth-year boys’ dorm was empty when they entered. The beds were neatly made, trunks closed, and the space properly organized. The room was bathed in the golden lamplight, the sky outside almost dark.

Harry moved to his bed and gestured for Hermione to sit. She perched on the edge, still clutching her book, her eyes moving around the room. He turned back to the door and, with a subtle flick of his wand, cast a privacy ward. Nothing obvious, nothing that would make noise or light. Just a quiet barrier that would keep people from walking in unannounced. He did it casually, his back to Hermione, the movement so smooth it barely registered as spellwork.

When he turned back, she was already pulling parchment from her bag, arranging it on the bed next to her. She hadn’t noticed anything.

Harry smiled to himself and moved to join her, settling onto the bed with his back against the post. From this angle he could see her, the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck where it disappeared into her collar, and the way her hair fell forward as she bent over her parchment.

The lamplight caught the gold in her brown hair, and it made her skin look warm. She’d rolled up the sleeves of her shirt at some point, probably while she was working in the library, and he could see the pale skin of her forearms, the small freckles scattered there, and the delicate bones of her wrists.

She looked up and caught him watching. Her breath hitched slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Just thinking.”

“About the essay?” Her voice was slightly unsteady.

“Sure,” Harry said, his tone making it clear he was thinking about nothing of the sort.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed again and she looked back down at her parchment with renewed focus. “Right. Well. We should probably start with the theoretical framework. McGonagall was very specific about that.”

Harry let her talk. She launched into an explanation of theoretical limits in Transfiguration, her voice steadying as she got into the familiar territory of academic discussion. He listened, contributed when appropriate, and made notes on his own parchment.

For a while it was just work, the kind of work they’d done many times before. But the awareness was still there. The knowledge that they were alone in his dormitory, sitting on his bed, with the rest of the castle going about its business completely unaware. It was not something new, but it felt new to her.

After about twenty minutes, Harry took out his wand and turned it over in his hand as he considered a point Hermione had just made about elemental transfiguration limits.

He set it down, intentionally, placing it on the bed between them where it would be directly in her line of sight.

Hermione’s eyes caught on it immediately. Her breath stuttered. She stared at the wand for a long moment, her whole body going very still, and Harry watched the exact second the memory hit her. The way her eyes widened. The way her lips parted slightly. The flush that crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

She knew he could see her reaction. She knew he was watching. And she was completely unable to control it.

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice was perfectly casual. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she choked out. Her voice was too high. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, not looking at him. Her eyes were still fixed on his wand. She swallowed hard.

Harry smirked to himself. He picked up his quill and went back to writing, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just reminded her of what she’d done with that wand in this very room.

Hermione tried to refocus on her parchment. She really did try. But her breathing had gone unsteady and her hand was shaking slightly as she wrote. Every few seconds her eyes would flick back to the wand, then away again, then back.

Harry smiled to himself and kept writing.

They worked in silence for another ten minutes. Or rather, Harry worked. Hermione was going through the motions, writing things down and turning pages, but she wasn’t actually processing anything. He could tell from the way she kept having to reread the same paragraph, the way her notes had become increasingly scattered and disorganized.

Eventually, Harry set down his quill and leaned back. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Hermione looked up, clearly relieved to have an excuse to stop pretending to work. “What is it?”

“Ginny,” Harry said. “I wanted to apologize. She’s been a bit much lately, hasn’t she? With you.”

The change in Hermione’s expression was immediate. Her eyes widened slightly and color flooded her cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the sudden rush of memory. Ginny’s very explicit descriptions. The things she’d said about Harry. The details she’d shared with absolutely no filter.

“Oh,” Hermione said, her voice going slightly breathless. “That. It’s… it’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not fine,” Harry said. He shifted slightly, turning toward her more fully. “She shouldn’t be putting you in uncomfortable positions. Saying things that are inappropriate.”

“She’s just… being Ginny,” Hermione managed. Her fingers were twisting together in her lap now, and she wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. “You know how she is.”

“I do,” Harry agreed. “Which is why I’m going to have to punish her for it.”

Punish.

His tone made it very clear what kind of punishment he was talking about.

Hermione’s breath caught. Her whole body went rigid and her eyes finally met his, wide and dark and completely unable to hide what she was thinking. The images that word had conjured. The implications.

Her toes curled inside her socks.

“I… you don’t have to do that,” she said weakly.

“I think I do,” Harry said. His eyes stayed on hers, holding her gaze. “She crossed a line. That needs to be addressed.”

Hermione swallowed hard. She was trying very hard to maintain composure but failing spectacularly. Her breathing had gone shallow and quick, her cheeks were flushed, and her hands had stopped fidgeting and were now gripping the edge of the bed like she needed the support.

“She was just talking,” Hermione said, though her voice had no conviction in it.

“She was doing more than talking,” Harry said. “And you know it.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t respond. She was staring at him with her lips slightly parted and her chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.

Harry remained silent, letting her think about what he’d just said, with the images now firmly planted in her mind. Ginny being punished. By him. In ways Hermione’s imagination was more than capable of filling in.

Then, as if the previous topic hadn’t just thoroughly derailed her composure, Harry shifted gears entirely.

“Actually,” he said, his tone going casual again, “there was something else I wanted to ask you about.”

Hermione blinked at him, clearly trying to catch up with the shift. “What?”

“That day at the Ministry. When Ginny and I went to talk to Barty Crouch.” Harry’s eyes stayed on hers. “Did she mention what happened with Narcissa Malfoy?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She clearly remembered. “She… yes. She mentioned it.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Just that…” Hermione’s voice had gone smaller. “That you did something to her. In public. That made her… uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable,” Harry repeated, a slight smile playing at his lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

Hermione was watching him now with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and anticipation.

“I guess Ginny told you the details,” Harry said.

A nod. Small and jerky.

Harry leaned back further, getting comfortable. “She probably made it sound worse than it was.”

“Did she?” Hermione’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Maybe.” Harry’s eyes moved over her face, taking in every detail of her reaction. “Then again, maybe not. Narcissa Malfoy is… well. She’s been walking around with her nose in the air for years. Looking down on everyone. Acting like her blood and money makes her better than half the wizarding world.”

“She was awful at the World Cup,” Hermione said quietly. Her eyes were fixed on Harry now, completely absorbed in what he was saying.

“She was,” Harry agreed. “So when I had the opportunity to… adjust her perspective. I took it.”

“You didn’t have to go that far though,” Hermione said, but there was no conviction in it. No actual disapproval. She was just being herself, someone who felt she should be objecting but didn’t actually want to.

Harry’s smile widened. “I could have gone further. That’s the thing. I could have pushed it much, much further than I did. But that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying.”

Hermione’s lips parted. “What do you mean?”

Harry leaned forward, closing the distance between them by several inches. Hermione’s breath hitched but she didn’t pull back.

“Watching her squirm,” Harry said, his voice dropping lower. “Seeing the exact moment she realized she had no control over the situation. That she was completely at my mercy and there was nothing she could do about it.” His eyes held hers. “That was the satisfying part. Not the humiliation itself. The awareness. Watching it dawn on her that the haughty Narcissa Malfoy, who’d spent years looking down on people like me, was now in a position where I could make her do whatever I wanted.”

Hermione was staring at him with her mouth slightly open. Her breathing had gone completely unsteady. “Whatever you wanted,” she repeated, the words barely audible.

“Anything,” Harry confirmed. He was so close now that he could see her pulse jumping in her throat. “And she knew it. You could see it in her eyes. The moment she understood that all her pride, all her status, all her carefully maintained superiority… none of it mattered. Not when I had her exactly where I wanted her.”

“That’s…” Hermione swallowed hard. “That’s quite stimulating.”

The word choice made Harry’s smile sharpen. “Stimulating?”

“I mean…” Hermione’s face was completely flushed now. “The power dynamic. The psychological aspect of it. That must have been… stimulating. For you.”

“It was,” Harry said. He held her gaze, letting her see exactly how much. “Very stimulating. Knowing I was the one causing it. That every bit of her discomfort, every moment of her humiliation, was because of me. Because I chose to put her there.” His voice dropped even lower. “There’s something deeply satisfying about that kind of control. About watching someone who thinks they’re untouchable realize they’re not. That you’re the one who decides what happens to them.”

Hermione was completely still. Her eyes were locked on his and she wasn’t blinking. Her lips were parted and her breathing was coming in small, quick gasps.

“And the best part?” Harry continued, his voice almost casual now despite the intensity in his eyes. “She’s still thinking about it. I can bet my vault on it. She remembers exactly what it felt like to be that helpless. To know that I could do it again whenever I wanted. That knowledge lives with her now.”

Hermione made a small sound. Not quite a whimper, but close.

Harry let the silence stretch for a long moment, watching her process everything he’d just said, watching the way it was affecting her. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her Hogwarts shirt, and her hands were gripping the bedspread so hard her knuckles had gone white.

Then he leaned in even closer, so close she could probably feel his breath.

“What did you do with my wand, Hermione?” he whispered.

The effect was instantaneous. Hermione’s eyes went wide with shock, her whole body jerking back slightly as if she’d been struck. Her face drained of color for a split second before flooding with red so deep it was almost painful to look at.

“I… what?” she stammered. “I don’t… I didn’t…”

“You did,” Harry said calmly. He didn’t move back, staying close enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. “You came into this dormitory. Late at night. While everyone was sleeping. And you took my wand.”

“I wasn’t… you were asleep, you couldn’t have…” Hermione was panicking now, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to deny it.

“I was awake,” Harry said. His voice was still quiet but there was steel in it now. “I saw you come in. Saw you walk over to my bed. Saw you take my wand.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I saw exactly what you did with it.”

Hermione made a sound like all the air had been punched out of her lungs. She was shaking her head, her eyes impossibly wide, her mouth opening and closing without sound.

“You stood by the window,” Harry continued, his voice almost gentle now. “The moonlight was coming through. You had one leg propped up on my bed. Your skirt was hiked up around your thighs.” He paused, letting that image settle. “And you were using my wand. On yourself. While saying my name.”

Hermione’s hands flew up to cover her face. A broken sound escaped her, something between a sob and a whimper. She was shaking.

Harry reached out slowly and gently took her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. She resisted for a moment, then let him. When her face was visible again, her eyes were bright with unshed tears and her expression was absolutely devastated.

“I watched you,” Harry said softly. “The whole time. I saw how you moved. Heard the sounds you made. Heard you saying my name over and over while you…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Oh god,” Hermione whispered. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I never should have… what’s wrong with me?”

Harry had been steadily closing the distance between them while she spiraled. Now she was backed up against the headboard of his bed, her eyes wide and panicked, her breathing ragged, and he was right there in front of her with nowhere for her to go.

“Harry, I…” Her voice was shaking. “I can’t… this is…”

He reached up and placed one finger against her lips. The touch made her go completely still, her eyes going even wider if that was possible. She stared at him, frozen.

“What made you do it?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His finger was still pressed against her lips, preventing her from answering. He kept it there for a moment longer, watching her squirm, before slowly pulling it away.

Hermione’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She tried again, her voice coming out as barely a whisper. “I don’t… I can’t explain it.”

“Try,” Harry said.

“I just…” She closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze while she spoke. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what Ginny had said. About…” She swallowed hard. “About what you might be like. What it would be like with you.”

“And?”

“And I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself.” Her eyes opened, meeting his, and what he saw there was equal parts shame and desperate need. “I wanted… I needed something of yours. Something that belonged to you. So I…”

“Took my wand,” Harry finished. “And used it to pleasure yourself while thinking about me.”

Hermione whimpered. Actually whimpered. The sound was small and broken and completely involuntary.

Harry leaned back slightly, giving her just enough space to breathe. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached down.

Hermione’s eyes followed the movement, wide enough. She watched as his hands went to his trousers. Her breath hitched as he undid them with ease. She gasped as he freed himself, his cock already hard and heavy.

Her breath left her in a rush. Her eyes went impossibly wide and fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on shock. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t even try to look away. She just stared, her lips parted and her breathing completely ragged.

“My wand,” Harry said softly, his voice still calm despite the situation, “is no replacement for the real thing.”

Hermione made another small sound. Her hands were twisted together in her lap and she was absolutely frozen, every bit of her attention locked on what he’d just revealed.

“And if you wanted a feel,” Harry continued, his eyes never leaving her face, watching every tiny shift in her expression, “all you had to do was ask.”

Hermione was trembling. Her whole body was shaking with a combination of shock and arousal and overwhelming emotion. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, unable to tear away, her breathing coming in small desperate gasps.

Harry just waited, giving her time to absorb what was happening, to process the fact that he’d just exposed himself to her. That he was sitting there on his bed with his cock out, hard and ready, while she sat frozen barely two feet away.

Hermione’s lips parted slightly wider. Her tongue darted out to wet them. Her hands unclenched from each other and moved slightly, almost unconsciously, as if reaching toward him before she caught herself and stopped.

Harry watched it all. Every micro-expression. Every tiny movement. The war playing out across her face between what she knew she should do and what she desperately wanted to do.

“Hermione,” he said. “I have known for a while now that you want this. I have seen the way you watch me when you think I am not looking. And I have known that you have seen me and Ginny more than once. That is why she has been on your case for so long. That is why I did not think twice when I flirted with her right in front of you. Yeah, I teased you a few times as well but be honest, can you blame me? The fact of the matter is that you were never as invisible as you thought you were.”

Her breath caught sharply. The flush on her cheeks deepened, but she did not pull away. Conflict swirled in her wide brown eyes. Propriety, friendship, and the thousand rules she had built her life around. All of it fought against the visible hunger that made her thighs press together and her fingers twitch in her lap.

Harry could see the exact moment her desire began to win. Her gaze dropped again to his cock, thick and flushed, standing heavy and ramrod straight between them.

“You do not have to decide with your head right now,” he murmured. He reached out and brushed a curl from her face, letting his fingers trail along her jaw. She shivered under the touch. “Just feel it. You have wanted to touch me. I can see it. So touch.”

Hermione hesitated for one final heartbeat. Then her hand moved. Her fingers trembled as they hovered, then brushed lightly along the underside of his shaft. The contact made him twitch, and she startled, pulling back slightly and looking at him with wide eyes. Harry gave her a reassuring nod.

She wrapped her hand around him properly this time. Her grip was tentative at first, barely snug enough to feel, but the warmth of her palm drew a low sound from his throat.

“Like that,” Harry encouraged softly. “A bit firmer. Slide your hand up and down. Yes. Just like that.”

She was new to this. He could tell in every uncertain stroke, the way she watched her own hand as if cataloguing every detail for future reference. Her palm glided along his length, learning the texture of veined skin stretched over rigid hardness. A bead of precum leaked from the tip, and she stared at it, fascinated. Her breathing had grown shallow, matching the rhythm of her hand as she found a steadier pace.

Harry leaned back against the headboard, his eyes half lidded. “Good. Now twist your wrist a little on the upstroke. Right under the head. Fuck, Hermione. You are a quick learner.”

The praise seemed to light something inside her. Her shoulders straightened. She shifted closer on the bed, her free hand bracing on his thigh for balance. Her strokes grew more confident, smoother, tighter where he needed it. The wet, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filled the room. Hermione’s own arousal was evident in the way she squirmed, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her shirt. Her nipples pressed visibly against the fabric of her bra.

Harry kept his voice low, guiding her. “Squeeze a little more here. Perfect. You feel how hard I am for you? All of this is because of how you look right now. Flushed and focused and so fucking pretty with your hand on me.”

She whimpered softly at his words. The sound sent heat pooling low in his belly. Hermione adjusted her grip, experimenting with pressure and speed. She paid close attention to every reaction he gave. When his hips jerked upward, she repeated the motion. When his breath hitched, she lingered on the sensitive head with her thumb, spreading the slick precum down his shaft. She was getting better by the second, losing herself in the act. Her curls fell forward, brushing his thigh, and the sight of her bent over him like that was fucking hot.

Harry’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “You are doing so well,” he praised. “Better than I imagined. Keep going just like that.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked up to meet his for a moment. He could see her vulnerability there, but also a spark of pride. She redoubled her efforts, stroking him with firm, twisting pulls that had his muscles tightening. The pressure built steadily, coiling at the base of his spine.

“Hermione,” he warned, his voice rough. “I am close. If you do not want it on you, you should stop now.”

She did not stop. Her hand moved faster, her eyes locked on the flushed head of his cock as it swelled in her grasp.

Harry groaned as his release crashed over him. Thick ropes of cum pulsed across her fingers, coating her palm and dripping down her wrist in warm, sticky strands. Several drops landed higher, catching on her cheek and her lips.

Hermione sat very still afterward, her hand still loosely wrapped around his softening length. She stared at the evidence of his pleasure glistening on her skin. Her tongue darted out almost unconsciously, tasting the strand that had landed on her lips. Salty. Warm. Slightly bitter. She seemed to be thinking it over for a long moment, her eyes half closed in thought. Then, slowly, she brought her hand to her lips and began to clean it. Her tongue traced every line of her palm, every finger, and once her hand was done, she scooped the cum on her face and started licking up every trace while Harry watched, transfixed.

When she finished, her lips shone and her cheeks burned. She looked up at him with a shaky, tentative smile.

“Ginny was right,” she whispered, her voice a bit shy. “About how this feels. About you.”

Harry chuckled. He reached for her, drawing her gently into his arms. She came willingly, settling against his chest with a small sigh. They stayed like that, the scent of sweat and sex and parchment lingering between them.

Slowly, Hermione leaned back and looked up at him. For a long moment they simply stared at each other. Hermione’s eyes were dark and searching, her gaze dropping tentatively to his lips.

Harry’s lips quirked as he tilted his head and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against hers.

To be continued…