Chapter Text
Hermione sits in the library, occupying a large table in the corner for sufficient space to sprawl out her books. Her eyes conduct their periodic check of the floating clock in the centre of the room—10:02 p.m. She has about a quarter of her Charms essay still to write; thankfully, as a seventh year, she isn’t subjected to the same curfew as most of her fellow students, and she reckons she’ll be able to finish it tonight and hand it in to Professor Flitwick by tomorrow’s morning lesson.
She rubs at her eyes furiously, willing herself to persevere, but she can hardly focus on the frustratingly small print written in the heavy tome in front of her. She glances at her wand, discarded to the far end of the table—she hadn’t needed it for her essay’s subject material—and briefly considers casting an alertness charm on herself; this thought is quickly discarded, however, as Hermione has never considered herself to be someone who needed to rely on convenience to succeed. She would write her essay earnestly, or she wouldn’t write it at all.
So, she steels herself and sweeps her hair, which had sneaked its way back in front of her face, behind her shoulders, and picks up her quill.
She writes continuously for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of the clock and her quill scratching against parchment, and the next time she looks up, it’s 10:22. Her hand is starting to ache, but she feels content; one of the reasons she likes to study at night is the peace and quiet. She operates better by herself, which is why she likes to remain alone, with no distractions to deter her—
“Blimey, the restricted section?”
The low voice that suddenly sounds across from her is thunderous amid the silence, and she jolts out of her thoughts. She looks up to see Ron Weasley leaning against a bookshelf at the foot of the table. He’s smirking at her, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and his presence immediately stiffens her.
Hermione has always been outward in her suffering disdain for the boy standing before her. He was exactly the sort of Slytherin prat she could never be civil with; they had known each other since the very first day of her first year at Hogwarts, when he had introduced himself to her by stealing her carefully prepared Transfiguration notes, unbeknownst to her, and passing them off as his own. His house had gained ten points for her own work, and she had gained a year of merciless teasing after she had fled the room in tears, requiring three different professors to coax her out of her inconsolability.
To make matters worse, after she had publicly demanded her notes back, he had fished them out of his bag and then torn them to pieces in front of her.
Even without this senseless bullying, which had continued well into fifth year before slowly curdling into cocky, playground flirtation after she had finally begun to fill out in sixth year, he’s still everything she dislikes: crude, undeservedly confident, and downright rude.
So, yes. The mere sight of Ron Weasley, with his fiery red hair and equally infuriating disposition, makes her skin prickle with irritation.
Her face settles into a scowl, and when she doesn’t reply, he chuckles and saunters over to the seat directly across from her.
“Didn’t take you for a rule-breaker, Granger.” He plops himself down without invitation, stretching his legs out to bump against her feet. She yanks her legs back to tuck beneath her, glaring at him as she sets her quill down next to her.
“Unlike you,” she spits, eyes narrowed in indignation, “My benefits as Head Girl include access to the restricted section without punishment.”
It’s partly the truth—part of her duties as Head Girl is patrolling the off-limits sections of the castle for trespassing students, including the restricted section of the library. Technically, she doesn’t have explicit permission to make use of the restricted section herself; still, she only uses it to study, and she’s been caught several times by Madam Pince without reprimand, so she feels she’s allowed.
He rolls his eyes in response, grabbing her drying parchment and flicking through the pages. “Must be exhausting, all those benefits,” he says, idly scanning her handwriting.
Hermione watches his thumb drag a faint smear of ink across a fresh line and snatches the parchment from his hand. He grins at her, stretching back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. She tries not to stare at the way his arms flex with the effort.
Hermione isn’t blind. She’s well aware that Ron is insufferably attractive, and, ever worse, he knows just as well. As Slytherin’s resident Quidditch captain, he’s meticulous about his physicality; last year, with the support of most of the school’s athletes behind him, he’d successfully campaigned Headmaster Dumbledore to install an amateur gym in one of the ground floor’s many abandoned classrooms. Permanent implementation of physical education into the school curriculum had somehow closely followed, and now, under his relentlessness, Madam Hooch had inserted multiple year-round friendlies into the Quidditch rotation. If she didn’t loathe him (and all things physical), she’d admire his adeptness.
She’s trying so hard not to look at him, knows he’s trying to taunt her, but his shirt has ridden up to reveal a thin line of red hair creeping down from his navel and into his trousers, and she can’t stop herself from imagining where it ends. His stomach is covered in freckles, she can see as much, but she wonders if the trend continues into his… endowment.
At the thought of this, her face flushes as a hot jolt of electricity runs straight through her, pooling in between her thighs. He’s grinning at her impishly, but she ignores him and goes back to scribbling, trying desperately hard not to squirm in her seat.
“Quit staring at me, will you? You’re making me feel harassed.” He says breezily, and the lightness in his voice makes her bristle.
“You’re breaking dress code,” she mutters in return. “School shirts are supposed to be tucked in at all times.”
She sees him standing in her peripheral vision, and she lets out a breath in relief. He’s had his fun, at her usual expense, and would at last leave her alone.
This relief lasts all of five seconds; his looming silhouette passes briefly over her parchment before he slides into the seat beside her instead. His body heat radiates steadily from him at this closeness. Hermione hates how feverish it makes her feel.
She, quite unsubtly, shifts her seat away from him, dragging her parchment closer in an effort to create more distance. It doesn’t work.
Ron leans even closer, his voice low and velveted against her skin.
“You know,” he begins, his lips inches away from her ear, “you’re fitter when you’re all flustered like this.”
Hermione outwardly seethes at this, even as another surge of heat settles in her gut and pours outward from beneath her.
“I’m not flustered.” She tries to bite back, but it comes out far more meekly than she’d intended.
He laughs in her face and slowly brings up a finger to drag a path downward from the column of her neck to the edge of her shirt, where her skin disappears beneath the fabric. She’d undone her top two buttons that afternoon amid the unusual autumn heat, and was now thoroughly regretting that action.
She’s frustratingly aware of the red tinge on her skin. She’s trying not to look at him, eyes set on her parchment, but she can just feel his smug expression, the stupid tosser.
He rubs the collar of her shirt between his fingers. “You look hot. Wouldn’t you rather have this off?”
“No.” She grips onto what she thinks is her quill in her fist; when she meets nothing but her own skin, she looks up and sees him twirling it in his other hand. She hadn’t even realised he’d taken it.
She glares at him icily, but he only smiles in return.
“Give it back,” she says sharply, inwardly pleased at the hiss in her tone, “and stop touching my uniform.”
“Is that an order?” he asks, amused.
“Yes.”
He tuts and removes his hand from her shirt, only to delve lower and splay his fingers just above her knee, where the hem of her skirt lies. She grips his wrist and tries to tear his hand away, but his grip tightens, preventing her from moving.
With his other hand, he takes the quill and starts to brush the feather lightly against her thigh. When he speaks again, all of the previous playfulness is gone, replaced with a heavy lowness.
“Always so bossy,” he murmurs, dragging the quill upward, “sounds like you need to let off some of that steam, Granger.”
The feather grazes dangerously against the lace of her underwear, and she attempts to squeeze her thighs together, desperate for any modicum of agency, but he uses the back of his hand to nudge them back apart; his other hand is gripping her knee so hard she thinks she might bruise. She’s hopelessly soaked now, much to her chagrin, and there’s nothing she can do to stop her hips rising just a fraction against his persistence.
He’s smirking at her now, and his eyes are slightly dilated. He knows it, the bastard.
Suddenly, abruptly, he uses his fingers to press the barbs of the feather against the fabric of her underwear, hard enough for the moisture pooling there to transfer. The pleasure jolts from her core all the way to her toes, and she inhales sharply.
Then she glowers at him, and he chuckles in satisfaction before removing the feather and both hands from her legs. Her thighs feel colder than before.
He lifts the now-soaked feather to her lips, and for a second she thinks he’s going to make her eat it. She’s not sure how much she has in her to refuse; with this proximity, she can smell herself on it.
Thankfully, though, he doesn’t, instead removing the quill from her face and pinching the feather between his thumb and index fingers. He takes his fingers and smears them against a blank area of her parchment, leaving a dark, glistening trail of her all over the vellum. Then, he tosses the quill back to her with a little flourish and stands unceremoniously.
“There,” he says, staring resolutely at her, “now there’s a bit of both of us in there.”
Then, with a small, mocking wave, he turns and strolls away.
She sits there for a long while, thighs sticky and skin still tingling in his wake. The humiliation is a living thing, crawling up her chest and into her ears. Finally, as the clock hits 10:45, she stuffs the essay into her bag, grabs her wand to return her books to their rightful places, and hurries back to her dormitory.