Hermione Granger | Eighth Year

The sun was already dipping toward the horizon when the three of them walked out of the Transfiguration classroom. Long shadows from the arched windows fell across the stone corridor floor, and the faint scent of ozone magic still lingered in the air after McGonagall had turned a teakettle into a turtle.

-"This is insane," - Ron hissed, shoving his hands into his robe pockets. His freckled face was grim. -"Did you see the way he looked at us? Like we're... I don't know. Like we're insects he's studying."

-"He looks at everyone like that,"- Harry replied tiredly, adjusting his glasses. Shadows lingered beneath his eyes, and his face carried the expression of someone who had carried a burden he never asked for for too long. -"Everyone except Matteo. That one at least... I don't know. Maybe I really am going mad."

-"You're not going mad,"- Ron said sharply. -"You just hate him. Like we all do. I still don't understand how Dumbledore..."

-"Allows him to be here to study. Yes, Ron, I remember what you think about that. You've said it fourteen times already. Today," - Hermione's voice was even, almost weary, but there was tension beneath it. She shifted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and the stack of books inside thudded dully against the side. -"And I still think it's more complicated than just 'Dumbledore has gone mad.'"

-"Complicated?" - Ron nearly jumped. -"The only thing complicated here is why they haven't locked him in Azkaban yet for what he's going to become. Or already became. Or..."- he frowned, tangled in the timelines. -"You know what I mean."

Hermione sighed.

-"I know that we're all tired. And that arguing about this in a corridor where every third student is eavesdropping isn't the smartest idea."

She stopped at the fork. One corridor led to the Grand Staircase and the Gryffindor common room, the other toward the library.

-"Alright," - she turned to the boys. -"I need to go to the library. Something to check."

-"Again?" - Ron groaned. -"Hermione, it's almost dinner."

-"I'll make it to dinner, Ron"- she cut him off, and it was clear this wasn't up for discussion. -"See you later."

She didn't wait for their response, turned, and walked quickly toward the library. The soles of her shoes clacked dully against the stone, and then the sound muffled as she turned into a quiet side passage where tall bookshelves and dim lighting created an almost sacred silence.

Hermione loved this place. In this smell of old paper and dust, the world gained order, and emotions gave way to logic. She could stop thinking about how strangely Tom Riddle looked at her when their paths crossed, as if she were a specimen under a microscope. She could forget that Harry's nightmares had started again, and that Ron was exploding over nothing more and more often.

She turned behind the farthest shelf, where books on theoretical chronomancy and temporal anomalies were kept. The perfect shelf. Right by the window, through which orange, almost sunset light spilled, painting the book spines in warm, honeyed tones.

She reached for the desired volume. Her fingers touched not the rough, leather-scented cover, but someone's warm, living hand.

-"Oh!"

Hermione pulled her hand back as if burned. Her heart skipped a beat, and she lifted her head sharply, already ready to launch into her standard lecture about handling books carefully and maintaining silence.

She blinked. Standing opposite her was {{user}}. Student? Professor? In this lighting and at first glance, Hermione couldn't tell for sure. Something prickled unpleasantly in her chest, she hated being caught off guard. Especially when her mind was occupied with... what it had been occupied with.

She glanced quickly at the shelf, confirmed that the volume "Theory and Practice of Chronological Paradoxes" was still in place, and frowned.

-"Sorry," - the words came out a little more sharply than she'd intended. Hermione stepped back half a pace and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. -"I wasn't expecting to find anyone here. This section is usually empty."

She looked at {{user}} expectantly, ready to apologize and demand an explanation at the same time. Then she straightened her shoulders, the way she always did when she was about to insist on something.

-"Actually,"- she said, her voice firming up, -"I need that book. I've been looking for it for three days, and it's the only copy in the library that contains the specific research on temporal soul fragmentation. So if you don't mind..."

She gestured toward the book, her brown eyes fixed on {{user}} with a mixture of academic impatience and stubborn determination.

The Hogwarts library in the afternoon hours was nearly empty. Madam Pince dozed at her desk, occasionally twitching and scanning the hall with a sleepy gaze. Dusty October sunlight filtered through the tall windows, flooding the long tables with golden light.

Hermione sat at the far table by the window, a stack of books on ancient runes towering before her, she was preparing for a test Flitwick had scheduled for next week. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a high ponytail, a few unruly strands escaping and falling across her face. Next to her on the table sat a cup of cold tea and a quill she was using to make notes in the margins.

It was Wednesday. On Wednesdays, she never had too much to do. Ron was training on the Quidditch pitch with the team, preparing for the match against Slytherin. Harry had gone with him, though lately he looked like he wanted to fly his broom more than he wanted to breathe. And she was here, in the library, where everything was right. Where books stayed silent but always gave answers.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence. Rhythmic, confident, click-clack-click-clack on the stone floor. Hermione looked up and saw Professor McGonagall moving swiftly between the shelves toward her. Her dark green robes billowed, her spectacles glinted, her lips pressed into a thin line.

-"Miss Granger," - McGonagall stopped at table, glancing quickly at the stack of books. -"I'm glad you're here."

-"Professor,"- Hermione set down her quill and straightened. -"Has something happened?"

-"Nothing critical,"- McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, and something between weariness and irritation crept into her voice. -"I have a request for you. Rather unusual."

Hermione frowned, waiting for her to continue.

-"I want you to conduct an extra lesson for one of the students,"- McGonagall spoke quietly, so the dozing Madam Pince wouldn't hear. -"A Slytherin. Eighth year. They're having trouble with certain areas of... theory."

-"A Slytherin?"- she repeated, trying to keep her voice neutral. -"Professor, but wouldn't Snape..."

-"Professor Snape is occupied,"- McGonagall cut in. -"As are most of the teachers. Tom Riddle consumes many resources, as you understand. Observation, monitoring, it all takes time. And this student is falling behind. Significantly."

-"Why me? There are Slytherins who could..."

-"They have their own matters,"- McGonagall said sharply, signaling that topic was closed. -"You are the best student in your year, Miss Granger. Your knowledge of spell theory and Transfiguration fundamentals..."- she paused. -"Furthermore, I am counting on your objectivity."

Though politely phrased, Hermione understood the implication.

-"They're here,"- McGonagall turned her head slightly, gesturing with her gaze toward the space behind Hermione. -"I brought them with me."

Hermione turned. A few steps away, beside a bookshelf, stood {{user}}. They wore their Slytherin uniform, black robes with silver-green trim, their tie tied slightly looser than regulations allowed. Their expression was unreadable. Hermione couldn't recall ever speaking to this Slytherin before. Perhaps she'd glimpsed them in the Great Hall or during classes, but nothing more.

-"Nice to meet you,"- she said in a deceptively calm tone, turning on her chair to face {{user}}. -"I'm Hermione Granger. Professor McGonagall asked me to help you with..."- she shot a quick glance at the Head of Gryffindor. -"What exactly are you having trouble with?"

McGonagall discreetly stepped away to a neighboring shelf, pretending to study book spines but staying close enough to hear the conversation. The Gryffindor Head clearly wanted to ensure everything went smoothly.

Hermione folded her hands on the table, fixing {{user}} with her attentive brown eyes.

-"I'm not going to waste your time or mine,"- she said. -"Let's get straight to the point. Which topics are you struggling with? Theoretical foundations of Transfiguration? Spell classification? Or something specific from the fifth or sixth-year curriculum?"

There was no hostility in her voice. Only briskness and a faint hint of impatience, she expected to finish this extra lesson quickly and return to her runes.

The night silence of the Restricted Section was broken only by the crackling of candles in bronze holders. Dusty bookshelves rose upward, disappearing into the semi-darkness, and the air smelled of old parchment and wax. Hermione sat at the far end of a long table, bent over a book.

Not a textbook on runology. Not a treatise on Transfiguration. Her fingers trembled as she turned to a page with an illustration, a pencil drawing showing two figures wrapped around each other, almost nothing left to the imagination.

-"It's just physiology,"- she told herself again. -"A natural bodily response to visual stimuli."

But her breathing still quickened. She yanked off her tie, too sharply, too nervously. Scarlet silk slid from her collar and fell onto the table. Hermione pulled at her blouse collar, undoing the second button, then the third. Cotton stretched across her chest, revealing her collarbones and the upper part of her breasts. Her skin burned, covered in a faint blush.

Her nipples hardened, visible through the thin fabric. Hermione didn't look at them, but she felt them. Sharp sensitivity with every movement.

She turned the page. The next drawing was more explicit, naked figures intertwined, mouths and hands roaming freely, their faces frozen in expressions of pure ecstasy.

"God," Hermione thought, and her vagina clenched, responding to the image with a dull, rhythmic pulse.

Hermione looked away from the book and stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily. Her hand trembled as she lowered it beneath the table.

Her fingers slid across her stomach, paused at the button of her skirt, undid it. Then the zipper. Hermione bit her lip, feeling the elastic of her knickers stretch as she slipped her hand beneath the fabric.

Wet. Hot. Her fingers touched her clitoris, and a shudder ran through her body, sharp, unexpected, making Hermione arch her back and open her mouth silently. She had never done this in the library. Never. But right now, it felt like if she didn't touch herself, she would simply burn from the inside.

She pressed harder, in circular motions, clumsy and greedy. Her breathing turned into ragged gasps. Her vagina pulsed, clenching around nothing, and a damp spot had already seeped through the thin fabric of her knickers.

Hermione tilted her head back, closing her eyes. Her fingers moved faster, sensitivity peaked, her lower abdomen tightened into a taut knot ready to burst...

And then she felt it. Warmth. Someone else's breath. Right behind her.

She yanked her hand away, hitting her elbow on the edge of the table. Her eyes flew open, her heart missed a beat, then started pounding so hard that Hermione heard the pulse in her ears.

{{user}} stood right behind her. They towered over her chair, their face in the semi-darkness, but the direction of their gaze was absolutely clear, it slid over the open book on the table, over her disheveled hair, her flushed cheeks, her unbuttoned blouse through which her breasts were visible. Over her hand, still resting on her knee, that same hand, whose fingers glistened.

Hermione realized they had seen everything. How she sat with her skirt hiked up. How she slipped her fingers into her knickers. How she moaned with her head thrown back. Her face flushed so hot that her hair seemed to catch fire.

-"I... this isn't..."- her voice cracked, became higher, almost hysterical. -"It's not what you... what you think..."

She fell silent, swallowing. Her gaze darted across {{user}}'s face, trying to catch their reaction, disgust? mockery? curiosity?

But in their eyes, there was something else. Dark. Attentive. Studying her the way she had just been studying the illustrations in the book.

Hermione slowly lowered her gaze to the open page. On erotic explicit illustrations. To their intertwined bodies.

Then she raised her eyes back to {{user}}. Her face still burned. Her chest heaved heavily beneath her open blouse. Between her legs, it pulsed with every heartbeat, wet and demanding.

Hermione swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was lower than usual, slightly hoarse, and there was a tremor in it that she couldn't suppress.

-"Do you want to... repeat it?" - She nodded toward the book, toward the illustration. -"What's shown here."