The Great Hall bustled with typical Saturday morning chaos, students scattered across the long tables in various states of weekend relaxation. Hermione had claimed her usual spot at the Gryffindor table, the Daily Prophet spread before her though she'd read the same paragraph about cauldron bottom thickness regulations four times without absorbing a single word. Her mind kept drifting to the vivid dream from the night before, phantom sensations of platinum hair between her fingers making her shift uncomfortably on the bench.
"Morning, Hermione!" Luna's ethereal voice came beside her, the Ravenclaw sliding onto the bench. "You look particularly flushed. The wrackspurts around your head are doing the most fascinating mating dance."
Heat crawled up Hermione's neck. "I'm fine, Luna. Just tired from studying late."
"Mmm." Luna helped herself to toast, spreading marmalade. "I was wondering if you'd finished that Arithmancy essay yet. The one on probability calculations in defensive spell work? I thought we might compare notes later. In private." Her protuberant eyes held knowing amusement. "The Room of Requirement has excellent soundproofing for when calculations become... vigorous."
Merlin's hairy balls, could she be less subtle?
"I haven't quite finished," Hermione managed, spotting Ron approaching with Harry. "But we could work on it after lunch."
"Wonderful. I'll bring my special quills." Luna smiled serenely. "The ones that never run out of ink, no matter how much friction they endure."
She glided away just as the boys reached the table, Ron already reaching for the bacon while Harry looked distracted.
"Mental, that one," Ron said through a mouthful of food. "What'd she want?"
"Study help," Hermione replied, following Harry's gaze to the Slytherin table where Daphne Greengrass sat with Tracey Davis, both girls engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation. "Harry? Everything alright?"
Harry startled slightly. "What? Yeah, fine. Just thinking about the interview today."
"Right," Ron said darkly. "Still think this is a terrible idea. Slytherins in the DA? What's next, inviting Voldemort for tea?"
"Ron—" Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.
"We've discussed this. Times are changing. We need allies wherever we can find them." His eyes drifted back to the Slytherin table.
Ginny appeared behind Harry, her expression sharp as she noticed the direction of his attention. "Admiring the snakes, Harry?"
"Just observing," Harry said quickly. "Making sure they're not plotting anything."
"Right," Ginny said, her tone suggesting she didn't believe him for a second. "Because Greengrass looks really threatening, sitting there eating breakfast like a normal person."
Oh, this is interesting, Hermione thought.
"Where's Neville?" she asked, attempting to defuse the sudden tension. "We need to finalize security protocols before the interview."
"Greenhouse Three," Ron supplied. "Something about combat plants for the DA. He's gotten properly obsessed with defensive botanicals."
"That's actually brilliant," Hermione said with a bright smile. "Plants could provide excellent perimeter defense."
"Speaking of the interview," Harry said, clearly eager to change subjects, "Daphne mentioned she might bring someone. Another Slytherin who's interested."
"Absolutely not," Ron said immediately. "Bad enough we're considering one snake, now you want to let them bring friends?"
"If they're willing to take Veritaserum and submit to the same security measures, I don't see the problem," Harry argued, and Hermione was glad someone else agreed with her. At least Harry still had his wits.
Ginny's eyes narrowed further. "You seem awfully eager to accommodate Greengrass's requests."
"I'm eager to build a effective resistance," Harry said firmly. "Nothing more."
"I should go talk to Neville about these plants," Hermione said, rising from the table. "If we're using them for defense, we'll need permission from the Herbology professor."
"Good luck with that," Ron snorted. "Professor Garlick seems nice enough, but she's still a teacher. Doubt she'll hand over dangerous plants to students."
Hermione thought of Professor Garlick—young, beautiful, with curves that her teaching robes couldn't quite hide and auburn hair that caught the light like spun fire. Her mouth went dry at the prospect of a private conversation.
"I can be persuasive," she said, hoping her voice sounded normal.
"Take someone with you," Harry suggested. "Might look more official if it's not just one student asking."
"I'll manage," Hermione said quickly. The last thing she needed was a witness to whatever inappropriate reactions her body might have to the gorgeous professor.
She found Neville in Greenhouse Three, surrounded by an alarming array of potted plants that seemed to be straining against their containers. He looked up as she entered, dirt smudged across his nose and genuine enthusiasm lighting his features.
"Hermione! Perfect timing. Look at these beauties." He gestured to a collection of writhing vines. "Devil's Snare variants, but bred for quick deployment. And these—" he indicated bulbous plants with what appeared to be teeth, "—modified Fanged Geraniums. They can distinguish between friendly and hostile magical signatures."
"Neville, this is incredible," Hermione said, genuinely impressed. "How did you even get access to these?"
"Professor Garlick's been letting me use the advanced greenhouse," Neville explained, looking slightly embarrassed. "She says I have a 'natural affinity for defensive flora.' But here's the thing—we'd need her permission to use any of these for the DA."
"I can talk to her," Hermione offered, perhaps too quickly.
Neville looked relieved. "Would you? I mean, she's nice and all, but she's also... well..." He flushed red. "She's really pretty and I get all tongue-tied. Last time I tried to ask about borrowing supplies, I accidentally called her Professor Gorgeous instead of Professor Garlick."
Oh Neville, Hermione thought with sympathy. Join the club.
"I'll handle it," she assured him. "What specifically do we need?"
"AngryRoots would be the most useful," Neville said, showing her a plant with thick, rope-like roots that writhed continuously. "They're non-lethal but incredibly effective at immobilizing targets. They respond to simple commands once properly activated."
"Anything else?"
"Shielding Moss would be helpful too—it absorbs minor hexes and can be cultivated quickly. But mainly the AngryRoots. A dozen plants could secure an entire room."
Hermione made notes, trying to focus on the practical applications rather than imagining Professor Garlick's reaction to the request. "I'll go now, while she's likely in her office."
"Thanks, Hermione. You're brilliant." Neville beamed at her. "Oh, and maybe mention that I've been taking good care of the restricted specimens? Might help our case."
The walk to Professor Garlick's office gave Hermione time to practice her arguments. She needed to present this as an academic exercise, perhaps tied to their official Defense curriculum. Definitely not as supplying an illegal student resistance group with combat materials.
She paused outside the door, smoothing her robes and attempting to calm her racing pulse. Through the frosted glass, she could see movement—a shadow pacing back and forth.
Professional. Academic. Do not stare at her breasts.
She knocked firmly.
"Come in!"
Hermione entered to find Professor Garlick standing by the window, gazing out at the grounds with a contemplative expression. Afternoon sunlight caught her auburn hair, setting it ablaze with copper highlights. She wore fitted brown trousers that hugged her curves and a cream-colored blouse that, despite being professionally appropriate, couldn't hide her generous figure.
"Miss Granger," Garlick turned with a warm smile that made Hermione's stomach flutter. "What a pleasant surprise. How can I help you?"
"Professor," Hermione began, proud that her voice remained steady. "I wanted to discuss the possibility of borrowing some plants for an... advanced study project."
"Oh?" Garlick moved to her desk, gesturing for Hermione to sit. "What kind of project?"
"Defense applications of botanical specimens," Hermione managed as she sat down. "Neville Longbottom and I have been researching how plants could supplement traditional shield charms."
"Neville mentioned something similar," Garlick said, her expression thoughtful. "He's been quite dedicated in his greenhouse work. Almost obsessively so, actually." Her hazel eyes studied Hermione. "Tell me, Miss Granger—and please, be honest—is this related to the rumors I've been hearing?"
Hermione's heart skipped. "Rumors, Professor?"
"About students feeling the need to supplement their Defense education," Garlick said carefully. "Given the current... political climate."
Hermione made a quick decision to gamble on partial honesty.
"The current Defense curriculum is thorough in theory," she said diplomatically. "But some of us feel practical application could be more comprehensive."
"Diplomatically stated," Garlick smiled, and was it Hermione's imagination or did she look pleased? "You know, Miss Granger, one of the hardest parts of being a new professor is figuring out where the lines are. What's my responsibility to the curriculum versus my responsibility to ensure my students are prepared for the world they're actually facing?"
"That must be challenging," Hermione said, genuinely sympathetic. "Especially starting during such turbulent times."
"You have no idea," Garlick sighed, running a hand through her hair in a gesture that was both weary and oddly endearing. "I'm a young Professor. Some of my 'colleagues' have robes older than I am. They look at me and see someone playing at being a professor."
"I don't think you're playing at anything," Hermione said, then flushed at how earnest she sounded. "I mean, your credentials speak for themselves. The Whomping Willow hasn't been this healthy in decades, and you've only been here two months."
Garlick's eyes warmed. "You've noticed the Willow's improvement?"
"I notice a lot of things," Hermione said, then immediately worried that sounded suggestive. "About plants. And their care. Your innovative approach to soil enhancement is particularly impressive."
Stop talking about soil, you disaster.
"You're very observant," Garlick said, and there was something in her tone that made Hermione's pulse quicken. "Now, about these plants you need. I assume AngryRoots are on your list?"
"How did you—"
"Neville's been tending them with suspicious dedication," Garlick explained with a knowing smile. "And they happen to be excellent for perimeter defense while being non-lethal. Quite practical for students concerned about safety."
"Yes, exactly," Hermione agreed eagerly. "We were thinking a dozen plants, properly maintained and activated only for... study purposes."
"Study purposes," Garlick repeated, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Of course." She stood, moving to a cabinet where she kept various supplies. The action caused her blouse to pull slightly, revealing the curve of her waist, and Hermione found herself imagining what it would be like to span that waist with her hands, to press the professor against the desk and—
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione snapped back to attention, mortified to find Garlick watching her with a curious expression. "Sorry, Professor. Lost in thought."
"About defensive applications of plants, I'm sure," Garlick said dryly. She pulled out a special permission form. "I'm willing to authorize the loan of twelve AngryRoots and a selection of Shielding Moss. On several conditions."
"Of course," Hermione said quickly.
"First, Neville remains their primary caretaker. His connection with them is remarkable." Garlick began filling out the form, her handwriting surprisingly messy for someone so put-together. "Second, they're to be used only for defensive purposes. No offensive applications."
"Agreed."
"And third," Garlick looked up, meeting Hermione's eyes directly. "You report back to me on their effectiveness. I'm genuinely curious about practical applications of defensive botanicals, and your... study group... could provide valuable data."
The way she said 'study group' made it clear she knew exactly what they were planning. But instead of disapproval, there was something almost conspiratorial in her expression.
"We'd be happy to share our findings," Hermione said carefully.
"Excellent." Garlick signed the form with a flourish. "You know, Miss Granger, being young in a position of authority isn't easy. People assume you lack judgment or experience. They test boundaries constantly."
"That sounds frustrating," Hermione offered, wondering where this was going.
"It is," Garlick agreed, moving around the desk to hand Hermione the form. This close, her perfume was intoxicating. "But it also means I understand what it's like to be underestimated. To have to prove yourself through actions rather than credentials."
Their fingers brushed as Hermione accepted the parchment, and the contact sent electricity through her entire body. Garlick's hands were soft despite the dirt under her nails, and Hermione couldn't help imagining those fingers around her cock, and her lips around her-
"Thank you, Professor," she said, her voice embarrassingly husky.
"Mirabel," Garlick corrected softly. "When we're discussing... extracurricular projects... you can call me Mirabel."
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.
"That's... very generous," Hermione managed. "Mirabel."
The name felt dangerous on her tongue, too intimate, too much like something she might gasp out in a very different context. She needed to leave before she did something catastrophically stupid.
"I should go," she said, backing toward the door. "The others will be waiting."
"Of course." Mirabel—Professor Garlick, Hermione corrected mentally—smiled warmly. "Do let me know how your defensive studies progress. I find myself quite invested in my students' success this year. All aspects of it."
"We will," Hermione promised. "And Professor? Thank you. For understanding."
"We look after our own, Miss Granger," Mirabel said simply. "Even if we have to be subtle about it."
Hermione left the office on unsteady legs, permission form clutched in trembling fingers. The conversation had been professional, helpful even. So why did she feel like she'd just engaged in some elaborate form of foreplay?
Because you're a horny disaster who can't have a normal conversation with an attractive woman, she told herself firmly. First Narcissa, now this. Get your shit together.
But as she walked back toward the castle, she couldn't stop replaying the way Mirabel had said her name, the brush of their fingers, the implied support for what was essentially illegal activity. Professor Garlick—Mirabel—was more complex than her youth and beauty suggested.
And you're more fucked than you thought possible, her mind supplied helpfully.
The Room of Requirement had configured itself as a formal but comfortable meeting space when Hermione arrived—neutral territory that wouldn't favor any particular house. Harry sat in one of the chairs, attempting to look casual while Luna hummed nearby and the tension in his shoulders betrayed his nerves.
"Got the permission," Hermione announced, waving the form. "Professor Garlick was surprisingly accommodating."
"Brilliant," Harry said, though he seemed distracted. "They should be here soon."
"Who else is Daphne bringing here?"
"She's bringing Tracey Davis," Harry explained. "Apparently they're close friends, and Tracey's in a similar position—pureblood family with Death Eater connections she wants to avoid."
"You seem to know a lot about Daphne's friendships," Hermione observed carefully.
Harry's ears reddened. "We've talked. A few times. About the situation."
"Talked," Luna repeated dreamily. "Yes, the blibbering humdingers around you suggest lots of talking. Very verbal activities. Much communication."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked defensively.
Before Luna could elaborate, the door opened. Daphne Greengrass entered with her ice look, today wearing a black dress that managed to be both conservative and flattering. Behind her was Tracey Davis—shorter, curvier, with dark hair and watchful brown eyes that took in everything.
"Potter. Granger. Lovegood," Daphne greeted formally. "Thank you for agreeing to this."
"Standard procedures apply," Hermione said, indicating the Veritaserum on the table. "Both of you, if Miss Davis wishes to participate."
"I understand," Tracey spoke for the first time, her voice lower than expected. "Daphne explained the requirements. I'm prepared."
"Please, sit," Harry gestured to the chairs.
They began with Daphne, running through the standard questions Hermione had prepared. Name, blood status, family connections, intentions toward the DA. Under Veritaserum's influence, Daphne's answers were crisp and revealing—a girl caught between family obligation and personal conviction, desperate to protect her younger sister from becoming a Death Eater's bride.
"Have you had any contact with Harry Potter outside of classes?" Hermione asked on impulse, watching both Harry and Daphne tense.
"Yes," Daphne answered, unable to lie. "We've met several times to discuss... various matters."
"What kind of matters?"
"That's sufficient," Harry interjected quickly. "We should move on to Tracey."
Tracey's interview proved equally illuminating. Her mother had been married three times, each husband dying under mysterious circumstances, leaving the family wealthy but politically vulnerable. The Dark Lord had shown interest in recruiting Tracey's younger brother, only eleven and already showing signs of powerful magic.
"I won't let them have Marcus," Tracey said fiercely, even under Veritaserum's influence. "He still believes in fairy tales and happy endings. They'll destroy that, turn him into another mindless follower or corpse."
"The patterns around her are protective," Luna observed. "Like a mother bear, but for her brother. It's quite beautiful, really."
After both girls had been questioned thoroughly, the Veritaserum began wearing off. Hermione poured water for both of them, noting how Daphne's hand shook slightly as she drank.
"Unpleasant experience," Daphne said once she'd recovered. "Though I understand the necessity."
"So?" Tracey asked bluntly. "Did we pass your test?"
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. Nothing in either interview had raised red flags, and their motivations—protecting younger siblings—felt genuine and relatable.
"Probationary membership," Harry decided. "Same terms as discussed. Limited information initially, more access as trust is built."
"Fair," Daphne agreed. She accepted the enchanted galleon Hermione offered, examining the modified Proteus Charm with apparent appreciation. "Elegant spellwork."
"Thank you," Hermione said, pleased despite at the compliment from a pureblood.
"One more thing," Tracey said, leaning forward. "You should know that Theodore Nott is getting desperate. His aunt's funeral is Tuesday, and he's terrified of going home."
"We could hide him," Harry offered immediately.
"Where?" Daphne asked practically. "The castle isn't safe—too many eyes, too many loyalties. His absence would be noticed immediately."
"What if he went but had protection?" Hermione suggested. "Emergency portkey, tracking charms, check-in requirements?"
"That might work," Tracey mused. "If he thought escape was possible, he might risk attending."
"I'll approach him," Daphne decided. "Carefully. He trusts me more than most."
As they prepared to leave, Hermione noticed Daphne pause near Harry's chair. "Thank you," she said quietly, just to him. "For giving us a chance."
"Everyone deserves choices," Harry replied, and the look they shared was loaded with meaning that had nothing to do with the DA.
After the Slytherins left, Luna turned to Harry with her most piercing stare. "You like her."
"What? No, I—"
"The nargles around you turn pink when she's near," Luna continued conversationally. "It's very pretty, actually. Like sunset clouds."
Harry's face flushed. "It's complicated."
"Most worthwhile things are," Hermione offered, thinking of her own complicated attractions. "Just... be careful, Harry. The politics alone—"
"I know," he said quietly. "Trust me, I know exactly how impossible it is."
"Impossible things happen around you regularly," Luna pointed out. "Why should romance be different?"
Because romance during wartime is a special kind of torture, Hermione thought but didn't say.
"I should go," she said instead. "Tell Neville the good news about the plants."
"Hermione," Harry called as she reached the door. "Thanks. For being open-minded about this. About them."
"We adapt or we die," she replied simply. "And I prefer adaptation."
Walking through the castle corridors, Hermione reflected on the morning's revelations. Harry and Daphne. Slytherins in the DA. Professor Garlick—Mirabel—offering subtle support. The world was shifting in unexpected ways.
Her enchanted coin warmed against her palm—Luna's reminder about their afternoon "study session." Another complication in an increasingly complex life.
At least it's not boring, she thought wryly. Terrifying, inappropriate, and likely to end badly, but definitely not boring.
The lunch hour passed in a blur of congratulating Neville on the plant procurement, dodging Ron's continued objections to Slytherin inclusion, and trying not to think about what Luna had planned. Hermione picked at her shepherd's pie, her appetite suppressed by equal parts nervousness and anticipation.
"You alright?" Ginny asked, sliding onto the bench beside her. "You seem distracted."
"Just thinking about everything we need to prepare," Hermione deflected. "Training schedules, security protocols, plant care instructions—"
"Right," Ginny interrupted, her tone suggesting she wasn't buying it. "Nothing to do with how you practically floated back from Garlick's office earlier?"
Shit.
"She was very helpful with our academic project," Hermione said stiffly.
"I bet she was," Ginny smirked. "Did you know you had a leaf in your hair? Very romantic, rolling around in the greenhouses."
"We were discussing defensive botanicals!" Hermione protested, her face burning.
"Defensive positions, more like," Ginny muttered, then louder: "Relax, Hermione. I'm just winding you up. Though Garlick is fit, can't blame you for noticing."
"I notice everyone," Hermione said weakly. "It's called being observant."
"Some more than others, apparently," Ginny grinned. "Speaking of noticing things, have you seen how Harry keeps staring at the Slytherin table? It's getting pathetic."
Hermione glanced over to where Harry was indeed stealing glances at Daphne Greengrass, who seemed to be pointedly not looking back while her cheeks held a faint pink tinge.
"When did that even start?" Hermione asked, grateful to shift focus from her own inappropriate attractions.
"No idea," Ginny admitted, though her casual tone didn't match the tightness around her eyes. "But he's been weird since term started. Secretive. And now suddenly he's defending Slytherins?" She stabbed her potatoes with unnecessary force. "Something's going on."
"Maybe he's just growing up," Hermione suggested carefully. "Seeing beyond house prejudices."
"Or maybe he's thinking with his—"
"Miss Granger?"
Both girls startled. Luna stood behind them, having appeared with her characteristic silence.
"Ready for our study session?" Luna asked serenely. "I've prepared everything we need."
Hermione's mouth went dry. "Now?"
"Unless you'd prefer to continue discussing Harry's romantic inclinations," Luna said. "Though I think practical application of arithmantic theory would be more productive."
"Right. Yes. Studying." Hermione stood quickly, nearly knocking over her pumpkin juice. "I'll see you later, Ginny."
"Have fun with your 'calculations,'" Ginny called after them, suggestion heavy in her voice.
The Room of Requirement door appeared after their third pass, opening to reveal not their usual training space but something more intimate—a study with bookshelves, a desk, comfortable chairs, and in the corner, partially concealed by a decorative screen, what was definitely a bed.
"Subtle," Hermione commented.
"I thought we might actually work on Arithmancy first," Luna said, surprising her. "I wasn't lying about the probability calculations. They're quite fascinating when applied to interpersonal dynamics."
She moved to the desk where parchments covered in complex equations were already spread out. Despite the situation, Hermione found herself genuinely intrigued.
"These variables," she said, studying Luna's work. "You're calculating attraction probability?"
"Among other things," Luna confirmed, picking up a quill. "See here? This equation accounts for initial physical attraction, modified by emotional connection, divided by external obstacles."
"But you can't quantify emotion," Hermione protested, even as she recognized the elegant mathematics.
"Can't you?" Luna asked. "Everything has patterns, Hermione. Even feelings. Especially feelings."
They spent the next thirty minutes actually working on the equations, Luna's unconventional approach yielding surprisingly insightful results. It was almost enough to make Hermione forget why they were really there.
Almost.
"According to this," Luna said eventually, pointing to a final calculation, "the probability of acting on attraction increases exponentially when external pressures reach a certain threshold."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning war makes people do things they might otherwise resist," Luna said simply. "Like you and that beautiful professor with the rather magnificent breasts."
Hermione choked. "Luna!"
"What? They are magnificent. I'm sure you noticed during your very academic discussion." Luna set down her quill, fixing Hermione with that penetrating stare. "You're attracted to her."
"She's a professor—"
"Yes, and? You're attracted to someone even more inappropriate, so that's hardly the barrier you're pretending it is."
Hermione felt her face burn. "I don't know what you mean."
"Silver-blonde hair. Aristocratic features. Married to a Death Eater." Luna tilted her head. "The wrackspurts give you away every time."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"How do you—"
"I notice things," Luna said simply. "Like how you tense whenever someone mentions the Malfoys. How you stare at nothing with that particular expression. I was curious after our last time together, so I paid attention." Luna stood, moving closer. "You called me Narcissa when you came."
Hermione wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "Luna, I'm so sorry—"
"Why? I told you, we're not girlfriends. We're friends who help each other." Luna's hand touched her cheek gently. "And right now, you need help. You're wound so tight you might snap."
"This is more complicated than just physical need," Hermione admitted quietly.
"I know," Luna said. "But physical need is part of it. And that, at least, I can help with."
She leaned up, pressing her lips to Hermione's in a kiss that was gentle and understanding and exactly what Hermione needed. When Luna pulled back, her eyes were knowing but kind.
"Let me take care of you," she whispered. "Stop thinking so hard and just feel."
"I don't want to use you," Hermione said desperately.
"You're not," Luna assured her. "I want this too. I enjoy what we do together. Can that be enough for now?"
Looking into those honest eyes, Hermione felt her resistance crumble. "Yes."
Luna smiled, taking her hand and leading her toward the bed. "Good. Now, tell me what you need. And don't hold back—I can handle whatever fantasies that brilliant mind has conjured."
"You might regret saying that," Hermione warned, already hardening at the possibilities.
"I never regret anything," Luna said serenely, beginning to unbutton her robes. "Regret is just another word for unlived experience."
Only Luna could make that sound profound rather than like a greeting card, Hermione thought, watching pale skin reveal itself inch by inch.
"Wait," she said suddenly. "Can I... can I be in charge this time? Completely?"
Luna paused, studying her. "You need control."
It wasn't a question, but Hermione nodded anyway. "I feel like everything's spiraling. I need... I need to direct something. To choose something."
"Then choose," Luna said simply, resuming her disrobing. "I trust you."
Those three words hit harder than any declaration of love might have. Trust, freely given, without conditions or expectations.
"On the bed," Hermione commanded, her voice dropping to a register that made Luna shiver. "And keep your hands above your head unless I say otherwise."
Luna obeyed immediately, arranging herself on the sheets with natural grace. She looked up at Hermione with those large eyes, waiting, trusting, wanting.
"Perfect," Hermione breathed, her cock now fully hard and straining against her uniform. "You're perfect like this."
She took her time undressing, watching Luna watch her, seeing the other girl's breathing quicken as more skin was revealed. When she finally freed her erection, Luna made a small, needy sound.
"Patience," Hermione commanded, climbing onto the bed but not touching yet. "Tell me what you've been thinking about. In detail."
"Your cock," Luna said immediately, shameless as always. "How it feels inside me. How you grab my hair when you're close. The sounds you make when you come."
"What else?"
"I think about you fucking me in the library," Luna continued dreamily. "Bent over a table in the Restricted Section, trying to stay quiet while you pound into me."
Fuck, that's hot.
"What about my fantasies?" Hermione asked, trailing one finger down Luna's sternum, barely touching. "You said you could handle them."
"Tell me," Luna breathed. "I want to know what you imagine."
Hermione hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I think about someone watching. Someone who shouldn't be there, who can't look away."
"Who?"
"You know who."
Luna's eyes went dark with understanding. "You want her to see. To know what she's missing."
"Yes," Hermione admitted, her cock twitching at the thought. "I want her desperate. Jealous. Aching to be in your place."
"Then pretend," Luna suggested. "I'll be quiet. You can imagine she's hiding behind that screen, watching everything."
The permission to fantasize, to incorporate her obsession into their encounter, was almost overwhelming. Hermione leaned down, capturing Luna's mouth in a fierce kiss.
"You're incredible," she murmured against soft lips.
"I aim to please," Luna gasped as Hermione's mouth moved to her neck. "And be pleased. Particularly that second part."
Hermione laughed despite everything, the sound muffled against Luna's skin. Even in moments like this, Luna remained uniquely herself.
She took her time exploring, mapping pale skin with lips and tongue and teeth, discovering which touches made Luna gasp and which made her moan. All the while, she let her fantasy unspool—imagining blue eyes watching from the shadows, aristocratic features twisted with want and envy.
When she finally positioned herself between Luna's spread thighs, both of them were trembling with need.
"Please," Luna whispered. "I've been empty all week."
Hermione slid inside in one smooth motion, both of them groaning at the sensation. Luna was perfect—wet and tight and eager, her body accepting Hermione like they were made to fit together.
"Yes," Luna breathed. "Oh, yes. Move, please move."
Hermione set a steady rhythm, deep and purposeful, watching Luna's face contort with pleasure. In her mind, she heard another voice—cultured, desperate, begging.
"Please, Miss Granger. I need it. I need you."
She fucked harder, chasing the fantasy, feeling Luna's legs wrap around her waist to pull her deeper. The bed creaked with their movements, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
"You take me so well," Hermione growled, surprising herself with the possessive tone. "Such a good girl, spreading your legs for my cock."
"Yes," Luna agreed breathlessly. "Your good girl. Only yours."
She shifted angles, finding that spot that made Luna cry out, and focused there relentlessly. One hand tangled in blonde hair—not quite the right shade but close enough—while the other gripped a pale hip hard enough to bruise.
"Getting close," Luna warned, her controlled facade cracking. "Oh fuck, Hermione, right there!"
"Come for me," Hermione commanded.
She obeyed spectacularly. Her back arched, inner walls clenching rhythmically as she came with a sharp cry that echoed off the walls.
The sensation triggered Hermione's own orgasm, pleasure crashing through her as she buried herself deep and came hard, filling Luna with pulse after pulse of release.
They collapsed together, breathing heavily, bodies still joined. Luna's fingers traced lazy patterns on Hermione's back—equations, she realized belatedly. Even post-orgasm, Luna's mind worked in mysterious ways.
"Better?" Luna asked eventually.
"Much," Hermione admitted, carefully withdrawing and summoning her wand for cleaning charms. "Thank you. For understanding. For not judging."
"Judgment is just fear wearing fancy robes," Luna said philosophically. "Besides, your fantasy was quite tame. You should hear what the Ravenclaws discuss in our dormitory."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not. Though Padma's thoughts about Professor Vector would make your attraction to Professor Garlick seem quite pedestrian."
They dressed in comfortable silence, the urgency sated for now. As they prepared to leave, Luna caught Hermione's hand.
"This thing with Narcissa Malfoy," she said seriously. "Be careful. Fantasy is safe. Reality might not be."
"I know," Hermione said quietly. "It's impossible anyway. She's married, she's on the wrong side, she probably hates me."
"Hate and desire aren't mutually exclusive," Luna observed. "Sometimes they amplify each other."
That's what I'm afraid of, Hermione thought but didn't say.
They left the Room separately, Luna drifting off to Ravenclaw Tower while Hermione headed for the library, needing the comfort of books and logic after an afternoon of pure emotion.
But even surrounded by ancient texts and familiar smells, she couldn't stop thinking about blue eyes watching from shadows, about what was impossible and what was merely improbable.
War makes people do things they might otherwise resist, Luna had said.
The question was: would that be enough to turn fantasy into dangerous reality?
Only time would tell.