The Affair

The silence of the Hogwarts library after hours was a sacred thing, thick and heavy as velvet. It smelled of aging parchment, beeswax, and the faint, dusty sweetness of forgotten spells. From her seat across the long oak table, Ginny Weasley watched Hermione Granger slowly unravel.

It wasn't just the N.E.W.T.s. Ginny had seen Hermione under academic pressure before; it made her sharper, more focused, a blade being honed. This was different. This was a slow erosion. Hermione’s shoulders were slumped, her usually vibrant curls looking dull in the flickering candlelight. She wasn’t reading the tome on Advanced Arithmancy propped open before her; she was staring through it, her quill clutched so tightly in her fingers that her knuckles were white mountains on a pale map. Every few minutes, she’d let out a sigh, a tiny, fractured sound that was swallowed by the immense quiet of the room.

Ginny knew the source of that sigh. His name was Harry.

She’d seen the strain between them for weeks. The forced smiles, the conversations that petered out into awkward silence. Harry, bless his Gryffindor heart, was a hero. He was brave and loyal and would die for his friends. But he was also emotionally dense as a troll. He saw Hermione as his brilliant, reliable friend, the brains of their trio. He didn't seem to see the woman she’d become, the fire that burned just beneath her prim exterior. He took her for granted, assuming her presence was as certain as the sunrise, and her passion was reserved solely for textbooks and house-elf rights.

Ginny saw it, though. She saw the flash of frustration in Hermione’s eyes when Harry would dismiss one of her nuanced points with a simple nod. She saw the flicker of loneliness when he’d turn the conversation back to Quidditch or Auror training, completely missing the opening she’d given him. Tonight, that loneliness was a palpable ache in the air between them.

Pushing her own chair back with a soft scrape that echoed in the stillness, Ginny walked around the table. Hermione didn't even look up, lost in her unhappy thoughts. Ginny stopped just behind her, her shadow falling over the illuminated page. For a moment, she just stood there, breathing in the scent of Hermione’s hair—something floral, like lavender, mixed with the clean scent of her skin.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Ginny reached out and placed her hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione flinched, a sharp, startled jolt, and her head whipped around. Her brown eyes were wide, confused, and glistening with unshed tears. She looked utterly lost.

"Ginny," she breathed, her voice a fragile whisper.

Ginny didn't answer. She simply applied a gentle, firm pressure, her hand warm and solid through the thin fabric of Hermione's robes. She felt the knot of tension in Hermione's trapezius muscle, hard as a stone beneath her palm. Instead of pulling away, she let her thumb begin to move, rubbing a slow, hypnotic circle against the tightness. It was an intensely intimate gesture, far beyond a simple friendly comfort. It was a claim. An acknowledgement. I see you.

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her eyes locked with Ginny’s, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The flickering candlelight danced in her pupils. She didn’t pull away. In fact, she leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, her body craving the comfort, the understanding that Ginny’s hand offered without a single word. The air grew thick, charged with something unspoken, something that felt both dangerous and deeply right.Ginny’s touch lingered for days, a phantom warmth on her shoulder. Hermione tried to bury the memory under piles of homework and forced, cheerful conversations with Harry, but it remained, a persistent ember refusing to be extinguished. Every time she felt a pang of frustration with Harry’s easy obliviousness, the memory of Ginny’s knowing, steady hand would surface, unbidden.

She sought refuge where she always did: the library. It was late afternoon, the sun casting long, golden shafts of light through the high arched windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. She was buried in a particularly dense chapter of Quintessence: A Quest, trying to decipher a passage on the theoretical magical properties of starlight. Her mind, however, kept drifting. Drifting to a pair of intense, dark eyes and the scent of lavender and clean skin.

Frustrated with herself, she turned a page with a sharp flick of her wrist. A small, folded square of parchment, not her own, slipped from between the pages and fluttered down onto the table. It was thick, expensive-looking parchment, folded with crisp, deliberate lines. Frowning, Hermione picked it up. There was no name on the outside. Her heart gave a strange, uncertain thump against her ribs.

She unfolded it. The handwriting within was a bold, elegant cursive, slanting confidently across the page.

Hermione,

I watch you in here, surrounded by all this silent knowledge, and I think they have it all wrong. They call you the brightest witch of your age, as if your mind is just a collection of facts and spells. A tool.

They don’t see the truth. They don’t see the fire. It’s in the way your eyes burn when you unravel a complex theory, the passion that tightens your jaw when you argue for something you believe in. It’s a fucking inferno, and it’s the most beautiful thing in this entire castle. Don’t ever let anyone, not even him, try to gentle it into a hearth-fire. You were meant to be a wildfire.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled, the edges of the parchment crinkling under their sudden pressure. She read it again, and then a third time, the words sinking into her like a potent, illicit potion. Fire. Passion. Inferno. These were not words Harry would ever use to describe her. He loved her, she knew, but his love felt comfortable, familiar, like a well-worn sweater. This… this felt like being seen by lightning flash, every secret contour of her soul laid bare and not just accepted, but admired.

A hot flush crawled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. A dizzying, treacherous flutter erupted in her stomach, a feeling so potent it was almost nauseating. It was excitement. It was validation.

And it was immediately chased by a cold, sickening wave of guilt.

Him. The note was explicit. This was a deliberate wedge.

Her mind spun, and one name surfaced with undeniable certainty: Ginny. It had to be. The bold confidence of the handwriting, the use of the word "fire," the startling intimacy of the observation—it all pointed back to the girl whose touch had branded her skin three nights ago. The thought sent another thrill, sharper and more dangerous this time, through her veins. Ginny saw her. Ginny saw her, and she wasn't afraid of what she saw.

Her hand clenched around the note, crumpling it into a tight ball in her fist. She glanced around the library, her heart hammering against her ribs as if seeking escape. She was alone in her aisle. But she felt watched, exposed. With a furtive movement, she shoved the crumpled parchment deep into the pocket of her robes, the secret a hot, heavy weight against her thigh. It was a betrayal. It was a temptation. And Merlin help her, she didn't want to throw it away.The crumpled note was a brand in her pocket. All through dinner, Hermione had felt its presence, a secret heat against her thigh. She’d laughed at Harry’s jokes, discussed Ron’s latest Quidditch mishap, and felt like a complete and utter fraud. The words on that parchment had unlocked a part of her she’d kept carefully contained, and now it was straining against its cage, hungry and wild.

Making an excuse about a forgotten book, she slipped out of the Great Hall, needing to be alone. She took the long way, her footsteps echoing down a deserted corridor near the Charms classrooms. Torches cast long, dancing shadows on the stone, and for a moment, she felt a sliver of peace in the solitude.

"Looking for this?"

The voice, low and laced with a familiar, confident drawl, made Hermione jump, her heart leaping into her throat. Ginny was leaning against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadow, holding up an identical piece of folded parchment. It was a bluff, but a damned effective one.

Hermione stopped dead, her hand flying instinctively to her pocket where the real note was nestled. "Ginny. You startled me."

"Did I?" Ginny pushed off the wall, her movements fluid and predatory. She closed the distance between them with a few unhurried steps, her dark eyes fixed on Hermione’s. "You seem easily startled lately. Jumpy. Like you're hiding something."

She stopped a mere foot away, close enough that Hermione could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell that intoxicating mix of lavender and something uniquely Ginny—something clean and sharp, like fresh-cut grass after a storm.

"I don't know what you mean," Hermione managed, her voice thin and unconvincing even to her own ears.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Ginny's face. It was devastating. "Don't you, Hermione? Don't you lie to me. I hate it when you lie. It dulls your shine." She took the final step, backing Hermione up against the cold, unforgiving stone of the corridor wall. "I wrote the note."

The admission hung in the air, electric and undeniable. Ginny placed her hands on the wall on either side of Hermione’s head, caging her in. Her proximity was overwhelming, a physical pressure that stole the air from Hermione's lungs.

"Why?" Hermione whispered, her voice trembling.

"Because it's the truth," Ginny murmured, her gaze dropping to Hermione's lips, then back to her wide, frightened eyes. "Because I watch him treat you like a prized possession he keeps on a shelf. He’s proud of you, yes. Like a man is proud of a trophy. But he doesn't want you. Not the real you. He’s afraid of your fire." Ginny leaned closer, her voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial whisper that slid down Hermione’s spine like a caress. "He wants to gentle you. I want to stoke the flames."

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her entire body was thrumming with a terrifying, illicit energy. She could feel the hard muscle of Ginny’s thighs pressing lightly against her own, the warmth of her breath ghosting across her cheek. A deep, liquid heat pooled low in her belly, an ache of pure, unadulterated desire that shocked her with its intensity.

"I see how you look when you think no one is watching," Ginny continued, her voice a raw, seductive rasp. "Fierce. Hungry. I want to be the one you look at like that. I want to see what you're like when you finally let yourself burn."

Her knuckles brushed Hermione's jaw, a touch so light it was barely there, yet it sent a bolt of lightning straight to her core. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second. She was trapped, pinned by Ginny's body and her words, and every instinct screamed at her to close the final, infinitesimal distance between their mouths. The unspoken invitation was a living thing in the air between them, a promise of scorching, ruinous passion. All she had to do was give in.