The days following Ginny’s confession were a special kind of torture. Every time Hermione saw Harry, a wave of guilt so potent it was nauseating washed over her. He’d smile, kiss her cheek, and talk about Quidditch or homework, entirely oblivious to the fact that her mind was replaying a scene from an empty corridor, the memory of Ginny’s voice, low and husky, her eyes burning with an intensity Harry had never shown her. The words—I see a fire in you—were a brand on her thoughts.

She was trying to bury herself in a dusty tome on advanced transfiguration theory in a quiet corner of the Gryffindor common room when a shadow fell over her page.

“Studying hard, or hardly studying?”

Hermione looked up into Ginny Weasley’s knowing smirk. She was leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, her Gryffindor tie loosened just so. She looked casual, but the look in her eyes was anything but. It was the same predatory heat from the corridor, now banked but still glowing.

“Just trying to get ahead,” Hermione murmured, her cheeks warming as she closed the book. Her pulse had quickened, a traitorous, frantic little bird in her chest.

Ginny slid onto the arm of the worn sofa next to her, their knees brushing. The contact was electric, a searing jolt that shot straight to Hermione’s core. “Getting ahead, or hiding?” Ginny’s voice was a whisper, meant only for her. “You look like you need a break. A real one. Not a chaperoned trip to Hogsmeade with your boyfriend and my brother.”

The jab was subtle but sharp. Hermione bristled. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Ginny leaned closer, her scent—something like broom polish, wildflowers, and a hint of something uniquely feminine—filling Hermione’s senses. “I know a place. It’s not exactly… sanctioned.” Her lips curved into a wicked smile. “They call it The Serpent’s Den. It’s in the dungeons, a hidden common room some of the older Slytherins and Ravenclaws set up. There’s music, dancing, illicit firewhisky… and no prefects.” She winked. “No Chosen One, either.”

Hermione’s mind reeled. It was everything she stood against. Breaking rules, sneaking out, a secret, unsanctioned party. The prefect in her was screaming, listing every regulation they would be violating. “Ginny, we can’t. If we were caught—”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” Ginny’s fingers brushed against Hermione’s on the spine of her book. The touch lingered, a deliberate, possessive stroke. “Think about it, Hermione. A place where you’re not Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age. A place where you’re not Harry Potter’s girlfriend. A place where you can just… be.” Her gaze dropped to Hermione’s mouth, and the air between them grew thick, heavy with unspoken promises. “Where we can just be.”

The invitation hung in the air, shimmering with danger and desire. This wasn't just about a party. It was about them. About the fire Ginny claimed to see. The Serpent’s Den. The name itself felt like a transgression, a delicious sin waiting to be committed. It was a chance to step out of her own skin and into the arms of the one person who seemed to see the woman suffocating underneath.Against her better judgment, Hermione followed. The entrance to the Serpent’s Den was hidden behind a tapestry of a particularly gruesome goblin rebellion, opened only by a password Ginny whispered into the stone. The moment they stepped through, the sound hit Hermione like a physical blow—a low, throbbing beat that vibrated up from the soles of her feet and settled deep in her gut. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of firewhisky, sweat, and something vaguely illicit, like wizarding smoke. Dim, enchanted lights in shades of emerald and crimson pulsed in time with the music, casting shifting shadows on the writhing mass of bodies that filled the cavernous room.

This wasn't Hogwarts. This was something primal, a den of hedonism tucked away in the castle's guts. Students she recognized—older Slytherins, a few daring Ravenclaws, even a Hufflepuff she’d once tutored in Charms—were dancing with a kind of wild abandon she’d never witnessed within the school’s proper walls.

Ginny’s hand found hers, her fingers lacing through Hermione’s with a confident possessiveness that sent a shockwave straight to her groin. "Come on," Ginny shouted over the music, her breath hot against Hermione's ear. "Let's find somewhere we can actually hear each other think."

She didn't wait for an answer, simply tugged Hermione through the throng. Her body moved with a fluid grace, a stark contrast to Hermione's own stiffness. Ginny was a part of this world, a creature of fire and impulse. As they moved, Ginny’s hip brushed against hers, her shoulder pressed into Hermione's back, each point of contact a deliberate brand. Hermione felt her carefully constructed composure begin to fracture and flake away, replaced by a raw, unfamiliar excitement. Her nipples were hard pebbles against the fabric of her robes, a purely physical reaction to the danger and the proximity of the woman leading her deeper into it.

Ginny pulled her into a secluded alcove, a recess in the cold stone barely large enough for two people, partially obscured by a heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtain. The roar of the party was muffled here, reduced to a distant, rhythmic pulse. They were suddenly close, their bodies separated by a scant few inches of charged air. Ginny didn't let go of her hand.

"Better?" Ginny’s voice was low, intimate. Her eyes, dark in the dim light, roamed over Hermione’s face, her neck, and lingered on the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat.

"It's… a lot," Hermione breathed, her own gaze dropping to Ginny's mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, glistening from the drink she’d grabbed on their way through the crowd.

"You look beautiful when you’re overwhelmed," Ginny murmured, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin of Hermione's palm. "Your eyes get all wide, like you're trying to memorize every detail. Like you're trying to find the flaw in the spell." She leaned in, her body heat a palpable force. "There's no flaw, Hermione. Sometimes, things are just… good."

Her free hand came up, tucking a stray curl behind Hermione’s ear. Her fingers were warm, and they lingered, tracing the shell of her ear before sliding down to cup her jaw. Hermione’s breath hitched. Every nerve ending was on fire. The guilt she felt for Harry was a distant, fading echo, drowned out by the roaring in her blood, by the undeniable truth that she wanted this. She wanted Ginny’s hands on her, Ginny’s eyes on her, Ginny’s mouth…

"What do you want, Hermione?" Ginny whispered, her face now just an inch from hers. The question was a challenge, an invitation, a promise. "Tell me what you really want."Hermione’s mouth went dry. The words lodged in her throat, a tangled knot of want and shame. She wanted to say you. She wanted to grab the front of Ginny’s robes, pull her flush against her, and find out if her mouth tasted as intoxicating as her scent. But all she could do was stare, her breathing shallow, her body thrumming with a need so sharp it was painful. Her silence was an answer in itself, a raw, desperate confession.

Ginny’s eyes darkened with understanding, a triumphant heat flaring in their depths. She saw the surrender in Hermione’s gaze. “I know,” she whispered, her own voice thick with desire. She leaned in, her lips parting, ready to close the final, agonizing inch between them—

A drunken shout from the main room shattered the spell. Someone stumbled against the velvet curtain, nearly tearing it down, before staggering away, laughing. The intrusion was a splash of icy water. They were in a public space, however secret. Anyone could find them.

The moment was lost. Ginny pulled back, a flicker of frustration crossing her features, though she masked it quickly with a wry smile. “Party’s winding down anyway,” she said, her voice a little rough. “We should go before Filch gets a whiff of all this rule-breaking and comes sniffing around with Mrs. Norris.”

Nodding numbly, Hermione let Ginny lead her back out of the alcove. The music was fading, the crowd thinning to a few lingering couples locked in shadowy corners. The walk back to the tapestry-covered entrance was a silent agony of renewed tension. The near-kiss hung between them, a ghost of sensation that made every accidental brush of their arms feel like a brand. Guilt was a cold stone in Hermione’s stomach, but desire was a raging fire licking at its edges, threatening to consume everything.

They reached the tapestry. Ginny murmured the password to exit, and the stone wall slid open, revealing the cold, empty dungeon corridor beyond. Freedom. Safety. A return to the lie of their lives.

But Ginny didn’t step through.

Instead, she turned, backing Hermione against the cold, damp stone of the corridor wall. The heavy tapestry swung shut behind them, plunging them into near-darkness, the only light a distant, flickering torch. Before Hermione could even gasp, Ginny’s hands were on her, one tangling in her hair, yanking her head back, the other fisting the fabric of her robes at her waist, pulling her impossibly close.

“I’m not letting you run,” Ginny growled, her voice a low, predatory rumble.

And then her mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. A desperate, bruising collision of lips and teeth and tongue. There was nothing gentle about it. Ginny devoured her, her mouth hot and wet, tasting of firewhisky and a fierce, possessive hunger that stole Hermione’s breath. A choked sob of shock and pleasure escaped Hermione’s throat as Ginny’s tongue plunged past her lips, demanding entrance, sweeping through her mouth with an aggressive, carnal expertise that made her knees buckle.

Hermione’s hands, which had been pressed flat against the wall, flew up to clutch at Ginny, her fingers digging into the firm muscle of her shoulders, holding on for dear life. All thought, all guilt, all Harry, evaporated in the searing heat of the moment. There was only this. Only Ginny’s mouth on hers, her body flush against hers, the hard planes of their hips grinding together through layers of wool and cotton. She kissed back with a ferocity that surprised them both, a frantic, needy desperation born of weeks of denial. She met the thrust of Ginny’s tongue with her own, a wet, sloppy battle for dominance that sent shivers of pure, unadulterated lust skittering down her spine. This was wrong, a betrayal so profound it felt like sacrilege, and Merlin, it was the most exquisite thing she had ever felt.