Hidden Love

The cramped space beneath your invisibility cloak feels increasingly stifling as you shift uncomfortably on the hard wooden floor of Hermione's dorm room. Your legs have long since fallen asleep, pins and needles shooting through your calves with each subtle movement. The fabric of the cloak clings to your face, your breath making the space beneath it humid and suffocating. You silently curse yourself for agreeing to this arrangement, for being in this position at all.

Ron's pale, freckled form moves rhythmically above Hermione on her four-poster bed, the sheets tangled around their ankles. You avert your eyes for what must be the hundredth time, focusing instead on the stack of books on her nightstand, the moving photograph of her parents, anything but the scene unfolding before you. The sounds alone are torture enough – Ron's labored breathing, the creak of the bed frame, Hermione's occasional soft gasp.

"Come on, hurry up," you think desperately, checking your watch in the dim wandlight filtering through the cloak. Ten minutes have felt like hours. You'd never imagined when this plan was hatched that waiting would be this excruciating, this invasive. You feel like an intruder in the worst possible way, despite knowing why you're here.

Mercifully, Ron's movements become more erratic, his breathing more ragged. With a series of guttural grunts that make you wince, he collapses forward, his lanky frame going slack.

"That was... brilliant," he mumbles into Hermione's shoulder, his voice muffled.

Hermione makes a sound that might be agreement, but you notice she's already glancing at the clock on her bedside table. "I've got to finish that Arithmancy essay," she says, her practical tone returning as she gently pushes at Ron's shoulder.

"Can't you do it tomorrow?" Ron groans, rolling to his side.

"I told you before you came up, I only have fifteen minutes," she replies, pulling a sheet up over her. "I’ve an entire scroll to write still tonight."

Ron sighs dramatically but begins fumbling for his scattered clothes. "Fine, fine. I should check if Seamus has finished those Quidditch plays anyway."

You hold your breath as Ron pulls on his trousers inside-out, stuffs his feet into his shoes without socks.

"Library tomorrow, then?" Ron says.

"Yes, after breakfast," Hermione agrees, already reaching for a heavy tome on her desk.

With a quick, awkward kiss to her cheek, Ron shuffles toward the door. "Night, then."

The door clicks shut behind him, and you exhale a sigh of relief.

Hermione waits a moment, her head tilted toward the door, listening for Ron's footsteps to fade down the spiral staircase.

When silence finally settles over the room, she pulls the sheets around herself and whispers, "Okay, you can come out — you still there?"

You hesitate, the invisibility cloak suddenly feeling like the only shield protecting you from the awkwardness of the moment. With a deep breath, you pull it off, the fabric sliding over your head in a liquid shimmer of silver. The cool air of the room is a relief against your flushed skin.

"That," you say with a grimace, running a hand through your perpetually messy hair, "was possibly the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of my life. And I've faced a Hungarian Horntail."

Hermione's lips quirk into a half-smile as she sits cross-legged on the bed, straightening the rumpled sheets with an absent flick of her wand. "I was the one under him! At least you had the luxury of looking away."

Moonlight streams through the leaded windows, painting silver patterns across her face. You can see the strain behind her eyes, the weight of secrets evident in the tightness around her mouth.

"Fair point," you concede, settling into her desk chair with a sigh. The wood creaks beneath you as you lean forward, elbows on knees. "But seriously, Hermione, when are you going to tell him? About us, I mean. This whole... arrangement... it's getting more complicated by the day."

The question hangs between you like a physical thing. A portrait on the wall—a medieval witch with a severe expression—tuts disapprovingly, but you both ignore her.

Hermione's fingers worry at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Soon," she says, her voice barely audible. "Just... not yet." She looks up, her brown eyes reflecting the wandlight she's conjured to hover above her bed. "After what happened with Ginny... and Bellatrix... I don't think he could take it."

You both sigh, the sound mingling in the quiet room.

The silence stretches between you. Outside, a gust of wind rattles the ancient windowpanes, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots mournfully. The sound seems to break something in Hermione, and she looks up at you with a sudden intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Harry," she says, her voice soft but steady, "until then, let's enjoy the time we have."

The sheet slips from her grasp, whether by accident or design you can't be sure. The wandlight hovers above, casting a warm glow across her skin that makes her seem almost luminous against the dark bedsheets. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of her bare shoulders, the gentle curve of her breasts.

"I've fulfilled my obligation," she says, a new confidence threading through her voice as she reclines against the pillows. Her hair fans out around her like a chestnut halo, wild and untamed as ever. "Now I think I deserve my reward, don't you?"

There's a playful challenge in her eyes that makes your heart race. This is the Hermione few ever see—not the prefect, not the brilliant student, not Ron's girlfriend—but the woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to claim it.

"You're staring," she whispers, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

You are indeed. The wandlight catches the freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations. Every detail of her is precious to you, familiar and yet somehow always new.

"How could I not?" you finally manage, your voice hoarse. You stand above her, just drinking in her beauty.

She playfully caresses her breasts, then stretches her arms above her, languid like a cat.