Chapter Text
Charms had always been one of Harry Potter’s better classes—not because he particularly excelled at it, but because of the predictable rhythm it offered. After the war, after Voldemort’s defeat, predictability had become one of the few comforts he trusted.
The classroom looked exactly the same as it always had: bright arched windows pouring in golden light over the rows of desks, the familiar scent of old parchment and lingering spell residue drifting in the air like the Hogwarts version of nostalgia. The low hum of conversation, the occasional flick of a wand, the warmth of candlelight—it all felt like a place suspended in time, untouched by the chaos that had raged outside its walls.
Harry sat slouched in his usual seat near the back, arms crossed loosely, wand balanced idly on his knee. The seat beside him, always claimed by his Ravenclaw class partner Hermione Granger, was still empty for the moment. In front of him, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom were engaged in a familiar back-and-forth, heads bent close, voices hushed but animated.
Neville’s Head Boy badge gleamed proudly on his robes, and Ron was grinning as he mapped out imaginary Quidditch formations in the air, gesturing like a coach with too many ideas and not enough hands. He was officially Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain this year, and he’d been talking about tryouts since the train ride back.
Harry found himself smiling softly. It was strange, feeling happy in such quiet ways. Seeing his friends fall back into old habits, slipping easily into laughter and planning—it let him pretend, for a little while, that everything really was okay.
Of course, it wasn’t always that easy.
He still felt it—the shift in the air when he walked into a room, the too-long stares, the not-so-quiet whispers. Girls who’d never spared him a glance before suddenly found reasons to sit closer, brush past him, giggle a bit louder in his direction. He hated the attention, hated what it meant. He knew what they saw: not Harry, the tired boy who still flinched in his sleep—but Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Conquered.
He hated that title more than Voldemort’s name.
“Anyway,” Ron said suddenly, twisting in his seat to throw Harry a lopsided grin, “what are you planning to do this year?”
Harry raised a brow. “What plan?”
Neville turned in his seat, smirking. “You know—the one where you actually relax and maybe meet someone who doesn’t want to kill you or worship you.”
Harry laughed—short, sharp, dry. He leaned forward on his desk, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist.
Ron and Neville instinctively leaned in.
Then both yelped as Harry’s hand smacked the backs of their heads.
“Knock it off,” he muttered.
Honestly, he’d tried.
Sirius, with his usual roguish grin and a raised glass of firewhisky, had teased him endlessly about ‘finally enjoying life.’ Ginny had encouraged him to ‘have fun’—though they’d long since agreed they were better as friends. Even Luna, in her dreamy way, once advised him to find someone with 'soul-compatible frequencies.'
So, he’d tried. A few dates by the lake, some Hogsmeade strolls, a bit of snogging in quiet corners. One girl bit his lip so hard he nearly hexed her on instinct. He hadn’t exactly hated it—but he hadn’t felt much of anything, either.
No spark, no interest. Just fog.
It was like going through the motions of someone else’s life.
His eyes drifted toward the classroom door, seeking distraction.
And then she walked in.
Hermione Granger entered like she always did: with precision, purpose, and an air of unshakable focus. A massive tome hugged to her chest, brows drawn in quiet concentration, she maneuvered through the maze of desks with practiced ease.
Harry’s gaze flicked to the heavy book pressing against the Ravenclaw's blouse, the way her uniform stretched just enough to make him wonder—is that button reinforced by magic, or sheer willpower?
“Harry, stop staring at Hermione’s chest!”
Padma Patil’s voice sliced through the room.
Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “I was just wondering how strong those buttons are…”
Padma looked physically pained.
Sure, he was that Harry Potter. Sure, he’d kissed her twin sister Parvati during the winter ball at the Yule Ball. Sure, he’d made Su Li blush redder than a Gryffindor banner last week in Hogsmeade.
But Hermione Granger?
Really?
The girl who read academic journals for fun, corrected professors mid-lecture, and once threatened to hex a Hufflepuff for accidentally sitting on her rune essay?
“Don’t mind him, Hermione,” Padma said, trying to intercept. “You can sit next to me today.”
Hermione didn’t even pause. “It’s alright,” she said, setting her book down beside Harry. “I don’t mind.”
Harry grinned. Hermione Granger had always been a bit of a mystery. Brilliant, determined, endlessly patient. She never cared about attention or popularity. But she’d always been there to help him in class.
“Hello, Harry,” she said evenly.
“Hello, Hermione,” he replied, tone casual even as Ron and Neville chuckled behind their hands. His eyes lingered over to her chest again and smirked. "You look great as always."
“You too,” Hermione replied without missing a beat, her fingers deftly gathering her curls as she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. “I especially like the fact that you’re wearing a shirt that’s one size too small, emphasizing the tightness of your chest muscles.”
The room seemed to fall silent.
For a full second, Harry’s mind blanked.
Hermione’s expression was calm, collected, as if she’d just complimented the weather. Harry stared at her, jaw slightly slack, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck like fire laced with confusion.
“I highly recommend wearing an undershirt though,” Hermione continued, still smiling. “Not that I’m against it.”
He recoiled slightly, cheeks flushing crimson as he tugged his robes tighter around himself in an instinctive motion of modesty. The laugh caught in his throat died the moment she bit her lip.
“It’s quite sexy,” she added in a voice just loud enough to be heard, her eyes focused not on his face but on his chest.
Harry swore under his breath and mumbled, “F-Fuck off…”
Hermione blinked, the faintest shadow of a frown crossing her features as she opened her book.
“It was a compliment,” she said softly, her tone smooth and even.
The moment lingered.
A few students nearby mumbled under their breath, startled at the sheer audacity of Hermione’s words. There was a soft rustle of parchment, the creak of chairs shifting uneasily. Ron and Neville, who had both been silently watching the entire exchange like spectators in a slow-moving duel, exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Without a word, they both faced forward again—back ramrod straight—deciding it was best to ignore Hermione completely. She was clearly terrifying. Best not to get involved.
Harry looked like he wanted to sink through the floorboards. His ears were burning, his hands gripping the edge of his desk a little too tightly as if bracing for another onslaught.
Hermione, on the other hand, looked completely unbothered.
Well—almost.
There was a faint blush dusting her cheeks, subtle but unmistakable. Her lips twitched as she turned the page too early, clearly not having read a word. Her body adjusted in her seat, spine arching ever so slightly to fix her posture—only the adjustment had the unintentional effect of pushing her chest forward, the tight uniform protesting quietly as it hugged her frame. Her smile widened, just a bit, as she noticed Harry stealing another glance—this time quick and panicked, his eyes darting away the second hers caught him.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
Her cheeky grin said it all.
Harry swallowed hard and pretended to care deeply about the dust on his parchment.
The class hadn’t even started yet.
And already, he was exhausted.
xxxxx
Harry stretched his arms lazily above his head, the muscles along his spine arching beneath the cling of his sweat-dampened uniform. The chilled September air of Hogwarts nipped at his skin, but he barely felt it. His hair, always unruly, was a wild mess of damp curls from the wind and exertion. He had spent the last hour dodging imaginary Bludgers in the early morning sky, pushing his broom to its limit with tight loops and barrel rolls as if movement alone could chase away the weight pressing against his chest.
It didn’t work—not really—but it helped.
He should’ve been in his first class. Care of Magical Creatures, if he remembered correctly. Instead, he’d wandered out to the pitch without saying a word to anyone, not even Ron or Neville. The sky was open, wide and unjudging. There were no whispers up there. No expectations. No war medals. Just him and the wind.
Honestly, he hadn’t wanted to return to Hogwarts. Repeating seventh year after everything felt redundant, almost silly. But Ron had returned for Quidditch—Gryffindor’s new captain, finally living his dream—and Neville had taken up the badge of Head Boy with quiet pride and dignity that Harry found oddly comforting. Between those two, going back had felt like the lesser evil. At least here, he wasn’t being pressured by Ministry memos or owl after owl from overexcited recruiters.
Like Minister Bones, who seemed hell-bent on getting him to train as an Auror, even though he had very clearly and very bluntly declined. He refused to put himself in front of another dark wizard ever again.
Then there was Oliver Wood. Sweet, relentless, Quidditch-obsessed Wood who had written nearly every day since summer, begging Harry to join Puddlemere United as a reserve Seeker. The idea was tempting, Harry wouldn’t lie. There was something about flying that always felt right—like maybe he’d been born for it. Like the sky knew him better than anyone else ever could.
Sometimes, he wondered if he’d turn into a bird if he ever pushed himself to learn to become an Animagus. Probably a falcon. Or maybe a raven. Something sleek and quiet, sharp-eyed and distant.
His thoughts unraveled as he turned a corner in the castle corridor, his pace unhurried. But he hadn’t noticed the soft footfalls coming from the other side, and before he could react, he collided into someone.
There was a surprised gasp, followed by a soft thud.
Harry stopped short, barely jolted from the impact, and looked down to see a familiar brown-haired figure on the floor, her book bag splayed open beside her like a spilled library.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, holding out a hand. His brow furrowed slightly as he recognized the person he'd knocked over. “Oh crap.”
Hermione Granger was glaring at him with narrowed, honey-brown eyes. She took his offered hand with a tight grip and allowed him to pull her up, brushing dust from her skirt with what looked like exaggerated effort.
“Watch where you’re going, Harry,” she muttered, her voice sharp but steady.
Harry let out a laugh, casual and amused. “Sorry, you’re so tiny I didn’t notice you at all.”
She shot him a look. “Idiot.”
“You’re not even that hurt,” Harry said with a shrug, glancing briefly over her figure. “Besides, you kind of bounced off me.”
His eyes flicked to the white button-down fabric stretched subtly across her chest. He tried to look away, but his gaze lingered a breath too long.
Hermione blushed, a faint color spreading over her cheeks, but she didn’t reach for her robe to cover herself. She didn’t hide. Instead, she seemed rooted to the spot, unmoved by his blatant look. It had been days since her comment in class—words that had seared into his brain like a brand—and Harry hadn’t yet figured out a way to properly get back at her for it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but paused as her eyes roamed over him with quiet interest.
“You’re sweating,” she noted, arching an eyebrow. “Did you go flying?”
Harry only gave another shrug. “A bit, yeah.”
“Don’t you have Care of Magical Creatures with the Hufflepuffs today?” she asked casually.
He blinked, wondering how she knew his schedule so well. But instead of asking, he shrugged again, a small, noncommittal sound escaping his throat.
Hermione sighed and shook her head, her expression carrying that typical Ravenclaw brand of disapproval, like she was disappointed he’d skipped a lesson. Her mouth opened again, prepared to scold him, but she faltered.
Her eyes were on his neck now—on the sheen of sweat that glistened there under the soft torchlight. The way the damp fabric of his shirt clung to his collarbone, outlining the definition beneath it. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and the subtle ripple of muscle in his forearms gave away years of flying, training, and tension carried in strength.
Before she could stop herself, her hand moved forward, reaching out with instinct more than thought.
Harry flinched backward immediately. “What are you doing?!”
“You need to wipe off your sweat or you’ll get sick,” Hermione said evenly, stepping forward with her hand still half-raised.
“I can wipe myself, thank you very much!” Harry squeaked, turning a shade of red that would’ve rivaled Ron's hair.
“Take off your clothes, Harry.”
His breath hitched, and he nearly dropped his broom in shock. He thrust it forward like a shield, holding it between them. “You just want to see me naked!”
Hermione said nothing.
Her eyes flicked away for the first time, her cheeks blooming with color as she crossed her arms and looked off to the side. Her silence, far from protest, was louder than any confession.
"AT LEAST TRY TO DENY IT, YOU WITCH!" Harry yelled, backing up quickly before turning on his heel and bolting down the corridor, robes flapping behind him like a fleeing stag.
Hermione was left behind in the quiet hallway, her arms still crossed, her mouth slowly curling into a knowing smile. She sighed, more amused than annoyed.
She did want to see him naked.
Half of it was curiosity—pure, unfiltered, academic, logical curiosity. She told herself that. But the other half…
Well. She didn’t want to think too much about that part.
Ever since third year, when she first started noticing the way his eyes would drop to her chest or her ass when he thought she wasn’t watching, she had loathed him for it. The audacity. The nerve. The irritating charm.
But over time, something had shifted. Somewhere between her own glances—quick, stolen moments when he bent over to tie his boots, or when his shirt would cling to his back after practice—she’d started realizing things.
Like how Harry Potter wasn’t just handsome.
He was sexy.
He had a slim waist, lean muscles that stretched and moved like they belonged to something untamed, a sharp jawline that always seemed tense with thought or restraint, and a wild mess of black hair that she sort of wanted to tug. He had eyes like storms—green and burning, always flicking away too fast—and a mouth that looked like it was always seconds away from saying something maddening.
Hermione shook her head hard, trying to clear the fog settling in her brain.
She was starting to act weird.
And it was all Harry Potter’s fault.
xxxxx
Harry arrived a bit late for Potions class.
He didn’t mean to. Honestly, he had tried to leave the Great Hall early. He had even skipped his usual second helping of pumpkin juice just to make it to the dungeons on time. But the minute he stepped into the corridor, a small group of second- and third-year girls had immediately ambushed him.
They were all giggles and flushed cheeks, fidgeting with quills and torn scraps of parchment, awkwardly pushing forward anything they could find for him to sign. At first, he thought he could escape quickly—maybe sign one or two and slip away—but the shy, pale-faced Ravenclaw girl at the front had held out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet with shaking hands, her voice barely above a whisper as she asked for his autograph.
He couldn’t say no after that.
So now, slightly breathless and already irritated with himself, Harry pushed open the heavy door to the Potions dungeon, noting the sudden silence as all heads turned towards him.
The class had already begun.
The air inside was thick with the familiar scent of simmering ingredients—crushed asphodel, the faintest wisp of mugwort, and something vaguely burnt—and the low mumble of Professor Slughorn’s voice as he lectured from the front. Most of the students were already seated, hunched over their paired cauldrons or scribbling half-heartedly into open parchments. The clinks of glassware and the occasional whoosh of flame filled the gaps in Slughorn’s slow, drawling speech.
Harry scanned the room, his eyes settling on the only empty stool—unfortunately next to Hermione Granger.
He sighed.
Of course it would be her.
Hermione was already seated, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her neat Ravenclaw-blue tie tucked smartly beneath her robes. A stack of parchment and two open reference books were laid out on her half of the table with painful precision, her quill poised over a page already half-filled with tiny, fastidious notes. She didn’t look up as he approached.
Harry frowned as he sat down beside her, adjusting the strap of his bag as he did. Something about her this year was... different. He’d noticed it from the very first day they shared a class again.
Hermione Granger, once infamously stiff and rule-bound, had become louder. More intense. More... unfiltered. Maybe it was the war. Maybe she’d finally cracked. Or maybe Ravenclaws just let themselves unravel quicker than the rest. But whatever it was, there was something undeniably sharp about her this year. Sharp and unpredictable.
They weren’t friends, not really. Acquainted, yes. Shared classes, sure. He knew her name, her face, her top marks. But she wasn’t part of his inner circle. She had her own life. Her own friends. Her own tightly-organized bubble of Ravenclaw companions who always seemed too clever, too self-assured, and far too smug.
But that didn’t stop her from staring.
Harry had caught her doing it more times than he could count. Not the curious, admiring stares he got from fans. No. This was different. Hermione’s gaze felt heavier. Like it wasn’t just skimming the surface but peeling back the layers of his robes and skin as though she were trying to dissect him—muscle by muscle, line by line. Like she wanted to catalogue every inch of him and judge the worth of each.
It wasn’t even subtle.
At meals, he could feel her gaze cut through the noise of the Great Hall like a blade. She would be chatting idly with her friends, face composed, her laughter controlled—but her eyes were locked on him. Always. Following every motion. Every bite. Every time he tilted his head or stretched his arms or leaned back to laugh with Ron. Like she was watching a creature in a glass tank.
It was unnerving. And oddly flattering.
And now, as he settled beside her, Harry realized with a sinking feeling that he was about to spend the next two hours breathing in the scent of her perfume—a soft, mint-and-walnut thing that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle—and wondering whether her eyes would ever leave him alone.
He steeled himself, then offered a grin that was more cocky than confident. Eye for an eye, wasn’t it? She could look, but he could look too. She wasn’t exactly hard to watch.
Hermione had a fantastic figure overall. It was hard not to notice, even for someone like Harry who tried—really tried—not to look too long when she passed by. Her breasts were undeniably perky, full and high despite her petite frame, accentuated perfectly by the crisp lines of her Ravenclaw uniform. The tight cinch of her robes around her waist only made her curves more noticeable, drawing the eye downward to her hips and the way her skirt clung just enough to leave something to the imagination. Her arse—Merlin help him—was a work of art in itself. Round, firm, and perfectly shaped, it practically called to him every time she walked ahead of him in the corridor, the sway of it hypnotic and maddening.
Sometimes, especially when she leaned forward over a table or stood on her toes to reach for something, he found himself having to look away quickly, afraid someone would catch the look on his face.
There were days, especially recently, when he’d catch himself wondering—just for a moment—what it would feel like to have her pressed against him. To run his hands over her curves, or hell, to just bury his face against her arse and—
Harry clamped his jaw shut and fought back the dangerous flood of thoughts.
He nearly groaned aloud.
Merlin, he was starting to lose it. This whole ‘relaxing’ thing—this ridiculous encouragement from his friends to just loosen up, date around, “enjoy being famous”—it was messing with his head. He was beginning to take it all far too seriously. He was starting to become a bloody pervert.
And worse, it was Hermione Granger who was haunting his imagination like this.
“Hello, Hermione,” Harry greeted, keeping his voice neutral as he set his bag down.
Hermione didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. Her chin was tilted ever so slightly upwards as she continued to stare across the room, her expression blank.
Harry followed her line of sight—and immediately felt his chest tighten.
She was staring at Seamus Finnigan.
Harry blinked. Seamus? The same Seamus who’d once blown up a cauldron so violently it singed his eyebrows clean off? The one who always reeked of singed toast and bragged about kissing sixth-years behind the greenhouse?
He watched as Seamus laughed at something his Ravenclaw partner said, the two of them smiling comfortably over their bubbling cauldron.
'What the hell?'
Harry turned back to Hermione, suddenly irritated. “Hermione?” he asked, frowning slightly.
She didn’t even twitch. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. Like she didn’t even realize he was there.
A spike of annoyance shot through him, unexpected and petty.
He could’ve ignored it. Could’ve chalked it up to one of her strange moods or chalked it up to her Ravenclaw eccentricities—but then he saw it. That twinkle in her eyes.
It was subtle. Barely there. But he recognized it.
It was the same twinkle she had whenever her eyes traced the line of his collarbone. Whenever she let her gaze drop just a second too long as he rolled up his sleeves. Whenever her eyes grew dark and hungry, like she was sizing him up for something unspoken.
She had that look now. But it wasn’t directed at him.
It was aimed straight at Seamus.
Harry felt heat rise to his face. What was so good about that prat? Was it the accent? The confidence? The way Seamus always walked around like he was in on some joke no one else knew?
He grumbled under his breath and pulled out a roll of parchment with more force than necessary, his quill scratching a bit too harshly against the surface as he began to copy down Slughorn’s instructions. His handwriting came out jagged, uneven, almost like he was carving the words in.
He didn’t even notice when Hermione finally turned her head and looked at him. Her expression unreadable.
Her eyes lingering. Curious. Almost amused.
What Harry didn’t know—what completely flew over his head as he tried not to scowl in Seamus’s direction—was that Hermione wasn’t staring at Seamus himself. Not his face, not his voice, not even the way he leaned too casually against the desk. No, what had caught her attention was the ridiculous turtleneck he was wearing beneath his school uniform. It clashed horribly with his tie, the material bunching awkwardly under his collar, and the neckline made his entire outfit look like it was choking him. It was clearly a fashion choice meant to look effortlessly cool, but Seamus wasn’t pulling it off.
Still, Hermione’s mind spun in an entirely different direction.
Because, despite how awful it looked on Seamus, she couldn’t stop the image that bloomed in her head—an uninvited daydream, vivid and visceral. It was the thought of Harry wearing that same turtleneck, except on him… it would be perfect.
She could see it clearly in her mind’s eye—Harry Potter, with his wild, dark hair tousled just right, clad in nothing but a tight black turtleneck. The color would bring out the pallor of his skin, contrast sharply against the lean muscle of his arms, and exaggerate the sharp angle of his jaw. His biceps would stretch the sleeves just slightly, making the fabric strain against years of quiet, unintentional strength. And instead of his usual school trousers, she pictured him in slim beige slacks—something tailored, something soft, something that would cling perfectly to his hips and slim waist.
Hermione bit her bottom lip before she even realized it, shifting in her seat slightly, a strange heat crawling up her neck.
Yes… she would love that very much.
Her eyes slowly moved back to Harry, watching the curve of his shoulders as he hunched slightly over his notes. She wondered—quietly, curiously, shamelessly—how she could possibly convince him to wear something like that for her. Maybe with enough teasing. Maybe with the right dare.
Maybe… if she caught him alone again...