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Hermione Granger had no qualms about indulging in a good shag now and then. Certainly not after working long hours in the Ministry, where her patience was regularly tested by a certain insufferable co-worker. But unlike Ron, who had a "girl of the month" rotation, or Harry, who was blissfully (and nauseatingly) married, Hermione's arrangement with Neville Longbottom was simple: mutual satisfaction, no strings attached, no awkward feelings.
It had started after a night of too much Firewhisky, too much reminiscing, and a surprising amount of chemistry neither had expected. They'd established ground rules early: it was just sex, and they would stop whenever either of them wanted or begin seeing anyone else. So far, neither of them had wanted to stop. It worked. It was easy. And best of all—
nobody knew
.
Which is why, when Neville’s head appeared in her Floo, grinning like a schoolboy caught with a dirty magazine, she arched a brow and set down her wine and book she was reading.
“Hermione,” he said warmly, “Fancy a nightcap? An experiment of sorts?”
Hermione quirked a brow. "Experiment?" she repeated, setting down her glass. "That sounds
ominous
."
"Oh, it's nothing dangerous," Neville said, though the way his dimples deepened suggested otherwise. "Just a little potion Fred and I have been working on. Thought you might be interested."
Though George ran the shop’s product line for
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
. Fred, however, specialized in the naughtier ventures of
Weasleys' Wicked Whims
the ‘adults-only’ range.
She exhaled through her nose. “Neville, the last ‘experiment’ had me nearly orgasming the next day every time I sneezed. You have no idea how hard it is to pass that off in a professional setting.”
He laughed, dimples deepening. “What I wouldn’t have paid to have seen you fight that. However, that was a minor setback. This is… different.”
She sighed, but there was something about his expression—excited, hopeful, a little bit devious—that intrigued her. “Fine. I’ll be over in ten.”
Hermione set her book and wine aside and rose, stretching before heading to her bedroom to change out of her lounge pants and oversized tee. If she was going to indulge in one of Neville's experiments, she might as well have some fun with it. She pulled on a pair of snug Muggle jeans that hugged her in all the right places and a tight-fitting tee—his favorite. Beneath, she chose black lace lingerie, classic and sexy, something that made her feel powerful. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked effortlessly enticing without trying too hard. Then she took her wand and swished a contraceptive charm over herself. Satisfied, she grabbed her wand and headed toward the Floo.
Hermione stepped out of the Floo into Neville's flat, brushing soot from her shirt. Neville’s flat smelled of fresh soil, parchment, and the faintest whiff of something floral—likely one of his rare plants tucked away in the corners.
Neville had really blossomed into his own. Since Hogwarts, he had filled out in all the right places—broad shoulders, thick arms, and a solid chest that made him look every bit the capable herbologist and adventurer he'd become. His once-round face had sharpened into something undeniably handsome, the angles of his jawline softened only by the warmth in his brown eyes. Today, he was wearing dark slacks and a buttoned-up oxford with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing strong, veined forearms dusted with just enough hair to remind Hermione he was very much a man. He looked downright delectable.
He waved her in, presenting a vial of shimmering liquid with the reverence of a potion master unveiling a masterpiece.
"Alright, what madness has Fred cooked up this time that he wants you to test out?" she teased. "Because we already have pretty fantastic chemistry without enhancements."
Neville chuckled. "Not trying to improve, just… diversify." He waggled the vial. "This, Hermione, is a fantasy realization potion."
Hermione arched an eyebrow while folded her arms, lips pursing. “Explain.”
"It’s designed to transform the drinker into the deepest desire of the one beholding them. The
illusion
of them, at least." Neville’s expression turned more serious. "It’s not a love potion, not coercive—it’s just an aesthetic change. The person stays entirely themselves."
Her interest piqued. “An illusion?”
“Exactly.” Neville said cheerfully. “Only visual, though. Touch and smell remains the same.”
Hermione’s brain immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. "So if someone takes this, they become whatever their partner fantasizes about? That could ruin relationships, Neville."
"That’s why it would only be sold under strict regulations," he reassured her. "Consenting adults only. Limited availability or only produced once a year. - short shelf life.” Neville rubbed the back of his neck. “And more importantly which is why we’re testing it. If it ever gets released.”
Hermione’s mind raced. “That sounds like an ethical minefield.”
“I knew you’d say that.” He grinned. “But you’re still intrigued.”
She hated that he was right. Hermione tapped her chin. The idea
was
intriguing. Maybe her secret crush could be realized. She had no plans to ever act on her ridiculous crush on Charlie Weasley—he was her ex’s brother, he was a womanizer, and they had absolutely nothing in common—but this could be a harmless way to indulge. A one-night, no-strings-attached fantasy.
Charlie Weasley was the very definition of rugged masculinity. He was broad-shouldered, all muscle from years of handling dragons, with a square jaw and striking blue eyes that held the wildness of a man who lived life on the edge. His tousled red hair had just enough curl to it, thick and effortlessly charming, and his roguish grin could melt the resolve of even the most stubborn woman. He was handsome in a rough, powerful way, exuding confidence that made women want to throw their good sense to the wind.
Hermione’s Gryffindor curiosity won out, she was in a safe environment. She trusted Neville completely and to live out a fantasy with Charlie… even imagined. It could be mind-blowing.
“Alright” she agreed. “But we need some ground rules first.”
"Of course." Neville grinned.
Hermione nodded thinking, “Rule one: No saying names. I believe we want to keep our illusions secret. I don’t want you knowing my secret crush and I’m sure you don’t want me to know who you're fantasizing about. So we won’t call each other by our own names or our fantasy’s names. Pet names only.”
“Agreed.” Nevile replied. Then he added, “Rule two: No describing what we see. No talking about skin color, eye color, hair color, whatever. No hints about each other’s illusion is.”
“Right. Good.” Hermion agreed. “How long is the potion supposed to last?”
Neville swallowed, “It should be about an hour. But again, that’s why we’re testing. Seeing the potency and aftereffects. And as usual, if for any reason something feels wrong or is too much, we stop immediately, no pressure. This is supposed to be enjoyable.”
Hermione sighed, “Absolutely. And I’m sure like before when testing any of Fred’s experiments. What happens between us stays between us and any findings we discover are given back to Fred purely clinical and without my name.”
“As always,” Neville smiled.
She shook her head, “I can’t believe you actually helped with this one. Are you getting devious?”
He blushed, “He needed some herbology advice on this one. So I helped.”
Hermione nodded, satisfied with the thoroughness of their guidelines. "Okay then, let’s do this."
She took the vial and smirked. Finally, she’d get to see what it would be like with Charlie Weasley—the unattainable, rugged dragon handler she’d never dare pursue in real life. This was perfect.
They clinked glasses and downed their doses and waited.
Nothing happened.
They stared at each other.
“Well,” Hermione said dryly, “you must be my deepest fantasy. Congratulations.”
Neville snorted. "Same here. Well, this is awkward. Maybe we’re each other’s wildest fantasies."
Hermione burst into laughter. "Oh, Merlin, imagine. What if we took this potion only to find out our deepest desires were just—us?" She waggled a teasing eyebrow at him.
Neville laughed. And then sobered immediately, “Oh,” he murmured, eyes widening. “Oh, you're changing. Wow.”
Hermione’s stomach flipped as Neville stepped closer, his expression hungry in a way she’d never seen before. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers—urgent, devouring, unlike any of their usual trysts.
His hands were sure and firm, his lips demanding, sending a shock of desire straight to her stomach. Hermione moaned into his mouth, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her body reacted instinctively, her hands gripping his shoulders and going down the length of his bare forearms.
And then—she saw it. A faint, inky line on his forearm.
The Dark Mark.
She screamed and shoved him away. "Bloody hell, Neville!" her chest heaving.
“What?” Neville asked, eyes clouded with concern. “Hermione, are you okay?”
It wasn’t Neville’s voice she heard. It wasn’t Charlie’s either.
Her stomach lurched.
She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth.
No.
She had expected Charlie. Not—
"You didn’t turn into who I expected," she blurted out, her voice hoarse.
He blinked. “I didn’t?”
“I never fantasized about this person in my life.” She shook her head as if to clear it hoping he’d morph into Charlie.
Neville blinked at her, processing that. "Huh. That means… you must be more attracted to this person."
Hermione gawked. "That
cannot
be right." She swallowed hard, trying to make sense of it. “This potion… does it reach into your subconscious?”
Neville rubbed his chin. “I suppose it could. Why?”
She exhaled sharply. “Because you’re… not….” Hermione felt her pulse hammering in her throat. “No. No, that’s not—” She cut herself off, taking a shuddering breath. “It’s someone I see every day. Someone I—”
She hesitated, the realization settling over her like a heavy weight.
“Oh, Merlin,” Neville said suddenly, eyes widening. “Am I Harry?”
She let out a sharp laugh. “No.”
“Thank the gods.” Neville seemed relieved, then cocked his head at another thought, “A woman?”
No, you're very much a man.” Hermione hesitated, ”But not one I ever admit to being attracted to."
He cocked his head to the side, “A married man?”
She sighed, “No.”
Neville groaned. “I swear, if I’m Ron—”
With that Hermione burst out laughing, “You’re not Ron!”
“Then it doesn’t matter does it? If you’re attracted to this person…” He peered at her. “Do you want to stop?”
She should say yes. She
should.
But standing in front of her was
Malfoy
. The man she spent all day bickering with. The man who made her pulse spike—with anger, but
perhaps
something darker. The man who had never once been on her ‘acceptable shags’ list, but who now stood before her with tousled platinum hair, storm-grey eyes, and the kind of lean, toned build that suggested decadence hidden beneath tailored suits.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of sculpted chest, the sharp line of his collarbone leading down to something that made her mouth dry. His forearms—Merlin, his forearms—corded with muscle, the sort of arms built for gripping, for holding, for
pinning
.
It was bloody fucking Draco Malfoy in front of her but with
Neville’s
touch,
Neville’s
tenderness, but
Malfoy’s
piercing grey eyes, sharp jawline, and that damned smirk she saw every day at work. And it
did
something to her.
Her breath hitched as she really looked at him—or rather, at Malfoy’s face. His stormy grey eyes, darkened with lust and desire for her. The smirk that made her stomach twist.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. She bit her bottom lip as desire pooled in her stomach. Merlin help her.
“No,” she whispered.
‘Malfoy’ arched a brow. "You sure?"
The smirk was instant. Smug. Infuriating. She wanted to wipe it off his face. She lunged for him, kissing him hard, needing—no, craving—to know what it felt like to take him, to claim him, without the weight of reality pressing in. With Neville, it was always good, always heated, but never primal. Never raw. But this—this was hunger, a wildfire burning through her veins. Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and desperation.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, still familiar, still slightly wavy, but the face before her wasn’t. That didn’t matter. His mouth crashed against hers with a savage urgency, his grip possessive as he tugged her head back, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. The shift between them was electric, a crackling surge of need that licked at her skin like a flame.
She bit his lower lip, hard. Hard enough to make him groan. They’d played with bites before, teasing nips and gentle grazes, but this—this was something else. Something darker. His breath stuttered as he drew back, gray eyes blown wide, black with want. A bead of blood welled on his lip, and she licked her own in anticipation.
“Bite me.” The words tumbled from her mouth, desperate, reckless.
His gaze darkened, if that was even possible, and then his teeth scraped along her neck—taunting, testing—before he bit down, hard.
A choked moan tore from her throat. Her nails raked his shoulders as she arched into him, pleasure and pain blurring into something dizzying. He worked his way lower, his hands impatient, sliding beneath her shirt, tracing the heat of her skin. When he pulled the fabric over her head and tossed it aside, the cool air met her fevered body, but then his mouth was on her collarbone, and the sensation sent a shockwave through her.
Her black lace bra was next, discarded with ease. His fingers dragged the straps down her arms, his touch reverent yet rough. The moment his lips found her breast—tongue circling, teeth scraping—she cried out, back bowing as heat pooled deep in her belly.
“More,” she demanded, voice ragged, nearly feral.
His tongue flicked over her pulse. “As you wish.”
His hands tightened, grip bruising as he lifted her onto the coffee table, the wood cool against her feverish skin. The sound of his voice—the voice she heard all day, clipped and cutting—now rough with pleasure, sent her spiraling.
Jeans. Knickers. Gone in a blur. His own clothes followed just as fast. And then he was above her, pale and lithe, pressing her down, his weight sinking into her. He teased her, dragging himself through the slick heat of her aching core, the anticipation unbearable.
And then he thrust into her, the stretch familiar—but the sight of him, the sound of him, sent her reeling. Her body knew him. But this? This was something else.
Hearing
him
groan, knowing she was the cause, knowing she was making
him
unravel—it sent a wild thrill through her. She’d never been this vocal before, never this demanding. But the illusion, the heat, the raw
wrongness
of it was intoxicating.
They moved together in a relentless, pounding rhythm, his moans low and guttural, his hands claiming her, hers clawing at his back.
“Harder,” she gasped.
He cursed, thrusting into her with a force that made her cry out.
“Oh, fuck, you feel—” He cut off, his voice breaking, and the sound of it—his
voice
—sent her climbing faster than she could imagine.
He groaned, retaliating with a nip to her jaw. Their rhythm turned frantic, desperate, a frenzy of teeth and nails, hands gripping, bodies colliding, the room thick with heat and ragged breath.
It wasn’t just release. It was obliteration.
They devoured each other, reckless and unrelenting, marking skin, testing limits, pushing, pulling, breaking—until they shattered. She came hard, biting his shoulder, her body clenching around him.
His hands tightened on her hips, bruising, as he slammed into her one final time, a strangled groan escaping as he spilled into her, his head dropping against her shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They were slick with sweat, panting, bodies still tangled, the illusion still intact.
Spent, dazed, Hermione collapsed against his chest, her breath shuddering out. He exhaled sharply, his fingers ghosting over her spine.
“Well,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “that was…”
She smirked, still catching her breath. “A revelation.”
She cradled ‘Malfoy’s’ face between her hands, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips, something softer—sweeter. She told herself it didn’t matter that the face she kissed wasn’t truly his, that the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his mouth weren’t
really
Malfoy’s. But gods, she wanted them to be.
It was
his
voice she had heard gasping against her ear,
his
moans that had unraveled her,
his
body moving over her with a ruthless, unrelenting hunger. It was
Malfoy
who had set her alight, dragged her into this reckless, consuming fire. And yet, it wasn’t.
The illusion was still there, holding, deceiving, mocking. And for a fleeting, aching moment, she wished she could believe it. Wished it were real.
Because if it were real, she wouldn’t have to wake up knowing she’d had him without ever
having
him.
He sighed against her lips, his hold tightening for just a breath before softening. She exhaled too, threading her fingers through his hair one last time, committing the moment to memory.
Then, as exhaustion pulled them under, they drifted into a tangled sleep—wrapped around each other, lost in the lie.
When they woke up they were Neville and Hermione respectively. They brewed some tea and decided to compare notes, discussing how the potion worked in practice versus theory. And as much as she had enjoyed it, Hermione pointed out, "This has the potential to destroy relationships, enflame infatuations, and be very dangerous if in the wrong hands, no matter the enforcements and how careful distribution were."
Neville nodded. "Yeah. Maybe it’s not worth pursuing. Too many risks."
She agreed.
Then Neville gave her a sheepish grin. "Well, I think I may now have the nerve to ask my dream lady out for a date."
Hermione chuckled. "You absolutely should."
She left his flat in a daze, stomach tight with a lingering, confusing heat. The next morning at work, Hermione trudged into the Ministry, her mind still reeling from the night before.
She turned to find Draco Malfoy leaning against the doorframe, smirking in that way that had always infuriated her—sharp, knowing, a challenge wrapped in arrogance.
And for the first time, she didn’t roll her eyes.
Instead, something clicked into place.
What if all their fighting had been foreplay? What if she’d been misreading the tension between them all along?
She tilted her head, considering him, considering them.
Maybe it was time to stop wondering. Maybe it was time to find out.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Neville was still in a tailspin after last night’s experiment with Hermione. His mind wouldn’t let it go—replaying every moment, every second of realization.This time, Neville hadn’t just tested one of Weasleys' Wicked Whims’ latest concoctions—he had helped create it, had been part of the process. Fred had included him, trusted his Herbology skills to perfect the infusion, to extract the magical properties of rare botanicals that made the potion work seamlessly. That meant something. Fred could have asked anyone for help, but he had chosen Neville. And for once, Neville wasn’t just tagging along—he was part of something clever, something exciting.More than that, he loved the idea behind it. A potion designed not for tricks or embarrassment, but to reveal something real—your deepest desire, pulled from the depths of your heart and made undeniable. What could be better than that? The chance to see, even for a moment, the thing you longed for most in the world. It was magic at its best, not just spells and potions, but possibility. Maybe even hope.And last night, the potion had told him exactly what he wanted.“Well,” Hermione had said dryly, “you must be my deepest fantasy. Congratulations.”Neville blinked, his heart already pounding. He forced a chuckle, forcing the lump in his throat to settle. "Same here. Well, this is awkward. Maybe we’re each other’s wildest fantasies."He meant it as a joke, but something about saying it aloud made his face heat. Hermione was smart, kind, and one of the bravest people he knew. It wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? There were worse things than finding yourself attracted to someone you already respected. They had great chemistry, obviously. But still—was she really his ultimate fantasy?Hermione burst into laughter, shaking her head. "Oh, Merlin, imagine. What if we took this potion only to find out our deepest desires were just—us?" She waggled a teasing eyebrow at him.Neville chuckled. Maybe in another life, in another time… But before he could finish the thought, a shift in the air made his stomach drop. The potion shimmered in her veins. The shift began.“Oh,” he murmured, eyes widening as he watched Hermione's features blur, the potion taking effect. His breath hitched. “Oh, you're changing. Wow.”Something inside him twisted—anticipation, dread, curiosity—all tangled together. He held his breath as she took shape before his eyes.Her curly hair softened, straightening, the dark brown lightening with auburn highlights. Freckles dusted her cheeks, delicate and familiar. Her deep tan faded, skin softening into something paler.Neville’s pulse roared in his ears. Susan Bones.Susan was steady. Reliable. Strong without having to prove it. And yet, there was an easy kind of fire in her, a quiet kind of warmth he’d always imagined would feel like home. He swallowed hard, his head light with the realization of it all.
This was my chance.
Before he could talk himself out of it—before he could let doubt creep in—before Hermione finished changing into Susan, he reached for her, closing the space between them.His fingers threaded into the actual thick curls from Hermione’s true form, but he didn’t care, he knew it was only an illusion—he could pretend it was a tangled mess from hours in bed, tousled and wild from being with him. His hand found the curve of her waist, hesitant at first, then firmer as need overpowered thought. Warmth. Softness. A sharp inhale against his mouth as she stiffened for just a second, then—Merlin—she was kissing him back. A rush of heat flooded through him, and he lost himself in the moment, hands in her hair, heart hammering, lips moving in a way that was almost too easy. Like it had been waiting to happen.And then she moaned into his mouth. It wasn't Hermione’s moan, it was hers .The sound sent a shock straight through him, setting his nerves alight, making his grip tighten. Her arms looped around his shoulders, fingers dragging down the length of his bare forearms. He felt the warmth of her palms, the press of her body against his, her urgency matching his own. She wanted this. She wanted him.His heart pounded wildly, fingers flexing at her waist, pulling her closer. The way she melted into him—it was more than he had ever dared hope for. Susan. Finally.Then there was a sharp gasp—a moment of horrified realization—and suddenly, he was shoved away, hard . He stumbled back, breathless, barely able to process what had happened before a voice—sharp, shocked, furious—rang in his ears. "Bloody hell, Neville!"But it wasn’t Susan’s voice. His eyes snapped to Hermione. His breath came fast, his chest heaving as he stared. His mind screeched to a halt. The woman in front of him— wasn’t Susan . His heart hammered against his ribs as he took an unsteady step back, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. His heart slammed against his ribs as he took an unsteady step back, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. He could have sworn— he could have sworn —she had been Susan. She was changing into Susan. The auburn-haired witch he’d spent months convincing himself he wanted and was working the nerve to ask out. The girl he’d admired from afar, telling himself she was exactly what he needed. But it wasn’t Susan standing there. It was Ginny Weasley .His pulse stalled.“What?” Neville blinked, his mind sluggish with confusion. His stomach twisted as he took another step back, his eyes darting over her features, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he thought he had seen.Susan could look a bit like a Weasley cousin—he supposed. She had the same fair skin, the dusting of freckles, and, yes, red hair. But Susan’s was darker, a deeper auburn, not the vibrant, fire-lit shade that stood out in a crowd. Not like Ginny’s.His breath hitched.It wasn’t just the color—it was everything . The tilt of her mouth. The sharpness of her eyes. The fire that burned in them, fierce and unwavering.Susan was a safe dream. Ginny was a wildfire. And he’d spent years pretending he didn’t want to burn. And he knew without a doubt it was Ginny who he’d been truly been wanting to kiss.His stomach dropped like a stone.But before he could even begin to process the weight of it, Hermione's voice cut through the fog. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wide. "You didn’t turn into who I expected," she blurted, her voice hoarse.Neville barely registered the words, his heart still hammering, his body still reeling. He swallowed thickly. “I didn’t?” Neither did you , he wanted to retort, but the words caught in his throat. “I never fantasized about this person in my life.” She shook her head as if trying to clear it, as if some mistake had been made.But he had. Ginny had been his first real crush, a constant presence in the back of his mind, lingering on the edges of possibility. She was a year younger, but that never mattered—not when she had this spark, this fire that made her impossible to ignore. She was fierce even when she was small, standing up to her brothers without hesitation, hexing them when necessary, laughing like she had secrets she wouldn’t share. He had admired her from afar long before he ever worked up the nerve to ask her to the Yule Ball.
And she said yes.
That night, he felt weightless, like he had been handed something extraordinary. He practiced his dance steps meticulously, terrified he’d stumble, determined to impress her. When the night finally arrived, Ginny was radiant . Hair shining in the glow of the Great Hall, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright with mischief. She twirled under the floating candles, and for the first time, Neville thought—maybe. Maybe this was the start of something.But for Ginny, it had only ever been a friendly favor. A means to an end. A way to attend when she couldn’t go with the person she truly wanted. He was a placeholder. A kindhearted boy she liked, but not the one who made her heart race. She had smiled at him, laughed with him, but her gaze had always drifted elsewhere. He should have seen it then—how easily she laughed with others, how her eyes sought out someone else. Harry. After that, everything shifted. Ginny blossomed, and suddenly, everyone noticed. She wasn’t just Ron’s little sister anymore—she was bold and sharp, fearless in a way that drew people in. She was no longer the quiet first-year scribbling in a diary but a woman who could command an entire room with just a smirk. She started dating—Michael Corner first, then Dean Thomas. Each time, Neville convinced himself it didn’t sting, that he was happy for her.But in truth, she had become untouchable . Out of reach. Out of his league. But Neville knew better now. He had spent years convincing himself that Ginny was out of reach, unattainable, that he needed someone easier, someone quieter, someone safe. And that’s why he thought of Susan. She was a mirror version of Ginny—similar in ways that made it easy to pretend, but never truly the same. Because the truth was, no one had ever measured up. And now he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. It was Ginny. It was always Ginny. And the potion had just proved it.It was obvious to Neville what Hermione must be seeing. "Huh. That means… you must be more attracted to this person."She gawked. "That cannot be right." Her voice was too sharp, too certain. As if by saying it forcefully enough, she could make it true. She swallowed hard, trying to make sense of it. “This potion… does it reach into your subconscious?”It was so odd seeing Ginny—no, Hermione—looking alarmed, almost scared, trying to reconcile what she was seeing. But he knew the feeling. Merlin, did he know the feeling. He rubbed his chin. “I suppose it could. Why?” It obviously reached down to his soul and gave him Ginny.She exhaled sharply. “Because you’re… not….” Hermione felt her pulse hammering in her throat. “No. No, that’s not—” She cut herself off, taking a shuddering breath. “It’s someone I see every day. Someone I—”Neville’s stomach twisted again. Could it be Ginny’s old flame? Could she be seeing—? “Oh, Merlin,” he blurted, eyes widening in sudden horror. “Am I Harry?”A sharp laugh escaped Hermione, too quick, too high-pitched. “No.”Neville let out a relieved breath. “Thank the gods.” Then a thought struck him. He cocked his head, eyeing her carefully. "A woman?"Hermione hesitated, then shook her head. “No, you’re very much a man.” Something about her tone made his pulse tick up again. "But not one I ever admit to being attracted to," she added.Silence stretched between them.Neville searched her face, the flicker of unease behind her usual sharp exterior. Hermione Granger never stumbled over her words, never looked unsure. But right now, she looked like she was standing at the edge of something she hadn’t expected and wasn’t ready to name.He cocked his head. "A married man?"She sighed. "No."Neville groaned, rubbing his temples. "I swear, if I’m Ron—” The idea sent a cold shudder down his spine. It wouldn’t be incest per se, but that might be a version too twisted for Neville to work with. Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.That did it. Hermione burst out laughing, the sound breaking the tension like a glass shattering against stone. “You’re not Ron!”Neville exhaled heavily, shaking his head, but even as he chuckled along with her, his own pulse was still unsteady. His mind was still back there—on Ginny. Ginny, whose touch still lingered like an ache in his bones. Ginny, who he had wanted—really, truly wanted—in a way he hadn’t even admitted to himself before tonight. Ginny, whose lips had been on his, whose moan had wrecked him, whose body had fit against him so perfectly that he was already itching to feel it again. His stomach curled tight with the need to pour himself back into that kiss. To relive it, sink into it, own it. And suddenly, he needed to move. He needed to do something before he drowned in the weight of this revelation—before his own want became unbearable.His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax. He glanced at Hermione—still watching him, still unsettled, still trying to wrestle her own thoughts into something manageable.She looked as off-kilter as he felt. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe they were both standing at the edge of something neither of them had been ready to see.His lips parted before he could think better of it. "Then it doesn’t matter, does it?" he murmured.Hermione’s laughter faded.He watched her carefully, his gaze searching, weighing the unspoken answer in her eyes before she even said it. “Do you want to stop?”The words hung in the air, delicate and dangerous, like the moment before a thread snaps.And for the first time in his life, Neville realized—He didn’t.Hermione’s breath hitched, her lips parting slightly. Then, so softly it was almost a confession. “No.”A slow, deliberate pulse of heat curled through him.But still—he needed to hear it again. Needed her certainty before he let himself fall. Before he poured himself back into the only thing in the world that made sense in this moment. His voice was lower, rougher this time. "You sure?"Because the second she said yes, he was going to feast on Ginny, standing right in front of him.But instead, she lunged for him. Neville barely had a second to brace before her mouth crashed against his—hot, urgent, demanding. It sent a shock through him, a live wire sparking straight to his core. Which is why he let himself lose control.Her hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, as if she needed to devour him just as desperately as he needed to drown in her. Their mouths clashed, teeth scraping, breath coming in ragged gasps between frantic kisses. Neville tightened his grip, his fingers digging into the curve of her waist, and she responded immediately—arching into him, pressing herself flush against him. She felt like Hermione, all the soft, strong lines of her, the way she fit against him so perfectly, the way she moved against him like she already knew exactly how to push him to the edge.But his eyes told him otherwise. His eyes told him it was Ginny.A wildfire burned through his veins, blistering away restraint, leaving nothing but raw, primal need. It had never been like this before. With Hermione, it had always been good, always heated, but never this.Never devouring. Never reckless. The shift between them was electric, like a storm crackling through the air, drawn to the heat between them, feeding it.Her hands raked down his arms, nails pressing just enough to make him hiss, and then—she bit him.Neville groaned, the sound guttural, tearing from his throat as sharp teeth clamped onto his lower lip—hard. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to make him ache for more.They’d played with bites before—teasing, testing—but this? This was something else. Something like playing too close to the fire. Something that sent his control careening off a cliff.He pulled back just slightly, eyes locking onto hers—Ginny’s eyes, stormy and wicked and blown wide with want. His breath came heavy, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls.A bead of blood welled on his lip, and she—Merlin, she licked her own in anticipation, like she wanted to taste it.
Fuck.
His whole body went tight, heat curling in his stomach, in his chest, in every inch of him.Then—her voice, a whisper, breathless, desperate. "Bite me."The words sent a bolt of lightning through him, sharp and searing, like a spell he had no chance of resisting. Then Neville stopped thinking altogether.That night was a blur of unwieldy fantasies and reckless indulgence, every moment seared into his memory like the remnants of a fever dream. It was mind-blowing, a collision of want and need so intense it left him reeling. But it wasn’t real.It was an illusion, a stolen moment with someone he had never actually touched. A glimpse into something forbidden, something he had spent years convincing himself he could never have.But the potion had torn through him, exposing a truth he could no longer ignore.And what struck him now—what settled in his chest like a slow, dawning realization—was that Ginny wasn’t with Harry anymore.She was single. Independent. Untethered.No longer the girl watching Harry Potter from across the Great Hall, no longer the woman fighting alongside him, waiting for him to see her the way she had once seen him. Their story had already been written, and it had ended.Not in heartbreak. Not in catastrophe. Just in the quiet way some things wither when left untended. Ginny had moved on. She was no one’s second half now—she was whole.A Holyhead Harpies Chaser. A star. A force to be reckoned with. Her name was chanted in stadiums, her face printed in glossy Quidditch magazines. She was famous. She was fierce.And her life was nothing like Harry’s anymore. Maybe it never had been. Harry was an Auror, his days spent hunting Dark wizards, buried in endless missions, drowning in duty. Ginny’s life was fast-paced, free-moving, a whirlwind of matches and travel and victory.Somewhere along the way, between the distance and the demands, between the unsaid words and the nights spent apart, their love had faded—not in a fiery explosion, but in the slow, inevitable way of things left too long in separate corners of the world.It wasn’t tragic. It was just life. And now Ginny was here. Single. Unattached. Untouchable. Except—was she?Neville’s breath came slow and deep, his heart still hammering from the memory of her—the illusion, the reality, the truth that had been hiding inside him all along.Last night, he had made up his mind—he was going to ask her on a date. After coming so close to holding her in his arms, he couldn’t let the chance slip away. Even if it ended in disaster, he had to try.It was a reckless plan, really. He should be focusing on his work, on shadowing the Herbology professor at Hogwarts, proving he had what it took to teach. It was the logical next step. But his thoughts kept drifting back to her—the sharp wit, the easy confidence, the way her eyes sparked with something just shy of amusement when they talked.The thing was, he’d never actually spent time with her alone. Not once. Their interactions had always been in group settings—someone’s birthday, a night out at the pub with the old Gryffindor lot, the odd Quidditch match where their circles overlapped. They got on well enough, but never in a way that suggested this was even an option.Which meant that this? It was going to take her completely by surprise.He’d debated sending an owl, something casual—just a quick note suggesting they catch up. Nothing too formal, nothing that could make her feel cornered. But in the end, that felt too easy—too impersonal. An owl wouldn’t capture the weight of it, the risk he was taking. It wouldn’t give him the chance to see her reaction, to gauge if there was even a flicker of interest in her expression.So instead, he found himself heading straight for the Holyhead Harpies’ training grounds, telling himself he was just there to watch practice. Just catching up with old teammates, seeing how the team was shaping up this season. No ulterior motive.Except they would both know that was a lie.The pitch was alive with movement when he arrived, the scent of damp grass and broom polish thick in the air. The familiar sounds of a Quidditch team in motion surrounded him—the sharp whistle of their coach, the whoosh of broomsticks slicing through the sky, the occasional shout of a player calling for a pass.And there she was.He spotted her instantly, weaving through the air like she belonged there—because she did. All speed and precision, effortless yet calculated. It was one thing to see her fly during matches, surrounded by a roaring crowd, but this? Watching her train, seeing the sharp turns, the instinctive movements, the sheer control? It was different.He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching.If she noticed him, she gave no sign. Not a glance, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Not that he expected her to. She was in the zone, locked into the rhythm of the drill, and he had no intention of disrupting that. He wasn’t here to steal her focus or make a scene.So he waited.Settling onto the bench just outside the pitch, he let himself watch. The way she dodged, cut through the air like it was second nature, muscles tensed at just the right moments. It was hypnotic, really. Not just because it was her, but because it was a masterclass in skill.The minutes stretched, but he didn’t mind. He’d wait for a break, for the moment when the team paused to regroup or the coach called them in. If she wanted to ignore him, fine. He wasn’t in any rush.Besides, he had a feeling she’d be surprised to see him sitting there when she finally did.The drills wrapped up, and players began descending, slinging their brooms over their shoulders, talking and laughing as they walked toward the locker room. And then—finally—she spotted him.An arched brow. A slow smirk. "Didn’t think you were the Quidditch-watching type," she called, voice light but edged with curiosity as she closed the distance, broom slung over one shoulder.He pushed off the railing, keeping his expression easy. "I make exceptions.""Do you?" She stopped in front of him, eyes flickering with amusement. "Well, if you’re here for an autograph, I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line."He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Not quite."A pause. A heartbeat of hesitation.This was the moment—the point of no return. He could walk away, play it off, pretend this was just another friendly run-in. But he hadn’t come all this way for nothing."I was actually hoping you’d let me take you out on a date, tonight if you’re not too busy," he said, keeping his tone casual, as if he hadn’t spent half the night replaying the way “she” had looked at him—looked at him—in a way she never had before. "Figured I was long overdue to ask for a second one—seeing as our first was technically the Yule Ball."That got her.The teasing glint in her eyes flickered, something unreadable passing over her expression. A shift in the air between them."Oh?" Her voice was quieter now, less flippant.Maybe this was a mistake. She was caught completely off guard. He could see it in the way her fingers tightened slightly around her broom, the way her weight shifted just a fraction, as if she were steadying herself. Perhaps he should have sent an owl instead, given her space to contemplate it on her own rather than putting her on the spot.But last night had felt so real . But it wasn’t her. The thought of her ever truly looking at him like that had emboldened him to come here. Because, if he was being honest, not once had she ever given any hint that she saw him that way. What the hell was he thinking?She shifted her broom from one shoulder to the other, tilting her head slightly. "That was ages ago.""Doesn’t mean I can’t cash in on a long-overdue second date," he countered smoothly, masking the sudden spike of doubt creeping in. Then, because he had to be a gentleman—because he wasn’t about to trap her in this—he offered her an easy way out. "Unless you’ve got an expiration date on these things?"She let out a slow exhale, her smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, but he could see the gears turning behind her sharp eyes. He’d caught her off guard, and for once, she wasn’t entirely sure how to play this."That’s bold," she murmured, watching him.He shrugged, keeping his stance relaxed despite the way his heart was hammering against his ribs. "You’re worth the risk."Another pause. She tapped a finger against the handle of her broom, gaze flicking over him, weighing something.And then—after what felt like an eternity—she nodded. "Alright then," she said at last, voice unreadable but intrigued. "A date. Tonight."He didn’t let his relief show— much ."I’ll make it count," he promised. She hummed, still watching him like she was waiting for him to slip up. "You’d better. Just let me wash up and I’ll meet you outside the pitch."Then, with a wink, she turned on her heel and strode toward the locker room, leaving him standing there, slightly stunned—heart still racing, a stupid grin tugging at his lips.