Hermione

Hermione took a deep breath, the muggle city air tasting of exhaust fumes and distant rain. Her sleek bob, a product of Harry's meticulous training, felt like a costume against her skin. The lingerie set, so elegant in the privacy of Dudley's home, now seemed shockingly flimsy under the orange glow of the streetlights.

Every car that passed slowed just a fraction, its headlights sweeping over her exposed thighs and the lace cupping her breasts. She tried to recall the notes she'd mentally taken, the notes Harry had provided on posture and proxemics. Shoulders back, chin up. A slight, knowing smile playing on her lips. But her mind, that old, relentless part of her, kept whispering that this was mad, impossible.

A sleek, black sedan pulled to the curb, its engine a low, expensive purr. The window slid down with a hydraulic sigh. Hermione steeled herself, ready to launch into her pitch. "Looking for a good time," she'd rehearsed, "I am Hermione, your intellectual delight..." But the face that turned toward her from the driver's seat sent a bolt of ice through her veins.

It's Mr. Henderson, her father's direct supervisor at the dental practice. The man who'd come to their house for a barbecue last summer, the one who'd praised her test results without knowing her witch background and told her she was a credit to her parents. His face, usually framed in a genial, slightly condescending smile, was now slack with a kind of hungry disbelief. His eyes, the color of weak tea, roamed over her body, lingering on the sheer fabric of her bra.

Hermione's mind went blank. All the training, all the seductive words, evaporated. She was just Hermione Granger, standing half-naked on a street corner in front of her father's boss.

"Get in," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was rough, stripped of the usual friendly ness.

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