Title: Quick Study

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Ginny/Hermione

Rating: NC-17

Words: 1343

Summary: Sometimes cravings can be too hard to fight, rumbling stomachs and public places be damned.

She really should have been working on her Charms essay. It was due in two weeks, after all, and she hadn't even started it, which was most unlike her, not to mention the concept of casting Charms using her left hand was absolutely fascinating.

She really should have been at dinner with the others. She'd only managed to eat half a sandwich at lunch, she'd been so distracted by their Potions assignment, and she'd actually been tempted to borrow one of Ron's sugar quills, she'd been so hungry in History Of Magic.

She really should have been more worried about being caught. The majority of the school may have been in the Great Hall, feasting and chatting and whatnot, but there were usually a few students loitering around the library at this time of the evening, not to mention Madam Pince.

She really should not have been standing in the furthermost corner of the library with her legs spread, arms braced against the bookcase in front of her, biting her tongue in a rather futile effort to keep herself from whimpering, and pressing back against Ginny's fingers.

She really should have been putting up something of a fight.

But Ginny was leaning against her, hand moving between Hermione's legs from behind, lips pressed to her shoulder, and making the most delightful cooing sound, and Hermione really should have been leaving, but there wasn't a single part of her that wanted to.

Instead she leant further forward, hair falling over her eyes, blocking out the sight of stacked books and endless pine, although nothing could keep the musty smell of endless generations of students pouring over endlessly old books from invading her senses. Not even the scent of sex and sensation that currently surrounded them.

Ginny's fingers moved in small circles over the cotton of her underwear, tracing the outline of exactly where Hermione needed them to be; proof that Ginny was in a playful mood, and that Hermione would almost certainly be missing dinner. She hoped distractedly that Harry would think to bring her something for later, a roll, or maybe a nice slice of cake wrapped in a napkin, but then Ginny's free hand roughly shoved Hermione's skirt up and around her waist and all thoughts of food or otherwise flew from Hermione's mind.

Her forehead bumped lightly against the books in front of her as Hermione bent almost double, and she could hear Ginny giggle lightly, the sound low and husky and ridiculously addictive. Ginny's fingers tugged on her underwear, pulling it aside, teasing at the flesh underneath, and Hermione found herself wishing she'd worn something different, that she owned something different from the sensible briefs in sensible colours; Ginny made her want to wear saucy colours in skimpy styles, French knickers with pretty little ruffles, thongs with ties at the sides that could be tugged loose with ease, and that scared her far more than the idea of being caught in such a compromising position. Ginny made her feel wanted, and Ginny made her feel sexy, and Ginny made her feel like she could be more.

As if reading her mind, Ginny's free hand slipped under her waistband, twanging the elastic suddenly enough to make Hermione jolt. "In the way," she purred against Hermione's back. Her hands moved away abruptly and Hermione couldn't hold in her hiss of shock and want.

And then Ginny's hands were grabbing her underwear, yanking it down, and Hermione had to look back over her shoulder, wide eyed and desperate, because they were in public.

But Ginny only smiled, a slow and sensual grin, just one side of her mouth quirking, and then she knelt down, lifting first one of Hermione's legs, then the other, before tossing the underwear onto their pile of bags and robes, and, God, Hermione's skirt was still tangled around her waist, and she couldn't bring herself to tug it down. Didn't want to.

Ginny took only a moment to let her gaze rake over the sight in front of her, although it felt longer than an eternity, longer than Hermione felt should be healthy; exposed and blushing, legs trembling, damp and needing.

Then Ginny was pressing against her again, hips against Hermione's backside, perfect breasts against her back, hair cascading over both their shoulders, and Hermione felt her head droop, her eyes close, positively vibrating at the thought of what was to come next.

Ginny wasn't one to disappoint, had never disappointed Hermione in any way, and her hands curled around Hermione's thighs, squeezing and massaging and spreading, and Hermione allowed her legs to be gently pushed further apart. She felt Ginny lean back only as far as she needed to slip one hand between them, and then her fingers were sliding forward through Hermione's legs, back to where they, in Hermione's humble opinion, belonged.

Hermione whined softly at the first touch, fingers sliding over the moist flesh, light as air and just as insubstantial; she pushed back, gritting her teeth against a groan when Ginny's fingers didn't retreat. Ginny loved to tease, loved Hermione's impatience, but she seemed to understand the urgency behind Hermione's frantic movements, because her fingers began to move in a steady pattern; up, down, press, massage, up, down, press, trace and circle, press, massage, up, down. Hermione couldn't help but urge her on, rolling her hips and panting, burning to moan, to voice her desire, clinging to her decorum by a thread.

And then Ginny was moving back, her other hand slipping down and forwards to join the first, nails a light scrape of a tease, and Hermione sucked in a shallow breath and begged herself not to wail, and then Ginny's fingers were slipping inside, stretching her with ease, the perfect pressure, the perfect sin, and Hermione had only to imagine herself leant against the bookcase, skirt rucked up around her waist, socks pulled up to her knees, sensible shoes and a perfectly knotted tie, sweating and dizzy and wanton and decadent and, oh, she was spinning and almost choking on her own need to scream, on her own need for silence, and throbbing, and pulsing around Ginny's fingers, pleasure blackening her vision and guilt a beautiful embrace as she rode her orgasm and floated back to reality.

Ginny was there, arms wrapped loosely around her, whispering and waiting for her breath to even.

Struggling against her knees' desire to buckle, Hermione managed to straighten up, and Ginny slipped back, eyes bright and grinning lazily as she watched Hermione smooth her skirt down and attempt to arrange herself to look something other than thoroughly debauched.

"Still hungry?" Ginny asked, her tone sweetly innocent, yet darkly perverse.

Hermione roused a rather weak haughty glare, the kind that always made Ginny grin wildly, though she couldn't resist returning that smile. "I could eat," she shrugged.

"Well, let's see if everyone's still in the Hall," Ginny replied, and Hermione frowned, because she'd spent enough time with the Weasleys to recognise that particular smile, and enough time with Ginny to know that while she liked to do people favours, she liked to have them returned as well.

And then she noticed Ginny not-so subtly slipping Hermione's discarded underwear into her book bag, and had to fight the cold shiver that slipped down her spine and the blush that flamed on her cheeks.

"If you think for one moment that I'm -" she began, but Ginny was already walking away, bag and robe slung over her shoulder.

"Come on, or we'll completely miss the main course. Dobby said there'd be Shepherd's Pie."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, tugging at her skirt. Her stomach rumbled, and she was in two minds as to whether she wanted dinner to be over or not. Her skirt may not have been as short as Lavender Brown's, but she was suddenly very aware of where it skimmed the back of her thighs.

Too aware.

With a growl, she grabbed her bag and robe and chased after Ginny, head held high and praying for no sudden breezes.