Chapter 3: Paddling the Pink Canoe

Hermione bundled her hair in her hands and let out a quiet scream of frustration. Then she thought better of that, took her wand and uttered a soundproofing spell around herself, and screamed for real, pounding the sofa angrily.

Harry had seen her doing… that. How could she have been so careless? Had she performed her disillusionment charm wrong? Or had she been in such a hurry to get down between her legs, and spent so long down there, that the charm had worn off? And why had Harry chosen to come down into the Common Room at 2 in the morning, anyway?

For the same reason you did, she realized. Her mind conjured up a recollection of Harry sitting there, stroking his—his—

Hermione let out a high-pitched "Eep!" And threw her head back into her arms.

It really could be worse, she tried to reassure herself. It could have been just you that he caught. But instead, we've caught each other. So we'll just never speak of it. It'll become the unspoken thing. That's fine. We've kept things to ourselves before. But nothing like this! Maybe I could perform an Obliviate on myself. And Harry, too, if he wants it.

"But will he want it?" she suddenly muttered to herself.

Yes, of course Harry would want it. He wouldn't want to have that awful memory in his head, the memory of Hermione, coming completely undone and pleasuring herself in the Common Room, to be reminded of that every time they were there.

Would he?

And—she caught herself—would she?

She had never seen, well, she had never seen a man's thing before. Harry's was her first encounter with the infamous, secret male organ and she had found herself—more shocked than anything, but intrigued, as usual, now that she sat alone in the aftermath of it all, trying to get the strength up to go back up to bed.

And the fact that she had climaxed just as she had seen him there, in the middle of pleasuring himself… Although the surprise and horror had scarred the experience, it had been one of the most intense orgasms she'd ever had… Did that mean anything?

No, she told herself. No, they were just the hormones. It's just like looking at pornography, it's a visual aid, it's bound to change something, it doesn't mean I'm attracted to Harry.

But didn't boys look at pornography because they were attracted to the women there? And because that heightened their experience? Had Hermione just experienced a similar stimulus?

She got up of the couch, knees still quite wobbly, and went to the armchair where Harry had sat. On the floor beside it was the magazine he had been looking at.

Hermione leafed through Busty Witches curiously. She wondered where Harry had got it; she hadn't figured him as the type to subscribe to publications such as these. But then again, she didn't know anything about the seamier side of Harry Potter, nor did he know anything about hers. But—she corrected herself—now, for better or for worse, they did.

She looked down at the naked women in the magazine, some of them winking flirtatiously up at her, all of them in provocative poses, some pleasuring themselves like Hermione had done just minutes ago. The magazine fell open at one page in particular, suggesting that it had been open there for significantly longer: an image of a women sliding along a broomstick, pleasuring herself with her wand at the same time.

Hermione looked at it, fascinated. If she squinted, unfocused her vision slightly, the women bore a remarkable resemblance to… her…

She sat in the armchair, flipping through the rest of the magazine. After all, it wasn't often she had one of these in her hands; she wanted to purvey it to her satisfaction, like any book she came across.

She was so engrossed in watching the naked women dance and gyrate on the pages that she didn't hear the light fall of bare feet on the carpet behind her.

"Oh!" said a small, high voice.

Hermione slapped the magazine closed and practically threw it onto the floor as she whirled around.

"Ginny!" she almost screamed, "what on earth are you doing up?"

Ginny shrugged. "Couldn't sleep, fancied a cup of tea by the fire." She waggled her flaming red eyebrows suggestively. "Guess I don't have to ask what you're doing up."

Hermione blushed furiously. "It's not what it looks like!"

"Hermione, it's okay!" said Ginny soothingly. "I know it's awkward, but you're not the only one, believe me."

"Ginny, I wasn't doing—whatever you think I was doing!"

Ginny patted Hermione's shoulder. "Hermione, darling, you don't have to pretend. But if you want to act like none of the girls here paddle the pink canoe in their down time, you can. I'll just get my cup of tea and leave you to it."

"Paddle the—?"

"And your secret is safe with me," said Ginny, taking her mug from the cabinet by the fire and getting her wand out. "Of course, I had my, well, my suspicions, and it's obviously not the way you wanted this to happen, for me to find out, but…" Hot steaming liquid shot out of her wand and into the cup and she stirred it slowly. "I want you to know that it doesn't change the way I see you."

Baffled, Hermione just stared at Ginny, who was smiling in a comforting manner.

"Oh, Hermione," said Ginny, "for next time, you might want to find a magazine that's better suited to people of your inclination. This one's obviously for boys; I've seen Ron, and even Bill, using them. I hear Sapphic Suppleness is a good one for girls, though!"

With one last pat of Hermione's shoulder and a knowing wink, Ginny slipped away back upstairs with her mug of hot tea, leaving Hermione, once again, completely mortified and sure the floor under her feet and the armchair under her bum was falling away into a void of oblivion.

She groaned. This was, without a doubt, the worst night of her life. All she had wanted to do was explore herself a little, venture into a rare bit of masturbation by the fire when everyone else was in bed. Now, Harry—her best friend—had seen her in her most intimate state. He probably thought she was some sex-obsessed lunatic now, after all the talk she had done earlier that day, and how fixated she had been during the lesson. And Ginny had found her post-orgasm, sweaty and near-unrobed, caught her red-handed looking eagerly through a magazine full of naked women, sure that Hermione Granger, loveable bookworm, stuck-up loner, and complete virgin, was attracted to girls.

Which, speaking of—no, she wasn't. Was she?

Hermione frowned. While looking through the magazine she had definitely been interested in what she was seeing… but was she attracted to them? She supposed some of them had a certain… allure to them, maybe, but would she—if given the chance—enter a relationship with any of them?

She couldn't deny that she could certainly appreciate attractive females. Ginny—as she was the first one that came to her mind—in particular had grown into a very pretty girl. Katie Bell, she supposed, was attractive in a conventional way—a way that meant all the boys gawped when she happened to bend over to pick up her quill. And certainly, it was more common that women could be more emotionally sensitive—not always, but quite often—and definitely more in touch with their feelings and willing to discuss them than boys like Harry or Ron. And that was certainly an appealing personality trait to Hermione, who very rarely had the opportunity for a nice heart-to-heart.

She shook her head and stood up again, deciding that this was not the time to wonder about this. She was emotional, shell-shocked, and not thinking straight. It was time to finally go to bed, fall face-first onto her pillow, and sleep for all of Saturday, no matter what she had told Ron. Perhaps, if she was still feeling embarrassed the next day, she might drop out of school, change her name, and fly to another country where Harry and Ginny would never be able to find her.

At least she could be relatively sure neither Harry nor Ginny would tell anybody. This wasn't some random student or a Slytherin with a grudge. These were her friends—good, considerate people. This night would stay between them, she was sure.

Hermione picked up the magazine absentmindedly, not sure what to do with it. She ambled upstairs to the girl's dorm and slipped into bed, sliding the magazine under her school things on her bedside table.

Then, she fell into a deep sleep. Her dreams were vivid, almost lucid, that night. In them, she was back in the Common Room, watching Harry stroke his surprisingly thick penis, his eyes fixed on the magazine. Then, his eyes flickered to meet hers. But he didn't strop stroking. He kept going, staring deeply at her, his lips quavering, his eyebrows rising and falling with each breath. He panted, stroking faster, pumping now, his member glistening in the firelight. Hermione got up off the couch, went over to him, and knelt by his legs.

She reached out, intending to help Harry, as she had helped him with homework, spell work, with countless things so many times, because that's what she did—helped her friend, nothing strange or scandalous about it.

Her fingers brushed his warm, throbbing cock—

—Hermione's eyes snapped open and she woke, her arm stretched out above her, grasping for something that wasn't there.

She lowered her arm, shaking. It was still dark, but the sun was rising. She could hear, however, soft noises coming from the other side of the dormitory. Lavender, breathing heavily in bed, quietly pleasuring herself. This was a regular occurrence, and Hermione subtly drew her bed hangings more securely closed, to shut out the sounds of Lavender's early morning routine.

But now that Hermione was awake, the dream fading fast from her mind, she realized that she herself was, once again, damp, hot and flushed, her arousal overpowering her exhaustion.

She tried to go back to sleep, she really did. But Harry's cock was still fresh in her mind, renewed by the dream, which she tried to cling onto now, to imagine herself touching it, stroking it, doing other things to it… Lavender's breath was coming faster now, and she whimpered a little. Hermione closed her eyes firmly, trying to shut it out. The images from the magazine floated by in her head, miniature naked women dancing around Harry's engorged member, strutting about, pushing themselves up against it, licking it, rubbing it, doing things that Hermione now wished she could participate in, to do something, anything, to enter that world, the world of nakedness, or pleasure, of raw humanness that she had never before experienced, not with anyone, but now that she had seen Harry like that, and he had seen her…

Hermione rolled over in bed. This did absolutely nothing to stop the Harry in her head from pumping his cock harder than ever, still looking right into her eyes with those startingly green eyes.

Slowly, her eyes still firmly shut, Hermione slipped her hand under the covers, between her legs, and started to—as Ginny might say—paddle the pink canoe.