Madam Irma Pince, long and lean, wiry and aged, thinner than the finest vellum, stalked through the library precisely at midnight, not only to catch young troublemakers, but to also organize the shelves — both literally and figuratively. She would begin at one end and slowly wind her way through the stacks — never skipping a row in her travels.
She wore thin crepe soles and softer robes and padded around far quieter than that vile Mrs. Norris ever could. So it was no surprise that she would be able to sneak up on one Miss Hermione Granger.
She was resting on a cushion on the floor between stacks, piles of books were stacked around her, and a particularly large tome was balanced gently between her cross-legged knees. Her hair slipped down in tiny curls to her breasts, tangling in the soft fibres of her robe, moving slightly with each breath as she continued reading, biting her full lower lip slightly.
Irma watched her, although she could not explain why. She began to see the girl who had once marched eagerly into the library as soon as she could that first year as, instead, an elegant young woman, about to go out into the world.
She leaned against the stack quietly, still watching Hermione, and still not knowing why. Any other student would be scurrying back to his or her dormitory, cheeks still flushed with the vicious scalding of her tongue, but Hermione...
Perhaps there was something about her that reminded Irma about herself, the slim fingers stroking the thin vellum delicately, the eyes lighting up, her lips gently bitten as she read a particularly interesting passage.
Hermione gasped faintly, and Irma stiffened against the bookcase, convinced that Hermione had seen her, then pressed even closer against it as she realized that Hermione Granger, the only girl in all of Hogwarts that Irma not only respected but enjoyed, had one hand flipping through the book, and the other hand between her legs.
She closed her eyes, briefly, supporting herself against the bookcase because she was convinced her legs would give out, and bit her lower lip tightly. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and looked up at the top of the stacks, pointedly not looking at Hermione, and counted rows.
One, two, three, four, and...oh.
Oh.
Oh.
Irma knew the location of every book in the library. She knew which row, stack, and shelf each book belonged on, and she knew whether or not it was there. She knew which rows Hermione was sitting between, which stack she was next to, and...
Restricted Section. Magic For People Of Majority rows. The Tantric For The Singular collection.
Irma easily knew where each book was, but this particular row, this particular stack, the only shelf that contained Tantric For The Singular Witch and Hermione was next to it, with a book in her lap and a hand between her legs, and...and...
Irma quickly glanced at the book again, and had to close her eyes. It was that book, the book she had spent hours pouring over when she was Hermione's age, the book that provided the greatest pleasure and the maximum knowledge for any woman who spent enough time in the library to find it, and Hermione had it on her lap and a hand between her legs and was...was...
Irma bit her lip again, suppressing a moan as the memories of the hours she spent in that row, next to that stack, with that book from that shelf doing what Hermione was doing, a hand between the legs, a hand under robe and skirt and knickers and against hot wet soft skin and touching there over and over and over and over and...
She heard a faint whisper from Hermione, a chant that she remembered from years ago, and she chanted it along with her in the faintest breath possible, one hand sliding between her legs. She pressed harder against the stack, pressed harder against her hand, and watched Hermione, watched her rock against her hand, watched her tilt her head back and whisper-moan out the chant, the charm, the one her lips silently recite as she watched her and pushed against her hand.
"Sophia..." Wisdom, wisdom, wisdom, and Hermione's head fell back and her back arched and the book slipped from her lap and Irma's pressed so close to the stacks with both of them surrounded by books and wisdom and the spell came naturally between them, amplified by the both of them, and Hermione came and Irma came and both of them came and chanted that word and the wisdom — that wisdom, the wisdom of sex and women and love and eternity and everything, glowed between them and glowed around them and Hermione fell back against the floor in a gasp of pleasure, still shuddering, and Irma balanced against the shelves and breathed heavily as she watched Hermione come again and again and again, the power sliding through her body in ripples of pleasure.
Irma recovered faster, and, before the girl could open her eyes and focus on the woman watching her, she slipped out of the library, her thin soles making no noise, her robes sliding quietly around her. As she left, she saw the last fading glow of the spell from the stacks, and she bit her lip again, watching wistfully.
This Harry Potter story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/. And you can feedback her at dymphna@dymphna.net.