The silence that followed Hermione’s words was so complete she could hear the faint crackle of the fireplace two floors below.
Six pairs of eyes stared at her as if she’d just announced she was running for Minister of Magic naked.
Harry’s face split into a slow, brilliant grin—the same one he wore when he caught the Snitch with half the stadium screaming his name.
Ron looked like he’d swallowed a live Pygmy Puff.
Ginny’s mouth hung open.
Lavender’s eyebrows had climbed so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline.
Seamus simply blinked, once, twice, then let out a low whistle.
“Really?” Harry asked, voice rough with relief and something sharper.
“I mean… anything goes in this game, ‘Mione.
Anything.
You know… sex stuff.” Hermione raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curving in a smirk she didn’t entirely feel.
The note was still crumpled in her fist, the words Too chicken?
burning against her palm like a brand.
“It’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with what happens behind closed doors,” she said calmly.
“And Malfoy did specify no cherries.” She glanced at Ginny and Lavender beside her on Seamus’s bed, then at the three wizards opposite on Harry’s.
“I don’t think that will be a problem with this group.
We all know it.” Ginny made a strangled sound and turned the colour of a boiled beet.
Lavender giggled—actually giggled—and the boys suddenly found the floorboards, the ceiling, and the far wall fascinating.
They weren’t children anymore.
That was the point.
Hermione had lost her virginity to Ron the summer after sixth year, during those two awkward months they’d tried dating.
It had been… fine.
Pleasant, even.
But she’d had better conversations with a stick of Drooble’s Strawberry Gum and her own fingers than she’d ever had with Ron’s cock inside her.
He’d been sweet about it.
She’d been honest.
They’d stayed friends.
That was more than most people managed.
Harry and Ginny had fumbled through their own first time on Valentine’s Day this year—sweet, clumsy, and ultimately disappointing for both of them.
They’d broken up a month later with the same relieved affection they’d always shared.
Ginny had then slept with Seamus once, just for the novelty.
It hadn’t been repeated, but there was no bad blood.
Lavender had given her virginity to Seamus two years ago; that had ended in quiet resentment that had only recently thawed into something like friendship.
Now Ron and Lavender were in their on-again, off-again fuck-buddy phase—nine months of convenient, uncomplicated fun that suited them both.
They were all sexually experienced.
The only difference tonight was that they were about to weaponise it.
Ron’s face had gone an alarming shade of puce.
“Since no one else is saying it—I’ve got to.
Are you barking mad, ‘Mione?
You can’t be serious.
We’re talking about Slytherins here.
Malfoy as head git of the lot.
You’re talking about shagging any one of them as easily as tying your shoes!” Hermione met his glare without flinching.
“Crass, Ronald.
But you’re forgetting two very important things.
One: Draco, Blaise, or Theo might end up partnered with girls from their team instead of any of us.
And two—” her smirk sharpened, “—I am still a woman.
It only takes a pair of decent, half-naked breasts to bring your entire gender to heel.” Lavender snorted into her hand.
Ginny’s eyes lit with sudden, vicious delight.
“I’d make one of them kiss my feet,” Ginny said, voice low and fierce.
“And beg forgiveness for every filthy thing they’ve ever said to me.” Lavender leaned forward, honey-blonde hair swinging.
“Honey, you’re thinking too small.
I’d tie them up and use a stinging hex on their bits.
On and off for a solid hour.
Let them try to reproduce after I’m finished.” Hermione felt her own grin turn predatory.
“It would be brilliant revenge for seven years of hell.” The room shifted.
The shock was still there, but something hotter had replaced it—anticipation, old grudges waking up, the electric knowledge that for one night they could make the Slytherins pay in the only currency that ever seemed to matter to pure-blood prats: humiliation and desire.
Harry pushed off the wall, arms crossed over the new breadth of his chest.
Quidditch training had carved him lean and powerful this year; the final House Cup win had only added to that quiet, dangerous confidence.
“Ron and I are in.
Seamus?” The Irish wizard’s brogue thickened with excitement.
“Do ya have any idea who the Slytherins are invitin’?” “Malfoy said it’ll be him, Zabini, and Nott for the boys,” Harry answered.
“Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis for the girls.” Seamus whistled again, lower this time.
“That’s a stacked team.” “It is,” Hermione agreed.
She could already see the pairings forming in her mind like a chessboard.
Malfoy would want to draw her or Ginny—someone he could break.
Zabini would play the smooth seducer.
Nott would be the quiet knife in the dark.
On their side: Harry’s raw talent and loyalty, Ron’s stubborn heart, Seamus’s wicked sense of fun.
Ginny’s fire.
Lavender’s sharp tongue.
And herself—analytical, prepared, and suddenly, fiercely committed.
She hadn’t expected the relief that came with the decision.
For years Malfoy had made her feel small with words and looks and casual cruelty.
Tonight she could make him feel small.
Or hot.
Or desperate.
Or all three.
And if the cards paired her with someone safer—Harry, or Seamus, or even Ron again—at least she wouldn’t be facing it alone.
The twenty-five minutes per action, plus ten for recovery, meant each round could stretch nearly an hour.
Twenty-four questions.
Potentially a full day and night inside the Room of Requirement.
Malfoy had chosen Saturday on purpose; they’d have all of Sunday to put themselves back together before classes on Monday.
Assuming anyone could still look each other in the eye by then.
Hermione’s stomach tightened, but the fear was smaller now, edged with something hungry.
She looked around the circle—at the people who had fought beside her, bled beside her, grown up beside her.
Harry’s steady green eyes.
Ron’s worried scowl softening into reluctant loyalty.
Ginny’s fierce little smile.
Lavender’s calculating gleam.
Seamus’s bright, reckless grin.
They were the Gryffindor six.
Three and three.
No cherries.
No mercy.
“We do this properly,” she said, voice crisp, already slipping into strategist mode.
“We meet tomorrow night to write our cards.
No half-measures.
We decide in advance what questions we’re willing to answer and what we’re willing to do.
We protect each other.
And when we walk into that Room on Saturday, we walk in as a team.” Harry nodded once, decisive.
“Agreed.” Ron groaned but didn’t argue.
“Fine.
But if any of those snakes tries anything outside the rules, I’m hexing first and asking questions later.” “Within the rules,” Hermione corrected, “we do whatever it takes to win.” Ginny’s eyes sparkled.
“I like the sound of that.” Lavender stretched like a cat.
“So do I.” Seamus rubbed his hands together.
“Right then.
Saturday night.
Room of Requirement.
Let’s make the Ferret regret ever learning how to write.” Hermione felt the last of her hesitation burn away.
The note was still in her pocket, but its power had shifted.
Malfoy had thrown down a gauntlet thinking they would flinch.
He was about to learn that Gryffindors didn’t flinch.
They bit back.
She met Harry’s eyes across the small space between the beds and gave him the smallest, sharpest nod.
“We’re all in.”