Chapter 21: The March of the Beetles and the Unraveling Cardigan part-2
It was silent but deadly. As Hermione moved, the cardigan began to dissolve from the bottom up. The back panel vanished, turning into a pile of crinkled yarn on the floor behind her.
She didn't notice because the front was still intact.
"Like this," Hermione said, demonstrating the wand movement.
Now, for the masterstroke. The lesson was about beetles and buttons.
(Master Level Magical Theory + Transfiguration.)
I focused on the buttons of her white school shirt underneath the disintegrating cardigan.
"Reverte," I whispered silently, using my Silent Casting skill.
I didn't turn them back into regular beetles. I turned them into confused beetles.
Hermione suddenly froze. She felt something tickle her chest.
"Harry," she whispered, her eyes widening. "Something is moving."
"What?" Harry asked, looking up from his beetle.
"On my chest," she hissed. "Under my shirt."
Before Harry could process this statement, the magic took hold.
The buttons on her shirt—all five of them—suddenly sprouted legs. They were no longer plastic discs; they were shiny, black beetles. And they did not want to be attached to a shirt.
They scuttled.
The top button-beetle marched right off her collar. The second and third button-beetles decided to explore the fabric, detaching themselves from the buttonholes.
"Ah!" Hermione yelped, standing up and brushing frantically at her chest. "Get them off! Get them off!"
She stood up.
This was the trigger.
When she stood up, the thread of her cardigan (which was tied to the chair leg) pulled tight. The entire cardigan—which was already half-unraveled—disintegrated completely. It fell away from her body in a heap of beige yarn, leaving her standing there in just her shirt.
But her shirt was currently being abandoned by its fasteners.
The beetles scurried away. The shirt, now button-less, fell open.
Gravity and the sudden movement of her frantically brushing her chest did the rest.
The shirt flared wide open.
Underneath, she was wearing the same white camisole from yesterday (she really needed to go laundry), but the sudden motion caused the strap of the camisole to slip down her shoulder.
Hermione was standing in the middle of the Transfiguration classroom, her cardigan a pile of string at her feet, her shirt flapping open like a cape, frantically swatting at her own exposed cleavage where a beetle was currently navigating the lace of her bra.
(...cough...)
"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall shouted—not at me, but at Harry, who was the closest male.
Harry had jumped up to help.
"I will get it!" Harry shouted, seeing the beetle crawling on Hermione's skin.
He reached out. His seeker reflexes kicked in. He wasn't thinking about propriety; he was thinking about removing the bug that was terrifying his friend.
He grabbed the beetle.
Unfortunately, the beetle was currently located directly on the swell of her left breast, just above the bra line.
Harry's hand clamped down on the beetle. And, by necessity, on the soft curve underneath it.
(...cough...)
Hermione froze. Harry froze. The beetle wiggled in his hand.
"I... I got it," Harry whispered, his face turning a shade of purple that defied medical science. His hand was still cupping her. He seemed afraid to let go, lest the beetle escape back into her clothing.
"Harry," Hermione breathed, looking down at his hand on her chest. "You are touching me."
"It is the beetle!" Harry squeaked. "It was going for the... inside!"
"Miss Granger! Mr. Potter!" McGonagall was marching down the aisle, her face stern. "What is the meaning of this display?"
"My clothes!" Hermione wailed, finally snapping out of her shock. She slapped Harry's hand away (Harry flinched as if burned) and pulled her open shirt closed, crossing her arms tightly. "My buttons turned into beetles! And my cardigan fell apart!"
"Turned into beetles?" McGonagall stopped, looking at the floor where several black beetles were scurrying away from the pile of yarn. "But... you performed the spell correctly. I saw it."
"I don't know!" Hermione cried, tears spilling over. "The magic... it reversed itself! And my knitting unravelled!"
I leaned forward, looking innocent. "Professor, I think I read about this. Spontaneous Transfiguration Reversal. It happens when the wizard is under extreme stress. Her magic is unstable because of... you know."
I gestured vaguely to Hermione's general state of disaster.
"Stress," McGonagall pursed her lips. "Yes. I suppose with the incidents lately..."
She looked at Hermione, who was shivering, clutching her shirt, standing in a pile of yarn.
"Go to the dormitory, Miss Granger," McGonagall said softly. "Fix your clothes. Mr. Potter... please escort her. And try to keep your hands to yourself."
"I was catching the bug!" Harry defended himself weakly, but no one was listening.
Harry grabbed his bag and Hermione's bag. He put a bracing arm around her shoulders (carefully avoiding any other areas) and led her out.
As they passed my desk, Harry looked at me. His eyes were wide and haunted.
"It was soft," he whispered, clearly in shock. "Ron... I felt... everything."
"Keep walking, mate," I encouraged him. "Just keep walking."
"System Alert," the voice intoned. "Incident recorded. Type: The 'Beetle Button Rebellion' combined with 'Unraveling Knitwear'. Result: Upper body exposure and direct manual contact. Target: Hermione Granger. Participant: Harry Potter. Rating: SS-class. Reward: Skill 'Friction Control (Advanced)' and seventy-five attribute points."
(Friction Control,) I thought, watching them leave. (Oh, the places we will go.)
I turned back to the front. McGonagall was vanishing the pile of yarn.
"Mr. Weasley," she said sharply. "Since your friends have departed, perhaps you can demonstrate the spell for the class. And ensure your buttons remain buttons."
"Certainly, Professor," I said smoothly.
I tapped my beetle. It turned into a button.
But as I did, I used my new Friction Control on Draco Malfoy's chair, which was located across the aisle.
I reduced the friction between the chair legs and the stone floor to absolute zero.
As Malfoy leaned back to sneer at Crabbe, his chair shot backward as if launched from a cannon.
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