Camila Cabello has exceptional breasts. Lauren hasn't seen all that many to compare them to, but she's quite, quite sure that breasts as perfectly formed as Camila's are a once in a generation kind of deal.
Even though Camila and Lauren don't speak much these days, Camila's breasts are hard not to notice — Camila likes to skip bras and her nipples are almost always visible under the worn-soft material of her robes.
One Tuesday afternoon, the new defense against the dark arts professor puts a stop to that, slapping Camila with a detention for indecent exposure, reading her a sizzling lecture about appropriate feminine modesty and docking ten points from Gryffindor. Ten points, for showing cloth covered nipples when Leroy Fitzpatrick had just the week before lost only five points for hexing a first-year. Camila goes from being the queen of the school to the butt of every lewd joke as news of the reprimand spreads. Someone malicious sends the news to Camila's mum, and Lauren hears that Camila receives a howler that leaves her in angry tears all weekend.
Lauren starts leaving off her own underwear but nobody notices: Lauren's breasts are little more than almost imperceptible curves, pale areola and tiny nipples, interrupted with lines of ropey scar tissue. And Lauren's robes are thick Scottish wool, purchased new at the beginning of term because her old robes were scorched, torn and bloodied — even if she were impressively endowed, she doubts they'd have the same effect as Camila Cabello's threadbare hand-me-downs from cousins.
However, Lauren does get into some trouble of her own. She is summoned to Professor Flitwick's office. Professor Flitwick is nervous as he offers her a cup of tea and asks her to sit down. Lauren notices him touch a scar on his forehead while he bustles about: a little of the curse that had split open her chest last year had managed to splash past and hit him too.
"Good evening, Professor," she says, accepting a biscuit.
"Good evening, Miss Jauregui," Professor Flitwick replies, rubbing his forehead in a way that makes Lauren think of Harry Potter. "I've asked you to come here this evening so we can discuss your, er, paintings."
"You've never seen my paintings," Lauren points out calmly. "I don't think we can discuss them if you've not seen them. I've seen them, obviously, so I can talk about them, but I'm not sure if that qualifies as discussion."
Professor Flitwick coughs. "Well, that is to say, we have received some concerning reports about them. Reports of obscenity, that sort of thing." He coughs again and Lauren wonders perhaps if the pixie dust in the room is bothering him.
"Obscenity?" she asks gently. "I've painted pictures of my friends and my father."
Professor Flitwick's brow furrows and he leans in toward her. "You painted a picture of your father in the final battle."
"Yes," Lauren says. "Though you've never seen the painting."
"Your father was —" Professor Flitwick breaks off and stares up at the ceiling.
"Oh Professor, this is a horrible task, isn't it? You don't really want to talk to me about my paintings and you suspect I might be crazy." Lauren laughs and pats Professor Flitwick's knee. "My father was torn apart by werewolves in the final battle. And I paint my father, yes. I'm a disturbing being, aren't I?"
Professor Flitwick nods and looks anxious.
"Miss Jauregui," he says. "Nothing could be more commendable than your bravery and courage on that horrible day. But there is talk of sending your paintings to the Aurors as, perhaps, evidence of an unstable mind."
"They are afraid of the paintings," Lauren muses with a smirk. "Perhaps they are right to be. Words have power, and a picture is worth a thousand words. "
"Miss Jauregui!" Professor Flitwick reprimands. "I hoped you would see reason. In any event, I am to inform you that all of your paintings of the war have been confiscated."
"Ah." Lauren ponders for a moment. "Well, I am quite used to things being taken from me. Goodnight, Professor."
She pauses in the doorway as she leaves.
"Will you see the paintings?" she asks softly.
"No." Professor Flitwick looks tired. "I have no wish to look at them."
"Because you don't like art?"
"No! Miss Jauregui, I am told that your paintings are obscene."
"But you have not seen them."
"No. I have not, and do not intend to."
Lauren smiles coyly. "Goodnight, Professor."
"Goodnight, Miss Jauregui."
***
She returns to the dorm to find that all her canvases are gone. They have however left her paints, her tubes of oils and water-colors, and her paintbrushes. Lauren transfigures one of her socks into a new canvas and thinks about what to paint next.
***
"Hello Camila," Lauren says, sitting down on the grass next to Camila. Camila looks up in surprise.
"Hello Lauren," Camila says. "Er, look — I'm expecting –"
Lauren watches as Camila twists around to look for someone. In the distance, Shawn Mendes from Ravenclaw is coming down the steps. Camila waves at him and he waves back. Lauren can tell Camila is wearing a bra. She thinks it is a shame. Camila looks harder and more rigid these days than she used to.
"I'd like to paint you," Lauren tests. "Your breasts, especially, but all of the rest of you as well."
Camila flushes an angry dark red. Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. "Bitch!" she spits out. "I didn't think you'd –"
"No. " Lauren smiles encouragingly at Camila. "I'm not being unkind, I think you're beautiful and would like to paint you. You'd be magnificent nude."
"Nude!" Camila squawks, uncrossing her arms to press her hands to her red cheeks.
"Who's nude?" Shawn says, plopping down on the grass and throwing his arm around Camila. "Hello, Laur. Nice earrings."
"Hello Shawny boy," Lauren replies politely. "I'll be in the Room of Requirement tomorrow afternoon, Camila."
"I have Quidditch practice," Camila says. She looks flushed and confused.
"I'll wait," Lauren says, and gets up to leave.
"What did Lauren want?" She hears Shawn say.
"I'm not sure." She hears Camila reply softly.
***
Lauren prepares three shades of cream, four of peach and a delightful violet tint for shadows. She is dreamily swirling together red and yellow and brown to make autumnal tints of auburn and chestnut and chocolate when Camila Cabello bursts through the door.
Camila has a faint sheen of sweat on her brow and a magnificent post-Qudditch glow.
"Lauren," she blurts out, then sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "I have no fucking idea why I'm here."
"Yes you do," Lauren says, "You're gorgeous, and you want to be painted like this, as a beauty."
Camila's mouth twists into rueful half-smile. "You make me sound like a stuck-up bitch."
"Camila, it's a miracle you survived the war. That you survived it beautiful is an even greater one."
"I don't..."All Camila's bravado deserts her in a rush, Lauren watches her shoulders slump. "I don't feel — good looking. And even if I am, it hasn't done me any good."
Lauren supposes Camila means Austin Mahone breaking up with her, or perhaps she's referring to Professer Armitage calling her a trollop in front of the class. What Lauren knows is that the image of Camila battling Bellatrix Lestrange, screaming and throwing curses, and blazing with beauty, is just about the only thing that can blunt the memory of her father being dismembered by werewolves not ten feet away from her.
"You're not good-looking," Lauren says smoothly. "What a ridiculous idea."
Camila gives a little startled laugh, and Lauren grins at her and jerks her head toward the couch she has set up. Even though it is mid-afternoon, the Room has helpfully provided wide windows looking out onto very early morning. Dawn, really. The light is exceptional.
"I just take my bra off?" Camila asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Won't you be scandalized? Oh wait, no, I forgot I'm talking to the Lauren Jauregui. I don't think you've ever been scandalized in your life."
Lauren holds her breath and Camila begins to undress, pulling off her Quidditch boots, dropping pieces of her uniform in an untidy pile. When she is down to her bra and panties she gives Lauren a rueful look. Lauren does not avert her eyes, and Camila licks her lips and quickly undoes the clasp.
"Holy shit," Lauren cannot help saying.
Camila looks down at her own chest and grins. "Actually, I do think these are pretty fucking fabulous, though I say so myself."
Lauren cannot take her eyes off Camila Cabello's perfect breasts.
"Panties too?" Camila asks, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her underpants.
Lauren nods, and Camila bends to slide them down her legs, kicking them free with one foot. Now Camila is naked she seems much more comfortable, as though she has shed her tension with her clothes. Lauren directs her to the couch and arranges her, stretching her out so that her lean limbs are in perfect contrast to the lushness of her breasts, hips and hair.
Lauren begins to paint.
"I'm sorry, you know. I don't know if I ever said. About your dad, I mean," Camila says abruptly.
"We weren't close friends, I didn't exactly expect your condolences, but thank you." Lauren marks in the squiggle of Camila's ear. "I didn't send you any for your sister either."
Camila's chest heaves for a moment. It causes a ripple through the flesh of her breasts. Lauren catches the moment with a quick enchantment, so that her painting's breasts will also have an agreeable jiggle.
"You're so confusing," Camila finally says. She is pointing and flexing her toes a little. "You're not like anybody else I know. I don't even think you like me, and yet here I am, stark naked in front of you."
Lauren considers for a moment. Does she like Camila Cabello? Lauren likes chamomile tea, writing Letters to her dead father, and muggle music.
"Does it matter to you?" Lauren asks.
Camila is silent for a moment. Then: "Yes," she says quietly. "Yes it does."
"It matters," Lauren says, "because I think you're beautiful, and you want me to keep on thinking you're beautiful."
Camila bites her lip. "You say that I'm... beautiful... but I don't know if you like me, sometimes you make me feel like I'm not a nice person."
"I don't think you are a nice person," Lauren pauses. "I don't think that I am a nice person." Lauren lays down her paintbrush and her wand and approaches the couch. "Just because something is not nice does not mean it is not desirable, or delightful or worthy."
Camila looks up at her with big eyes. She is trembling a little. Lauren kneels down next to the couch and places a tiny kiss on the inside of Camila's wrist. Camila shivers.
"I saw you throwing curses, and I saw you throwing punches, and I saw Bellatrix Lestrange coughing blood because of you. I don't think you are nice, I think you are magnificent. And," Lauren kisses Camila's collarbone, "just now, I think you're obscene, and you're beautiful."
A tear leaks out of Camila's eye and Camila turns her mouth to Lauren's a little desperately. Camila's mouth is warm and open and Lauren kisses and kisses her until they are both panting and rubbing against each other.
Camila's breasts are even better up close. They are deliciously soft, and dark-nippled, and sprinkled with few freckles. Camila moans as Lauren closes her mouth over one. Camila's skin is sharply salty. Lauren sucks the nipple into her mouth, rubs it with her tongue and skims her fingers over the other breast, making Camila squirm and rock against her. Lauren kisses circles around Camila's other breast, tiny, light kisses, before being unable to resist sucking on that nipple too.
Lauren rubs the heel of her hand between Camila's legs and grins at the filthy curses that pour out of Camila's mouth. She slides down the couch and parts Camila's thighs — they glisten in the dawn light, but not as much as the sticky moisture between them. Lauren has never done this before, except in her imagination, with her fingers furiously working between her own legs. But she's practiced it enough times in her head that she knows exactly what to do, pushes Camila's legs further apart and leans in to lick with a broad, flat tongue.
Camila wails on every upstroke. Lauren hooks Camila's legs over her shoulders to keep them spread, freeing up her hands. Her finger slides into Camila's cunt with incredible ease; Camila is wet and hot and — Lauren is surprised to discover — also a virgin. She feels the resistance as she tries to push in a fourth finger, and Camila yells out as something suddenly gives.
Lauren keeps lapping, increasing the pressure and the pace, never backing off, hanging on through Camila's panting and bucking and clenching thighs. She keeps on stroking Camila with her tongue, through some truly heartfelt keening, through a series of shocky little spasms, until finally Camila cries stop and reaches down to push her away. Then Lauren grins at a job well done and backs off, wiping her face on her robe.
"Nnngh," Camila mumbles, "Let me..." Camila makes a valiant effort to sit up, but Lauren pushes her back down.
"Stop," she says softly. "Stay here for me. I want you just like this."
"Hmm?" Camila's eyes droop shut.
"Just like that," Lauren says, and gets up, a little unsteadily. She moves back to her painting, leaning on the easel for a moment to catch her breath.
In front of her lies a thoroughly debauched, post-coital Camila Cabello. Her thighs are wet and faintly stained with blood, there are love-bites on her breasts and neck and thighs. Her nipples are glossy and swollen. She is absolutely magnificent and absolutely obscene.
Lauren picks up her paintbrush and wand.
She begins to paint again.
