Chapter 1: The Hogwarts Express

The scarlet serpent of the Hogwarts Express hissed steam, ready to devour the miles separating Platform Nine and Three-Quarters from the promise of a new school year. Inside one of the compartments, Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley were engaged in a silent, mutual battle against their summer attire.

"Merlin's saggy socks," Ginny muttered under her breath, subtly trying to tug the waistband of her jeans a little higher. The denim, a favourite pair that had fit perfectly – even loosely – at the start of summer, now felt like a constricting band around her middle, but it was the way the fabric strained tightly across her noticeably fuller hips and thighs that truly bothered her, digging uncomfortably into her softer flesh. Three months at The Burrow had been a relentless, delicious assault on any semblance of portion control. Her mother, overjoyed to have her children home and safe after the turmoil of the previous years, had expressed her love through a never-ending parade of culinary delights. Breakfasts weren't just toast and cereal; they were mountains of sausages, bacon, eggs cooked a dozen ways, stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, and freshly baked scones with clotted cream and homemade jam. Lunches were hearty pies, pasties, and sandwiches bursting with fillings, often followed by a nap in the sun-drenched garden. And dinners… dinners were legendary feasts. Roast chicken, shepherd's pie, mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes, gravy boats that never seemed to empty, and at least two kinds of dessert every single night – treacle tart, apple crumble, chocolate pudding – the list was endless.

Second helpings weren't just encouraged, they were practically mandatory, and Molly Weasley had a special talent for making "just one more bite" sound like the most reasonable suggestion in the world. Ginny, with her usually boundless energy and appetite, had indulged freely, relishing every mouthful, every extra scoop, every lovingly prepared treat, much of which seemed to have settled stubbornly on her bum and legs. Now, a pang of regret pricked at her. Maybe I shouldn't have had that third helping of Mum's trifle last night, she thought, even as she mentally reassured herself, It's fine. Quidditch practice starts next week. I'll burn it all off in no time. But a small, nagging voice whispered that this year felt… different. The jeans certainly agreed. She glanced at Hermione, who was pretending to be engrossed in Advanced Potion-Making, though her slightly flushed cheeks and the way she kept shifting in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position for her own strained denim, told a different story.

Hermione, for her part, was acutely aware of the uncomfortable pressure her jeans exerted, especially around her midsection. While her thighs also felt the pinch, it was the way the waistband cut into her now noticeably softer stomach that caused the most distress. She’d always had a curvier build and a somewhat sluggish metabolism, a fact that had always required a certain degree of vigilance on her part. But this summer, with the blissful peace of a Voldemort-free world, fewer immediate crises to keep her running, and more time spent curled up with books (often accompanied by a plate of Mrs. Weasley’s biscuits or a generous slice of cake), had tipped the scales more than she’d anticipated, primarily adding a frustrating layer to her belly. She’d tried, truly tried, to stick to sensible portions, to opt for fruit instead of that extra scone, to go for long walks through the fields surrounding The Burrow. But the allure of fresh, warm bread straight from the oven, the comforting aroma of herby stews simmering on the stove, and Ginny’s cheerful, almost irresistible, "Oh, go on, Hermione, one more won't hurt! Mum made it specially!" had been a formidable foe. Now, the thought of anyone noticing their slightly more… substantial forms filled her with a familiar dread. They were young women, adults now in their sixth year, and appearances, unfortunately, still mattered, perhaps more than she liked to admit.

A tell-tale rumble from Ginny’s stomach broke the tense silence. Hermione’s own stomach answered with a sympathetic gurgle. They exchanged a quick, sheepish look.

"Just… pre-Hogwarts nerves, I suppose," Ginny said, a little too brightly.

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The truth was, they were both famished. Breakfast at The Burrow had been its usual chaotic, wonderful self, but that had been hours ago.

Just then, the familiar rattle of the trolley approached. "Anything off the trolley, dears?" chirped the kindly witch, her cart laden with Chocolate Frogs, Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pasties, and stacks of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

Hermione’s resolve, already weakened by hunger and the discomfort of her jeans, crumbled. Ginny’s eyes, wide and hopeful, met hers. "Well," Ginny began, "perhaps just a small something. To tide us over."

"A Pumpkin Pasty for me, please," Hermione found herself saying, then, emboldened by Ginny's anticipated order and her own gnawing hunger, she quickly added, "and a Cauldron Cake, and perhaps one of those Licorice Wands." The words escaped before her sensible side could protest.

Ginny, beaming at Hermione's unexpected indulgence, grinned. "Excellent choices! In that case, I'll have two Cauldron Cakes, a Chocolate Frog, and… oh, go on, a packet of Bertie Bott's, please!"

The exchange was made, and soon the compartment was filled with the rustle of wrappers and the happy sounds of munching. They devoured their treats with a shared, unspoken urgency, the earlier discomfort momentarily forgotten in the bliss of sugar and carbs.

It wasn't until the last crumb was gone and the wrappers were neatly tucked away that the reality of their situation returned, amplified. Their stomachs, now pleasantly full, pressed even more insistently against their waistbands. Ginny let out a small, involuntary groan, subtly unbuttoning the top button of her jeans under the cover of the table. Hermione felt a wave of warmth creep up her neck. They were, to put it mildly, stuffed.

"Right," Hermione said, her voice a little strained as she pushed herself up. "We should probably change into our robes soon. Before we get too close to Hogsmeade."

Ginny’s eyes widened slightly at the thought. Changing in the cramped confines of the train toilets was never fun, but doing so while feeling like a sausage bursting its casing? That was a new level of challenge. "Yeah," she agreed, a note of trepidation in her voice. "Good idea."

With a shared look of grim determination, they gathered their folded robes and made their way, one after the other, towards the tiny, swaying lavatories at the end of the carriage.

Ginny went first. Wrestling off her tight jeans in the confined space was an ordeal in itself, requiring a series of undignified hops and contortions. She emerged red-faced and slightly breathless, jeans clutched in her hand like a defeated enemy. Then came the crisp, white school shirt. It had always been a comfortable fit, but now the buttons strained precariously over her fuller bust – a change she couldn't help but feel a little pleased about, despite the current predicament – and the fabric felt a little too snug across her shoulders. The grey pleated skirt was next. She sucked in her breath, a habit she’d unknowingly adopted over the summer, and managed to fasten the button and zip. It was tight. Uncomfortably tight. The pleats, instead of falling neatly, seemed to pull and stretch across her newly rounded hips and bottom, and the hemline felt decidedly shorter than she remembered. Definitely burning this off at Quidditch, she told herself firmly, though a sliver of doubt remained. Finally, the black Hogwarts robe. It was a welcome shroud, a forgiving cloak of anonymity. Or so she hoped. As she shrugged it on, it felt… snugger. The fabric didn't flow as freely as it used to; it clung a little too closely around her arms and back. With a sigh, she tried to smooth it down, hoping it looked less like a sausage casing and more like a dignified school uniform.

Hermione’s experience was no less trying. Her battle was primarily with her own stomach. The shirt, thankfully, was still manageable, though she noted with dismay that the buttons gapped a little more than they should. At least Ginny's buttons are straining over something desirable, Hermione thought with a pang of envy, her gaze flicking involuntarily to her own midriff, where any strain was due to her 'spare tire', as Ron had once jokingly (and rather insensitively, in her current opinion) called it. The real challenge was the skirt. Last year, it had sat comfortably on her waist. Now, she had to pull it up slightly higher to accommodate the soft swell of her belly, making it feel shorter and tighter. She tugged, wiggled, and held her breath, finally managing to close the fastening. It dug into her waist, and she knew sitting down would be an exercise in careful maneuvering. When she pulled on her robe, she felt a similar constriction to Ginny. It didn't drape; it hugged. Particularly around her middle. She caught her reflection in the small, steamed-up mirror – the robe, which should have billowed, instead outlined the gentle curve of her stomach that she was so desperate to conceal. A flush of mortification crept up her neck. This was not how she’d envisioned starting her sixth year. She took a deep breath, smoothed down the front of her robe as best she could, and tried to compose her features into an expression of serene studiousness.

Rejoining Ginny in the compartment, they exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Words weren't necessary. Their slightly too-tight skirts, the way their robes didn't quite hang right, the faint red marks on their skin from straining fabric – it was a shared, uncomfortable secret. They sat down carefully, both acutely aware of the pressure of their waistbands, now doubly reinforced by the skirts. The rest of the journey was passed in a somewhat subdued silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train, each girl lost in her own thoughts about the challenges – and temptations – that lay ahead at Hogwarts.

From the Author:

I am no native speaker, so please forgive me my mistakes!
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