BeaCheddar
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Even when they hated each other, Logan and Veronica just couldn't stay away from each other.
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Fucking Hermione. Why her? His godson’s best friend. She’s twenty years his junior. He’s Sirius fucking Black. He could have any witch or muggle he wanted but it has to be her.
Hermione with her smart mouth. Her riotous hair. Her quick quips. Her sharp temper.
Hermione with the little noises she makes at night. The ones she thinks he can’t hear. The ones she fucking taunts him with. Whimpers and moans, hitching breaths and cries of desperation.
He feels fucking sick as he wishes he could hear more every time. Wants to know what her fingers sound like pumping into her core. To know how drenched she is. To know what gets her there, gets her ready, gets her off.
He wants to know how pink she is, how she tastes, how he could make her lose control.
Fuck.
Bookmarked by BeaCheddar
19 May 2026
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After Walburga Black’s portrait overhears Harry and Hermione reminiscing about her son, she reveals to Hermione that she knows a way to bring Sirius back. Hermione agrees to marry Sirius so that he can return, but she soon finds that consummating their bond will require her to accept him in all his forms.
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For a long time, she believed that the First Hunt was the worst part of having werewolves as your neighbours. But it turned out there were worse things - the pack and her village struck a deal a long time ago. Once a year they were due to deliver a young girl, a virgin, to the pack as a sacrifice and in return the pack won’t hunt in their midst.
Hermione didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, but she was sure getting harvested wasn’t it.
And yet, that seemed to be her fate after all.
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“Hi,” she begins, tone casual because that’s what they are—casual. Or so he insists. “Shouldn’t you be resting before it starts up again?”
He draws to a halt in front of her, chest heaving. She lifts her butterbeer between them, brows raised invitingly.
“Thirsty?”
He ignores the offer, eyes burning into hers with unblinking intensity.
“What’re you playing at?” he grits out, the words low and just for her. With his back to the room, no one else can see the way his entire being is radiating displeasure.
But that’s the way it’s always been. A secret between them, no one else the wiser.
She takes the sip instead, eyeing him over the rim.
“You’re the one playing,” she remarks lightly. “I’m just on the sidelines.”
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Or when Hermione and Draco are in a situationship and both secretly want more.