Chapter Text
When Hermione heard steps outside her door, her pulse quickened.
It wasn’t because she was anxious about being summoned, although maybe a bit. Pyrites could be a right arse when he was in one of his moods. No, the main reason was that she already thought about what came after. It was close to 5 p.m. by now, and the Ministry’s hallways were emptying at a steady pace. Few people worked straight by the clock on a Friday.
Which meant she wouldn’t have to take pointless detours to go down to… Assuming she didn’t run into anyone else who needed a favor. Which felt like trying her luck.
“Hermione?”
Heather poked her head in, having opened the door without her noticing. “Hm?”
“This might come as a surprise, but Her Majesty wants to see you. It’s time-sensitive; something came up.” Heather tried to keep a neutral face but cracked under Hermione’s gaze. “Kidding, it’s just the usual end-of-day chat.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’ll see him.” “Any plans for the weekend?”
“Oh, absolutely. A hot bath, a book, and lots of wine.” Well, there would be all of those things, hopefully, but also the rough hands of…
“Eww, that sounds rather lonely.” Heather scrunched her face. “If you need a hot date, I know this new girl from Floo Maintenance who has—”
Hermione scowled since they had plenty such hookup-conversations before. “Bye, Heather!” “Alright, see you next week then.” Unperturbed, her visitor gave her a little wave. “Bye!”
Of course she left the door ajar on her way back to the commanding desk on the far end of the corridor. It wasn’t even a power play, as Hermione had initially assumed after Pyrites had introduced Heather Creevey as his new secretary — the girl didn’t have a single malicious impulse. She likely did it to do her a favor, giving her a gentle push that way. A gesture born of fondness, as Katie would say. Still, it grated on Hermione’s nerves.
With a sigh, she stretched in her seat and craned her neck. After an entire week of intense prep work for her ongoing case, she was sore. Thankfully, that particular problem wouldn't be an issue for much longer.
Only one thing standing between now and then. Well, and that secretive meeting with Kingsley after, but that wasn’t making her antsy even when it probably should.
Hermione eyed the case summary that stuck out of the leftmost pile on her desk, quietly rattled off the relevant developments this week not yet written down, and realized this was as ready as she’d get. She grabbed the folder before her brain had time to come up with ways to procrastinate when in reality she was looking to leave.
On her way through the corridor, Hermione noticed evergreen door wreaths on three of her colleagues’ doors. Had those been there this morning? She couldn’t remember.
Ahead, she saw Heather just as she picked up her coat and left for the Atrium. Maybe she was taking that date with a hot witch from Floo Maintenance herself?
The massive oaken door behind the secretary’s desk was already open. There was also a faint, familiar smell of tobacco.
She knocked on the brass plaque that said ‘Chief Procurator: Valerian Pyrites.’ The light inside was dim; only the ancient desk lamp provided illumination, showing rows upon rows of case files and stacks of hardbound books, not all of them related to magical law.
No Advent decorations here.
As expected, the man who was her boss, mentor, and sometimes also the bane of her existence sat in the large open window overlooking the Atrium, smoking a cigarette as he observed the comings and goings below.
When he’d begun doing that after taking over the position five years ago, a trio of crusty DMLE department heads supposedly had gotten up in arms. They'd threatened to get him fired for bringing filthy Muggleborn habits into these sacred halls.
None of them worked for the Ministry any longer. One had left England altogether, if those rumors she’d heard were true.
“How is the view today?” Hermione asked, sitting down on the edge of his desk. They weren’t big on formalities when there was nobody around to impress.
“Boring,” Valerian said, blowing smoke out of the window. “And the color gray is making a comeback. Fits the crowd, since the Department of Mysteries has let the ghouls out early.”
She scoffed and inspected her nails. “Gray is a shade, not actually a color. It lacks a hue to give it an identity.”
“Well, that was both depressing and alarming to listen to. You must be a hoot at parties.”
“What do you want, Valerian? A Black estate update? I’m busy.” Not exactly a lie, that, if not for any reason he would suspect.
He turned around, flicking his cigarette over his shoulder without a care. “Yeah, about that. Did you get your access?”
Of course it was about that blasted case. They hadn’t had a meeting on Wednesday due to that murder case the Home Office dropped onto them, and Valerian had tackled a dozen different things since then.
“Progress is slow,” Hermione admitted. “I finally got access to the Research Committee’s archives and made a few notes, but the actual copies won’t arrive before next Thursday. The Registry people are dragging their heels, though — I’m still waiting on an official reply, but unofficially I’ve been told that Rowle will stonewall me for as long as she can without harming herself or having to spend actual effort to do it.”
No matter the horrible things her cousin had done as a member of Voldemort’s terror regime, the woman held an epic grudge for his death. And Hermione’s testimony during the post-war trials had been damning since she’d allowed her memories to be viewed by the Wizengamot in a public session.
She hadn’t lost a single night’s sleep over Thorffin’s execution by Veil.
“Huh, that woman really needs to find new hobbies,” Valerian mused. It was his way of saying that Amata Rowle had taken a top spot on his personal shit list and would feature in some of his future breaktime ponderings. “Escalate it then. Send a priority request, if that’s not working go subpoena. Let’s see what she does with a paper trail attached to her ankle.”
Hermione shrugged, since she had done that and more. “Actually, since we’re already scheduled for a mandatory Wizengamot hearing on the matter in January, I CC’ed Thurkell on my follow-up. I insinuated that, unless they deliver those files by mid-December, the hearing would need to be postponed.”
Valerian stared at her eyes, wide. “You involved the Wizengamot Administration Services? At this time of the year? Are you insane? There won’t be anything left of Rowle for me to take revenge on.”
She shrugged. “I dislike having our time being wasted so frivolously. And that sort of predictability can be weaponized.”
And she was fed up with the fact that people often assumed she would simply endure it. This time, she’d made sure no such illusions would remain. At least for a while.
“Well, I consider that a non-issue then, but keep me posted. Good work. What about the Tonks family? Has Malfoy stopped his tantrum?”
Her boss pulled out his cigarette case, offered her one, and shook his head when she declined. She didn’t mind the occasional nicotine flash, but something much better than a smoke was coming her way, and soon. Hermione shoved the distracting thoughts aside and focused on her report. Focused on her anger. Normally, someone in her position was supposed to remain neutral, but it couldn’t be helped that she’d fought alongside Nymphadora in the war. They had only communicated through third parties for procedures’ sake since this all began, but it was still infuriating.
“I wish. He’s doubling down, refusing to meet the Tonkses halfway unless they agree to Teddy’s fosterage. Which means they’re technically homeless. I’ve had them put in a decent Muggle hotel for the moment, but their funds are running low — Andromeda won’t touch her share of the inheritance even though Nymphadora and Teddy could use it. And Gringotts gnashes its teeth about the money still sitting in escrow.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “It’s a mess.”
“That sort of pride sounds expensive.”
“It’s not that, it’s principle. But it does leave Teddy and his mother in some sort of limbo.”
Her boss dragged on the new cigarette, his face scrunched in concentration. “Keep at it and schedule new meetings. Use Aurors to drag them in. If need be, threaten to argue child endangerment to make both parties see reason. I’m this fucking close to setting Grimmauld Place on fire just so we can get on with our other cases.”
She nodded, understanding his frustration. The Black estate should have long been dissolved, yet the process somehow kept going, like shambling inferi. It had proved to be a never-ending source of misery and frustration, specifically hers.
“Anything else?”
“No.” Hermione shrugged. “Those are the most important bits. I’m compiling a new summary for you, with an updated appendix, with all the details.”
Valerian waved her off. She knew he abhorred micromanaging his subordinates, and she’d earned his trust. What he found to be significant pieces of information changed from time to time, though.
“That’s alright. I hereby dismiss you, Procurator Granger. Don’t let me see you anywhere inside the Ministry before Monday. Go out, have fun, do Christmas shopping, whatever.”
“Likewise, boss.”
She knew he would stay here for a few hours still, maybe even until nightfall. There was a girlfriend or possibly even a wife somewhere, but she had yet to meet her. Whatever their deal was, they weren’t seeing each other much.
Which reminded her of the fact that she was going to see Harry now. Finally.
Hermione closed the door on her way out and tried not to run back to her office. She wondered which files she could grab as an excuse to go down into the Pit, the old Auror holding facility turned temporary storage. Something boring, something that wouldn’t linger on anyone’s mind or raise questions. Because nobody could know she was meeting him there.
Which made it all the more exciting, of course.
His slow fall in the twilight did little to cheer Harry up.
Normally he enjoyed digging up files in the department’s archive, since it reminded him of broom flying. But he was preoccupied and in a sour mood. Too many days on that blasted, windswept rock, with no satisfying conclusion. Instead, bad memories of the war, more work, and more delays to what should’ve been a well-earned time out.
So he fell, arms crossed, quietly counting the markings on the tall shelves that ran past him, and thought about the upcoming relief where he would…
“Weeowie?” A will-o'-the-wisp came down out of nowhere, hovering next to him. Its pale light reflected on the surfaces of thousands of nearby crystal vials and brass scroll cases.
It had also stopped his fall.
“I don’t need a chaperone,” Harry said, looking up and down the shelves. But there was nobody else in sight he could sic it on. “Go haunt someone else. I’m good.”
As anyone capable of casting a Lumos during freefall was, really. But this was the Ministry and they were particular about their ways, more so in this department than others.
The ghost light remained.
He groaned. Of course he’d encounter one with an attitude. Thorne had to plant these little pests deliberately; there was no other way. Probably to amuse herself, only without ever laughing. It would just fit.
“Scram!” he said, the movement of his arm causing him to rotate in his current weightless state. “I know what I’m looking for. And stop interrupting my fall, will you?”
“Ewiou.” The will-o'-the-wisp’s light faded slightly. “Wrrowiewou.”
So, the old ‘dangerous things might be lurking in the uncatalogued parts of the archives’ tactic, then. As if this ethereal fuzzball could actually do something in the face of an intruder. Harry rolled his eyes and was about to unleash a more serious threat or even draw his wand when he remembered the forlorn pixie from last year, which Penelope had found inside her enchanted hood.
“Alright, stay if you must. But no interruptions, regardless of what Thorne said. I’m on a schedule.”
And that schedule had a killer smile and also spectacular legs, and he wanted to…
The will-o'-the-wisp bopped up and down, flashing twice. “Yeah, try to keep it together.”
His fall continued, only now with better illumination thanks to his new companion. Harry realized that this unwanted encounter had lifted his mood — even though he’d felt comfortable reveling in his middle-of-the-road kind of misery before. He smiled to himself. Thankfully, his hood would hide it so the ghost light couldn’t tattle later.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the passing shelf number plaques reach seventy, and he slowed down. The will-o'-the-wisp moved from his left to the right side, and he wondered if it knew which of his hands was the dominant one.
There it was, shelf number seventy-one, rack two. He leaned forward.
A small stack of scroll cases, some of them ancient, going by their tarnished looks. And five vials, spread out in a star formation. The checkout sheet in the back of the rack was empty, though, showing only yellowed parchment with thin lines nobody had ever cared to fill out.
That was unusual, Harry knew. Even the weirdest items in this space had seen the hands of an Unspeakable at least once during the past two hundred or so years. Despite the ongoing rumors, there wasn’t a lot of unexplored space in the Department of Mysteries — and he’d know, because he had tried to peek into every nook. People here also rarely vanished anymore.
“Wouie?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled, repositioning himself in the air to draw his wand and cast the standard protection spells. Everything looked fine, though.
According to the archive’s register, these vials contained memories of people who had witnessed the Grim before. The jury was still out on if it was one creature, or rather entity, or several — Harry, after his trip, leaned towards the latter. One vial had supposedly been filled by Aurors investigating strange deaths related to a Grim sighting, and one was from the
Unspeakables who’d picked up the case after. All from the 1870s.
As if that would shed any light on the weird things he’d seen on the Orkneys.
Still, maybe the past knew something he didn’t. And whatever had stared at him through that storm hadn’t been new at all, quite the opposite. Harry pocketed all five vials, left his signature on the sheet — quietly enjoying the way it cracked and crinkled under his hand — and consciously decided that he had found what he had been looking for.
At once, he began falling, only now with a real-world gravitational force pulling at his insides.
After one second, he was stopped by the floor that suddenly appeared underneath his feet.
Years of practice saw Harry land in a low crouch, one hand on the cool flagstones underneath to stabilize himself.
His bones ached.
He looked up to the will-o'-the-wisp that had followed him down. “I’m out of here, so feel free to do whatever it is you guys do on a Friday evening,” he said, feeling a bit ridiculous. Well, he was, and he knew exactly why, since those ten days on the Orkneys hadn’t exactly brimmed with opportunities to socialize. Not with such a strict colleague accompanying him.
It flashed once. “Wiewiououwie.”
“That’s fair. Hang in there.” He snorted and turned around, stepping out of the cramped space between the shelves and into the archives’ main corridor. Where before there had been seemingly endless shelves going up forever, there was now arched masonry and carved beams overhead. The air was warmer, too.
The change was immediate and never failed to disorient him, but he kept going regardless.
Thorne stood at her lectern, surrounded by brittle old scrolls and open brass cases. No will-o'-the-wisps here, just magical candles that could’ve been picked straight out of the Hogwarts Great Hall.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Unspeakable?” she asked, as always.
Harry patted the hidden pocket of his thick robes. “I did indeed, much to my surprise.”
This caused Thorne to look at him, but her face remained hidden underneath the hood. He had the impression she could always tell when he wasn’t saying something — and this moment he was keeping several somethings inside.
The moment stretched.
“Well then, have a pleasant weekend,” Harry said a bit awkwardly, turning towards the exit.
“Maybe you found something unexpected too, yes? Even before you came here? You look spooked, Potter.” Her hands moved again, picking up the next scroll in need of preservation, as if he was now dismissed. Harry had a few things on his mind he could say, but none of them would elevate his standing in this part of the Circus of Secrecy, as he sometimes coined the department’s daily grind.
Instead, he just nodded and left.
If Thorne believed he would be impressed by that spiel, she didn’t know him at all. Having survived a blood war as a literal child of prophecy, he’d encountered his fair share of ominous proclamations. This one didn’t even rank in the top ten.
Still, that canine shape he’d seen lingered on his mind. And a smell of old leather, firewhiskey, and sorrows, as well as that fading smile Sirius had worn…
Harry rubbed his new tattoo unconsciously. It had stopped itching until now. He hated the wet feeling. When he slipped out of the massive if noiseless archive doors, Harry noticed that the wards felt slightly sticky against his skin, unlike when he’d gone inside. Did that mean something?
He shook himself out of it — this close to 5 p.m., he should hurry. After those miserable days up north, he had no intention of keeping away from her any longer than absolutely necessary. Especially since Kingsley wanted to see them later, too. Maybe there’d been a development in the top-secret case since he’d been away?
There was always something.
Harry turned left and walked. It felt as if he was fleeing, even though there was nobody behind him. And he’d done everything by the book. It was about time he cleared his head. A hot shower would do him a world of good instead of the umpteenth cleaning by wand. Music from a real record, his bare feet on the slightly uneven tiles of his living room… and her in his arms, of course.
What a nice dream. Now reality would determine how much of that would come to pass. “Where to, Unspeakable?”
He stopped, having missed his boss completely. “Marcellus? What are you doing here? It’s me. I found the memories.”
“Ah, already? Well, I need a minute of your time. Follow me.” And there it was, the wrench in his plans.
He quietly bit his lip but did as ordered, wondering what was going on. Normally, he would have deposited the vials safely in his office safe to look at them first thing next week. They already knew how people had died, and there was nobody to put in cuffs or on trial, so… why the rush?
Marcellus de Aldebourne wasn’t one to use cases or his underlings’ achievements to play politics. He’d even warned Harry that taking just Penelope with him might not be enough, that he should’ve requested a full DMLE detachment.
In hindsight, that would have made things both easier and worse.
Harry’s train of thought was interrupted by the smell of… waffles? Someone seemed to be in a festive mood. He inhaled, picking up a hint of cinnamon as well. But there was no nearby office where the scent could have originated. On a Friday evening, one could encounter worse phenomena in this hallway, he reasoned.
His boss eventually stopped, his hood turning up and down the deserted main hallway, and produced a wand. “Well then, if the mountain won’t come…” he mumbled, flicking it against an empty stretch of wall.
A door appeared.
“After you.” Marcellus said.
Harry sighed inwardly and entered, preparing himself for the pressure differential. His ears popped, and he sneezed. The room was hexagonal, as was the desk in the center, with six chairs. No windows or decor.
Last time it had been a natural cave, complete with stalactites. Stalagmites?
He pulled one of the chairs, turned it around, and straddled it, lowering his head on his wrists. “What’s up, boss? Did something happen?”
Marcellus sighed as he sat down next to him. “It did, actually. Someone filed a complaint about the investigation, naming you, Harry. Misappropriation of funds, reckless endangerment of civilians and Muggles as well, and disregard for protocol.” He stopped, putting a hand in front of his invisible, hooded face as if to stop himself from talking. “The list goes on.”
It took Harry a few seconds to realize he wasn’t being hoodwinked.
“And who, pray tell, authored this marvelous work of fiction? Because I can’t remember anyone giving me a side-eye about how we did things, none. The apothecary who serves as that little enclave’s spokesperson wanted us to stay, in fact. Even after the Aurors showed up.”
Especially after they did, Harry added in the privacy of his mind. If only Ron had been part of that detachment, but no, it had been a trio of hotheads. Things had deteriorated fast after that.
His boss leaned back in the summoned chair. “Penelope was seen going to Amelia’s office earlier today, before lunch,” he said, steepling his hands over his stomach. “That complaint came through not long after.”
“So?”
“Nobody there summoned her, and none of her ongoing projects apart from the Grim case would have necessitated contact with the doorkickers, Harry. Remember, I sent you there, not Amelia.”
He understood what was being said but refused to believe it. Ever since Penelope had joined their ranks after that incident with Percy and the Obliviation of four Ministry employees, she’d been the embodiment of professional courtesy.
Strict, observant, reliable, and capable. She had covered him during that Bristol case, risking her life to pull him out of the line of fire.
He always thought she liked him.
“No way,” he said. “Why would? Why her? I’m pretty good at spotting liars, and she isn’t one. Not like that.”
It took some time before he trusted another person enough to not flinch when they entered a room behind his back or waved a wand when he was unarmed. Penelope had shared an enchanted tent with him without issues, and he’d never felt anything… off.
Yet Marcellus remained quiet.
“I didn’t do anything of the like, boss. I swear.”
An uneasy feeling spread, of hands tightening around his life from behind the curtains, unseen and unaccountable. Harry remembered Order meetings and all those half-truths; the nights at Grimmauld when they’d debated who had slipped information to the enemy; heat in his chest every time someone had withheld a detail “for his own good.”
This wasn’t the same thing, he knew that. But emotions were funny that way.
“Harry, I believe you. It’s possible someone put her up to this. Uses her to get to you or for some other unfathomable gain. I’m making inquiries over the weekend but we should expect an unfriendly visit next week, lad.”
One could also say he’d be wading through heaps of shit, Harry thought. If half the things
Marcellus had listed were to be found on an official form, he would face quite the week come Monday.
His throat tightened. Not with fear — anger.
Whoever orchestrated this knew he had just spent a very long week chasing death across windswept rocks and they thought he was in no state for a political ambush.
They were sorely mistaken.
“And the timing is abysmal,” he said to himself. “Come again?”
He shook his head at Marcellus.
“Hominem Revelio.”
Her heart beating with anxiety and anticipation, Hermione was disappointed by the result. There was nobody around. She kept her wand in hand but deposited her files on one of the stacked desks in the dark hallway. The space was cramped, filled with old furniture, boxes upon boxes of DMLE files that certainly shouldn’t be stored here, and all sorts of assorted crap. It reminded her of those broom cupboards she had never seen from the inside as a girl; or even the Room of Requirement.
Only the fulfillment of her most immediate wish had yet to manifest. Harry was late.
It wasn’t unusual for one of them to be waylaid by Ministry colleagues on the way to whatever corner they had chosen to meet at. Her trip to the bathroom to freshen up had lasted longer than planned, thanks to a gaggle of coworkers sharing gossip and weekend plans. And every minute of delay felt like nails on a chalkboard — Harry had been away for ten days by now. A small eternity. Which was why her recklessness currently knew no bounds.
There was much to discuss once he showed up… among other things. A pair of strong arms embraced her from behind.
Hermione shrieked in surprise and dropped her wand. Before she could gather her wits, she was forcefully turned around and saw Harry’s burning eyes against his pushed-back hood.
“Finally,” she gasped as he pushed her against an old cabinet and descended upon her.
His lips were dry but warm, demanding immediate entrance to her mouth. Hermione shivered with pleasure, her hands already roaming the space underneath his Unspeakable robes. He still wore light armor, which turned her on in a way exposed skin seldom could. When his rough tongue met hers and began to lick the inside of her mouth, she moaned.
He was like a storm, a force of nature.
And being pinned between him and the cabinet, unable to escape even if she wanted to, made her knickers wet. Her insides coiled in anticipation. She wanted him so badly, wanted him to use her. And, judging by the hardness she felt between Harry’s legs, he planned to.
The hot kisses left her breathless, even when his lips moved away from her mouth to trail along her jaw and towards the right ear. Harry’s five o'clock shadow scratched her cheek while one of his hands trailed down her chest and stomach, pressing against her sex.
Hermione moaned louder, pulling him closer, wanting to meld with him.
After an eternity of unapologetic, needy making out, Harry slowed down. His mouth had wandered back to hers, nibbling until she gave him access again. The snog was slow and sensual now, but not any less arousing.
Her insides yearned for a release of pent-up tension.
Finally, Harry leaned back, his warm lips slowly peeling off Hermione’s in a way that made her shiver all over. He was looking at her with burning affection, and she realized she was beginning to cry with joy.
This was coming home, even if they were surrounded by dust and detritus.
“I missed you, freckles,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs across her cheekbones as he framed her face. “You have no idea how much.”
“Maybe an inkling.” She smiled as she put her arms around his neck, drinking in his face. It was pale against the collar of his robes, likely from stress. “I missed you too.”
Overcome with need, she pulled his head down, opening her mouth before they met again. This time, she sucked on his tongue, circling it with her own, drawing in the sensation of him. The moment passed and they released one another again to breathe.
“It’s hard,” she whispered against, “pretending everything is fine when you’re not around.”
Harry's expression hardened. “That assignment shouldn't have taken as long as it did. I’m so sorry for the wait, Hermione. If I hadn’t threatened to curse everyone keeping me on that island, I would probably still be there.”
“I don't blame you, love.” Maybe a bit, though. She ran one hand through his hair, unable to stop herself from fussing over him. “I know your work is important, and you have to follow orders.”
In response, he mirrored her by combing her curls with his strong fingers, only to pull when he reached the base of her neck. Hermione's heart hammered in her chest as he slowly but forcefully angled her head. The spiking arousal made her see stars.
Her knickers were so wet by now she might be actually dripping.
Harry leaned closer and ran his tongue across her throat and up to her ear, the other side this time. “I would rather order you around for a change,” he growled in a low voice. “Since you're already so nice and wet for me.”
“Harry,” she gasped, losing her sense of balance momentarily.
He leaned back to study her again. “I dreamed of you every night. Of holding you again, being inside you. You’re thoroughly ruining me, darling.”
“Promises, promises,” she whispered, not knowing where the words were coming from. She put one of her hands in the gap between his armor and the trousers, where her prize was waiting. In her desperation to get inside, she used a bit of wandless magic to open the belt.
Harry laughed quietly at her, still holding her tight. “Needy.” “I waited long enough.”
Her hand finally got inside his shorts underneath — a black, smooth affair she loved to peel off him at opportune times — and grabbed his cock. Harry hissed, and she felt him throbbing between her fingers when she ran a finger across his glans.
“Oh god, yes,” he said, leaning into her. His breathing was labored, hot and heavy against her throat. He didn’t resist; instead, he shuddered as Hermione stroked him. Her hand was slow, but her grip was strong, which she knew drove him insane.
His cock was hot and smooth between her fingers, its texture a familiar indulgence. “I missed this one, too.”
Harry’s shoulder shook with a laugh, his pelvis moving into her hand. “You’re going to wreck me!”
That kind of response, knowing he reacted so strongly to her and only her, made Hermione feel powerful. Powerful, loved, and even more horny. She continued her ministrations and began kissing and licking his face. His hands had begun roaming her body, up and down, spreading goosebumps across her curves, before coming to a rest on her butt.
“Then let’s set a quicker pace,” she groaned. “I want you to fuck me, Harry.”
They often switched roles on a dime, going from domineering to submissive in seconds. One of the reasons Harry still managed to make her weak in the knees with only a look, even after five months of dating in secret.
They kissed again, her tongue meeting his as they opened their mouths. The way he sucked at her made her toes curl, and she softly bit his upper lip in return.
“Fuck, slow down a bit,” Harry breathed, his voice hoarse with need. Hermione grinned. “Never.”
“Alright then. Hold on.” He swallowed hard before lifting her up, the steely erection touching her sensitive flesh through the fabric. Hermione immediately reacted by curling her legs around him, locking him in place. Her dress was stretching dangerously to accommodate the wide angle, but she didn’t care.
It would only have to hold for a moment longer.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, knowing what would come next. Normally, Harry loved eating her out during sex, his tongue driving her into a frenzy every time he did so, but today that would have to wait for the second round later.
He was too eager to get inside her.
Being this close to each other, Hermione felt the subtle magic swell when he wordlessly and wandlessly undressed both of them. It was like a warm wind that came from all sides, tearing the clothes off her body without ripping them apart. The pieces of her expensive dress and his armor and thick robes landed all over the place.
Naked, they looked each other in the eyes.
Then she noticed a new tattoo on his left arm, next to the circling snake that ran up and around from his wrist. The ongoing spread of his ink had been one of their rare arguments the other day, and seeing that he’d gone ahead and gotten another one anyway irritated her. “You!”
Harry’s eyes narrowed while his smile grew predatory. “You like it?”
At the same time he repositioned himself so that the tip of his cock pressed against her labia. Hermione mewled, the coiled tension inside her screaming for a release. The cool draft in the hallway, combined with her indignation and his searing flesh, made for an overwhelming sensation.
She tightened her legs around him. “Do it. Now.”
He entered her in one go, bottoming out by pressing her so hard against the old cupboard that it cracked in her back. The sensation of momentary discomfort, of having him fill her out so completely, pushed Hermione far over the edge.
She came right then and there, screaming as he held her in place.