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The wind bites at the backs of her legs, heels clicking against the uneven cobblestones. Knockturn Alley is silent, but Hermione doesn’t look too closely at the shadows, already numb to what lingers there.
She chose this club because they don’t ask questions.
One shot to warm her through, another to make her feel something, and a third to make her forget her name. She’s long forgotten if it’s the alcohol or the potions that make her feel capable. Heavy burdens drift from her shoulders like snowflakes. The rest of the world can leave them behind, but never her.
Some days, she forgets her feet walk upon solid ground.
On instinct, Hermione chooses a room upstairs, and the moment she enters, she’s pressed against a wall.
Eager hands sink into her curls, her chin tilted up until her lips make contact with his. It doesn’t matter who he is or where he’s from, what the status of his blood is, or what side he fought for in the war… It only matters that he’s real and that he’s here.
“You took your sweet fucking time.” Angry words are rasped between tender kisses, amidst nibbles that threaten to bruise.
Her hands are too busy with the buttons on his shirt, threading through and again until she can yank it open and press her palms against his skin. “We don’t all have the luxury of time.” She presses her mouth against his neck and bites . His pulse throbs beneath her tongue but it’s the moan ripped from his throat that reminds her of her own power.
“Fucking, fuck–” His hands tighten in her curls as he drags her away. “No marks.”
“No marks, he says. Yet someone left bruises on my thighs that barely healed even with the proper paste.” She laughs, stepping forward and pressing her chest against his as she threads her arms around his neck. There’s a warmth that clings to his skin, a subtle spice she breathes in that makes her half-giddy because she loves the minutiae of him.
There’s a familiarity that reminds her she always has.
He drags her back by her hair to look at him, crowding her against the wall. “Who is looking at your thighs?” The words are half-growled, a possessive glint to his eyes.
She turns it back on him, hand dragging across his skin to press against the fading mark. “Who would be bothered by your neck?”
Neither answers the question.
Hermione eases magic through her fingers to direct the blood away from the surface. When she pulls her hand away, his skin is pristine. She grins up at him half-giddy in a way she never gets to feel. “No marks.”
“You’re impossible,” he half-growls, half-laughs. Always a contradiction.
His hands skim her sides, gathering the fabric of her dress and dragging it over her head, cardigan and all.
A strange expression crosses his features, one she can’t quite place. But it’s enough that she cups his cheek in her palm and slides her fingers into his hair, tugging him forward to kiss her again. It’s a simple reassurance, and that seems to be enough.
“Just feel.” The words are whispered against his mouth, before he spins her around and she finds herself being carried toward the bed. When she kisses him again from her position tucked safely in his arms, it makes him stumble.
She tumbles onto the bed and he lands half on the floor, one knee cracking against the hardwoods before he catches himself with a groan.
“Shit!” Hermione scrambles off of the bed as he turns to sit, and presses her hands against his knee. She palpates it, checking the joint and pressing in strategic places. The fact that he doesn’t shout is a good sign. “I think it’s only bruised, but you should have a Healer look at it.”
His hands find her hips, tugging her forward until she’s straddling his lap. “Can’t you be my Healer?” he asks, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest.
Hermione frowns but she doesn’t let him see, leaving a kiss against his cheek before nuzzling her nose against his. It’s intimate, an apology , and she kisses him to soothe her own racing heart. The tender way he guides her is new, as though she’s fragile and cherished. She sinks into the feeling and kisses him without expectation, without worry.
“I’ve missed you,” he admits, and her brassiere comes away. The next moment, it’s discarded on the floor, leaving her breasts on full display as she arches in a cat-like stretch.
She wants to admit that she feels the same. Instead, she presses her breasts into the touch of his hands and moans softly when his fingers tighten around her nipples. He smiles as though he’s savouring her reaction, and she grinds her hips against his lap. Through the fabric of his trousers, she feels the hard line of his cock.
“You’re still dressed.” Her hands drift to rest against the clasp on his belt.
“You like it,” he reminds her, capturing her lips. Her body grows warm, a steady pulse between her legs as her instincts beg her to be fucked and filled. With each grind of her hips, her knickers grow wetter.
She drags the leather through the clasp and pops open the button holding his trousers closed. “I like this more.” Her hand slides beneath the rich wool to find his hardened shaft and pulls it free. His head drops against her shoulder with a moan when her hand glides along the length.
“I like the way it feels in my hand.” She pulses her palm around the head. “I like the way it tastes when it’s heavy on my tongue.” She leans forward and kisses him, swallowing his eager moans. “And I love the way it feels buried deep in my needy–” Stroke ” –wet–” Stroke “–cunt.”
It’s rare that she feels so bold, but there’s power in holding a man by his cock that magic cannot match. He could overpower her easily, a fact proven time and again when she’s found herself on her back at his mercy. Sometimes, she wonders if he needs this as much as she does – to take and be taken.
“Don’t you want to fuck me?”
With lightning precision his hand wraps around her throat, stilling her movements. Her mouth parts in a gasp, her hand still wrapped neatly around the base. He drags her forward, lips brushing against the curve of her ear, voice low. “I want to ruin you.”
Hermione’s chest rises and falls with rapid, uneven breaths, anticipation building between them in the silence.
“Do it.”
He urges her up and she stands. White cotton is dragged over her hips and down her thighs until she’s laid bare in more ways than one, vulnerable in ways only he has seen. He barely has to stretch to press his mouth against her sticky-slick center.
His primal moan vibrates through her cunt and down to her trembling knees. Large hands grasp the backs of her thighs and she’s tugged forward. When his tongue swipes through her folds for the first time, she nearly collapses.
He wastes little time, blanketing her clit with his tongue. Tender licks and gentle nibbles are opposed with harsh sucks. Sensation builds and eases, until arousal trails over her thighs and his chin is slick with her.
It’s the sweetest torture.
“Oh gods , I– I can’t, it’s too much.” Her fingers wrap in his hair, and she tries to pull him away, but he doesn’t relent. When she threatens to collapse, hands braced against the frame of the bed to keep her half-upright, he slips two fingers inside of her and in that moment, she’s gone .
Protests die on her lips, rounded syllables dissolving into sounds she cannot control as her body betrays her. Her cunt squeezes his fingers, steady wicked strokes twisting and prolonging her pleasure.
Hermione doesn’t know when or how she makes it onto the bed, but her hips tremble with each aftershock as overwhelmed tears sink into the duvet she desperately grasps.
“That’s it, sweetheart… ride it out.” His touch is like fire, fingers buried deep inside her pulsing core, others swiping down the hood of her tender clit.
His knee nudges her legs further apart. “One day, I’m going to tie you to this bed just so I can watch your pretty cunt all day.” His fingers withdraw from inside of her to slide roughly through her folds before thrusting inside once more. “And only when you’re a dripping mess, begging to be touched, will I give in.”
“Fuck me.” Her plea is buried into the duvet but it doesn’t stop her from fucking herself on his fingers. “I need you to fuck me.”
He bends low against her back as he lays a line of kisses along her spine. His mouth lingers near a scar at the top of her hips, tongue tracing the fading line.
His hands curve around her supple hips, drawing her back until Hermione feels the first nudge of the thick head of his cock. “I told you, sweetheart… I’m going to ruin you.”
“I’m yours to ruin,” she whimpers, anchoring her palm against the wall as leverage before pushing back against the exquisite stretch. There’s no slow build, no tender touches, only primal need between them. His hand twists into her curls, the other gripping her hip. It’s hard enough to know she’ll bruise despite the promise from earlier.
Each movement reignites the need inside of her, tendrils of pleasure already tightening in her core. The thick head of his cock drags along her walls as they clench around him, desperate to keep him deeper for longer.
“Fucking perfect,” he groans. She angles her hips slightly and he sinks even deeper. “That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck me like you mean it.”
It’s nearly impossible to coordinate her movements, to match him thrust for thrust, but she manages. Her hand slips between her body and the mattress, two fingers sliding alongside her clit until her moans of pleasure grow louder and louder.
She means it and she shows him.
When she threatens to collapse from the all-consuming whirlwind of pleasure, he holds her up, trapping her hand against her clit until the moment he falls himself. Gravelled words scrape against her flesh as she claws her way through the upside down, their meaning known yet the words unheard. Still, he doesn’t relent, cock dragging along the tight, slick walls of her pulsing cunt.
Warmth fills her body as he spills deep inside of her. One last eager snap of his hips and he stills, holding his cock and his spend inside of her well-used body.
The feel of his breath puffs against her back, his face half-buried in riotous curls, arms wrapped around her middle. For the space of the silence that exists between them, Hermione feels whole, real .
It’s the aftermath that leaves her empty, when he finally withdraws and they both dress, uncertain of how to exist in a place where they don’t, where identities are left behind at the door. It’s been this way for months, but somehow they always find one another.
“Hermione, I–”
She spins on her heel, and presses her finger to his mouth. “You’re not supposed to know.”
He entwines their fingers and leaves a kiss against the edge of her knuckles. “I’ve known for months.”
She shakes her head in disbelief and steps away, wrapping her arms around her middle. “That’s not how this is meant to work.”
“Just hear me out, please.”
Hermione blinks away the tears in her eyes and withdraws further, grasping the knob of the door behind her. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Harry watches her go, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, steadying himself for another week where he can only love her in the quiet of his mind.