Unofficial Portkey Archive

Author Notes - This piece was originally written for the HermioneGranger Fuh-Q-Fest at Yahoo! Groups. The use of the Secaro (slicing) spell in this story is not my invention; it is credited to Angie J (aka Ebony) of Trouble in Paradise and Paradise Lost fame. Thanks to betas Nykohl and Raye for their awesome work.

This is a replacement upload, as the last chapter was corrupted. I hope to god it works…..

Revelation in an Invisibility Cloak - Part 1

*

"Ginny! For the love of God will you hurry up?" Hermione yelled through the closed bathroom door. She stole a glance at her watch. Damn it, they were already behind schedule!

Ginny answered, almost languorously, "Don't get your G in a twist, Hermione. It's not even six yet. We're going to Apparate there, not take a horse and cart…" Silence. She started humming. Not even under her breath, but loudly enough so that Hermione could discern that there wasn't even a recognisable tune behind it.

Hermione swore under her breath. She should have been used to this by now. Ginny was always making them late, or at least, so behind that they always arrived with only minutes - sometimes seconds - to spare.

"Ginny, I am not fooling around here. I need to take a shower, put on my make-up, put on that blasted potion so my hair doesn't do an impersonation of an electric-chair victim…honestly, you've been in there for twenty bloody minutes!"

Ginny either didn't hear (which was unlikely) or chose to ignore her (which was almost a certainty). To add insult to injury, the Wizarding Wireless in the bathroom jumped into life with a pop! and Hermione could suddenly hear the soulful sounds of the Skankin' Undercurrents of the Cumberland Knights' (or SUCK, as known to their fans) current hit, Firebolt Sally. And while it was a groovy tune, she was sure it had been ripped off some Muggle artist. It just sounded too familiar.

Pulling her wand out of her sleeve, she longingly stroked it. It would be so easy, so quick. Just Alohomora her way in, knock the Wireless into the toilet along with SUCK and their ripped-off song, and drag Ginny out of the shower kicking and screaming…she forced herself to calm down, and peered incredulously at her wand hand, which had already extended so that the wand tip was touching the door-handle.

Wow, she thought, dazed in the wake of her abrupt surge of anger. She turned away from the door and slowly walked into the living room. Talk about losing it. Honestly, I could give Harry a run for his money. As quickly as the thought had sprung into her mind, she quashed it shamefully. Of course, she had no right to think that way about Harry. It wasn't like he'd asked to be the Boy Who Lived. Or the Boy Who'd Lost His Parents. Or the Boy Who'd Lost His Godfather. Or the Boy who, to this day, felt keenly the death of Neville Longbottom, and carried the unshakeable conviction that Neville's murder at the hands of Voldemort was all his fault.

Hermione had only found out about the prophecy long after the remorseful Dumbledore had told Harry. He had kept it from almost everyone, wallowing in the angst following Sirius' death and hardly able to talk to anyone, not even his two best friends. It had been a strange time. Harry had completely withdrawn from the people who cared about him. In some ways, his hostility and short temper had been preferable to the way he turned inward. She understood now why he had done so; she could only imagine what it was like to be him, having to carry such a burden. And it wasn't only self-pity that had made him so distant, it was the futile hope that if he rejected everybody, all those around him would be safe. Untouched by the inevitable creeping death that had been Lord Voldemort.

Yes, she understood why he had acted the way he had. Why, when she had tearfully pleaded with him to let her in, to make her understand, he had simply looked away, trying to hide the tears that turned his green eyes almost fluorescent. And when she had choked out that she loved him, that she didn't want to lose him, he had quickly looked back at her, then just as quickly turned away and said, "No one can love me, Hermione. No one. Trust me, it's better this way." And he had walked out of the Three Broomsticks into the cold night, alighted his broom and flown back to the school without so much as a backwards glance.

She understood. She empathised. It still hurt though…like a knife in her side. No, not her side. Her heart.

And to this day, she had no idea if Harry had understood her. Two years after Voldemort had been banished into the halfway hell of his own creation, where he would forever lie, Harry still had not dragged himself out of the pit of his despair. And things had never been the same between them. He couldn't even look her in the eye anymore.

Sighing, she flopped into her overstuffed armchair and tucked her legs underneath her, pulling a hand-knitted shawl over her knees as she waited for the bathroom. As the strains of Firebolt Sally emanated from the closed bathroom door (who in the bloody hell sang that? she wondered idly) she closed her eyes and let her thoughts overwhelm her, thinking about AV - After Voldemort. Just like Harry had changed, so too had the Wizarding World. Some of it had been for the better, some definitely for the worse. For weeks after Voldemort's downfall there had been drunken celebrating in all the streets - wizarding and Muggle. And for once the Ministry of Magic, or what was left of it, had overlooked the blatant exposure of magical revelry to the non-magical folk, all over the world. The Muggle press had had a field day (well, actually, more like a field month), with reports of UFOs that seemed to resemble people on broomsticks, of all things, unexplained lights in the sky, explosions, millions of flocks of owls of all descriptions flying everywhere, even in places where there were no owls, and people in cloaks and pointed hats all over the place, for the love of Merlin! But even the Muggles seemed to sense that a momentous occasion had taken place, and the joy had been infectious.

After the celebrations, however, came the official business of rounding up Voldemort's supporters and sympathisers. And then had come the executions.

Not Avada Kedavra. That had been deemed too merciful by the Ministry and the fascistic ideologue who had been elected as Minister (or had bribed his way in, some darkly muttered). Beheading was the order of the day. That horrible slicing spell, Secaro, which could be performed at any speed you liked. And all be damned if it was Dark Magic, for the cronies of the most evil wizard in the world deserved no less.

This was followed by the rounding up, interrogation and incarceration of all the beings perceived to have had the most to gain by Voldemort's uprising. The vampires, the few giants that were left, the hags, the Dementors. The werewolves.

Even Remus Lupin, member of Albus Dumbledore's illustrious Order of the Phoenix and fearless warrior for the side of the Light, had been locked up in a windowless room in Azkaban (sans Dementors, but no less horrifying a place) where he had had no access to Wolfsbane. Remus had suffered through three painful transformations before Harry Potter had got wind of it and, marching to the Minister of Magic's office, had flung it open, grabbed the startled man by his goatee and threatened to bring Voldemort back if Lupin was not released this instant!

Hermione chuckled to herself as she remembered Fred and George's account of that day. How the usually hard-eyed, stone-faced Minister had suddenly produced a foul-smelling load in his pants (if it was because of the threat Harry had posed or Harry himself, with his flashing emerald eyes that seemed able to singe holes in concrete, no one ever knew), as well as a parchment and a quill, squeaking at Harry to "sign here!" and Lupin had been free.

That was another thing Harry blamed himself for: not only Lupin's imprisonment, but the fact that his bringing down Voldemort had caused, even indirectly, so much pain for so many innocents. Those who just happened to be the wrong kind of being. And no one could persuade him otherwise. Just another burden for the Boy Who Lived to carry on his already over-loaded shoulders. If only he would let another help him with the load….

Hermione sighed again and, unbidden, a tear welled from the corner of her eye, and coursed its way over her smooth cheek where it finally caught on her bottom lip. It hung, glistening, in the candlelight like a diamond.

"Galleon for your thoughts," a voice came from behind her.

Swiping quickly at the tear, she turned her head to see Ginny standing in the doorway of the room, a towel around her damp body, her copper curls gleaming within the folds of the hair towel as it rubbed at her scalp vigorously, unassisted, while her left hand busily applied clear polish to the long nails on her right.

"Hmph. Galleon? More like a couple of Sickles at the very most." Hermione sniffed and pushed herself off the armchair reluctantly. "You want me to do a drying spell, Gin? It'd be so much quicker than towelling it."

"Nah, I get split ends with drying spells," Ginny replied. "Want to look good for Dean, y'know? He deserves to be pampered a bit. Poor baby, he's been so stressed. Those bastards at West Ham have been giving him hell about his contract. I mean, bloody hell, he's worth all that money. Though I still think they ought to pay him in real money, not those silly pounds…." She ducked, grinning as Hermione playfully tossed a cushion at her head.

"Watch it, red-knob!" she warned threateningly, "or I'll hex you from here to next week."

"Oooh, terrified I am!" Ginny taunted.

"I'll make Dean impotent!"

"Pfft! With me around? Dream on, girl!"

"I'll break one of your nails!"

Ginny stopped dead, and went paler than usual. "You wouldn't!"

"Really? You wanna try me?" Hermione giggled, slowly stepping in her direction, fingers outstretched towards Ginny's nails.

"Nooo!" Ginny screeched. "Okay, okay! You win! Jesus, you're a low bitch sometimes, you know that?"

Hermione laughed and brushed past her to go to the bathroom. Just as she closed the door, she heard Ginny mutter, "Red-knob?"

Stripping off, she jumped into the shower, quickly wet her hair and shampooed it, all the while conscious of the minutes ticking by. What I wouldn't give for that Time-Turner right now, she thought as she got out, waved her wand to perform a drying spell (split ends be damned), and poured liberal amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion into her mass of bushy hair, smoothing it out and pinning it up like she had at the Yule Ball all those years ago.

The simple, elegant hairstyle brought back memories of that night with a vengeance. She smiled wistfully as she remembered the look on Harry's face as he'd realised that the striking girl accompanying the acclaimed Seeker (and actually pretty nice guy, to boot) Viktor Krum was none other than his best pal, Hermione Granger. She chuckled as she remembered the fight she and Ron had had in the common room afterwards. Back then she hadn't been sure of her feelings, towards either of them. She'd noticed both boys starting their ascent into manhood - Ron filling out pleasingly, and Harry getting harder and leaner rather than staying so skinny. She could not say what now drew her to Harry, or why Ron held no interest for her now. At least, not in that way.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There had been a couple of times, when AV was in its glorious infancy, when she and Ron had been celebrating with their friends (no Harry, of course), and she'd felt that old spark rekindle when they looked at each other drunkenly, felt her loins tingle with some sort of anticipation as Ron had studied her much like he had used to, and she was sure, had he pushed his luck a little further, that she would have jumped into the sack with him without hesitation. A couple of shots of Firewhisky in her Butterbeer, the giddy heights of euphoria that had followed the Dark Lord's demise, and her aching loneliness and sexual frustration had conspired to make her as horny as hell, gagging for release. But Ron had either never had those intentions, or he had lost his nerve. Or she just wasn't the kind of girl a bloke perceived in that way, as just a quick shag. For when she woke up the morning after those long, inebriated nights, she'd been hung over, nauseous, and alone. As always.

Dragging herself back to the present, she berated herself for wasting precious time reminiscing (or at least starting to - it had quickly degenerated from nostalgia to feeling sorry for herself) and wrapped the towel around herself. Peering critically at herself in the fogged mirror, she was, for once, extremely happy with what she saw. Harry and Ron weren't the only ones who had filled out, matured. She was pleasing enough to look at, with a face that even she would describe as cute; when her hair was behaving itself, as now, she could look a million pounds. Or Galleons, she thought, amused.

Her body was, in her humble opinion, also very decent. Not perfect - she didn't have Ginny's willowy frame with high, upswept breasts, or Luna's petite body, but she had curves. And they were most pleasant to look at, to bend this way and that, to run her hands over, wishing they were someone else's…

She stopped herself from undoing the knot of her towel and reaching for herself with her eager fingers. Chuckling, she smacked herself on the rump playfully.

"What's wrong with you, Granger? Later!" she admonished herself, before flinging open the door and striding into the hallway to her bedroom. Glancing at her watch, she groaned out loud as she saw they had twenty minutes to get to the party. Sure they were Apparating, but she liked to be a little better than punctual, thank you very much.

As she pulled on baby-blue robes that clung in all the right places (yet managed to flow like a silken river as well - Merlin knew how), and applied her make-up at the same time (God magic was useful) she thought about Lavender's birthday. Happy 20^th for the youngest of the Brown girls, the last of her line. And, coincidentally, Happy 1^st Anniversary for Lavender and Justin, as well. It was all so romantic, it was enough to make you gag. She and Justin weren't wasting any time, either - for already Lav was about three months pregnant, and like most expectant mothers at that stage, the glow of carrying that extra life seemed to emanate from her like an angel's aura. Wonder if she'll have that same bloody aura when she's puking up her breakfast and her ankles are so swollen she could wade across the Hogwarts lake with them, she grumbled to herself uncharitably, before her thoughts went, as they had a penchant to, to Harry.

Wonder if he'll be there, she thought sadly. Probably not. I don't think he ever really liked Lav, anyway. Even if he did, there'd be an excuse why he couldn't go. And no one would ever think to challenge him about it. Sighing for what seemed like the umpteenth time, she put on the finishing touches to her lipstick, pouted at the mirror, admitted to herself that she looked quite good, and walked out into the living room, grabbing her purse from the hall stand on the way.

Ginny was in the living room, still fiddling with her hair, but thankfully dressed in robes of deep green (funny how redheads always look good in green. Maybe she should have been a Slytherin). She looked up and swept an appraising eye over Hermione. "You don't just look quite good, love, you're beautiful."

Hermione flushed in pleasure, before realising what she'd said. "How did…?"

Ginny smirked, her delicate eyebrows raised. "You were talking out loud, hon. Don't worry, I can't read minds…yet."

"Hmph!" Hermione retorted. She checked the time again. Perfect - ten minutes to go. It was nice being early. "Okay, ready. Got the present?"

Ginny's face fell. "Present?"

Hermione looked at her sharply. "Yes Ginny, the present. The nice bracelet that we ordered at Gudgeonley's Jewels. The one that cost about 100 bloody Galleons. Please tell me you haven't lost it!"

"No, no, not lost…um….were you supposed to pick it up or was I?" Ginny asked in a rush.

Hermione stared at her, absolutely flabbergasted. She then spoke quietly and coldly, with enough venom in her words to kill a Basilisk. "I distinctly remember asking you, Virginia Weasley, youngest of the Weasley clan, probably not-to-be-breathing-soon of the Weasley clan, if you could pick it up. And I distinctly remember you saying `yeah sure, `Mione, no problem. I'll pick it up after work.' You work, I will remind you, at Madame Maulkin's. Which is about TEN YARDS AWAY FROM THE BLOODY JEWELLER'S!!" she finally shrieked.

Ginny was speechless in the face of her flat-mate's quick fury. She was probably wondering if she would be standing for much longer.

Stuttering, trying to avoid Hermione's livid expression, she said "Oh God….I'm so, so sorry. Look, I'll explain to Lav, she'll understand - "

"No!" Hermione snapped. "You will not explain to Lav, and she will not understand. I will go myself and pick the damned thing up, which is what I should've done in the first place, rather than trusting you!"

Ginny looked hurt, yet had the good grace to look more ashamed than anything else. She watched in silence as Hermione stormed to her bedroom, and came back in a couple of seconds, striding like a jackbooted North Korean communist soldier, wrapping herself in a cumbersome trench coat that had to be twice her size, before violently transfiguring a doily on the couch into a large bonnet which she hastily tied around her perfectly coiffed hair. She had no idea that she looked absolutely ridiculous.

"Her-Hermione?" Ginny almost whispered. Hermione looked up.

"What?" she snarled, then taking a deep breath and asking it again in a close-to-normal voice.

"Um…why are you wearing that…thing?"

"Well, I can't Apparate into Diagon Alley, can I? I'll have to Floo in. And my gown will be buggered unless I wear this thing, alright?" Anti-Apparition shields had been put in place around Diagon Alley, and much of central London, during the days of Voldemort's reign. Now, however, the paperwork and the costs to abolish the shields were going to be enormous, and the current Ministry were dragging their heels, trying to foist the responsibility onto someone else. So the only way in to the hub of Wizarding London was via Floo into the Leaky Cauldron, and then from the back entrance into the busy street. She couldn't even Apparate into the pub, and she certainly couldn't Apparate anywhere outside it - so Floo powder it was.

Ginny had cringed from Hermione's scathing tone, and with tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks, she said quietly, "Oh Hermione, I'm so sorry!" Hermione looked up again, and her face softened.

"Hey, quit it, ok?" she said softly, swallowing her anger as best she could. "Look, I'm sorry that I went a little…ballistic. It's been a shit of a day." She ambled over to Ginny to enfold her in a hug. "Now, stop crying before you run that swamp mud you call mascara down your cheeks."

Ginny choked on a sob and giggled, and wiped her eyes carefully on a piece of tissue she produced magically from her sleeve. "Seriously, I'll go. It's my fault."

"Don't worry Gin. Look, I'm already dressed in my soot-repelling gear! I'm all set." She let go of Ginny and chucked her gently on the chin. "You go on ahead to Lav's. Don't tell her I'm getting her present from the store though, okay? Just say I'll be along in about ten. Shouldn't be longer than that."

"'Kay," said Ginny. "See you soon, alright? Be careful in that fireplace!" She grinned, some of her old cheekiness coming back. "Never know when you might end up somewhere else altogether!"

"I should be so bloody lucky," Hermione grumbled as Ginny disappeared with a loud crack! She waddled over to the fireplace, reached into a pot on the mantelpiece and took out a pinch of glittering Floo powder. After a quick Incendio the dark fireplace was filled with crackling flames, burning merrily without wood, which started to spit and hiss as large, fat droplets of rain began to spatter down the chimney.

"Oh, perfect," Hermione muttered. Could this day - and night - get any worse?

Flinging the powder into the flames, she watched them go an emerald green.

Just like Harry's eyes, part of her mind said wistfully.

Oh, just shut up!! Her everyday, pragmatic part scolded. You sound like a teenager, for Merlin's sake! She had to stop doing this to herself. After all, Harry wasn't interested in her, not in the slightest. He had much bigger things on his mind nowadays than her. Or any other woman, for that matter. At least, she hoped he did.

Wrapping her coat around her tighter, and undid and retied the bonnet, thinking, do I have my handbag, my wand…?

She clicked her tongue, annoyed at herself. She was procrastinating. She'd always hated travelling by Floo. It made her sick to her stomach, all that spinning and bumping around in that green, nightmarish void. And she could never get past that horrible thought, that if just one syllable was mispronounced, she could end up at a Black Mass where they were sacrificing a petrified young virgin to Beelzebub atop a blood-covered altar…

Or worse. Another 18^th birthday party.

Stooping her shoulders, she ducked and crawled into the green flames. She felt the warmth envelop her, hotter than usual as she was wrapped up in the trench coat. She opened her mouth to utter the words, clearly and precisely, "Diagon Alley!"

Instead, she sneezed.

Hard. About five times. In quick succession. All the while trying to gasp out her intended destination.

It was the ash. All that bloody ash, going up her nose, hitting her sinuses like a rush of blood to the head.

Then came that horrible sucking feeling. Like something had grabbed her, rolled her into a bundle, and thrown her down a well shaft. But this well shaft didn't just go down. No, it went up, down, left, right, back up again, and all the while she was spinning like the proverbial top. She could feel herself wanting to scream, but she knew that if she did, she'd end up Merlin knew where, and she'd also puke like the fabled Lav after her aura left her for good, so she shut her lips tight, screwed her eyes shut to avoid the motion sickness brought on by looking through the various fireplaces, and waited for the end. Wherever that may be.

As the ash that was accompanying her seemed to force its way down her throat, she couldn't help but start to choke. She had to open her mouth to let out her violent, racking coughing. With every cough, she felt herself change direction, seeing fireplaces flash by as she seemed to bounce off brightly lit logs and back into the green flames that felt like Hell on St. Patrick's Day. And all the while, two thoughts kept stampeding through her head in quick succession, and coming back again and again to torment her more: I'm dead! I'm deeeaaaad!! and Yes, this has turned out to be a shit of a day! For she knew that even if she landed in Knockturn Alley, that it may be the lesser of all the possible evils. At least it was in the vicinity of Diagon Alley. Otherwise, where might she end up? God only knew. Even He might not have a clue.

Finally, when she thought her stomach could take no more punishment, she felt herself slow down and almost sobbed in relief.

Relief that was short lived as she fell forward out of a fireplace and felt the cracking of her forehead against stone after she heard the muffled thump, and was quickly forgotten as everything went black.

*

When Hermione came to, she was utterly confused. Groggily, she pushed herself up on one hand, squinting her eyes to see in the sudden brightness. She felt the bright beam of light lance into her eyes and winced as the throbbing ache in her head became almost agonising. Gingerly, she reached up to feel her forehead, but jerked her hand back and moaned as it brushed against the enormous lump there and caused a strong pain to radiate between her temples and over her scalp, which faded as it moved like a wave down the back of her neck and shoulders. Eyes smarting, she tried to push herself up further and gave a guttural groan at the pain that insistently burgeoned in her head.

Gasping at her exertion, she lay there perched on her hand as the pain faded once again, and blearily looked around, her eyes becoming accustomed to the light. Through her hazy perception, she did not recognise this place at all. She'd never been here in her life. Which could be a very bad thing. Where on earth am I?

The large room was Spartan, to say the very least. Beyond the stone hearth where she had landed were wooden floorboards, dusty and unpolished. Underneath a heavily curtained window stood a small, sagging single bed with an iron frame, the bars on the bed-head resembling caged prison windows, which faced the fireplace. Next to it was an old, battered chest of drawers, upon which was a small candelabra with two candles lit, accounting for the only light in the room, apart from the flames crackling behind her in the fireplace. As her eyes became used to the light, she saw its spread across the room was meagre, hardly illuminating the bed and not even reaching the corners of the room, where dark shadows seemed to dance in time with the flickering candelight reflecting off the walls.

Apart from this furniture, the room was bare. No pictures or photographs, moving or otherwise, hung from the walls. No mementos upon the chest, no books, and apart from the candles and the lit fire, no sign of life whatsoever.

Yes, that's all well and good, Granger, but you'd better get out of here before whoever it is that lives here comes back and decides to rape, maim and kill you for fun! piped up the nagging, indignant part of her mind that always had to ruin a good time by being sensible. Not that she was having a good time, but damn it, it was the principle of the matter. "No, I will not," Hermione muttered out loud, cringing even as the act of uttering that phlegmy, hoarse whisper sent pain storming through her head. She couldn't leave yet - just trying to sit up caused pesky little imps to pound on her brain with what felt like sledgehammers. Besides, even though the place was obviously lived in by someone who had a monk complex, she didn't really feel as though she were in danger. Which was odd, considering that her inbuilt hazard barometer usually went off for the slightest reason. She found herself wanting to explore this room, to tear it apart to find clues as to the person who slept here.

Well, get on with it then. Right. Okay, it was time to "haul ass," as the Yanks said.

You've read too many books. And you're procrastinating, again. Just get the bloody hell on with it!

"I really, really hope I don't sound like that in real life," she murmured under her breath. Slowly, hesitantly, she pushed herself up on her haunches, trying to ignore the screaming pain in her head. She groped behind her for the brickwork of the fireplace wall, which she braced herself upon as she got to her feet, wincing as the joints in her knees popped. Once she was on her feet, the room spun wildly, the agony in her head enough to make tears come to her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat. I can't even stand, she thought desperately as the pain grew worse. As the room spun more, nausea assaulted her. She took a deep breath and held it, forcing away the urge to bring up her afternoon tea. The tears she'd been blinking back spilled out over her eyes and down her cheeks as a wave of self-pity threatened to drown her.

Like a toddler learning to walk, she shuffled across the room to the bed. Along the way, her soot-covered trench coat, which had been hanging off her shoulders, fell to the floor with a soft thump. Unmindful of her delicate silk robes (which, truth be told, she had forgotten that she was even wearing, or why she was wearing them), she collapsed onto the narrow mattress, burying her face in the single pillow, as if trying to force the pain from her head into the thin cotton. She reached up and massaged her scalp through the bonnet she still wore, which seemed to help. What am I going to do? she thought. I can't even stay upright without wanting to puke.

Then, as if her growing hopelessness had triggered a specific neuron in her head, Ron's voice bellowed in her memory, "Have you gone mad? Are you a witch or not?"

She smiled faintly, relief washing over her. Of course.

Tentatively rolling onto her back, she reached under the folds of her robes to the wand holster strapped to her thigh, thanking her lucky stars that she hadn't put her wand in her purse, which had been lost in the Floo network somewhere. She usually did wear her wand in its thigh holster when she was wearing dress robes, and it had come in useful on many an occasion when a lecherous git full of Firewhisky and an attitude had tried to persuade her that he had the world's best, most versatile salami, and was looking for a place to hide it. One swish of her wand and said git was usually wearing his underwear for a hat, with his salami poking out for all to see, usually disproving his, ahem, big claims. And that was if she was in a good mood.

She retrieved the wand and, pointing it at her pounding head, muttered, "Reducio."

Immediately she felt the swelling subside, and with it, most of the pain. It was an amazing spell, Reducio. The first time she'd seen it used was on a magically-engorged spider, but during the Bad Year - when Voldemort had made his final, doomed stand - she'd learnt that a lot of commonplace, seemingly simple spells were actually quite versatile, and extremely useful when tending the injured. Reducio was one of them.

Re-holstering her wand snugly in its sheath, she carefully sat up and cradled her head in her hands. A dull ache still lingered at the back of her head and slightly in her temples, but it was bearable, and could be fixed with a shot of Hermann's Headache Tonic. There should be some at home; that is, if Ginny had bothered to replace the bottle that had been broken as a result of she and Dean boffing madly on the bathroom sink…

That was when she remembered everything with a flash. Ginny. Lavender's 20^th. The present.

Shit.

Frantically, she looked at her watch, and cursed when she saw that its face had been smashed in, the hands twisted and jammed violently together somewhere in her crazy travels in the Floo network. Pushing herself off the bed, she stumbled to the mantelpiece, and exhaled in relief when she saw a small pot full of shimmering powder. At least she could get out of here. She wasn't going to Apparate - for all she knew the boundaries of this place were chock-a-block with wards and Anti-Apparition shields. Come to think of it, she didn't even know where this place was.

Never mind that! the now welcome, sensible part of her mind shrieked. For the love of Merlin's staff, just get out of here!

"Right," she said briskly. Quickly, she went back to the bed, smoothed the sheets and tried to plump up the thin pillow. Satisfied with that, she went back to her discarded trench coat, bent down and picked it up. She got back up, and slipped into it, forcibly holding in the sneeze that rose inside her as soot billowed up from the collar and tickled her nostrils. That's what got you into this mess in the first place! she thought sternly, as she bent down to check the floor, to make sure she hadn't dropped anything that might be found.

And, from under the bed, a silvery flash of reflected light caught her eye. She froze, and bent further down, her cheek resting against the floorboards. Again, in the dancing light from the candles above, she could make out the silvery colour, which seemed to be a piece of cloth of some sort. A powerful sense of déjà vu overcame her as she stared at that cloth - she was sure she'd seen it somewhere before.

Pulling out her wand again, she lit the tip of it with a hurried "Lumos!" and pointed it under the bed. She stared in astonishment at the shining bundle, before thrusting her free hand under the bed and yanking the heavy, velvety cloth towards her.

Her mouth hung open in amazement. Oh yeah, she had definitely seen this before. She'd spent enough time under it, after all.

Standing up, she held the cloak in front of her, running the back of her hand that tightly clenched her lit wand down the sinuous material. It was cool to the touch, and, not for the first time that night, her mind was flooded with images - memories of the things the three of them, her, Ron and Harry, had gotten into. The adventures they'd had. The near misses. The missed opportunities…

She remembered a favourite fantasy that had involved her, Harry and the invisibility cloak, and felt her cheeks and ears burn red.

Enough! Focus! screeched that irrepressible inner voice. How do you know that this is Harry's cloak? He doesn't own the only one in the world! It could be the Boston Strangler's, for all you know!

"No, he was a Muggle, he wouldn't have one…" murmured Hermione distractedly. It was true though; just because Harry had an invisibility cloak, it didn't mean that this was his cloak. Or, more importantly, that this was Harry's bedroom. He wouldn't live here…

She realised with a start that she didn't know where Harry lived. He had roomed with Ron after they had finished their Hogwart's education, as they had both been in the Auror training program. Ron had gone on to become one of the best in his class, but Harry had dropped out after he found out about Remus' incarceration in Azkaban. When Hermione had asked him why, he had simply said, "I don't want to be part of a system that locks people up because of what they might do."

So he had dropped out and moved out. In doing so, he had alienated himself even further from his circle of friends, and this time, no one really tried to bring him back into the fold. Maybe they'd all thought that it was pointless, and all that he needed was some space to be truly by himself, which he hadn't had an opportunity to be since fifth year. But the more space people gave him, the more distant he became. At first, people had asked after him at gatherings, parties, pub nights, but their concern had dwindled over the last two years, and now no one asked her where Harry was, or how he was doing. Not even Ron. Which always relieved Hermione, because most of the time she didn't know. He moved around a lot, almost like a nomadic tribesman, never content in the same place for more than a few months. And most of the time he didn't bother to tell his friends in which filthy quarters he was cohabitating this time. "If you can't find me, the bloody press can't either, eh?" he'd feebly joked once to her and Ron, and they'd looked at him sceptically. They both knew that wasn't the whole reason.

Ron himself had all but given up. "If he doesn't want to help himself, what can we do, huh?" he'd wearily asked her. As for Hermione, she didn't know what to do with him anymore, how to treat him when they met up, what to talk to him about, and it saddened her. Her feelings for this shell of a man were many and complex, but she was sure in her heart that she loved him, for his innate decency and kindness, the passion she knew he was capable of, and other things that she couldn't define, just knew. She'd come to terms with her feelings, especially her love. But she found it increasingly difficult to accept the fact that nowadays, she didn't really like him very much. Not when he was so sunk into the depths of his self-pity and depression that he refused to let anyone in.

She felt bitterness rise like acid bile inside her. She cursed him for having pushed Ron and her away, to let their once great friendship wither like a hothouse flower without water, until it had come to this. Her standing in a bedroom, and she didn't even know if it was Harry's or not…

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs from her brain, she berated herself mentally. God, here she was, thinking of the past when she was God knew where! Look in the drawers, if you have to, then Floo the hell out of here, you dozy nutter!

Re-holstering her wand after extinguishing the lit end, she tucked the cloak under the crook of her arm. She hurried to the chest and slid the top drawers open. There was nothing in it but clothes - T-shirts, jeans, socks…underwear.

Resisting the urge to rifle through the garments (especially the underwear), she moved to the second drawer. It was more of the same, a multitude of clothes. She had a feeling the drawers were magically enhanced, as there was enough attire here to outfit a small rebellion. And so far they didn't look like the clothes Harry wore. There were stylish tees, shirts with flat collars not meant for ties, club denim, that sort of thing. She'd never seen him in much more than his old black robes layered over Dudley's faded old hand-me-downs, even now.

Maybe this isn't Harry's place. I mean, what would be the chances of Flooing there, really, when you think about it? Her inner monologue chattered to her nervously, much like she did out loud when she was anxious. She kept opening and closing drawers desperately, trying to find out to whom this place belonged. Faster and faster she yanked them open, hissing in annoyance and grinding her teeth in exasperation as she came across mundane things like Muggle toiletries, a couple of car magazines, Muggle change, absolutely nothing that would tell her if this was Harry's place.

Then in the last drawer, she found it.

His photo album. The one Hagrid had given him in first year, all those photos of his long-dead parents.

She pushed it aside without opening it. Digging deeper, she saw more photos that weren't in albums, some Muggle, most moving, with people waving to the camera in them. She picked them up with trembling hands and quickly flicked through them. Their last day at Hogwarts. The three of them mugging for the camera, Hermione trying to playfully poke Ron in the sides and Harry with his arms around both of them, looking uncomfortable but happier than she had seen him in a long time. Pictures of Ron and Harry at Auror training, in their official Ministry-provided robes, both looking handsome and regal, yet even in the photo Hermione could see the dark rings under Harry's blinking eyes.

Placing them back in the drawer, reaching further, right at the back of the mammoth space, into the very corners, she felt the hard edges of a photo frame. She grasped it and pulled it towards her.

And her mouth dropped open yet again as she saw herself. Just herself, in three photos that were behind the glass of a single frame. One on her last day at school, smiling self-consciously; a Muggle-style photo of her at university, her books tucked under her arm as she walked briskly to a class (that one had been in one of the student rags - how Harry had got it was beyond her). The last one was her at the now-annual Ball that marked the date of Voldemort's final defeat. She was all dolled up, her stubborn hair tamed straight and draped over one shoulder in a neat tail, wearing not robes but a Muggle evening gown that was cut low in the bust and with a slit up the side that travelled straight to the tops of her legs.

She remembered that night well. She'd worn that bloody dress for Harry. And of course, he hadn't been there. Even though he had been expected, asked, cajoled, begged. And when she had got back to the flat, she'd rushed to her room, ripped off the offending gown and hurled it into the back of her closet, never to wear it again. She'd pinned so many wild hopes on that dress. Stupid really, to think that a guy who hadn't noticed her in that way for years would have suddenly had his eyes opened wide with a simple dress, even if he'd been there. Yet…here she was in that dress, blinking behind the glass, her small hand with its carefully manicured fingernails wrapped around a glass of honeywine, trying to smile prettily for the photographer. In the photo she could see her eyes darting left-to-right, searching the crowd behind the camera, no doubt looking for Harry.

Why did he have photos of just her in a frame? What could this mean? She didn't dare hope. No, it couldn't be. He'd never given her any indication that he even knew her true feelings, much less reciprocated them.

Her thoughts spinning wildly, she carefully replaced the large frame in the back of the drawer and slid it shut. There was more in that drawer, but she couldn't bear to look anymore. Not if there was something else in there that was going to give her false hopes, or worse, dash those hopes like waves against the rocks of harsh reality.

Yet, she could feel it growing inside her, that damned, damned hope. That silly faith, that he felt for her what she had yearned for, for so long now. All because of a couple of stupid photographs.

And then came the anger. It bubbled up like swamp gas, riding on the back of the hope that had sprung from a place inside that she had thought was locked away for good. Anger at their situation, at herself, but mostly at him. How dare he? she thought furiously. How fucking dare he?

She didn't want to feel this righteous anger. She probably didn't even have the right to feel it. He probably didn't have feelings for her, and she was going to make a complete fool of herself if she ever confronted him. But if he did, then why had he treated her like a pariah for so long? Was he so oblivious that he hadn't picked up on her feelings? What had she done?

Suddenly, that nauseous feeling came back. I've wasted so much time…she thought as she clutched her stomach and felt hot tears burn at her eyelids.

She tried to calm down, but her heart only beat faster, and she felt blood roaring in her ears. Her mind was in complete turmoil. Contradictory voices came alive in her head, each one clamouring for her attention. One telling her to pull herself together, denying that there was any feeling there, it was all just a coincidence, someone must have given those photos to him, yet another voice telling her not to be angry, because her dream had finally come true after all, and the third infuriated voice that kept asking why? Why hasn't he said anything? Louder and louder, until it felt like they were in the room with her, yelling in her face, demanding that she listen, that she forget about it, that she do something rather than just stand there like an idiot, staring into space.

When she finally focussed again, the whole room looked out of kilter; wrong somehow, as if all the lines and edges had blurred and morphed into something else. She felt like a stranger in her own body, detached from the reality of the room and the torrent of emotion that she had just experienced. And, at the same time, she felt absolutely exhausted. Her legs buckled, and she almost swooned to the floor.

But she was Hermione Granger. Ex-Head Girl of Hogwarts. Ex-Fighter for the Order of the Phoenix. Resident Tough Bitch. She did not swoon, for anyone.

She told herself this as she finally quelled the thoughts running wild in her head, taking deep breaths, soothing herself. She needed to think about what had happened tonight. What she had seen. What it all meant. But not here. Away from this room that had revealed so much yet told her so little, and left her with so many questions.

And you have a party to go to, she thought. Diagon Alley, then Lav's.

She turned to the fireplace, regarding it with suspicion. She was even more reluctant to use it than ever. The fact that it had brought here of all places was more than just a little strange - it was downright weird. She couldn't tell if she'd been lucky or not. On reflection, she might have preferred the Black Mass option. Coming here had opened too many wounds, and created the potential for new, deeper ones. She had to use the Floo Network to get out of here though - knowing Harry, he was still as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody and had probably rigged the place with a million magical alarms, preventing Disapparition and God only knew what else. She was surprised she hadn't already tripped one off.

How do you know you haven't, you dolt? the scathing voice in her head snarled. Maybe they're silent. Ever think of that?

She was really getting sick of that voice. Even though it bore an uncanny resemblance to her own at times…it was right, though. She hadn't thought of that. How long had she spent in here, poking and prying? Not to mention all the time she'd probably spent unconscious. She had to get out of here, quickly.

She strode purposefully to the fireplace, and took a pinch of powder from the pot, about to fling it into the flames, when she realised she was gripping Harry's invisibility cloak. She must have been holding on to it, all this time when she'd been tearing the drawers apart. Cursing, she sprinkled the powder back into the pot, wiped off her fingers on her trench coat and walked back to the bed, crouching beside it to place the cloak beneath it.

And almost died of fright as the doorknob suddenly rattled, and the sound of a key sliding into the lock rang in her ears like a siren.

She suppressed a scream and frantically looked around her. Shit shit shit, nowhere to hide!

The cloak! On! Now!

In one fluid motion she unfurled the cloak and swept it over herself, its hem barely brushing the ground before the door creaked open on unoiled hinges.

Hermione held her breath and slowly started backing away towards the fireplace, not taking her eyes off the silhouetted figure that stumbled through the doorway.

*

At first, she didn't recognise him. The light didn't quite reach him, but what she could see didn't show her the unkempt, uncaring Harry she'd gotten used to seeing over the past couple of years. It took her a moment to register what the difference was.

He looked…really good. There was no other way to describe him.

His scar seemed less livid than it used to be - almost like a fashion accessory that graced his forehead. He wasn't wearing his glasses. His hair was shorter than it was when she'd last seen him. And while it was still messy, it was sticking up stylishly, not all over the place like it always had, but in a controlled manner that brought to mind photos of male models she'd seen. Maybe he'd used Sleekeazy's. The spikes of hair seemed to gleam in the candlelight. He was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt that had a simple, elegant motif on the front of it, and designer baggy club denim. His patent leather shoes clumped noisily on the floorboards as he staggered towards the chest of drawers, closer to the circle of light cast by the candles.

She held her breath instinctively as he moved past her. As soon as she started breathing again, his scent wafted into her nostrils. A not altogether unpleasant smell of stale smoke, alcohol, vestiges of masculine cologne and…perfume?

Yes, definitely perfume. In fact, when she looked closer at him, she could see a smudge of something on his temple and his neck that looked like dark lipstick.

She seethed. All this time, he'd played the martyr, wearing shabby clothes, not taking care in his appearance…and now he was wearing the latest in Muggle clothing and clubbing for God's sake! And he was snogging other girls, and who knew what else?

Hope he's caught a disease and his dick shrivels, she thought savagely. She was more confused than ever now. Just what in the hell was going on? Who was Harry Potter, really? Which was his true persona? Hangdog poster boy for the Wizarding world or a male slut in the Muggle world? Had he always done this, even as he pushed his friends further away? Judging by his wardrobe, yes. But she couldn't reconcile this with the prison-like décor in the room, with only the bare necessities. And not many of those, either.

This myriad of churning thoughts bombarded her mind as she watched him dump his wallet and keys next to the candelabra, and, slightly swaying, turn towards the fireplace. Looking straight in her direction.

She whimpered inwardly and sidled away to the right on the balls of her feet, praying that her heels would make no noise. They didn't, and he lurched to the fireplace, passing her by inches. Standing in front of it, he paused, presumably to regain his balance, and withdrew his wand from somewhere in his pants (she couldn't tell where he'd hidden it. Not in his pocket, surely. Not eleven inches of wand in his pants' pocket?). Waving it in the air, the fire sputtered and died.

Great. Now what do I do? She didn't dare try to Disapparate away from here, didn't trust herself to run to the door. She was frozen to the spot, staring at him under the cloak like a frightened rabbit in car headlights.

She suddenly stared in horror at faint, sooty footprints that her high-heeled sandals surely had made from the fireplace to the bed. How had she not noticed them? Surely Harry would?

But he didn't. He didn't even look at the floor, but turned and walked over the footprints, past the larger faint outline of soot that had been left by the falling trench coat that she hadn't noticed either, and sat heavily on the bed.

Good. That's right. Go to sleep.

But he didn't. Bending forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs and held his head in his hands, massaging his scalp slowly. He exhaled, a loud sigh. And stayed there for a very long time.

Minutes seemed to turn into hours as Hermione watched him, fascinated, yet getting more edgy as every second ticked inexorably onwards. Her thoughts turned to Ginny - she'd be worried sick by now. She'd be thinking splinching, rape, murder. And not necessarily in that order, either. But she couldn't do anything, couldn't escape.

And, she admitted to herself, she didn't want to go just yet. She could feel herself on the verge of an epiphany - and she wanted to see what it was, at the very least.

At last, Harry unfurled himself, and laid himself out on the bed. Hermione was reminded of Crookshanks, and how he used to gracefully stretch every joint before repose, purring incessantly. Harry did the same, but he didn't purr. His noises weren't from contentment either - the groan he emitted wasn't one of pleasure but of weariness. And maybe despair? A small, cruel part of Hermione fervently hoped so.

He settled back onto the pillow she'd buried her face in before. She held her breath again - would he notice the smell of her perfume? Apparently not, for he lay there without expression, staring at the ceiling, still fully dressed.

Then he spoke. The first words he'd uttered since coming into the room. "Accio Photographs," he mumbled hoarsely, stretching out his left hand. The bottom drawer sprung open and out sailed the framed photos that she'd agonised over, into his hand.

She stared, astonished, as Harry held it up in front of his face, obscuring his features. She could feel the tension in the air, could almost hear it, trilling like altar bells in a church as he stared at the photos. He lowered the frame to his lap, raising his knees slightly so that it stayed slightly upright on them. And he kept staring at them, as if he wanted to memorise every line of her face, every curve of her body that showed in those photos. His voyeuristic gaze made her feel hot, the blood rushing to her face, her body tingling. And he wasn't even looking at the real her, just a representation on glossy paper. Two of them were moving representations certainly, but only echoes of her nonetheless.

What he did next shocked her, moved her, and was the epiphany she'd been waiting for. For the rest of her life she would remember it, sometimes with amazement, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with melancholy. But she would never forget it.

His eyes burned as he reached down and started stroking his crotch, lightly at first. Back and forth, with his three fingers, skimming over the denim, then pressing harder and moving faster, frenzied as his eyes started to glaze over. But he never took them from the photos.

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat, as his movements grew more frantic. She watched the bulge in his groin grow larger, the outline of his penis sticking out from his lap in sharp relief, almost begging to be let free from its denim prison. As his hand grasped it fully through his jeans, he let out a deep moan and threw his head back, hitting the iron bed-head with a loud crack. He didn't seem to notice though, as his breathing became harsher, and he started mumbling under his breath.

As she watched him, she felt a familiar tingling in her own crotch. Biting her lower lip almost painfully, she trembled, imagining the blood rushing down to warm her loins. Licking her lips as Harry pressed his own together in concentration, she let one hand release the folds of the cloak, catching it with the other and letting her free hand wander down her body, running two fingers across her belly in slow, circling motions. She suppressed a gasp as tremors from her belly spread down like ripples in a pond, lapping at the edge of her sex. She bit down another moan as she pushed the tip of her finger into her bellybutton, pressing hard on the small nub within the folds of the cavity, as though she was rubbing her clitoris instead. Squirming, she rubbed her legs together, squeezing that aching part of her, clenching and unclenching as Harry started to fiddle with his belt buckle, ripping it open and unbuttoning his fly as fast as he could.

She felt her excitement grow as his fingers seemed to shred the thin cotton of his briefs, tearing them aside as he grabbed his erection and released it, letting it point straight at the ceiling. Her eyes widened, taking in the sight of his hand travelling up the thick shaft to the crown, up to the tip of the head, where his thumb smeared the shimmering drop of moisture around the eye of his cock. Breath whistled through his pursed lips as his thumb and forefinger pinched the engorged red head, before setting up a steady pumping, from base to tip, gripping and releasing in what seemed like an oft-practised act. Raising his head from the pillow, he wriggled until his neck was flush against the bed-head, where he could more easily see her framed photos resting on his raised thighs. His free hand pulled the hem of his T-shirt up to his neck, baring his belly, and then snaked down to his lap, where she saw his fingers gently fondle his balls, in perfect time with his rhythmic pumping.

It was all so surreal. For a moment she thought she'd dreamed the whole thing - the Floo ride, arriving here, finding those damned photos - which were now being masturbated over by Harry Potter, even as she was under his invisibility cloak, now frantically stroking her clit with her thumb through the silk of her robe, circling it, pressing hard on it. Fleetingly, she wondered what the hell she was doing, couldn't believe that she was doing this. This was so unlike her. She wasn't a voyeur. She shouldn't even be watching this. But her second thoughts didn't last long. Even that unrelenting voice of reason in her head that had talked to her all her life was silent now. All that mattered was the moment. That she was here. Seeing this. Harry Potter, jacking off to a picture of her, while she frigged herself senseless.

Faster and faster, his hand a blur on his cock, she stared through glassy vision as he went on and on, until she could see the ropy veins running up and down his shaft, inflamed and proudly defined. She couldn't stop the choked whimpers that issued from deep down in her throat as two fingers pushed themselves into her steaming wet folds, thrusting into her, rasping enticingly through the silk as her thumb circled her clit so fast it ached. Thankfully he didn't hear her; he was too wrapped up in his own pleasure, gasping loudly now as he came closer and closer to the end, concentrating on the head of his cock and gripping it with such intensity that Hermione was sure it would burst under the pressure. All the while he stared at the photos, mouth hanging open, a thin, shiny line of saliva running slowly past his slack lips and onto his chin. Just the look of him so mesmerised was almost enough to bring her to breaking point, shuddering helplessly as she moved in time with Harry's hand, brutally shoving three fingers in and out of her pussy, the wetness of her soaking the silk of her robe. But it just wasn't enough. She had never felt so good, had never felt anything like this, and all she was doing was something she'd done on many a lonely night. In darkness, not really looking down to see what seemed so shameful sometimes. Thinking, fantasising, most of her fantasies of this man on the bed whose jaw was now clenched, the veins in his long sleek neck bulging as both hands now went to seize his erection, shiny from pre-come that leaked liberally from the tip, running down the length over his hands into the wiry black hair. Yes, she'd brought herself to climax so many times, but never like this. This was something that wouldn't be repeated to any friends as a sexual exploit. This was something to be jealously guarded, remembered only in her mind. But still it wasn't enough. She wanted more.

Not thinking about the consequences, she gripped the silk of her robe at the crotch and wrenched it back and forth, until a small tear appeared. Brutally she tore the hole wider, unmindful of the sound of ripping fabric that echoed in her ears. She noticed through her haze that Harry hadn't even reacted. Possibly because he was groaning so loudly that he didn't hear. Maybe the wet, fleshy noises of the sticky hands jacking himself off were loud enough to cover the sounds. Whatever; she didn't care. She was much too desperate to reach her own conclusion.

She reached into the opening, grasped her flimsy panties and wrenched them to one side, plunging three fingers roughly into herself, another mouse-like whimper escaping her as they slid deep inside her. She opened her mouth in a silent exhalation of sheer ecstasy as wetness trickled down her fingers to pool in her cupped palm, running down her quivering thighs, her thumb pressed hard down on her little pleasure nub manipulating it expertly. She couldn't believe how wet she was, how hot she was. The musky scent of her pussy wafted up to her nostrils; and she breathed deeply, letting it hit the back of her throat. The smell of her own excitement was so heady, so exhilarating. Her nipples stiffened into hard peaks, as she withdrew her hand from her crotch to spread her wetness all over her belly, her breasts, tearing the hole even wider and this time not even hearing it over the roaring of her blood through her ears. She tweaked her nipples hard, rubbing her fluids into her breasts maniacally, before returning her hand to her aching hole. Distractedly, she wished she could let go of the cloak so she'd have two hands to play with…then thought heatedly, screw it if he sees me he sees me I don't care. And letting go of the cloak, she let it fall open, draping her head and exposing a sliver of her, which widened with every ardent thrust of her fingers. Her other hand was free to roam, over her breasts, her buttocks, between her thighs feeling the slick wetness that had spilled over, bringing her fingers to her lips to taste herself like the madwoman she had become, then back to her centre, where she massaged with both hands, feeling her puffy outer lips swell even more. And still Harry didn't notice, for now his eyes were tightly shut and he was beyond the point of no return. His breathing heavy, groaning with the effort of holding himself back, he suddenly jerked violently, his hips spasming in a bizarre jig. A strangled yell escaped him, followed by grunting as he came, the thick ribbons of semen shooting up in the air like a geyser, to land on his chest, puddling in the concave hollow. As more dribbled out, his cries became short, sharp, almost exclamations of pain, his hand forcefully gripping, squeezing out that last bit of bliss.

At the last spurt, his eyes opened. And widened as he saw the part of her not covered by the cloak. He yelped, as the come oozed into his pubic hair, and loudly blurted out, "Jesus fucking Christ!" Pushing himself up against the bed-head hurriedly, the framed photos slipped off his legs and onto the floor, glass breaking with a loud crash before he could stop it.

But Hermione was too far gone to care, or to stop. Her climax had been building slowly as soon as she had touched herself; now, with the sight of him coming so forcefully, and the complete confusion and incomprehension that had wiped the sated look right off his face, it hit her so hard she could barely stand. She couldn't help it; she screamed wordlessly as it took her over.

Her rapturous shriek, voicing the utter ecstasy that was so strong it was almost painful, reverberated around the near-empty room. The sensations were unbelievable - she'd never come like this. Intense, less an orgasm than a total draining, what felt like a suspension of reality itself as she felt herself soaring, lost in the feeling, riding the waves of the climax like a twig tossed into a tsunami. Any vestige of self-control that may have remained fled as she felt her legs weaken through the powerful convulsions that racked her body, until they finally gave way. Falling to her knees with a thud, she kept her legs spread wide apart, pounding her pussy with fingers from both hands as her orgasm just went on and on, never ceasing for a moment's respite, even as she felt the invisibility cloak slip off her quivering form, exposing her fully to Harry. She could barely breathe. She heard animal noises, a high-pitched keening; realised that it was her making those wild noises, and that Harry was watching her, dumbfounded, his eyes wide with disbelief as she finger-fucked herself to oblivion. And all the while she started right back at him, daring him to look away.

Finally, with one last twist of her clit, she writhed uncontrollably as the last surges of pleasure faded away. Kneeling, panting with exertion, still gently stroking her tingling clit, she really saw, for the first time, just how Harry was staring at her, mouth hanging open, hands still loosely wrapped around his cock. Which was, she noted, still hard. Rock hard, by the looks of it quivering in his grip. And pointed right at her. Not her photographs…at her.

*

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Neither of them could.

While Hermione recovered her breath somewhat, still on her knees before the bed, Harry just sat there and gaped at her. He let go of his shaft and it sprang up to attention, jerking up and down slightly as blood pumped through its veins.

She drew in a shaky breath. Stared at the evidence of his arousal. Gazed at that part of him that looked so…huge. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the enormous silhouette of his cock on that wall, shimmering with its peers. And she knew, so well, that it was a reaction to her. It was enough to start butterflies agitating in her belly, rippling all over her once more. Incredulously, she could only bite her lip as desire and lust overwhelmed her. The room was blotted out, receded into the miasma that was her confused perception, until all that was left was Harry. And that part of him that was all for her. Especially that part

Never knew you were a raging nymphomaniacal slut, Granger. Ah. Her old friend was back, carping on insistently. As usual. She knew it'd been too good to last. But this time, she wasn't listening. She knew what she was doing. She knew exactly what she wanted. Judging by Harry's behaviour and the proof standing upright in front of her, it was exactly what he wanted too.

She was aching to speak, for him to speak, or to move, or to just do something. In case you haven't noticed, Potter, I'm toey as hell right now! Get on with it! she voiced in her head harshly, as her hand started to move between her thighs again.

To his credit, he didn't ask the bleeding obvious, or act like she'd been expecting him to. No "what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here?" or a frantic rush to clean himself up. Clearing his throat, he murmured in a low rumbling way, "I guess you've been here a while, huh?"

"Yeah….." she gasped, both fingers rubbing her clit in slow, lazy circles.

"And I guess you saw, um…, a fair bit." His voice was thickening with every word.

"I guess…"

He shook his head, pressed his lips together in a hard, straight slash. Obviously his attempt at looking no-nonsense, sharp and serious. It was also exceedingly difficult to maintain as he watched her kneeling there, frotting herself madly, while he sat with his cock arced towards the ceiling.

"It wasn't what you think. Really." And, by God, it actually sounded like he meant it. Like he was trying to get her to ignore the fact that he'd been masturbating to her photographs!

She felt the flames of anger lick her insides gently, getting hotter and brighter as she watched him trying to stutter his way through an explanation, but hearing only the roaring of her fury in her eardrums.

Strangely, the angrier she got, the hornier she became. Her stroking became feverish, and she let out a strangled moan, before forcing herself to slow down, just enough to maintain her edge, not drown herself in another exhausting orgasm. Not yet anyway.

What's he doing? Do I have to do all the bloody work here?

Apparently so. For now he had torn his eyes from her and was chewing his lip nervously. Staring down at the puddle of semen still lying on his belly. It was then that the true nature of what she had witnessed occurred to her, and she never would have believed it could be so erotic. The raw sexual power of seeing a man totally defenceless, so enraptured in his own pleasure...it was incredible. Her heart beat even faster as she ran those moments through her mind, and pleasure surged through her, leaving her trembling.

Then she saw, with disgust, the look on his face. Guilt, shame. That stupid bloody mask of useless emotion that he wore to hide what he was really feeling. And the rustling of his hand, groping vainly for his wand, to fix himself up.

She was sick of it. That was the last straw.

"Shut up!" she hissed.

His eyes darted back to her, shocked. "B-but I didn't say anything!" he exclaimed.

"Exactly." Abruptly she pushed herself to her feet and kicked off her heels. Harry flinched as they clattered against the drawers. Gathering her robes around her, she strode towards the bed. "That's exactly it, Harry. You never say anything. You've said nothing to me that's been of any importance for so long now that I'd given up hoping. So now, just shut the fuck up!"

Even she was astounded at the vehemence of her acid-like words. They had just spilled out, as soon as she had opened her mouth. All that dark rage inside her that had been bottled up for so long, all her frustration at him, for shutting her out, for ignoring her, and finally, for secretly wanting her. Sprayed forth from her mouth like poison. But she meant every word.

He shrank back as she came closer. His hands curled protectively around his groin. She noticed, though, that his erect penis had not diminished, even as the rest of him seemed to curl up into a ball as she stopped beside him.

She supposed she must look a sight. Still wearing her soot-covered trench coat over torn baby-blue robes, hair wrapped up in a doily-turned-bonnet, wisps of hair already escaping to whisp like cobwebs at the nape of her neck. She could feel that her face was flushed, with both need and hot, hot anger. She could almost feel her eyes flashing fire at him, and could almost imagine flames shooting from her mouth if she dared to open it again.

Your very own fire-breathing dragon, Harry. Happy Birthday. No, I know it's not your birthday, but you've always wanted a mad bitch to fuck you senseless. Pretty close to a dragon, eh?

That voice was going to be exiled one day, to a place where no one would ever find it. Not even her.

Anyway, she wasn't worried about what Harry thought of her. He could cringe all he wanted, but one part of him didn't lie. And that was the only part she really cared about right now.

She bent over the bed, over him, and roughly seized his chin, forcing his head up so they could look each other in the eye.

She felt a slow burn start in her as his beautiful green eyes bored into her brown ones. His breath came hot and hard against her lips, so close to his. His tongue darted out tentatively to lick his bottom lip, then his top lip, although he didn't blink, just stared into her soul.

Finally he cleared his throat, and in a raspy voice, full of uncertainty, whispered, "Hermione? I…I can't…please…you can't…"

"What did I tell you before, Harry?" she gently cut him off, bringing her lips closer to his. Her voice became rougher; almost a growl, as she said "Just shut up. Shut up and fuck me. You don't need those photos. I'm right here. Right here, goddamn you!"

She didn't want to hear the whys, or the why nots. All she wanted to hear was the sound of his hips smacking into hers.

He growled back at her, his uncertainty not just fading, but completely withdrawing. In its place, she saw a smouldering longing, a hungry gaze that took over his whole face, transforming him from shy, stumbling Harry Potter into a raving sex fiend, who probably gave that look to many a Muggle girl in a sleazy London nightclub to make her weak at the knees before he took her somewhere quiet.

It was such a sudden change. So fast it made her head spin. And that look of his, it made her more than just weak at the knees. It totally demolished her.

"Oh God," she whimpered, and fell forward on him, welding her mouth into his in a violent, passionate kiss. She felt his lips work their magic on hers, twisting and thrusting his tongue wetly into her mouth, felt the gnashing of their teeth as they battled for supremacy. She leaned onto his chest, mashing her breasts into him, and gripped his face in her hands, kissing him harder. The pinpricks of his five o'clock shadow rasped in her palms as they pressed into his cheeks, and she squirmed hotly against him. Shrugging out of the trench coat for the second time that night, she struggled to get onto the bed and straddle his hips, moving up and down his body. She felt his spent fluid squelch into her robes, seeping into the rip in her crotch to gather in her own juices, mingling and mixing. The feeling made her gasp into his mouth, as she felt his semen smear all over her sex with every writhing motion of their bodies, and lust assailed her as she ground her clit into his belly, breathing harder as sharp pleasure from that little nub jolted through her.

Suddenly he pulled her hands roughly away from his face and pushed her back. Astonished, with irritation sweeping through her at the interruption, she blurted out, "what?"

He stared at her, his face unreadable. Except for those eyes - those luminous, deep pools which seemed to burn holes into her very soul as they held her gaze. He absently licked a drop of blood away from his lip. She was startled when she saw it - she hadn't meant to make him bleed, however, the sight of it somehow heightened the mad feelings of arousal, and she ground her hips into his belly once more, moaning. He probably could have put on a pair of ballet slippers and a poncho and proceeded to do the cha-cha for her and she'd still be turned on, if a drop of his blood was enough to send her into paroxysms like this.

Holding her away from him, letting her settle, he struggled to speak. He eyes were roaming all over her - her torn robe, her nipples that tented the cloth draping her full breasts, the way one shoulder of her garment had come off it. His hand stole up to stroke the shoulder wonderingly, massaging the pale skin. Which was all very well, but in her current state, much too gentle for Hermione. She made a low rumbling sound in her throat and, pulling her hand from his, reached behind her, groping for his cock.

When her fingers brushed against it, he hissed, then let his own rumble mix with hers, as she fingered the seeping eye, smearing the pre-come around like she'd seen him do it, before wrapping her hand around his pole and giving it a firm squeeze. He bucked involuntarily, his breath punched out of him as she slowly moved her hand up the shaft, then to the base, never loosening her grip. He stared at her in amazement.

She appreciated the amazement; she couldn't believe she was behaving this way, and for once in her life, she didn't care a bit. She simply smiled at him; a suggestive, wicked smile, clenched her teeth and pushed her backside into his erect shaft, letting it rustle against the silk.

He moaned raggedly, his breath shuddering. Gulping in air deeply like a man just saved from drowning, he tried to get control of himself. She could see him forcing himself not to grab her and take her savagely - his hands were shaking and that cool exterior was slowly, slowly cracking.

When he spoke, his voice caught in his throat. Clearing it, he tried again, compelling himself to calm down.

"I'm giving…." he began falteringly, before breathing deeply and continuing. "I'm giving you one last chance to wake up to yourself, realise what you are doing, the mistake you'll make if you push this one second longer, and get the bloody hell out of here." He took a deep breath and growled, "Or I will not be held responsible for my actions."

His words registered. But the meaning didn't. Because he didn't mean it. He wanted this just as much as she did. Possibly more.

No. That wasn't possible. She was about to spontaneously combust.

She let go of his erection and leaned forward, grazing her nipples across his chest. "Are you threatening me, Potter?" she murmured, brushing her lips softly, so softly, across his eyebrows, to continue down his nose, to the cleft of skin underneath his nostrils which quivered in anticipation, before attacking his mouth again with her lips and tongue.

He moaned and pulled away again. He glared at her, his teeth clenched, his chest heaving. "Okay then," he sneered. "Don't say you weren't warned."

Breath left her like someone had socked her in the stomach, as he grabbed her hips and pulled her brutally against him, forcing her down so his cock pressed hard against her butt crack. Lunging forward, he smothered her in a savage, unrelenting kiss that stole sanity from her. As he violated her mouth, he let one hand roughly cup a buttock, kneading it with a savage intent, digging his fingers deep. She yelped as his fingers ran along her splayed pussy lips, pressing into the fabric to manipulate her soaking opening, moving, exploring.

This time, she was the one to force her lips away from his. Sucking in air frantically, her breasts rising and falling with every desperate breath.

He smiled then, for the first time. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "Having second thoughts, are we?" he mocked her, even as he slid a finger into her moist portal. A little cry escaped her as she felt the silken-covered finger snake into her, and she writhed and pushed him deeper with her hips, grinding against him helplessly. Glowering at him, she panted, "Don't push me Potter. I'm not in the mood for your Malfoy impression." A high-pitched cry escaped her at the last word, as he curled his finger expertly, feeling the inside of her pliant walls, hitting a sweet spot that made her swoon with the pleasure it gave. Two can play dirty… she thought, and reached behind her again to grasp his erection, smoothing her palm over the head and down to his balls, where she lightly, almost teasingly, fingered the taut skin that seemed to contract with her touch.

That was the last straw for Harry. His cool exterior didn't just crack - it exploded.

With a roar, he heaved her up by the shoulders; shocked, she could only flail ineffectually as he reared up, and deposited her none-too-gently on her back, the breath knocked out of her. He seemed to draw on reserves of superhuman strength; he grabbed her wrists and held them out, pinning them to the mattress as he bore down on her and savaged her with kisses, hot and demanding. She shook underneath him, fists opening and closing helplessly as he moved like a man possessed, nipping at her neck, mouthing and sucking his way down while she arched to let him take all of her. He paused at the neckline of her robes, before letting her hands go so he could reach down to the opening she had made. Seizing both sides of the hole, he viciously wrenched it apart, tearing the robe from hole to the neckline before she could even think to protest. Her breathing became shallow as his eyes took in her nakedness, her sweaty, sticky torso, and her fists grabbed handfuls of sheet as he reached down to gently caress her clit, softly tantalising the nub that she'd rubbed raw just minutes ago. His other hand grabbed the scrap of mangled fabric that had been her panties, lying uselessly to one side of her inflamed pussy, and the next minute they were gone, whipped off as if by magic. She supposed it was.

"My God, you're beautiful," he murmured, and his eyes seemed to cloud over, as reason left him and he bent to maul her once more. She felt the world recede, so that it consisted of only his fingers at the centre of her and that mouth, that wonderful mouth with those lips and that tongue that were setting her senses aflame. She whimpered and gasped, squirming as he suckled her erect nipples, before kissing the underside of her breasts and working his way down. Her belly fluttered as he tongued her bellybutton, swirling it around and inside the cavity, teasing her mercilessly.

He's done this before, she thought absently, the thought forgotten as his tongue dipped down to run lightly over her belly, around her hipbones, so close, yet so far, and his fingers slowly pushed in, out, in a maddening rhythm that had her choking with the need for release. She clutched his head frenetically, her fingers twining and twisting in his spiky hair.

"Stop teasing me, you bastard!" she grumbled plaintively. "Lick me! Ohhhh!" she huffed, for he had plunged his tongue right into her, penetrating her almost to the hilt, his lower lip moving relentlessly against her slit, lapping the juices that seeped from her at the touch of his tongue. She wailed in abandon and sudden indignation as he withdrew, only to let out a shaky moan when he slid his fingers back inside and used his tongue to flick her burning clit, clockwise and anti-clockwise, working on her hyper-sensitive flesh, bringing her to the brink of orgasm. As her head rolled from side to side on the pillow, she was vaguely aware of the feeling of his prodding cock, nudging at her calf while he moved in time with her. She smiled to herself and, lifting her legs, took hold of his shaft with the soles of both her feet. He wheezed into her steaming pussy, a muffled groan emanating from him as she fondled his stretched-back foreskin with her toes, and again the contest was on as both tried to make the other lose control first.

Neither of them won. Hermione had other ideas.

Like a snake she slid out from underneath him and, before he could make so much as a questioning sound, he was thrust onto his back, Hermione once more straddling his hips. Her torn gown pooled around her waist, and reaching up, she snatched off the cloth covering her hair, then unpinning it and letting the Sleekeazy'd mass fall to hang all around her head like a halo. Wriggling, she grasped the ruined robes and pulled them off her, over her head, revelling at the feeling of the silk as it ran up her legs, catching on her jutting nipples before it came free. She flung it to the floor and leaned back, gyrating, rubbing her saturated slit against the hard column of his cock.

Harry groaned in disbelief, his eyes greedily drinking in the sight of her naked body. He was obviously appreciative - his hands reached for her. She caught his wrists before he could touch her, and like he had done before, pinned them to the sheets. She smiled at his eyes flashed indignantly, and purred, "no touching. Or I'll put you in a full Body-Bind. Wouldn't be nice, would it, if I could do this," and she gave his dick a gentle squeeze with her naked buttocks, smiling even wider as he jerked his hips reflexively, "and you couldn't move at all, hmm?"

He couldn't say anything to that; his disbelief was still palpable. Likely, he was wondering where his old, sexless school pal had disappeared to, and who this vamp sitting on his lap was. She was sort of wondering the same thing herself. Except that part of her knew exactly where her level-headed, sensible side was locked up. And she wasn't being let out until this bloody ache in her had been satisfied, one way or another.

Pulling her wand from her thigh-holster, she briefly let the tip graze her clit, hearing her sudden breath mingle with Harry's, before she gave it a perfunctory wave and murmured, "Sepono Clothes," and with a whoosh of air his T-shirt ripped itself from his upper-body; he recoiled as his shiny shoes flew of his feet as though the odour offended them, along with his socks; his pants followed, rustling as they slid themselves off his legs fast enough to cause carpet burn. Only his tattered cotton briefs remained draped across his upper thighs like a shroud.

Annoyance that the spell hadn't totally worked quickly fomented into a little gem of an idea in Hermione's head, and she grinned mischievously. Reaching down, she swept the scrap of fabric off his legs and waved her wand again, muttering "Evincio" under her breath. Before Harry could react, his hands were flung hard together against the bed-head, hitting the bars with a clang of bone against iron. He yelped in surprise as his briefs flew to his wrists, wrapping rapidly around them and almost fusing them to the bars. He tugged at the bindings in a futile effort to break free, but they held fast.

"Hermione!" he snapped. "What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"Tsk tsk," she admonished breathily, that mischievous, sexy smile still gracing her lips. She felt the power of dominance swell within her, and the remarkable, exhilarating arousal that accompanied it. "And I thought you were original. Just relax, Harry. And watch your language."

He snorted at that, still straining at his briefs, which may as well have been chains: he couldn't even stretch the material. Yes, magic was so useful…

She pushed herself up and slid down his legs, seating herself on his thighs which were firmly clamped together. Stretching out her own legs, she braced her hands on either side of his legs and slid her hips forward, so that her open pussy lips lightly brushed against his jutting prick. As she lifted her hips to let her opening slither up and down his length, moistening it, his gasps turned into throaty groans as he tried to push himself towards her, pressing his shaft into her crevice.

She smiled again and, even though she wanted the sensation to go on, withdrew at his touch. His frustrated curse was quickly stilled as she got up and turned around, pointing her backside at him. On all fours, knees either side of his thighs, she started running her tongue up and down his shins, licking the bristly hair that seemed to stand to attention in their follicles as they encountered her exploring tongue. His hoarse breathing faltered and he whimpered occasionally as the tip of her tongue travelled over his kneecaps, the skin jumping as his nerve-endings responded to her agonising ministrations. She shuffled backwards along with her tongue, her butt waving closer and closer to his face; she could feel his laboured breathing tantalisingly on her swollen pussy. As she reached his thighs, her wand hand reached behind her; hoping briefly that she wouldn't poke his eye out, she pointed the wand tip towards him slowly. He must have panicked, started to protest, before he saw her intention: she had sunk the bottom end of it into herself, sliding it in and out, her lips puckering around it as it withdrew, hugging it tightly as entered. The cool wood became slick and hot with her essence and she couldn't prevent her teeth from sinking lightly into his leg as she muffled her cry of pleasure against his sweaty thigh; he twitched briefly at the contact of teeth against skin, and made a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a growl. She kept on shuffling backwards, even as her wand moved within her, closer and closer to his straining head, the breath on her backside becoming hotter.

Panting, she looked over her shoulder at him. He was pulling as hard as he could on his bonds, his neck stretched out almost - it seemed to her - to the point of dislocation from his spine. His panting was as loud as hers, and desperately he tried to reach her with his mouth, said orifice opening and closing hopelessly, even as she waggled her butt at him enticingly, her wand still buried inside her.

"Oh God…" he grated out, his eyes rolling in his head. The skin around his wrists was chafed and raw from his clinging briefs; every muscle in his torso was taut, sweat like a sheen of morning dew gathered across his forehead. She smirked at him through her clenched teeth as best she could, and he bucked underneath her again. She felt his hardness, prodding at her breasts insistently as she kissed and cooed over his thighs, moving upwards, ever upwards, till she was looking into the eye of his cock, swaying dangerously above it, her mouth almost touching it. She blew on the inflamed head gently, the cool air making him jerk his hips involuntarily, the tip jabbing her open lips even as she pulled back teasingly. Licking her lips at the quick taste of him, she bent down again to tease him with her breath, inhaling deeply his enticing male scent, until he could take no more.

"Jesus, please, suck me!" he choked explosively, pushing his hips up as far as he could go. "Please!"

She smiled, as another shudder of pleasure passed through her. Swooping down, she enveloped the head of his prick in her mouth, sucking fiercely at the tip before working on it with her tongue, lathering it thickly. He groaned as her warm wet mouth bobbed up and down on his length, in perfect harmony with the hand that was frantically shoving her wand in and out of her streaming pussy. She took him in deeper and deeper with the downstroke, moaning around his cock in sympathy with his own blissful cries. Twisting her mouth around his width left and right, her tongue made slippery sucking noises as it twirled around him on each upstroke. She suddenly longed to hold him in her hand while she sucked him; she pulled the wand out of herself quickly and, pointing it in what she thought was his general direction, murmured "Libero," the words muffled around the cock that was still in her mouth.

She flung her wand aside as his now-free hands immediately grasped the globes of her buttocks and with a strangled yell, his face fell forward on her, lapping at her pussy in a maniacal frenzy, twisting his tongue around her engorged clit before burying his nose into her centre, his lower lip curling underneath her mound, teeth nipping almost painfully at her clit. He gripped it between his teeth gently and squeezed it, testing its firmness like it was a ripe grape, and she had to pull herself off his erection so she could scream, the sudden flare of intense pleasure that rampaged through her almost too much. Breathing in shakily as he slathered her pussy with his tongue, hearing herself mutter "Oh my God, oh my God…," wondering how long she'd been appealing to the deities, she swirled her tongue around the head of his cock again, her hand now gripping the base of it while she rapidly jerked him up and down, pumping him the way she'd seen him do it to himself, trying to bring him off. His hands kneaded her arse cheeks even harder now, like he was shaping dough, each shock of his squeezing fingers and searching tongue travelling through her like a surge of electricity, even as her head became a blur on his erection, sliding up and down wetly, her closed fist meeting her tight lips on each downstroke of her mouth.

She felt his thighs tense, and his hips, which had been moving in time with her mouth stopped abruptly. Making an inquisitive noise through her nostrils, she pulled her mouth off him and gasped as he seemed to uncoil and strike like a cobra. He whipped his mouth from her pussy and just as quickly slid his legs out from underneath her. She looked again over her shoulder, and her heart almost stopped when she saw him poised behind her on his knees, one hand on his glistening cock, pumping it slowly, the feverish look in his eyes burning brightly, the other hand on her shoulder, pushing them down onto the bed.

Willingly, she rested her elbows on the mattress, bending forward and raising her behind high in the air, where it quivered in anticipation. She heard herself begging, pleading, "please baby, please, fuck me, come on," and not for the first time, couldn't believe it was her, plying him with wild entreaties, reaching back with one hand to finger herself and spread her pussy lips wide, inviting him, demanding him, to fuck her.

He obliged. And then some.

Clutching her hips, he let the head of his erection slip against her open lips, wetting it with her juices, before he thrust hard, impaling her with his full length, sliding until he could move no more. Once inside, he let out an almighty groan, feeling the muscles of her pussy clamp around him, so tight, trying to control himself. All Hermione could do was open her mouth in a silent scream, the breath leaving her so she had no voice, lost in the sensation of his cock pulsating within her, stretching her as though it was her first time.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She was aware that they had definitely crossed some sort of boundary here. Now he was inside her, there was no going back to where they used to be. And she was glad.

She felt him tenderly stroke her sweaty, shivering back from her shoulder blades, down her spine, caressing the ridges of raised skin, down to that little crack between her buttocks, where his finger played with that moist, secretive place where he was buried to the hilt. And still he didn't move, while she pushed back at him with all her strength, aching for him to stir within her.

How can he do this? she shrieked in her mind. How can he torment me like this and be so fucking calm?

"Please, Harry, please, don't tease me anymore! Do me!" she groaned, and shakily groped between her legs to cup his balls in her hands, pressing on them firmly enough to make his breath wheeze out of him. With a guttural outcry, he pulled back and slammed into her, again and again, pounding her from behind like a man possessed. She whimpered and moaned, little bird-like cries escaping her as her elbows collapsed onto the bed, arms outstretched, and she bit into the sheet, muffling her cries. Her knees chafed on the bed sheets; her neck was aching as she rolled her head from side to side; she registered none of it. Only his sounds of pleasure, echoed by her own. Reaching behind her again, she found her clit with her trembling fingers, touching herself as he took her hard and fast, the fleshy sounds of hips smacking against buttocks ringing in her ears, drowning out even her rising grunts and appreciative moans.

Even as she felt her orgasm drawing near, Harry drove into her and stopped. She heard him take a deep breath and even as she started to frantically push back at him again, he clasped her shoulders, fingers hooking into her soft flesh, and gently pulled her up, raising her onto her knees, her body upright but still deeply inside her. He settled her on his lap and she shuddered as her weight drove him ever higher into her. "Mmmmm…" she murmured as his arms enfolded her in a tight embrace, and she almost sobbed as she felt the hard, flat plane of his chest meld itself to the curve of her back, his lips finding her neck as he covered her neck in soft kisses, reaching up to rush her hair aside so her could nibble on her earlobe before taking it in his mouth and bearing down, his tongue swirling sensuously as his hips undulated beneath her. She leaned her head back onto his shoulder, arms drawing up to clasp the back of his head, fingers spearing through his hair as he sucked and fondled her. The closeness of him was an aphrodisiac all on its own, and she'd never felt it with any man she'd let close to her like this. It was so good, so much better than al that had come before it. Even the acts they'd performed tonight. For though the sex had been unbelievable, brought on by something Hermione should never have even seen, in a way it had also been detached, cold, even though the way they'd violently ripped into each other, goading and trying to dominate the other by sheer force of pleasure given and taken had been so thrilling. Now, however, that their anger was tempered, all thoughts of blame and shame seemed to have fled their minds (they'd certainly been banished from hers) and what was left was even better, as he nuzzled her tenderly, his hand stealing down to caress her stiff clit, drawing out the sensations as he writhed and pressed himself into her.

"Hermione…" he whispered against her neck, "Hermione…my God…" He trailed off, seemingly lost in the feel of her against him. She knew exactly what he meant, though.

"Yeah…" she breathed back. "Oh God, Harry…" Her hand reached down to cover his, fingers entwined, as they rode together, slowly, the tension building as they moved faster and faster, their sweat-drenched bodies thrashing in symphony in that age-old dance of lust. All thoughts were driven from Hermione's mind once more as she came closer and closer to the edge, teetering on the brink until…

Again he stopped, and bodily lifted her up by the hips, withdrawing from her with a wet pop, and somehow she was on her back, legs spread wide, and he was between them, braced on his arms and intently looking into her eyes. Tremors racked her body as she saw what lay within them, all the unsaid things that had grown like a cancer between them, all the pent-up feelings, that he could only express by making her go crazy with lust. Her breath caught in her throat as he edged his hips forward, his cock searching, searching, until finally he found her centre and slid himself into her once again.

"Oh," she let her breath go in that single word, as he stayed still, buried to the hilt, back arched and eyes closed, lips peeled back in a grimace of pleasure so great it almost seemed to be agony; she knew, she could feel it too. A great shuddering gasp bubbled from her as he moved just a little, flexing his cock deep inside her, pressing his groin even harder into hers, the jolt of sensation when his skin grazed her clit almost too much to bear. She reached up and wrapped her hands around his face, drawing his head down so she could kiss his lips, this time gently, wonderingly, exploring his mouth with exquisite patience as she felt the thrill of him responding, moaning into her mouth and letting his tongue coil with hers. Their kiss deepened as their hips began gyrating, and he moved in circles rather than in and out, in a slow, maddening rhythm that soon had her straining against him, her pelvis moving faster and faster, egging him on, so that he could not help up pick up the pace.

His arms collapsed and his full weight pressed down on her as he shuddered uncontrollably, burying his face in the hollow of her neck as he pumped and writhed atop her, growling and panting. She reached down to grab his taut buttocks and pulled him higher on top of her, urging him deeper, a short scream escaping her as with every thrust her clit rubbed hard against his pelvis.

As his arms slipped underneath her shoulder-blades to pull her closer to him, her orgasm hit her. Like a speeding train. Later, when she tried to analyse it, that was the only analogy she could even dredge up. And it was woefully inadequate. It was even better than the one she'd had only a short while before, and that one had been so intense she thought she would die as it ripped through her. This one…even with her understanding of the English language and all its intricacies, she couldn't come close to describing the sensations.

Her scream seemed to never end, ringing on and on around her as the waves of excruciating pleasure crashed through her, spilling over so that Harry was caught in its irresistible force, and with a bellow that matched hers, he was pulled over that brink with her, jerking spasmodically as he spurted his seed into her, his deafening yell of "Hermione!" torn from his lips as he slumped on top of her, totally spent, his breaths coming in racking gasps as he twitched and shook within her, aftershocks juddering through him even as her orgasm seemed to climb and climb. She was vaguely aware of her high-pitched keening, forced through her teeth so clenched that she thought they would break, and it was just too much; she felt her eyes rolling in the back of her head as the wave carried her so far out she would never come back, just float away as she drowned in the fathomless green pits of her lover's eyes….