Revelation in an Invisibility Cloak by Shazzman

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/12/2003
Last Updated: 14/12/2003
Status: Completed

Hermione has a little accident in the Floo network, and ends up in the last place she would have
expected. What she finds there changes everything. Originally written for the Hermione Granger
Fuh-Q-Fest at Yahoo! Reviews greatly appreciated :)




1. Revelation in an Invisibility Cloak - Part 1
-----------------------------------------------



**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 20th for the youngest of
the Brown girls, the last of her line. And, coincidentally, Happy 1st 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 18th 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 20th. 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….



2. Revelation in an Invisibility Cloak - Part 2
-----------------------------------------------



**Author notes and acknowledgements:** More things lifted from other stories. The “paging Mr.
Kettle” line is the invention of Lori Summers, from the epic fic “Harry Potter and the Hero With a
Thousand Faces.” The reference to “maybe Harry should go on a game show” was paraphrased from a
classic line uttered by John Cleese as Basil Fawtly in *Fawtly Towers.* Apart form that,
it's all mine ^evil laugh^ Well, except for HP and all, which belongs to JK Rowling. And all
the evil corporations who've licenced it from her. Hmph

Thank you again to Nykohl and Raye, betas extraordinaire.

**Revelation in an Invisibility Cloak - Part 2**

*

When she opened her eyes again, it took her a while to remember where she was.

What she had done.

Why the hell was Harry staring at her, gently shaking her, stroking her forehead, and why the
*hell* was he naked and what the *hell* was she doing underneath him…

*Oh yeah. That's right.*

A small smile fluttered on her lips. Harry exhaled in relief.

“You okay?” he murmured, the back of his hand running feather-like across the smooth skin of her
flushed cheeks. “I think you kinda spaced out there for a moment…”

She chuckled, low and deep in her chest, before reaching up and pulling him against her, kissing
him gently to still his words. She flexed her pelvic muscles, still feeling him buried deep inside
her, and he trembled in response. When they parted, he just lay there, propped up on his elbows,
gazing at her so intently she had to look away. Absently, he reached up to stroke her hair, then
cupping her face in his hand, moving it back so he could look her in the eye again.

Even lying there so contentedly, she felt the weight of his gaze, saw the shimmering pools in
his eyes that seemed full of secrets, secrets that he wanted to tell. She wasn't sure if she
was ready to hear them.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger on his lips, and said, “Not yet, Harry.
Please. Let's just lie here for a minute. There's plenty of time for that.”

He hesitated, before nodding and giving her a quick kiss. When he slid out of her, she
fleetingly felt the pang of his absence, but she let him go. She closed her eyes as she felt his
full weight on her again, as he nestled into her. She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his
head against her breasts, squirming as he playfully nuzzled before settling down. Lazily, she
stroked his back, up and down his spine, enjoying the feel of goose bumps rising to attention
underneath her fingers, and his heavy breathing that slowed and thickened as he relaxed.

But she couldn't completely relax. While her body was in repose, her mind was spinning along
like a whirling dervish.

Clichés exist for a reason. They perfectly describe situations, actions, words. And she and
Harry were guilty of acting out one. They'd crossed the line. Not just stepped over it, but
totally eradicated it.

But what did it mean for them? The start of something new? Or was it just a one-night
aberration, never to be repeated and always to be avoided in future conversations with a guilty
look and an aversion of the eyes?

Then of course, there were those photos. She couldn't believe that he hadn't done
*that* before, it seemed almost like a nightly ritual. And the fact that he'd done it
after coming back from clubbing…

And that was yet another thing. What the hell was he doing going to Muggle clubs? Dressed like a
pretty-boy, carrying with him a pall of smoke and perfume and…

She craned her head to look at him. Yep, they were lipstick stains all right, smeared and pale
from the sweat and, probably, her hands running all over his skin. It was funny how she hadn't
noticed them during that time when all hell had broken loose.

All the inconsistencies that existed between the pale, unkempt and withdrawn Harry she'd
known for so long, and *this* Harry, the wild, purely sexual being that she'd made fierce,
abandoned love to, were pored over, analysed by her unwilling yet ever-present reason. And it just
didn't add up.

She sighed, pressing a kiss to his hair, which was starting to escape from the controlled spikes
he'd arranged it into and was resembling more the unruly mane that she was used to. She allowed
herself a small smile while she ran her fingers through the mass. Some things obviously never
changed.

“Why?” she heard herself whispering to him, before she could stop herself. “Why didn't you
let me know how you felt?”

He didn't answer. He was silent for so long, she almost thought he'd dozed off. Except
his heart was beating so rapidly, she could feel it hammering against her belly, a loud tattoo that
just seemed to get faster and louder, sounding in her eardrums as its tremors rippled through her
skin. She found herself holding in her breath, her own heart painfully beating a tripartite
staccato in her chest.

Finally he spoke. His voice was gruff, almost annoyed. “I thought you didn't want to
talk.”

She waited a moment. Then, ferociously, she shoved him off her with all her strength, which,
seeing as she was angrier than a mad snake, was considerable.

“Ooof!” he exclaimed as he teetered on the edge of the bed before regaining his balance. He shot
her a glare, which she matched, burning with anger. He was indignant. “But you said you didn't
want to talk about it yet!”

“I've changed my mind,” she said coldly, enunciating each word into clipped projectiles that
were intended to hit him like hexes.

Frustrated, he shook his head, glowering at her. “Oh, you've *changed your mind*, have
you? How convenient. You're still the same, aren't you? Still think you can control
everything and everyone, just Miss Perfect-Bloody-Prefect. Shit.”

His words stung, and she struggled not to let it show. “Yes. Shit. That's *exactly*
what you are, Harry. How refreshing that you can admit it to yourself.” She pushed herself up on
her elbows, and tried to pull the sheets around her, before realising that they'd never gotten
*under* the sheets in the first place. Scowling, she crossed her arms over her breasts,
covering them.

He gave her a scornful look. “Bit late for modesty, isn't it? I thought we got right past
that.”

“Shut up, you bloody prat!” she snapped. “You're avoiding the issue. And my question. Maybe
you need it rephrased, since the first time was obviously a little too circumspect. *How long
have you been wanking to my pictures?*”

He flinched at that. “You don't beat around the bush, do you?” he muttered. Sighing, he
pushed himself up, sitting against the bed-head. He stared moodily at the cold fireplace, as though
mesmerised by the lack of flames. His hands fidgeted on his belly, twisting, and she winced
inwardly as he loudly cracked the knuckles of his thumbs, then the rest of his fingers on his right
hand in succession. She couldn't stop herself from retorting, “Would you *please* stop
doing that? It's bloody irritating.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “So are you,” before
heaving himself off the bed and walking over to his jeans, which had landed near the fireplace in a
now-dusty heap. As he moved, Hermione found herself appraising him, admiring his slim but sinewy
body, not an ounce of unnecessary fat but not a stretch of wasted muscle either. He looked so damn
good, with the candlelight softly illuminating his jet-black mess of spiky hair, drenching his pale
skin like yellow moonlight. She found herself pressing her thighs together as he bent, exposing his
arse to her as he scrabbled around in the pockets of his jeans. She felt a sudden, insane urge to
sink her teeth into those tight apple-like cheeks…

Her approval quickly changed to annoyance as he straightened, carrying his wand and a pack of
cigarettes. He slipped one out of the packet and *Incendio*'ed the tip. He put the filter
to his lips and drew in smoke deeply, holding it and exhaling with a sigh of satisfaction, his eyes
closed. Flicking ash off the end into the fireplace, he opened them and caught her staring at him,
and those same eyes narrowed as he sensed her surprise and faint disapproval.

“What?” he spat out, aggressively. “In case you haven't noticed, this is my place, so I can
damn well smoke if I please!”

“Well, you never smoked before!” she replied angrily. “Oh bloody hell!” she swore and jumped off
the bed to stride over to him. She pulled the smoke from his slack fingers and watched his
belligerent expression change to one of pure astonishment as she put it to her own lips and dragged
on it for a few long seconds. Inhaling it deeply into her lungs, she felt her head spin and her
heartbeat quicken as the nicotine rushed around her bloodstream like a rogue virus. God she'd
needed that. She blew it out into his face, regarding him in smug satisfaction as the blue-tinged
smoke eddied into his open mouth and took him by surprise; spluttering as it went down his throat,
he pounded himself in the chest a few times, before glaring at her.

“Oh and I suppose that's your first-ever drag?” he sniped at her sarcastically, grabbing the
cigarette back and taking another drag before passing it back to her.

Accepting it, she puffed again, less desperately, before answering. “No, of course not. I
started in first year before I realised it'd probably be a really bad - ”

“You *what?*” he yelled. “*First* year? You were eleven for Christ's sake!”

She laughed. “No no, not first year Hogwarts. First year *uni!*”

“Oh.” He seemed to be a bit lost for words then. “Well, you shouldn't make it a habit,
it's not good - ”

“Uh-huh. Right. Paging Mr Kettle, there's a Mr Pot on Line One.” She saw a smile almost
crack his lips, before he got it under control. “Anyway, what I was *about* to say was that I
started, realised it was a stupid habit to get into, not to mention *not good for me*, so I
quit. Every now and then, though….” she shrugged and took another drag, before handing it back to
him. “Anyway, I suppose you picked it up from the Muggles you go clubbing with, hey?”

He just gazed at her, disconcertingly. His face composed itself into another mask. This one was
blank, revealing nothing, except for those damn eyes, blazing with such emotion as they stared
right into her own. She forced herself not to look away this time.

“How do you know I go clubbing?” he asked softly.

She snorted. “Um, let's see. You're wearing…well, you *were* wearing Muggle gear.
Very nice Muggle gear, if I do say so myself. And your scent was reminiscent of all the East End
dives I've ever had the misfortune of venturing into. So, who are these new bunch of friends,
hmm? I suppose you've told them *everything*, haven't you? Cosied up to them while Ron
and I and everyone else are just discarded like used tissues?” She realised that her voice was
rising, getting louder and harsher as she found yet more reserves of anger deep inside her. “I
can't believe you, Harry Potter! All this time, we're thinking, `oh *poor* Harry,'
we think you're so ashamed of yourself, so dragged down by guilt you can hardly stand up
anymore, and we try, my *God* we try, to pull you out of the goddamned funk you've got
yourself into. And tonight…. well, you've just been *playing* the martyr, haven't you?
Pretending to be the burned-out frigging hero who can't face reality anymore, when all along
all you've *really* done was gone and found yourself a new one!”

She was yelling at him now; she could see flecks of spit spraying in front of her, hitting
Harry's stoic face, for she was so close that she could have kissed him. But all she wanted to
do was shake him up, get through to him, make him to tell her *why* he'd put them - put
*her* - through so much.

“How dare you!” she continued, her hands fisted by her side, while he stood there like a statue
with a long forgotten soul burning in its stone eyes, except his own hands were also fisted, the
right one grinding the end of the cigarette into a shreds of tobacco and paper as it slowly
continued to smoulder. “How *dare* you do this to all of us! You could at least have let us
share in your grief before it apparently went the way of the Death Eaters. Don't you even
*care* anymore?” she finally shrieked, before stopping, her chest heaving, face burning with
anger.

He just stared right back at her. Looked down at the glowing tip of the cigarette, dangerously
close to his clenched fist as it had burned down so much. He flicked it carelessly into the
fireplace, watching it bounce off the bricks and into the hearth, before saying quietly, “My grief
hasn't gone anywhere, Hermione. Nor has my guilt. You can't know…it's part of me. Yes,
I don't keep in touch much anymore. It was just too much. Too raw. Every time I saw someone,
you, Ron, Luna, Ginny, whoever…for so long, all I could think about was Neville. He was only there
because of that stupid prophecy. He only died because he…he…he wasn't *chosen*.” He ended
shakily, bitterness coating his words like treacle. His eyes brimmed with tears, before he blinked
them away. He looked at her again. She cringed as she took in his cold gaze.

“I feel more guilty about that than you will ever know, Hermione. So, don't *you* dare
to tell me what I am feeling, that my grief's just gone. Because it never fucking left.”

His clipped words, while delivered so deadpan, were unable to mask the anguish behind them.
Hermione couldn't stay close to him anymore - she backed away to sit on the bed, knees together
primly, bending forward to lean on them with her elbows. She couldn't even look at him when she
whispered, “I just wish you'd….you'd let us in. It hurt, Harry. I know you went through
hell, but…I wish you'd let m-…I wish you'd let *us* help you.” She sighed, and
shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. It was really quite chilly in this room without a fire.
Funny how she hadn't noticed before…

“Cold?” he asked her. She almost rolled her eyes. *Maybe we can get him on a game show. Harry
Potter, Muggle wanna-be extraordinaire. Speciality, the bleeding obvious.* She merely nodded,
though, her teeth starting to chatter. *Why isn't he cold?* she thought irritably, before
she felt heat radiate from the fireplace as Harry lit a roaring fire with a twirl of his wand.
“Mmmm,” she found herself moaning, and stretched languorously, basking in the warmth that seemed to
be blowing in like a summer's breeze. She opened her eyes to find Harry still staring at her,
but not coldly; he was appreciatively roaming her body with his gaze, his lips slightly parted. She
felt a slow blush mottle her skin, from her face down to the valley between her breasts as he
evaluated her like one would a fine painting. No, that was a stupid analogy, way off the mark. No
art critic staring at the latest modern-art pap would hold so much passion in a mere look.

Again, she remembered those photographs, which were now lying on the floor behind their cracked
frame, and she felt herself seethe again. And she realised then that all her anger - it wasn't
really about the fact that he'd abandoned everyone. It was that he'd abandoned *her*.
Yet, apparently harboured this…crush, this *obsession* for her, for…how long? Though a part of
her was contemptuous at this thought (that good old inner-voice which acerbically piped up,
*don't be* too *modest about this, hmm? Hell, he may even top himself over you,
modern-day Marilyn that you are! Pffft!*), she knew it was true. Hadn't she seen the look on
his face when his eyes were glued to her photographic form and his hands were welded to his cock?
Couldn't she see the way he was staring at her now?

Before she could say anything or react, he shook his head and gave her a hard look. “Anyway,
you're not coming clean either. Are you?”

“Huh?” she asked distractedly. Her mind was still a million miles away with the looks he'd
been searing on her skin.

He sighed almost inaudibly, before saying quietly, “Hermione, why don't you tell me
what's really on your mind? All this bluster and bullshit; doesn't really have much to do
with me not keeping in touch with everyone else, does it? The reason you're so pissed off is
because of *you* and *me*, not anything else.”

She spluttered, but before she could say anything he strode over to her and, like she'd done
to him, placed a finger on her lips, to quieten her. She stared, doe-like, into his eyes, which
transfixed her with their depths. *Deer in headlights,* she thought helplessly. Just as
helplessly, she found herself kissing that finger, gently moulding her lips around the knuckle,
looking into his eyes while she worshipped his finger.

He shuddered at the sight, his free hand moving to her shoulder, to stroke it, his fingers like
hot brands. Cupping her face, he bent to kiss her, his soft lips delving into hers, until she was
light-headed. He broke away first, leaving her gasping.

“No,” he murmured, holding her face in both hands, grasping it so she couldn't look away.
“Let me speak. You want to hear everything. It's a pretty lame story, but I'll tell you
anyway. Because I…” he trailed off, biting his lip thoughtfully as he kept his gaze solely on
her.

“What, Harry?” she whispered back, when he said no more. “Because you what?”

He didn't reply, just shook his head. “Not yet. Not until…”

“But…but-!” she exploded, “you can't just do that to me! You can't start then stop, for
God's sake!”

He shushed her, once again putting his finger to her lips. Quite brave of him really: she wanted
to bite it. Hard.

“Just let me tell it my way, okay?” he rasped, running his finger over her bottom lip.

Crossing her arms over her chest again, she mutely nodded, before settling back and tucking her
legs underneath herself. Looked at him. Waited.

He ambled over to the fireplace, picked up his wand, which he'd deposited on the mantle, and
transfigured an uncomfortable-looking chair out of nowhere, where he sat perched on the edge. He
lit another cigarette from the pack he'd held in his hand all this time, and offered her one.
She shook her head, her gaze saying *get on with it.*

He sighed again and dragged deeply on the cigarette. “Okay, you know how I was all fucked up
after that crap, don't you?”

She nodded again. Yeah, she knew what he was talking about. The whole wizarding populace had
known, courtesy of the *Daily Prophet* and every other tabloid rag worldwide.

“Yeah, well.” Another drag. Deeper this time, before continuing. “It was hard. I hate playing
the martyr. I hope you know that. But I was so…so angry.” He shook his head in amazement, as if
he'd realised this for the first time. “Everything. Sirius falling through a…a bloody
*hole* for Christ's sake. Percy….God, who would've thought he'd become a Death
Eater, of all things? And then Neville….Jesus.”

Yes, yes, she *knew* all this! Why couldn't he get to the bloody point?

“It was Dumbledore, you know,” he commented, oh so casually, before taking another drag.

It took a while for that to hit her. “*What?*” she blurted, absolutely flummoxed. “What do
you bloody mean, *it was Dumbledore?*”

“He's the one who suggested I lie low. Cut myself off from everyone. He could see I
wasn't coping. He thought it might do me some good, to get out for a while. Live amongst
Muggles. Away from that place where everyone knows my face and this bloody brand on my forehead.”
He disgustedly swiped at the scar, and the contact with his fingers seemed to make it glow,
pulsating with an eerie luminescence. She tore her eyes from it, a little spooked.

“Funny, isn't it?” he remarked almost conversationally. “You'd have thought maybe with
Voldemort gone and everything, the scar might have gone too. I mean, everything he made seemed to
disappear like smoke. Only trace of him left were the scum who licked his boots. So I wonder why
*this*,” he said, pointing to the scar, “stayed?”

“Maybe because it changed you for the better, Harry,” she said quietly. “Do you think you would
have been able to defeat him if you *didn't* have his essence? Some part of him that you
used for good rather than bad?”

“Nah,” he murmured morosely, shrugged his shoulders. “We both know it was luck, Hermione. It was
either me,” he stopped, and barked with humourless laughter, “or Neville. He chose me, and he chose
me because I was apparently a half-blood like him. Damn scar was only Mum's doing, really. Just
that last, useless little bit of magic that gave me slight protection. I really don't think it
helped me in the end, all that much.” He looked down at his cigarette, raising it to his lips
before realising that it had burnt right down to the filter. Clicking his tongue irritably, he
flicked it backwards into the fireplace, where it was devoured by greedy flames.

“Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked. Fact is I was getting homicidal after it all ended.
Well-wishers, fans, family I never knew I had,” he said wryly, a twisted grin on his face. It
morphed into an angry grimace and he spat, “the bloody press. Even my friends, walking around on
eggshells, like I was about to explode and take you all with me. No, I know you all meant - and
mean - well, Hermione,” he quickly added when she opened her mouth indignantly, “but you must admit
that it's true. It wasn't all your fault, I know I was hard to be around.”

She nodded before she could stop herself. She couldn't help but remember, even with the hurt
of him withdrawing from everyone, there was that sense of relief as well, when they wouldn't
have to walk into a room and see Harry in a corner, a perpetual scowl upon his face, glum and
uncommunicative, while they - usually Ron and her - tried to include him, but got absolutely
nowhere.

“Well, I had to…take time out. You know? Dumbledore saw things for what they were. Even though
he's been a little…non-committal in the past, he could tell I was about to go postal, and this
time he was pretty bloody forthcoming.”

She felt the resentment in Harry, the mixed feelings Dumbledore inspired in him. He had a right
to feel that way - Dumbledore had foolishly kept Harry at arm's length in fifth year, to try
and protect him. And he'd tried to make up for it henceforth, after the death of Sirius, but
Harry had never bestowed upon him that blind admiration he'd previously had for the great
wizard after finding out that Dumbledore himself was only human, and made very human mistakes. And
at Harry's revelation, Hermione herself felt tendrils of dislike for the old man curl around
her heart, caused by the fact that he'd advised Harry to move away from them all. Even though
she was starting to finally understand, rationally, why he had tiptoed off the radar, and why it
had been good for him, she felt that old anger rise, and this time the target wasn't Harry.

“I know that you're thinking the old coot had no right to say so,” Harry said, reading her
mind uncannily well (or maybe it was the expression on her face), “but I'm glad he did. I think
he told me what everyone else wasn't game enough to. That I was being an insufferable prat, you
know? And that if I stayed any longer, well, I wouldn't exactly be the most popular bloke in
the world. So, I made it….hard to find me. Gave myself a little room to breathe. Money wasn't
an issue - I've lived pretty frugally. Well, except for the clothes,” he added, smiling. It was
a very strange smile, Definitely not a happy one.

They were silent for a while. The uncomfortable atmosphere seemed to thicken, the quiet of the
room resounding in her ears, whining like feedback. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking
point; she didn't know what to say, but she had so much *to* say. Finally, she croaked,
“Yeah, the clothes. Found some great night-spots, huh?” She tried to make a joke about it, but
couldn't keep it up. “Harry, look. The fact is - and this is what pisses me off the most - the
fact is that you've been living….well, a double life! And it's…really depressing that you
could enjoy yourself so goddamned much and…and not include us,” she finished feebly, knowing - and
knowing that *he* knew - that by *us*, she really meant *her*.

But he didn't ridicule her. Or answer back hotly. He simply lowered his head, holding it in
his hands. “I didn't really enjoy myself that much,” he muttered, so quietly that she had to
strain her ears to hear him. “It was - is - an outlet. I go into a club, they're playing loud
music, so loud, so damn repetitive, it's like someone's taking a hammer and chisel and
pounding it into my forehead, you know? I was walking the streets one night, ages ago. I'd
never…really been in a place like that. You know, I was stuck with the Dursleys every summer, and
there isn't really any nightlife in Hogsmeade. And I walk past and all I can hear is this
jungle beat, you know? It was…shit, I don't know *how* to describe it.” He raised his
head, and Hermione saw that manic glint that had been in his eyes when he'd been above her,
pumping himself in and out of her furiously. She shivered, partly at the memory of their
lovemaking, but also in discomfort, his gaze giving birth to writhing snakes in her stomach.

“I tried to get in,” Harry continued, looking straight through her, lost in his memories, “but
this big arsehole refused. Said I was dressed like a bum, and I had to come back in decent clothing
before he'd let me near the place. Almost hexed him a dick sticking out of his nostrils,” he
smiled, as if this would have been *most* amusing. “Wish I had, in a way. Would have been the
funniest headline, eh? `The Boy Who Lived Gives Muggle Bouncer Extra Kudos with the Ladies.'
Heh heh,” he chuckled, before realising that Hermione was definitely not laughing with him. He
cleared his throat, before continuing.

“Well, I went back the next night after shopping around, in the best threads I could find. I
dunno why - I just didn't want someone telling me I couldn't do something. Been happening
my whole life, after all.”

“Not that it ever stopped you from doing what you were told not to!” Hermione retorted.

He just chuckled again. “Yeah, you're right. Anyway, I got past that bouncer, and…well, it
was amazing. Smoke, these lights, all those people…and that music! I just started moving. I mean, I
never could dance, never wanted to, and all of a sudden I'm just shuffling around and thrashing
my bloody arms like this music has hypnotised me or something!” He shook his head again, a look of
childlike wonder spreading across his face. “It became a way of forgetting, you know? Never really
met anybody - I didn't want to. I don't have any Muggle friends, like you put it. All I
wanted was that beat pounding in my head, and that was enough.”

He trailed off again, staring into space. She quietly contemplated him for a while, and before
she could shut her mouth, said, “Well, you obviously meet some people *sometimes*. Like
tonight.” She stared fixedly at the faint lipstick smears on his neck and temple that all of a
sudden seemed to broaden and flash at her mockingly in the fluttering candlelight.

“What?” he asked her, bewildered. Then, for some reason, it clicked. He put his hand to his
temple, rubbing the stain and pulling it off to peek at his fingers. “Yeah, well, it isn't what
you think. I didn't kiss her*,* *she* kissed *me.* I was just dancing by myself,
next to the DJ booth, ignoring the crowd and all of a sudden this bird that's high as a
friggin' kite jumps into my arms and locks her bloody lips to me. I don't know. Pushed her
off right fast - her fella looked like he wanted to stretch my tongue out of my head. Actually,” he
said thoughtfully, pausing and stroking his chin, “it's happened a fair bit. Must be all that
Ecstasy they swallow like Smarties.”

Hermione had a hunch that it wasn't just the drugs. She could see how Harry could attract
female attacks - in those clothes, dancing away by himself, not looking to pick up, just lost in
the music, dark, brooding…yeah, she could see it very vividly. And she could also imagine Harry
acting on their affections, especially if there wasn't a forgotten boyfriend glaring daggers at
him.

“Oh and I suppose you never did anything with any of these girls, hey?” she asked sarcastically,
again before she could make her mouth stop.

Finally he reacted. Angrily. Pushing himself off the chair, he stormed over to the bed. “Oh
yeah, and *you're* all Virgin Mary too aren't you?” he snapped. “I mean, I was just
pounced on by a girl who's *never* had anything up her, wasn't I?”

“Well I wasn't going to wait around for you like some blushing medieval bride while you went
off and found yourself!” she yelled back.

“I never fucking *asked* you to wait around!” he shouted.

“So then why the fuck are we *yelling* at each other?” she screamed.

They stared furiously at each other then, her on the bed, he towering above her, before his rage
started to dissipate, until he sighed and sat next to her on the bed, grasping her hand. “This is
ridiculous,” he said softly. “We could sit here and storm around each other and tear each other
apart till Uric rises from the dead - it's not going to solve anything.”

“No,” she breathed, pressing down on his hand. “You're right.” She was silent for a while,
letting the tension build between them, before asking timidly, “Why didn't you let me know? You
know how I feel, I told you so long ago.”

“Yeah. A *long* time ago,” he said tiredly, letting go of her hand and pinching the bridge
of his nose. His glasses-free nose, she realised again, but before she could ask him about it
he'd pressed on.

“I just wasn't sure, you know? I…it'd changed between us. When you told me that, I
didn't know how I felt. We were only sixteen, but I was sixteen going on forty. Then, when you
nearly died…again…” he let a breath whistle through his teeth. “I knew how I felt about you then.
But…I don't know. I guess I wasn't ready. Yeah I know, it's a shitty excuse, but
it's the only one I can truthfully give you.” He peered at her uncertainly, wanting her to
believe, *needing* her to see that he wasn't being evasive, he'd just never tried to
sort these feeling out in his head.

She understood. Not everyone could analyse their actions and intentions like she could, and did,
on a regular basis. *Proper little computer, you are,* said that hateful voice, before she
shoved it down again.

“What about now?” she whispered, reaching up a hand to run it through his hair. She felt him
jumping slightly at her touch, and he put a hand on her thigh, sliding closer to her on the
bed.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, running his hand up and down her smooth skin. “I reckon we could have
a go, don't you?” He smiled and gently kissed her.

In the candlelight, the warm flames crackling and popping, they kissed, old friends and new
lovers. For a long time, they lost themselves in each other, the kiss the only thing that mattered
in the world.

Then, true to form, her mind started spinning again. And it surveyed the ridiculousness of their
situation - the lighting like one of those American daytime soaps, the way they'd fought like
screaming banshees before falling into each others arms, holding onto each other and kissing
passionately like they were the only people left in the world. Yep, the clichés lived on, and this
time the thought made her giggle, mid-kiss. Before she could control herself she was braying with
mirth; she had to shove a bemused and disgruntled Harry away so she could laugh, holding her belly
and laughing so hard she felt her muscles clench in protest, tears running down her face.

“Wh-what?” Harry stuttered, staring at her as though she'd gone mad. “Hermione…?”

“Oh Harry!” she gasped, trying to calm down, “haven't you ever seen *Days of Our Lives?
The Bold and the Beautiful? Passions?* There's a witch in that one too…” and again she burst
into laughter again, lying back on the bed and dissolving into hysterical guffaws.

He stared at her helplessly at first, occasionally trying to poke her in the ribs to get her to
shut up. But, as laughter invariably has a way of spreading, the corners of his lips started to
twitch, and he was suddenly laughing alongside her, lying with his face in the pillow, banging his
fists into the mattress as his chortling spiralled out of control, and all the tension of the time
they'd spent screwing, arguing…the burden he'd carried all his life, the weariness that
came from having seen too much at such a young age, it was released in a purging, purifying stream
of uncontrollable, inexplicable hilarity.

“What…what…are...we…laughing…for?” Hermione choked, trying to be articulate and failing
miserably.

“I…don't…” Harry tried to respond, before collapsing again in peals of laughter.

Finally, they seemed to quieten down; their laughter relaxed into mere chuckles, breathing
coming in hitches as they surfaced for air, and they found themselves pressed closely into each
other, clutching each other's shoulders, as if they'd been afraid of flying off the bed in
the midst of their mirth. Slowly, almost sinuously, their arms stole around each other and they
gazed into each others' eyes, noses almost touching.

“Harry,” she murmured, brushing her lips over his, “I…I…you mean everything to me.”

“Can't imagine why,” he rasped back, his hand rising to knead through her hair, his eyes
fixed to hers. “I've treated you like shit, all this time. Didn't even have the balls to
tell you…”

“Shh,” she kissed him again to shut him up, “I know how you feel. You don't have to say it
out loud, not if you don't want to. I saw all, remember? *I know.*”

He moaned, and kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and moaning again when she
responded eagerly, her own tongue dancing with his. He jerked as her hand snaked down to cup his
balls, her fingertips probing the pebbly skin before running up to his erection, squeezing and
fondling.

Everything seemed to blur into a pleasurable haze, as she spread her legs and let his fingers do
what they liked, working magic on her, gasping and writhing on the rumpled sheets. His tongue moved
on her nipple, circling, the motions mimicking his fingers which played on her clit, and she found
herself shooting closer and closer to orgasm, and she didn't want that, not yet, she
*wanted* to be in control.

She grabbed his moving hand and with all her strength bodily rolled him onto his back. He lay
there, a smile on his lips as he reached for her dangling breasts, running his thumbs over her
erect nipples. “C'mon, *Head* Girl,” he slyly said, “what are you waiting for?”

“Oooh, you *will* regret that, Potter,” she growled, and in one quick motion, reached
behind her, grabbed his cock, lifted her hips and guided him into her. The sweet shock of
penetration almost made her swoon; she sat there, impaled on him, mouth open, gasping, staring into
his eyes which had glazed over, the whites showing more than his pupils as he clenched in the
sensation, his hands clutching the sheets and almost tearing them. “Oh fuuuuuck…” he groaned,
before he grasped her buttocks and started to move, his hips forcing her up and down in slow,
serpentine movements. She felt his length slide in and out of her, clit banging away on his pubic
bone, and she felt her orgasm coiling around the base of them, and it hit her again, so suddenly
she wasn't prepared; all she could do was hang on and shriek helplessly while it stampeded
through her, and as it was subsided she felt herself climbing the slope of the next one.

*My God,* she thought, *I never knew I was this orgasmic.* She never had been with her
few other lovers. This was absolutely amazing, mind-blowing. She imagined she was rising out of her
own body, staring at them from above, and saw their locked bodies fused as one, he pumping upwards,
faster and faster, while she was hunched over him, snarling like a hellcat and shuddering in
pleasure as she rammed herself down on him harder, faster, groaning her way through another orgasm.
She bent backwards, clutching his ankles and riding him out, his eyes transfixed on that place
where his cock disappeared into her and he let out a bellow as he clutched her hips and lost
control, spurting deep within her.

She let go of his ankles and collapsed on him, holding him like he was a life-raft in a stormy
ocean, shuddering as the last vestiges of her orgasm pulsed through her, covering his face and neck
with kisses, moaning and cooing with his choked cries as his climax just seemed to go on and on;
finally he stopped pumping his hips into her and fell back, totally sated, holding onto her as
desperately as she clutched him.

“Three times,” she murmured in his ear, and he caught on, smiling through his heavy breathing as
he ran his hands up and down her sweaty back.

“Yeah…” he sighed, “and I think you lost count, didn't you?”

“Yeah, but don't get a big head,” she said, letting the muscles of her pussy tighten around
his still-erect cock and loving the feel of him arching it higher into her in response. “I mean,
really, both of yours are more than big enough,” she whispered suggestively, reaching behind her
and giving his balls a squeeze.

He sniggered, squeezing her butt in response. “Glad to hear it.”

And they were silent again, the afterglow of good sex finally giving way to lethargy as they
both fell into sleep, all the while whispering and stroking each other, affectionate sweet nothings
that neither of them would remember. Sailing in her fog, however, just before she dropped off to
sleep, she thought she heard herself whisper to him, “I love you.” And, though impending sleep was
muffling all sound and sensation, she thought she heard him say, “I love you too.” And that would
do, for the moment.

*

When they awoke, seemingly hours later, they immediately made love, but without the histrionics.
It was slow and dreamy, and she lay underneath him, legs spread and ankles hooked into his butt
cheeks, eyes closed as she revelled in the closeness, the intimacy of their coupling, the way he
lovingly, almost reverently kissed her and pressed his forehead to hers, forcing her to open her
eyes and look deep into his soul, the fire burning within him as he expressed what he could not say
with his actions.

Afterwards, they lay again in each other's arms, talking softly. He told her all about his
days, where he went, how he'd missed them all even as he'd shunned them. Especially how
he'd missed her. She told him about her placement in Oxford, he wondered why she hadn't
gone to one of the wizarding universities or prestigious American colleges, and she told him that
her childhood dream had been to go to Oxford and buggered if the small issue of being a witch was
going to stop that. He laughed and held her closer.

She asked him where they were, and he shocked her by casually remarking, “Oh, just above a shop
in Knockturn Alley.”

“But…I thought you wanted to live with Muggles?”

“Well, not forever.” He frowned, the creases in his forehead stark in the light. “I'd had
enough of living with the worst Muggles imaginable. Being free of the Dursleys, yet still in their
world…well, it wasn't pleasant. And there's that old issue of not being able to use magic,
being careful about what they see, blah blah blah.” He smiled, and she was amazed at the
transformation of his face. She'd so rarely seen him smile in the past few years, and it was
beautiful to behold. “Also, they're bloody boring. I mean, there's rarely a broad-minded
specimen among `em. Only good thing about them is their music - beats listening to a bunch of
clueless magical folk ripping off *Mustang Sally.*”

“Oh!!” she almost yelled. “*That's* where they got that from! *Thank* you Harry,
that was going to drive me up the wall if I didn't figure it out soon!” and she plastered his
face with kisses, laughing at his struggles.

“Urgh,” he said, wiping saliva off his face. “I was right, you *are* nuts!”

She giggled, even as she felt a small knot of anxiety in her stomach. She was forgetting
something, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what…

“Hey, I never asked you,” Harry muttered drowsily, his fingers entwining restfully in her hair,
“just how did you get here? No one knew where I was living yet.”

“Oh,” she dismissively waved her hand. “It wasn't on purpose.” She giggled again, poking him
in the ribs. “I didn't all of a sudden decide to find you and perv on you, you know. No, I
accidentally Flooed in here. Had to sneeze, didn't I? In mid-utterance.”

Low laughter burbled from Harry. “Funny that, it happened to me years ago. Remember?”

“Yeah…funny, you ended up in Knockturn Alley too, didn't you?”

“Yep.” He looked at her seriously. “You were lucky, you didn't end up in Borgin's Little
Shop of Freaky Shit while Malfoy and his father Dracula were in there.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” She poked him again. “I ended up in a place almost as dangerous
though,” and kissed him before he could retort.

They settled back against the pillow after a half-hearted wrestling match, and he asked her,
“Where were you going? They were probably expecting you hours ago.”

And that's when it hit her. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten.

“Oh shit!” she shrieked, pushing him off her and jumping from the bed. “Lav's party!
Ginny…jewellery…oh my God they're gonna think I'm lying in a gutter somewhere!”

He got off the bed and went to her. “Okay, calm down. All you have to do is use the Floo network
to phone through, right? The old head in the fireplace routine?”

She felt herself taking deep, calming breaths, before muttering, “Yeah, of course, you're
right. Okay…um, how long have I been here? What's the time?”

“Ah…” he peered at his watch, “almost three in the morning.”

“Oh bloody hell!” her shrill voice made Harry wince, “Merlin knows what they're going
through! I better let them know, quick!”

“Shhh…okay, no need to yell,” he soothed. “Just calm yourself down…you want to tell them what
happened?”

She hesitated and though for a moment. No, she didn't, not just yet anyway. She wanted to
keep this between themselves for a while. Let them nourish whatever small flame they had between
them before it was blown out by the craziness of the people around them.

“No,” she said. “We'll just say….well, the truth, to a point. I accidentally Flooed into
your…room. I got knocked unconscious, which by the way, really happened,” she said accusingly. “And
you came home and…found me, took care of me.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Think they'll buy it?”

“Well, do they really have a choice?” she returned cheekily, before striding to the fireplace
and pinching some Floo powder between her thumb and forefinger. She cast it into the flames and
intoned, “Lavender and Justin Brown.”

Before she could crouch down and put her head into the flames, Harry grabbed her shoulder and
twirled her around hurriedly. “*What?*” he exclaimed. “Did you just say what I thought you
said? Justin *Brown*? You don't mean Finch-Fletchely?”

Hermione grinned. “Yep, the one and same. Well, he already had a hyphenated last name; can you
imagine if they'd taken his? And Lav certainly wasn't about to give up
hers…Finch-Fletchely-Brown.” She grimaced. “Nope. Justin was quite happy to get rid of that
mouthful.”

Harry stared at her in amazement, before shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “I
always knew there was something strange about that bloke.”

She chortled and, bending down, she thrust her head into the flames. She felt that sick,
spinning sensation, before it settled and she took in the scene before her.

She saw exactly what she'd expected - Lav and Justin huddled in a corner, Lav sobbing, Ginny
and Dean holding each other up supportively, Ron pacing relentlessly, his emotions written all over
his face, and other people familiar and unfamiliar milling around uncertainly. No one had looked up
and seen her head in the fireplace.

“Hi!” she said as cheerfully as she could.

Everyone jerked their heads up, and gaped at her unbelievingly, jaws seemingly touching their
chests, before they crowded round the fireplace. Hermione was glad she'd done it this way; if
she'd Flooed there directly she'd have been smothered.

“Oh my God, Herm!” Lav sobbed, almost reaching into the flames to stroke Hermione's face
before Justin grabbed her hand to stop her. Hermione winced at that nickname that Lav had insisted
on sticking with. “What happened? We were so worried…where are you? We've got Aurors looking
for you all over the place!”

Ron and Ginny shoved her unceremoniously aside before Hermione could open her mouth. Ginny's
makeup was ruined by tears, her face twisted in concern. “What happened, Hermione? What happened to
you? Oh my God you look a mess!”

Again Hermione tried to speak and was overridden by Ron, who snarled “I'll kill `em,
Hermione!” his face close to the flames. “Who got you? Who did it?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” she yelled over the top of them, their chattering worried voices lancing into
her head and bringing back the pain of her headache. “Just shut up the lot of you! I'm okay!
Nothing happened to me!”

Quickly she explained to them, editing her story and leaving out the interesting parts. They
were all silent for a moment, before Ron said apprehensively, “Um…how did Harry react when he saw
you on his floor, for God's sake? I mean, he's not exactly the most sociable of creatures
nowadays.”

“Oh, he was fine. Well, I think he was; I was unconscious, remember? He took care of me, and I
only just woke up,” she lied, hating herself for doing so.

“Can…can we see Harry?” Ginny asked cautiously.

She knew what the problem was; none of them believed her. Even though she'd tried to hide
it, her sadness at being shunned by Harry had been obvious to everyone. They all seemed to know
that she had harboured an unrequited love for him. They'd never told her, but she *knew.*
And now they were incredulous.

“Yeah, sure,” she answered, stifling her annoyance. “Hold on.”

She pulled her head out of the fireplace, carefully so as not to breathe ash, and turned to
Harry, who was sitting on the bed, his eyes on her. Hermione suspected that he'd been gawking
at her exposed butt. She was surprised (and, she admitted to herself, a little disappointed) that
he hadn't tried anything while she'd been incapacitated.

“They want to speak to you,” she announced, and the lazy look on his face changed to one of
uneasiness.

“Um...why?” he asked.

“Don't know. Well, actually I do, I think, but just let them see you're really here with
me alright? Just don't tell them…you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grumbled, before getting up and crouching beside her. He took a deep
breath and propelled his head into the green flames.

“Hi guys,” she heard him, muffled, and sounding as though from a great distance. She was
surprised - she didn't know that you could hear this end of a conversation by Floo. The one
time she'd been with someone using the Network like this - Harry, coincidentally - she'd
been too preoccupied with trying to breathe around Millicent Bulstrode's hammy fists encircling
her throat.

“Yeah, it was,” he said. “She's okay now though.”

He paused. “Yeah, I'm okay. Doing pretty well, actually.”

As he talked to them, she studied his bent form. There were those round buttocks, the muscles
taut, his strong arms bracing his weight on the floorboards, sparse ebony hair spattering his
thighs. She reached out and laid a hand on his butt, and he jerked; she heard his voice falter,
before he recovered and swatted at her hand with his. She playfully dodged and, reaching between
his legs, ran a light finger down his flaccid penis. She was gratified as she saw it instantly
start to fill with blood and rise to attention, and snickered evilly as she heard him groan briefly
before he could control himself, then say “Yeah, I'm alright, just a little….um, sore.”

She smiled and grasped his erection, pumping it slowly, feeling the full length of it in her
hand. As he struggled to maintain the level of his voice, she slipped underneath him, leaning back
on her elbows and facing the erect cock which twitched and bobbed in front of her. Craning her neck
forward, she tentatively licked the eye which was oozing pre-come, tasting it, smearing it around
the head, knowing that she was tasting herself as well as him. As his thighs tensed she pursed her
mouth into a tight O and slowly covered his cock with it, letting it slide into her mouth and
squeezing it with her lips, the veins and ridges of it throbbing as she took him in deeper, letting
the back of her throat relax as she swallowed him almost entirely. She heard him wheeze like a
dying man as she pulled off him with a gasp and repeated the action, while he chatted with people
who hadn't seen him for so long and tried, in vain, to ignore the fact that he was being sucked
off and deep throated by the girl who'd accidentally Flooed into his place of residence. She
could hear his voice wandering, could tell by the hitches in his conversation he was losing
concentration as she slid up and down on him, twisting and turning her head while her tongue
massaged the underside of his cock. And just as she thought he was going to explode in her mouth,
she heard a muffled “Yeah, see ya!” and he pulled his head out of the fireplace, falling back on
his arse and slipping out of her mouth with a loud pop, an incredulous look on his face. Before he
could say anything, she'd pounced on him again, this time grasping the root of his dick and
ferociously attacking it with her mouth.

“Oh, oh, oh Jesus…” he gasped as his orgasm drew nearer, and even as she quickened her pace.
“Hermione…I'm gonna, I'm gonna…”

She smiled mischievously as she slid up and looked at him, her tongue still dancing on the head
of his cock. “What, baby?” she asked innocently, before devouring his cock with her warm mouth.

He groaned and lay back, his head smacking into the floorboards but apparently not registering
on the pain scale, for he kept writhing and uncontrollably pumping his hips so that his cock was
again sliding to the back of her throat, and she felt him flinch, and a strangled yell was torn
from his lips as he clutched her shoulders and came, his warm semen filling her mouth. She
couldn't believe there was so *much*; after all the orgasms he'd had in the past few
hours. She swallowed his come, finding that she didn't mind the salty taste of it, and she felt
rather than heard his heels drum the floor in a wild rhythm as the last tremors of orgasm swept
through him.

She kept him in her mouth for a while, licking him and swallowing until she'd gotten all his
come, before pulling her mouth off him and her resting her head on his thigh. He had propped
himself up on his elbows, and was gazing at her with wonder and affection, and deep gratitude. “Oh
my God, Hermione,” he murmured, reaching forward to stroke the hair from her flushed forehead.
“That was amazing…I never would have asked you…”

“I know,” she smiled at him, her hand gently stroking his semi-erect cock. “I wanted to, okay?
Anyway, I told you I'd get you back for calling me *Head Girl.*”

His mouth curled into a slow, dangerous grin. “Oh, you think that was payback, huh? I'm
gonna get you for doing that while I was talking to people I haven't actually seen for
ages…bloody hell, woman, I almost screamed out in the middle of conversation!”

She chucked. “Okay, lets see how you pull this one off,” she said, and she slid up his body to
kiss him, letting him taste himself on her lips.

*

The next few hours were spent losing themselves in each other. Until dawn poked its grey,
tousled head around the heavy drapes, they'd both come many times, sleeping fitfully, only to
climb onto each other at the first sign of alertness or wakefulness.

She learnt many things about herself that night, and the whole of the next day. And he did get
his own back, many times over. But none was so sweet as when he murmured to her, “You know when you
were under the invisibility cloak and watching me….well, you know?”

“Yes?” she asked, anticipation rising inside her.

“Well, d'you think…d'you think you could do the same thing? Let me hide while you…”

She smiled at his shyness, before slipping out from underneath him and letting her hand steal
down to her crotch. “I'll give you ten seconds to find that bloody cloak,” before closing her
eyes, smiling as she felt the bedsprings bounce and his feet hit the floor. *I could get used to
this,* she thought lazily, and it was that inner voice that had so far given her nothing but
grief. Finally speaking for her, not *to* her. And she smiled as she heard him mutter,
“Ready.” And gasped in pleasure as her thumb grazed her clit.

*Finis.*