Work Text:
“What are we doing here?” Hermoine asked, her hand apathetically stroking what remained of Harry’s erection.
“Enjoying the afterglow,” he said, basking in post-coital bliss, arms stretched and holding his resting head.
She wasn’t trying to make him hard again, but that seemed to be what was happening. She just needed something to do with her hands, something to distract her.
“That was brilliant, yeah?” said Harry, grinning. “They weren’t kidding when they called you the brightest witch of our age, were they? You really are good at everything.”
“Thanks,” she said, though she didn’t mean it. His words stung like manticore venom.
“Been dreaming of that for ages. Since fifth year at least. You know. After Cho and before Ginny.”
Ginny. Hermoine’s stomach sank lower. She already hated betraying Ron like this. She hadn’t even thought of Ginny yet. Fuck.
Harry rolled over, leaned in, cupping a breast and moving to nibble at her ear. His cock bobbed in her hand. “Seems the two of you are down for another go.”
She gently brushed his hand away and pulled up the sheet. She hadn’t intended for this to happen at all. She certainly had no intention of it happening twice. Not with him. Not with him. The Boy Who Lived. The manchild who was a prat. Between his reputation for defeating Voldemort multiple times, winning the Tri-Wizard cup as a fourth year, his brief stint as a professional Quidditch player, and his very public career as an auror, he’d become an intolerable ass. And now, in this rented bed overlooking Diagon Alley, he’d become an intolerable piece of ass.
She pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her as she moved across the room to the loo. He’d seen enough of her already. Too much. She didn’t want to give him another show.
He did, though. He grinned again as his cock sprang up from beneath the covers. He was fit and he knew it. Well built. Handsome. Hair permanently mussed in that sexy way. She hated that she thought these things. Hated that from here on, she would know what he looked like naked, would know how he fucked. He wasn’t bad. Pretty good, in fact. He didn’t know her body intimately the way Ron did, know all her secret spots and fantasies, but he had a good instinct for how to put what he had to use. No doubt from all the women he’d been with, the cad, the cheat. It was the most widely known secret around the ministry that Harry was a horrible flirt and more. And now she was a cheater too.
“Come on, let’s go again,” he said. “We’ve got the room for the rest of the night, and it doesn’t seem right to only fuck once, as long as we’ve both wanted this.”
Had she wanted this for a long time? She didn’t think so. Maybe briefly back in school, when hormones made you want to shag anyone and anything at least once, but that was a long time ago. “No, I think I’d better go. I think we’ve fucked quite enough already. You and me just fucked, and now Ron and Ginny are fucked too.”
“Come on,” he urged, dismissively, taking his own cock in his hands and stroking it as he eyed her. “Just one more quick round of wands and cauldrons, eh? Not like we can unfuck each other. May as well make the most of it. In for a penny, in for a pound as the muggles say.”
“I don’t like it when you talk like that,” she said. “It makes me really uncomfortable.”
“What? Talking about fucking? Talking about the things you did to my cock, you saucy little witch. Oh you pretend you’re prim and proper, but I think we both know that’s not all true, is it?”
“Not the fucking,” she snapped. “I don’t care about talking about that. It’s not like your dick is fucking Voldemort.”
“Nah,” he said and gave the sort of smug smirk his father James almost certainly mastered. “It’s been fucking you.”
She hastily snatched her panties from the floor and pulled them on. “No, the bit about the muggles. ‘As the muggles say,’ you said. As if you have nothing to do with them.”
“I don’t.”
“You were raised by them!”
Harry stopped his masturbation and grabbed his actual wand. “Accio smokes,” he said and his trousers bagan to shuffle as a pack of Salanus’s Self-Lighting 100s wormed their way from his pocket and flew to his hands. He offered her one, which she declined, and with a suit yourself shrug, placed one between his own lips.
The cigarette flickered to life between his lips and fingertips, burned bright as the ember drew slowly toward the filter. Smoke drifted from his nostrils like a dragon.
“The difference between me and you, is I never really met a muggle I liked. Never had a muggle give one toss about me, so yeah. As the fucking muggles say. Now come on. Already fucked up. May as well make it worth it.”
“Well, you may be in for a penny, in for a pound, but you’re not getting back in me,” she said. Her left arm crossed her chest, hiding her nipples from him. She knew logically that he’d already seen them, likely already filed the sight and feel and taste of them into his memory for future use, but she didn’t like the way he had been staring at them, talking to her breasts instead of her face. Didn’t like the way he’d returned to casually stroking himself as he urged her back into bed.
“What’s wrong? Afraid Ron will find out?”
Hermione looked frantically around the room for her bra. Her panties and skirt had come off on the bed, but where were they when he’d taken her top off? Where had he tossed it?
“He is your best friend. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Maybe if she found her cloak, she could fish her wand out from the pocket and find them that way. They were by the door when she’d stripped that off, weren’t they? If she weren’t so rattled, she could cast wandless, but she had too much going through her mind right now, too many emotions, too much guilt and regret and anger and disgust.
“He’s your husband, but it seems that meant as much to you as it did to me.”
He took a long slow drag and sat up, abandoning his masturbation for the time being.
Hermoine found her cloak by the door and rifled through it until finding her wand. “Why did I come here?” she muttered under her breath, and then, “Accio fucking bra.”
The bra, tangled with her shirt, flew from beneath the night stand and into her hands.
“Look, love, if you don’t know why you came here, I can make a few guesses.” Harry glanced down at his crotch and winked.
Why had she come here? She couldn’t say for certain but she had a pretty good idea. She was bored. Ron was a capable lover. Not as instinctively good at sex as Harry was, but he was attentive and had years to learn all the spots that curled her toes, and so one fuck to another, he far was better than The Boy Who Lived to Make Her Miserable. But Harry was different. Where Ron had length, Harry had a bit more girth and a bit of an upward turn. Harry didn’t know what made her cum, so he took them time to explore her body in ways Ron hadn’t in years, and she in turn, found herself intoxicated by smells and fingers she didn’t know by heart, a cock that filled her, not better, but differently. Gods, how she missed that novelty, how she missed that sense of discovery. She had always been a sucker for new knowledges and new experiences.
She stared at him, his strange body nude before him, taking in the curls of carefully trimmed brown hair that adorned his cock and the trail of hair that ran down his stomach that led her there. But not just that. She took in the hair of his arms and legs, too. The freckle on his side. All the little nuances. All the little differences.
And still, that wasn’t the only reason. She would be lying if she said she and Ron didn’t have a great sex life. He still loved her, still called her beautiful, still filled her body and soul several times a week. He didn’t care about her stretch marks or where her breasts had begun to sag or the first hints of crows feet around her eyes. But he loved her, truly loved her, and so all his compliments, all his insistence that she was still the sexiest witch alive, meant a little less from him. From Harry though, who if rumors were to be believed, had fucked more than his fair share of impressionable witches, when he called her beautiful, when he kissed her blemishes and still looked at her with lust in her eyes, the compliments felt a bit more real. Did she agree to go upstairs with him because she wanted someone to reassure her that she was more than just a boring nerd, an unsexy bureaucrat for the Department of Mysteries? Or did she go upstairs with him because he had convinced her she was still sexy, still someone strangers desired and it had been so long since she had to say no to someone, she had forgotten how to resist? Chicken and egg. Didn’t matter.
Didn’t change the fact that she felt unfulfilled since she’d been promoted. She no longer got to actually work with any of the mysteries that once challenged her mind so much, that made her love her job. Didn’t change the fact that work had become a tedious chore that left her desperate for something, anything, to break her out of her rut, her life a steam train heading inexorably to The Granger School for Monotony and Wasted Potential. All she did now was management and paperwork. All she did now was live a life of boredom, desperate for anything to make her feel alive again. Maybe it wasn’t just Harry who peaked early in life. What happened here, regardless of why, didn’t change any of that. Didn’t undo anything that had happened. No time turner could fix those wrongs.
“Change your mind?” Harry asked. “Excellent.”
She shook her head.
“What?” she asked, coming out of her thoughts.
“I mean, you were getting dressed, covering up your tits, all coy, and then you just stopped and started checking me out and flashed ‘em at me all over again. I’m game if you are.” The bobbing of his dick between his legs vouched for him. He put out his cigarette and leaned back. “You know you want to ride the old Firebolt again.”
And the moment passed. If anything had broken the spell, it was a reminder of him clinging to his Quidditch glory days, a reminder of who he was and what he had to offer, a past, not a future. She slipped her bra on and fastened it. “Please never call it that again.”
“Ginny likes it,” he said.
“Yeah, well, she’s a pro Quidditch player. She rides a broomstick for a living.”
“Yeah she does,” Harry said with childish grin.
“Fuck off,” said Hermoine, sliding into her shirt. “Fuck off and fuck you.”
“I’m free if you are.”
“What would Ginny say if she were here?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Hermoine paused buttoning her blouse long enough to give him a dead eye and say, “You disgust me.”
“Maybe,” he said, “but I also made you cum twice, so I’m not all bad.”
Three times, but she’d be damned if she let him know it.
“Look,” he said, rising from the bed and crossing to her, his hand drifting between openings of her shirt to casually stroke her breast. His cock pressed against her thigh. Her breath caught in her throat. “This was fun. We both know that. We’re both adult enough to admit that. And whether we fuck once or twice or ten times, it’s still something that would absolutely devastate people we care about if word got out, Who knows? You’re head of the Department of Mysteries. A scandal like that could cost you your career. So let’s agree to just never tell anyone about this, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, her voice husky, guttural, barely contained. His hot breath on her neck made the hairs of her body stand on end. Electricity ran through her flesh and set her senses alight.
“And since we’re keeping things secret anyway, what say we give it another go?”
She shuddered under his touch, his fingertips having found her nipples and begun teasing them through the fabric of her bra.
“And we can keep things secret as long as we keep allowing ourselves this bit of fun, yeah?”
A primal part of her wanted nothing in the whole world except to take him up on the offer. To submit her entire body to his attentions and take in every inch of his flesh in return.
But Hermione had never been easily swayed by that part of her. Yes, he was right. She wanted him. But he was also right, saying she was the head of the Department of Mysteries. The youngest in living memory. More than that, she was Hermione Fucking Granger-Weasley, and she would not be pushed around by some hotshot auror, not matter who he was, and in the end, that’s all he was. A slightly more capable Gilderoy Lockhart. Certainly not a friend. He was a cad and a blackmailer, and she would not be extorted by him, would not allow him to ruin her life or the lives of her friends. It was her mistake, her regret, and she would live with it, but not him. He had no shame, no remorse, no reason to change his ways. She couldn’t trust him with it. She had made a mistake, but she wouldn’t let him manipulate her into doing it again.
Brimming with newfound focus and determination, she leaned into him, her fingers trailing down his nude body. She could feel him react to her touch, felt him press himself closer to her. Taking his hands in hers, she pinned them to the wall, pressed in close. It was his turn now to quiver beneath her breath. “You know what I think?” she said seductively.
“I’m all ears,” he said, eager, hungry.
She pressed her lips to his ear and slowly drew in a breath before whispering, casually, wandlessly.
“Obliviate.”
She really was the brightest witch of her age.