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As a general rule, Harry Potter despised everything about ministry Balls and Galas. There was just something so intrinsically pandering about them that grated on his nerves. That isn’t even considering he was all but forced to attend them. He didn’t even work at the ministry, he was just expected to attend because he was a war hero. He didn’t like being in the news in general, but if he didn’t turn up, the speculation would drive up to an unbearable degree.
Alongside the fact that he was forced to attend or the media wouldn’t shut up about him for the next month, he was also barred from doing the one thing he would even enjoy doing at these events – dancing with his wife – because people thought they were entitled to his time, forcing him to be polite and listen to their inane droning about this bill or the other, or this new invention, or propositions about chocolate frog cards and biographies.
If he were honest, if he could get away with it, he would strangle every single one of them. Maybe then they wouldn’t be wasting any more air. It really was a unique ability held only by politicians and salespeople to continue on as if nothing was wrong when the other party actively looks like they want to commit homicide, or maybe some arson, as a treat. At the end of the day, Harry often contemplates just how much the Ministry would be improved if he burned it all down. The only thing currently stopping him is that his wife would be miffed if she couldn’t join in.
Speaking of his wife, he looked over to where he last saw her and felt his temples throb. She was dancing, which annoyed him partly because he should be with her, but it angered him because of who she was dancing with.
Cormac McLaggen had his wife, Hermione Granger, in his arms and they were idly twirling on the dancefloor. It was an entirely innocent thing. No hands were anywhere inappropriate and they weren’t wrapped around each other. Regardless, Harry felt his hand twitch for his wand, but he swallowed the impulse. Cormac said something to her, and she laughed quietly, which quickly made him reconsider burying the urge to hex him.
He normally wasn’t this possessive, or protective, but the fact that all the way back in 6th year McLaggen had a reputation as a rampant misogynist didn’t help him quell his rage at seeing Hermione in his arms. He had taken her to the slug club party in 6th year and Hermione couldn’t get away from him faster if she tried. She actively hid from him and even used Harry to shield herself from him.
Those facts were what made Harry feel like it would simply be the best course of action to walk up and sock the twat in the face. He’d certainly delight in feeling his nose crunch under his fist, making his face match his personality. He didn’t care if he had ‘matured’ or ‘grown up’, he wouldn’t stand for someone who, at best viewed women as toys as a teenager, to get his grubby fucking paws on his wife.
He blatantly blew off the politician that was droning on about some kind of business bullshit to him with murder in his eyes. Hermione looked over at him and he saw a subtle smirk adorning her face.
Cheeky Brat. She was going to get it for that.
He stalked closer to the two of them. Hermione’s smile widened as she no doubt saw the unrestrained murderous intent in his eyes. He might have been leaking a bit of magical aura too, though he was too pissed to care about reigning it in.
Once he got close enough, he grabbed Cormac by the shoulder and spun him to face him.
“Hey, McLaggen?” He said with a false smile.
“Potter?” Cormac asked, mildly disorientated by the sudden interruption.
“This is for 6th year.” He let his smile drop.
Before Cormac could respond, Harry had already reared his fist back and punched him square in the face with all his strength. His fist landed with a sickeningly satisfying crunch and he watched, pleased, as Cormac fell back on his arse cradling his face with his hands, blood already leaking between his fingers.
He didn’t stay long enough for anyone to reprimand him. He merely took a step forward, grabbed Hermione by the wrist and apparated, using a decent chunk of magic to apparate through the anti-apparition wards of the ministry, shattering them with a deafening boom.
If he was going to do something stupid like assaulting a ministry employee, he was going to remind them of how magically powerful he was, to dissuade any errant reporters from stalking him for a story afterwards.
He wouldn’t face consequences either way, while being a war hero was one thing, having legal immunity due to the fact he was the only currently living mage-class wizard was another entirely. He had so much magic, that he could simply will natural disasters to stop, and that’s exactly what he was employed by the ICW to do. Stop natural disasters above a certain danger threshold, curb nascent Dark Lords, and set up protections around nationally revered treasures like the crown jewels. Anything above a certain level of importance was handled by him, meaning he could bloody well twat someone for laying hands on his wife and face no consequences, apart from being raked over the coals by the media, which was the main downside. He didn’t like the attention breaking the rules publicly netted him.
They both appeared in their bedroom. Hermione didn’t even get a chance to speak before he pulled her into a fierce and hungry kiss.
It took minutes of desperate kissing and his hands roving over his body before he pulled back.
“Something the matter dear?” She teased.
She was shoved roughly to the wall, his hand bracketing her head as he stared darkly into her eyes.
“Who do you belong to?” He asked huskily.
He could see the beaming joy in her eyes. She was enjoying every bloody second of this. She’d learn better soon enough.
“You.” She said simply with a smile.
“Whose ring are you wearing?” He asked.
“Yours,” She told him.
“Mine,” He growled before making quick work of stripping her of her dress.
He kissed her all over. Every inch of flesh that he revealed got attention.
He couldn’t take it anymore, he had to have her. He needs to mark her. His brain was screaming for release.
He didn’t even strip fully. He just unzipped his trousers and slipped his cock out. He needed her now.
There was a glimmer in her eyes as she lifted her leg and he caught it with his hand. She knew what she was in for and she loved every moment of it.
He lined himself up with her entrance and pushed in with a growl.
He was anything but gentle. He rutted into her with a frantic pace that laid bare his desperation for her.
Every moan, every mewl, every squeak of pleasure was a victory for him. All of it was a reminder of who she belonged to. His lips found the crook of her neck and he licked and sucked at the skin he found there. He wanted– no he needed to leave a mark on her.
He could feel her body tensing under the onslaught of his relentless thrusting. She must have been high-strung for her to get off this quickly, but Harry didn’t mind, he wasn’t faring much better himself.
“Please, Harry!” She yelped.
“Please what?” He growled.
“Please let me cum. I’m so close! So so so so close! I need it!” She begged.
He smirked against her neck. He liked it when she begged.
“Cum. Cum for me sweetheart.” He pulled back and locked eyes with her. “I want to watch as you come undone”
He delighted in her expression as she tensed up for a moment before seeming to uncoil like a spring. Screams of pleasure ripped themselves from her mouth as he pistoned into her.
It wasn’t long before he followed her over the edge, filling her needy cunt with his hot seed.
They stayed like that for a while, just breathing heavily and basking in the moment.
“Hit a nerve did I?” She smirked.
“Next time he puts his grubby fucking paws on you, I’ll kill him.” He promised.
“Well, it’s a good thing He won’t be getting within five feet of me ever again.” She smiled at him.
“I’m not done with you either.” He centered himself.
“Really? Are you going to punish me, Daddy?” She asked.
“Don’t push your luck.” He reprimanded her
They shared a silent smile. They both knew this game they played. They’d come back to this later. Right now, though, Hermione seemed to content to busy herself patching Harry’s hand up.