The flap of the tent snapped shut behind Harry, muffling the roar of the crowd. The warmth of adrenaline was already fading, leaving behind aching limbs, scorched robes, and the raw sting of dragon fire along the side of his face.
"Sit down before you keel over, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey snapped, bustling forward with her wand already drawn. She shoved him onto a narrow cot with the kind of practiced fussiness only a seasoned matron could manage.
Harry obeyed, breath coming shallow and fast. He was still in one piece. Battered, but alive.
And then he saw her.
Hermione stood just inside the tent, scarf still clutched tightly around her neck, her hair wild from the wind, her eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears. Her gaze found his immediately, locking onto him like a lifeline.
She wasn't alone. Professor McGonagall stood stiffly beside her, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Hagrid hovered awkwardly near the entrance, his beard twitching with nerves. Fleur Delacour lingered near a table, arms crossed, face unreadable. Viktor Krum loomed behind them, and Cedric stood off to one side, shifting from foot to foot with uneasy cheer.
But none of them mattered.
Not when Hermione was looking at him like that — like she'd watched him die and had barely managed to come back with him.
Their eyes met — and something in her broke.
"Harry—"
She said his name like a prayer, torn from her lips, reverent and desperate. Then she was moving, boots striking the floor with a determined purpose.
He tried to smile. "Hey, I—"
But she was already on him.
She launched herself forward, climbing onto the cot without hesitation, straddling him like she needed to anchor herself physically to his body just to believe he was real. Her hands cupped his face. And then she kissed him.
Not a timid kiss. Not a hesitant brush of lips.
She consumed him.
Her mouth crashed against his with raw need, lips moving with desperation, her body burning with heat. Her magic surged — wild and electric — wrapping possessively around his like ivy twining around a tree. Harry gasped, more from the dizzying rush of power than surprise. His arms came up instinctively, gripping her waist as she trembled in his lap.
Her kiss was fire and storm and anguish and longing, all tangled into one. She moaned softly into his mouth, her fingers tangling in the scorched fabric of his robes, her tongue sliding against his like she had to taste every part of him to believe he wasn't ash.
Magic snapped in the air like a livewire.
Then—
"Ahem. Miss Granger," McGonagall said sharply, her voice strained with barely restrained outrage. "That is entirely inappropriate. This is a medical tent, not a—"
Hermione broke the kiss, panting. Her cheeks were flushed, lips red and glistening. But she didn't move. Her hands still cradled Harry's face. Her legs remained locked around his hips. She didn't even look away.
"I had to know he was real," she whispered, voice hoarse. "He... he could've died."
Madam Pomfrey tutted loudly, flinging a bottle of Dittany onto a tray and muttering about "teenage hormones and near-death trauma."
But Harry didn't care.
He was staring up at Hermione, dazed, still tasting her on his lips, still feeling the raw pulse of her magic licking over his skin like a firelight. Her hands were trembling.
And for a moment, it was just the two of them, suspended in a bubble of shared panic, relief, and the furious need to feel something real.
The tent flap burst open.
"Harry!"
Ron charged in, breathless and red-faced, hair sticking to his forehead, his voice cracking from shouting over the din outside. He looked like he'd run all the way from the stands. Dirt clung to his robes. He was shaking.
And then he saw.
Harry was sitting on a cot, bruised and bandaged, his Firebolt discarded beside him. Hermione was in his lap, her hands cupping his face, her wand tossed aside. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs in her haste to get to him, and her entire body pressed against him like she couldn't believe he was still alive.
Ron froze, mid-step. His eyes widened. "What the bloody hell is this?!"
Hermione turned slowly. Her face was pale and tear-streaked, but her gaze was sharp as a blade.
"You want to know what this is?" she said, her voice trembling—not from guilt, but fury. "It's what happens when someone actually cares if he lives or dies."
Ron blinked, stunned. "I—I came to apologize—"
"Too late." She slid off Harry's lap but stayed close. "You knew. Charlie told you. You had days to say something."
"I didn't think—Hermione, I didn't know—"
"You knew enough, Ron," she snapped. "You knew it would be dangerous. You knew it wasn't just another tournament game. And you still stayed quiet."
Ron's face flushed scarlet. "I was angry, alright?! I thought Harry put his name in! I thought you were both lying to me!"
"You think that justifies it?" Her voice broke. "He could have died!"
Harry spoke then, voice hoarse from smoke and shouting and sheer exhaustion.
"You didn't even ask me, mate. You didn't look at me. You just assumed the worst."
Ron looked between them, his mouth open, lost. "I—I didn't mean—" But he wasn't talking to Hermione anymore. He was staring at Harry, silently begging him to speak up. To laugh it off. To fix it like always.
Harry didn't.
Hermione stepped forward, voice low and cold now. "You've always hated being second to him. Don't lie about it. You hated it in the first year, in the second year—every year. The moment something good happens to Harry, you act like it's a crime against you."
"Don't turn this into—this isn't about—!" Ron sputtered. "You think I wanted to be jealous? You think I like watching everyone fawn over him while I get ignored?"
"No," Hermione said. "But I thought you'd grow out of it. I thought you'd understand that friendship isn't about being equal, it's about being loyal."
Ron flinched. He opened his mouth again, but Hermione was shaking her head.
"You weren't just a bad friend. You were cowardly. You had a chance to do the right thing, and you walked away because your feelings were hurt."
That stung more than anything. Ron stepped back, throat working.
"You're acting like he's yours," he said bitterly, eyes on her. "Like you're—what, together now?"
Hermione didn't answer. But she stood between Ron and Harry like a shield. Her silence said more than words.
Ron's eyes moved to Harry again, silently pleading.
Harry didn't move. Didn't speak.
And that silence was louder than a thousand accusations.
Ron's mouth twisted. "You know what? Fine. You two can have each other."
He turned and walked out—shoving the tent flap aside hard enough to send a gust of wind and loose parchment scattering off the table. A tray of bandages clattered to the floor behind him.
Silence fell like a hammer.
"Well," Fleur Delacour said dryly from her corner, arms folded beneath her pale blue robes, "that was… dramatic."
Her silvery hair shimmered under the lantern light as she stepped lightly away from the wall. But her eyes weren't on Harry.
They were on Hermione.
Something had shifted in the air when she kissed him—subtle, but unmistakable. Fleur's gaze lingered, unreadable. She narrowed her eyes, just slightly.
Viktor Krum stood nearby, silent and stiff. His arms were folded across his chest, his thick brows drawn tight. He, too, watched Hermione with an intensity that went beyond curiosity.
Cedric broke the silence with an awkward chuckle. "Hell of a performance, mate. Both the dragon and, er... that."
Harry gave a weak smile. "Thanks. I think."
Madam Pomfrey returned, bustling with burn paste and bandages. "If the next task is surviving your hormones, I shudder for the judges," she muttered, applying a poultice to his arm.
But Harry wasn't listening.
He was watching Hermione.
She leaned in again, gently brushing the hair from his forehead—her touch softer now, reverent. Her forehead met his, breath mingling with his, magic curling tightly between them like the roots of an ancient tree, old and unshakable.
"You're not allowed to die," she whispered against his skin. "Not now. Not ever."
Harry exhaled shakily, his hands clutching the edge of her robes like a lifeline.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered back.
Fleur's gaze lingered a moment longer, noting how the very light in the tent seemed to bend toward Hermione, how the magic subtly gathered around her like moths to a flame.
There was something off about her. Something not quite human.
But Fleur said nothing. She turned and slipped out of the tent, her silver hair gliding behind her like a trail of moonlight.
And Hermione?
Hermione kissed Harry again. Let them watch. He was hers now. And she wasn't letting go.
...
Snow drifted lazily from the gray December sky, blanketing the courtyard in a fresh, white sheet. Hogwarts students had spilled into the cold with flushed cheeks and scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. It was one of those rare free afternoons before the holidays, and the Yule Ball had made the air practically sizzle with teenage desperation.
Harry and Hermione leaned against a stone balustrade, standing shoulder to shoulder. Their warm breath curled visibly in the air.
Hermione had her hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat, a knitted Gryffindor scarf snug around her neck, curls bouncing lightly as she glanced around. Harry stood close enough to feel her arm against his. They weren't holding hands, but the awareness of each other was palpable.
"Here comes trouble," Hermione said, nodding toward the far end of the courtyard.
Ron Weasley was lumbering awkwardly across the open space, his gait betraying nerves so obvious that even the First Years paused their snowball fight to watch.
"Is he—?" Harry began.
"Oh, please no," Hermione whispered, already suppressing a giggle.
But yes. Ron was making a beeline for Fleur Delacour.
She stood near the courtyard fountain, surrounded by a soft glow from the falling snow, her silver-blonde hair catching the light like threads of moonlight. She looked almost bored, gracefully dabbing her lip with a handkerchief and completely unaware of the impending train wreck heading her way.
Ron came to a halt just in front of her, arms stiff at his sides, looking for all the world like a scarecrow trying to propose.
Harry squinted. "What is he even doing?"
"Dying inside," Hermione murmured, eyes wide.
Ron cleared his throat. Fleur glanced up.
"I—uh—you—Yule Ball—wanna go—you—uh—me—us?" Ron stammered, the words tripping over each other, his voice cracking halfway through.
Fleur blinked. And blinked again.
Then she simply turned around and walked away without a single word, her expression one of mild confusion — as if a disoriented house-elf had offered to cook her dinner.
Ron just stood there. The silence around him swelled. Then came the ripple — a stifled laugh from somewhere near the archway, followed by someone whispering, "Bloody hell, he actually tried it."
Even the snow seemed to pause in pity.
"Oh no," Hermione whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. "He didn't."
Harry let out a bark of laughter. "He did."
Ron turned on his heel and stalked away, face bright scarlet, brushing snow off his cloak as if it had personally insulted him.
Hermione shook with laughter beside him, her shoulder bumping into Harry's.
"I mean—credit for trying?" he offered weakly.
"Credit for existing in a different reality," Hermione snorted. "He looked like he was about to be sick."
"Either he's brave…" Harry said.
"…or just Ron," Hermione finished.
They both dissolved into laughter again, leaning into each other slightly, eyes crinkled with delight. The kind of easy, unguarded laughter that warmed deeper than hot chocolate.
Hermione looked up at him through her lashes, still grinning. "You'd never ask a girl like that, right?"
Harry tilted his head, smiling down at her. "Not unless I wanted to be hexed on the spot."
"Wise," she murmured, her cheeks still pink — whether from the cold or something else, he couldn't tell.
They drifted away from the crowds like sleepwalkers drawn to a dream, snow crunching underfoot as the world fell into a hush. It was just the two of them now — Harry and Hermione — tucked away beneath a great oak near the edge of the frozen lake.
A hush, a breath, a moment suspended in time.
Hermione turned toward him, the pale winter light dancing in her curls. Snow dusted her shoulders, a few delicate flakes clinging to her lashes.
Harry stared. Not because she was beautiful — though she was — but because she was Hermione. His Hermione. His best friend and... lately, something far more dangerous than that.
His hand rose of its own accord and brushed a curl from her cheek.
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her lips parted.
"You've got snow on your eyelashes," he murmured, voice low and reverent.
She inhaled sharply. "Do I?"
He nodded, drawn in.
Then their mouths met. And everything changed.
The kiss was soft — too soft — like a breath against lips that had waited too long. But that gentleness didn't last. Hermione leaned in harder, her fingers grabbing his cloak, dragging him into her. She kissed like she was starved — as if his lips were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.
Harry's hands moved on instinct — one sliding up beneath her scarf, grazing her bare neck. Her skin was hot despite the cold. Feverish. She gasped into his mouth, and the sound nearly made him groan.
He pressed her back against the tree. She arched, body molding to his as if she needed the contact.
Layers of wool and magic were no match for the fire crackling between them. His hands found her hips, fingers digging in possessively as he pressed closer. She let out a soft, wanton moan — and that's when he felt it.
The shift.
Something in her magic trembled — like a chord being plucked beneath her skin. It pulsed. No, it's called. Something ancient. Feminine. Hungry.
Hermione whimpered, her hips grinding against him in a slow, helpless rhythm. The air thickened around them. It was no longer just a kiss — it was a summoning. His cock throbbed hard against her thigh, aching beneath the confines of his trousers. And from the way she tilted her hips... she felt it.
She wanted it. No — she craved it.
"Hermione…" he rasped, panting against her mouth, "will you—"
But suddenly she stiffened.
All that heat. All that need. Gone in an instant.
Her hands released him as if burned. Her breath hitched — not with pleasure, but panic.
"I—I can't," she whispered, stepping back, her voice shaking like glass.
"Hermione?" His chest heaved. "What's wrong? Did I—"
"No," she said quickly. "No, it's me. I didn't mean to — I shouldn't have let it—" Her voice broke. Her eyes were wide, glassy. Frightened.
"Hermione, talk to me—"
"I can't," she gasped, and before he could stop her, she turned and fled — scarf trailing like a ribbon in the snow.
He didn't chase her. He couldn't.
He stood there, lips swollen, chest heaving, his body still aching from the heat they'd ignited — and just as quickly snuffed out.
But deep beneath the cold, something stirred in him. That pulse. That energy. That taste of her.
He'd felt it before.
It was magic. It was her magic.
But it wasn't like anything he'd felt from her before.
And somewhere across the snowy courtyard, Fleur Delacour — the only other girl at Hogwarts who would recognize that pulse for what it was — turned her head sharply, as if hearing a siren's call in the wind.
She felt it. A succubus had awakened. And Fleur knew exactly who it was.
---
Hermione stumbled through the trees, her breath shallow, vision swimming though she refused to let the tears fall. Her lips still tingled. Her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest.
This wasn't the first time. That was what terrified her most.
She and Harry had kissed before — once, maybe twice — fleeting, uncertain moments in the dark. But this time had been different. There was no hesitation, no doubt. They'd devoured each other — mouths clashing, hands grasping, heat surging between them like wildfire.
And for one, blinding instant, she had felt it stir within her. Not desire. Not love.
Hunger. Something not entirely her own.
And she'd run.
Of course, she had. What else could she do?
She didn't know how long she'd wandered, her heart still racing, when she heard the soft crunch of leaves behind her. She spun, wand raised — but it wasn't dangerous.
It was Fleur.
The older girl moved between the birches with effortless grace, her silvery hair glowing under the moonlight. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her gaze met Hermione's — calm, sharp, and far too knowing.
She wasn't looking at Hermione's wand.
She was looking at her. Really looking.
Hermione and Fleur – First Conversation (Edited for Fleur's Voice)
Hermione had the horrible, sinking feeling Fleur Delacour already knew.
"You ran," Fleur said at last, her voice soft, French-accented, and too precise to be casual. Not accusing — just... sure.
Hermione looked away, cheeks burning.
Fleur stepped closer. Her heels barely made a sound on the stone. "Was it... 'im?"
Hermione's breath hitched. "...No. It was me."
A long silence stretched between them.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Hermione whispered. "We were talking, and then he — he kissed me. And I didn't stop him. I didn't want to. But the way he touched me... the way he looked at me..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "It wasn't Harry. Not really. It was like something else had taken hold. Like he couldn't think."
Fleur studied her carefully. "You think it was your blood."
Hermione nodded once, then said it aloud: "I think I made him want me."
Fleur tilted her head. "Did you feel it?" she asked gently. "Zat heat in your chest. Ze ache in your belly. Ze pull in your skin like you were glowing from inside?"
Hermione blinked. "Yes. For a moment."
Fleur gave a small nod. "Then perhaps it was not only you who felt it."
Hermione clenched her fists. "But that's the problem! I can't tell what's real anymore. I don't know if it's him... or if it's me making him feel that way. I don't want to use him like that."
Fleur's gaze sharpened — not cruel, but cool and piercing. "Do you believe 'e wanted you before?"
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Fleur continued, voice quiet. "Before ze kiss. Before ze magic. Did he look at you, hmm? Like a man, not a boy. When you were not watching, perhaps?"
Hermione hesitated. "...Yes."
A small smile tugged at Fleur's lips. "Then you did not create desire. You only... woke it."
Hermione's shoulders sagged. "I still feel like I've taken something from him. Like he didn't get a choice."
"Ah, but zat is where you are wrong," Fleur said softly. "If 'e knows what you are — if 'e sees it, feels it — and still stays? Zat is choice, chérie. And love without choice? Is nothing at all."
Hermione shook her head. "I'm scared I'll ruin it. I'm scared if I tell him, it'll all fall apart."
"Non," Fleur said simply. "If you do not tell him, zat is what will ruin it. Secrets poison love faster than anything."
Hermione was quiet for a long time.
Then she looked up. "You... you said your mother was a full Veela?"
"Oui," Fleur said with a strange, proud calm. "And she told me zis, always: ze one who loves you will not be blinded by your fire. 'E will walk through it — eyes open."
Hermione's throat tightened.
"I'll tell him," she said at last. Quiet, but certain.
Fleur stepped back with a nod. "Bon. And if 'e is ze boy I think 'e is... 'e will still want you. All of you."
---
Hogwarts Library. Past Midnight.
The library was dead silent, the air thick with the musk of parchment, candle wax, and suppressed magic. Shadows clung to the corners like whispers, and the last flicker of candlelight danced against Hermione's cheeks as she slammed a book shut with unnecessary force.
Her lips were tight. Her eyes were sharper than usual, flicking over words she didn't absorb. She had no intention of studying tonight. Not really. Not when every step she took in the castle felt like it echoed with his presence. Not when she could still feel Harry's eyes on her—even when he wasn't there.
Except this time… he was.
Hermione froze.
A prickle skittered up her spine. She turned, gaze narrowed at the darkness behind the nearest row of shelves. "Harry," she said, not a question but a certainty. "You can drop the cloak."
There was a moment of stillness—then the shimmer of fabric as the Invisibility Cloak was drawn back. Harry stood there, sheepish but determined, the Marauder's Map still tucked in his palm.
"You followed me?" she asked, tone clipped.
Harry stepped forward. "I had to. You've been avoiding me for days."
"I've been busy."
"Don't give me that," he snapped, his voice low but hard. "You haven't even looked me in the eye since Monday. What did I do?"
Hermione stood, the scrape of her chair harsh in the quiet. Her fists clenched. "You didn't do anything."
"Then what the hell is going on?"
Her breath trembled as she turned away. "It's not about you. It's me, Harry."
"Bloody hell, Hermione, don't pull that—"
"I'm not being metaphorical!" she shouted, spinning back toward him. Her eyes glowed with something not entirely human—an amber glint behind the brown, fleeting but unmistakable.
Harry's breath hitched.
Hermione's jaw was tight. Her chest heaved with restrained fury. "You want the truth? Fine. I'm not normal. I've never been normal. My mother—my grandmother—we're not fully human. They're succubi. And guess what? I am, too."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Hermione paced like a caged thing, magic humming around her like heat. "I've been suppressing it, fighting it my whole life. But it's getting worse. I can feel things. What you want. What you fantasize about. I can smell your desire like perfume in the air."
Her eyes snapped to his. "You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention? The dreams do you have? Every time you brush against me in the common room, it's like a drug. And the worst part?" Her voice dropped, almost a growl. "I want to feed. I want you. I want to fuck you until your soul slips out on my tongue."
Silence.
Harry's eyes were wide, his mouth parted, but not in fear. His pulse thudded in his throat—but it wasn't panic. His hand twitched at his side.
"I've been avoiding you," Hermione continued, softer now, "because I'm scared. I'm scared I'll lose control. That I'll drain you. Kill you. And Merlin helps me, I'd enjoy every second of it while I did."
Harry walked toward her.
Slow. Steady. Measured.
"Then why tell me?" he asked, voice rough. "Why not keep hiding?"
"Because I can't fucking take it anymore," she spat, hands trembling. "Every time I see you, I want to claw my skin off. I can't breathe. I can't think. I'm sick of pretending I don't want you."
Harry stopped in front of her, chest rising fast, eyes burning like he'd been starved for air—and she was the only thing left to breathe.
And then he kissed her.
No words. No warning.
Hermione gasped, her lips parting, and he took full advantage, pressing against her like he'd been starving for her—because he had. Her hands fisted in his robes, desperate and instinctive. Their teeth clashed. Her moan rumbled against his chest.
Harry pulled back, his breath ragged. "You think I don't want you? You think I'd walk away because of this?"
Hermione stared at him, stunned, panting. "You're not… scared?"
"I mean… look, I've dealt with a lot of crazy stuff, alright? A mountain troll in the first year, Quirrel trying to kill me, Riddle and his diary nearly getting Ginny killed, a bloody basilisk that bit me and almost killed me…"
He gave a breathless, crooked smile.
"And then a third-year — Dementors, a werewolf, time travel, all of it — and now dragons. Real, fire-breathing dragons."
His eyes met hers, unflinching despite the nerves.
"But when you kissed me…" His voice caught, just for a second. "That was the first time I thought — maybe this is the thing that finally gets me. And honestly?"
He swallowed hard, something fierce flickering behind his eyes.
"If it is… if this is how I go… loving you? Then… that's not the worst way to die."
He gave a shy, lopsided grin. "Better than a basilisk, anyway."
Then, before she could say a word, he leaned in and kissed her — not because he was brave, but because not kissing her felt scarier than anything he'd faced before.
She let out a startled laugh, teary and feral all at once.
Harry leaned in again, slower this time. Softer. His lips brushed hers. "I don't care what you are. I care who you are. And I know you'd never hurt me. Not if you could help it."
"I could lose control," she whispered.
"Then I'll catch you when you fall," he murmured.
They stood there, locked together, heartbeats hammering. Her magic crackled against his skin, kissing him with heat and danger. And he reveled in it.
"By the way," he added, almost casually, "the Yule Ball is coming up."
Hermione blinked. "You're asking now?"
"Well, it felt like the right time," he grinned. "Full confessions, dark secrets, a bit of snogging—it's practically foreplay to asking a girl to a dance."
She stared, then broke into a wicked smile. "You're insane."
"I'm in love," he corrected, brushing his nose against hers. "So? Will you go with me?"
Hermione paused, her succubus nature purring under her skin, drawn to his bravery, his devotion, his sheer bloody-mindedness. She bit her lip.
"Yes," she whispered.
His grin was triumphant. "Brilliant."
Their next kiss tasted like victory, like danger, like the spark before a firestorm.
And as they slipped into the abandoned classroom—dusty, dim, and long forgotten—Hermione's hand gripped his tight, her eyes gleaming. Not with fear this time… but with hunger. The kind only Harry Potter could ever hope to satisfy.
She kicked the door shut behind them with a confidence he'd never seen before, and the old hinges groaned as if bearing witness. Before Harry could say a word, Hermione shoved him back onto a desk like she'd decided he belonged there. Her skirt hiked as she straddled his lap, lips crashing into his with the kind of heat that scorched.
This kiss was filthy—wet, desperate, and full of tongue and teeth. Her hips rolled against him, slow and deliberate, and when Harry groaned into her mouth, she felt it—hard and eager beneath her.
Hermione broke the kiss with a gasp, breath hot against his cheek. She glanced down at the thick bulge pressing against her inner thigh, then looked up with a dark, wicked smile that made Harry's cock twitch and his balls tighten like they'd been summoned by a spell.
"Well," she murmured, voice like honey laced with sin, "seems someone's rather eager."
Harry flushed but didn't back down. "Can you blame me?"
Hermione reached down, cupped him through his trousers, and smirked as he gasped. "Not one bit."
Without waiting for permission—because who needed it between them now?—she undid his belt, slid down his zip, and freed his cock. It sprang up into the open, flushed and leaking. Hermione bit her bottom lip.
"Merlin, Harry… that's definitely bigger than last time."
He swallowed, cheeks flushed. "Y-you think so?"
Hermione glanced up through her lashes, lips curving as she leaned in closer. "I know so… and I've been craving this cock all day."
And then she bent down and took him into her mouth.
Harry's head hit the back of the sofa. "Fucking hell, Hermione!"
She giggled around him, the vibrations making his cock throb against her tongue. She bobbed her head slowly, using one hand to stroke what she couldn't take and the other to fondle his balls, gentle and curious.
"Fuck—fuck, that feels mental—"
She pulled off slowly, lips wet and glistening, a strand of spit connecting her mouth to the flushed head of his cock. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gave him a knowing smirk.
"Missed this, didn't you?" she purred. "Bet you've been dying for my mouth ever since last time."
Harry's breath hitched, pupils blown wide with lust. "Hell… yeah."
Hermione dragged her tongue along the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate. "Good." She looked up at him with a wicked glint. "Because I've been dying to taste your cock too."
He looked down at her—hair mussed, lips swollen, spit running down her chin—and groaned.
"Hermione… can I—can I see your tits?"
She arched an eyebrow but didn't mock him for asking. "You want to see my tits?"
"Please. I've never… I just—I want to know what they look like. What they feel like."
Something in his tone, that mix of innocent awe and desperate curiosity, made her heart flutter. "Alright, then," she said and sat up to unbutton her blouse.
She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts bounced free—soft, pale, with dusky nipples already perked up from arousal.
Harry stared, mouth open.
"They're beautiful," he breathed. "So fucking beautiful."
"Go on, then," she said softly. "Touch them."
His hands moved like they were under a spell, cupping them with reverence. "They're so soft… Merlin…"
She gasped when his thumbs brushed over her nipples. "You like them?"
"I love them."
"Want to see what they look like… bigger?" Hermione teased, her voice low and wicked.
Harry blinked, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. "You can do that?"
She smirked, wand already in hand. "Harry. Magic, remember?"
With a playful flick and a sultry whisper—"Amplifica Mammae."—a soft shimmer wrapped around her chest. Her blouse strained as her breasts swelled beneath the fabric, full and heavy, far more than he could hope to hold.
Harry let out a strangled groan. "Merlin's balls… that's bloody unreal."
Hermione leaned forward, letting her magically enhanced tits nearly spill from her neckline. "Just wait 'til you fuck them."
His eyes widened. "Can I?"
Hermione shoved his trousers lower, pressed her tits together, and slid his cock right into the valley between them. "Like this, yeah?"
He moaned, hips bucking instinctively.
"Fuck… fuck, Hermione, your tits feel amazing…"
She moved slowly at first, squeezing them tight around him, his cock gliding between her slick, warm cleavage.
"Look at you," she teased. "Hard as a rock. You're loving this, aren't you?"
Harry could barely form words. "S-so much… you're so fucking hot…"
She let her tongue flick out, licking the tip every time it popped through the top of her tits. "I want it, Harry. Every drop. Don't hold back on me."
His breath hitched. "I'm—bloody fuck—I'm close—"
Hermione smirked, leaning forward as she pressed her tits together even tighter. And just as his cock throbbed at the tip, she lowered her head and took him into her mouth, burying him deep.
Harry let out a strangled groan, his fingers digging into the cushions like claws as his hips jerked. His cock throbbed on her tongue, thick spurts of cum shooting straight down her throat. Hermione moaned around him—low, sultry, hungry—sucking him like she was starved for it, her lips wrapped tight around his shaft.
She didn't pull off. Didn't let a single drop go to waste. Her eyes never left his, glowing faintly with that inhuman succubus hunger, even as she swallowed again and again, milking him for everything he had.
"F-fuck," he gasped, twitching in her mouth. "Hermione—fuck—"
His voice broke as the last pulses of cum spilled into her. Only when he was done—completely spent, body trembling—did she finally pull back with a slick, wet pop. Her mouth was glistening, swollen, and messy. Her tongue dragged across her bottom lip, collecting the shine, and then she raised her fingers to wipe the corner of her mouth.
Instead of cleaning it off, she sucked them into her mouth and moaned.
"Mmm…" she purred, licking slow and deep. "Warm, thick, salty… fuck, Harry. That's pure magic."
Harry was still panting, dazed. "That was—fucking—mental…"
Hermione kissed the edge of Harry's jaw, her voice barely above a whisper—but every word soaked in sin. "Next time… I'm going to ride your cock until you're begging me to stop."
The words shocked her as much as they did him. But she didn't regret a fucking syllable—not when she felt him freeze, then shudder, like a wire had snapped inside him.
His growl was feral—low, primal—and then her back hit the wall with a soft thud. His hands clamped down on her waist, hard enough to bruise, his mouth attacking her neck like he was starving for her.
He kissed her rough, sucked at her throat, nipped the skin just enough to make her gasp. And she did—her body arching into him, hips bucking without thought, her breath coming out in ragged, needy pants.
"Bloody fuck, Hermione," he groaned against her throat. "You're gonna fucking kill me."
She couldn't answer. Wouldn't even know what to say. Her brain was static, her body on fire. He felt so fucking good pressed up against her—hot and hard, every inch of him straining for her.
His hands were everywhere—groping her tits through her shirt, sliding down to her ass, gripping her like he didn't want to let go. And then he kissed her—deep, brutal, tongue pushing into her mouth like he owned it. She moaned into him, completely wrecked already.
When his hand dropped between them, fumbling with his cock, lining himself up at her soaked, desperate pussy, she gasped—and shoved a palm flat against his chest.
"Wait," she whispered.
Harry froze. His forehead pressed to hers, his hands trembling where they held her hips.
"What? Did I hurt you?"
"No, it's not that," she said quickly, her hand still pressed against his chest, eyes searching his. "I want this—I want you—just… not like this. Not up against a wall, half-dressed and rushed."
Her voice softened, and she looked away for a moment before meeting his gaze again.
"I want my first time to be… special. In a bed. With candles, maybe music… something that feels like us. Maybe even after the Yule Ball."
He looked at her, wide-eyed and flushed, his chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then he swallowed, nodding.
"Yeah. Of course. I mean—yeah. I want that too," he said, voice low and rough with restraint.
She smiled at him, heart pounding. Touched. Relieved. But before she could say anything more, he leaned in, lips brushing her ear.
"But I still want you tonight."
Her breath caught.
Before she could ask, he was already turning her gently, pressing her back against the cold stone. Her palms braced the wall, the air shifting between them as his heat pressed in close.
"Harry—what are you doing?"
His hand slid down her spine, slow and deliberate, the other curling possessively around her hip. When she felt his cock nestle between her arse cheeks—thick, hot, and hard—her eyes widened.
"I'm not taking your virginity tonight," he murmured, voice deep and full of need. "But… maybe I can have this instead."
Her whole body flushed, heat rushing to her face, her core, everywhere. "Harry…"
"You can say no," he said quickly like the words were choking him. "Fuck, Hermione, please say something. I just—I've thought about it. About you. All of you. If you want it too if you trust me…"
She let out a breathless, shaky laugh. "I do trust you. I just… I've never—"
"Neither have I," he cut in, voice soft but intense. "Not with anyone. Not this. You'd be… you are my first."
That made her chest ache in the best way. Her heart fluttered, and her lips trembled with something like affection, and filthy excitement tangled together.
"Okay," she whispered. "But go slow. Please."
"I will," he promised, kissing her bare shoulder. "I swear."
She felt him shift behind her—nervous, a little clumsy. Then the wet sound of him spitting into his hand reached her ears, and she bit her lip. Crude. Real. Intimate. He spread the saliva between her cheeks, fingers slipping down to circle her tight hole, spreading it with care.
"Let me know if it hurts," he breathed.
"It will," she said with a crooked smirk. "But I'll tell you if it's too much."
Harry exhaled shakily and pressed the head of his cock against her. The pressure was strange—thick, insistent, hotter than she expected. She gasped when the tip began to stretch her.
"Fuck—sorry," he panted. "Too much?"
"N-No. Just… slow," she whimpered, hands clenching against the stone. "Stretching so fucking much…"
He went slow, painfully slow, easing in inch by inch. Her muscles resisted him, burning around the intrusion, but she pushed back into him anyway, needing it, needing him. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in like he'd come apart if he let go.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his breath hot and ragged. "You're—Merlin, Hermione, you're so fucking tight."
Hermione let out a choked moan, face buried in the pillow, fingers twisting the sheets in a death grip. "It's so much… I feel so full. Like you're never gonna fit."
He laughed breathlessly, but it broke midway—strained and full of awe. "You're just… so bloody tight back here. Fuck, you're squeezing me like a vice."
They both froze, breathing in unison, hearts thundering like war drums. He was barely halfway inside her, and already she felt like she was being split open. It hurt. It burned. But it was perfect.
"You okay?" he murmured, one trembling hand stroking a soothing path down her spine.
She nodded slowly, voice unsteady but sure. "Yeah. Just… go slow. I want this. I want you."
That wrecked him.
"Your arse is fucking divine," he whispered, dropping a reverent kiss to her lower back before rolling his hips forward again.
She gasped, the sound strangled and high-pitched. "Oh fuck—Harry—Harry—"
"I know," he groaned, inching deeper, every pulse of her body around his cock making him dizzy. "You're taking me so well… so fucking good for me, love. Look at you…"
Another inch, then another. When he finally bottomed out, they both moaned—Hermione from the fiery stretch that had her shaking, Harry from the obscene tightness milking him like she was made for it.
"Holy shit," he growled. "You feel… fuck, Hermione, you feel unreal. Like you were built for this."
She whimpered beneath him, thighs trembling, her body locking down around him with each shallow breath. "It's so much… it's intense. But don't stop. Please, Harry, don't fucking stop."
He gave her a second—maybe two—then started to move. Slow, careful thrusts, hips rolling like he was savoring every inch of her body. Each drag of his cock made her squirm, made her toes curl and her eyes roll back. She was stretching, adjusting, burning—and loving it.
Then his hand lifted.
Smack.
She yelped as his palm met her arse, loud and sharp. Her whole body jolted.
"Harry!"
"You like it," he muttered, voice dark, hungry. His hand caressed the sting, then smacked her again. "You fucking love it."
A third slap. Her back arched. Her mouth dropped open.
"Yes!" she cried, breath hitching. "Gods—yes! More—fuck—more!"
He didn't hold back. Three more spanks—hard, punishing—until her arse was pink, stinging, and her pussy was dripping. Her thighs shook uncontrollably.
Then it happened.
Her breath hitched, her whole body locking up, and suddenly she screamed—a raw, desperate sound—as a gush of fluid sprayed from her, soaking the sheets below.
"Oh fuck, Harry—I'm—"
His eyes went wide, hips still buried deep. "Bloody hell—are you—are you squirting from this?"
She was sobbing now, panting, shaking violently beneath him. "I can't stop—fuck—fuck—it's too much—"
"Gods, I love it," he rasped, gripping her hips tighter, now fucking her with abandon. Wet, soaked, slippery—she was a mess for him, and he was fucking drowning in her. "You're mine like this. All of you. Every filthy inch."
Her moans twisted into cries, high-pitched and desperate, her body spasming with another wave of release.
"I'm cumming—I'm cumming again—" she sobbed, her voice wrecked, tears spilling down her cheeks as her body convulsed under him.
Harry lost it.
"Fuck, Hermione—fuck—I'm—" he snarled, every muscle locking as his rhythm broke. "Gods—I'm gonna—take it—take all of it—"
"Do it!" she cried, tightening around him like a fist. "Cum inside—please—I want it—fill me up—fill my arse—"
His hips slammed into her one last time, hard and deep, and then he was cumming—thick, hot spurts flooding her tight hole, his whole body trembling violently as he let out a broken, guttural groan.
"Fuuuuuck—Hermione—bloody hell—"
They collapsed together, a messy heap of sweat, come, and twitching limbs, Harry still buried deep inside her, Hermione's thighs soaked and trembling, the sheets beneath them ruined.
…That was fucking insane," he whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing her sweat-slick shoulder.
Hermione let out a breathless, blissed-out laugh. "I don't think I'll be able to stand, let alone walk."
He chuckled weakly, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades. "Worth it."
She smiled, eyes fluttering closed. "Yule Ball," she murmured. "Candlelight. Music. A dance. And this. Again."
Harry grinned against her skin, cock still twitching inside her. "And again. And again. And again."
Hermione snorted softly, too exhausted to move, but her fingers reached back to thread lazily through his. "Next time, maybe not quite so rough… at least not if I have to be vertical the next day."
Harry laughed, warm and low. "Deal. But you loved every second."
"Shut up," she mumbled into the pillow, cheeks pink. "Just… hold me."
He shifted gently, slipping out of her with a groan, both of them wincing at the loss of connection. Rolling to her side, she let him pull her close, his chest pressed to her back, arm draped protectively over her waist.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?" he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
---
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