Meme-fics, 5/7
Jul. 15th, 2007 03:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foudebassanFor Dacian_Goddess (sorry, this was intended as cheerleading material during your exams, and, erm, well, hope it's not too late for the post-exam celebrations!)
Prompt: Harry and Draco are shag buddies/involved/whatever, and they're there to pick up the pieces when Hermione and Ron break up (all of the hows and whys are up to you, of course). The best way for Hermione to get over the whole Ron unpleasantness is to have the daylights shagged out of her (of course). You tell me how Draco and Harry end up getting Lucius and Snape to pursue Hermione and give her said shagging... The smuttier the better, in the end.
Lots and lots of various pairings, 4000 words, hard R, no title. Warning: high ginger factor.
Ron was having a dilemma.
Ron did not like dilemmas. Ron did not like complicated situations on principle – things were supposed to be a simple matter of What Should Be Done and What Should Not. How to tell the former from the latter was a matter of remembering his parents’ stands on each peculiar issue – do no trust things whose brains are hidden, ergo, do not write in magical diaries. Do not let your friends down, ergo, stick with Harry and Hermione whether he thought they were right or wrong. Be confident in yourself and always see the bright side of things, ergo, don’t let the break-up with Hermione spoil his entire life, or hers for that matter.
But his parents hadn’t let any wise guidance for when the Dos and Don’ts started to conflict.
Take the break-up with Hermione. Well, it had been hard, there was no denying that. He’d felt angry with her, angry with himself, and there was a bit of guilt too. Surely it would have worked if he’d only tried hard enough? Reading Quidditch magazines on the bog was non-negotiable where he was concerned, but if he’d only taken care not to actually be on the bog when she was in the bath, who knows…?
These kind of thoughts were more than enough to drive a wizard to drink. Harry and Draco were of course always up for a night out on Friday, but more often than not weekday evenings saw him wander off to the Three Broomsticks.
So it started with a drink… No, let’s be honest. It started with the breasts at first. He’d sit at the counter, order a Butterbeer, and then spend the entire evening facing these twin monuments of heavy, barely concealed, enticing, pure femininity. He’d try not to be too obvious, would then fail and cast apologetic looks to Rosmerta for the rest of the evening. At first he was a bit surprised by the warm glow of peaceful acceptation he got in return, but soon – sooner than he’d thought – he came to accept it as a part of Rosmerta herself.
She was happy to watch him ogling her breasts, it was as simple as that.
Life was simple for Rosmerta.
But then he’d started talking to her to distract himself, and he found himself looking forward to Rosmerta’s conversation. She was nothing like Hermione – she probably didn’t know the first of the primary Arithmantic equations, but she knew how to talk of Quidditch, and, best of all, she never expected him to act as a gentleman. He was allowed to burp after his Butterbeer, she did not frown when he brought his knife to his mouth, and when he said something stupid she just smiled.
Ron found out that he didn’t say many stupid things with her anyway.
Not like with Hermione. With Hermione he had to stay on his best behaviour all the time, not to impress her, no, one doesn’t show off to one’s best friend, but not to embarrass her. He had done his best, but he had snapped – and the realisation dawned on him that he had been bound to snap sooner or later anyway, that their break-up was indeed for the best.
Then, and only then, did he manage to gather enough courage to ask Rosmerta out.
“For a Butterbeer?” she had asked.
That was what Ron loved in her. Another bartender would have made fun of his lame attempt and pointed out that she already had ample access to all the Butterbeers she could possibly want, but not Rosmerta. Rosmerta only asked, in earnest, not the barest hint of mockery in her voice.
“Or anything else,” he had answered.
Rosmerta sounded like she wouldn’t be disappointed in anything he had to offer. Well, she was about to find that he would offer her everything, he decided then and there.
Everything turned out of be a night of love up in Rosmerta’s little apartment above the pub. In the morning, she’d shooed him away, telling him that he should go back to his young witch now that he’d had gone through with his little fantasy.
He had been hurt, but he hadn’t shown it. And the day after he showed up on her doorstep with flowers and offered her a foot massage. She didn’t turn him away – bartenders stand up all day, foot massages are the one true way to their hearts.
Ron had come back the day after. And the day after. It had now reached the point where Rosmerta had developed a special smile she seemed to keep only for him, and he was so eager to see it appear at the corner of her mouth that he’d apparated to the Three Broomsticks straight from work.
Which brought him to his dilemma.
He had gone on with his life, but Hermione hadn’t. And, his parents dixit, one did not leave a friend in the jam, and Hermione still was, for all intends and purposes, his best friend. But going back to Hermione would mean betraying Rosmerta – out of the question – and making himself unhappy to boot, while not going back to her would be tantamount to betrayal as well.
One evening, as he lay against Rosmerta’s shoulder, looking straight down inside her glorious cleavage, he opened up to her.
She had a simple solution – Rosmerta always had simple solutions.
“Why don’t you find a nice wizard for her? What kind of wizards does she like?”
Ron thought.
“Intellectual – clever, smart, quick – not like me… Someone she can count on, I suppose…”
Rosmerta moved her hand down his thigh. She seemed to like his thighs nearly as much as he loved her breasts – she certainly spent time fondling them.
“Have you thought of Severus Snape, dear? He sometimes comes around here for a drink…”
Severus? Severus Snape?
Ron blinked, blinked again and lifted himself from Rosmerta’s shoulder.
A few months earlier the very improbability of the suggestion would have prompted an angry rant, but one didn’t get angry in Rosmerta’s company. One listened first, thought second, and then acted.
Ron had listened, and he thought. Well, it did sound preposterous, but Hermione was a complicated girl and wouldn’t be pleased by straightforward solutions. Snape was a complicated man too: he’d give her wits a run for their money and his twisted character would keep her interested in him.
Perhaps it was not too preposterous after all.
Ron decided to act. He took quill and parchement, and drafted two letters. Nothing straightforward, no, he knew Hermione well enough to understand that straightforward wouldn't work.
But nothing and no one could possibly oppose his inquiring about her health, and suggesting that she ought to look into recent potions research, perhaps, for alternative herbal cures to her chronic headaches...
There was no guarantee that it should work, but he'd given it his best shot. Fate, and Hermione, would take it up from there; he'd done his bit and wouldn't feel guilty any more.
And, frankly, if there were any wagers to be taken, he'd bet everything he had on Hermione rather than on Fate.
*
* *
News of the break-up had filtered through soon enough in the Potter slash Malfoy household. It began with Ron showing up on their doorstep on Friday evenings. He’d look up at them with big, disconsolate eyes, like a forlorn puppy, and it was far beyond their combined forces to turn him away. So all three of them made their way to a regular pub and proceeded to get nicely, totally and heterosexually drunk. Even the hungover morning-after sex didn’t make up for the loss of splendid evenings out at the “Prince Albert”, the main wizarding gay establishment, and the resentment both Draco and Harry started to feel about it increased with each passing Friday.
But that, in Draco’s opinion, was not as bad as Hermione flooing them absurdly early on Sunday mornings – how the witch could even be functional before 10 am, he would never understand. It probably had something to do with hormones and was another reason why he was convinced females were best left alone. His own Harry was sensible and never emerged before noon, but even that compounded the problem: if the Man-Who-Lived-To-Snore-His-Way-At-Draco’s-Side did not wake up, it fell down to poor, put-upon Draco Abraxas Malfoy to answer these early calls.
“Still in bed? What layabouts you and Harry are!” she happened to say, that peculiar Sunday morning, in the bright and cheery voice that would give any right-thinking wizard ideas of homicide. “But that doesn’t matter, you’ll wake up soon, enough, I have something for you to do…”
Draco wordlessly grabbed his wand, and in a gesture that was, perhaps, a tad more forceful that entirely required, he poured himself some coffee and heated it up. He tried holding the steaming mug up between himself and the noisy intruder as a shielding gesture, but it didn’t stop her voice from droning on and on.
“…see, I have this wonderful research idea, and…”
The coffee did smell good. Would it calm her to pour some down her throat? Nah, and she might even take it as an indication of her being welcome there, at this ghastly hour.
“…only need a couple of assistants, and of course you and Harry are perfect…”
Harry? Did she mention Harry? Perhaps he ought to wake the bugger up, she was his friend after all, all she had in common with Draco was waking him up in the wee hours of the morning and occasionally punching him in the face, surely that didn’t count as friendship. Well, the punching hadn’t happened in more than a decade now, but a wounded ego took ages to heal, everyone knows that. And Malfoy egos are notably sensitive…
Draco took a tentative sip and watched the thin rivulets of steam fly away from his mug in complex patterns. If he closed his eyes just for a moment, perhaps she’d go away…
“Draco! Are you falling asleep again? I can’t believe this! It’s nearly eleven o’clock! What have you been doing yesterday night? Ah, well, I’d better not ask. Is Harry still asleep? Can’t you wake him up?”
Wake Harry up? Now that sounded sensible. Draco mumbled something not quite understandable to the non-initiates and headed back to the bedroom, where he proceeded to wrench the covers from Harry and to wrap himself in the duvet. He lied back on the soft bed with a contented sigh, nudged his already half-awake partner for good measure – “Hermione’s there, get moving” – and closed his eyes again for good with a smile of pure bliss. Harry would make her go, and then come back to bed, and try to wake him up... he’d pretend to sleep soundly, and Harry would have no choice but creep under the covers, close to his own body, and he’d…
The fantasy was interrupted by the sound of loud sobbing in the living-room. What now. He threw the pillow over his face in an attempt to block the noise. Back to the fantasy… Harry would come back to bed, he’d plunge downwards, and make a soft panting noise, and he’d push the unshaven face further down, yes, that would be good, and those panting noises ought to be shushed, he’d just thrust himself in Harry’s mouth, to feel the softness, the warmth, the…
Fuck it, he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now. Annoyed, he threw away the covers and padded to the living-room, still clad only in his dressing-gown, pouting. He’d have to throw Hermione out himself, and then –
A pitiful sight met his eyes in the living-room. Hermione was actually crying, and Harry was doing his best to console her.
“I see I’m bothering you, I’ll just go home, shall I, it’s all my fault, no social skills whatsoever, that’s why Ron…”
She broke into renewed sobbing.
“Of course not, you know you’re welcome here, now calm down…” Harry looked at Draco with his secret, terrible, Do This Or There Will Be No More Blowjobs look. “We love to have you here, don’t we, Draco?”
“Of course,” the blond answered, mesmerised. There were some things one just didn’t joke about, and The Look belonged to them.
“And we’ll both be happy to help you with your research project, won’t we? Draco will convince his father to lend us his library…”
Draco winced at that. It would take some heavy convincing, and not so subtle alluding to Hermione’s charms – his father was an old pervert if there ever was one – and perhaps other kinds of blackmail to even bring Mr. Malfoy senior to...
Wait.
Wait wait wait. If he could manage to let Lucius loose on Hermione… They’d end up annoying each other. And that would have the double benefit of stopping the tedious ‘family gatherings’ with thinly veiled allusions to heirs and to the lack thereof, and of making their Sunday mornings blissfully quiet.
He was a fucking genius.
*
* *
“Your age, you say? Wouldn’t that be just a bit too young for me?”
Draco could recognise a bargaining tactic when he one was dangled in front of his eyes.
“Mother was younger than that when I was born – as far as heirs are concerned, isn’t a witch’s youth desirable?”
That was blunt. Dreadfully blunt, even, for a Malfoy. But living with Harry had taught Draco a thing or three, and it wasn’t all about how to make a lover scream with just the tip of your tongue. No, Gryffindor directness could put one’s interlocutor out of balance, especially when said interlocutor was a Slytherin and a Malfoy at that.
Lucius took that blow like a man. Needing a new heir was, after all, the present heir’s fault and if that reminded him of his advancing years, that was mere collateral damage.
“Very well. Bring her here if you must, but if she as much as mentions eclecticity she is not to ever return.”
Draco smiled to himself. Let the old man believe Hermione behaved like Arthur Weasley – he would only be pleasantly surprised by the contrast.
*
* *
Harry shivered. It was not fear, no, but… he’d rather face Voldemort again than watch this!
And there was no escape.
The door? They were between him and it.
The windows? As if either Hermione of Lucius would ever allow sunlight close to their precious books, not to mention the remote possibility of there being a witch or wizard stupid enough to believe they might rob the library by entering through the window. No, the wards there were stronger than just about anything else in the Manor, and that was saying something.
Next time Draco asked him to go fetch, pardon me, to go borrow a few pieces of the Malfoys’ secret collection of homosexual pornography, Draco would bloody well be told to do it himself.
”But only you could possibly do it, my love, only you are strong enough to disarm the wards…”
Harry snorted to himself. The wards had been a child’s play compared to just getting into the Manor, and Draco would have had no trouble at all entering the Manor as he had Malfoy blood.
”Besides, Granger is bound to be there, and you know she wants to see you…”
Re-snort. Hermione had been depressed lately, but whatever research she had been doing had lifted her spirits considerably. What she wanted now was to be left alone with the Malfoy books, and, from what he could see, with Malfoy himself!
Harry had managed to sneak into the library under his Invisibility Cloak. Hermione was there, alone and reading, and for a while it had seemed that he would get away with it… the pornography had been exactly where Draco had said it would, the wards protecting it hardly stood up their reputation, and Harry had collected and shrunk several promising tomes. So far, so good, but the last thing that stood between him and mission accomplished was his exit.
Just when he prepared to slip out unnoticed, Lucius had appeared in the library, and before he knew it he and Hermione – his Hermione! The bookworm! – were rolling on the floor in a sea of wanton lust. That was more than a wizard ought to see, really, and Harry did he best to avoid the sight, but he could not filter the noises! At least it had an end, and he cautiously opened half an eye to watch them – naked! On the library floor, for Merlin’s sake! – cuddle around each other.
Fall asleep already, he thought, or leave the room… There was no way for him to get away unnoticed with them lying in the way.
Merlin, or Lachesis, or whoever it is whose task it is to weave wizards’ lives around each other in a tangled web of mutual deceit, however had other plans for him that evening.
Plans that took the form or his tall, dark nemesis entering the library.
“My, my, my. Starting without me again?”
Hermione lazily lifted an arm to sweep out the sea of brown and golden lock from her face and onto Lucius’.
“If you insist on arriving late…”
“Some of us have potions to attend to, Miss Granger,” he answered, divesting himself of his cloak.
It took Harry all of his self-control not to let out too loud a noise when he saw how very naked the wizard was underneath. And by naked, Harry meant, oh Merlin what a huge cock, nice and thick and half-erect and he’d better look elsewhere now.
“…and potions, as you well know, make for a minute and precise art. I may not change my schedule on a whim, unlike some wizards of my acquaintance.”
Lucius let out a grunt and made the kind of gesture that usually is more associated with swimming than with reaching out for air from under a mass of tangled hair.
“But that is no matter,” Severus went on, kneeling down at their side, “I shall be more than glad to get miss Granger here all to myself this time… I take it you are up for another round, Hermione? The enthusiasm of youth, you see, Lucius. Now don’t take it personally, you know you can ask me for a specialised potion anytime, really…”
Lucius roared and reached out over Hermione, clasping Severus firmly at the elbow and pulled until the wizard collapsed on the prone couple.
“Ouch!” said Hermione, rolling outside of the wresting wizards.
“I do most emphatically not need a potion,” Lucius answered, “not now, not ever, do you understand?”
And he twisted Severus’ dark, erect left nipple viciously.
Harry blinked.
Since when…?
“Prove it,” Severus growled.
Hermione chuckled and moved back towards them, straddling Lucius’ thighs. She stretched her arms out to free Severus’ nipple, and caressed his chest instead.
“Now, now, gentlemen, let us be civilised. I suggest leaving the two of you to your own devices…”
Lucius took one of her hands and brought it to his own chest. Harry stared, too fascinated to avert his eyes.
“While I go sit over there,” she concluded, standing up. She walked to the armchair under the gazed of the three wizard, picked up the book she’d discarded earlier, and sat down with all the assurance of the world.
Throwing a leg over each arm and displaying her…
Harry closed his eyes with precipitation. There were things one was not supposed to see, ever, and the nether lips of one’s best friend conveniently parted for better scrutiny belonged to those.
Lucius, however, held no such scruples. He crawled towards her and kneeled at her feet, mouth a few inches away from her core. He placed his hands on her hips and moved forward to kiss her red, glistening little rosebud.
Hermione did not look up from her book.
Severus chuckled.
“Would it be above you to come over here and give a hand, you voyeur?” Lucius asked with mock anger.
Hermione’s entire body shivered as Lucius’ cold breath caressed her exposed vagina, but she still did not say a word.
“Eager, are we?” Severus answered, scooping towards his lover and kneeling right behind him.
Eyes still clenched shut, Harry tried to block out the noises. A series of male moans…
“Keep still while I prepare you, Lucius…”
…an impossible, throaty moan, that Harry knew all too well – Draco too did that when penetrated... –
…and then a female whimper; the sound of a book slammed shut and dropped on the floor…
Disquieted, Harry couldn’t help himself. He look up – for Hermione to do that to a book, she must –
The view before his eyes took him almost by surprise.
Severus was buggering Lucius, thrusting hard, slowly, controlled, face shuttered in utter concentration. He noted the technique – Draco often complained that he didn’t stay in long enough, and if Lucius’ reaction was anything to go by, that other strategy ought to be looked into.
The blond was holding an impossible position, arse up against Severus, arms tightly around Hermione, his mouth to her core, head moving sideways…
And Hermione. She alone was a masterpiece of lust. Head thrown backwards, frizzy hair in a halo all around her, full breasts swinging sideways, nipples erect, a hand clutching the armchair, the other on the blond head between her legs, toes curled in ectasy…
Women had never before done anything for Harry, but this one time, he imagined copper curls intead of the brown hair, smaller breasts perhaps, an a freckled hand clutching another, more familiar blond head… before he had realised it, his own hand had dropped to his crotch and he pressed softly, as if to alleviate the mounting tension down there.
For one magical second, the trio halted its movements. Hermione opened her eyes and looked straight into Severus’. Something passed between them, Harry noted, something strong and powerful and primal. The circle was filled, the incantation was through, and magic started to pulse across them, infusing the entire room with a rhythm that touched Harry too.
Lucius shuddered; Hermione’s fingers tightened in his hair; Severus threw his own head back with a moan.
Hermione moaned louder and louder; Lucius spasmed and collapsed back against a Severus whose face took an expression of unmitigated bliss Harry had trouble to believe.
Severus lifted Lucius’ body to the side and moved closer to Hermione, inching her hand away from between her legs as he took Lucius’ place. A few bobbing movements later and Hermione exploded, screaming.
Harry remained too shell-shocked to move as Snape draped his cloak over Lucius and helped a wobbly-kneed Hermione to her feet.
“We’ll tell the Elves to come fetch him…”
“Yes, bed, now…” she didn’t even finish her sentence.
They both made their way to the door, leaving the prostrate blond and immobile wizard alone in the room.
“Now, tell me, mister Potter…”
Harry almost jumped from the surprise and repressed tension.
“Did you enjoy this?”
Lucius’ voice had the same chanting intonation Draco had after sex.
“How – why – how come-“
His involuntary host turned towards him, still lying of the floor.
“How I knew you were here – the Manor’s wards may recognise you well enough not to eat you alive, but I do remain aware of all the comings and goings in this house, Potter.
“Why I let you stay? Apart from my, shall we say, penchant for exhibitionism?”
He grinned insanely.
“I need heirs, and, more importantly, I want my son to be happy. I do understand what binds you to Draco-“
Harry remembered the easily accessible pornography tomes and blushed. Lucius too had – Lucius knew, first hand –
“but you two need a woman. You can trust me on this one, I have experience,” he paused as he slowly got up to his knees, then to his feet, “too much experience, almost. Anyway, I trust this little session was illuminating to you?”
Harry nodded mutely.
“Well, run along then, and keep this in mind. I expect my books to be returned within a week and, mister Potter?”
“Sir?” Harry said in a subdued voice.
“Not a word of this to either of my partners. They are both private and- well, not a single word. Is that clear?"
Harry nodded again and escaped before the embarrassment could grow any huger.
He wondered what Draco would think of Ginny…?
Coming soon: I still haven't started the NY trip but have a good idea how the crossover should go. Thank you for your patience...
Prompt: Harry and Draco are shag buddies/involved/whatever, and they're there to pick up the pieces when Hermione and Ron break up (all of the hows and whys are up to you, of course). The best way for Hermione to get over the whole Ron unpleasantness is to have the daylights shagged out of her (of course). You tell me how Draco and Harry end up getting Lucius and Snape to pursue Hermione and give her said shagging... The smuttier the better, in the end.
Lots and lots of various pairings, 4000 words, hard R, no title. Warning: high ginger factor.
Ron was having a dilemma.
Ron did not like dilemmas. Ron did not like complicated situations on principle – things were supposed to be a simple matter of What Should Be Done and What Should Not. How to tell the former from the latter was a matter of remembering his parents’ stands on each peculiar issue – do no trust things whose brains are hidden, ergo, do not write in magical diaries. Do not let your friends down, ergo, stick with Harry and Hermione whether he thought they were right or wrong. Be confident in yourself and always see the bright side of things, ergo, don’t let the break-up with Hermione spoil his entire life, or hers for that matter.
But his parents hadn’t let any wise guidance for when the Dos and Don’ts started to conflict.
Take the break-up with Hermione. Well, it had been hard, there was no denying that. He’d felt angry with her, angry with himself, and there was a bit of guilt too. Surely it would have worked if he’d only tried hard enough? Reading Quidditch magazines on the bog was non-negotiable where he was concerned, but if he’d only taken care not to actually be on the bog when she was in the bath, who knows…?
These kind of thoughts were more than enough to drive a wizard to drink. Harry and Draco were of course always up for a night out on Friday, but more often than not weekday evenings saw him wander off to the Three Broomsticks.
So it started with a drink… No, let’s be honest. It started with the breasts at first. He’d sit at the counter, order a Butterbeer, and then spend the entire evening facing these twin monuments of heavy, barely concealed, enticing, pure femininity. He’d try not to be too obvious, would then fail and cast apologetic looks to Rosmerta for the rest of the evening. At first he was a bit surprised by the warm glow of peaceful acceptation he got in return, but soon – sooner than he’d thought – he came to accept it as a part of Rosmerta herself.
She was happy to watch him ogling her breasts, it was as simple as that.
Life was simple for Rosmerta.
But then he’d started talking to her to distract himself, and he found himself looking forward to Rosmerta’s conversation. She was nothing like Hermione – she probably didn’t know the first of the primary Arithmantic equations, but she knew how to talk of Quidditch, and, best of all, she never expected him to act as a gentleman. He was allowed to burp after his Butterbeer, she did not frown when he brought his knife to his mouth, and when he said something stupid she just smiled.
Ron found out that he didn’t say many stupid things with her anyway.
Not like with Hermione. With Hermione he had to stay on his best behaviour all the time, not to impress her, no, one doesn’t show off to one’s best friend, but not to embarrass her. He had done his best, but he had snapped – and the realisation dawned on him that he had been bound to snap sooner or later anyway, that their break-up was indeed for the best.
Then, and only then, did he manage to gather enough courage to ask Rosmerta out.
“For a Butterbeer?” she had asked.
That was what Ron loved in her. Another bartender would have made fun of his lame attempt and pointed out that she already had ample access to all the Butterbeers she could possibly want, but not Rosmerta. Rosmerta only asked, in earnest, not the barest hint of mockery in her voice.
“Or anything else,” he had answered.
Rosmerta sounded like she wouldn’t be disappointed in anything he had to offer. Well, she was about to find that he would offer her everything, he decided then and there.
Everything turned out of be a night of love up in Rosmerta’s little apartment above the pub. In the morning, she’d shooed him away, telling him that he should go back to his young witch now that he’d had gone through with his little fantasy.
He had been hurt, but he hadn’t shown it. And the day after he showed up on her doorstep with flowers and offered her a foot massage. She didn’t turn him away – bartenders stand up all day, foot massages are the one true way to their hearts.
Ron had come back the day after. And the day after. It had now reached the point where Rosmerta had developed a special smile she seemed to keep only for him, and he was so eager to see it appear at the corner of her mouth that he’d apparated to the Three Broomsticks straight from work.
Which brought him to his dilemma.
He had gone on with his life, but Hermione hadn’t. And, his parents dixit, one did not leave a friend in the jam, and Hermione still was, for all intends and purposes, his best friend. But going back to Hermione would mean betraying Rosmerta – out of the question – and making himself unhappy to boot, while not going back to her would be tantamount to betrayal as well.
One evening, as he lay against Rosmerta’s shoulder, looking straight down inside her glorious cleavage, he opened up to her.
She had a simple solution – Rosmerta always had simple solutions.
“Why don’t you find a nice wizard for her? What kind of wizards does she like?”
Ron thought.
“Intellectual – clever, smart, quick – not like me… Someone she can count on, I suppose…”
Rosmerta moved her hand down his thigh. She seemed to like his thighs nearly as much as he loved her breasts – she certainly spent time fondling them.
“Have you thought of Severus Snape, dear? He sometimes comes around here for a drink…”
Severus? Severus Snape?
Ron blinked, blinked again and lifted himself from Rosmerta’s shoulder.
A few months earlier the very improbability of the suggestion would have prompted an angry rant, but one didn’t get angry in Rosmerta’s company. One listened first, thought second, and then acted.
Ron had listened, and he thought. Well, it did sound preposterous, but Hermione was a complicated girl and wouldn’t be pleased by straightforward solutions. Snape was a complicated man too: he’d give her wits a run for their money and his twisted character would keep her interested in him.
Perhaps it was not too preposterous after all.
Ron decided to act. He took quill and parchement, and drafted two letters. Nothing straightforward, no, he knew Hermione well enough to understand that straightforward wouldn't work.
But nothing and no one could possibly oppose his inquiring about her health, and suggesting that she ought to look into recent potions research, perhaps, for alternative herbal cures to her chronic headaches...
There was no guarantee that it should work, but he'd given it his best shot. Fate, and Hermione, would take it up from there; he'd done his bit and wouldn't feel guilty any more.
And, frankly, if there were any wagers to be taken, he'd bet everything he had on Hermione rather than on Fate.
* *
News of the break-up had filtered through soon enough in the Potter slash Malfoy household. It began with Ron showing up on their doorstep on Friday evenings. He’d look up at them with big, disconsolate eyes, like a forlorn puppy, and it was far beyond their combined forces to turn him away. So all three of them made their way to a regular pub and proceeded to get nicely, totally and heterosexually drunk. Even the hungover morning-after sex didn’t make up for the loss of splendid evenings out at the “Prince Albert”, the main wizarding gay establishment, and the resentment both Draco and Harry started to feel about it increased with each passing Friday.
But that, in Draco’s opinion, was not as bad as Hermione flooing them absurdly early on Sunday mornings – how the witch could even be functional before 10 am, he would never understand. It probably had something to do with hormones and was another reason why he was convinced females were best left alone. His own Harry was sensible and never emerged before noon, but even that compounded the problem: if the Man-Who-Lived-To-Snore-His-Way-At-Draco’s-Side did not wake up, it fell down to poor, put-upon Draco Abraxas Malfoy to answer these early calls.
“Still in bed? What layabouts you and Harry are!” she happened to say, that peculiar Sunday morning, in the bright and cheery voice that would give any right-thinking wizard ideas of homicide. “But that doesn’t matter, you’ll wake up soon, enough, I have something for you to do…”
Draco wordlessly grabbed his wand, and in a gesture that was, perhaps, a tad more forceful that entirely required, he poured himself some coffee and heated it up. He tried holding the steaming mug up between himself and the noisy intruder as a shielding gesture, but it didn’t stop her voice from droning on and on.
“…see, I have this wonderful research idea, and…”
The coffee did smell good. Would it calm her to pour some down her throat? Nah, and she might even take it as an indication of her being welcome there, at this ghastly hour.
“…only need a couple of assistants, and of course you and Harry are perfect…”
Harry? Did she mention Harry? Perhaps he ought to wake the bugger up, she was his friend after all, all she had in common with Draco was waking him up in the wee hours of the morning and occasionally punching him in the face, surely that didn’t count as friendship. Well, the punching hadn’t happened in more than a decade now, but a wounded ego took ages to heal, everyone knows that. And Malfoy egos are notably sensitive…
Draco took a tentative sip and watched the thin rivulets of steam fly away from his mug in complex patterns. If he closed his eyes just for a moment, perhaps she’d go away…
“Draco! Are you falling asleep again? I can’t believe this! It’s nearly eleven o’clock! What have you been doing yesterday night? Ah, well, I’d better not ask. Is Harry still asleep? Can’t you wake him up?”
Wake Harry up? Now that sounded sensible. Draco mumbled something not quite understandable to the non-initiates and headed back to the bedroom, where he proceeded to wrench the covers from Harry and to wrap himself in the duvet. He lied back on the soft bed with a contented sigh, nudged his already half-awake partner for good measure – “Hermione’s there, get moving” – and closed his eyes again for good with a smile of pure bliss. Harry would make her go, and then come back to bed, and try to wake him up... he’d pretend to sleep soundly, and Harry would have no choice but creep under the covers, close to his own body, and he’d…
The fantasy was interrupted by the sound of loud sobbing in the living-room. What now. He threw the pillow over his face in an attempt to block the noise. Back to the fantasy… Harry would come back to bed, he’d plunge downwards, and make a soft panting noise, and he’d push the unshaven face further down, yes, that would be good, and those panting noises ought to be shushed, he’d just thrust himself in Harry’s mouth, to feel the softness, the warmth, the…
Fuck it, he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now. Annoyed, he threw away the covers and padded to the living-room, still clad only in his dressing-gown, pouting. He’d have to throw Hermione out himself, and then –
A pitiful sight met his eyes in the living-room. Hermione was actually crying, and Harry was doing his best to console her.
“I see I’m bothering you, I’ll just go home, shall I, it’s all my fault, no social skills whatsoever, that’s why Ron…”
She broke into renewed sobbing.
“Of course not, you know you’re welcome here, now calm down…” Harry looked at Draco with his secret, terrible, Do This Or There Will Be No More Blowjobs look. “We love to have you here, don’t we, Draco?”
“Of course,” the blond answered, mesmerised. There were some things one just didn’t joke about, and The Look belonged to them.
“And we’ll both be happy to help you with your research project, won’t we? Draco will convince his father to lend us his library…”
Draco winced at that. It would take some heavy convincing, and not so subtle alluding to Hermione’s charms – his father was an old pervert if there ever was one – and perhaps other kinds of blackmail to even bring Mr. Malfoy senior to...
Wait.
Wait wait wait. If he could manage to let Lucius loose on Hermione… They’d end up annoying each other. And that would have the double benefit of stopping the tedious ‘family gatherings’ with thinly veiled allusions to heirs and to the lack thereof, and of making their Sunday mornings blissfully quiet.
He was a fucking genius.
* *
“Your age, you say? Wouldn’t that be just a bit too young for me?”
Draco could recognise a bargaining tactic when he one was dangled in front of his eyes.
“Mother was younger than that when I was born – as far as heirs are concerned, isn’t a witch’s youth desirable?”
That was blunt. Dreadfully blunt, even, for a Malfoy. But living with Harry had taught Draco a thing or three, and it wasn’t all about how to make a lover scream with just the tip of your tongue. No, Gryffindor directness could put one’s interlocutor out of balance, especially when said interlocutor was a Slytherin and a Malfoy at that.
Lucius took that blow like a man. Needing a new heir was, after all, the present heir’s fault and if that reminded him of his advancing years, that was mere collateral damage.
“Very well. Bring her here if you must, but if she as much as mentions eclecticity she is not to ever return.”
Draco smiled to himself. Let the old man believe Hermione behaved like Arthur Weasley – he would only be pleasantly surprised by the contrast.
* *
Harry shivered. It was not fear, no, but… he’d rather face Voldemort again than watch this!
And there was no escape.
The door? They were between him and it.
The windows? As if either Hermione of Lucius would ever allow sunlight close to their precious books, not to mention the remote possibility of there being a witch or wizard stupid enough to believe they might rob the library by entering through the window. No, the wards there were stronger than just about anything else in the Manor, and that was saying something.
Next time Draco asked him to go fetch, pardon me, to go borrow a few pieces of the Malfoys’ secret collection of homosexual pornography, Draco would bloody well be told to do it himself.
”But only you could possibly do it, my love, only you are strong enough to disarm the wards…”
Harry snorted to himself. The wards had been a child’s play compared to just getting into the Manor, and Draco would have had no trouble at all entering the Manor as he had Malfoy blood.
”Besides, Granger is bound to be there, and you know she wants to see you…”
Re-snort. Hermione had been depressed lately, but whatever research she had been doing had lifted her spirits considerably. What she wanted now was to be left alone with the Malfoy books, and, from what he could see, with Malfoy himself!
Harry had managed to sneak into the library under his Invisibility Cloak. Hermione was there, alone and reading, and for a while it had seemed that he would get away with it… the pornography had been exactly where Draco had said it would, the wards protecting it hardly stood up their reputation, and Harry had collected and shrunk several promising tomes. So far, so good, but the last thing that stood between him and mission accomplished was his exit.
Just when he prepared to slip out unnoticed, Lucius had appeared in the library, and before he knew it he and Hermione – his Hermione! The bookworm! – were rolling on the floor in a sea of wanton lust. That was more than a wizard ought to see, really, and Harry did he best to avoid the sight, but he could not filter the noises! At least it had an end, and he cautiously opened half an eye to watch them – naked! On the library floor, for Merlin’s sake! – cuddle around each other.
Fall asleep already, he thought, or leave the room… There was no way for him to get away unnoticed with them lying in the way.
Merlin, or Lachesis, or whoever it is whose task it is to weave wizards’ lives around each other in a tangled web of mutual deceit, however had other plans for him that evening.
Plans that took the form or his tall, dark nemesis entering the library.
“My, my, my. Starting without me again?”
Hermione lazily lifted an arm to sweep out the sea of brown and golden lock from her face and onto Lucius’.
“If you insist on arriving late…”
“Some of us have potions to attend to, Miss Granger,” he answered, divesting himself of his cloak.
It took Harry all of his self-control not to let out too loud a noise when he saw how very naked the wizard was underneath. And by naked, Harry meant, oh Merlin what a huge cock, nice and thick and half-erect and he’d better look elsewhere now.
“…and potions, as you well know, make for a minute and precise art. I may not change my schedule on a whim, unlike some wizards of my acquaintance.”
Lucius let out a grunt and made the kind of gesture that usually is more associated with swimming than with reaching out for air from under a mass of tangled hair.
“But that is no matter,” Severus went on, kneeling down at their side, “I shall be more than glad to get miss Granger here all to myself this time… I take it you are up for another round, Hermione? The enthusiasm of youth, you see, Lucius. Now don’t take it personally, you know you can ask me for a specialised potion anytime, really…”
Lucius roared and reached out over Hermione, clasping Severus firmly at the elbow and pulled until the wizard collapsed on the prone couple.
“Ouch!” said Hermione, rolling outside of the wresting wizards.
“I do most emphatically not need a potion,” Lucius answered, “not now, not ever, do you understand?”
And he twisted Severus’ dark, erect left nipple viciously.
Harry blinked.
Since when…?
“Prove it,” Severus growled.
Hermione chuckled and moved back towards them, straddling Lucius’ thighs. She stretched her arms out to free Severus’ nipple, and caressed his chest instead.
“Now, now, gentlemen, let us be civilised. I suggest leaving the two of you to your own devices…”
Lucius took one of her hands and brought it to his own chest. Harry stared, too fascinated to avert his eyes.
“While I go sit over there,” she concluded, standing up. She walked to the armchair under the gazed of the three wizard, picked up the book she’d discarded earlier, and sat down with all the assurance of the world.
Throwing a leg over each arm and displaying her…
Harry closed his eyes with precipitation. There were things one was not supposed to see, ever, and the nether lips of one’s best friend conveniently parted for better scrutiny belonged to those.
Lucius, however, held no such scruples. He crawled towards her and kneeled at her feet, mouth a few inches away from her core. He placed his hands on her hips and moved forward to kiss her red, glistening little rosebud.
Hermione did not look up from her book.
Severus chuckled.
“Would it be above you to come over here and give a hand, you voyeur?” Lucius asked with mock anger.
Hermione’s entire body shivered as Lucius’ cold breath caressed her exposed vagina, but she still did not say a word.
“Eager, are we?” Severus answered, scooping towards his lover and kneeling right behind him.
Eyes still clenched shut, Harry tried to block out the noises. A series of male moans…
“Keep still while I prepare you, Lucius…”
…an impossible, throaty moan, that Harry knew all too well – Draco too did that when penetrated... –
…and then a female whimper; the sound of a book slammed shut and dropped on the floor…
Disquieted, Harry couldn’t help himself. He look up – for Hermione to do that to a book, she must –
The view before his eyes took him almost by surprise.
Severus was buggering Lucius, thrusting hard, slowly, controlled, face shuttered in utter concentration. He noted the technique – Draco often complained that he didn’t stay in long enough, and if Lucius’ reaction was anything to go by, that other strategy ought to be looked into.
The blond was holding an impossible position, arse up against Severus, arms tightly around Hermione, his mouth to her core, head moving sideways…
And Hermione. She alone was a masterpiece of lust. Head thrown backwards, frizzy hair in a halo all around her, full breasts swinging sideways, nipples erect, a hand clutching the armchair, the other on the blond head between her legs, toes curled in ectasy…
Women had never before done anything for Harry, but this one time, he imagined copper curls intead of the brown hair, smaller breasts perhaps, an a freckled hand clutching another, more familiar blond head… before he had realised it, his own hand had dropped to his crotch and he pressed softly, as if to alleviate the mounting tension down there.
For one magical second, the trio halted its movements. Hermione opened her eyes and looked straight into Severus’. Something passed between them, Harry noted, something strong and powerful and primal. The circle was filled, the incantation was through, and magic started to pulse across them, infusing the entire room with a rhythm that touched Harry too.
Lucius shuddered; Hermione’s fingers tightened in his hair; Severus threw his own head back with a moan.
Hermione moaned louder and louder; Lucius spasmed and collapsed back against a Severus whose face took an expression of unmitigated bliss Harry had trouble to believe.
Severus lifted Lucius’ body to the side and moved closer to Hermione, inching her hand away from between her legs as he took Lucius’ place. A few bobbing movements later and Hermione exploded, screaming.
Harry remained too shell-shocked to move as Snape draped his cloak over Lucius and helped a wobbly-kneed Hermione to her feet.
“We’ll tell the Elves to come fetch him…”
“Yes, bed, now…” she didn’t even finish her sentence.
They both made their way to the door, leaving the prostrate blond and immobile wizard alone in the room.
“Now, tell me, mister Potter…”
Harry almost jumped from the surprise and repressed tension.
“Did you enjoy this?”
Lucius’ voice had the same chanting intonation Draco had after sex.
“How – why – how come-“
His involuntary host turned towards him, still lying of the floor.
“How I knew you were here – the Manor’s wards may recognise you well enough not to eat you alive, but I do remain aware of all the comings and goings in this house, Potter.
“Why I let you stay? Apart from my, shall we say, penchant for exhibitionism?”
He grinned insanely.
“I need heirs, and, more importantly, I want my son to be happy. I do understand what binds you to Draco-“
Harry remembered the easily accessible pornography tomes and blushed. Lucius too had – Lucius knew, first hand –
“but you two need a woman. You can trust me on this one, I have experience,” he paused as he slowly got up to his knees, then to his feet, “too much experience, almost. Anyway, I trust this little session was illuminating to you?”
Harry nodded mutely.
“Well, run along then, and keep this in mind. I expect my books to be returned within a week and, mister Potter?”
“Sir?” Harry said in a subdued voice.
“Not a word of this to either of my partners. They are both private and- well, not a single word. Is that clear?"
Harry nodded again and escaped before the embarrassment could grow any huger.
He wondered what Draco would think of Ginny…?
Coming soon: I still haven't started the NY trip but have a good idea how the crossover should go. Thank you for your patience...
