The entrance hall was packed, a churning sea of students pressing toward the foot of the marble staircase. Voices overlapped in a dull roar as everyone tried to get a better look at the large sign erected there. Harry, Ron, and Hermione found themselves caught in the tide, unable to push forward.
Ron, being the tallest of the three, stood on tiptoe, craning his neck to read over the crowd.
"It's about the Triwizard Tournament," he announced. Clearing his throat, he read aloud:
TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT
The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving
at 6 o'clock on Friday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early—
"Brilliant!" Harry grinned. "Potions is last on Friday! Snape won't have time to poison us all."
Ron snorted, while Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled all the same.
Ron continued reading:
Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble
in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast.
"Only a week away!" said Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, pushing his way out of the throng. His face was flushed with excitement. "I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I'll go tell him…"
"Cedric?" Ron repeated blankly, watching as Ernie strode off.
"Diggory," Harry supplied. "He must be entering the tournament."
Ron made a noise of deep skepticism as they wove their way through the chattering crowd toward the staircase.
"That idiot, Hogwarts champion?" he scoffed.
Hermione shot him a sharp look. "He's not an idiot, Ron. You just don't like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch."
Ron scowled. "You say that like it's not a valid reason."
"He's a good student and a prefect," Hermione continued, as though that settled the matter entirely.
Ron folded his arms, scowling. "You only like him because he's handsome."
Hermione gasped, affronted. "Excuse me! I do not like people just because they're handsome!"
Ron responded with a loud, exaggerated cough that sounded suspiciously like "Lockhart."
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously, but she refused to dignify him with a response. Instead, she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a huff and strode ahead, her chin lifted in defiance.
Harry watched her go, an odd feeling stirring in his chest.
Something about her seemed… different.
At first, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But as the torchlight flickered against her hair, making it gleam like spun gold, he realized—her curls looked softer, silkier, the usual frizz tamed into sleek waves that cascaded down her back. When a passing Ravenclaw nearly walked into a suit of armor, eyes glued to Hermione, Harry found himself staring too.
Had she always looked like that?
Ron squinted, frowning as if he'd noticed it too. "Did you do something to your hair?"
"What? No," Hermione scoffed, brushing a stray curl behind her ear with an air of impatience. "I just brushed it."
Ron snorted. "Right. And I'm the bloody Minister of Magic."
Harry wasn't convinced either. It wasn't just her hair. There was something else—something subtle yet impossible to ignore. She looked… different. But he couldn't quite put his finger on why.
Her skin seemed softer, almost luminous as if the candlelight kissed it just right. Her features—while still undeniably Hermione—held a refined sharpness that made her look… striking. Even her lips, usually pressed into a determined line, looked a shade fuller. And her eyes—Merlin, her eyes—seemed impossibly deep, warm pools of brown that held a quiet, hypnotic pull.
Before he could dwell on it, the surge of students moving toward the staircases forced them forward. Yet as they wove through the crowd, Harry noticed something odd—people were staring.
Not just fleeting glances, either.
A group of Ravenclaw boys near their common room entrance stopped mid-conversation, their eyes following Hermione as she walked past. A few Hufflepuffs whispered behind their hands, stealing not-so-subtle looks in her direction. Even some of the older students did double takes, brows furrowed as if trying to place exactly what had changed.
Hermione, however, seemed completely unaware.
"Blimey," Seamus muttered as they stepped into the Gryffindor common room, his gaze trailing over Hermione like he was seeing her for the first time. "You look… different."
Dean sprawled lazily on the couch and frowned. "Yeah. Did you do something to your face?"
Hermione whirled around, exasperated. "What is wrong with everyone today? I look exactly the same!"
Dean scratched the back of his head. "Dunno, you just… look really good."
Ron groaned, flopping into a chair with a dramatic huff. "Oh, come off it. It's Hermione, not some bloody veela."
Hermione stiffened.
Just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face—worry, maybe? But then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and brushed past them toward the girls' dormitory.
"I need to check something in the library," she muttered before disappearing up the staircase.
Harry watched her go, a strange unease settling in his gut.
Something was happening to Hermione.
And he was going to find out what.
…
Flashback – Hermione Granger's Third Year
Hermione's eyes snapped open, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her skin feverish and slick with sweat. The suffocating darkness of the dormitory pressed in around her, but that wasn't what had woken her. It was the heat—the unbearable, twisting heat that coiled deep in her belly, seeping into her limbs, making every inch of her skin feel tight and raw.
She barely choked back a moan as her thighs clenched involuntarily.
Her body felt wrong—too sensitive, too alive, every nerve ending screaming for something she couldn't name. Her nightgown clung to her in damp patches, her nipples hard and aching against the fabric, her pulse hammering like a drum in her ears.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Panic clawed at her throat. Had she cast some accidental spell in her sleep? Was this some kind of magical illness? Or worse—was it the Time-Turner? She'd been using it for months now, stretching time, bending it, warping it. Had she finally pushed too far?
But none of that explained this.
None of that explained why her cunt was throbbing—why her entire body felt like it was on the verge of a volcanic eruption.
A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as she shifted, and that was all it took. The friction of her thighs brushing together sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her pussy, making her gasp.
Oh, fuck.
She needed relief—something, anything to take the edge off.
Her fingers slipped beneath her nightgown before she could even think, sliding between her slick folds, and she nearly cried out at the sensation. She was soaked—dripping, her arousal pooling onto the sheets beneath her. She had never been this wet in her life.
Her clit throbbed under the faintest touch, pleasure sparking up her spine as she began to rub in tight, desperate circles. The hunger inside her only grew sharper, more demanding, curling around her like a vice. She bit down on her lip, her other hand gripping the sheets as she spread her legs wider, her fingers moving faster, chasing that impossible, dizzying peak.
The pleasure built higher, higher—her magic crackling, twisting, writhing beneath her skin, growing thick in the air.
And then it snapped.
A scream tore from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her like an earthquake. Her back arched violently, her cunt pulsing, gushing slick in hot, messy waves, soaking her sheets. Before she could even catch her breath, another climax ripped through her—sharper, crueler—her muscles locking as a fresh spray of release splattered against her trembling thighs. Her vision blurred, flickering between darkness and blinding white as her body convulsed, wrung dry by the relentless aftershocks.
Raw magic poured from her in thick, invisible tendrils, saturating the air, and seeping into the dormitory like a drug. It was thick, heady—an intoxicating force that pressed against her skin and slithered through the room like something alive.
Her roommates stirred.
Soft whimpers. Breathless moans.
Hermione's body was still twitching, her cunt pulsing, thighs trembling, slick coating her inner legs. But then she heard it—the quiet, needy sounds slipping from the beds around her.
Lavender shifted, her breath catching as her hips rolled against the mattress, lost in some phantom pleasure. Parvati whimpered, her thighs rubbing together beneath her blankets, a broken gasp escaping her lips. The room smelled of sex—thick, sweet, inescapable. Their scents mixed together, their magic bleeding into the air, feeding into something primal, something she didn't understand.
The hunger had always been there.
A slow, insidious thrum beneath her skin. She buried herself in books, clung to logic, told herself sex was filthy—beneath her. But now? Now she was soaked, trembling, her cunt still pulsing from a climax she hadn't fucking asked for.
She had tried to fight it. Tried to deny what she was.
But her body had tasted pleasure—raw, intoxicating, addictive—and she was terrified. Because she wanted more.
Hermione lay still, her body humming with the aftershocks of something ancient and primal. The dormitory was quiet, but she could feel them—their arousal, their heat, their unspoken desires curling around her like a second skin. It wasn't just in her imagination. The girls around her, lost in sleep, were reacting to her. To the hunger that had finally sunk its claws into her.
Panic slammed into her—sharp, breath-stealing. She had no idea what had just happened. And she needed answers.
With shaking hands, she shoved the sweat-drenched sheets aside and staggered to her feet, her legs still weak, the aftershocks of pleasure making her shiver. The air clung to her skin—hot, heavy, wrong—but she forced herself to move.
The library. It was always the library.
The library became her refuge. Hermione buried herself in books, desperate for answers. She started with the logical choices—Magical Maladies and Afflictions, Curses and Countercurses, and even Magical Creature Lineages. At first, she clung to the hope that this was a curse, something inflicted upon her by accident, some dark magic that could be undone.
But the truth was far worse.
The moment her eyes locked onto the passage in Bloodlines of the Arcane, the world around her went still.
"Succubi are rare among wizarding folk, their blood often lying dormant for generations. When it awakens, the afflicted individual develops heightened charm and influence over others, often without conscious effort. Their magic feeds off human essence—emotions, desires, and, at its most dangerous, the raw magical energy of others. If not controlled, a succubus-born witch or wizard may drain a person completely, killing them… or worse—stripping them of their magic entirely, leaving them no more than a Muggle."
She read it once. Twice. A third time.
The words blurred together, but their meaning remained cold and sharp, cutting through her denial. This wasn't a curse. It was her.
Her fingers trembled as she slammed the book shut, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. The ground beneath her felt like it had vanished, like she'd stepped off a ledge she hadn't even seen.
She was dangerous.
Her mind reeled, memories surfacing with terrifying clarity—how people softened under her gaze, how they leaned in, eager to please. How her words stuck in their minds, shifting their thoughts like pieces on a chessboard.
Her mind reeled, memories surfacing with terrifying clarity—how people softened under her gaze, how they leaned in, eager to please. How her words stuck in their minds, shifting their thoughts like pieces on a chessboard.
The first time, she dismissed it as a coincidence.
The second time, she told herself she was imagining things.
But now? There was no running from it. No lying to herself.
And the hunger—Merlin, the hunger. It coiled beneath her skin, dark and insatiable, a craving she didn't fully understand. It wasn't for food. It wasn't even for blood.
It was for magic.
The first time it nearly consumed her, she hadn't been prepared.
It had been between classes, in the corridor—Malfoy, sneering as always, wand in hand.
"What's the matter, Granger? Too busy sticking your nose in books to watch where you're going?"
The hex had been nothing. A simple stinging jinx. It barely even hurt.
But the moment irritation flared in her chest, the hunger rose with it—sharp, electric, starving.
Her vision sharpened. Colors burned too bright. The air hummed.
And then she felt it.
Malfoy's magic.
It thrummed beneath his skin, pulsing. She could taste it in the air, like lightning before a storm—sharp, intoxicating, curling through her senses.
For one horrifying second, she wanted it.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. It would be so easy. Just a look. A whisper. A touch.
She could take it.
His magic could be hers.
The thought nearly made her sick.
She had turned so fast that her nails dug into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her. She barely noticed when they broke the skin.
The pain was real. The pain was hers.
Before she could do something she couldn't take back, she fled.
That night, she locked herself in her dormitory, curling beneath her blankets as she bit down on the terror clawing at her chest.
She could never let that happen again.
So she practiced. Relentlessly. She forced herself to avoid prolonged eye contact, to dull the instinct that whispered—take, consume, devour. She would not be ruled by this.
She refused to be a monster.
By her fourth year, Hermione had learned control.
Mostly.
The boys, as oblivious as ever, never seemed to notice. But she did.
She had learned to temper her presence, to stifle the way people reacted to her, to keep her influence contained. A glance too long, a voice too soft, and she could bend conversations, and tilt emotions with effortless precision. But she resisted. Every moment of every day, she resisted.
Harry, thankfully, was almost immune. His glasses dulled the raw intensity of her gaze, filtering the pull of her magic. Around him, emotions were distant, a blurred static instead of an intoxicating tide. She found comfort in that. Harry remained Harry—unaffected, steady, real.
But Ron…
Ron was easy.
His emotions spilled out like an overfilled goblet—jealousy, frustration, longing. They clung to him, thick and cloying, coating his every movement, his every word. She didn't even have to try. A fleeting glance, a casual brush of fingers when passing a book, and his emotions swayed like a ship caught in a storm.
It wasn't just Ron.
Others had started noticing her more. She caught them staring—eyes lingering too long, pupils blown wide with something they barely understood. Whispers followed her in the corridors, dying the moment she approached.
She told herself it was normal. Adolescence. Shifting dynamics. A side effect of growing up.
But she knew better.
It wasn't just puberty. It wasn't innocent infatuation. It was her.
She could feel it now, the way the air seemed to change when she entered a room. The way people leaned in when she spoke, how their attention clung to her like desperate hands grasping in the dark.
And worst of all… she liked it.
The thought turned her stomach.
She wasn't supposed to like it. She wasn't supposed to enjoy the way her presence affected others, wasn't supposed to savor the quiet, humming power coiled beneath her skin.
But deep down, in a place she barely dared to acknowledge—she did.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because no matter how much she learned, no matter how much she resisted…
The hunger remained.
Always lurking.
Always waiting.
She couldn't afford to slip.
…
Harry stormed into the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, his face flushed with frustration and disbelief. The air around him felt suffocating—whispers, stares, people shifting away from him like he carried some kind of plague. But none of it mattered as much as the coldness in Ron's voice.
"Tell me the truth, Harry," Ron said from his spot by the fireplace, arms crossed tight over his chest. "You wanted this, didn't you?"
Harry's stomach twisted. "Are you serious? You think I put my name in that bloody Goblet?"
Ron scoffed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, yeah, because things just happen to you, don't they? You always end up in the middle of everything—"
"You think I want this?" Harry cut in, voice rising. "You think I want everyone looking at me like I'm some kind of cheat? That I want to be in a deadly tournament where people have died?"
Ron didn't answer. His jaw clenched, his silence more cutting than words.
The betrayal hit Harry like a punch to the gut. His throat burned, his chest ached, and suddenly, he needed to get out. Without another word, he turned, shoving past the crowd, ignoring the voices calling after him as he climbed out of the portrait hole. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to go.
"Harry!"
Hermione's voice barely registered before she caught up with him in the corridor, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Harry, wait!"
He stopped, but he didn't turn. His hands clenched into fists. "Don't tell me you think I did it too," he muttered.
"Of course not!" she said immediately, stepping in front of him, her brown eyes searching his face. "I know you didn't put your name in."
Harry let out a shaky breath, his shoulders tense. "Ron doesn't. He—he looked at me like I was…" His throat tightened. "Like I did this to myself."
Hermione's heart ached. But more than that—she felt it. His pain. His anger. The weight of the world pressed down on him, threatening to crush him. It rolled off him in waves, thick, raw, ripe—and her instincts flared in response.
The hunger clawed at her, deep and insistent. The need to soothe. The craving to take. His emotions called to something primal inside her, a force older than words, older than thought itself.
"I believe you," she whispered, stepping closer. "And I can help you, Harry. I want to help you."
His breath hitched. "How?"
She raised a hand slowly, fingers barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve, the ghost of touch against his skin. He shuddered.
"I can take some of your stress," she murmured, her voice softer now, darker. "Make it better. Make it go away."
There was something different in her tone—something silky, dangerous, irresistible.
Harry's breath hitched as he met her gaze. There was something different in her eyes—something dark and alluring—and he couldn't look away.
Harry's breath hitched as Hermione held his gaze. There was something different in her eyes—something dark, alluring, and utterly impossible to ignore. It wasn't the usual sharp focus of hers, the determined spark he was used to. No, this was deeper, heavier, like a current pulling him under.
"Come with me," she murmured, fingers curling around his wrist.
He didn't think. He just followed.
The door to the empty classroom slammed shut behind them, sealing them away from the murmuring castle. Before Harry could gather his thoughts, Hermione was on him—pressing him against the cold stone wall, her body flush against his, her breath warm against his lips.
"I believe you, Harry," she whispered, voice thick with something he couldn't name. Her fingers fisted in his robes, holding him in place. "I know you didn't put your name in that goblet."
His pulse pounded in his ears. "How?" His voice was rough, edged with frustration, but it didn't seem to deter her.
Hermione's gaze flickered over his face before she bit her lip. "Because I can feel you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know what you're feeling, even if you don't say it. You're angry, hurt, betrayed… you need something to take all of that away."
Harry barely had time to part his lips before she kissed him.
There was no hesitation—only need.
It wasn't sweet, wasn't hesitant. Hermione kissed like she was sinking her teeth into something forbidden like she was claiming him. Her lips molded against his, hot and urgent, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a confidence that sent a shiver down his spine.
A quiet whimper escaped her, vibrating against his lips, and Harry felt his frustration unravel—melt into something hotter, something that made his cock twitch against the confines of his trousers. He barely knew where to put his hands, but instinct guided him—gripping her waist, sliding down to her hips, pulling her impossibly closer. She pressed against him with a desperate little gasp, her thigh sliding between his legs, rubbing against the hardness he could no longer hide.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss just to suck in the air, but Hermione was relentless.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly as she rocked against him, her body soft in all the right places, her breaths coming faster. The friction made him ache, the heat between them unbearable.
She pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips.
"Let me take care of you."
Harry didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because Hermione was already sinking to her knees, her eyes locked onto his with a dark, smoldering intensity. The flickering candlelight threw shadows across her face, highlighting the flush on her cheeks, and the way her lips parted just enough to make his stomach tighten.
His beautiful, brilliant best friend was kneeling between his legs, her hands working at his belt with a slow, practiced ease that made his cock throb.
And fuck—he wanted more. Needed more.
Her fingers trembled just slightly as she undid his trousers, the briefest hesitation before she brushed her knuckles against his thickening cock. A teasing touch, intentional or not, but it sent a jolt of pleasure through him, making his breath stutter.
She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that started slow but quickly deepened. Her tongue flicked against his, drawing a low, guttural groan from his chest. She moaned softly in response, the sound vibrating against his lips, and he felt himself harden instantly.
Whatever restraint he had left was slipping—unraveling like a frayed thread.
Hermione's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly as she pressed a thigh between his legs, adding pressure right where he was aching for her. Harry groaned into her mouth, the heat of her body against him almost unbearable.
And just when he was about to flip her onto her back and bury himself in that impossible heat, she pulled away, her breath hot against his lips.
"Let me take care of you."
His cock twitched beneath his robes, desperate for her touch, for anything—and still, she took her time. Watching him, savoring his reactions as she slowly peeled away the last barrier between them.
His trousers hit the floor, pooling at his ankles. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down inch by inch, until his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, the tip already slick with arousal.
She stared.
Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching as her gaze dragged over every inch of him.
"Merlin…" she whispered, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of him.
Harry shifted, suddenly hyperaware of her scrutiny. "You're staring."
Hermione's lips curled into something wicked. "Well," she murmured, nails scraping lightly down his thighs, making his muscles tense, "I wasn't expecting this."
He let out a breathless laugh. "That a compliment?"
She hummed, her fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, her grip soft but firm, stroking him slowly. "Let me get a better look before I decide."
His breath hitched. "Fucking tease—"
Before he could finish, her tongue flicked out, swiping over the swollen tip, tasting the bead of precum gathered there. His knees nearly buckled.
"Do you wank a lot?" she asked, her voice low, sultry, teasing. Her thumb circled the head of his cock, smearing his arousal over the sensitive skin. "Or do you use magic? You must know a spell for it, right?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the words died in his throat as she took him in.
A deep, wet heat engulfed him, her lips stretching around his cock as she sank down, inch by inch, moaning as she tasted him—savored him. The slick warmth of her mouth sent a violent shudder through his spine, his fingers clenching at his sides before instinct took over, tangling in her wild curls.
His head slammed back against the cold stone wall, a ragged groan ripping from his throat. Fuck. She was good—better than he ever could have imagined. And Merlin helped him, the way her tongue curled around the underside of his shaft, teasing the sensitive ridge, sent his hips jerking forward in desperate, unrestrained need.
"Morganna's tits—" His voice came out wrecked, strangled with raw pleasure as her throat tightened around him. The muscles constricted, squeezing in rhythmic pulses, and the sheer sensation of it had his knees threatening to give out. She held him there—fucking held him there—letting him feel every unbearable, glorious second before pulling back with a wet pop.
A string of saliva connected her swollen lips to his cock, glistening in the dim candlelight.
And then she grinned—a wicked, sinful thing that made his gut clench. His cock twitched, aching, pleading for more. He barely had a second to recover before she plunged back down, this time with a hunger that had his vision blurring.
She was relentless. Tight. Perfect.
Her tongue dragged along his length with every bob of her head, teasing, stroking, her lips forming a slick seal that sucked him in deeper. Each motion was torturously slow at first, drawing out every pulse, every twitch—until she suddenly switched, her pace quickening, her mouth fucking him with obscene, wet noises that filled the air, mixing with his ragged breaths.
Her nails scraped down his thighs, light but demanding, her free hand stroking the base where her lips couldn't reach.
His stomach coiled—too fucking tight. His toes curled, his grip on her hair turning almost bruising as his entire body tensed, pleasure suffocating him in a dizzying wave.
"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—" His voice broke, helpless, hoarse.
She didn't stop. Didn't hesitate. If anything, she sucked harder, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes flicking up to meet his—dark, knowing, daring him to lose control.
And he did.
His orgasm hit like a tidal wave, raw and violent, his hips jerking as he spilled deep into her throat. Hermione swallowed every drop, gagging around his cock like she was starved for it like it was the best fucking thing she'd ever tasted.
Even as he gasped for breath, shuddering through the aftershocks, she licked him clean, her tongue dragging along his length, slow and teasing, before finally pulling back.
When he dared to look down, Hermione was watching him, lips slick with his cum, her cheeks flushed, a wicked glint in her eyes.
She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then smirked. "Mmm… your cock tastes even better than I imagined."
Harry swallowed hard, still dazed, still trembling.
Then, before she could say another word, he hauled her up, his hands gripping her hips as he crashed his lips against hers. He could taste himself on her tongue, thick and salty, and fuck, that realization only made him harder.
When they finally broke apart, both panting, Hermione grinned, smug as ever.
"If you want more," she whispered, pressing her lips to his ear, "you'll have to earn it."
Hermione didn't strip completely—just enough to keep Harry aching, wanting. She lifted her skirt, revealing smooth thighs and the drenched lace barely covering her soaked slit. His cock twitched violently, still throbbing from the sinful way she had just swallowed every drop of his release.
He swallowed thickly. "Let me see them," he rasped, his eyes flicking hungrily to her chest.
But Hermione only smirked, teasing, cruel. "No," she said, voice dripping with amusement.
Instead, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties, rolling them down with agonizing slowness, letting him see just how wet she was. The fabric stuck to her for a second before finally slipping free, her pussy glistening in the candlelight.
"These, however," she murmured, bending down to pick them up, "you can have."
She pressed them into his palm, warm and soaked, and fuck, the scent alone made his cock twitch. His breathing hitched as the raw scent of her arousal filled his senses.
"Smell them," she ordered, her voice dangerously low.
Harry obeyed, inhaling deeply, his body responding instantly, heat surging through his veins. Merlin, he was drowning in her, in the sheer need pouring off her.
Before he could think, she tugged him forward, her leg hooking over his shoulder, guiding him between her thighs.
"Lick," she commanded.
His body moved before his mind, his lips pressing to the slick heat of her cunt. He groaned, tongue swiping through her folds, savoring the raw, sinful taste of her.
The second his tongue flicked against her clit, Hermione moaned, her thighs trembling against his face. "Fuck—yes—"
Harry smirked against her, his breath hot against her slick folds, and without warning, he hissed.
Parseltongue.
The sound slithered through the air like dark magic, a guttural, primal vibration rolling off his tongue, and the instant it brushed over her swollen clit, Hermione screamed.
Her fingers fisted in his hair, her entire body jerking as his vibrating tongue worked her mercilessly. "Fuck—oh fuck, Harry—"
He didn't let up. He flicked his tongue against her, slow at first, then faster, each movement dripping with his magic, the sinful hissing filling the room like an incantation meant to break her. Hermione was lost, moaning uncontrollably, writhing against his face, grinding down as the pleasure consumed her.
Then she broke.
She came with a sharp, gasping cry, her thighs clenching around his head, her body trembling violently as she gushed against his mouth. But she didn't let him pull away—no, she held him there, gripping his hair tight, forcing him to take every drop.
"Swallow it," she panted, her voice thick with pleasure, her nails digging into his scalp. "All of it."
Harry groaned as he obeyed, licking her clean, dragging his tongue through every slick fold until she was trembling with aftershocks. He savored her, drinking her in like she was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing, the air thick with heat, and the lingering scent of sex.
Then, as if shaking off a spell, Hermione blinked. She took a deep, shuddering breath and abruptly pulled her skirt back down, stepping away from him with unsteady legs.
Harry, still dazed, still kneeling at her feet, looked up at her—his lips wet, his pupils blown wide.
She ran a hand through her wild curls, straightening her uniform with a deep flush creeping up her neck. "Library. Now."
He blinked. "What?"
She shot him a look, her usual bossy, know-it-all expression returning as if she hadn't just ridden his face like a broomstick. "We have work to do. You do remember the tournament, don't you?"
Harry groaned, standing up on shaky legs, his cock still straining against his trousers. "You've got to be kidding me—"
But she was already moving, adjusting her tie like she hadn't just forced him to lick every drop of her release minutes ago.
He followed her, still dazed, until they were deep in the stacks of the library. As she pulled out a heavy tome, flipping through it with a sudden air of focus, he leaned in, lowering his voice.
"So... about that spell you mentioned earlier," he murmured, smirking.
Hermione froze. Her cheeks burned as she turned to face him, her lips parting in shock. "You're actually asking about that?"
He arched a brow. "You brought it up. I think I deserve an explanation after—"
Then her eyes widened in horror. She still had no panties on.
Her gaze snapped to his hand, and sure enough, her soaked panties were still clenched in his fingers.
Harry followed her gaze and grinned.
"Something wrong, Hermione?" he teased.
She snatched them from his hand with a scowl, stuffing them into her pocket. "Shut up and read."
But as she turned back to the book, Harry could see the way her fingers trembled, the way her thighs pressed together ever so slightly.
Smirking, he leaned in, whispering hotly against her ear, "You still owe me a proper reward, you know."
Hermione swallowed hard, flipping the page a little too quickly.
This tournament was about to get a lot more interesting.
---
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