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There are plenty of things that are unreasonable about this. His celebrity status? Annoying. The speculation about his post-divorce life? Also annoying. The fifteen-year age gap? Annoying, but workable. His jokes should be workshopped. The fact that he enjoys getting under her skin like it’s a sport? Well, sleeping together, for sure, kind of takes that edge off.
But she really does like him.
She likes him enough to be standing in her kitchen, surrounded by groceries that contain his alleged favorite meal because they haven’t actually established anything outside of sleeping together. Feelings are messy. Thankfully, she has a fully psychotic caseload, complete with prosecuting said psychos including a one, former operative Antonin Dolohov whose, well, obsession with her is concerning to everyone but her boss. And, well, Harry? The Head Auror? She doesn’t know what to call him. That is also annoying.
“I mean,” Padma says sympathetically. She takes a bite off of a carrot stick as Hermione stares at the vegetables. “I’d assume he knows that said Russian Death Eater has a bit of crush on you too. Probably. I’m sure the file landed on his desk at some point.”
Hermione shrugs, sighing. “I’m more worried about this dinner.”
“Does he know that you’re cooking for him?”
“This is practice. I just won’t tell him that it was actually me who cooked the dinner,” she answers. “I had to call my mum for the recipe. She’s already mildly suspicious that I’m seeing someone.”
“Mildly?” Padma laughs. “Hermione, your mum is probably picking out an outfit as we speak. She already told me about the chicken.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “It’s not the marry me chicken. The store was out of saffron. He hates celery. The fish, which is actually part of his favorite meal –”
“My darling,” Padma drawls. Her arm drops over her shoulder. “I don’t think you have to worry about the schematics to his favorite meal. The man told our illustrious boss to suck a dick in front of everyone because he was pissing you off.”
Oh. Yeah. That.
She’s gone and forgotten about that. Mostly, in her defense, because later that night, he had her bent over his kitchen counter as just he could hear her says daddy again. Even thinking about it makes her flush, her skin crawl and buzz because she now can say that he is truly merciless in everything he decides to do.
“He’s a man,” she mutters, moaning. Her hands cover her face. Her best friend laughs delightedly. Hermione feels all out of sorts. “I can’t believe I’m going to cook for a man,” she says.
“I know,” Padma teases her, “who are you?”
The thing is? She has no idea.
-
He cancels dinner.
Technically, not his fault. He is the Head Auror, of course. But she occupies her head for the rest of the night, second guessing everything and really indulging in self-hatred and ice cream. She sends the chicken away with Padma, who tells her it won’t go to waste – she’ll probably tell whoever she’s dating that she cooked it. Hermione doesn’t care. At least, someone will go and enjoy it.
But the reality of the situation comes to head, pun or not, when she arrives at work the next day, when Ernie Macmillan is sitting in front of her desk. The bruising around his eyes is starting to fade. Everyone sort of suspects or whispers that the reason he didn’t heal it is because he wanted to wear the black eye as some sort of badge of honor in whatever weird battle he thinks he’s in with her or the Head Auror.
“Dolohov escaped today.”
He doesn’t greet her. Doesn’t even offer coffee. She stares at him, holding onto her bag.
“You can’t go home,” he continues. “The Minister has advised me to offer you security or a safehouse until this is resolved.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Dolohov escaped.”
“Yes,” she says. She tosses her bag to the floor by her desk. She’s wearing heels today for the Wizengamot session she has later. She overslept this morning, so no run, no contacts, and her glasses, her hair pinned back by a gold barrette that she had found on her nightstand. “I heard the first time,” she says. “But I’m unsure at what it has to do with me.”
“You survived,” Macmillan counters.
Another part of her lore, of course. Dolohov had evaded the Ministry for years, up until her graduation. Nobody knows why he snuck into Hogwarts. There are all sorts of rumors of other chambers, a lasting beef with Professor Flitwick, a secret girlfriend or lovechild – it doesn’t matter. What matter is that she had been walking to the Head Girl dorms, minding her business, and somehow encountered a fight with a man that nearly killed her. It was Padma and Professor Longbottom who had found her and, subsequently, the frozen and muted Dolohov watching her nearly bleed out from one of his curses. It feels like forever ago.
“Ah,” she says. “Yeah. I did.” Her head tilts to the side. “But that’s assuming he still remembers our altercation.” Which he does. Remember. Every year, post-Hogwarts graduation, she receives a bundle of roses. The Aurors had tracked them down to a flower shop, the owner relaying that the flower arrangement had been paid for in advance. Macmillan knows. And she knows. And of course, she assumes that Potter also knows.
“Take the offer,” her boss says.
“She will.” They both turn and the man-in-question, billowing robes and all, is standing in her doorway. Her eyes widen slightly. Head Auror Potter is in full work mode. There’s a slight shift in his face, his eyes softening briefly before he enters her office. “I came to talk to her about it,” he relays to Macmillan, handing Hermione a coffee.
He brought a coffee, the name of her favorite shop printed on the side. She doesn’t have to read the order to know: two sugars, oat milk, and cinnamon. She’s still annoyed with him for cancelling, but this definitely helps.
“I have a lot of work to do,” she says. “And I can’t do that work from a safehouse.”
“Told you,” Macmillan tells the other man petulantly.
Harry doesn’t look at him. “We’re going to talk about this, Princess.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are we?”
“We are,” he says, and the warning is underneath his reply. The air in the room starts to thicken and sway. He gently nestles the coffee in her hands. He looks back at Macmillan. “I can take over, Ernie,” he says too and leaves no room for argument.
It doesn’t matter that her boss throws his hands up, says something about potter this and that as if she’s gone and missed a chapter, but he goes, obeys, and even shuts the door behind him. It locks quickly and Hermione realizes that Harry has gone and casted a wandless locking spell. His expression is easier to read now. He knows she’s annoyed.
“I told you I’d take care of you,” he says.
“You told me,” she counters, “that I had to ask before you did, daddy.”
She’s still annoyed, but the shaky breath he lets out is everything to her. The tuft of air that sort of hits her face as he steps forward, into her space, looming over her even as she wears heels. Everything he does is carefully done, his fingers connecting with her face, gently pushing her hair behind her ear. His touch is soft, but she also knows that it’s hungry.
“Don’t think I won’t take you across my lap,” he warns, his mouth hovering over hers. She doesn’t realize how breathless she is until he’s completely taking over her space too. “Or how about this,” he says too. “How about I make you sit in my lap and warm my cock until it’s time to go to trial – sending you to work, wearing my cum underneath your robes.”
One of her superpowers, of course, is the overactive imagination that she has, the fact that she can reason with herself and see herself sink into his lap, can feel her thighs clench with the anticipation of his cock stretching her wide again. Unfortunately, she’s just a busy woman. She also never backs down from a challenge.
“You’re making promises that you can’t keep,” she says, licking her lips. She keeps a steady hand around her coffee. She shifts into him, leaning up and letting her lips just graze his, listening to the sharp intake of breath that he lets up. “I think you like when I’m a brat,” she says. “I think you like thinking about taking me into your lap, sharing a secret that you’re filling me while no one knows. But you didn’t come to dinner, daddy. So you have to deal with me being disappointed first.”
She leans in, brushing her mouth against his jaw. She won’t kiss him. Not here, at least. Maybe it’s mostly because she’s irritated about the cancellation. More than that though, she feels like she’s really wrestling with how easily he’s suddenly fit into her life and without that conversation, without guidelines – she doesn’t cook for just anyone, you know.
Hermione manages to grab her robes and a few files, readying herself for trial as he watches her. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t leave either.
Finally, when she turns to leave her office, she stops and meets his gaze.
“I’ll think about the safehouse,” she says seriously. He looks relieved, but she doesn’t touch that either. Her brain is already halfway into trial mode. “The other thing sounds like more paperwork for me,” she says too.
His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Hermione waves her goodbye.
She did almost die, of course.
-
Dolohov does try to kill her during trial.
The proof? The missing chunk of wall by the entrance of the room, the rubble on the floor, and the Aurors swarming her as everyone begins to realize that the Death Eater is, in fact, not here and the man sent someone else to take her out. Padma, for her part, is gripping her arm. Hermione’s cheek is bleeding. She’s a little dazed. The guards around her did more harm than good, impeding in her ability to defend herself. Which, well, awkward.
“You nearly killed her,” her best friend snarls at one of the Aurors. “Why the fuck did you not try to shield her from the blast? Are you not good at your job or –”
“Madam,” the Auror says to Hermione instead, “we’d like to –”
“I’m a bit dizzy,” she says breathlessly, frowning. Her head hurts. Her eyes feel tight and dry. Her ears are ringing from the blast. Padma’s hand tightens around her arm. Her hands move to her face but then they’re not against her face. The hands are larger and rough, fingers combing through her hair. “Oof. Actually, I’m really dizzy,” she says again.
Sharp, green eyes are watching her angrily. She’s yanked away from Padma, a locked arm around her waist as it feels like her legs are about to go.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says to Harry. Harry is here. The Head Auror always comes to watch her trials. This wasn’t his case though. She isn’t sure why he came to this. “My head hurts,” she says, maybe whines too. Her eyes start to water.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know, sweetheart. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Harry looks to Padma. “I left a note on your desk. Pack her a bag.”
“Understood,” Padma says easily, and wait, wait, Hermione thinks, traitor. What happened to girlhood and hating the same man? Except, she tries to reason, she doesn’t hate Harry Potter. She’s just a little mad that he canceled dinner and unreasonably so.
His hands cup her face and he turns her gaze to him, just as the sounds around them get larger and the space becomes brighter. She smells fire. She hears the scurrying and shouting of supporting staff.
“Hi sweet girl,” he says softly. His face contorts into worry. His thumb rubs over her lip. “I’m going to take you out of here, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmurs. The pressure in her head is starting to build. Her fingers curl in his robes and the arm around her waist seems to tighten. “I’m still mad at you, you know.”
He chokes a little. It sounds watery. “I know,” he says. “I probably mucked up a bit – but we’ll talk about it later, okay? I just want to get you somewhere safe. Just want to make sure that you’re okay and we check on any sort of injury you might have. Is that okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she slurs, and really, her head is starting to scream. She no longer can hear people shouting about and the room is bright, painfully so. It isn’t until a slow, singular roll of blood hits her eye lid, then her cheek as she realizes that she might just be really injured. That something must have hit her after all.
Harry calls out her name. Her eyes close.
-
His flat is not a safe house.
In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Because waking up to black, silk sheets – or satin, also equally hilarious – is almost too much to process, outside of being nearly murdered by a runaway Death Eater at work. What a day.
Her eyes adjust to the dark room first and when she sits up with a wince, she realizes that he’s been sitting on the bed next to her. His eyes are closed. His glasses are tucked into his hair. His arms are crossed against his chest too, as if to reiterate that he was keeping watch over her and whatever version of a mild concussion she may wager that she has.
She is still not one to overlook an opportunity, taking the time to study him closely. It’s a little easier than processing the day. He looks tired, her first thought, and then her second and third have her shifting carefully over his lap, ignoring the acknowledgment that she is dressed in one of his dress shirts instead of her own clothes.
His eyes remain close. She watches as his mouth, however, twitches a little.
“I wasn’t aware,” she says softly, “that Ministry approved sheets come in a silk or satin option. The economy must be booming.”
He snorts. His eyes open slowly. She sees the worry, just before it disappears quickly. Her knees sink into the bed as she shifts and adjusts over him.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs.
She nods. “I am.”
“How’s the head?”
“Attached,” she says dryly. Her hands rise and she brushes her hair back haphazardly. She should probably take a shower of the sort. It’s just that her body is tired. The day is sort of unraveling in her muscle and aches. Her fingers graze her forehead. He must have taken care of her healing. “No headache though,” she says.
“You still have to take a potion later,” he warns.
Her lips curl. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
“I know,” he says softly. His hand cups her cheek. Out of habit, she nuzzles his palm. “You’re my very best girl, you know?”
The thing is – and don’t worry, there’s a thing – her kinks are wide and vast. She is not shy about her exploratory nature. She knows her hardlines. She knows that trust is the most important currency out of all. She also knows that when this man looks at her, in the very way that he looks at her, it is nearly impossible not to want to give him everything. You have to understand that Harry Potter looks at her like a man starved and that kind of power, despite everything, is not something she takes lightly. Even though, of course, he cancelled dinner.
She also can read what he needs.
“Always,” she says. He lets a relieved breath escape. Not out of the woods yet, she thinks with amusement. “But I’m still mad at you.”
Harry laughs a little. “I know. I suppose I deserve that, sweetheart. I didn’t want to cancel. In fact, I would have rather been with you than at Azkaban, trying to figure out how the fuck that insolent shit got out.”
“Wow,” she drawls. “Insolent shit is new.”
He laughs again. “Sorry.” He rubs his face. “I’m just not good at this,” he says, “and I actually really like you a lot. And today was also a lot.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, softening.
He’s wound tightly. She’s beginning to understand the signs. It’s in his face, his hands, the way he sleeps sitting up. It’s more than too. Working side-by-side with someone also shows you signs, given the way he inhales a coffee or insists on rereading a report. He is always the first to arrive and the last to leave and she remembers where she was exactly, before all of this, when he had confessed to her that he has a lot of guilt surrounding his ability to do just that.
She’s starting to understand where the daddy comes from and how it sets him off. It’s definitely not marry me chicken that she definitely did not try and cook, but she decides then and there that the only thing she can do in this space, outside of making fun of the silk-stain sheets, is let him unwind.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
He nods. “Sure,” he says. “I think I can ring Kreacher to sort something out –”
“No,” she says. “Food is later.” Her mouth curls. “I think I should get to indulge, right?”
His eyes widen. Almost immediately, he lifts his fingers. When they graze her mouth, she catches his thumb and takes it into her mouth. She sucks on it, rolling her tongue around his skin as she watches his whole demeanor change. His breath catches. His pupils are shot. He shifts on the bed and when he pulls his thumb from her lips, it pops. His skin has a slight sheen from her saliva.
“What can I give you?” he asks.
“Should I be good,” she counters huskily, “and ask for permission?”
“Hermione,” he warns.
She ignores him. Her hands are at his waist band, her finger hooking at the opening of his trousers. She’s already wet with anticipation. No, she thinks. This is going to be about him. She’s going to make it about him. Maybe make him the damn chicken after the fact. Maybe make him make her the damn chicken because he’s gone and brought her to his flat and they should probably talk about that.
It is far too easy to spring his cock free from his trousers, from the cotton-lined fabric of his briefs as she fists it and adjust herself so that she can nestle between his legs. You have to understand that she’s salivating, that the moment her fingers touch his skin, the moment that she feels how hot it is, how hard it’s underneath her fingertips, she knows she’s going to have him inside of her mouth. No one can ever accuse Hermione Granger of not taking what she wants.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, “sweetheart,” he gasps too. He’s all control, his hips jerking slightly as she feeds herself his cock. Her throat stretches slightly and she feels her pussy clench in tandem, the thought of how easily he stretches her out too when he’s inside herself. She wants to touch herself too, but not yet.
She shifts a little more, taking his cock in deeper as his hand buries itself in her hair and her nose brushes against the tuft of curls at the base of his dick. She hears him curse. Her ears are ringing. She drags her mouth back along his shift, slowly, almost thoughtfully, humming as his fingers tighten, only to take him deep and against her throat.
“Look at that pretty mouth,” he says, voice gravelly. “God, you’re a vision.”
The praise makes her head swim as she spits against his length, her fingers following as she takes him in and out of her mouth. It’s a game, just see how far she can take him, sputtering and moaning because he goes far and she would swallow every drop if he asked her nicely, of course. He’s gentle too, until his hips start to rock with her mouth, until he starts feeding her every inch of his cock. It’s wild how easily she’s become aware of her own body, as the soft promises from his mouth work against her. When she shifts, just take him a little further, the fabric of her panties stretches and pulls against her cunt. She’s throbbing, desperately even, and when he pulls back, just slightly, he’s coming down her throat.
Her hand cups her chin. She swallows as much as she can, his hand replacing hers. His thumb smears a little of his release over her lips before he kisses her hard, pulling her into his lap as his dick nestles between her thighs and the bed becomes a mess of sheets and sweat.
“You’ve really made a mess of me,” he says, and the rest of his clothes come off, including the shirt that she wears, her panties, and anything else that interferes with any sort of skin-to-skin contact with each other. “I need you to know that,” he murmurs.
She laughs, but the sound is shaky. The taste in her mouth is a little tangy still. He’s in between her legs now too, his hand wrapping against the back of her thigh.
“Nothing you don’t deserve,” she teases.
He’s fast, of course. Maybe a little desperate. He doesn’t tease her much, his cockhead dragging from her ass and around her entrance, as he fists it and she watches. Her breath catches. His eyes are dark. When he looks at her like this, she decides, she just might give him whatever he wants, including staying in this room with these really nice sheets.
Then he plays. Slowly, he guides himself inside of her, as if to go inch by inch, as if to feel her stretch around him and make her feel it too. She lets out something akin to gasp and a sigh, her hips arching slightly before he presses down and over her.
“You’re my very best girl,” he says, maybe shakily, maybe not, and it doesn’t matter because she feels so full and every time his hips jerk forward, she’s stretched and it’s devastatingly delicious. She’s going to melt or fall apart or both and it doesn’t matter.
She might take a few days off after all.
-
Dolohov is caught.
It’s really disappointing and rather anticlimactic, as he was sneaking over the border, halfway into Bulgaria, and ready to pay for someone to smuggle him back into Russia. Or so the story goes. Thankfully, he’s back in Azkaban – or so they say. In fact, there is a pretty nasty rumor of Dolohov being imprisoned in the Department of Mysteries due to their wards and his rumored abilities as a Charms Master.
But, as a result, she really doesn’t leave Harry’s flat either.
“It’s a bachelor pad,” Padma comments, bringing her some work files. She’s decided to take a sick leave, due to the trauma of almost dying. She really should call this a vacation, but that would involve talking to Ernie Macmillan and she would really rather not and save those vacation days for an actual vacation.
Hermione is eating strawberries at the kitchen island. She’s wearing denim shorts and one of Harry’s button-downs, the ends tied at her waist. She’s relaxed, maybe the most she’s been in weeks. Strawberry season usually does that to her.
“I mean,” she replies. “He could open a few windows. Do with more white walls for contrast. But it’s not so, so bad.”
Padma rolls her eyes. “You’re only saying that because his dick is –”
“Just as wonderful as his personality?” She supplies.
The other woman laughs. “I literally cannot stand you.”
Harry choses this moment to enter his kitchen, not even batting an eye at Padma’s presence. He moves to Hermione, wrapping an arm around her waist. His lips graze her forehead.
“I thought you were just dropping off work, Researcher Patil,” Harry says smoothly.
“I told you I wasn’t,” Padma replies. “She’s my best friend,” she says. “And I am morally obligated to make sure that you are making her happy and giving her as much –”
“She was just leaving,” Hermione deadpans, shooting her a look.
Harry snorts, but he’s also warm and amused. He also hasn’t exactly been keen on letting her leave either. Her flat is too cold. The landlord needs to fix her windows. She really shouldn’t run alone in the morning. When Padma hops away from the counter, kissing her cheek, she watches as her friend exchanges a myriad of looks with the older man. They seem to reach some sort of understanding that she’s not exactly privy to.
“Just make sure you invite Professor Longbottom to family dinner for me,” Padma says, grabbing her jacket. “It was part of our deal,” she says to Harry too.
Hermione’s eyes widen, but she lets out a startled laugh as Padma disappears back into the floo and presumably to work. She looks up at Harry, who is shaking his head at her friend’s antics. His expression remains soft as she raises an eyebrow.
“Family dinner? Professor Longbottom?” Her face is warm. “Are you two conspiring?”
“What? You love her,” he says. “So why wouldn’t I?”
Hermione is breathless. Oh.