Chapter Text
It had been months since the Ministry.
Months since Harry had stood over Voldemort’s crumpled body, completely stunned that it was actually over. Since the chaos, since the reporters, since the endless handshakes and claps on the back. Since Dumbledore gave him that nod that said more than any speech ever could. And yeah, since Sirius had grabbed him in the kind of hug that made it hard to breathe, in the good way.
People had thanked him. A lot of people. Grown witches with tears in their eyes. Aurors. Shopkeepers. Even a few Slytherins, awkward and stiff, like they weren’t entirely sure if they were allowed to speak to him or not. Malfoy hadn’t said a word, but he also hadn’t insulted him once this term, which basically counted as a handwritten apology.
So now Harry was back at school, trying to live like a normal seventeen-year-old who hadn’t just defeated the darkest wizard of all time. Which, as it turned out, was really bloody hard.
The term had started weird. Everyone was either tiptoeing around him or acting like he might explode into a ball of trauma and lightning if they asked him a normal question. Even Ron and Hermione had been a bit... gentle. Which was unnerving. Hermione didn’t even yell at him for not doing his History of Magic essay on time.
But tonight was different. Tonight, he’d had one of those long, winding, late-night talks with Dumbledore—the kind where you end up covering about fourteen unrelated topics and leave feeling like your brain had run a marathon. They’d talked about what came next, mostly. His future. His studies. His life, which apparently he was now supposed to have.
The castle was dead quiet by the time he finally left the Headmaster’s office, and Harry didn’t bother rushing. He wandered through the corridors slowly, dragging his hand along the cool stone walls out of habit, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He felt tired, but it was the good kind—the kind that made your limbs heavy but your mind finally shut up for a bit.
When he reached the Fat Lady, she gave him a knowing look. “Bit late for you, dear.”
“Long night,” he mumbled, and gave the password.
The common room was dimly lit, the fire just a gentle glow, casting soft shadows across the floor. He expected it to be empty. Everyone had gone to bed hours ago.
Except… someone hadn’t.
Romilda Vane was sitting on the sofa nearest the fire like she owned it. Curled up casually, legs crossed, wand in one hand and a book she clearly wasn’t reading in the other. And she wasn’t in uniform—not even close.
She looked up as he entered, that slow, slightly dangerous smile already tugging at her lips.
“Well, well,” she said, voice low and sweet. “About time the hero returned.”
Harry blinked.
Romilda shut the book with a soft snap and leaned forward, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. “I thought maybe you’d gotten lost. Or had a meeting with destiny again. But… here you are.”
She was definitely not just up doing homework. And judging by the way she was looking at him, she hadn’t stayed up for a casual chat about classes either.
Harry stood there for a second, unsure whether to feel flattered, confused, or concerned.
Instead, he just said, “Hi?”
Romilda’s grin widened.
Harry had just enough time to catch the flick of Romilda’s wand and her low, deliberate “Privacy” before the room shimmered faintly around him, sealing them in like the world outside had been put on mute.
He blinked, eyebrows raised. “What was that for?”
Romilda didn’t answer right away. She stood from the couch with unhurried grace, her movements too smooth to be anything but intentional. The firelight danced across her skin as she stepped forward, letting the book tumble from her lap and land on the cushion with a soft thud.
“So we’re not disturbed,” she said, almost sing-song, her eyes locked on his.
That’s when Harry noticed.
Really noticed.
Romilda wasn’t wearing anything that could reasonably be called sleepwear. Black lace clung to her body in sheer, barely-there strips—fragile straps over her shoulders, delicate patterns shimmering in the glow of the fire. She looked insanely sexy. Her curly brown hair spilled over her chest, but even through it, he could see the lace stretched tight over her breasts, her nipples pressing clearly through the thin fabric.
The lace dipped down her lean torso, barely covering her pussy, and disappeared between her thighs in a narrow strip that ran up the curve of her ass—a proper thong, no illusions about it.
His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His brain was doing absolutely nothing helpful, unless you counted wow, which he didn’t. Then again, it was probably because most of his blood had moved away from his brain and travelled downwards.
Romilda caught the stare and grinned—slow, unhurried, like she’d just won a private bet.
“You’re cute when you’re speechless.”
“I’m not speechless,” Harry said quickly, his eyes now very deliberately fixed somewhere around her forehead. “Just… surprised.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head. “You didn’t expect a proper thank-you?”
“I didn’t expect… this.”
She stepped even closer. He could smell her perfume now—dark berries laced with something warmer underneath, like cinnamon and heat.
“Well, like I said… everyone’s been thanking you, haven’t they? A dozen people a day. Even Slughorn called you a treasure of the wizarding world.”
“He also tried to name a dessert after me,” Harry muttered, still dazed.
Romilda laughed softly, the sound low and wicked. “But none of them have thanked you like this, have they?”
He shook his head a little too quickly.
She dragged a fingertip along the edge of his tie, then down his chest, tracing lightly over the fabric of his shirt like she had all the time in the world.
“This,” Romilda said, her voice barely above a whisper, “is me saying thank you.”
She sank to her knees in front of him, and Harry’s breath caught. Her fingers moved with swift, confident purpose, undoing his belt and dragging the zipper down with smooth, brutal efficiency.
His trousers and boxers were tugged down in one fluid motion. His cock sprang free.
Romilda’s eyes darkened as she looked up at him, a devilish smile tugging at her lips. She didn’t hesitate. One small, warm hand wrapped around the base of him, her thumb brushing the underside in a slow, deliberate stroke.
Harry groaned softly, the sound catching in his throat.
Romilda’s grip was steady, her pace unhurried as she stroked him—up, then down again—each movement precise, almost experimental, like she was cataloging his every reaction.
“You’ve gone quiet again,” she said, her voice light and teasing as her other hand joined the first, her palms smooth and warm against him.
Harry’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Hard to think.”
“Good.” She leaned in, her breath hot against his skin. “That’s kind of the point.”
Then her lips brushed his tip—featherlight. A kiss, nothing more. But it was enough to make his hips jerk forward slightly, unbidden.
Romilda didn’t waver. Her tongue darted out, flicking the underside of his tip in one slow, exploratory pass. Harry hissed, his hand twitching at his side again—caught somewhere between restraint and instinct.
She looked up at him through her lashes, still smiling as she swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, deliberate and teasing.
“You’re taking this very well,” she murmured, lips brushing his skin with each word.
Harry’s throat worked around a reply that never came. He was already breathing too hard, already dizzy from the sheer unreality of it.
Romilda took him into her mouth slowly, inch by inch, her lips stretching around him with practiced ease. The heat of her tongue, the tight slide of her mouth—it was nearly too much, too fast, and his hips jerked before he could stop himself.
She pulled back with a soft, wet sound and a wicked little chuckle. “Careful,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I’ve got plans for you yet.”
Then she took him again, deeper this time, one hand steady at his hip while the other teased lower, nails dragging lightly along his inner thigh. Harry groaned outright now, one hand finally finding her shoulder, fingers digging into the lace-covered curve of it for balance more than anything else.
Romilda set a rhythm—slow, thorough, maddening. She hollowed her cheeks with each pull, tongue pressed just right underneath, each pass drawing a shudder out of him. Every so often, she glanced up to watch the way his jaw clenched, the way his breath hitched.
“Fuck, Romilda,” he breathed, the curse slipping from him like prayer.
She hummed in response, the vibration sending a bolt straight through his spine.
Her hands were everywhere now—stroking his thighs, pressing flat against his stomach, grounding him. Her mouth worked him over with a kind of lazy confidence that drove him out of his head. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.
His fingers threaded into her hair before he could stop them, not pushing, just holding. Anchored.
Romilda pulled back with a soft gasp, her lips wet, her voice husky. “You want more?”
Harry nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”
“Then ask for it.”
His throat went dry. She just looked up at him, patient, still gently stroking him with one hand.
“Please,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Please don’t stop.”
That grin returned, slow and devastating. “That’s better.”
She wrapped her lips around him again—deeper this time, with no more teasing. Her pace picked up, steady and relentless, her mouth slick and perfect, taking him apart with quiet precision. Harry’s head dropped back slightly, a groan escaping him as pleasure coiled low and hot in his belly.
His knees nearly buckled.
Every flick of her tongue, every hum, every breath against his skin was pushing him closer, and she knew it. He could feel the smile in the corner of her mouth even as she worked him harder.
“Romilda—” His voice broke around her name.
She didn’t stop. If anything, she moved faster, her hands keeping him in place, coaxing him forward.
And when he finally came—hard, shuddering, eyes squeezed shut—she didn’t flinch. She took every bit of it, one hand stroking him through the aftershocks, the other smoothing over his thigh like she was calming a wild thing.
Harry barely managed to stay upright. His heart was still racing, breath ragged, vision slightly blurred at the edges. His body felt like it was on fire, still reeling from what had just happened.
Romilda rose slowly from his lap, with the same effortless grace she’d shown all night. She licked her lips, her eyes glinting with something playful, then casually tucked a loose curl behind her ear—as if she hadn’t just completely wrecked him in the span of a few minutes.
Harry sat back against the couch, trying to steady himself. His head was spinning. "That," he said, voice a little hoarse, "was the best thank-you I’ve had so far."
Romilda smirked, clearly pleased with herself. "Oh, my hero..." she cooed, stepping closer to him. She placed her hands on his chest, leaning in as if she had all the time in the world. "That was just the starter."
His mouth parted in surprise, but before he could react, she shoved him back onto the couch with a playful yet decisive push. His breath caught in his throat as she straddled his lap, taking control like she owned the moment—like she owned him.
Their mouths crashed together again, hot and hungry, lips and tongues fighting for dominance in a messy, desperate kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as her hips rocked against him in a slow, teasing rhythm.
It didn’t take long for Harry to feel the heat building again, his body responding almost instantly. He was already hard, pressed tight against the thin strip of lace between her legs.
“Romilda…” Harry breathed out, hands moving to her sides, his fingers tracing the smooth skin of her back. He couldn’t get enough of her—every inch of her seemed to burn into him.
She grinned against his lips, clearly enjoying how easily she had him under her spell. Harry leaned forward, his lips trailing down her neck before finding her chest. He kissed and sucked at her through the delicate lace, teasing her nipple with his tongue before pulling the fabric aside to take her properly into his mouth.
Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air, and she pressed down harder against him, grinding with a determined rhythm.
"God, you feel so good," Harry muttered, his voice strained as he traced his hands over her body, unable to keep them still.
Romilda moaned softly, her hips shifting with his rhythm, but it wasn’t enough for her. With a frustrated sigh, she reached between them, pulling the tiny scrap of lace aside. She guided him to her entrance, and Harry’s breath hitched as she slowly sank down onto him, enveloping him in her wet heat with one long, slow glide.
They both stilled for a moment, eyes locked, breathing heavily. The world around them seemed to disappear.
"Fuck," Harry whispered, still trying to regain some sense of control. "You’re unbelievable."
Romilda’s lips curled into a smug smile. "I know."
Then, without warning, she started to move. Her pace was slow at first, her hips rolling in lazy circles that had Harry biting his lip, cursing under his breath. She was in charge, confident, knowing exactly what she wanted, and she wasn’t shy about getting it.
His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer as her pace picked up, the friction between them building. She kissed him, messy and hot, her teeth grazing his lower lip as her rhythm turned more frantic. The sound of the couch creaking beneath them, her nails digging into his shoulders, sent sparks through Harry’s already overloaded senses.
He shifted his hips, thrusting up into her in time with her movements, and Romilda’s head dropped back, a deep groan slipping from her throat. Harry’s mind spun, completely lost in the sensations, as her pace faltered for a moment—before it turned desperate, both of them chasing that last sharp edge together.
"Harry..." Romilda’s voice cracked, and before he knew it, she was clenching around him, her body tightening as she cried out his name, her hips rocking furiously against his.
It didn’t take long for Harry to follow, groaning into her shoulder as his body jerked, his hips thrusting up with each pulse. The intensity of it hit him like a freight train, leaving him gasping for air.
They stayed tangled together for a moment, breathless, sweat-slicked, completely out of sync with the world around them.
Romilda eventually pulled back, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed and glowing with the aftereffects of their shared passion. She looked down at him, a lazy, satisfied smile curling on her lips.
"I hope you liked your thank-you," she said, voice low and teasing, her fingers tracing circles on his chest.
Harry let out a breathless laugh, still trying to calm his racing heart. "Think it might’ve ruined me for regular ones."
The two of them laid there for awhile, and Harry had a bit more time to study her body, genuinely obsessed over how sexy she looked. And all of that touching and looking seemed to have worked the trick.
“Looks like you’ve got another round in you after all,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw.
“Apparently so,” he said, voice already tightening.
She kissed him again, slower this time—hungry but deep, tongue teasing his until he groaned into her mouth. Her hands moved up under his shirt, nails dragging across his stomach, making him shiver.
“You’ve got a great mouth,” she murmured. “But I think your tongue might be wasted on just kissing. Nipples, my Hero. Please.”
Harry grinned. “You are bossy.”
“You like that I’m bossy. And I did say please.”
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he dipped his head and kissed down her neck, then lower, until his lips found her nipple through the lace. He tongued at it slowly, teasing, before tugging the delicate fabric aside to wrap his mouth fully around her. Romilda gasped, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Fuck, Harry…”
“I’m just participating,” he said, echoing the words she’d used before with a smirk against her skin.
She laughed, breath catching when his teeth grazed her. “Cheeky.”
Romilda rocked against him again, dragging her hips against his cock. “Stop teasing,” she breathed. “I want you inside me again.”
He looked up at her, flushed and already hard again, and muttered, “Yeah. Fuck. Okay.”
Her fingers slid down between them, nudging the lace aside again. She didn’t even hesitate this time—just guided him in, slow and smooth, her breath catching as he filled her.
They both let out something between a sigh and a groan.
“God, you're so deep,” she whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as she adjusted her hips.
Harry could barely form words. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Romilda smirked. “I get that a lot.”
She started to move—slow at first, savouring it, her hips rolling with sinfully practiced control. Harry’s head fell back against the couch, his hands tight on her thighs as she rode him with slow, steady rhythm.
“Fuck me. Faster, my Hero.” Romilda moaned out softly in between breaths. Harry obliged to the best of his ability, and a cry came out of her mouth as his length continued to move deep inside her.
She kissed him again, this time deeper, filthier, the kind of kiss that said you’re mine right now, and he was. Completely.
Her rhythm quickened. The couch creaked. Their bodies moved in sync now—desperate and messy and real. Her moans were right in his ear, breath hot against his neck.
“Fuck, Romilda—” he gasped.
“Close?” she whispered, grinding down harder.
“Yeah. You?”
“Almost. Just—don’t stop—fuck, Harry—”
Their mouths crashed together again as she clenched around him, moaning into his mouth as her orgasm tore through her. That did it. He came with a guttural sound, holding her tight, every nerve alight as he pulsed deep inside her.
They collapsed into each other, chests heaving, sweat-slicked and tangled in the soft glow of the firelight.
After a long moment, Romilda tilted her head back to look at him, still flushed and catching her breath.
“Next time you need a thank you, you know where to find me, my Hero.”
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