Chapter Text
Hermione paced near the entrance of Knockturn Alley, worrying her cuticles between her lips until she tasted copper.
This is such a bad idea.
It’d been almost a year of celibacy—involuntary, mind you—and she was itching at the bit to be thoroughly fucked. She was nearing thirty and dealing with all the complicated feelings that came with approaching that age. The sort of existential dread that crept in at 2 AM when she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror after too much wine.
Her breasts were starting to look a little less perky, fine lines were beginning to shadow in low light, and her knees seemed to crack more with barely any movement. If she were to get bent over, she’d probably sound like the tin man with each thrust—all creaking joints and rust.
Merlin, that’s a depressing thought.
These were the ruminations that plagued her and drove her here tonight.
Ginny had told her about the club from a friend of a friend. You could only be invited via owl as it was unplottable and protected by a Fidelius charm. It was also by appointment only. She looked at the small slip of parchment in her hand, the ink slightly smudged from where her sweaty fingers had gripped it too tightly:
Liquid Stranger No 34-B Knockturn Alley 10:00 PM Password: Fluxweed
Beneath her light trenchcoat, she wore soft lingerie that hadn’t seen anything except the inside of her drawer for a better part of three years. She was surprised it still fit, though the lace dug into her hips a bit more than she remembered.
What if it tore when she bent over?
Well, the lack of clothes was the point, wasn’t it?
She worried her lip between her teeth, glancing up at the low lamp that flickered above the alley entrance. The gaslight threw stuttering shadows across the cobblestones, making the darkness beyond seem to breathe.
“It’s just for tonight,” she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible even to herself. “Do something for yourself once in your life. It’ll only be a one-time thing.”
Before she could ruminate further, she darted down the winding alley.
Her heels clicked against the cobblestones in a sharp, rhythmic staccato, joining the ambient shuffle of others who lurked in the low light. After the war, Knockturn had transformed from a haven for dark wizards and witches into something of a club scene. The skulking figures in doorways had been replaced by young witches in too-short skirts and wizards reeking of firewhisky and bad decisions.
It was still early. Drunken wizards and witches weren’t yet tumbling over each other, too sloshed to apparate. Nearby, a small shop filled with fireplaces allowed you to Floo for the low price of 5 sickles. Assisted side-apparition was a full galleon—highway robbery, really, but better than splinching yourself after one too many Butterbeers.
She passed a full row of standard clubs, their patrons spilling out into the street in clusters of laughter and clinking glasses. It was oddly quiet despite the crowds—their perimeters spelled with sound containment charms that made the revelry look like some sort of silent film.
She knew roughly where Liquid Stranger lay, as she was aware of No 30 Knockturn Alley. It was a Drag Brunch spot on weekends. She’d gone a few times over the years, especially when celebrating hen parties. Pansy had nearly fallen off her chair during a particularly risqué lip-sync number involving a performer who appeared look like a gaudy Kingsley Shacklebolt.
As she approached No 32 and No 34, she stopped, her brow furrowing. She looked down at her slip of parchment and then up at the buildings. Nothing but solid brick stared back at her.
“Fluxweed?” she whispered tentatively.
The moment the word left her lips, just like Grimmauld, the buildings slid apart with a grinding groan, making space for a new one. The outside looked like a medieval tavern—one you’d find in The Shambles in York. The windows were entirely blacked out behind diamond lattice panes, giving nothing away. The sign was small, black lacquer with bright gold paint that caught the lamplight:
Liquid Stranger Est. 2005
She approached the black door, its brass knob plain and unassuming.
Just a door. Just a brass knob. Nothing to be nervous about.
Taking a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her racing heart, she pulled the door open.
The receiving area was warm and inviting—unexpectedly so. She’d half-expected something seedy, all red velvet and suspicious stains. Instead, lamps covered with soft coloured silk lent an intimate air, casting the room in hues of amber and rose. A large rug sat underfoot, a complex thing of rings and tassels that looked like it cost more than her monthly rent. The walls were dark panelling and damask silk in a deep merlot. An intricate brass gas lamp crowned the ceiling, its light warm and soothing.
The smell of rosemary and patchouli hung heady in the air, mingling with something underneath—sandalwood, perhaps, or cedar. It was the sort of scent that made you want to sink into an armchair with a glass of wine and never leave.
A small counter sat like an island with a small bell. Next to it was a little card reading “Ring Me” in elegant cursive.
She followed the instructions, the bell’s chime surprisingly melodic.
From behind the counter, a door opened. A witch with dark skin, jade eyes, and long dreadlocks intertwined into a braid that fell past her waist walked to the counter. She moved like water—fluid and unhurried. She was dressed in silk robes of jade green, tailored to the contours of her body not provocatively, but in a way that was almost ethereal.
Like a walking goddess, Hermione thought, suddenly feeling very plain in her practical trenchcoat.
“You must be Hermione.” The witch’s voice was low and rich, like honey stirred into tea.
“Yes.” Her own voice came out slightly breathless, and she cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Vale.” The witch smiled, revealing a small gap between her front teeth that somehow made her more beautiful rather than less. “Since you’re new to our establishment, we will enter this side room.” She gestured to a door on Hermione’s left. “All will be explained before we get to the fun part.”
Vale winked, then crooked her finger to follow.
Fun part. Right. That’s why you’re here, Granger. Fun.
This next room was equally as warm as the first. The only difference was that the room was almost entirely black. Dark panelling with black silk wallpaper that seemed to swallow the light. Even the wood beneath her dragonhide heels was lacquered black, gleaming like still water.
“Before we get started,” Vale began, settling gracefully onto thin air before conjuring two small armchairs upholstered in burgundy velvet beneath them both, “do you know what we offer here at Liquid Stranger?”
Hermione sat, grateful for something solid beneath her. “I was told it was a sex club where you drink polyjuice and have, um—” She felt heat creep up her neck, which was ridiculous when she was sitting in a literal sex den. “—relations with someone else who’s also polyjuiced.”
Vale laughed, a deep throaty sensual sound that seemed to vibrate in Hermione’s chest. “That is a very basic summarisation. Let me fill in the gaps so you can be more comfortable.”
She crossed her legs, the silk of her robes whispering with the movement. “Here at Liquid Stranger, we like to also provide choice. We know two bodies coming together need to fit like puzzle pieces in order for you both to reach ecstasy.” Her jade eyes sparkled. “Witches especially.”
“We also try to keep some of your identity. If you were small of chest and suddenly grew five times your size, you’d probably not be able to concentrate on much else.”
Hermione laughed—a genuine sound of surprise—glancing down at her own tidy little chest. “Fair point.”
“So we’ve devised a new formula for polyjuice. Instead of transforming your entire body, it merely changes your head. Of course, we will apply glamour spells to any identifying aspects of your body—scars, birthmarks, that sort of thing.”
Hermione’s hand moved instinctively to her left forearm, fingers pressing against the fabric of her coat where the word mudblood lay carved into her flesh. Even after all these years, she could feel the raised ridges of the scar tissue.
Vale’s eyes tracked the movement, but her expression remained carefully neutral. “To add more choice, you will also have the ability to choose which head you’d like to transform into. All of the hair we source is from consenting muggles.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly. “Do they know what their hair is being used for?”
“When their hair is offered, it’s with no strings attached. I can promise you that.”
Hermione highly doubted they would provide strands if they really knew—but she wasn’t here to debate the ethics of how a sex club sourced its ingredients. That was a battle for another night. Tonight was about her.
Vale conjured a small book with a flick of her wrist. It was a black binder with no identifying markers, plain and unassuming. She handed it over.
Hermione flipped through it, her analytical mind cataloguing each page despite herself. Each featured a large muggle photograph of a woman. All shapes, sizes, hair colours, eye colours. She noticed every woman was white.
“Is there a reason why every woman in here is white?”
“Everyone always asks that.” Vale’s lips curved with amusement. “It has to match your body for the most part. I’ve a trained eye for skin tone, so I’ve selected one of the many binders that would match your colouring.”
“Like foundation,” Hermione said, understanding clicking into place.
“Precisely.”
Hermione exhaled slowly and continued flipping through the book. Nothing immediately stood out to her—not right away. She pushed past all the blondes. Same with the brunettes. Near the back were the redheads, black-haired, and various dyed colours.
Strangely, the redheads arrested her attention. Maybe because one of them had hair like the last vestiges of a sunset—deep reds and burnished golds that seemed to glow even in the flat photograph. The hair was curly like her own, but smooth and coiled with care. Her eyes were a piercing green, and freckles were scattered generously across her cheeks like stars.
She looked like she’d walked straight off a beach at golden hour.
Something in Hermione’s chest loosened. It felt right.
“This one,” she said, tapping the photograph.
“Excellent choice.” Vale’s smile widened with what looked like genuine approval.
“Now, the potion will last for only two hours. Of which, half an hour will be spent picking your specimen.”
Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Like I said before, we provide choice. We will not simply pair you up with any wizard.” Vale tilted her head. “Or witch?”
“Wizard.”
“In the next room, after you’ve taken the polyjuice, you will choose from five options which partner you’d like. You may touch them above the waist and smell them. That is it.” Vale held up a finger. “Once you’ve made your decision, grab the wizard’s hand and we will lead you both to your playroom.”
“What if I don’t like any of the options provided to me?”
“Then we have more.”
“What if I don’t like those either?”
“If you’re not satisfied, we have a separate room for you to wait in until the polyjuice wears off. You’ll be refunded everything except for the cost of the polyjuice itself, which is 2 galleons.”
“Alright.” Hermione nodded, her mind already sorting through possibilities. “Am I allowed to give you my preferences before entering?”
“I was just about to ask you that very question.” Vale leaned forward slightly, her jade eyes intent. “In terms of preference, what do you desire?”
Hermione had to think about it. Despite choosing a redhead for herself, she didn’t want a redheaded man. Ron had been enough for her, and she didn’t want any reminders—not even a whisper of copper in the hair.
Black hair sounded good, but then she thought of Harry. Definitely, definitely not. She loved him like a brother, and the thought made her stomach turn.
Then her mind moved to brunette, and she thought of Neville. Sweet, sweet Neville with his gentle hands and kind eyes—but no. He’d married Hannah Abbott three years ago, and they were expecting their second child.
And then her mind trailed to someone she tried not to think of in that way.
Draco Malfoy.
Damn it.
Though they were friends now—all thanks to Theo Nott, who couldn’t leave well enough alone—she’d never crossed that bridge. Draco had never flirted with her, not even once. She always wondered if deep down, the blood prejudice still lingered despite his emphatic apologies all those years ago when they’d finally become friends.
He remained unmarried, to his parents’ obvious frustration, and she knew even if he fancied her, he’d never be able to bring her home to them. Not that he spent much time with them. They hadn’t changed their views—at least not below the surface level, as they maintained a “reformed” face for the public. But he’d told them the truth about his beliefs years ago, and the rift had never fully healed.
So no, she’d never thrown herself at him. She’d had a little crush—just a small one—and then she’d buried it. Laid it to rest next to all the others over the years. The many wizards who didn’t fancy a war heroine, or the famous witch who would outshine them.
But then that little crush reached a hand out of the grave, jolting back to life.
Here, she realised, she could scratch the itch of that fantasy.
“Blonde,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. “White-haired, grey-haired... but not old. Pale blonde as well. Around the same age as me. Tall.” She swallowed. “Long fingers. Broom thighs.”
She almost drooled at the thought of broom thighs—those thick, powerful muscles that came from years of gripping a broomstick.
“Some muscle, but not overtly so. They should look like they work out a little but don’t make it their whole life. A recreational Quidditch body, really.”
Vale laughed, her jade eyes dancing with knowing amusement. “I see you have a specific wizard in mind, hmm?”
Heat flooded Hermione’s cheeks. “This is the closest I’ll ever get to him,” she admitted quietly.
A curious look came over Vale’s face—something like recognition, perhaps—but she didn’t voice any further opinions.
“I think I have the perfect match for you. I’ll be curious to see if you pick him out from the line-up.” Vale clapped her hands together briskly. “Now—the rules. Very important.”
Hermione straightened in her chair. She liked rules. Boundaries. Once a swot, always a swot.
“You are allowed to stop at any time. The safe phrase to summon an attendant will be ‘Bubotuber Pus.’” Vale’s expression grew serious. “Even uttering ‘Bubotuber’ will be enough if you cannot get out a second word.”
“Before you and your partner begin to play, you must tell each other your wants and desires. And most importantly, your absolute no’s. What acts you do not consent to—such as BDSM, blood play, certain positions, et cetera.” Vale’s gaze held hers steadily. “Don’t be afraid to express yourself.”
“If you feel, after you’ve spoken to one another, that you will not be sexually compatible, we will bring you back to pick another partner. Same rules as earlier apply for choosing.”
“A few other things.” Vale pulled out what appeared to be a small checklist. “Are you currently on the birth-control potion or charm?”
“Potion.” She’d made it a habit to keep on it despite her lack of need. Just in case. Just in case being, apparently, visiting a magical sex club in Knockturn Alley.
“Have you been treated for any STDs or STIs within the past five years?”
“No.”
“Do you get regularly checked for them via your general healer or gynaecological healer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you consent to an STD and STI prevention potion?”
“I do.”
“Perfect.” Vale smiled warmly, setting aside her list. “And last—any questions?”
Hermione shook her head.
“Then let’s get started.”
The transformation was quite amazing.
Hermione looked at herself in the mirror, a blank slate. A new person. She trailed a hand over her lace-covered breast and up to her neck, watching the stranger in the glass mimic her movements. Gone was the hairline scar from Bellatrix’s blade—that thin white line that she usually covered with high collars if she was too tired to cast a glamour charm. She looked down at her left forearm and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The skin was smooth. Unmarred. As if the word had never been carved there at all.
She even checked her stomach, where a dark mole she’d had since childhood was now glamoured from existence.
It was interesting. Liberating. Terrifying.
Even more interesting was her face. The muggle woman was beautiful in an approachable way. In some ways, their features were similar—they both had freckles peppered across their cheeks, and their lips were the same shape and fullness. But this woman had a wider face with a rounder jawline. Her cheekbones were only slightly sculpted.
She wasn’t a model, but she was very pretty.
The green eyes were bright, with a ring of yellow right around the pupil that caught the light. Her teeth were white and evenly straight—more uniform than Hermione’s own larger front teeth, the ones she’d shrunk slightly after the Densaugeo incident in fourth year.
She was pleased overall.
“Ready to choose?” Vale asked from the doorway.
Hermione nodded, squaring her shoulders. Here goes nothing.
It was strange to walk into a room of mostly naked men.
They stood in a line, all tall, all built, all slightly muscular—and every single one had broom thighs. Hermione’s mouth went dry.
She was in pure heaven.
They looked nervous, shuffling about like Hogwarts first years waiting to be sorted. It was strangely endearing—she’d rarely ever had wizards look at her with such uncertainty, such hope.
Hermione knew she was cute. But she wasn’t sexy or beautiful or even particularly pretty, by conventional standards. She’d barely been able to tame her curls and preferred practical robes to intricate ones. She liked trousers instead of skirts. She chose comfort over fashion.
It was who she was. She would never apologise for it.
Though sometimes—just sometimes—she wished she could be that person. Like Ginny with her bohemian skirts and effortless charm, or Pansy with her couture and cutting wit.
But here, wearing a stranger’s face and wrapped in emerald lace, she felt wanted. Desired. Sexy.
“Make your choice, Miss Elena.”
Before they’d entered the room, she’d been assigned a fake name to use for play.
As she surveyed her choices, one called out to her amongst the rest. But she wouldn’t reveal her cards just yet. She was rarely prone to impulse. She researched, thought, and decided like a good and sensible witch.
She walked to a grey-haired wizard first. His arms were covered in a thick layer of hair—something she wasn’t particularly into, but she didn’t want him to feel left out.
As she surveyed him, none of the wizards spoke. She had a feeling they’d been told to stay silent so as not to interfere with her choosing.
She appreciated that detail.
She moved to a golden-blonde-haired man with a chiselled jaw and a cleft chin. He looked too much like a Roman god for her liking—all sharp angles and perfect symmetry. He was the most muscled of the lineup. Not bad, objectively. But he smelled like heavy cologne. Almost like McLaggen when he’d corner her in the hallways of the Ministry.
She was immediately turned off.
The next man—her first choice—was a sight to behold.
He was delicate in the face, but his body was gently muscled like a marble statue—the kind you’d find in an Italian museum, made to be admired from every angle. Though he had no abdominal definition, the area there was flat with a touch of softness. The kind you got when you had heavy dinners but ate lighter earlier in the day.
Real, she thought. He looks real.
His fingers were elegant. Manicured and neat. She reached out and grabbed his hand to examine it.
The wizard flinched but didn’t say a word.
She examined the hand thoroughly, tracing its ridges and valleys with her fingertips. There were no calluses. It was a soft hand—well cared for. She liked that. She’d never liked Ron’s hands, as they were always rough from riding a broomstick. They’d felt like sandpaper on her flesh.
The hair along his arms was barely noticeable, so thin and white it was almost invisible.
His nipples were pink, which delighted her for some reason. They nearly matched his lips.
Her eyes traced his face, cataloguing each feature: the aquiline nose, the generous mouth with its pronounced Cupid’s bow. His cheekbones were high and sharp—like Draco’s, she couldn’t help thinking.
Though this man couldn’t possibly be him.
The hair was the palest shade of blonde. Practically white in the overhead light. It was wavy, like a Byronic poet’s, and a lock fell over his forehead in a way that was extremely charming.
She was done faffing about. She could feel the surge of warmth and heat ignite in her core, coiling tight and insistent.
It’d been much too long.
“I’ve made my choice.”
The man before her let out a deep exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time she’d circled him.
“Mr Ivan, do you consent to this choice?” Vale asked.
“I do.” His voice was low, a deep timbre that seemed to resonate in her bones.
Oh, Morgana.
The baritone slid through her as deeply as if he’d entered her right there. She barely suppressed a shiver.
“Follow me,” Vale said.
Before they moved, the man grabbed her hand. The contact nearly startled her—his skin was warm, his grip gentle but firm.
“Is this okay?” he asked softly, icy blue eyes searching her face.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He smiled—a dazzling, white smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
She was going to say Morgana all night long.
Draco was pleased.
He hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly overjoyed with the offering. He’d expected to be passed over a few times before finally being chosen—to stand there while witch after witch looked through him rather than at him.
This was his first time at Liquid Stranger. Theo had told him about the place after he’d had to listen to Draco pine one more fucking time about Granger.
“If you aren’t going to do anything about it,” Theo had said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “then please, for the love of Salazar, get whatever the hell this is out of your system. It’s been what—a year since your last shag?” He’d thrown a slip of parchment at Draco’s head. “Merlin, just get some strange. Here. Send an owl and make a damned appointment.”
So here he was, on a Saturday night, standing almost naked amongst four other men. He’d looked around earlier and noticed they all—from the neck down, and from the scalp up—appeared like doppelgängers.
It was quite bizarre.
Whoever this witch was, she had a bloody type.
When she walked into that room, he was arrested.
He normally didn’t look twice at redheaded witches—too much like a Weasley, in his opinion. He was too close to Ginevra now (though he and Theo were the only ones allowed to call her that) to feel anything remotely sexual about anyone who resembled her.
Except this witch had hair like the last fingers of a sunset. Oranges, golds, and reds cascaded in a flurry of pure beauty. She was on the lower end of middling height—no more than 5’4”, by his estimation. She was slight, with beautifully shaped breasts that looked large enough to fit comfortably in his hand.
The perfect amount.
She fit his type, from the neck down, to the letter. Perfect for his pathetic situation.
He’d been in love with Hermione for going on—what was it now?—five years. Nearly right after they’d become friends. But the history between them was too deep. Too dark. For Merlin’s sake, she had “mudblood” still carved into her arm—a scar she’d got in the Manor’s drawing room while he stood there and did nothing.
Not to mention his parents would make their lives a living hell. He wouldn’t want to subject her to that.
And most importantly—she’d never shown a single ounce of attraction. Or equal longing. So he pined, from afar (or well, up close, really), and suffered in silence.
But that’s why he was here. To get it out of his system. He’d specifically asked for no brunettes so he wouldn’t tumble over into delusion-land. Redheads and black-haired witches seemed to be the only thing he could stomach for this.
Elena—which he knew wasn’t her real name—seemed to continuously stare at him like he wasn’t real. Funnily enough, he was doing the same.
They felt like Adam and Eve from the muggle Bible, entering the garden of Eden for the first time.
When Vale left them alone, they still held hands.
“Ivan”—or whoever he was—turned and grabbed her other hand, so they stood facing each other, fingers intertwined.
“How do you want me to pleasure you?”
The way he said it ignited her nerves as if he’d plucked the scales on a harp. She shivered visibly, and his eyes darkened with satisfaction at the response.
“Do not make love to me,” she said, her voice dropping low. “Fuck me. Hard. Make me forget this fake name they gave me. Make me forget everything.”
Her eyelids lowered sensually, lips slightly parted.
“Is there anything you’d like me to do to you?” she asked. The words felt almost awkward against his own question, but she didn’t care.
“Your idea seems worthwhile to explore.” His thumbs traced slow circles on the backs of her hands. “Is there anything, besides the lovemaking, you’d prefer not to do?”
“Let’s keep it to normal sex. I’m not looking for anything creative or kinky. It’s—” she paused, colour rising in her cheeks, “—been a while for me. Vanilla sex is fine for today.”
The wizard—”Ivan”—chuckled deeply, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Funny you should say that. It’s been a while for me too.”
“How long?”
She shouldn’t have asked, but something emboldened her—this anonymity, this stranger’s face she wore like a mask.
“A year.”
She laughed, surprised. “Nearly the same for me as well.”
“Well, it seems we are more aligned than previously thought.”
“Yes,” she nearly whispered. Her eyes roved over him gently, like the caress of a soft summer breeze.
“How about you? Is there anything you don’t like? Or do like?” She didn’t want to be rude and needed to be sure.
“The same as what you said. I’m not here for kink play—not that I’m averse to such a thing—but that is something I’d like to explore with an intimate partner.” His ice blue eyes held hers. “Not with a stranger.”
She nodded slowly. “I agree.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, charged and heavy.
“I don’t know how else to say this,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up, “but when did you want to start?”
She laughed—a genuine, surprised sound. “There really isn’t a good way to ask, is there?”
“Not really.”
“Well—” She looked down at their joined hands, at the way his pale fingers looked wrapped around hers. “You could start by touching me? Or perhaps untie me from my lace prison?”
Before she’d been led to the choosing room, Vale had spelled her coat away, leaving Hermione in her emerald lingerie. The set Ginny had got her as a gift three years ago.
He tsked, his gaze raking over her slowly. “But it’s such a beautiful lace prison. My favourite colour, if you must know.”
“Is that why your silk pants are green?”
“Perhaps,” he whispered silkily, leaning closer until she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
Their hands broke apart as he used one to tug her close by her lower back. She made a small oof sound as their chests collided, her palms flattening against the warm expanse of his chest.
He tipped her head back with the point of her chin, his lips dangerously close to hers. She could feel his breath against her mouth—warm and slightly sweet, like butterbeer.
“There are other ways to touch that don’t require hands.”
“Hmm... please show me.”
And he did.
His plush lips met her own. It was like fire and electricity meeting together in one cataclysmic moment—a spark that seemed to crackle through her entire nervous system. He deepened the kiss, pulling her pleasure out in ribbons. With each kiss, every tug, she fell deeper and deeper into heady bliss.
Both of his hands cradled her face as they devoured one another. What started soft and sensual soon began to turn animalistic. They were both feral for pleasure, and each was each other’s balm. Their desire. Their need.
His mouth moved from her lips and down her neck, sucking on the taut cord that met her jaw. His teeth grazed her pulse point, and she felt her heartbeat stutter beneath his lips. He bit and sucked, leaving behind a welt she’d need to glamour tomorrow.
It felt like pure heaven.
She moaned as he travelled further, his tongue licking at the hollows of her collarbone, tracing the delicate architecture of bone beneath skin.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against her flesh, his breath hot as he lavished attention on the skin above her breast.
Her hands scrambled for purchase in his wavy locks, fingers threading through silk. He growled slightly as she tugged the ends—but it was a sound of pleasure, not protest, and he didn’t tell her to stop.
He wanted it rough too, it seemed.
As he travelled further, he pulled the lace cup down over her breast, the cool air hitting her heated skin and making her nipple pebble instantly. His plush lips finally found purchase on the aching bud, and he sucked at the tender thing until she whimpered.
“Yes,” he whispered wetly, drawing it into his mouth.
Electricity—pure, white-hot pleasure—shot from the contact straight to the apex of her legs. As if he’d pressed a switch to jack up her desire exponentially.
His other hand kneaded her other aching breast, thumb brushing over the nipple through the lace in maddening circles.
“Perfect,” he murmured, pulling back to look at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Absolutely perfect.”
More pleasure—mostly from the praise—caused her to arch her back, which brought her breasts closer to his mouth and hands. Her body seemed to move of its own accord, seeking more contact, more him.
“Go to the bed,” he whispered harshly, his composure finally cracking. “You’re about to fall over.”
Which she was, she realised. She was arched in a way that would make her lower back burn in the morning.
But she couldn’t give a flying fuck at this moment.
She’d deal with a hundred days of back pain to continue this. But she relented.
They moved as one unit to the soft bed. Black silk sheets covered the furniture, cool and slippery against her sensitised flesh.
A good touch.
They fell into the bed together on their sides, each taking in the other. Their breathing was ragged, the air between them thick with want.
“Pants. Off,” she said, in a voice that was uncharacteristically aggressive for her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Quickly, he shoved the pants off, revealing a very healthy-looking appendage. It was softly pink, just like his nipples, except darker near the head—almost a dusky rose. It looked quite delicious.
It was a wonderful size. Not too big. Not too small. Just right. The girth was also pleasing.
A cock one could spend the rest of their life with, if given a choice.
But that was not a thought for this moment.
“Do you mind if I unwrap you?” he asked, almost timidly—a sharp contrast to the commanding presence he’d shown moments before.
“Please do... Ivan.”
It felt odd to say his name. She wanted to say another—but it was too distinct, too well-known to be said to a total stranger.
Merlin knew if this was someone she knew. Perhaps someone who’d gone to Hogwarts with her.
Another thought not for this moment.
With an efficiency one would expect from a muggle surgeon, he slowly and methodically stripped her bare. The bra came off first—the lace scratching against her pebbled nipple, making her hiss at the contact.
Then the garters. He used his mouth to unfasten them. How? She didn’t know. But it was impressive to watch from the head of the bed, his ice blue eyes locked on hers as his teeth worked the tiny clasps.
The silk stockings—a pricey purchase, but one she was grateful for now—were stripped slowly, inch by inch. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to each newly revealed swath of skin as he went.
“Are you teasing me?” she asked coquettishly. Something she never did.
But tonight was for her to be another person entirely.
“Perhaps.” His lips curved against her calf. “Do you like that?”
“Only a little. I’m not particularly into orgasm denial.”
He smiled wolfishly at her, all teeth and promise. “Maybe another time.”
The thought was almost sobering—another time—but she tried not to let it sour the moment. She tied it in a little box and punted it to the back of her mind.
“Perhaps,” she answered lightly.
The stockings came off in short order. She’d spelled her legs smooth earlier in the day. They looked shapely and unblemished in the light—the scattering of moles and freckles gone in the wake of the glamour charms.
Once her stockings joined the pile on the floor, only her knickers remained. She already knew she’d soaked through the soft material. Could feel the slick heat between her thighs despite her legs being spread open, vulnerable before him.
“My, look at how wet you are.” His voice dropped an octave. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Looks good enough to drink.” He licked his lips slowly, deliberately. “And I’m terribly thirsty.”
“I aim to please.”
“Such a good girl.”
The praise was like hitting the nuclear button on her desire. A shiver wracked her entire frame, and she saw his eyes track the response with obvious satisfaction.
“So there is a kinky side hiding in there.” His smile turned predatory. “Good to know.”
“I never said there wasn’t.”
“My mistake, then. But I’ll work within your boundaries.” He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her knickers. “We can flirt with the edges.”
She shivered more as gooseflesh erupted along her body.
He lunged at her lower half without further warning, his tongue licking straight up the aching centre of her through the damp fabric.
She squealed, unprepared for the pleasurable assault.
He looked up at her with those ice-blue eyes—they looked almost silver in the low light. If she squeezed her eyes hard enough, she could almost imagine—
No, Granger. Leave those thoughts outside of this damned sex club.
“Are you okay?” he asked suddenly, pausing.
He’d been watching her, she realised. Had seen her drift.
“Yes, sorry—my mind started thinking about something else.”
“Looks like I’m not working hard enough.” He pulled her underwear aside with one finger. “Let me empty your mind from a different place.”
Immediately, he dived in.
She nearly jolted off the bed as his sucking mouth went straight to her clit. He’d found it almost immediately—it’d taken Ron a few weeks. Some of the other blokes since then... an uncomfortably long time.
But he’d honed in on it as if she’d Accio’d his lips straight there.
It. Was. Heaven.
The tip of his tongue swirled around the bud, wringing pleasure from every touch, every lick. He strummed her like a guitar, eliciting the sweet music of her moans.
His teeth bit in the right places. His lips pulsed and sucked like the best muggle sex toy she’d ever owned.
She was dying, and she was happy about it.
Within minutes of his assault, she flew head over broom straight into the best orgasm she’d had in her entire twenty-nine years, three hundred and sixty days, six hours, and four minutes. She was panting and breathing in the unsexiest way she could imagine—great, heaving gasps that shook her whole body.
She didn’t bloody care.
And neither did Ivan.
His mouth and chin were covered in her moisture, glistening in the low light. He just sat there, looking like the cat that got the cream.
“Fancy another go?”
The way he said it—casual, almost conversational—was almost absurd. She started laughing.
“Only with you inside me.”
That wolfish smile tugged at the corners of his lips again. “Yes, ma’am.”
He crawled up until his arms were on either side of her head, caging her in. He was breathing heavily, slightly flushed—his pale skin pink across his cheeks and down his chest.
She looked down at his cock, which was already weeping, the head glistening with pre-come. She reached down and smeared it across the plum head with her thumb.
He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily.
“Careful—I’ll come if you keep doing that.”
She gave a few more squeezes and touches, delighting in the way his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out.
“Alright, enough of that, you.” He swatted her hand away, but his eyes were warm with amusement.
She laughed, the sound gentle and sultry. So unlike her.
He bent down and kissed her. It was a trifle soft—almost delving into lovemaking territory. She didn’t mind too much. If she closed her eyes, she could just imagine—
Put those thoughts away this instant, Granger!
He continued to kiss her, wringing the ribbons of desire and want out of her until she felt boneless. As he did so, she felt the head of him nudge at her entrance.
Not invade. That wasn’t the right word.
Welcomed.
It felt weirdly like a homecoming.
She chalked it up to her minge finally getting some action after being benched for a year.
As he entered her, she stretched around his cock just right. They fit together nearly perfectly—like puzzle pieces, just as Vale had said. The head of him just barely touched her cervix. Not enough to be painful, but enough to feel completely full.
It was glorious.
It felt right.
He started a rhythm, moving very slowly at first. He continued kissing her, each deepening of his lips matching the thrusting. He was like an engine as he powered her desire to new heights. Though he started out slow, he quickly picked up speed, pistoning, slamming his hips into hers.
He finally released her lips as she moaned—almost screamed, really—from the contact. Somehow, his stomach or lower half was rubbing against her clit with how close their bodies were mashed together. Or perhaps it was the way he moved in and out of her, like a wave.
It was pure ecstasy.
All she could do was hold on. She scrambled for leverage along his expansive back as he continued pounding into her, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. Rough and violent—just what she’d asked for.
A rough fuck. Just what she’d ordered.
“Good boy,” she whispered in his ear.
“Fuck...” he breathed, his rhythm stuttering. He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against hers. “Almost made me come just saying that. But I’m not done with you yet. We still have another twenty minutes, and I plan to use every second.”
Had it only been forty minutes since they got into this room? It had already felt like hours. Not that she was complaining.
“Would you like to switch positions?” he asked.
She liked that he’d asked instead of just doing.
“I want to get on my hands and knees.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re just so good, aren’t you?”
The pleasure of praise coiled warm in her belly.
Without further preamble—and his cock hanging heavy between his legs, still glistening with her arousal—she turned and got on all fours. She moved her torso nearly flat to the mattress and then stuck up her exposed holes to his admiring gaze.
“Gorgeous.” His voice was reverent. “And all for me.”
She wiggled her arse in invitation.
He moved on his knees toward her and pressed the head of his weeping cock to her entrance. She was so wet she could hear the slight squelching as he slid home, sheathing himself fully in one smooth thrust.
She moaned as he filled her. His torso met her back as he blanketed her, his chest warm and solid against her spine, his lips brushing her ear.
“Salazar, you’re so tight for me.”
She froze at the invocation.
He seemed to freeze too.
“You’re a Slytherin?”
“Forget I said that.” His voice was tight—almost pained.
“I don’t mind. It’s just Hogwarts houses. We’re both past school age. It doesn’t matter.”
He chuckled darkly. “Not everyone agrees.”
“Well, I don’t, so don’t feel like you need to hold yourself back.”
“Whoever you are...” His lips brushed her shoulder blade. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Then fuck me and make it up to me.”
Never in her wildest dreams would she ever say something like that to another person.
“Gods, you’re perfect.” And as he said so, he retreated and slammed straight back into her.
She moaned like a whore, crying out at every thrust. The slaps of their bodies sounded obscene in the quiet room, punctuated by her gasps and his grunts.
His hand had moved down towards her centre, strumming her clit with brutal efficiency with every thrust.
He filled her, split her open, wrung pleasure from her like she was a juicy piece of fruit in the middle of a desert.
She felt wanted. She felt seen. She felt desired.
It was overwhelming.
She came embarrassingly quickly—shuddering, screaming, biting into the pillow to muffle a name that nearly crossed the threshold of her lips.
He moaned behind her as his hips stuttered and his seed filled her.
They breathed as one creature for a handful of moments. Sweat stuck them together. Where he began and she ended didn’t seem apparent in those trembling seconds.
“Fuck,” he said, breathing harshly.
“Fuck indeed.”
They disentangled themselves, his cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. A pang of loss hit him squarely in the chest.
He wanted to stay within this witch forever, whoever she was.
It was something he thought he’d never say about another witch besides Hermione.
But he knew why. The entire time they’d been running out the clock in this room, he hadn’t dared use this mystery woman’s fake name. Instead, in his mind like a fool, he’d thought only of her.
The bushy-haired Gryffindor princess who had him by the cock every hour, every day, and every month of the year without realising it.
He’d used this stranger as a magic cock sleeve—a sex doll, practically—to live out his rawest fantasy of her. He’d treated this stranger-witch like he would her.
He’d thought doing this would get it out of his system.
If anything, it was making it worse.
Salazar. He was utterly and totally fucked.
“That was wonderful,” the witch said, cleaning herself up with the provided wipes. Her voice was light, satisfied—the voice of someone who’d been thoroughly shagged.
“It was,” he breathed. He was doing his best to pretend as if he weren’t having earth-shattering revelations on his end of the bed.
“This may be jumping the wand, but...” She grew quiet, almost shy—a sharp contrast to the woman who’d been moaning beneath him minutes ago. “I’d like to do that again sometime.”
Despite his revelations, and his hesitations, he realised he also wanted to do this again. If he couldn’t have heaven, he could at least have earth.
“I would too.”
“Do they allow that here? Or do we have to...” She made a grimace, her nose wrinkling. “...reveal ourselves outside of Liquid Stranger?”
The grimace tempered the last flame of his desire, sobering him somewhat. If this stranger knew who he was, she’d probably run screaming for the hills. His name was still infamous despite his family’s charities, public decries of pureblood ideology, and attempts at making amends. No matter what, he’d still be marked as a Death Eater until he was buried six feet under.
He nearly reached for his Dark Mark, but the glamour spell had erased all traces of it. Something he was used to doing in the hotter months of the year anyway.
“You can let Vale know that you’d like to pair us up again. We can schedule the next session. How about next Saturday, same time? 10 PM?”
“I can do that.”
“If you can’t make it, owl the establishment and they’ll let me know. They’ll be an intermediary.”
“Are you a regular here? Is that how you know all this?”
“No—this is my first time. But a friend of a friend is a regular here.”
He thought of Blaise among those wizards in the room, but none of the men had been his olive-toned friend.
Thank Salazar.
“Okay.” She nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Next Saturday, then. 10 PM.”
Her green eyes—not her real eyes, he reminded himself—held his for a long moment. And despite everything, despite knowing this was all an illusion, all smoke and mirrors and borrowed faces...
He found himself looking forward to Saturday already.