"Harry!" Hermione hissed.
"Hm?" Potter turned to her, abruptly awakened from some staring dream. "What?"
Granger tisked. "What the devil are you staring at? I've been talking to you for five minutes and I know you haven't heard me."
"Nothing." He lied. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"I said Ginny just arrived. With Neville and Luna." She gestured to the trio with her head. "She's looking over here and you really should say hello."
"Hermione." He was tight lipped. Tired of this issue. "If Ginny wants to talk to me, she will. I told you we are having some time apart."
Hermione huffed. "It just puts a great deal of strain on our friendship is all." She tapped a finger on their table. Harry scowled and looked away again, taking advantage of the crowd between himself and the object of his stare. When his friend rose gracelessly, he didn't look at her. "Well, I'm going to see her."
"Good. Good."
"When you're done dwelling on whatever you're dwelling on, I imagine Ron would like to see you, as well."
"Right." He sighed when she stalked away. Rubbed at his eyes. She was so damned exhausting lately, and he had no escape. Hermione had lived with him at Grimmauld for the last three years, ever since the end of the war. He couldn't have refused her. She was like a sister, and his sister needed a home. But damn. She doesn't have to act like an older sister.
He and Ginny had been perfectly amicable in their decision to separate. Perfectly mature and conscientious. If anything, he felt closer to his former girlfriend than he had before - even when they were an item. And Harry was perfectly willing to admit the fault was primarily his own. His work with the Auror department had kept him terribly distracted - too distracted to nurture a relationship, much less think of marriage.
Surprisingly, Ginny had been relieved when he told her the truth. She'd confessed her own longings for single life, worried they'd been too hasty to commit after the war ended. But Harry suspected quite a few relationships had been created and destroyed due to the war.
A group of Ministry officials and a few sharply dressed aurors passed before his line of sight, and when they'd dissipated, he realised he'd lost his target. Hell.
Then a familiar smile greeted him warmly. "Hello, Harry."
"Ginny." He grinned in return, rose to embrace her.
The hug was warm. Comfortable. "I'll never get over seeing you in uniform." She poked at the neat lapel of his auror robes.
Harry shrugged sheepishly. "You're one to talk tonight. You look amazing."
And she did. Always did. Graceful, lithe and tall, she had a dancer's body. Tonight, that body was draped in rich gold velvet, nicely off-setting her burnished hair. "Thanks," she murmured. "Thought I'd come over and visit. Hermione was quite put out on my behalf."
Harry appreciated her humor regarding the situation, and snagged two glasses of champagne from a charmed tray floating past. "Well. To politics, then."
Ginny chuckled. "Politics." They drank, and she scanned the Great Hall wistfully. "McGonagall's done a remarkable job here." She looked up at the ceiling which was currently sporting a cloudy starry sky.
"She has." Harry agreed. "Headmistress McGonagall. She asked after you earlier."
"Yes, I heard." Ginny stroked his cheek. Seemed to resist saying something. "I'm going to find her, actually."
Her touch had been warm and he would be a liar if he denied it was missed. "Yeah. She'll be happy to see you."
"Well." She nodded. "If our paths don't cross again tonight, take care Harry."
"You too, Gin." He watched her walk away, recalled vividly the feel of her straight, soft form pressing against his, the awkward eagerness of coming together, the simple pleasure of...
Sex. He chewed at his bottom lip. Definitely missing that. He took another opportunity to glance about. His target seemed to be gone entirely from the Hall, but he did catch the eyes of his fellow auror and best friend. Ron nodded, smirked. Harry nodded back, smirked.
He knew Ron didn't resent him, but it was true there was some awkwardness between him and Hermione when Harry was about. So Harry tried to distance himself when he could. Not to mention he spent plenty of time with Ron at work and on their quidditch or pub nights.
Familiar faces were becoming too numerous. Harry drained his glass and left it on his table. Decided to retire early. After all, rain was expected, and he dreaded apparating in weather. Purposefully avoiding good-bye's, he made for the opened doors, and slipped out quietly.
Clusters of witches and wizards lingered in the torch-lit foyer and courtyard. Harry raised his red hood, felt his cloak snap at his ankles as he made for a proper apparation point. Just outside the courtyard, near a clutch of Whistler Shrubs, he found a quiet spot. He'd closed his eyes, picturing Grimmauld's back patio, when he heard a peculiar flick nearby.
His eyes snapped open. The auror within had to investigate.
Between two tall shrubs was a figure enclosed in shadow. The clicking sound had been a lighting charm. He saw the tell-tale glow of a cigarette, smelled the burn of herb. He rolled his eyes. The new headmistress was quite firm on her smoking rule: not allowed. For students, staff or visitors. Obviously, this culprit knew that as they'd chosen to secrete themselves.
Let it go. It's nothing. Just go home, toss back a firewhiskey or two, have a wank in the shower, and enjoy your damned weekend off. But the Gryffindor within would have none of that.
He stepped toward the shrubs, cleared his throat. "Come on out of there," he said firmly. "There's no smoking on Hogwarts grounds, you know. Shall I turn you over to McGonagall?"
The fag fell to the ground, and Harry watched an elegantly heeled feminine foot extinguish it. His eyes followed the exposed leg up as the figure emerged into the light, and his heart flipped.
"Honestly, I might prefer Azkaban." The smooth drawl replied. Her lacquered lips glistened in the moonlight. A deadly quirk of bright quince. His tantalising target had been sighted yet again - and within reach. Totally unexpected.
"Mrs. Malfoy." His voice cracked.
"Ms. Malfoy," she corrected smoothly. "Mr. Potter." She was withdrawing a pair of sleek evening gloves from an equally sleek evening clutch. Diabolical in fitted black silk. "I apologise for my trespass, though moreso for my own indiscretion, I suppose. I'd so hoped to enjoy a peaceful smoke before apparation." Her eyes glinted playfully. It was disconcerting. They were the color of blue stars.
"Oh?" Her 'trespass' was, of course, forgiven. "You're leaving, then?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, then." He licked his lips. "I suppose you can have your smoke in the privacy of your own home?" He tried a grin.
"Unfortunately, my son is visiting me for a few days. I'm afraid he is...unaware of my habit and would hardly approve. He's dreadfully overprotective since I left his father."
Harry nearly laughed. "Yes, I heard you'd moved on. Staying in Nysa now, aren't you?"
Her brow arched. She'd stepped close enough for him to smell her. Some intoxicating blend of sandalwood and almond and...pure lust. "Keeping up with me, Mr. Potter?"
He blushed so furiously, grateful for the evening's pall. "It was relatively well-published."
"True." Her coy smile said she was teasing. "Either way. I like it there."
"It's a nice place." Not that he could ever afford to live there. The exclusive enclave outside of Diagon was notorious for housing only the richest of witches. But with the reclaimed Black dowry, including her dead sister's inheritance and what he imagined was a sizable Malfoy alimony - no doubt this witch was probably the richest among them.
"It is." She sighed, looked wistfully back to the shrubs. "And yet I still can't smoke there." Her lashes stroked her cheek as she cut eyes at him. "At least...not tonight."
It was insanity - pure insanity - but he wanted her so badly and so far beyond any reasonable imagining that he could taste her already, so he made the hasty, ridiculous offer: "You could come to Grimmauld. With me. And smoke." So few words and it still felt like rambling. "I wouldn't tell."
Her other brow rose. "A Gryffindor with a Slytherin streak?" She reached out. Red nails stroked the auror badge on his chest. "And an auror, to boot. I'm leery…"
"I promise I'll be a gentleman." Is this really happening? Please, blessed goddess let this be happening… He suspected Hermione would spend the night at the Burrow tonight. Being alone with this witch was a dizzying possibility. He offered his arm, exuding a confidence he barely felt.
"Oh?" She seemed to consider, teased him mercilessly with a put-on contemplation. "I suppose I can be a lady, then, and graciously accept your invitation." She stepped to his arm, folded her own around it. Her dove grey pashmina stroked the back of his hand.
He breathed in the warm amaretto scent of her. The thick loose curls cascading over her shoulder brushed his shoulder. "Ready?"
She looked at him askance, a smile too knowing on her lush velvet lips. "Quite." They apparated with a hiss and pop.
Torches flared to life when they swirled into solid on his back patio. "Oh!" Narcissa nearly lost her balance when she stumbled into a wrought iron chair.
Harry swept her a bit tighter to him. "Sorry!" He lurched when her hand fell against his stomach. "I'm usually not off in my apparation calculations."
"It's fine." She stepped away, straightened her hair. "At least I wasn't in the bird bath."
He chuckled, waved his wand and ushered her up the short stone stairs into Grimmauld's back entrance. "I assume you've been here before, Ms. Malfoy?"
"It's been a very long time, Mr. Potter."
Inside, he lead her through the mudroom, down the hallway and into the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?" He asked, needing some sort of distraction. He tossed his bright red robes onto a high peg and turned to the stove. "I could call Kreacher if you want something more...elaborate."
"No tea, thank you."
Her voice was too close. He turned sharply and came nearly to to toe with the petite witch. Even in heels she was a few inches shorter than he. "Ah… You can smoke now. In here. If you want."
She slipped the soft shawl from her shoulders and offered it to Harry. He sent it flying alongside his cloak, focusing on her pale skin. The dress bared one shoulder entirely. "I find myself less inclined to the habit at the moment." She tossed her clutch to his counter top carelessly.
"Oh?" His nostrils flared. She shook her head and that damnable scent wafted.
"Mr. Potter."
"Yes?"
She was casually removing her long evening gloves. "May I ask you a question? And have an honest answer?"
"I'm a Gryffindor, Ms. Malfoy. You pointed that out yourself, earlier."
"Why were you staring at me this evening?"
He swallowed. "I...I didn't realize -"
"That I noticed?" She tossed her gloves to join her clutch. "I did. Also a few weeks ago when you stared at me during that St. Mungo's charity ball. And at the Quidditch cup a few months past. And there was that -"
"Alright!" The litany grew embarrassing. "I'm sorry." Her breasts brushed his chest ever so slightly. His neck itched. He picked at his collar. "I suppose I... Well, I thought you were beautiful."
She reached for his tie. Untied it. Smiling softly. "Do you still think I'm beautiful?"
Her fingers grazed his skin as she unbuttoned the collar. "Yes." He gulped, ached to touch her.
"Don't you have a housemate, Harry?"
"Hermione is out tonight."
"Oh. Pity." Her breath puffed against his chin. It smelled of champagne. She was looking up at him, eyes smoky and half-mast. "And your… significant other?"
His cock - rock-hard in too-tight trousers - twitched toward her belly. "Ginny and I are…" He gestured to indicate a break.
She caught his hands as they fell. Tisked. "I sympathise. Harry?"
"Narcissa?" Her name felt salacious sliding from his mouth - sounded like Parseltongue and was no doubt as powerful. He pulled a hand from her grip, pressed it to the wall above her head. Her shawl brushed his wrist.
"You can stop being a gentleman now, if you like."
He leaned into her space fully, let her feel his breath on her lips. "And will you stop being a lady?"
"Most definitely." Just a tiny tilt of her head and they were kissing madly.
They moaned together. Heaved together. The wall was hard against her back and Harry was hard against her front. Her fingers curled in his hair. She held his head as if she thought he would pull away at any second - reconsider his actions.
But Harry had no intentions of reconsidering. He had progressed so far down the slippery spiral of forbidden lust he could barely consider breathing. And why should he? Her breath - hot and wanting - tasted far better than any air. She whimpered and he switched his angle, sucked at her bottom lip. She groaned and he lifted her.
Her arse was plumper than Ginny's - softer and rounder. He squeezed it and she wrapped a leg high over his hip, hissing in his ear before biting at the lobe. His glasses went askew on his face. "Fuck!" He snapped. "This is…" His glasses went askew on his face.
"I want you inside me, Harry." She thrust against his hardness and he jerked.
"Oh! Wha -" Vocabulary. Nuisance. As were his damned glasses. He tossed them to the table and heard them slide for some time.
Her fingertips danced over his erection, gripped him through trousers. "Hell, yes," she growled. "I need this cock in me, Harry. Take me to bed."
He'd never heard such filth. Certainly never expected it from this witch's proper pureblood lips. But those lips were swollen now from his bites and wet with his spit, so he supposed it shouldn't come as any great surprise. "Upstairs," he managed.
She was unbuttoning his dress shirt. "Then let's go." Her cool fingers wreaked havoc on his overheated skin as she shoved shirt and jacket off his shoulders. He was nicely marking her exposed shoulder with lips and teeth when she attacked his own sweaty skin.
They stumbled over furniture shedding heels and loafers, to the base of his stairs. They paused there, taking a heated moment to divest Narcissa of her dress. Harry tugged it over her hips and they backed up the stairs as he worshiped her bared breasts.
They were simply marvelous. Again, different from the breasts he was accustomed to - Ginny's barely-there-bumps and Hermione's vest-hinted-humps. Narcissa's were full and firm, still high and attentive, the nipples a deep coral and hard when his thumbs flicked them. "Fucking beautiful," he muttered around a mouthful of puckered flesh. He sucked hard and she bucked.
"Harry." Her hands wrenched his head none-too-gently to face her. Eyes wide, cheeks pink and hair a mess, she was glorious. "Which room?"
They'd reached the second floor landing. When did that happen? She was rubbing bodily against him, licking from his Adam's apple to his jaw. His brain was shutting down entirely. "Here."
He fumbled at the knob. The hallway's runner bunched under his toes and he kicked at it. Witch fingers joined his and they opened the door together. His room was dark and since his wand was in his jacket somewhere, he lit no torches. The moonlight was enough to guide them to his heavy-curtained four-poster.
Narcissa climbed smoothly onto the duvet, knelt so that she could still reach his mouth. Their kisses grew sloppier, stickier, hotter. He ran fingers eagerly beneath the silky barrier of her knickers to again cup the cool thickness of her rear and suddenly felt coolness at his own rear.
She'd managed to loose his trousers. They pooled with a swish around his ankles and she boldly stroked his bare erection. "Guh!" He pulled away on the embarrassing exclamation. "You're fucking killing me, witch!"
She wriggled against his hands, encouraged him to tug her knickers off properly as she scrambled backward on his bed. "Just want you fucking me, Potter." She tugged him over her by his cock. Not that he wouldn't have followed. And when her head was just near enough the pillows, she pulled him flush against her. "Oh, you feel bloody good."
"You, too." Mindless. It was absolute lunacy but her legs wrapped around his back completely and before any calculations could have been made he was sliding into wet witch.
It was the only time they truly stopped. The only time they even slowed. Her back arched and he held her steady, watched her face when he was buried to the hilt. He loved how her mouth opened on a silent scream - how her nails gouged crescent moons in his sticky shoulders. She felt -
"Shite, you're tight!" Or it had been too long. For both of them. Didn't matter.
"Fuck me, Harry. Hard!" She demanded and he delivered. Bastioned them by bracing with his hands round two headboard's spindles. "Yes! That's it. Good boy."
Ridiculous to feel rewarded by the sex-fueled lust-drunk ramblings of a witch in heat, but he was. Couldn't help it. And his own tongue loosened, too. "You're amazing," he told her. Damn my mouth! "Your tits are fantastic." Well, they were. Quivering with his every rough thrust, shiny with his saliva and their shared sweat.
She chuffed laughter even in the midst of breathless panting. "Thank you, Harry." A low whinge. "Now make me come! Tell me to come! Talk to me. Say my name!"
He grunted into her neck and redoubled his efforts. Talking miraculously staved off his own impending release, so he kept a stream of salacious speech running just over the shell of her ear, tongue occasionally flicking against smooth black pearl earring. "Please, Narcissa. Come for me, witch. Fuck, you feel so good. So sweet. Your cunt's so tight, Narcissa. Please, goddess bless just come for me!" His bollocks burned, but the witch burned hotter. He could feel her tensing, coiling, feel the clench of soft, mysterious muscles milking his cock as she yelled victory.
"Hell yes, Harry! That's it! There! Don't stop! Oh gods!" She rode out their waves like a seasoned salt, holding him tight within her even as he spurted his offering and he growled helplessly. "Mmmmmm."
She stroked him, gentling. Hugged him and nuzzled his face as a satisfied woman. "Lovely, Harry," she sighed. "Simply lovely."
"Mph." He could only grunt. Still catching his breath and recovering from the liqour sweet smell of her that had inebriated him. "Good."
She chuckled. "You dear thing. Are you alright?" Her voice was roughened, but still strong. He felt like his was barely audible.
"I'm fine." He spat a shank of her hair from his mouth. "Bloody hell." Shakily, he pushed away from her, looked down on her lax face. "How are you still so beautiful?"
She stroked his jaw. Her fingers felt cool. "You've left your glasses downstairs."
He shook his head. Already, his spent cock was stirring against her abdomen and the scratchy down on her mons. "Why me?"
She shrugged. "Why me? You were the one looking, Harry."
"I don't know why I wanted you so badly -"
A sharp worry hexed her visage, and even her practiced apathy couldn't recover in time to hide it. "Do you regret this?"
"No!" He took her head in his hands as she relaxed. "I still want you." The admission was almost humiliating. He kissed her breast. "I'm just worried you'll leave now and never -"
"I was hoping for a few more rounds, actually." She interrupted him smoothly. "You are a young wizard, are you not?"
Relief flooded his chest. He smirked. "Yes, ma'am."
"And I think somewhere deep inside -" she punctuated this statement with a finger to his chest - "past the gentleman - is a delightfully filthy lover."
True that. Harry rolled to his back, grinning, pulled her atop himself. "Well if you're still disinclined to be a lady...we have all weekend to find him."
Her head pounded. She knew it was to be expected, but hangovers were bitches on earth. "Ugh." Hermione winced at the slamming of Grimmauld's back door behind her. Apparation hadn't helped. Damn Ginny and her mother's homemade meade. Never again.
She slugged into the kitchen, squinting against the morning light streaking through the window over the sink. "Kreacher?" She wanted tea, but had little faith in the elf answering to her, especially not this early. And especially not the mudblood...unless Harry's about to check his crusty arse. "Fuck it." She would make her own tea.
She pulled her wand from her a long, rumpled sleeve, then thought better of it. Too bloody hung over for magic. Reaching for the kettle on the stove, she paused. "What the…"
She held up the evening bag, eyeing it skeptically - one eye perhaps a bit wider than the other. She dared not look inside. Knew - as a smart witch herself - how dastardly witches could be with protection charms on such belongings. Scowling a bit, she set it carefully back on the counter beside the silky gloves.
Surely Harry hasn't brought some witch home! Still contemplating, she ran water from the tap into the kettle, glancing at the bag and gloves. Surely there's a perfectly logical explanation. Maybe Luna needed a couch last night? And Neville? They're probably asleep in the music room.
She set the kettle to boil, chewing her lip as she regarded the elegant accessories. Still. A bit too...sophisticated for Luna. She lifted a glove and sniffed it. Closed her eyes at the warm fragrance. These things belonged to a witch with...taste. And probably money.
She walked to the buffet against the opposite wall to retrieve a teacup and nearly tripped over scattered shoes. "Gah!" She lifted an offending heel. Blinked at it. That can't be… real basilisk? Her thumb rubbed the smooth, shiny skin. It bloody well is real basilisk!
She'd never even touched real basilisk. Dropped the shoe with a heavy brow. She peeked into the hallway, toward the stairs. There, hanging from the bannister like a pure silk accusation was proof positive of Harry's indiscretion: a solid black dress.
Granger tugged the dress down. It fell across her arm with that peculiar liquid weight raw silk possesses - not heavy, but not light. It felt like sin, and she knew it probably was. She held it up against her front, unabashedly comparing size.
There were inches to spare, so the witch was obviously petite. The wheels churned furiously in Hermione's over-brilliant brain. There was also the matter of width to contend with. Harry's suitor had hips and breasts.
So that's what he's about. No wonder he'd broken things off with Ginny - she obviously didn't have the equipment Harry was seeking. So bloody typical. She was disappointed in Harry. Balling the dress angrily when she noticed the elegant tag inside. Noir?! What witch in her right mind tosses a House of Noir dress around like damned castoff towel?!
It was the last straw. Not only had Harry betrayed Ginny, he'd betrayed Ginny with an obviously loose-moraled, negligent, apathetic slag of a witch with more money than sense. She tossed the ball of silk (which she was absolutely not jealous of in the least) through the banister to the stairs. And I hope Kreacher hasn't swept those in months.
The tea kettle squealed, a harpy to Hermione's head. "Ah!" Hands over ears, she rushed back into the kitchen.
She was belligerent in preparing her cuppa. Slammed the kettle onto the stove. Hurled her spoon into the porcelain sink. Slurped unapologetically. And sure enough, eventually her obnoxiousness paid off.
Harry appeared, shirtless and bleary-eyed in the open doorway. "Hermione?"
"Who else were you expecting?" She asked icily. "Or did you bring home some other guests last night whose attire I haven't stumbled across?" He squinted at her. Ran a hand through impossibly tangled hair. She held out his glasses. "Found these on the table. Obviously you didn't need them last night?"
"Hermione…"
"It's extremely disrespectful," she hissed. Followed him as he began preparing the kettle again. "Bringing some...some witch here last night after you literally disappeared without saying good-bye to the girl who still bloody loves you. And…" Her lip curled as she circled him. "Circe's sweet teats, Harry! Did you shag a werewolf? She mauled you!"
Harry looked down at the scratches, bites and bruises on his torso. He grinned drunkenly. "Yeah...she did."
"It's disgusting." Hermione spat.
"It was amazing." Harry murmured.
"I can't believe you, Harry." Hermione's arms crossed over her chest. "This is the last thing I would expect from you. I mean, maybe…" She ran through a list of names in her head. "Maybe someone like Draco Malfoy -"
"Draco Malfoy what?"
The icy inquiry came from behind the two Gryffindors, and they turned slowly. Harry smirked at the witch in the doorway, while Hermione paled and gaped.
Narcissa leaned in the oak frame on a bent elbow, one tapered bare foot rubbing an equally bare creamy calf. She wore Harry's Gryffindor quidditch jersey - apparently grabbed in haste. It fit her like a sloppy tunic, the v-neck far too low for her petite frame revealing the full bosom for all of the glory Hermione had earlier envied. The gold-trimmed hem fell just beneath propriety onto porcelain thighs and Granger knew that if the older witch should lift either arm any further, she would know Narcissa Malfoy in almost the same level of intimacy her housemate now did.
"Uh…" It was all she could manage.
Narcissa yawned lazily, patted her open mouth. "I assure you I am not apt to eavesdrop, but of course, hearing the family name, I was...piqued." She entered the kitchen as if she owned it, stroking Harry's bare belly as she passed, and took the steaming kettle from the stove. She poured boiling water over the bag Harry had originally set up for himself, inhaling the steam. "Darjeeling? How quaint. Is there cream, Miss Granger?"
"Uh…"
"Here." Harry handed her the little porcelain pitcher from the ice box.
"Thank you, handsome." Sipping her tea, she sighed. Leaned against the counter between the Gryffindors who were currently staring each other down. Silence settled. Birds chirped outside. The Slytherin encroacher - hair a messy halo and make-up a sexy smudge - finished her cuppa and set it aside calmly. "Well. It's been lovely to see you again...Hermione. Harry?" She stepped past them, tugging meaningfully the strings on Harry's sleep pants. "I'll see you back upstairs?"
"Yes, ma'am." He watched her go. Licked his lips.
Hermione blinked narrowed eyes. "I thought you were a gentleman, Harry. I don't even have words to express how disgusted I am with you right now."
"Well." Harry patted her shoulder distractedly, still staring after the departed Slytherin. "Perhaps they'll come to you later."
Hermione stared into a void, listening to Harry's footsteps pound quickly up the stairs. Obviously ladies and gentlemen are things of the past. She started clearing up the scattered tea things, beginning to care less about disturbing their crotchety elf. Overhead, she heard the plumbing complain in their shared main lavatory and looked up. "And that whore better not use my bloody soap…"
AN: Yet another naughty one-shot based on a fragrance - this one (the one that so captivates poor Potter) White Sandalwood by Nest. They're exclusive to your local Sephora, so do check them out. Simply gorgeous. Also visit Nest Fragrances dot com - all one word. I had the delight to meet the nice lady who designs their scents and she is - most definitely - a lady. Gratitude as always to the dragon for the read-through.