A/N: This story was written for the Hermione Smut Fest 2017. I used prompt #21: Hermione's sex tapes are found and she will do anything to stop their release. Pairing: Hermione/Scabior.
Many thanks to Timelady92 for giving this story a once-over and her approval. It means a lot to me. Thank you also to the prompter, whoever you may be, for convincing me to step a toe out of my comfort zone and try writing a new, rare pair. Enjoy!
The millennium was dying. Keeping to the edges of the beautiful ballroom, Hermione was breathing her last lungfuls of 1999 air. As her lungs drew in the precious oxygen of the old century, her chest swelled with hope for the next one.
And why wouldn't there be hope? The errant Death Eaters had been rounded up, given trials, and judged fairly and justly. Their new Minister for Magic was seeing to it that nobody was flung into Azkaban for the mere crime of having the Dark Mark branded into their skin but were evaluated as to whether they had any chance of redeeming themselves. As such, people like Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had been allowed to walk free. A new era was dawning; Kingsley Shacklebolt was seeing to that. His interim role had been turned into a permanent one in the last elections, and this ball, this New Year's Eve celebration tonight, was being hosted by the ex-Auror, fellow Order member, and – in Hermione's case – life saver.
In addition to staff improvements in the Ministry, Hermione found her own life going rather splendidly, as well. Having finished her NEWTs at Hogwarts, she had now moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry, Ginny, and Ronald. Giving their blossoming relationship the shot it so well deserved, she was taking things slowly with Ron. Even though they were living in the same house, they kept to different rooms, different floors, even. He was busy with Auror training, which he had started two summers ago, right out of the Final Battle. Often he had to work late nights, but Hermione didn't mind too much. This way, he rarely noticed when she stayed longer than contractually necessary at the Ministry, as well, working through as many legislations as she could get her hands on. There was much to do still in order to improve the Ministry of Magic, and Hermione did her part as a legal intern, sifting through the laws that had been set in place for decades, centuries even, and were subsequently completely outdated.
But tonight was a night of celebration. Ron had delved into the spectacle right away, seeking out the delights of alcohol and admirers that Kingsley's party had to offer, riding the still-strong wave of his fame as a war hero. Hermione, she preferred to keep to the edges, watching and enjoying the party from the position as a bystander. She was still not entirely comfortable with stuffed rooms, glaring lights, loud music, and too many wands to keep an eye on every single one of them. But she was happy for Ron. She was.
"Standing all by yourself on a night like this, Miss Granger?" a deep voice enquired kindly.
A smile spread over Hermione's face.
"So are you, Minister," she countered, "or so it would seem."
"So it would seem," he agreed, humming softly.
The sound reverberated through Hermione's chest. Kingsley was standing close behind her, both using the proximity to not have to shout over the music, and to use her as a visual shield, short though she was, in order to avoid the throng of admirers that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Their position, slightly hidden behind one of the pillars in his ballroom, helped.
"Say, where is that wizard of yours, Hermione?" he asked after a minute of content silence. "Left you all alone, now, did he?"
"You know I don't like being in the middle of so many people, Kingsley," Hermione replied. "But Ronald enjoys it, so I'm happy for him. I am."
"I know you are," he replied, and she knew that she'd sounded more defensive than she'd intended. It was difficult, sometimes, not to become defensive.
She was about to reply, to defend her defensive stance, but they were interrupted by a note fluttering its way to her. Grabbing the little origami butterfly out of the air, she unfolded the parchment, her eyes flying over the words written there.
Come meet me out back, if you dare. No wand. No knickers.
Hermione was confused. The handwriting did not look like Ronald's, and the note did not sound like him, nor was she in any way convinced that he had any clue as to how to fold a butterfly out of parchment. But they had been talking about how to spice up their sex life, and the demand for no knickers did sound somewhat familiar. Perhaps this was his sweet, if somewhat clumsy, attempt at ringing in the new millennium on a romantic note?
"Everything alright there, lioness?"
Kingsley. Sweet Circe, did he have to stand so close? Things were comfortable between her and the new Minister, had always been comfortable ever since she'd met him, even though she had somewhat expected them to become awkward after –
But they hadn't. He was the perfect gentleman, giving her the space she needed, granting her the opportunities she deserved, offering her the support she craved, honouring the friendship she valued. Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of the most eligible bachelors in Wizarding Britain. No, the most eligible bachelor in Wizarding Britain – after all, Harry was with Ginny, and Hermione herself had managed to snatch Ronald Weasley, war hero, off the market. Lucky her.
"Yes, yes," she assured him, more than a little off kilter for his use of the pet name he used to have for her, "I'm fine, thank you. I have to go, though. I have to – I have to go, excuse me."
"Hermione?"
Confusion was evident in his tone.
Halfway out of the little nook they had been standing in, almost running the imposing wizard over in her haste to escape the too comfortable closeness, she turned around at the sound of worry in his voice.
"I'm perfectly alright, Kingsley," she assured him. "Thank you for asking. But Ron has demanded my presence, and I don't want to keep him waiting. Midnight's drawing near and all that, you know."
She smiled, showing more confidence than she was feeling. He could see right through her, she knew, but hoped that he wouldn't dwell on it.
He didn't.
"Alright," he said. "Best not keep your wizard waiting, you're right. See you in the next millennium."
She mirrored the beautiful smile he shot her with far less genuine joy than he offered, and decided to forego any more words in farewell. Her wizard was waiting.
She had lost sight of Ronald almost the moment they had entered Shacklebolt Manor. He had remained by her side for the obligatory photos for the Prophet, but had thrown himself into the throng of people vying for his attention, which he was more than happy to bestow upon them. She had yet to glimpse a glance of him in the hours that had followed. Hermione was glad that he had decided to take a moment alone for just the two of them, and such an important moment at that.
The hour rang half eleven. Thirty minutes until Year 2000.
Stepping out into the cold, crisp, fresh air of the millennium's last December night, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. It was a pleasure to have escaped the tight, hot, boisterous confinements of society.
The backyard – a veritable park, really – was full of people. Everybody was beginning to gather outside, to watch the fireworks that were set to go off at midnight, lighting the whole sky. She wove her way through throngs of people, going through the motions of polite greetings left and right whenever somebody called out to her, which everybody did, but never stopping, never once stopping, or she wouldn't be able to pull herself free of unwanted conversation.
Looking for a familiar mob of red hair, she didn't see anyone resembling Ron, until she made it to a gap in the tall hedge surrounding the estate. Through the branches, she could see fairylights.
Her curiosity awakened, she slipped through the greenery that was still brilliantly coloured despite the season, gardening charms be thanked, once more revelling in the magic that defied nature. Once on the other side, feeling the wards pass tingling over her skin, she found a path outlined by more fairylights, and decided to follow.
She did not know for how long she had been walking – it had to have been several minutes, surely – when she saw something flickering through the trees. Curious, she walked more quickly, until she reached a small clearing. Between two slender trees, a canvas had been spanned. It was lighted from behind, and on it was a movie running.
Hermione watched her own face, three years younger, laughing into the camera. The pictures were mirrored, as the film was set to be projected from the front, not the back of the canvas, but it was unmistakeably her younger self. There was no audio in the recording, just pictures, and Hermione watched as her own face displayed attention for a moment, before her humour faded into seriousness, blended into intent, strengthened into determination.
"What did he say to you, just there?"
Hermione jumped, twirling around, cursing herself for her inattention. For all the anxiety that she retained from the war, she had lost a number of her instincts, such as her awareness for her surroundings at all times. Three years ago, nobody would have managed to sneak up on her like that.
"Come on, princess," the man drawled, "tell me. You know you want to. You were so brave, to come here, to follow my note. And I've had this question burning through me ever since I first watched this tape. Tell me, princess. What did he say to you, right then?"
How stupid she had been to think that Ronald might have sent that note. How stupid not to have checked. How stupid to simply leave Kingsley behind. Nobody knew where she was.
Nobody but him.
"Scabior," she greeted him coolly.
Her wand was out in an instant, but in the next it had left her hand. Another reflex gone. That would never have happened to her during the war, she remembered, but her reflexes had dulled in the time of peace following.
"I believe I said no wand, princess," Scabior tutted. "Did you ignore any other orders I gave you?"
Her feet froze. For a moment, she thought it was her own fear that was keeping her in place, and there were certainly a few grains of truth to that thought. But more than that, magic was keeping her feet tethered to the ground where she stood.
Slowly, like a predator circling his prey, the ex-Snatcher circled her.
Once.
Twice.
Three –
No. Not a full three times.
The steps crunching through the frozen grass, crushed under heavy boots, stopped right behind Hermione.
A single digit travelled down her spine.
Languidly.
Caressing every ridge and bone still so easily tangible through the too-thin skin of her back, covered only by the too-thin fabric of her silken gown.
"Luxurious, princess," Scabior breathed hotly into her ear. "To have you all wrapped in gold, like a beautiful present, just waiting to be opened."
At the last word, his fingers suddenly slipped under the knee-length skirt of her gown, grabbing her right between her legs. The fingers were cold on the too-hot skin of her thighs, and they ripped through the fabric of her lace knickers that they found, much to their displeasure, far too easily.
Hermione winced as she heard the fabric tear, felt the rush of cold night air tease her nether lips, just a second before cool fingers mirrored that caress. She struggled for a precious moment, but her feet were still frozen to the ground and the threat of the wizard's wand was soon digging into her abdomen, so she knew she better not mess with him.
"How fitting," Scabior breathed into her ear, still behind her, the fingers of his left hand now burrowed between her legs, his right hand, still holding his wand – where hers had disappeared to, she did not know –, snug against her stomach. "You're wearing only a dress and nothing underneath, and she," – her glance jumped to the screen where she knew his eyes must be fixed onto, as well –, "in her underthings, and nothing to cover them."
He was right. Younger Hermione on the tape was lying back on a big, generous bed, clad only in eggplant-coloured lace. The dark violet tone contrasted nicely with her golden skin, she noticed absent-mindedly.
"Where did you get that tape?" she asked, hating how the waver in her voice was audible.
Scabior drew a deep breath against her skin, inhaling her scent. The crook of her neck cooled where he breathed the warmed air away from her.
"What did he say to you, right then?"
Hermione knew, somehow just knew, that he would not answer her before he did not have his own answer.
"'You're beautiful'," she quoted. "'I am honoured that you chose me. I will not betray your trust.'"
Nobody said a word for a few precious moments. Hermione watched as her younger self's eyes grew wide as they stared to a point close to the camera.
"How bitter," Scabior eventually said. "For him to have kept your trust, but for you to have treated his so… carelessly."
Hermione shuddered at the implication, and at the still cold fingers teasing her entrance underneath her silken skirt.
"Where did you get that tape?" she repeated.
She had kept it close. She had not once let it out of her sight. It had been one of the most precious things for her to have taken on the run with her. She had not had the heart to leave it behind. It had quickly become something of a lucky charm for her. She had held it, often, during those months on the run, had drawn strength from the knowledge that he had valued her, had honoured her, had made love to her…
"You left it behind," Scabior replied. "The others saw no sense in going back to the tent, after we'd been cheated out of our ransom for the three of you; you and Potter and the other one. But I went back. I looked it through, and in the coldness of harsh British winter, this little gem has warmed me for a night or two."
"You are disgusting," Hermione spat, then gasped when his fingers finally made their way into her. The intrusion was swift, sudden, and disappointingly smooth. Things between her and Ron hadn't been good lately, and her body saw no sense in denying a wizard's skilled touch, no matter how undesired both the wizard and his touch were.
"Oh, princess, but we both know you love it."
Hermione told herself that it was his chuckle that made her shiver, not his fingers, and that it was a cold, unpleasant shiver, no waves of desire rolling over her skin. Her body was betraying her, and she hated it for doing so, but she would deny the truth of that betrayal for as long as she possibly could. She had to. Her sanity depended on it.
"You were a siren, even back then, princess," Scabior breathed, adding a second finger.
"I was a virgin," Hermione insisted, not certain why she would tell him so. "He did me a favour. Nothing more."
"Didn't want to die a virgin, princess?" Scabior queried, laughing softly.
How anyone could laugh at the very real threat of death, whether by an enemy's wand or of hunger, both equally likely during those months on the run, Hermione could not comprehend.
"That," she found herself agreeing, "and I didn't want to lose my virginity to a rapist."
"You wound me, princess," he drawled into her ear, and she gasped as a third finger joined the mix inside her, "I would have made it good for you, I swear."
His reply, no matter how sick in nature, made Hermione laugh. Perhaps she was desperate. Perhaps hysteria had won. Perhaps her body was confused as to the propriety of certain reactions. Perhaps she simply didn't care anymore.
"You think Greyback would have showed me the same consideration?" she scoffed, and a kiss to her neck was the only reply she received for the moment.
Silence followed for a while. The stillness of the forest around them was only broken by the quiet humming of the projector. On the canvas, young Hermione had been joined by a wizard. He had been undressing behind the camera, that was when her eyes had become big, and now they were lying on the bed together, him in shorts, her in bra and knickers.
"Was he kind to you?" Scabior queried all of a sudden.
"Greyback?" Hermione asked, surprised. "No, of course not, that sick –"
"Not Greyback," he interrupted her. Against her neck, she felt his stubble burn her soft skin as he nodded towards the canvas. "Shacklebolt."
It had been the summer of 1997. The war had been about to escalate. Sending her parents off to Australia, their memories wiped of every single remembrance of her very existence, had been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do.
Kingsley had picked her up at the empty house. She'd had a few days to go until she was expected at the Burrow, before the Battle of the Seven Potters, as it would later be called, when Kingsley would be assigned to her as protector, no doubt saving her life a time or five during their flight on the Thestral. Her bags – bag, singular, purple and beaded – had been packed, and she had been only too happy to latch onto the strength of the formidable Auror who whisked her out of the sad reminder of the family she would never have again.
In his home, he had cheered her up, had done the best he could between long shifts at the Muggle minister's side. She had felt comfortable with him, same as she always had in the two years since she'd first met him at Grimmauld Place. She had been comfortable enough to ask of him that favour – to make her a woman before she went to face ever growing dangers.
"Yes," Hermione more breathed than voiced, "he was very kind."
"How ugly, then," Scabior said, "to repay him his kindness with your negligence. You allowed to fall that tape into the hands of a scoundrel."
He sounded entirely too proud of himself at that description.
"How do you think Wizarding Britain would react to their newest Minister – most eligible bachelor, or so I hear – fucking a minor, and a mudblood war heroine at that?"
Hermione froze, as if her feet weren't still frozen to the ground, anyway.
"I don't see what my blood has to do with anything," was the first thing that came to mind.
"A Pureblood aristocrat, abusing the trusting desperation of an underage teenage witch of lesser descent? And now he's advocating blood equality? Sure," Scabior surmised, "the public will simply love that story."
"I wasn't underage," Hermione insisted, "I was eighteen at the time!"
"Oh, of course," the ex-Snatcher assured her in a tone that didn't sound assuring at all. "You will say so, and he will say so, and who will believe you? It may be the truth, but truth doesn't sell papers, and the truth won't bring down the government. Not the full truth, at least. A half-truth will. This tape will."
"No," Hermione half shouted, half sobbed. Her fingers, dormant and complacent save for a very short struggle up until now, for whatever reason, tugged and shoved and clawed at the hand that held her stomach, pressing her into his form.
It was no use. His grip was strong, and he held her even more tightly to his own taut form. Hermione felt something rather hard press into her lower back, and stopped wiggling at once, unwilling to excite the wizard behind her even more. A gasp escaped her lips as his three fingers plunged once more into her.
"There's that passion I've been wanting to see," Scabior breathed into her ear. "I want you to show me, princess. Show me all that you've shown him, and perhaps I'll allow you to walk home with this tape."
Hermione thought, hard. Thinking was difficult right now, and thinking hard wasn't any easier, much to her detriment.
"How do I know you don't have any copies?" she eventually demanded to know.
"You don't," he replied very simply. "You'll just have to trust me."
"My boyfriend is an Auror," she threatened. "He'll –"
"He'll be most interested to see his witch fucking the Minister for Magic, I'm sure," Scabior cut her off. "And I know what I'm talking about; it's a most enticing tape, I must say."
This time, it was very clearly a sob that escaped her throat.
"You're a bastard," she said.
"That, I am," Scabior readily agreed. "A lucky bastard, indeed. Now, on your knees."
On tape, younger Hermione had been divested of all her clothes, as had Kingsley. The dark-skinned wizard had been preparing her with his fingers, and they had come away glistening with her juices when younger Hermione had gestured to his middle. Lying back, the Kingsley on tape was watching as Hermione got onto her knees on the bed, hovering over his crotch.
In the forest clearing, the spell on her feet was lifted, releasing her to move somewhat more freely. She was being forced to her knees, and she followed, losing her dress to the Snatcher's hands in the movement. A short pang of disappointment at his fingers slipping from her folds was quickly suppressed.
A wave of warmth spread over her body as warming charms were applied to the general area surrounding them. Hermione was grateful. Disgraceful as it was to have to succumb to blackmail, she would at least be spared the pitiful attempts to explain away the cold (or worse) she would be certain to catch without the warming charms to her boyfriend.
She was being turned around to the wizard watching the tape play out on the canvas, and from the edge of her vision she was gaining glimpses of the film as well. Knowing all too well how the night had gone back in 1997, she wrapped her slender fingers around the hard cock suddenly bobbing freely up and down in front of her face and jerked her hand up and down a few times. Timing things just so, her lips met the weeping tip the moment her younger self's lips met Kingsley's length. Opening her mouth, she allowed the wizard in front of her to sink into the wet warmth, her head adapting the bobbing motion she knew all too well from her encounters with Ronald.
Scabior, however, was not Ronald as he was only too keen to remind her. Gripping her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze, her lips still firmly wrapped around his hardness.
"Slower," he demanded. "More tentatively. As if this was your first time. I want you to… savour it. Savour this. Savour me."
And for some reason that not only escaped Hermione, but defied common sense itself, she wanted to. Wanted to make it good for him, wanted to enjoy this act for once.
Her experience in the area of giving head was rather limited. Her first foray into the subject had been with Kingsley – tentative, hesitant, uncertain, and so nervous that she had thought at times her head must certainly explode from the migraine that had been setting in due to her fear of failing at something as essential as oral sex. Later, with Ron, all her encounters ended with him grabbing hold of her substantial mane and plunging into her, and with her trying not to choke on and/or vomit onto his 'manhood' – quotation marks to be taken rather seriously, for his sense of dominating Hermione in this way seemed to be Ron's definition of manliness itself.
And that was it. That was all the experience she'd had opportunity to gather in those three years since a man, a real man, had first touched her. To now have somebody completely new, and to find herself somewhat removed from her sense of propriety – for what use was there for morale and propriety and faithfulness when being blackmailed into sucking a strange wizard's cock? –, Hermione thought she might just give this a try.
And so she sucked him as best she could. Small nibbling kisses along the length of his hardness were followed by her soft lips engulfing his shaft and sinking deeper and deeper, fitting as much of him into her mouth as she could. There was a lot of him that did not fit, however, and so her right hand came to help care for all of him.
Scabior's hand on her chin did not let go, but his grip relaxed somewhat. It appeared that he was content to just hold her, ensuring that her eyes did meet his from time to time, whenever hers darted up from where they were often closed in order to concentrate on the task at hand, and whenever his darted down away from the canvas where he watched her younger self experiment on another man's asset.
Soon, Hermione was bobbing up and down again, but where there had been a sense of disgusted urgency before, she did so now with an air of curious playfulness, and it appeared that the change in manner appealed to the Snatcher whose cock was disappearing into her mouth time and again. It appeared to appeal to him so much that he had to force her head away from his manhood.
Hermione managed to stop the pout from forming on her lips, but only just.
"You've carried on, princess" Scabior said with a nod to the film. "In the tape. He's settling on top of you now."
Hermione eyed the forest floor. The warming charms had dispelled the freezing cold all around them, but even if the Snatcher was to apply cushioning charms, as well, she had no desire to have the twigs and stones digging into the soft skin of her back.
"Don't worry, princess," Scabior cut in, following her gaze. "If I had you on the floor, neither of us would have a good view of the film, and I don't want to miss watching it."
"I thought you'd watched it multiple times." The words escaped Hermione's mouth unbidden. "Why watch it now? Surely you know it by heart."
"You seem rather confident in yourself to think that a mere movie of your virgin self will be enough to get me by for several years," Scabior teased, not unkindly, but the notion that she was discussing her very much private sex life and his knowledge thereof with a Snatcher who was just blackmailing her into sex for the tape, made Hermione sick. "Maybe I just like the visual. Maybe I like being assaulted by you from all sides – sensually, sexually, I mean." He chuckled. "Maybe I like watching you while fucking you. Maybe I like seeing you being broken in by a wizard while I'm breaking you in in a completely different way. Maybe I just like seeing you being broken."
"Merlin, you are sick," Hermione breathed.
"Maybe I am," Scabior agreed altogether too happily. "But if it gets me pussy, and a young and famous one such as yours, too, I will gladly be sick any day."
Hermione stared at him, still kneeling on the hard forest ground. Scabior was grinning at her from above, a lopsided, mischievous smile that might have been handsome if the situation hadn't been as twisted as it was.
"Now turn around, princess," he demanded after a second – or an hour, who knew? – had ticked by. "You're making me miss the movie."
When she didn't react right away, he 'helped' turn her around, forcing her body to face the screen, making Hermione fall onto all fours in the process. She heard him kneel behind her.
"Your cunt is a miracle, princess," Scabior exclaimed, almost reverently. "A fucking miracle, I tell you. I said I'd make it good for you, but that you'd be sopping wet for me… Merlin, princess, you're really craving my cock, aren't you?"
Hermione felt full once more as those three fingers that had been inside her earlier were plunged into her again, but they remained only for a moment or two before being replaced by something more substantial.
She whimpered when the first few inches of his cock were forced into her. His first, hard, entering plunge had him already rather deep inside her, and the magnitude of his manhood was not to be easily dismissed. He was not only long, as Hermione had had to realize earlier when she had been unable to fit him into her mouth, but thick as well. It had been three and a half years since she'd been with Kingsley, so her memory might be a little hazy, but she was certain that any difference in size between the new Minister and this Snatcher had to be minimal.
"Fucking hell, princess, you're tight," Scabior cursed. "You need my cock, don't you? Some real cock? Your wizard doesn't give it to you good enough, I see."
Hermione didn't have the heart to defend Ron, and hated herself for it. There simply were no words, however. What did one say to improve one's blackmailer's opinion of one's boyfriend while being coerced into sexual intercourse with said blackmailer with the threat of having one's sex tape with the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain being released to the general public?
"Oh, yeah, now you're tightening around me, princess," Scabior exclaimed. "Hit a nerve there, didn't I? Well, never fear, princess, I'll make it good for you."
And good, he made it, indeed. Small rocking movements had him move deeper and deeper into her, slowly. The man was very much aware of his generous size, and he knew how to handle it, and how to handle any witch that would find herself wrapped around it.
In a way, Hermione was grateful to him for that. He could have raped her, could have seriously hurt her, but he didn't.
Perhaps that was what she hated most about the encounter.
He didn't make her hate him fervently enough.
Fixing her eyes onto the canvas spanned between the trees in front of her, Hermione allowed her mind to drift to the memory of Kingsley moving inside her. He had been sweet, had held her through the pain of his first intrusion, had been patient with her. He'd shown her all there was to sex, had loved her the whole night, had been certain to make sure she knew all there was to know. She had felt loved, and it had been a beautiful thing.
Here, tonight, with her eyes fixed to the images of Kingsley on top of her, Hermione could almost imagine it was the Minister currently claiming her. The hands on her hips were too calloused and the gasps were too loud, but the size was roughly the same and he didn't exactly mistreat her – save for the whole blackmail issue, of course.
Slowly, Hermione began to move with the wizard behind her. Meeting his thrusts, she rocked her hips in contrast to his, pulling forward when he withdrew and pushing backward when he plunged into her. They settled into a familiar rhythm, and soon they were both pounding and panting away for all they were worth.
On screen, Kingsley had picked up the pace, as well, thrusting away at a younger Hermione who looked in the throes of passion herself. A scream seemed to escape her lips, silent without the audio, and Hermione remembered all too well how that had felt. So did her body, it seemed, and muscle memory as well as an ardent cock did their parts in pushing her over the edge. The orgasm was rather sudden in its appearance and startling in its intensity. Ron had never made her come as hard, Hermione knew, but banished the thought in order to ride the wave for a few precious seconds longer.
The panting behind her crescendoed into a climax of rude exclamations, which consisted mostly of 'fuck', 'princess', 'princess', 'fuck', 'so fucking tight', and 'princess'.
Hermione sighed. No longer could she pretend to have the handsome, powerful, caring gentleman behind her who just so happened to be Minister for Magic. No, the cold reality hit her that their blackmail session was – hopefully! – coming to an end.
"That was amazing, princess," Scabior panted, still inside her. "I never expected – I mean, I knew I'd be good, but that you would go over the edge like this…"
Hermione withdrew from his grip on her hips, and the Snatcher thankfully let her go. She felt strangely empty when he slipped from her depths, but she shook the feeling off.
Standing and putting her discarded golden silk dress back on, Hermione said a silent goodbye to her torn knickers. They were being picked up and almost disappeared into the pockets of the scoundrel opposite her, but a wave of her hand wandlessly vanished them.
"Say, princess," Scabior enquired, "if you can do wandless magic, why didn't you fight me off before?"
The question hit Hermione off guard. Her reflexes had not been the same ever since the war had ended, and it seemed she had come closer to her muggle roots than she would have liked, electing to fight Scabior off – or not – in a way she had learnt in her youth rather than drawing on the powers that rested inside of her.
"Ah, Muggleborns," Scabior chuckled, seeing the answer written on her face without Hermione needing to utter a single word. "Fun everytime."
"Do you make a habit of blackmailing Muggleborn witches into sex?" Hermione couldn't help herself asking.
"Not exactly, princess," he said. With a wink, he added, "Only those who leave me with a sex tape of themselves with especially powerful wizards of our society."
She might almost have found it humorous, but the situation from her point of view wasn't funny in the least.
"The tape?" she demanded instead.
"Ah, yes," he said, summoning the film with a flick of his wand. The canvas disappeared, and they were blinded by the light from the projector for a few seconds before it turned off, the tape ejecting and flying into Scabior's outstretched hand. He offered it to her. When Hermione made to take it from him, he didn't let go right away, tugging her closer by the tape instead.
"Say, princess," he asked, "why would you even film your first time?"
Hermione blushed despite herself.
"Educational purposes, I suppose," she answered, surprised by her own candour. "In case I was to survive the war, which I did, I thought I might look back on it and find room for improvement."
"Well, I never had the pleasure of truly snatching you back then, princess," Scabior said and had the disgusting audacity to wink once more, "so I have no comparison to a younger you, but judging from this, today, I'd say there's not much you can do to improve."
Hermione didn't quite know what to say to that.
"Thanks, or not, I guess," she said, if only not to be left speechless by the bastard.
He smiled, and finally let go of the tape. Hermione almost let it fall in surprise.
"This is the only copy?" she asked.
"Maybe," Scabior replied. "If it is, I might need to step by for a visit sometime. Can't go for the rest of my life without that beautiful tight cunt of yours, princess, now, can I?"
Hermione was about to reply, but the wizard had popped out of existence, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the small forest clearing.
Hermione cast a silent Lumos and found her wand not two steps away from her. If her eyes hadn't been fixed onto the canvas earlier, she might have grabbed it and defended herself against Scabior. The thought left her strangely empty.
Tucking the tape into a fold of fabric just beneath her waist, casting an inconspicuous sticking charm to make certain it remained there, she trudged her way back to the Shacklebolt estate. The fairylights that had lighted her path earlier had been extinguished, or banished, more likely, but it was easy enough to follow the sounds of laughter and the smell of smoke.
Smoke.
She had missed the fireworks.
She had been blackmailed into fucking her way into the new millennium.
Well, wasn't that something to think about – later.
Later.
Possibly never.
Many guests had already left, or returned back inside, she did not know, but the manor grounds seemed too empty for the number of people who had been invited to the Minister's New Year's Eve celebration.
Making her way through the remaining guests, again greeting people left and right rather mechanically, she started when she was being drawn behind a tall tree. With the low branches, full of greenery, the surrounding guests could see neither her nor the man whose chin her wand was now digging into.
"It's just me, lioness," Kingsley assured her in that soothing, rumbling tone of his that made her heart vibrate in a most pleasant way. "Just me. You okay? You look a bit dishevelled."
"It's fine," Hermione said, absent-mindedly. "It's – I'm fine, really."
"I saw Ronald earlier," Kingsley said. "Just after you'd left. Didn't seem to be hurrying after you. Did he stand you up?"
Hermione followed Kingsley's gaze to the right. Ron was standing with a group of blondes. They were pretty, every single one of them, in an empty way that seemed to appeal to young superficial fame-drunk wizards. One of the witches spouted a rather dishevelled kind of look. One of those hairstyles that took an hour or two to get just right. One of those just-shagged-looks.
Hermione prayed that it was just a hairstyle. One that did not involve the ginger-haired wizard laughing amidst those vapour-headed witches.
"He doesn't deserve you, lioness," Kingsley said all of a sudden.
"No," Hermione agreed, "perhaps he doesn't."
Her gaze returned to his, and she almost flinched under the intensity of his gaze.
"And neither do you, Kingsley," she insisted. "That was a one-time-thing. I was desperate, I was afraid of dying, and you made me feel nice for a night. There was nothing emotional about it, other than a highly emotional teenage witch. I'm too young for you. You don't deserve me. You deserve better."
And then he kissed her.
Hermione made no move to discourage him, to dislodge him, but she didn't exactly participate either.
She had participated far too much in far too many things tonight.
"Take this," she said, shoving the tape into his hands when his lips left hers. "Keep it safe, destroy it, I don't care, just take care of it, please."
Kingsley looked at the tape in wonder.
"This is –"
"I know what this is. I know what it cost me. Please, Kingsley, I can't have it anymore. I can't take it anymore. This is too much. Please."
He obviously had no clue what Hermione was on about, and if she was being honest to herself, neither did Hermione know exactly. This situation was a weird one, to be certain.
"Lioness –"
"Thank you for the kiss, Kingsley," Hermione said in a polite tone. "It was lovely, but you're not my partner. You're my boss. You're the Minister for Magic. You're the most powerful man in our society, for fuck's sake. You have no business being the first man to kiss me in the new millennium."
Kingsley looked at her, astonished. After a moment, his gaze hardened, but not in a negative way. Determination shone in his eyes.
"I'm not sorry."
Hermione blinked.
"Neither am I," she said, "but then again, maybe I am. I am so sorry for so many things, Kingsley. This kiss isn't one of them, but in some way, it is, and I'm confused as hell. I can't do this. I'm sorry."
She wasn't making any sense. She knew it, Kingsley knew it, they both knew it. Hermione hated not making sense, not being able to explain to Kingsley why she was pushing him away and not being able to reason with herself why she was doing whatever it was she was doing.
"Hermione?"
"No," she shot the Minister down. "Just – no."
And with one last hard look into his eyes that almost had her lost to him, lost in him, forever, she withdrew from his presence, leaving their little hideout behind the tree of the many low branches.
Determined, she made her way over to the throng of empty-headed blondes surrounding her wizard.
"Ronald," she greeted him jovially, if slightly less warmly than a proper girlfriend should.
A new millennium had begun. It was time to leave the old one behind. Leave it behind, and all that had come with it.