Blond Jobs
The Honest Turnip was reknown for its fantastic puddings. The treacle tart on the porcelain plate in front of Harry Potter and the pear-vanilla ice concoction in the cut-crystal goblet in front of Hermione Weasley looked like no-body, neither Wizard nor Muggle, could resist such temptations. Still, Harry and Hermione had not touched their puddings for the last five minutes. Nothing odd or out of the ordinary had happened five minutes ago - the black-clad waiter had brought a bottle of non-sparkling water to the table next to them, a small child had come running in from the sun-lit terrace, the maître d' had lead two new customers to a table near the broad windows overlooking the garden. Two very blond customers, father and son by the looks of them.
Hermione Weasley thought that, really, she should not meet with Harry during lunch breaks anymore, at least not for a while. Or at least not in such a public place where there always was an off-chance that they'd run into … him. What was he doing here anyway, miles from Wiltshire where he bloody belonged, lunching with his excuse for a son who had no business here either? Hermione quickly glanced at Harry who had not said a word since the two Malfoys had entered the premises. Most likely he had noticed how all clear thought had fled from her brain there, five minutes ago, when she'd haphazardly looked over Harry's shoulder to stare into grey eyes she only knew too well. For full ten seconds she had not been able to continue her sentence which was left hanging in mid-air between her and Harry, right on top of her scrumptious Pears Belle-Hélène. Harry had turned, following her gaze, and since then he had not uttered a word, but stared at his equally scrumptiously looking treacle tart.
Oh, it was bad enough that she was cheating on his best mate and fellow Auror. Cheating not like one one-night-stand-after-a- drunken-party-cheating. But serious cheating like nights spent fucking in Malfoy Manor when she'd told Ron that she was abroad on unspeakable Unspeakable business. Cheating like forgetting the Ironing Charm on Rose's dress robes because she was thinking about Lucius' lips. Cheating, damn it, like that one weekend in Venice when they had not once left the hotel suite, not even for a romantic outing with the gondoliers. Gondoliers, it turned out, were not Lucius' style. Not hers either. But it was bad. Bad all around. Her, cheating, seriously cheating on Ron, with Lucius Malfoy. A man who could be her father, for God's sake. Not to mention a man who'd been a high-ranking Death Eater and who, for all that Hermione knew, still believed in the old pureblood ideology. The worst, though, the worst of the seriously cheating situation was that she loved every minute of it.
Harry Potter thought that, really, he should not meet with Hermione during lunch breaks anymore, at least not for a while. Or at least not in such a public place where there always was an off-chance that they'd run into … him. What was he doing here anyway, miles from his offices where he bloody belonged, lunching with his excuse for a father who had no business here either? Harry quickly glanced at Hermione who had not touched her mouth-wateringly looking ice-cream dessert since the two Malfoys had entered the premises. Most likely she had noticed how all clear thought had fled from his brain there, five minutes ago, when he'd turned, following Hermione's gaze, to stare into grey eyes he only knew too well. For a full minute he had not been able to catch a single word of what Hermione was chattering about, but had simply stared at his mouth-watering treacle tart.
Oh, it was bad enough that he was cheating on her best friend and sister-in-law. Cheating not like one one-night-stand-after-a- drunken-party-cheating. But serious cheating like nights spent fucking in hotel rooms when he'd told Ginny that he was away on unspeakable Auror business. Cheating like missing James catch the Snitch at the school year's most important Quidditch match because he was thinking about Draco's lips. Cheating, damn it, like after the Inauguration Ball for the new Minister when Draco and he had ended up fucking on every flat surface in the Minister's rarely used smoking room. They never did it in parks or public toilets. Toilet stalls, it turned out, were not Draco's style. Not his either. But it was bad. Bad all around. Him, cheating, seriously cheating on Ginny, with Draco Malfoy. A bloke, for God's sake. Not to mention a bloke who was the youngest Death Eater in history and who, for all that he knew, still believed in the old pureblood ideology. The worst, though, the worst of the seriously cheating situation was that he loved every minute of it.
For the last ten minutes Hermione had stoically endured Lucius' dark voice not four tables away from them. She tried to keep going some pretence of a conversation with Harry who babbled something about the great buffet at the new Minister's Inauguration Ball. Apparently he was happily oblivious to the fact that Hermione missed about half of what he was saying. She tried not to, but she kept listening for Lucius' voice, waiting for his short, soft laugh that she'd heard only this morning. She tried not to, but eventually she moved her head so she could look at Lucius. He wore black as always, robes made from finely combed wool with silver embroidery, tailored so they drew attention to his tall, lithe body, his straight back. He had his hair open, like he had this morning, and it spilled silver upon his shoulders. He was a beautiful man. Elegant, powerful, ruthless even. And always, that trace of loneliness. She'd forbidden herself to compare Lucius Malfoy to Ron which was a ludicrous idea anyway. Still. Whatever had possessed her to think she'd be fancying red hair in a man?
She looked away and turned towards her Pears Belle-Hélène. The vanilla ice-cream was slowly melting, and the sticky sweet stuff was dripping from the halved pears. The pale inside of the fruit gleamed from underneath the generous flow of dark chocolate sauce. Hermione was painfully reminded of a stretch of pale luminous skin barely covered by dark robes. A sudden hot craving for the scrumptious taste of melted vanilla ice-cream on hard glistening pear overcame her. But she was unable to move spoon to pudding. From the corner of her eye she saw a blond head move, and there it was – Lucius' dark laugh. Hermione moaned and closed her eyes. The memory of the silver-blond head between her naked thighs came unbidden and instantly. She should open her eyes again, check on Harry who had fallen silent. But the memory of that demanding tongue on her clit was just too much. His hands digging passionately into her arse, lifting her so that she could push into him, closer towards that wet, teasing, God, ice-cone licking, teeth-scraping touch. Nobody but Lucius could finish her off within seconds with just his tongue, then finger-fuck her into a second orgasm only minutes later. It was that good. The mere memory of this morning's fuck in the Manor made her so wet she was sure she was leaving spots on the silk cover of her chair.
For the last ten minutes Harry had stoically endured Draco's bright voice not four tables away from them. He tried to keep going some pretence of a conversation with Hermione who babbled something about her Venice trip to some super-secret Unspeakable meeting of the European Wizarding Union. Apparently she was happily oblivious to the fact that Harry missed about half of what she was saying. He tried not to, but he kept listening for Draco's voice, waiting for his light, carefree laugh that he'd heard only this morning. He tried not to, but eventually he moved his head so he could look at Draco. He wore Muggle clothes today, jeans, a light blue shirt that seemed almost white underneath his black leather jacket. The jacket made his shoulders seem broader than they were, the jeans emphasised his slender hips. His short blond hair was done to perfection, not all messed-up like this morning. He was a beautiful man. Elegant, powerful, dangerous even. And always, that trace of vulnerability. Harry'd forbidden himself to compare Draco Malfoy to Ginny which was a ludicrous idea anyway. Still. Whatever had possessed him to think that he'd be fancying red hair?
He looked away and turned towards his treacle tart. Underneath the sweet smell of shortbread he detected a zingy lemony flavour. Caramelised sprinkles of sugar glistened through the perfect lattice which covered the breadcrumb filling. Harry was painfully reminded of a stretch of pale luminous skin spattered with spurts of his come. A sudden hot craving for the mouth-watering taste of soft, lemony-spiced tart soaked in golden syrup overcame him. But he was unable to move fork to pudding. From the corner of his eyes he saw a blond head move, and there it was – Draco's bright laugh. Harry moaned and closed his eyes. The memory of the silver-blond head between his naked thighs came unbidden and instantly. He should open his eyes again, check on Hermione who had fallen silent. But the memory of that demanding mouth around his cock was just too much. Draco's hands clutching his hips, drawing him closer with a vengeance, so that he would push deeper into that wet, sucking, God, swirling-tongue, teeth-scraping mouth. Nobody but Draco could finish him off within seconds with just his mouth, then fuck him into a second orgasm barely ten minutes later. It was that good. The mere memory of this morning's fuck in Claridge's made him so hard he was sure everybody passing their table could see his full-size erection underneath the Auror's robes.
Fuck this! Fuck Ginny, fuck Hermione. And fuck Draco and his unreasonable distaste for toilet stalls. Harry got up.
Hermione stared after Harry who, with a breathless "bathroom" muttered in her direction, had practically stormed out of the restaurant. Draco followed him more calmly about two minutes later. There had been a quick exchange of looks, no words, but somewhere in those minutes when she had been thinking about Lucius, Harry and Draco must have got at each other's throats again. Those two! After all that time they still could not be in the same room without starting a fight. Well, better whatever they had to fight about now, was fought out in the foyer, the street, the men's john, for all Hermione cared, but not here.
She was only too aware of the fact that Lucius was now sitting at his table alone, an untouched raspberry danish in front of him. He stared after his son, an expression on his face which Hermione easily read as mildly surprised annoyance. Then he turned, and their eyes met. Hermione thought she detected a slight shrug of Lucius' shoulders, but she could be wrong. For a second she also thought she imagined the soft musical sounds of an accordion floating in from the terrace. But there really was a man playing the instrument and singing to its sentimental harmonies. He wore a traditional gandolier's dress, striped shirt over black trousers, boater on sleeked-backed hair. She caught Lucius' horror-struck face and almost burst out laughing. He looked her directly in the eyes, and for a moment Hermione thought she felt him nudging her mind. But Lucius knew better than to try Legilimency on her. Instead he took up his fork and carefully picked up the lusciously round, full, glistening dark pink raspberry which had adorned his danish. Hermione could but stare in fascination as Lucius languidly explored the fruit with the tip of his tongue. When he finally bit into it, she could taste its bitter-sweet, moist fruitiness on her own tongue. When he moved his legs apart slightly and ran a casual hand down his thigh, she could feel the hot, hard touch on the inside of her own thigh. When he nodded at the chair Draco left minutes ago, she could feel his fingers move into her robes, shove up her skirt to …
Fuck this! Fuck Ron, fuck Harry. And fuck Lucius and his unreasonable distaste for gondoliers. Hermione got up.