Angel of Deception


Chapter II

Betrayal of the Deceiver


She slipped her hand beneath her shirt and rubbed the sensitive skin of her belly. She felt a warmth building inside her as memories of the night before came rushing to he forefront of her mind. In her wildest dreams she never expected any such trickery to be so well received as it had been by the Boy Who Lived. She felt both terrified and excited at the prospects of a relationship with him. One one hand, she adored him, was both infatuated and slipping more deeply into a maddening love for him. On the other hand, she knew the repercussions of a relationship with a Gryffindor - especially a Gryffindor of only half-blood.

She allowed her hand to wander a little; it slipped below her waist and began to explore her womanhood enthusiastically. As she lay, granting herself a small taste of ecstacy, she imagined it was his hand in motion, pleasuring her in a way only he ever had. No incanation, nor tricks from adult spell books had come close to the magic he had worked on her with no next to no effort.

Her hair fell in a dark cascade as her head hit her pillow; she pressed deeper inside herself, exploring with each finger a little more of her inner woman, desperately seeking those same feelings, same sensations she had felt only a few hours before. Her eyes shot open and her toes curled as she let out a squeak of surprise - it was there, just there, she thought to herself, and began to whisper her favourite things, favourite naughty little phrases to work herself up. She ran her arm up and down her body, caressing each nipple gently as her left hand came to the aid of her right.

She sighed softly, then moaned loudly as orgasm overcame her, rushing through her wave after wave until she felt her eyes roll to the back of her head. She lay still for a while, panting heavily as beads of sweat rolled off her forehead, dotting her Slytherin green silk sheets. When she caught her breath, she found herself grateful that she had mastered the the silencing spell and had placed dozens all around the perimeter of her four poster bed. She had been noisier when she was little. On several occasions, her mother - who insisted she be called Genevieve - raced into the room in panic after overhearing her screams. What "nightmares" those had been.

Pansy closed her eyes and, slowly taking in a deep breath, sat-up. She looped her hair behind her ears as she pulled the curtains of her bed open. Her dormitory was deserted. It was already nearing midday. She slipped into a daydream as she slipped out of the room and into the shower.

It would be soon that they could see each other again, she hoped. She wanted to tell the wizarding world the newest news in the goings-on of her love life, but found herself unwilling to betray the little trust she had with Harry. Her time to gloat would be soon enough, she mused, but for now she would keep her silence on the matter. It would be something they would reveal publicly when both felt it appropriate.

Both he and she were starting their seventh and final years at the wizarding school Hogwarts, and the pressure of the war against He Who Must Not Ne Named was mounting.

Already one attack against the school had failed. Harry, a few of his friends, and the school staff, fought back a sorry attempt by a mousy man named Pettigrew and a few of his fellow Death Eaters to abduct him and Hermione. For some strange reason, Pansy had noticed, their interest in the red-headed Weasley boy seemed minimal.

Hot water ran down her back, running smoothly off the curve of her arse; she pressed her forehead against the cold tile of the shower wall. Her thoughts again went to Harry. She could see his green eyes reflected in the water pooling around her feet. Pansy picked-up the bottle of shampoo from beside her and opened it. After lathering copious amounts of it into her hair, she ran her fingers through her locks, letting a little of the foam collect on the back of her hand. She rubbed the excess around her breasts, playing with the tips a little. They were pert, a little more sensitive than she could remember them ever being. She entertained the thought of playing with herself a while longer before she rinsed her hair and stepped from the shower.


It was eerily silent in the corridors as she made her way to the Great Hall. Neither portrait nor Peeve's stirred as she stepped up the last few steps and strode into immediate horror. The bodies of a half-dozen first and second year students were hanged, headless, by their ankles. Their corpses swayed a little in the air, the last few drops of their blood pooled with the rest of the crimson death that had overtaken the once beautiful stone floor. The great oak doors were wide open, gusts of wind occasionally creating slow ripples in the thickening blood.

Teachers and students alike raced about her, doing anything they could to help free the students from their magical bonds. Professor Sinistra began to push all the students away, pushing them gently in the way of their common rooms. Whatever had happened here was not pleasant, and if the current demonstration of the magical effort on part of the Hogwart's staff were any rule to measure by, it had occurred without witness.

"Ms. Parkinson," sniffed the Headmistressl, with her wand drawn before her, fresh tears running down her face. Though Pansy was not terribly fond of the woman, her former transfiguration teacher, it was only after seeing her emotions that she felt her own overflow within her. A sprinkling of wetness dotted her Slytherin pin. "Would you please step aside - and return to your common room." She turned to the rest of the crowd. "All of you, please return to your common rooms. Your Heads of Houses will be with you shortly."

Pansy backed herself up against the cold stone wall and caught a glimpse of Harry and Hermione, reluctantly retreating in obedience to their Transfiguration professor.

"Ron doesn't even know what's going on," Hermione grumbled, flipping the page of her latest read with a frown. "He's still stuffing his face. How much sausage can he eat?"

"I expect that's what he's trying to find out," Harry said playfully. Hermione swatted him on his shoulder, rolling her eyes. Harry chuckled softly, then darted forward to make-up the several steps he'd fallen behind her. Pansy crept behind them, careful to avoid distracting them from their conversation. She needed to speak with Harry alone; she hoped, though she knew it wasn't terribly likely, that Hermione would unknowingly afford her a moment with her midnight lover.

There was a moment of silence as Harry continued his return to the Gryffindor common room. He paused for a moment, then turned to Hermione. Before he could open his mouth, she cut him off.

"Just say it," she breathed, stopping mid-step. As she turned to face Harry, Pansy ducked behind a suit of armour and out of sight. She bumped the sword on her way into cover, but neither of those whom she stalked gave any notice. "You've been acting strangely all morning."

Harry remained silent, obviously warring with his thoughts. He normally spoke that which was on his mind with nay a second thought, but whatever words rested at the forefront of his mind came with hesitation. He toyed with the thought of keeping quiet, of passing off the dream as mere nonsense, but everything he could remember about it seemed too real.

"I had a dream last night," said Harry. He was nearly whispering. The tones in his voice sent shivers down Pansy's spine as the last wave of students passed them by. There was a little hope within her that he would explain his encounter with Pansy the night before and that everything thereafter would be a delightful happily ever after. The bitter Slytherin inside her, however, knew otherwise. "It was - "

"You dream about Voldemort all the time." Hermione cut him off before he could even finish his sentence. She was practically ignoring him. She was upset; she didn't understand, but how could she? She didn't know.

"Yeah," Harry continued in a low voice, "but not that - vividly." He took her hand and held it gently in his. Her fierce attitude dropped almost entirely, her brown eyes met his and stared. Her confusion was obvious.

"I don't understand," she said, studying him.

"It wasn't Voldemort in my dreams last night."

Harry brushed a few strands of stray hair from Hermione's cheek, curling them tenderly behind her ear. She looked a little taken aback, but her eyes showed that she was beginning to understand what Harry was saying. Pansy could almost see the cogs in her head spinning.

"And what - what do you - " Hermione stammered through her words, staring intently into Harry's eyes. The book she held in her hand fell to the floor, it's pages fanning open as its spine slid a few inches from impact. "A dream, right?"

She grinned shyly as she began kneeling in an attempt to rescue Men Who Love Dragons Too Much from beside her feet.

Pansy turned to leave; a teardrop fell to the back of her hand. Confused and heartbroken, she made her escape to the confines of her own common room. Did he really believe it had been all a dream? Had he forgotten her entirely? She was the one he had made love to; she was the one whom he'd loved so dearly. Perhaps she had deceived only herself, she thought bitterly as she rounded the corner.

"I've had dreams too," Hermione admitted softly. "Mostly I dream I've lost you; you're dead or dying, and there's nothing I can do to save you." She paused for a moment to gauge Harry's reaction. "But every once in a while, it's different. You and I are in a beach house somewhere, or in a cottage up in the mountains, but we're always - it's always the same dream."

"You, too, then?"

"I suppose so." Even in the dim torchlight, Harry could see that Hermione was blushing. "Then, you won't mind?"

"Mind what, exactly?"

"This," Hermione said in a soft whisper, wrapping her arms around his neck. She tilted her head just a little, letting her lips brush against his. Her heart nearly stopped; he was not kissing her in return.

He was completely still, motionless. She would have doubted he were breathing if she could not see the rise and fall of his chest. His mouth opened and closed once again. She swallowed thickly and stepped back from him.

"This changes everything," Harry said, obviously deep in thought.

"I'm sorry - " Hermione begin to sob softly. She fought the urge to flee to solitude, to hide herself from him forever. She could be anywhere else - anywhere but here, in front of him. She feared that she had taken things one step too far. "I shouldn't have - I just thought - "

At that Harry took a very fast step forward, pulling her into an intimate embrace.

"No," Harry chuckled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been so daft." Harry shook his head against hers, then pulled it back enough to touch his nose against hers. "I love you, Hermione," he was giddy with delight.

"You - what?" Hermione struggled to wipe away her tears. The space between them was minimal, nearly non-existent.

"I love you, Hermione." He bowed his head and kissed Hermione as thoroughly as his joy-clouded mind would let him. Unlike he had before, she returned the favour; a soft breath of relief escaped her lips as they broke apart. "I love you like that," he said, as if further clarification were necessary.

"Not like a sister?"

"Never like a sister," Harry replied, kissing her once again. He would never tell that lie again. "Not even if I tried." He had tried, too, for nearly seven years. It had torn him apart to do so, but her apparent interest in Ron had kept him at bay.

Ron was now otherwise occupied and whatever interest she had had in him, had there ever really been any there, had dissipated. Ron was busy, very busy with Lavender Brown. His time spent with her had afforded Harry and Hermione lazy afternoons alone in the library or common room, studying or chatting about the silliest things. Hermione had been his best friend, but now she was so much more.

She snuggled against him, smiling widely.

She was his. The girl he had fallen so deeply in love with was finally his. This was not a dream, no delusion, Harry thought gratefully, relishing in every second of it. He had finally told Hermione what he felt for her, and she felt the same way for him. As he levitated the book behind them and made his retreat to the common room with her hand in his, the faint memories of the other girl in his dream vanished quickly away.


As Harry and Hermione snuggled on the most comfortable armchair in the common room. Ron made his way to them, dragging his precious Lavender behind him. She giggled loudly and gasped in excitement as she saw Gryffindor's newest couple. They were not the only ones staring, though. Ginny, from a far corner of the room, unbeknownst to those around her, was sobbing quietly.

There was a considerable amount of chatter among the students, as there was quite a bit to discuss. A sextuple murder had occurred below them, without notice of student or staff. Whoever had done it could easily be hiding in their very midst. Harry tried not to be distracted by anything or anyone else, but even with Hermione right beside him, his mind was beginning to wander.

The painting of the Fat Lady swung open; Headmistress McGonagall stepped inside, Professor Ruthport, the newest professor to take the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, following closely behind her. It was apparent she had an announcement to make, and Harry feared the worst. Would his safe-haven close to protect its students?


Author's Note: So, as I'm sure you've begun to notice, this story is quite alternate universe as far as the pairings are going. For those trying to pinpoint exactly when this story occurs, imagine it as Harry's new seventh year - a seventh year he actually intended to spend at Hogwarts. Much of the sixth book did not happen, for the sake of this story, but I'll let the storytelling itself tell you what's going on as this story progresses.