Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse (including rape) on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion and scenes of a sexual nature, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasleys, liberties taken with mythical history and the HP real-life timeline.
Enola tried hard not to skip. Or bounce. But it was quite the impossible thing. For pure elation had been in short supply just lately around the palace. And, now that she had some, she was allowing herself to revel in it. So, here she was, moving through her walk-in wardrobe, humming happily to herself and thoroughly determined to do the best job that she could.
After all, it wasn't every day that a girl was asked to be a Maid of Honour.
And she was honoured. But she felt slightly guilty at the same time. For she was now firmly convinced that Hermione had become her best friend. Enola had felt it creeping in surreptitiously for ages, but this conversation had simply confirmed it. Hermione had replaced Cassie, who Enola had known for much longer, in that coveted spot in her heart. Enola had let her go with crushing sadness, but she was powerless to prevent it.
For there was just something magnetic about Hermione Granger. She had a way of drawing people to her, in much the same way that Harry did. It was just natural that they were drawn to each other. And the happiness that Hermione inspired in Harry … well, it melted Enola's heart. For if anyone deserved happiness in Enola's eyes, it was Harry. And Hermione, who had suffered so dreadfully in her own way, was equally as deserving of the unbridled joy that their union promised to bring.
And Enola was just fitfully excited over the whole thing.
But which outfit to pick? Hermione had tasked Enola with this, placed her faith in her. And not just in terms of bridal fashions, but in asking her to be part of the biggest day of her life in this most intimate of ways. She had spoken so warmly of her, of how much she valued her friendship, of how important she'd come to consider her in such a short space of time.
Enola had been humbled, robbed of any kind of notion about how to respond, of any words that would have done justice to how she felt about any of that.
So she'd just given Hermione a deep hug, skipped into her wardrobe, had a little cry, and then got to work.
She drummed her fingers against her chin as she thought. She noticed a bit of unsightly hair growth there and yelped at the touch. Her wand was out casting hair-removal spells so fast that it would have looked like a blur to anyone who had seen. Had anyone seen? Enola hoped not ... she didn't like to think of anyone seeing her with a mini-beard. She shuddered bashfully at the thought.
This decision was a tricky one. This wasn't going to be a usual wedding, so converting one of her dresses into a standard wedding gown probably wasn't the way to go. And she wasn't sure of Hermione's style, either. Sally had provided her with a wardrobe of outfits and Hermione had simply chosen garments from that, but it wasn't as if she'd gone to a shop and bought a whole set of items to reflect her own tastes. She tended to plump for delicate cotton sundresses, but the warm weather dictated such choices, really.
Then there was the fact that this would be a ritual, too. That had to be factored in. Enola knew next to nothing about the alchemical process, so how was she expected to dress a White Queen for her alchemical wedding? Well, that was a start. She had to be in white, obviously. Enola flicked her wand and all her white dresses were suddenly floating in front of her. She didn't have many ... she was currently going through a phase of liking pastels for her own figure. She felt they created a cute contrast to her milky complexion. The low number of white garments made this easier, narrowing it down to a choice of just seven.
Enola discarded two immediately. They were far too sexy. Indeed, the neckline of one even plunged as low her belly button for Merlin's sake! That wouldn't do at all. Another two were maternity dresses, totally the wrong style, but she decided to discard these, too, on purely personal grounds. For she was turning her mind to the idea of maybe trying for a brother for Ally. She'd like to give Neville a choice of heirs for the House of Longbottom ... if she could ever find a way to make him capable of creating one with her again.
Of the three that remained, one of the dresses was her own wedding dress. She twirled it fondly in her hands, feeling the softness of the lace bodice. She wondered … it would be a fitting gift.
Hermione gasped when she showed it to her. "It's beautiful, En … but I can't. This must have been yours, surely?"
"It was," Enola confirmed, brightly. "But you can always give it back, if you like. I intended to give it to Ally on her wedding day anyway. You can think of it as your Something Borrowed."
"Oh, Ennie … if you're sure," Hermione whispered reverently. "It really is beautiful."
"Then that's settled then," Enola smiled, bouncing in her happiness. "Stand still and let me take your measurements. We'll need to resize it a bit. My boobs are bigger than yours, but you have such womanly hips and a graceful arse ... we'll have to tuck the bodice down a bit to show it off. I'm sure Harry will approve."
Hermione did as she was told and Enola flicked her wand, conjuring a tape measure, which began taking Hermione's dimensions on its own. It did the usual ... height, waist, shoulder breadth, bust, inner thigh … quite why it felt the need to measure the distance between Hermione's nostrils and eyebrows was anyone's guess, but Enola just left it to it. She busied herself making the alterations to the dress as required. In the ensuing quiet, Hermione brought up a niggling doubt that had been on her mind.
"So, this Acolyte Induction," Hermione began, biting her lip. "I'm having trouble with it before we even start."
"Why, what's the problem?" Enola asked, fumbling through rolls of lace and diamante that she was considering as additions to her dress. "I told you that there isn't anything to worry about. You just have to open yourself up to the Coven, make a few vows, give a sample of blood to add to the protections around Harry, and then absorb the spells we throw at you. That wont be a problem, because your magic is of a power level that only Harry can compete with. You'll be fine."
"But I wont even be able to do the first bit," Hermione moaned. "I cant even say the place name to Apparate to for the ritual, so I'll fail before I even start!"
"Oh, come on!" Enola grinned. "It's not that hard!"
Enola didn't look at Hermione as she spoke, and there was something teasing in her expression that stirred a little crossness in Hermione, as though she were being had on.
"That's easy for you to say," Hermione replied, pushing aside her suspicions for now. "You know the language ... I don't. Can you say the name again for me? Just one more time?"
Enola sighed in a patient air. "Okay, but it has to be the last time. It's part of the test, a component of the initiation. I can't do this for you, Hermione."
"I know, but please ... just one more go."
"Alright," Enola grinned, turning to her. "The standing stone circle is at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwryndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Have you got it now?"
"Lan-fire-puth-gwin ... oh, this is hopeless!" Hermione yelped. "I'm never going to get this!"
"Of course you will," Enola told her, confidently. "All you need is a bit of practice. Just take your time ... learn each bit on its own then put them all together."
"But there are so many bits!" Hermione bitched. "I cant say them on their own, let alone as one huge word!"
Enola smiled amusedly at her. "So, do you plan to have a standard wedding after all this?" she asked, using her wand to take an inch from the hemline of her wedding dress.
"Now that's a much nicer idea!" Hermione exclaimed, happy to change the subject. "I'm actually thinking of researching marriage customs in every culture on Earth and marrying Harry in each of those, too. Just to be sure. We could have a marriage a month. I wonder if he'll mind."
Enola laughed. "I doubt it. Think of all the rampant wedding night sex he'd get!"
Hermione blushed. "I'm trying to focus on this one, first. I'm actually a bit terrified that I wont be able to keep it together ... you know, to perform for him on the night."
"What do you mean?" asked Enola, quirking her eyebrow and dropped her sewing things to her lap.
"Haven't you heard?" asked Hermione. "Harry has performed ritual sex magic on his bedroom! He's cast spells, drawn runes and who knows what other kind of symbols, charged crystals, placed totems … Ennie, I had an orgasm just five seconds after stepping inside the place! I've never seen magic like it."
"What!" cried Enola, dreamily. "Really?"
"Yep," Hermione nodded. "Poor little Celesca was with me. She didn't know what was happening!"
"Does … does it affect other people, then, or is it just for you?" Enola asked, swarthily.
"Well, Luna could barely walk when she passed through it," said Hermione with a little giggle. "And when I asked your mother to have a look at what Harry had actually done up there, she didn't return for over an hour. So, I'd say yes, it affects others, too."
"Hmmm," Enola swooned. "You really are the luckiest witch alive, Min. Do you know?"
"I'm starting to see it," Hermione grinned. "It's a nice change from being one of most cursed, as I was six months ago."
"It feels like you've been with us forever, though," said Enola thoughtfully. "I really am so happy for you, Min. I truly am."
"Thank you," said Hermione, as Enola gave her a hug. "And not just for agreeing to do this for me. I mean for everything you've done for me. You've been so kind since the day I arrived. I know I was a bit of a dick, being jealous of you at times … I mean, it's not your fault you are so gorgeous … but you really are my best friend now. I hope you don't mind me saying that."
"Of course I don't!" Enola squeaked, squeezing Hermione again. "I'm honoured. You're my best friend, too. I just love that you asked me to be your Maid of Honour! I hope I get to be it for all of your other fifty-odd weddings, too!"
Hermione laughed and they broke apart. "Let's just see how you do at this one first! I brought you a book about alchemical weddings from Harry's library. Well, it's my library, really. I think I might actually ban Harry from it, unless he's bringing me more books. He's a bit too boisterous for his own good to be allowed in there without supervision. He might break something in there, and that just wont do at all. I'd be be so cross with him if he ruined such a beautiful room in one of his tantrums or something. Anyway, you're going to need to have a look at the book. There's a piece in there about the Maid and the Best Man. You have a serious role to play."
"I do? Even better!" said Enola. "I'll have a look when we're done. Ooh … who's going to be the Best Man?"
"Harry is asking Neville to do it as we speak," Hermione revealed. "He's the obvious choice, really. Neville is as close to an actual brother as Harry could ever want ... it's a no-brainer for both of us. Seriously … does this tape measure really need to know the length of my toenails?!"
Enola swooned at the thoughts running through her head. "Me and Nev ... playing such a personal role for yours and Harry's wedding ... it's almost perfect."
"Almost?" Hermione queried, raising her eyebrows. "What's missing?"
"Well, there is a component to arcane wedding rites that adds an even greater strength to the Bond," Enola began with a blush. "Something that would offer the energy of Maid of Honour and Best Man as further guardians of the Marriage Bond."
"And what's that?"
"Sex, Hermione," Enola flushed. "Sex Magic is on a par with Life and Death Magic in terms of raw potency. The emotional releases involved, the very fundamental nature of the energies called upon ... it's one the most natural forms of magic there is. And, in old rites, a Bedding Ritual seals the Marriage Bond after a wedding ... and there are some traditions that also draw on the sexual energies from the nominated witnesses ... the Maid and Best Man ... to enhance that. If Nev and I had sex at the same time as you and Harry, our energies would infuse with yours, making the Bonds between us all that much stronger and more intimate."
"Then why cant you?" Hermione asked. "That sounds quite lovely, and I'm sure Harry would agree to it. What's the problem?"
"Nev and I are the problem," Enola confessed, sadly. "We still cant have sex, can we?"
"Still?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Did the potions I brewed not work for you?"
Enola shook her head. "No. Thank you for trying, but Nev's problems seem immune to conventional magic."
Hermione looked pityingly at her friend ... then her eyes lit up. "Ennie, I've just had an idea. A most brilliant idea! And, between you and me, that's actually saying something!"
"What is it?" Enola asked, her sad eyes stirred by the excitement in Hermione's tone.
"You said Neville seems untouched by conventional methods to get him aroused," Hermione began, standing and pacing thoughtfully. "Well, what if you tried something unconventional?"
"I'm listening."
"Harry has done all kinds of powerful sex enchantments in his room," Hermione went on. "Your Mum told me he was pretty much inventing new magic, just for me. I have no idea what that means, or if I'll even be able to handle it ... but maybe you can test run it for me, see what it's all about. Maybe get me prepared for what I'm going to be facing on my wedding night."
"That sounds intoxicating ... but how will that help Neville?" Enola asked, her eyes alight and dreamy.
"It might not, but everyone who had been in that room has been affected by the denseness of the magic in there ... even little Celesca," Hermione continued. "What if there is something new in there, something experimental, that is causing all of this ... and what if Neville gets a blast of it, too? It might help him through his problem ... it's worth a try, don't you think?"
Enola leapt to her knees on the bed. "I'm willing to give anything a try at this point! But Hermione ... that's Harry's bed ... it will be your marital bed. It wouldn't be right for me and Nev to use it like that."
"Then do it on the floor!" Hermione laughed, naughtily. "But it's just a mattress, En ... I'm sure Harry can change the sheets if you insist. My ... can you imagine if he's sexually spelled the bedclothes, too? I think I might die in that room, you know."
"There would certainly be worse ways to go!" Enola giggled. "Alright, I'll give it a go. When shall we try for?"
"Harry is taking me to Cardiff tomorrow, to get the Princes to ratify our Betrothal," Hermione told her. "His room will be free then. I'll get Harry to find an excuse to send Neville to the seventh floor when we leave ... so wear something sexy and be there waiting for him ... I want to hear all about it when I get back!"
It was a fortnight into September now, and the transition to Autumn was starting to hint of its arrival in this part of the world. The forest directly outside the Shield Ward of the Blue Palace was like a Bob Ross painting, touched with hints of browns and reds and ochres. There were even the rolling hills of the Brecon Beacons to complete this stunning vista. Harry was a huge fan of the magical world's greatest artist, and the Grand Gallery of the Blue Palace was replete with his works, ones that Harry had managed to collect on his travels. Harry hoped to tempt him to visit Wales once Voldemort was vanquished, but Bob rarely left Alaska these days, where he had retired after faking his death in the Muggle world, to spend more time with his happy little trees and his family of squirrels.
Harry and Hermione strolled hand-in-hand through this lush, picturesque valley as the morning sunshine blazed overhead. The fallen leaves and twigs crunched underfoot, early morning songbirds called out against the silent sky and shafts of light cut through the dense canopy overhead, lighting their way.
Hermione curled into Harry, taking his forearm with her free hand. "We'll be able to do this without fear soon. I can't wait for that."
"I'm not afraid," said Harry, cocking his head to her. "I'm with you."
"Hey ... stop stealing all my goofy lines!" Hermione complained good-naturedly.
"We'll be married soon, Miss Granger, and what's yours will be mine then," Harry teased. "Might as well start practising now!"
Hermione laughed softly and clung a bit tighter to Harry's arm. "And I intend to steal everything of yours in return ... including your surname. I cant tell you how much I'm looking forward to finally being Mrs Potter, you know ... though I will answer to Lady Potter, if you insist."
"I will today," said Harry. "The meeting I've set up will require strict formalities. Lord and Lady and all of that. But before we get onto all that, tell me something ... why did you ask me to send Neville to fireproof the curtains on my personal floor of the Palace?"
"I have my reasons," Hermione replied, evasively.
"I know," Harry quirked. "I can smell a scheme a mile off! What are you up to?"
"I'll tell you when I know if it worked or not," Hermione replied, haughtily. "It's all for a good cause, you'll just have to trust me."
"I do trust you," said Harry, puzzled as he scrunched his face, as though the challenging of this fact was utterly unnecessary.
"In any case, if that curious magic you've done to your room is any indicator, we might need to fireproof the whole house!" Hermione chuckled. "That was some seriously hot spellwork, Harry."
"Thanks, I'm glad you liked it!" Harry grinned, his eye flashing with fire. "Some of it might not even work ... but I've done loads, just in case."
"Good god!" Hermione swooned, dreamily. "I cant wait! So, what's the plan for today?"
"It is two-fold, but both parts are about our future, a future that contains a responsibility not just to us … but to the whole country," Harry explained. "So this meeting will deal with both."
"You're not just talking about our wedding, I'm guessing. You're referring to the Crown, aren't you?" Hermione breathed, lowly.
Harry nodded. "That's why I wanted to take this walk with you this morning. We aren't going to walk all the way to Cardiff, but we two, you and I, need to discuss how we want to proceed in this quite delicate matter."
Hermione fell into stride alongside Harry and regarded him, carefully. "What are your thoughts on it?"
"The simple one is that I don't want to be King of England," said Harry, bluntly. "I never have ... it was never part of my life plan, even when I learned that it could be. I just don't want that sort of burden. I told all of this to Queen Elizabeth before she died."
Hermione nodded, clutching Harry supportively as anger bubbled within him as the memory spiked. "Okay. I can't honestly say that I liked the idea of being Queen, either. Always in the public eye, a cheerleader for tourism ... I want the freedom to be able to do something useful with my life, something that doesn't involve all that pomp and ceremony."
"I'm so glad we agree on that," said Harry, squeezing her hand. "I've heard you talking about being a Queen … I just wasn't sure how far that went for you."
"Harry … I'm your Queen ... in all of the ways that matter to me. And we have our beautiful Palace … that's fairytale enough! Let's leave the business of monarchy to someone else."
"I love you, don't you ever forget that," said Harry, staunchly. "You are just too perfect for me. I hope you don't wake up one day and realise that. You'd be gone before I even had a chance to argue my case!"
Hermione laughed again. "I've already realised that, sweetie. But I decided to give you a whirl anyway."
"Your charity knows no bounds, my Lady!" Harry quirked.
"So, if we aren't going to be King and Queen of Britain, who are?" asked Hermione.
"That's what we're going to decide today," said Harry. "I'm going to have to accept a title, there's no way around it. So will you, as my future wife. But the ancient seals have been reignited. What's done is done."
"I don't know what you're getting at, but okay. I'll go along with it."
By now they had emerged from the forest. They were moving alongside a babbling little brook, looking down over the sweeping vista of the beautiful Brecon valley. Sweeping green and ochre fields, the remnants of old mines, a large reservoir glistening and twinkling in the distance. The locals called this God's Own Country … and as Harry and Hermione walked through and basked it its magnificence, they were hard-pressed to disagree.
"I, whether I want it or not, have the power of Regency over the British throne," Harry continued. "I can sit on it if I choose, or nominate someone to do it for me if I decide against it. Which I already have. But ultimate authority remains my right to claim at any time. Though in order to do that, I have to be officially invested in a high rank, one that is second only to that of the Monarch … to be next in line, so to speak."
Hermione gasped as comprehension dawned. "The Prince of Wales! You're going to become the Prince of Wales!"
Harry nodded. "When I took Excalibur it wasn't just because I was Arthur Pendragon's latest descendent. He's just an ancient ancestor of my family line. But the Sword has always been the Badge of Office of the House of Avalon, from which all other magical Houses can trace their lineage. It was the original House of Magic, sired by Merlin, the first of the Ancient and Noble Houses in British Magical tradition. The old seats of power in Wales have been dormant for hundreds of years, since the English crown subjugated this country."
"But your claiming the title has re-awoken them," Hermione nodded. "I see."
"Exactly," said Harry. "While we've been off fighting Riddle, the old Welsh kingdoms have declared their magical independence from the English crown, and demonstrated their fealty to me when we put on that display at Hengest. But there hasn't been a sitting Monarch to ratify the decision ... which is part of the reason that Riddle targeted Elizabeth. The Scots and Irish already have magical independence ... it is simply wrong that the Welsh continue to be denied this freedom."
"And that's what you're going to do?"
"As my one and only act as King of the Britons, yes," Harry nodded. "If you are content to just be the Princess of Wales, that is."
Hermione went a little dreamy for a moment. She liked the idea of being a Princess much more than that of being a Queen, which was odd.
"I'm sure I can cope with that," she smirked. "I mean, look how stunning this place is! Someone else can have the London Eye … I'll just keep these beautiful hills and valleys, thanks very much!"
Harry laughed at her. "And we have more castles than anywhere else in Europe. We could set up a rival school to Hogwarts or something in one of them, if you fancied that as a project."
Hermione's face lit up. "Oh … Harry! Can we? What am I saying … these will be my castles! Of course we can. Oh … we are totally doing that, sweetheart! You cant take that promise back now you've made it!"
"I wont ... but how about a friendly wager for the naming of it?" Harry chuckled.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Let me come up with a name first, then we'll decide. Oh, wow, Harry … we have to kill Riddle! … and as quickly as we can. I've got so much to do now!"
Harry laughed at her. "Well, speaking of castles, we'd better get to our first one."
He took out a piece of rope from his cloak and offered one end to Hermione.
"Portkey?" she queried.
"It will be," Harry replied, before drawing his wand and proving good to his word.
They emerged at the top of the crumbing ruin known as the Norman Keep, at the heart of the Cardiff Castle grounds. From here they could look out across the bustling Capital city of Wales ... as the Castle stood at the absolute centre of it ... which was already in the throes of morning life. Green and orange buses swept along the roads of Kingsway and Castle Street, shuttling coffee-laden commuters and shoppers into the busy city centre. The sun was low overhead, peaking through a silvery cloud-deck, and it speckled the battlements and the pretty clock tower and caused the scores of international flags hoisted from the ramparts to flap and flutter in a light breeze.
Harry watched the giant Welsh flag, with it's roaring red dragon emblazoned fierce and proud, snap back at them with the wind, over the drawbridge of the entrance gate, as though waving a Prince back to his throne. Which, of course, it pretty much was. Harry stirred at that, his heart thrumming gently beneath his ribs. He had never had a home to call his own … not since Riddle had destroyed his parents and the life they'd begun to build for them all … but this country was starting to feel an awful lot like one.
"This is Cardiff Castle?" Hermione asked, breathily. "Wow! It's so close to everything!"
"Quite a backdrop, isn't it?" Harry smirked. "I first saw it when Sir David brought me to watch a rugby match here a few years back ... I tell you, you should see the place on a matchday, it's just a sea of colour ... red and yellow for the most part, because of the replica jerseys and daffodils ... and the people are just as colourful. And when they start singing ... well, it's practically a religious experience. One day, we'll share it together."
"I look forward to it," Hermione crooned, tucking in close again. "So, what are we doing today?"
"There is a formal process we have to go through for you to become my Consort," Harry explained. "It's all very formal and there's nothing to worry about. It's just protocol, mainly to prove that I asked you to marry me and now I seek permission from my peers to conduct the ceremony."
"But you never did ask me to marry you," Hermione whispered, playfully. "You just offered me a ring and told me you were mine if I wanted you. Which I very much did, as I think I've made clear. But you never actually asked the question."
Harry grinned at her. "We still have time ... if you want me to do this properly. But I'd have to take your ring back for that, and you seem quite covetous of it!"
"I am," Hermione confirmed. "But you don't have a ring, do you? So ... though it may not be traditional ..."
And Hermione suddenly dropped to one knee, slipping off the Potter family ring as she did so. Harry's heart was hammering under his ribs as Hermione looked back up at him, her eyes alive with love and passion. She held the ring up to him in trembling fingers.
"Harry Potter ... I love you. I've always loved you, and I always will, till death and forever beyond that. I offer this ring as a symbol of my love and devotion to you.
"Harry ... will you marry me?"
Hot tears stung at Harry's eye. This was silly ... they were already engaged, nothing could make that any more wonderful than it already was. But this, somehow, did. Emotion surged through him of an intensity that Harry had scarcely ever conceived of, let alone felt. He dropped to his knees to face his bride.
"I do, I so utterly do!"
Harry leant in to kiss Hermione with unrestrained passion a moment, before drawing back so she could slip the ring onto his finger, which immediately resized to fit. Then she drew him close for an intimate hug, just as a smattering of applause broke out behind them, for it seemed some other tourists had given them an audience.
"Congratulations!" the strangers swooned, as Harry and Hermione got to their feet and hurried past the newcomers and down the stone steps. Hermione at least had the good manners to call out a 'thank you' as they sailed by.
Then Hermione gasped in astonishment as they exited the ruin. "Harry … look! There are peacocks over there! Look!"
Harry followed her line of sight to the well manicured-lawns beneath the Keep. And she was right. Peacocks, maybe half-a-dozen of them, were strutting around and having a jolly old time.
"Ooh, can we go and see them?" Hermione asked adorably, like an excited child.
Harry wasn't about to deny her anything, and this was an easy win. So they ambled down through the semi-ruined access path to the Keep, across a little footbridge and onto a gravel path, where they watched the peacocks strut and stroll and flash their purple and blue plumages.
"Oh, Harry! Aren't they beautiful!" Hermione whispered, clinging tight to Harry's arm. He sort of agreed. The feathers were nice but the birds themselves looked cross and moody. Harry was keen to keep them at arms length.
As they were already there, Harry and Hermione decided to take a complete tour of the castle while they had time. They moved through all parts of the place, from the buried Roman walls to the opulent Victorian Gothic apartments. It was rather breathtaking, but Hermione ruled it out as a possible venue for their new school, which Harry was secretly pleased with. Converting a derelict old castle somewhere remote was one thing … denying Cardiff one of its most iconic visitor attractions would be a completely different kind of nightmare altogether.
Harry and Hermione left the castle and made their way through the city. They passed an ancient pub, which clearly took its name from the occupants at the castle across the road. The Peacock's Tail was a rambling old whitewashed building complete with Tudor black-beam rafters and flag-stoned floors, and Harry was determined to steer Hermione here later; then they swept around the Georgian church and the Old Market, which was once site of the jail and Hangman's Noose, but now was a vibrant bazaar of fish-sellers, local traders and such a mix of sights and smells that it was a little dizzying.
They moved beyond that, through the thoroughfare of the modern shopping district of the city, weaving between zoned-out, earphone-clad teens and harassed mothers with more kids than they could manage. They eventually came to a halt outside a modest-sized concert theatre.
"This is St. David's Hall," Harry explained, pointing up at the sign overhead as Hermione sent him a quizzical stare. "This is where the Knights of St. David meet to discuss affairs of state."
"Where are going? Into the auditorium?" Hermione funned, as Harry opened the door for her. "You never struck me as the thespian-type, Harry!"
"You'll see," he replied, mysteriously. "Come on."
Harry led the way inside. There was an old chap manning the reception desk. Harry flashed him his family ring as they approached his station. The man bowed deeply, then guided Harry and Hermione around the back towards a cloak room housed there. It was cool and dimly lit inside. The old man pulled down on a seemingly random clothes hook … and the wall behind it dissolved to reveal an ancient elevator, similar to the ones at the Ministry of Magic in London.
Harry and Hermione entered the elevator and the old man closed the old wooden grate behind them. The wall instantly reappeared, throwing everything into complete darkness. Hermione clung tight to Harry, but the darkness was so dense he couldn't even see her face … though she was so close her breath tickled his ear. The lift rattled down what must have been at least a dozen floors beneath the ground, as various flashes of colour interspersed the gloom every now and then. It took a good few minutes before light re-appeared below them and the elevator came to a juddering halt.
They stepped from the lift and made their way along a short corridor, which led to a single, large room. Hermione lost her breath at the sight of it, for they were now standing at the top of a bowl-like amphitheatre. It was made from dull viridian stone, and a dim source of light shone from a point high in the cavernous ceiling. There must have been seating space for several thousand people in here. But, right now, it was silent and deserted.
"Don't be afraid," said Harry, holding Hermione's hand as he sensed the rise of her emotion. "You're quite safe here. Come on."
Harry led her down the shallow stairs into the very centre of the amphitheatre. There should have been a stage here, and maybe on some occasions there was, but right now there were just four, circular stone platforms and another, larger one, facing them all. Behind each platform was a highly carved and ornate throne of black stone, possibly onyx or even highly-polish coal, which glinted every now and then where light from the ceiling caught the sparkly surfaces.
"I see everything's ready," said Harry, approvingly. "Come and stand with me, Princess Hermione."
She grinned in a silly sort of way and ambled up to Harry's side. He pulled her close, so that they were both standing on the circular stone disc embedded into the floor.
"This is the King's Circle," said Harry. "When I activate this," he pointed to a rune panel on his right. "It will call the four Princes of the ancient Welsh kingdoms. They won't actually be here, but will be mere projections. Don't step out of the circle, or you wont be able to see or hear them. Ready?"
Hermione nodded. Harry placed his wand to the rune stone.
"Princes! I summon you!"
There was a rush of energy to the right-most circle on the stage in front of them, quickly followed by another two circles to the left. Soon, all four were filled with fluttering images of regal-looking wizards, only one of whom Hermione recognised. They looked like holograms or ghosts from where Hermione was standing.
"I, Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed swear solemn fealty to Lord Harry Potter!"
Pwyll bowed his head to his chest.
"Hello, Prince of Dyfed," said Harry. "It is good to see you again. And how is your daughter?"
Pwyll looked up bashfully. "Branwen is very well, my Lord. And happy not to be married! May I be the first to offer my support for your future nuptials, however. For I assume that is why we have been summoned?"
"Thank you, Lord of Dyfed," Harry grinned. "And yes, you are quite correct. That is why we are here today."
"You will pass on our well wishes to Branwen?" Hermione added, swiftly.
Pwyll beamed at her. "I can assure you of it, my Lady, and thank you for your concern."
Then the others introduced themselves. There was Llewellyn of Clwyd, Owen of Gwent, and Dayfdd of Powys.
"And I am Harry, Prince of Gwynedd, and King of the Britons by the ancient protocol of Arthurian Accession," said Harry. Then he turned to the side. "And this is my wife to be … from today foreknown as Princess Hermione."
"To the Princess!" the others chorused in salute. It was a good job it was dark, for Hermione's blush might just have caused them all a little bit of concern for her health.
"I have called you here today, gentleman, to discuss the matter of the English throne … and of my impending marriage," Harry began, formally. Hermione marvelled at how easily he could suddenly sound like a statesman. "I am soon to make this extraordinary witch at my side my wife. I seek your support for this action, and offer the nomination of my Head Acolyte, Narcissa Malfoy, as further validation for Hermione becoming my Consort. After that, we must turn our attention to the state of our country. So, let's get the easy bit out of the way, first. All in favour of Hermione becoming the future Mrs Potter, say 'aye'."
All four Princes drew breaths, and said in loud unison - "AYE!"
"What? No objections?" Harry asked in mock distress, throwing a playful look at Hermione. "Not even one?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "I can still change my mind, you know!"
"Good, that's settled then," Harry cried. "My friends ... make our betrothal official!"
Then the Princes all raised their ceremonial staffs, before driving them forcefully into the ground at their feet. Forks of lightening-like magic erupted at the point of contact, before surging like snakes from the Princes to Harry and Hermione, lighting them up a moment as the spells reached them. Harry grinned at Hermione, who felt a warmth rush all through her as the validation oath drifted across her body and magic.
"No backing out now!" Harry whispered teasingly to Hermione, who wrinkled her nose cutely back at him. Then Harry addressed his Princes. "Now Lord of Powys … the current climate, if you please."
"We have formally lodged our claim for magical independence," the Prince replied. "But, with the current power vacuum in London, we have not had a response. Furthermore, we have learned that the forces gathering in Ireland now outnumber us by nearly two-to-one ... and are growing every day."
"Where do the Americans officially stand on this?" Harry asked.
"They are in the throes of a convoluted election, with one candidate claiming all sorts of cheating and rigging going on," Lord Gwent cut in. "It is slowing the electoral process to a virtual crawl. One side seems to support us, the other backs Voldemort. But it seems to be on a State-by-State basis, with no consensus on the whole. It's pretty chaotic over there just now. And in the confusion, no-one seems to want to give a straight answer on behalf of the Government."
"And it isn't much better here, as the Muggle world remains in a state of high emergency," Lord Clwyd added. "The Royal Family are being kept under the most stringent security. The sons of Prince Charles, and their families, have not left the safety of the Tower of London for any reason since Queen Elizabeth was murdered."
"Then that's where they should remain," said Harry. "The White Tower is replete with ancient magical protections. They should be quite secure for the duration of their residence there."
"And what are your plans on that score, Lord Potter?" asked Llewellyn of Clwyd.
"Gentleman, let it be formally known that I intend to grant Wales magical independence … then turn over Regency of the British crown to the next in line from the House of Windsor."
"My Lord," said Lord Dyfed, as the others nodded their excited approval. "That may not be entirely suitable, given the current situation."
"And why not?"
"Well, it's Prince Charles, you see," Lord Dyfed explained. "The public execution of his mother affected him hugely. It has caused him to have a break from reality, and his health is in a very poor state, we understand."
"We can even confirm the rumours that he is turning to wizards to plan a possible revenge," Lord Gwent added, starkly. "And he is being manipulated to consort with Dark Forces to facilitate this, hoodwinked into believing them to be honourable."
"If he aligns himself with wizards placed around him by Voldemort, then we may become vulnerable," Lord Powys reminded them all.
"How so?" asked Hermione.
"All magic around Britain flows into the ruling Monarch, giving them power and influence," Harry explained. "Through acts of reverence and worship, magical energy is literally expelled into a sort of energetic power grid that spans the country, and indeed, the whole world. There are points of ley line convergence, and swirling magical vortexes, where this power can be tapped into and manipulated or drawn out, but the knowledge of how to do it is protected by the Royal family. I only learned the technique properly when Elizabeth taught me some years ago."
"So, if Tom Riddle somehow took control of Prince Charles as a sort of puppet ruler, he could learn this secret, too?" Hermione surmised, horrorstruck by the very idea.
"Exactly, and that would make even our Palace protections something they could undermine," Harry nodded, darkly.
"Is that why we are here today? So that if Riddle does get to Charles, he wont be able to use him in this way?"
"That's the hope, but we need to know how far Riddle has proceeded with this plan," Harry replied. "In any case, I still need to nominate a successor to rule in my place."
"I would recommend promoting William, his eldest son, to the office of King," Lord Dyfed advised. "He has a good head on his shoulders, is popular with the public ... he is just the sort of figure we will need to help heal the wounds of this country in a post-Voldemort world."
"I have heard about poor Charles," said Harry, sadly. "But, gentleman, as you know ... as the Heads of the Order of the Knights of St David ... I can only nominate a successor to the throne if I assume the title of the next in line … as Prince of Wales, myself. I must now ask you to invest me in that role, as tradition dictates. Then, yes, I agree with Lord Dyfed ... I will nominate Prince William to the Throne of England."
The Prince of Dyfed immediately drew his wand, and placed it to his chest.
"I, Pwyll, recognise Harry Potter as rightful Crown Prince of Wales. I swear fealty to him and all his kin, so all here bear witness."
Harry felt the oath fall heavily on him, like a wave of searing heat from his head down to his chest. He felt it three times more, as the other Princes quickly followed Pwyll's example. Harry glanced at Hermione, who was wearing a surprised expression, her eyes bright and dancing. The oath must have settled on her, too, Harry realised, as proof incarnate of their formally betrothed status. Harry took her hand and squeezed it tight, earning an adoring smile in return. This was all becoming very real for them both, and the emotions it stirred defied explanation.
"All hail Prince Harry the First! May his reign be long and prosperous!" called out the Lord of Powys, taking a knee as he did so.
The other Princes knelt in unison, and Hermione suddenly did, too. Harry tried to tug her back to her feet, but she sternly resisted.
"It's just for the ceremony, Harry ... and you know that it's right that I do this, if only for the protocol," Hermione whispered, before grinning at him. "I worship and revere you first, and above all others ... but don't go getting any grandiose ideas of being in charge of me, though. We both know where the power lies in our relationship!"
"And I give it gladly!" Harry laughed back. He turned to the others. "Arise, my Princes, my friends, and my future wife! Lord Powys, please send word of what has taken place here, and our intentions, to London. I will meet with the Royal Family when I can safely deliver the country back to them.
"Everyone else, I ask humbly that you make land and provision available for when I request it. This war has cost many lives and there are shattered families that will need assistance and convalescence, both at home and those who will return from abroad ... and we are not yet done adding to those numbers. I will need to call on your support and hospitality before long. Till then … to the Land of Our Fathers!"
"The Land of Our Fathers!" the Princes called back, before vanishing one by one, till only Lord Dyfed remained.
"What is it, Pwyll?" Harry asked. "Do you have another point of business?"
"Just one, my Lord," Pwyll replied, his tone grave. "I have received word of a worrying development regarding yourself ... and your standing in the Muggle world."
"Go on," Harry urged.
"News reached us of Princess Hermione's visit to Europe recently," Pwyll continued. "And it seems we were not the only ones. As you know, the Ministry of Magical Governance ... which was formerly the Ministry of Magic ... has always maintained a link to the Muggle Prime Minister. We understand that Voldemort's First Minister, the puppet he uses to run the day-to-day business of Government ... one Dolores Umbridge ... has used that connection to have you declared a traitor and terrorist in the Muggle world. A reward of several million pounds has been offered for information leading to your capture.
"In short, the Muggles are looking for you, Lord Potter ... and it may not have been safe for you to travel here today."
"What have you heard, Pwyll?" Hermione demanded.
"Just before I answered your summons, I received an email ... a form of electronic communication used by Muggles ... from one of my informants. They told me that you had been spotted and Muggle security sent en masse to this location. You need to be careful, my Lord, and certainly not leave via the concert hall. The whole area around it has been placed into lockdown and is swarming with armed Muggle forces."
"Thank you, Lord Dyfed," Harry frowned as he absorbed the news.
"Good luck, Lord Potter," Pwyll nodded, before his image dissipated away.
"Harry? How big is this problem?" Hermione asked, seriously.
"Let's find out," Harry replied. He placed his hand back to the rune panel and muttered below his breath. An image emerged before them, hanging in the air like a movie projection without a screen. It showed an arc of Muggle police, all with raised rifles pointing at the front of St. David's Hall. Hermione gasped as she looked at it.
"Could they find us down here?" she breathed.
"If they knew where to look, or accidentally stumbled onto the coat hook upstairs," Harry mused, thinking fast.
"Cant we just Apparate out?"
"Through twelve storeys of solid rock?" Harry quirked. "Rock probably imbibed with ancient, long-lost magic? You can try if you like, but I wouldn't recommend it. Besides, if the Muggles know we are here then so do the Death Eaters. They'll have thrown an anti-Disapparition ward around the place by now."
"Then how do we get out?" Hermione squeaked, slightly desperately.
"By staying calm for one thing," Harry implored, with a little smirk.
"Can we fight our way free?"
"I'd rather not," Harry replied. "Not with a street full of Muggles out there. Last thing I want is for any of them to get caught in the crossfire."
"Which is probably precisely what Tom Riddle wants," Hermione huffed, sagely. "The headlines about you would be damning."
"My point exactly," Harry nodded. "Come on ... there's another exit that leads into that pub opposite the castle. We might find help there."
Harry took Hermione's hand and led them back to the top of the amphitheatre, hurrying along the uppermost tier to a spiral staircase that disappeared into the roof. Hermione baulked at the sight of it, for there were a lot of stairs to climb. But it seemed the more sensible way out, and Harry was already starting out on the ascent. It took nearly fifteen minutes of solid climbing, but eventually they reached a door in the brick wall that led to the cellar of the pub. When they emerged, someone was there waiting for them.
"Owain!" Harry exclaimed as his Knight welcomed him back to the surface world. "What are you doing here?"
"I was the one who told Pwyll about the Muggles," Owain Glyndwr Jones informed them. "I used to be the Ministry liaison with the Muggle agency called MI5. I still have friends there, and they dropped me word about this."
"So, what's the situation?" Harry asked.
"I've got us some drinks in the bar, let's discuss it up there," Owain advised. "We need to blend in if we want to avoid the Muggles. Here, Boss, sling this on."
Owain handed Harry a nondescript hooded sweatshirt, which Harry donned, using the hood to hide his shawl.
"Good thinking," Hermione nodded, as she and Harry followed Owain from the cellar. "But how did you know to be here?"
"As soon as I told Pwyll about the Muggles I came here to wait," Owain revealed. "The pub exit is the only other way in or out, so I came here to guard it ... just in case the secret has leaked out. Luckily, we seem to be okay. Here, Harry, I got you a golden ale ... I guessed a pink gin and tonic for our ... ahem ... Princess, here! It's all the rage, so I'm told!"
"Thank you, and your guesses are supremely good!" Hermione grinned, taking the drink and sipping deeply.
Harry drank greedily, too, giving out a satisfied ahhh as the liquid flowed down his throat. It allowed him to look around the quaint little pub. It was wonderfully cosy. Low ceilinged and softly lit, there were snug corners and rickety tables, character and history seeping out of the very walls themselves. The horseshoe-shaped bar was shiny from overuse, and there was a beautiful smell of warm food wafting from somewhere deep in the building. Harry swam in it, feeling warm and content, and wondering just how the owners of the dogs, in a painting that hung behind the bar, had managed to teach them to play snooker.
That was magic worth learning.
But then reality intruded. The door tinkled open and two uniformed police officers walked in to the hushed silence they created. They looked around with firm, ugly expressions. Owain turned his own worried look to Harry who saw, with a flash that sent him ultra-alert in a second, that Owain had drawn his wand beneath the table. He saw Harry scowl at the action.
"Just in case," Owain murmured, lowly. "I don't want to engage them ... but I will, to buy you time to escape if it comes to that."
Hermione bit her lip in her anxiety, her very skin was tingling with it as the officers came ever closer. They were almost at their table when Hermione had a sudden idea. Heart beating loudly in her ears, she moved quickly while their heads were turned. She flipped Harry's chair and pulled him practically into her lap, kissing him deeply. She tugged his hood and scarf down, exposing his hair but keeping his face firmly turned to her. She reasoned that the officers would be looking for a suspicious individual in a hood or head covering of some sort, and Harry fit the bill exactly.
She would also get a fabulous kiss out of it.
The ruse seemed to work. The officers reached their corner table, Hermione heard Owain make some off-handed comment about the passion of young lovers and early alcohol consumption, soon followed the shuffling of heavy feet as the officers moved away. Hermione breathed heavily, pulled Harry's head to her shoulder to hide his scar, then opened her eyes cautiously to Owain.
"They're gone," Owain grinned back. "But don't let me disturb you!"
"Pervert!" Harry grinned, tugging his shawl back on.
Owain smirked in response, but then his face darkened with seriousness. "That's the third time they've checked the place. They are averaging a sweep every fifteen to twenty minutes. We have to find you another way out."
"What about that painting, in the boiler room upstairs?" Harry suggested. "That used to create a passageway to the old crypt at the Merlin Church of St. James in Caerphilly. It might still work."
"A painting? As a portal?" Hermione queried. "I didn't know they could do that."
"They were forerunners of Portkeys," Harry explained. "Like that one Aberforth Dumbledore had to Hogwarts. But they were limited as they could only go to a single place ... either depicted in the painting or the actual physical location that it was kept, though often they were the same thing. Their use fell out of habit, but some still survive to this day. There used to be one hanging in the lounge here, but it was taken down when the Church of The Dark Mark Vigilants began cracking down on other faiths. The painting showed the Church and Merlin, who was seen as a false idol and had to be destroyed. I was hoping it would still be here."
Owain shook his head. "The Church was burned down in the purges, and the painting destroyed in the fire. The other one leads to nowhere now. The only other way out is via the river ... if we can smuggle you beyond the anti-Disapparition field on the water you should be able to easily return to the Palace."
"Is there access from the rear of the pub?" Harry asked.
"No," Owain replied. "There has been a control put in, to help with high tides. We'll have to get you into Bute Park and onto the river there."
"But how will we find someone to take us upstream?" Hermione asked, sounding dubious about the plan.
"It's late Summer and there's plenty of water traffic," Owain told her, confidently. "We just have to find a discerning traveller interested in making a few quid. Let's go."
Harry threw the last of his beer down his neck, threw his hood over his head and followed Owain and Hermione from the pub. They walked quickly, tagging on to groups crossing at road lights and mingling with tourists as mounted police trotted by and scanned the crowd from on high. There were police everywhere, on horses, in cars, and patrolling on foot. Hermione began to think they wouldn't get through at all. At one point Owain even forced them into a bus shelter and talked in loud French until a couple of armed police officers gave them up as a bad job and walked on.
Eventually, they reached the park and moved away from the throng of people. They hurried down towards a little jetty that served as a platform to board a water taxi. There were several brightly coloured narrowboats moored there and their owners mingling about enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Owain led the way towards them, when suddenly a deep voice barrelled out from the trees.
"Oi! You there! Stop right now!"
Harry and Hermione turned to look at a burly security officer who was hurrying towards them. Owain clocked him, too, and looked around to see if anyone else was watching. They seemed to be alone.
"Stupefy!" he cast in a whisper. A jet of light burst from his wand and hit the officer square in the jaw, knocking him cold in an instant.
"Owain!" Harry cried in admonishment. "What are you doing!? He could have radioed in or anything!"
"Then you'd better not be here when the back-up arrives," Owain warned. "Come on."
They left the strewn officer and raced to the jetty. Owain approached the group of watermen.
"Right folks, who wants to earn a quick grand," Owain announced. He reached into his jacket and waved a wad of notes in the air. Several intrigued heads turned his way.
"What's it for?" asked a heavily bearded man smoking a pipe.
"My friends need to get up river, quickly, with no questions asked," Owain announced.
"Who you getting away from ... magic or Muggle?" asked the boatman. "We all saw your little spell back there."
Harry and Hermione swapped surprised looks, but Owain appeared to have suspected this.
"Both," Owain replied.
"Magic'll cost ya double."
"Two grand," Owain announced, pulling another wad of cash. Harry had to wonder where he was getting this money from.
The boatman walked forward, drew his own wand, and passed it over the cash. Satisfied that it was all legitimate, he beckoned Harry and Hermione forwards.
"Me boat's the Lily-Mae," he grinned toothily. "Climb aboard and keep yer heads below deck till I come and say. We'll get you passed all these bastards in no time, don' you worry ... Mr Potter."
"Thank you," Harry grinned, shaking the boatman's hand when he offered it. "You know me?"
"Aye, you're known to all the water-folk ... and the only thanks I need is for you to rid us of that evil bastard keeping us all under his iron boot. We're glad to help you, Harry Potter, and yer pretty lady, too."
"I appreciate it," Harry nodded, stoutly. Then he turned to Owain. "You'll take care of the copper you attacked?"
"What are friends for?" Owain quirked with a little grin.
Harry shook his hand, too, then helped Hermione aboard the little barge and they ducked away out of sight.
"The Lily-Mae, eh?" Hermione quirked, as she sat down on one of the narrow benches as the engine kicked to life. "Ever get the feeling that your Mum is watching over us?"
"Sometimes, but I hope she looks away now," Harry grinned, tugging down his shawl to reveal his scarred face. "Because I was quite enjoying what we started at the pub, and it was a shame to end it so early!"
Hermione giggled and allowed Harry to pull her down atop him, their lips crashing into each other as the boat slowly began to move.
Neville had to admit that he was highly intrigued to see this for himself. He wouldn't believe it was possible until he had, because even Harry wasn't capable of magic like that. The witches of the house just had to be wrong.
They just had to be. Every single one of them.
For that's all they were all talking about. Harry's sex room. Neville laughed just by thinking about it. It was typical Harry, meticulous planner as he was, but to create such powerful, lingering effects … that was new a standard even for him. The amount of work that must have gone into it was astonishing to consider, if any of it was right at all ... which Neville was still highly dubious about.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a look, especially as Harry had asked him to cast fire-repelling charms on all his flammable furniture. His wedding night was just going to be that hot, it would seem.
Besides, Neville's hunt for Enola was proving fruitless. Sally ... poor, one-armed Sally ... had come to find him, to tell him that his wife was looking for him, though the elf didn't say why, which was a little bit curious in itself. So Neville had started looking for her. They must have been looking in the wrong places, because neither had found the other one yet. And Neville had been at this for an hour already.
And everywhere he went, and everyone he asked, was busy talking about the same thing ... the sexual magic that Harry had imbued into his bedroom walls. It was, literally, the hot topic of the day. Apparently, some of the witches of the house had even queued up outside the room to experience it for themselves. The visions of that made Neville's head spin.
So now he was going to see it for himself. Then he was going to sit in one place and wait for Enola to find him later.
He always felt a pang of discomfort whenever he came up to Harry's most private space, as though it was the one location that Harry should have solely to himself. But then, if the rumours were true, everyone else had already been here lately, so why should Neville be the odd one out? That ship had sailed. He hadn't been up here in ages … and the memory of it didn't sit well with him at all.
For it was the day after the third anniversary of Harry's supposed death. He knew that Hermione held a party for him every year, and that people still loyal to him attended. Ron had sworn after the second year that he wouldn't go again. That year it had been held at number six, Privet Drive. The house had been vacant for years, and nobody seemed to want to buy it … not after the brutal murders of the family living at number four several years previous. The other residents of the cul-de-sac all swore it was haunted …
So Hermione had set up the party there, hoping its link to Harry would draw his spirit. It didn't work, obviously, but it did draw Neville Longbottom. He transformed himself into his Animagus shape ... a dragonfly ... and hid in a lampshade to watch proceedings and report back to Harry on how Hermione was doing.
The net result of this report was that Harry had set fire to half the palace in his fury.
For that very morning, Ron had broken Hermione's arm and dislocated her shoulder. He had tried to stop her from going to the Deathday party, twisting her wrist ... causing it to snap ... then tearing her shoulder from its socket as she tried to break free from his grip. She was in excruciating agony, but she wouldn't fail to host the Deathday Party for anything. So she'd gritted her teeth, fashioned a makeshift sling from a tablecloth, and bore the pain as best she could.
Harry didn't have anything like the same sort of restraint. It was the first time Neville had seen Harry's rage turn incendiary. It certainly wouldn't be the last. Especially where Ron Weasley was concerned. Neville had felt powerless to stop him, had no idea what he was supposed to do. If Harry hadn't knocked himself out, by bringing a whole roundtower down on top of himself, Neville was certain the outcome would have been ... well, too horrendous to even think about.
And that was the last time he'd been in Harry's bedroom, to deliver his broken body to start its recovery. But now, here he was again, and it was just bizarre to compare the two circumstances. He chuckled to himself, pondered just how filthy a mind Harry really had under all that bravado, and opened the door to the Seventh Floor.
And immediately knew that something wasn't as it should be ... for there was a trail of clothes leading to Harry's closed bedroom door. Not only that, but Neville recognised the clothes ... for they belonged to his wife.
"What in the fuck are Enola's knickers doing on Harry's floor?" he said out loud, cocking an eyebrow as he picked them up. "And this is definitely her bra, too. And another thong, and another bra. What is going on?"
He reached the door and turned the handle suspiciously ... and lost his breath at what he saw inside.
For there, on top of Harry's messed up sheets, was Enola, one hand between her legs and pounding away furiously, the other roughly pinching the nipple of her exposed breast.
Neville just stared and watched a moment. He felt the power of the room suddenly crash into him just standing in the doorway. His groin throbbed, it ached. He had to grab it and squeeze, it wasn't even a choice. Enola's throaty moans were just the most erotic sounds Neville had ever heard ... and the magic of the room seemed to magnify the effect by a factor of a hundred Neville just stood and drooled over her, captivated by her display. She had torn open her dress in her lust, quite literally. Neville could see the buttons dotting the carpet where she'd ripped them off. And now his wife was writhing around in private ecstasy.
His wife. He'd never fully believed that. That this girl, this absolute vision of beauty, was his wife. That she'd chosen him, little Neville Longbottom. He remembered the first day he'd seen her … and the breath she stole from him with just a look. That smile, that face … that incredible body. He'd never once thought she'd be interested in him. Not in a million years. She was Harry's chief carer, that's the only reason she'd have to ever speak to him.
That was until she started pursuing him like a predator ... and Neville had never been so happy to be hunted in all his life.
And he just looked at her now, marvelled at his good fortune. It was the naughtiest, hottest thing he could imagine. It was like the first time he'd seen her naked, when she did a little striptease for him. And he just stared at her naked form, drank in her astonishing sexiness for fully ten minutes ... before she got antsy and pounced on him like a half-wild animal. He'd forgotten her lately, neglected her. She had needs … and he needed to man the fuck up.
And then, with a gasp of surprise ... he noticed that something else was up ... something that hadn't been up in a long, long time.
Enola heard and turned to the sound, pulling the sheets up momentarily in her shock at being caught mid-play. Then she glanced at Neville's waistline, and the tent that was poking back at her. She licked her lips like a wanton vixen.
"Are you just going to stand there, or shall we take care of that problem for you?" she purred like a feral kitten.
Neville's robe was off in a moment and he kicked the door shut, locking it with his wand before throwing it to the floor, too. But he didn't know what to do next, as though he had forgotten somehow. So Enola leapt to her feet and faced up to her husband, nose-to-nose a moment. They breathed heavily, speaking in raspy puffs, the air between them humid and expectant, ready to explode at any second. Neither knew who moved first, but Enola's hand was suddenly on the back of Neville's neck, his hands either side of her face, on her boiling hot skin, as she captured his mouth and pulled him down atop her on the bed.
Then she flipped him around and straddled him. Neville could feel her moistness dripping down onto this thigh. The thought sent waves of hot senselessness speeding through him. Enola moved, repositioned herself, ready to move in … then Neville held her still.
"No, not on Harry's bed," he panted lustily. "This is the marital bed. We cant … Harry would never forgive us …"
"No problem … there's plenty of wall space," Enola purred, filthily.
Neville grinned and scooped her up in one movement, entering her as they pounded back against the window, the wall, any spot they could reach. She was deliciously warm and wet. Neville was beyond lust, beyond technique. Enola wrapped her strong thighs around his waist and encouraged him with her movements, mewling throatily as she sent her tongue into battle in his mouth again. She'd missed this so much, missed him. And he was just the same. How could he have let himself become such a poor husband? He'd make it up to her now, as often as he could.
"I've missed you," she breathed sexily into his ear, biting his lobe. "Don't hold back."
Neville was like a jack hammer now, thrusting powerfully. "I love you," he murmured lowly.
"I love you, too," Enola purred back. "But don't make love to me … just fuck me."
And Neville did as he was told. For five whole minutes. Till he could hold back no more and he spilled into her with a feral sort of growl. They slid to the floor, entangled and sweaty, struggling for air. Enola's eyes were bright and twinkling as she perched herself on her elbows to gaze at Neville.
"Harry is so doing this to our bedroom," she giggled, hugging her husband close.
"Damned bloody right he is!" Neville returned, grinning broadly. "And he's doing it tomorrow, otherwise I'll threaten not to be his Best Man!"
"It's so good to have you back ... all of you," Enola purred, stroking Neville's sweaty fringe from his eyes.
"It's good to be back!" Neville grinned. "But how ..."
"Ssshhh, that doesn't matter," Enola whispered. "Just hold me. That's the only thing you have to do."
So he did, until they fell asleep in each other's naked arms.