sorry for the delay in posting, but I've had one hell of a week (new job!) and spent the better part of yesterday at a wedding (yay free alcohol!)
you may need a cold shower after this one
The following month was one of the happiest of Hermione's life. She could hardly remember a time more peaceful, more filled with laughter, more buoyant with love.
As the weeks passed, she saw more and more of the estate, and finally met Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the manager. He was tall, leonine, and his skin was even darker than her father's. After brushing a kiss to her gloved hand and offering her an enigmatic smile that rivaled Luna's, he said, "Welcome to Godric's Hollow, Your Grace. Our little estate is already much improved by your warmhearted presence."
"Mr. Shacklebolt." Hermione smiled at him. "You are kind, and I so appreciate your flexibility in allowing the Duke to take a honeymoon."
"Not at all," he replied, then showed the faintest glimmer of a smile. "Besides, it is easier to balance the books if he does not have the first pass at them."
"I heard that," said Harry, indignant.
"In any case," said Hermione to Mr. Shacklebolt, "you certainly know what you're doing. And we would love to have you join us for supper sometime."
His smile did show then. "My Lady, it would be an honor."
Not once did any of them mention the McLaggens, much to her relief.
She also met Miss Vector and Mr. Slughorn, and sat in on a half-dozen of Teddy's reading and literature lessons. In the evenings, after the plates had been cleared away and the wine was congealing in the bottom of her glass, Teddy would sit in her lap while she read to him, his hair tickling her nose as he slumped against her and fell asleep. In those moments, Hermione would look down at him and smile, then look up and meet Harry's gaze. Sometimes, his eyes were hooded and sleepy; other times, they were awake and bright, knowing. One day, he would say to her, without saying anything. One day.
Teddy came out of his shell slowly, like a snail, testing her and meeting her in equal measure. He had a warm, even temperament that rarely spiked in displeasure or anger, and when it did—
"But I don't want it!" Teddy's lower lip wobbled as he glared up at Harry, his small hands clenched into determined fists. "Take it away!"
"Teddy." Harry was frustrated, she could tell, but doing an excellent job of hiding it. "It is just a cup of warm milk, and if you cannot sleep—"
"I'm not tired!" came the shriek, which only confirmed the opposite.
Hermione watched from where she stood, half-hidden behind the door frame, as Harry let out a sigh and slumped over, pushing a hand through his hair. And then, she had an idea.
"Teddy." Hermione stepped into his bedroom. "I, too, am not tired, in spite of the late hour, and I was going to try to find some buried treasure. Would you like to help me?"
Teddy stared at her for a few moments, frowning, then rubbed at his sleepy eyes. "I s'pose." Behind him, Harry frowned at her and mouthed, What?
Hermione nodded. "Good." She held out her hand, and after doing some thinking, Teddy reached out and took it.
She led the boy back to her and Harry's bedroom, Harry following a few paces behind. Once they'd reached it, she gave Teddy a seat beside hers at the desk, and picked up her quill.
"Now," said Hermione, ignoring Harry as he came in and shut the door. "I'm assuming you've heard of the Dread Pirate Roberts?"
"No," said Teddy, suspicious.
Hermione gaped at him. "Then aren't you a lucky one! He is one of the most infamous, the most bloodthirsty scoundrels to ever sail the seven seas, and when he buries his treasure, he leaves behind messages written in code." With that, she pulled her most recent geometrical proof out from beneath a book and laid it in front of him.
Teddy's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Oh."
"Yes," said Hermione, her voice hushed. "Whoever can decipher the code will discover the location of his buried treasure. Does that not sound wonderful?"
"It does," came Teddy's reply, and he was so serious, so meaningful—
Hermione gave a nod. "Excellent. Then anchors aweigh."
She began to explain her proof aloud, noticing but not remarking when Teddy slumped in his seat, pillowing his head on the desk. He put in a valiant effort, but within ten minutes, he crawled into her lap and tucked his head under her chin. Hermione continued her work, wrapped her free arm around him, and said nothing. A few minutes after that, Teddy was sound asleep, his breath puffing against her chest.
Hermione smiled, put down her quill, and leaned back in her chair. She finally looked over her shoulder to Harry, who was seated by the fireplace with an open, discarded book in his lap. He was watching her, his expression hinting at smugness.
"Piece of cake," she murmured, carding her fingers through Teddy's hair.
"Only you would try geometry." Harry closed his book and stood up, stretching like a lion. She caught a glimpse of his bare stomach and fought off a shiver. "Shall I take him back to his room?"
"I suppose." She glanced down at Teddy's slack, peaceful face and said, "Or… would it be so terrible, if he were to stay?"
After a moment, she mustered the courage to look up and meet Harry's gaze again. He was smiling, in that small, subtle way, and he nodded.
As she slipped into bed, Hermione could not deny the way her heart fluttered at the sight of Harry and Teddy, already curled up beneath the sheets. Harry was still awake, and he watched her as she lay down beside Teddy. The boy murmured, and Hermione rubbed a gentle circle into his back.
"We should not get him into the habit," Harry whispered.
"I know," said Hermione, and her thoughts returned to Sirius' warning. Everything could change. "But once in a while it could not hurt."
Summer gave its last gasp in mid-September, when a single day became the hottest the county had seen in fifty years. By late evening, the heat had become so unbearable that Hermione sat up in bed and said, "Follow me. I have had enough."
Harry did not ask a single question as he followed her through the dark and empty manor. She led him into the kitchen, then the mudroom, where she unearthed and lit a large lantern.
The garden was full of fireflies and crickets, and the water of the pond was cool, luscious against her sweaty skin. Hermione let out a gasp as she slipped in up to her neck, flashing Harry a smile as he joined her. The water lapped around his bare chest, and in the light of the full moon, she could only see the edges of his body, the dark sparkle of his eyes.
"One of your better ideas, I think." His hands, sliding around her waist.
Hermione bit her lip, clutching at his shoulders. "Tell me a secret."
Harry hummed, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her temple. "Do you have any idea," he murmured, "how difficult it was for me not to kiss you that morning? When I came to see you before I left London?"
A smile broke through before she could stop it. "But you did kiss me, dear husband, if we are to follow a literal interpretation of the word."
"Fiend." He dipped his head, licked a stripe up her neck, holding her as she shuddered.
"It feels—" Hermione managed, "like another world, does it not?"
"London?" His teeth, grazing her clavicle.
"London, the season, all of it."
"It is another world." Harry kissed his way back up her neck, along her jaw. "And I am thrilled to have left it all behind."
"All of it?" she teased, reaching down to squeeze his bum. "I thought we had some wonderful moments, but if you wish to expunge the record—"
He gave a loud sigh, the water lapping around him. "Very well, not all of it."
"I wanted you to kiss me that morning. Why did you not?"
Harry looked at her, and even in the near-darkness, she could feel the heat of his gaze. Their clothing billowed and floated around them, the water swirling through her legs. "Because," he said. "If I had, I would not have been able to bring myself to leave you."
A thrill of delight rippled through her, and Hermione clung to him, burying her smile against his stubbled cheek. Even now, more than a month after their wedding, being able to touch him, to kiss him, in this intimate way felt like a forbidden privilege. She could remember, too clearly, how, just a few months before, the touch of his bare hand to her arm had been enough to send her reeling. How she had ached for it, yearned for an excuse to brush against him — the feeling remained, but had deepend, intensified. There was a newfound comfort to his touches, a type of sanctuary, where there had once been nerves.
"Your turn." His hand slid up her back, splayed between her shoulder blades.
Hermione took a deep, controlled breath, and smiled. "Very well. But you must release me."
Harry dropped his arms and stepped away.
She nudged her toes into the mud and straightened her back. Around her, the insects hummed, and a few frogs let out their throttling grunts. She took another breath, then began to sing.
The song was nothing special, just a simple aria, but it was one Hermione knew so well she could sing it in her sleep and hear it in her dreams. A blush flooded her cheeks — it had been so long since she had sung in front of anyone, and Harry was looking at her with a warmth, a reverence, that was palpable, even in the muted evening light. She did not sing for long, just a minute or two, but when she stopped, taking a deep breath, he reached for her at once, pulling her close.
"I had no idea." His voice came in a murmur, and he thumbed at her waist. "Did your mother—?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "She was my first teacher. As I got older, I had lessons with an instructor, but after her death, it was… it was a while before I sang again."
"You are incredible," he said. "Whatever's next, an aptitude for juggling fire?"
She laughed. "It is merely a hidden talent, Harry, not a hidden side of my personality—"
Harry kissed her, his arms wrapping around her body. Hermione sighed into him, melting against his chest, and they passed several lovely moments in silence.
"I hope you will sing again," he said. One of the frogs croaked in agreement. "Whenever you like, but hopefully, within my earshot."
She smiled. "I shall give it due consideration."
"Oh, will you?" said Harry, his voice rich with amusement. And she was not expecting it when he stepped away and smacked the surface of the pond, sending a huge splatter of water cascading over her chest.
Hermione let out a shriek and immediately returned fire. The grounds echoed with their laughter and the sound of splashing water; on the bank nearby, the frogs continued to croak.
The library at Godric's Hollow was one of the largest and best that Hermione had ever seen — it easily outranked the one at her father's Paris house, and was surprisingly cozy, given its size. It was difficult for her not to spend her entire day within its loving confines, but now that Harry had resumed his duties as a manager of the estate, she had more free time than she was accustomed to. She could not spend each day shadowing Teddy, or interrupting his studies, as much as she might want to. True, the "house" — as Harry and the staff insisted upon calling it — was large enough that she could spend the better part of a day wandering its rooms and never find the end of it. But even she had to tire of looking at paintings and sculptures and everything in-between. And while the grounds were extensive, and she could request her horse at any time of day, there was something a touch lonely about wandering the cold fields day after day, watching the rain and breathing in the fog that settled above the grass and between the trees.
So, more often than not, she found herself in the company of Sirius, who would spend hours each day reading in a squishy red leather armchair beside the library fireplace. "Anything and everything," he told her, with the ghost of a wink. "But most recently, the Ottomans."
A day or two after his return to the Hollow, he gave her a tour of the library.
"We start with the family genealogies," said Sirius, nodding to the nearest set of shelves. They were standing just inside the main door, and she noticed that the family crest — now her family crest as well — was carved into the side of each set of shelves. "They go back several hundreds of years. Ghastly. This is also where they keep the family Bible." He pointed to a particularly massive tome, bound in a rich, deep brown leather. Hermione doubted she could lift it on her own. "Births, deaths, marriages, all in the front and back pages." He twinkled at her. "Harry already added your date of marriage. Did he tell you?"
Hermione shook her head, the breath catching briefly in her throat. "No." But how sweet of him, she could not bring herself to say.
Sirius moved on to the next series of shelves. "Here, the more general histories, organized by region and time period. I removed some of the volumes devoted, say, to fishing rates in Pembrokeshire, but the collection is fairly diverse." He flashed her a wink, and Hermione grinned. "I am quite certain, given our acquaintance thus far, that you are already quite the expert on Roman and Greek history, but in case you should find yourself needing to check something, here are the relevant volumes, organized by author."
"You flatter me," she teased him, stepping in to take a closer look at the spines. Most of the books were quite old and weathered, but they shone with care. "I have hardly read everything there is to read, even on this subject."
"But you have made a considerable dent," he pointed out, then turned to the next set of shelves. "Here, the plays. I know your fondness for the Bard, so I took the liberty of acquiring fresh editions of his more popular works from our man in London."
Hermione was already at the shelf, running a reverent hand along the shiny spine of Julius Caesar. It was a beautiful copy — they all were. Beautiful enough that for a moment, she wondered if she should actually open it, read it, or if she should leave it where it was, perfect and untouched.
"The histories always read like tragedies to me," said Sirius. "I suppose there is something poetic about that."
"You are not entirely wrong," she replied with a smile. "And I suppose this is where I should say something profound about the inevitability of human cruelty, and you should say something about the futility of supposing that any one ruler should be an improvement upon the last one."
His grin was quick, wolfish. "Let us not and say we did."
The rest of the tour was somewhat perfunctory, but Hermione listened with rapt attention as he showed her all the other features of the space — several ornate desks, each positioned to make the best use of the light over the course of the day. There were statues, a few globes, and more sofas, armchairs, and tables than she could count. The far wall, contrary to many of the other libraries she had seen, was filled with windows, and some of them even had large window seats filled with cushions and rugs. The opportunity for natural light was spectacular, but—
"Is it not a danger?" she said, craning her neck to look up at the top of the windows, a good twenty or thirty feet above her head. "For the books to be so exposed to the light? And how on earth does one close those curtains? It must get terribly cold in the winter."
Sirius was smiling. "The Potters think of everything. Observe." With that, he went over to the nearest staircase, which led up to the gallery. It wrapped around the room, lined with even more books, and was built out of the same elegant, dark wood as the shelves. He went along the balcony, and paused where it met the far wall, beside the enormous windows. He did something she could not see, then, to her astonishment, there came a soft, steady whirring, and as if by magic, the enormous, heavy curtains began to draw themselves across the windows, sealing the room into its own private, darkened world.
Hermione let out a laugh of genuine delight. "How spectacular! Tell me, how—?"
"There is a hidden system of ropes and pulleys and counterweights," said Sirius. She could not see his face in the relative darkness, but she caught a flutter of shadowed movement. "It is quite ingenious, and can be operated by a simple tug on this switch." There came a muted click, then the curtains went back the way they came, and the bright summer light spilled back into the room, dazzling her.
Hermione blinked a few times and smiled up at Sirius. He smiled at her in return, then made his way back to the stairs.
"Godric's Hollow has more than a few hidden secrets. My advice would be to let your curiosity get the better of you. Explore as much as you can, and do not be afraid to take risks — a vase may be a vase, or it may be the latch to a hidden door."
Finally, he showed her the shelves he'd cleared in anticipation of her own personal collection. Over the following weeks, Hermione slowly began migrating her books to the library, and in time, even began doing her work there.
A week after the midnight dip in the pond, she was sitting alone in the library, tucked into one of the window seats with a new novel and a cup of tea. Sirius had gone to Glastonbury, and Teddy was out exploring the woods with Hagrid before his afternoon lessons. Outside the windows, the early morning frost was still melting, and she could see where the edges of the trees began to curl and bleed into yellow and orange. Autumn was fast approaching, and she could not help but smile — she could hardly wait to see the Hollow in all its seasons.
A sound at the door surprised her, and she looked up to see Harry coming into the room. He looked trim but rumpled, still wearing an outdoor jacket, and he was almost smiling.
"Thought I might find you here," he said, his voice a low rumble. He closed the door, but not all the way — it hovered just a few inches from the latch.
Hermione smiled at him. "It is a reasonable guess. I thought you had a meeting with that farmer — Benson?"
Harry had slipped out of bed earlier than usual that morning, brushing a kiss to the back of her neck. She'd reached for him, half-asleep, and had woken an hour or two later with her hand still outstretched, tangled in the sheets.
"Several meetings with several farmers," he corrected her, crossing the room. "But I have a spare few minutes before I am spoken for again." Harry bent down, kissed her. His teeth grazed her lower lip and she hummed, tangling a hand in his hair.
"Then I am most honored, Your Grace, to be afforded a piece of your precious time."
Harry grinned but did not reply as he sat down by her feet. Then his hand on her leg, his thumb pressing into her calf as he nudged her legs apart.
Hermione's stomach leapt into her mouth, and the book slid from her lap down onto the seat. "Harry—" she managed, her heart thudding in her face. "You cannot be serious—"
Again, he did not reply. But he shifted, caging her with his legs. Harry watched his own hands as they slid her skirts up her legs, the fabric tickling her bare skin. She still went without stockings and pantalettes, but those days of freedom were numbered, with the weather changing. Perhaps he'd been aware of this, perhaps he'd decided that he ought to take advantage of it while he still could. Because, she knew, Harry was nothing if not diligent.
"Harry," she tried again, ignoring the jolt of heat that burned between her legs. "Harry, you have a meeting with a tenant, and we— we are in the library—"
He finally looked up at her, but again said nothing. His hand, skating up her inner thigh, settling a bare inch from her entrance. He thumbed at the skin, then settled between her legs and took off his glasses.
Oh. Another jolt, from her belly to her groin, and her stomach trembled. "Harry, the door, you left the door—"
Harry looked up at her once more, and the heat in his eyes made her shiver. "Then you shall have to be quiet, my dear."
Hermione choked on a gasp as he pulled her skirts up and out of the way, letting them pool over her stomach. Then his mouth, wet and hot and determined, licking a stripe up the center of her sex, pausing to circle and tease her clit.
Hermione was already trembling, her blood flooding hot and cold as it roared around her body. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, a fleeting wave of panic passing through her, but then he lapped at her again, steady and relentless, and she clung to him with a stifled moan, squeezing his face with her thighs, just as he liked it.
Pleasure whipped through her, ebbing and tangling in tandem with his tongue, and he went after her with a precision that was breathtaking. Sometimes, he liked to tease her, to kiss her and pull away, mouthing at her leg or at her belly until she squirmed with desperation, but now, he did not pause, did not hesitate to lick at her until she shook with it.
He shifted, and the angle was too much, it— Hermione stuffed her wrist into her mouth, muffling a deep groan that burst out of her, catching in her throat, but she could hardly see, could hardly think, could only feel his mouth, his tongue, and his hands, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, the curve of her hip, and it was too much, it was—
A muffled growl, deep in his throat, and Harry shifted again, and then his mouth fastened to her clit and he sucked and sucked until—
Hermione broke in a sudden, ripping current as pleasure poured through her body. She shook against him, her moans high and muffled against the skin of her arm, stars bursting through her body in a rippling cascade. A velvety blackness swept over her, and the room faded away.
Slowly, almost painfully, her awareness began to return. Hermione realized her eyes were half-closed, and the room around her was blurred. Her hips still tingled, and her mouth was wet, slack, from being shoved against her arm. There were even teeth marks in her forearm, and she looked, almost shocked, at where redness was blooming beneath the surface of the skin. Thoughts fired and misfired in her mind, and she realized that she felt drunk.
Harry was kissing her thigh, light and gentle, but then, as she watched, he pulled away, putting her skirts back into place. He wiped a hand across his mouth, smirked at her, and, without saying a word, put on his glasses and left.
He closed the door behind him, and Hermione stared at the dark, panelled wood, her head throbbing from a rich tangle of emotions. What just happened? she asked herself, even though the evidence of her slick inner thighs and her hazy, fluttering body needed no explanation. But it was so impossible, to difficult to believe that he had just walked in here, left the door open, and had—
Hermione blinked a few times and cleared her throat. It took her several moments to sit up, and when she did, she stared into the middle distance and, between one moment and the next, decided to take her revenge. If her husband could take what he wanted whenever he wanted it, and leave her aching for more, then so could she.
Her mind began to turn, but she quickly realized that her plan required a certain degree of patience. Harry was not often alone during the day, and she could hardly pounce on him in front of Kingsley or the tenants. No, she would have to wait. And she would have to find something else to occupy her in the meantime.
Hermione left behind her book and her cup of tea and made her way back to her private chambers. Thankfully, Lisette was nowhere in sight, but she had left a fresh pitcher of water, along with a new pile of clean towels.
A half hour later, Hermione was feeling refreshed and much more put-together. She'd even attempted to tame her hair, twisting it into a long braid and weaving a new purple ribbon between the strands. And as she considered herself in the looking-glass, she could not help but feel the weight of change — how different she looked now, compared to the Hermione who had arrived at the London docks. Different, but better.
With the day still stretching ahead of her, empty and waiting, she gathered a few letters from her personal desk — one from Luna, one from her father — and began to make her way back to the library, where she would compose her replies. But she was only halfway there, passing through one of the bright, sunlit halls, when the sound of hurrying footsteps overtook her.
Hermione frowned as Elsie, one of the housemaids, came running up to her from the direction of the library. Elsie was red-faced and panting, clutching a stitch in her side. "Good grief, Elsie, what on earth is the matter?"
"There you are, my Lady," Elsie managed, followed by a quick curtsy. "We've been looking everywhere for you. You have a visitor at the door."
Hermione could not help it — she stared at her. "A visitor?"
Elsie nodded, her cap bobbing precariously on her head. "He has a letter for you, and he is most determined to speak with you personally."
Something in Hermione's chest broke and fell, swooping down through her stomach to her feet. But she could not show it, and she could not panic until she knew— It cannot be, she thought, McLaggen would not dare— She swallowed and said, "Can you tell me anything about this… man?"
If Elsie thought her request puzzling, she did not show it. "He is a most interesting character, my Lady." She took another great gulp of air. "He has a wooden leg, and he wears an eyepatch. And," she added, with a sheepish look, "he has a somewhat disagreeable temperament. Carson did not want to let him inside the house without your permission."
Hermione's panic had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of confusion. This person was no one she had ever met before, to her knowledge. But she could hardly turn him away without finding out what he wanted. "Very well," she said, tucking the letters into her pocket. "Take me to him."
Carson had ushered the visitor into an antechamber off the side of the main drawing room, and he was looking a little more flustered than usual when he met Hermione just outside the door.
"I must caution you, my Lady," he muttered to her in a rumbling undertone. "He is a most impertinent individual. I am happy to dismiss him at once."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he would comply with such a dismissal?"
Carson seemed to swell. "Perhaps not. He did threaten to…" His neck turned purple. "Box my ears and send me packing if I would prevent him from reaching his target."
For an absurd moment, Hermione wanted to laugh. But she nodded and took a deep breath, steeling herself. "It is time I found out what he wanted. Let me in, Carson."
When she entered the antechamber, Hermione found herself faced with a gnarled old stump of a man. He was tall and broad, but his wide, imposing features were marred with deep scars and, true to Elsie's word, a black cloth eyepatch. The remaining eye was a soft, clear blue, and his curling hair hung to his shoulders in shades of ginger and grey. He wore a thick, beaten overcoat, and a thick, clotted walking staff took most of his weight. Her eyes were immediately drawn to his wooden leg, but she forced herself to meet his lopsided gaze.
"Good morning, sir," she said, hoping her voice did not tremble. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Your Grace." His voice erupted in a low, gravelly rumble, and he inclined his head. "My name is Alastor Moody, and I come at the request of the Dowager Countess McGonagall."
This statement so floored her that for a moment, all Hermione could do was stare at him. When she finally gathered herself, she said, "I am afraid I need more of an explanation, Mr. Moody."
The corner of his lopsided mouth twitched, and for a moment, it was all too easy to imagine him threatening to box Carson's ears. "It is all in this letter," he said, holding out a sealed envelope. "Peruse it at your leisure."
Hermione took the envelope, her eyes briefly fixing on the McGonagall seal before she tore it open. She read the short letter within seconds, then read it again. And again.
Finally, she looked up at him and said, "I do not understand."
"Really?" Moody limped over to the nearest armchair, and sat down with a sigh of relief. He hitched his false leg up onto the nearest footstool, utterly at ease. "The Dowager Countess is known for speaking quite plainly."
"Then you are… to be my tutor?"
"In Ancient Greek, yes."
All too quickly, Hermione remembered the Countess's words at their first meeting — There may be someone, Lady McGonagall had whispered, I shall have to see if he is still in retirement. Undoubtedly, this was the very man himself, considering her with a petulant sort of look.
"That is," Hermione managed, "most kind of her." Overwhelmed, she sat down across from Moody. "I had no idea that she would…"
"That much is plain," he said with a nod. "I thought perhaps she might write to you in advance of my arrival, but she does enjoy a good surprise, even if she is not there to witness it."
"You know her well, then?"
Again, that twitch of a smile. "As well as anyone can know the Countess, yes. She was once a student of my colleague's, and our acquaintance goes back many a year."
Still feeling rather dazed, Hermione glanced down at the letter and said, "Mr. Moody, I trust the Countess's recommendation on any matter, but perhaps you might tell me a little about your qualifications?"
"Two degrees," he said. "One from Oxford, one from Cambridge. I am the ranking authority on Herodotus and Thucydides, and more recently, on Socrates. I have spent more time in Greece and the Mediterranean than I have in England, and I have lectured at universities across the Continent. At least, I did, until our Mr. Bonaparte decided to tempt Fate. Since then, I have found myself somewhat prematurely retired." Moody tilted his head to one side, and his clear blue eye seemed to look right through her. "I understand you have an interest in reading Homer."
"Yes," she managed. "And the tragedians."
"And you have experience, yes? With ancient languages?"
"Latin," Hermione said. "But I am fluent in French and Italian, and I know a little Spanish and Arabic. One of my old tutors was—"
He nodded, thumping his staff on the floor. "Then we shall begin this very afternoon. The alphabet first, and the letters, with a brief overview of grammatical structures and conventions."
"But," she tried, her head spinning again, "we have not decided where you are to reside, nor have we discussed your rate—"
Moody hauled himself to his feet with a stifled grunt. "Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. The Countess has booked me a set of rooms in the village, and she is taking care of everything else."
Hermione stood up as well. "But that is— I cannot allow—"
"Your Grace." And he raised an eyebrow. "As the Greeks would say, do not look a gift horse in the mouth."
"And the Trojans would say the exact opposite," she fired back.
Moody ignored this and turned towards the door, his staff thudding against the floor with every odd step. "We are to meet every day, your schedule permitting. We shall begin at ten o'clock sharp each morning and finish at two. You are to complete your assignments in your own time, with some allowances for…" He glanced around at the furnishings and muttered something under his breath, followed by: "Your… duties."
"I—"
"Now, I shall return to the village," he went on, "and settle my matters. Expect me here at two, and you can decide where you would like us to work."
Hermione could only nod.
Moody nodded in return. "Good. See you this afternoon, Duchess." With that, he lumbered out of the room, straight past Carson, and, she presumed, out the front door.
Hermione slumped back down into her chair, and looked up when Carson came into the room, his face still ruddy with suppressed insult.
"Well, my Lady?" he said. "Did you find out what he wanted?"
"His name is Alastor Moody, and he is to be my tutor," Hermione said, hardly believing it herself. "A gift from the Dowager Countess McGonagall. So you had best get used to his presence."
For a brief moment, Carson could not hide his surprise.
"We shall have to work out a system," she went on. "So that he does not see Teddy."
"Of course, my Lady." Carson nodded. "Is there anything else?"
"Send one of the maids to the small study with the necessary cleaning supplies, along with a fresh tray of tea." Hermione paused to take a breath. "This afternoon, I go to war."
Later that evening, Hermione made her way down the corridor towards the north end of the ground floor. Dusk had fallen, the evening purplish and chilly, and many of the candles at this end of the household remained unlit. For a brief moment, she felt like a ghost, a shade, wandering between the worlds, underneath the fabric of reality. But then, a familiar door appeared in front of her, and she smirked, her stomach jumping with anticipation.
Harry looked up when the door opened, and he smiled when he saw the cause for his interruption. His personal study was the image of organization, save for the occasional, scattered pile of notes and maps and diagrams. It was a snug, homey sort of room, with warm wooden furnishings and an enormous globe in one corner. It felt like him, and Hermione could not ignore a familiar flutter of affection as she crossed the room towards his desk.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" said Harry, putting down his quill. He'd taken off his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the top button of his shirt undone and exposing that familiar triangle of warm, golden skin. His hair was half-vertical, and he was creased, rumpled, from hours of work. He glanced at the darkened windows behind him and muttered an oath. "God, I had not realized the time — is it really so late?" Harry looked back at her, and now he was frowning. "Why did no one ring me for supper?"
"Teddy and Sirius ate early," Hermione replied. "And you and I shall be taking supper on trays in our room."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "And why is that?"
"No particular reason," she said with a shrug. She'd reached the desk, and she circled his chair, then braced herself on the arm rest and lowered herself onto his lap. His hands immediately went to her hips and squeezed. "I thought you might be tired."
"Did you," he said, his voice warm, amused.
Hermione nodded. "You have had a long day." Then her hand, slipping between his legs and squeezing. "You have been hard at work." Another squeeze, and she felt him begin to swell.
Harry's entire body tightened, and his smile vanished, replaced by an expression of shock. "Hermione," he muttered, his glance darting at the door, which she had left ajar. "Not here—"
She did not reply, but only squeezed again. Then, in a flash, she had his trousers undone and her hand on his cock. She twisted, squeezed, and twisted, and his head fell back as he groaned, a flush spreading up his neck.
"Hermione." His fingers were digging into her hips. "The door—"
"Oh." Hermione tilted her head to one side and pumped his cock. "Did I leave it open?"
Harry bit out a mangled curse, his legs tensing beneath her. "Someone could—"
"And what would they see?" she countered, her heart thudding in her throat. "A wife, sitting in her husband's lap. Hardly the most scandalous thing in the world."
He choked on a disgruntled laugh. "They'd see your hand, and my—"
"Would they?" With that, Hermione raised herself up, lifted her skirts, steadied him with her hand, and sank down onto his cock.
Harry groaned loud enough for it to echo down the hall, and even she found her resolve tested as he filled her, hot and pulsing. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tangled her hands in his hair, and tugged his head back up until he looked at her, his eyes bright and desperate. "You see," she murmured, slowly rolling her hips until he trembled, taking off his glasses and putting them on the desk behind her "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Hermione," he said again, his voice vicious with lust. "The door—"
She kissed his cheek, his neck, and his hands slid up her back. "Then you had best control yourself, husband, lest anyone come running."
Harry buried his face in her breasts, his mouth burning hot and wet against her bare skin. He muffled a moan in her cleavage as she circled her hips again and sighed when his cock grazed against something that sent sparks through her belly. "Have you—" he managed, his tongue laving over her breast, "have you been like this since—?"
"No," Hermione said, surprised at how steady her voice was. "No, but I did take the time to, well… reacclimate myself."
He moaned again, his teeth digging into her breast. A wave of pleasure overcame her, and she felt her nipples harden and rub against the fabric of her dress.
Harry noticed, and he paused for a moment. His hand slid from her back to her waist, then up to her breast. His thumb circled and pressed, and she twitched against him. "God," he muttered, pinching her nipple between two of his fingers. "You took off your corset."
"Perhaps," Heremione managed, swallowing a gasp. She clenched her thighs around his legs and began to ride him in earnest, setting a slow, steady pace as she raised and lowered herself back onto his cock.
Once again, his entire body went brittle, and his hands returned to her hips, moving with her as she rocked against him. Then his mouth, snaking a line of wet kisses across her breasts and down to her nipple. He sucked at her through the fabric of her dress, held her as she bucked against him, pleasure ricocheting through her body.
But Hermione could not lose focus. She'd come in here with an agenda, and she could not allow herself to be distracted. So, even as his teeth grazed her nipple through the wet, tender fabric, she rolled her hips and did something she had never done before.
Harry gave a full-body twitch, burying a desperate groan between her breasts. "What," he managed, "what was—"
"Oh," said Hermione, unconcerned. "This?" She did it again, clenching around him, and he let out another groan, this one even more broken than the last. "Shhh," she whispered, tugging at his hair. "Quiet now."
"Hermione," he bit out, the word almost lost against her skin. "If you continue to— I will not last—"
In response, she only did it again, loving the way he shuddered in return, his teeth latching onto her other nipple. Focus, she reminded herself as she shook with it, pleasure burning slow and deep in her lower back.
She fucked him slowly, deeply, her hands on his shoulders and deep in his hair. She held him as his hips stuttered and broke against her, as his mouth found new patterns across her breasts, and soon enough, he began to tremble, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.
"I'm—" Harry managed, the word high and desperate. "Oh God, I'm—"
Hermione pulled off of him just in time, and he buried his face in her breasts as he came with a muffled grunt, his body shaking and twitching, spilling between her legs. She leaned against him, her chest heaving, pleasure still trapped under her skin, sweat hazed over her body, but she barely had a moment to recover before he raised his head, his eyes sleepy but determined.
Without saying a word, Harry gently pushed her off his lap. Her legs wobbled like jelly as she stood up, and he did the same, tucking his spent cock back into his trousers and fastening them shut. "Come on," he bit out, grabbing her hand and marching towards the nearest bookcase, which she knew was a hidden door to a staircase that would take them to the hall of their bedroom. "I am not finished with you yet."
Hermione could only grin and allow herself to be led up into the cool, plush darkness.
"I used to spend much of my time at Rosings Park," Harry was saying as the carriage rolled through a small cluster of trees. "Whenever Nev would oblige me."
Hermione smiled at him, turning away from the window. "Then we are returning to the scene of many a bachelor crime."
He shook his head. "You do paint me in quite a cruel picture, my love."
She laughed. "Not in the least. Though I am quite excited to see your second home."
The carriage slowed, then turned onto a wide gravel drive. It took them through another small cluster of trees, then along a stretch of land bordered by thick hedges. Eventually, the house — enormous, imperial, built in a hefty, pale brick — burst into view, and within a minute, they curled around the circular drive and came to a halt before the front door.
"Are you excited?" Harry asked her as the butler approached the carriage.
Hermione grinned, her heart leaping. "Does a leopard have spots?"
Their feet barely met gravel before a pale blue blur came bursting out of the front door, and Hermione found herself tackled by a small, slight fairy of a woman.
"Luna!" she squealed, squeezing her friend tightly in return. "What a warm welcome!"
"I am so very glad to see you!" came Luna's earnest reply, and she broke away to beam into Hermione's face and take her hands. "It feels like an age!"
Neville appeared behind her, grinning fit to burst, and greeted Harry with a firm handshake. "Welcome to Rosings Park," he said, his voice warm and rich. "You are a sight for sore eyes."
"As are you," said Hermione, clinging to Luna like a limpet. "You both look very well."
"So do you," said Luna, and she flashed Hermione a wink. "Marriage seems to suit us."
"Indeed, my love," said Neville. He brushed a kiss to Hermione's cheek, and Harry did the same to Luna. "You had excellent timing. Why don't we begin with a tour of the grounds? Then we can freshen up and change for dinner."
"Perfect," said Hermione, linking her arm with Luna's. And when she met Harry's gaze, his eyes warm with mirth, she realized that there was nowhere else she would rather be.
love u all. this is the calm before the storm.