A/N: This chapter gets pretty sexual, I'd say it is a hard R, though I'm bad at judging these things. HOWEVER, if you want to read the scene without edits (I tried to tone it down for this site) you need to go to my live journal where I've posted a full NC-17 version.The link is on my author page. Honestly not sure if this edited version works...And if you think I need to tone it down even more for this site, input is appreciated. I wouldn't want to offend anyone!
Harry Potter awoke to what felt like the Hogwarts Express barreling through his brain. His mouth was parched, like he'd been gargling with sand.
He carefully lifted his pounding head, straining to see in the darkness. He realized he wasn't alone. Ginny was sleeping noisily next to him and Pansy, Mitchell and Ron were also nearby. They were in some kind of enclosed area. He sat up more, trying to get his bearings.
The space was tiny, just fitting their sleeping bags and not much else. Something nagged at Harry's mind besides the migraine-like pain. He couldn't remember even owning a sleeping bag. There was something he needed to recall, just out of grasp.
He looked around and saw the enclosure had a low ceiling that seemed to be made of canvas. A tent, he thought. A Muggle one. "What's going on?" he mumbled out loud, to nobody in particular.
Even in his disoriented state, he could tell it was light outside, the sun trying in vain to penetrate the protective covering above. Suddenly someone pushed back the flap directly in front of him. Harry couldn't see the person standing in the tent's opening because he was blinded by the painful glare that rushed in around the figure.
A booming voice was added to the assault. "Up and at 'em, Rise and shine troops!"
Harry winced as the dead came to life around him, groaning like zombies in tandem.
"What in bleeding fucking hell is going on?" cursed the ever eloquent Ron.
Three hours earlier...
Harry and the stag party cohorts were on the verge of passing out in the Red Room. Hermione had gone looking for Draco and the hens, (Harry had thought drunkenly that it would make a good band name), what seemed like hours ago.
The unbridled drinking and partying had shifted into low gear over the last half hour. Only blushing groom-to-be Mitchell Bulstrode remained lively, merrily chatting with a group of Muggle women in a corner of the room.
Just as Harry was about to join the already sleeping Neville, George and Ron, Hermione and the others finally arrived.
Fred, who had been nervously watching the entrance to the VIP lounge jumped up from his seat.
He made a beeline for Hermione, but Draco cut him off at the pass. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Weasley. My girlfriend is just fine," he said.
"Yes, I'm fine," she said, doing her best to ignore Draco's possessive tone. "Is everyone still here?"
"They are," answered Fred. Then he added softly, "Like innocent little lambs awaiting the slaughter."
"Excellent," said Draco, wringing his hands together in an evil fashion. He was doing an impressive Mr. Burns impersonation, despite the fact that he'd never seen "The Simpsons." He took Hermione's hand and pulled her toward the center of the room.
The others from the hen party had stumbled in behind them. Harry and Mitchell were quite surprised to find their respective witches flanking Vin Diesel. Mitchell looked past the threesome to the handsome wizard who was bringing up the rear.
"Blaise?" he gaped as the leather-clad Hogwarts alum sauntered up to his side.
"Bulstrode," he said, his voice full of obvious humor. "You're looking much... cockier... since we last met."
Mitchell was about to respond when Draco stood on a table, pulling Hermione up with him. He called for everyone to give him their attention.
"I'm sure you're all curious as to where we've been and how Mr. Diesel and Mr. Zabini came to join us," he nodded toward both men. "But right now Hermione and I, as the hosts of tonight's festivities, would like to present everyone who came out to celebrate Mitchell and Pansy with a special gift." He smiled at Hermione, who pulled out her wand and with a wave a tiny box appeared before each of the wizards and witches. The boxes were small and wrapped in shiny silver paper.
As they had planned ahead of time, Fred and George eagerly tore into the gifts and the others soon mimicked them. Had they been paying attention to Draco and Hermione, they would have noticed the matching Cheshire grins they wore. As it was, the lot were too busy tearing open their prizes: custom-made platinum Hogwarts rings, each with the crest of the receiver's house.
"Merlin, you must have spent a fortune," exclaimed Pansy, who placed the ring on her finger and then lifted her hand to admire its beauty.
Hermione watched and waited until everyone had put on their rings.
Then she took out her own and placed it on her finger. "Now, besides being tokens of our affection and friendship, these rings are also a special treat for those of you who were there for us on that day back in October when Draco and I finally got together." She gave Draco a bemused smile then looked pointedly at each of the eavesdroppers in turn. "I'm sure you had forgotten just how touched we were to know how... concerned... each of you were in our affairs."
"We didn't forget," picked up Draco. "And that's why we have a little bonus just for the five of you."
Perhaps if there had been more time, or if he hadn't been reeling from the shock of seeing his lovely wife arm-and-arm with a Muggle action star only moments before, Harry would have reacted in time. The same could be said for Mitchell, who had caught Harry's eye as they exchanged a jolt of shared knowledge. But it was a second too late, and even as Mitchell began to pull off his ring...
...Draco and Hermione connected their rings together--Slytherin and Gryffindor. A streak of light erupted instantly from the rings worn by Harry, Ginny, Ron, Pansy and Mitchell. When each separate line met, the five vanished from the room.
Neville squeaked in surprise and the Muggle women screamed.
Luna remained calm as always, patting her husband on the shoulder. "Don't worry, darling. Ginny knows all about Alvin Mythlander and how to protect her pancreas."
In a moment of solidarity over their success, Draco shared a shout of victory with Hermione and the Twins.
Vin, who Draco had confided in earlier that night, laughed heartily as he pulled out his wand to perform yet another round of obliviate charms on unsuspecting Muggles. "I'll say this. You cats know how to party!"
When the Portkeys had activated they didn't just transport the fabulous five to a tent next to the Creevey family's infamous Winnebago. The rings had also been infused with a sleeping charm.
Which is why it took a few minutes in their hungover state for the five to put two and two together and realize that Draco and Hermione had finally acted on their promise for revenge. Only Mitchell seemed less astounded and more resigned.
Ron, meanwhile, continued to curse in confusion. What was particularly bewildering was that even in his discomfort he found himself compelled--thanks to that contract he'd unwittingly signed months earlier--to follow the barmy Muggle who had burst into the tent. He felt completely out of sorts with the urge to please the Muggle and hit him at the same time.
When he emerged from the tent he realized the man wasn't alone. There were four others--three children and a Muggle woman. Well, it appeared she was a woman, but it was difficult to see the person beneath the walking hairdo. Harry, despite growing up partly in the Muggle world, had never seen anything like the coiffure now before his eyes. He heard a bird caw nearby and almost expected the creature to fly out of the woman's massive tresses, like Athena emerging from the brain of Zeus.
When she spoke, the sound was as piercing as the mid-morning sun on his delicate senses.
"Timmy! Tommy! How many times do I have to tell you not to burn your sister's doll!" she screeched.
At that moment two terrors (it was obvious from the mischievous glint in their eyes) jumped out of the large mobile home near the tent. A little girl--she looked to be about four--was standing next to the human hairdo, clutching a doll whose own hair had been burned off. The girl was whimpering pathetically as a younger toddler scurried around aimlessly, like a tiny-sized drunkard.
The eldest of the children, a flame-haired girl, looked like a rancher as she herded the baby, preventing him from veering off dangerously toward any of the other tents or vehicles. Harry could see now that the family's camp was one of many in the dry desert heat.
The Muggle man winked at him. "I guess you're wondering who I am?"
"The question had crossed my mind," Harry said, calmly.
The man put out his hand, "Marty Creevey," he said, grinning like the school girls used to when they first met the famous Harry Potter. In fact, a lot like Colin Creevey once had years before. "It's a real honor to host you."
Harry was feeling beyond shell-shocked as he took the man's hand. "You're related to..."
"Colin and Dennis Creevey are my first cousins," he said. He was holding Harry's hand and shaking enthusiastically. The wizard noted the man's slight, Americanized British accent. "Of course I don't have the gift. My sister did, but I'm just a plain old Muggle," he said, somewhat sadly.
Mitchell had walked up next to them and Harry introduced him. The former witch surveyed the Muggle man, who was as tall and strong looking as the wizard Creevey brothers were tiny and weak. "Well then, I knew your runty little shite of a cousin was up to something with Granger. They don't know who they're dealing with."
Marty ignored the ominous comment. "All in good fun, and boy do we have some activities that will knock your socks off! But first lets get you kids some breakfast and introduce you to the family."
Mitchell wanted to say something snarky in response. Harry even noticed his mouth twitching with the insult that wouldn't come. Instead he smiled at Marty and said, "Well that sounds hunky-dory!"
Harry and the others just stared at Mitchell as Marty proceeded to introduce his wife Tricia, who bowed regally, her bouffant scraping the dirt as she leaned forward. "This is just so awesome!" she shrieked. The little girl with the unfortunate doll was holding her mother's leg for dear life. "This is Carly," the woman said. "She's a bit on the shy side."
Marty pointed to the twins (who appeared to have graduated from doll burning to bug torching), "I guess you're already familiar with my little hellions, they always make an entrance. And our eldest, Molly," he pointed to the red-haired girl who was still chasing the baby, "is just crazy about little Kipper."
Pansy looked at Mitchell and mouthed, "little Kipper?" followed by, "kill me now, love."
"So we're going to get some hash and eggs going for you folks," said Marty in his most ingratiating manner. "Feel free to go wash up." He pointed toward the side of the Winnebago, at what appeared to be a tap with a hose attached, then walked away.
Mitchell had a combined look of awe and disgust on his face. "I figured our little lovebirds would get us at some point, but I have to admire the range of their revenge. This is going to be bloody hell."
He grinned as he surveyed the others, the discombobulated Creevey family running about and the vast camp grounds. "Of course, I meant what I said. They really don't know who they've messed about with. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."
Ron, who was holding his head--presumably to dull the pounding Harry knew he must be feeling--looked at Mitchell expectantly. "You've already got a plan to get back at them? Don't you think we should concentrate on getting out of here first?"
Pansy laughed uneasily next to her future husband. "No point in trying to get out, we're clearly stuck."
"Why do you say that?" asked Ron, though even the master of incomprehension sensed the answer.
"I don't know about you blokes," offered Ginny. "But I have a sudden urge to sing Kumbaya around a campfire and toast marshmallows."
"Right," said Ron, gobsmacked that he somehow understood exactly what Ginny was talking about and could easily recall the lyrics to the song. "So we're buggered. How exactly do we get back at those fuckers?"
At that moment, the aforementioned fuckers were waking up from--in Hermione's case--an uneasy slumber. Yes, the plan had gone off without a hitch, even with the late start. But the witch had other issues to deal with before she could properly gloat.
Number one was telling Draco about the conversation she'd had with Fred and getting him to listen past the point where she could explain that she didn't return Fred's feelings. And then she'd have to answer for why she hadn't made this clear to Fred. Then of course there was that task. She knew she couldn't delay, as waiting would only exacerbate the situation.
Draco seemed blissfully unaware of Hermione's internal struggle. He snuggled next to her, kissing her neck as he awoke. She was lying with her back to him and he had his arm draped across her. "Mmm, I was having the most delicious dream." He moved his hips so she could feel what he must have started, but hadn't finished in the dream.
Hermione turned to face him, swallowing her burgeoning desire. "We need to..."
He cut her off with his lips, his tongue teasing hers open as he moved a hand down her flat belly, resting it lightly between her thighs. He released her lips for a breath. "We can talk later. Right now I need to show my appreciation for my number one fan."
Hermione arched a speculative eyebrow. "Your number one fan?"
"Well you did hex a Muggle woman in a fit of jealousy." His hand was tracing the edge of her knickers and she hissed. "If it wasn't for that pesky business of your nearly getting arrested, I would have shagged you rotten in Blaise's dressing room."
Hermione moaned against him as he slid a finger underneath the material, his feather-light touch causing shivers to run up and down her body. "I wouldn't have needed to hex the slag," she exhaled sharply as he began to stroke her in earnest. "If," she sputtered, "you hadn't been... shaking your arse for all the world to see."
"Well," he moved the finger playfully. "I had to give my adoring public what they craved, but I've saved a special performance just for you, love."
He slid his finger down again, making her flush. His mouth made a trail of kisses that slowly journeyed down her neck and across her collarbone. He paused and looked into her half-lidded eyes, adding a finger to his exploration. He licked his lips like she was a particularly tasty dessert he was about to devour.
Hermione had quickly devolved into that space she often visited with Draco--where every sense seemed on high alert except her mind, which was rendered foggy with sexual need.
He was taking his time, moving his fingers at an excruciatingly deliberate pace, denying her nipples the warmth of his mouth, so close she could feel his breath against her. As much as he loved to take her completely, there was something so intoxicating about holding back. It always made the release that much sweeter, like a warm summer downpour that would envelope them both.
Hermione enjoyed the game, but two could play and she reached down, scratching his thigh, but careful not to touch his hardness, which was pressed against her hip. He groaned and accelerated a beat.
He started to kiss her left breast while his free hand caressed the right one.
"Oh!" she moaned, her fingers digging into his thigh.
He didn't let up, continuing to toy with her.
"Draco that feels so..." she trailed off, meeting his attentive hand with her eager hips.
He removed his mouth from her so he could watch her writhe in pleasure beneath him, her uncombed hair wilder than usual, across the pillow with strands streaking her face. He relished the way she bit her lip, then cried out as the flush of her release washed over her features.
"You're so beautiful, you look so fucking beautiful when you give in to me." His voice was breathless. He sat up, giving her a chance to regain her composure, looking into her brown eyes. When she returned his gaze--the mindlessness of her "little death" over--he spoke again. "You're mine, Hermione. Every time I touch you," he leaned in for a quick kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. "Every time I taste you. You're mine." His eyes were shining with steely resolve.
While Hermione considered herself an independent woman, there was, for some reason, nothing that got her heart racing more than to hear that possessive tone in Draco's voice.
She was ready to surrender again, but first she needed to take back some control. She unexpectedly pushed him over, moving on top quickly. Before he could protest--not that he would have--she had moved her mouth between his legs, taking him with a precision that had him bucking against her in happy astonishment.
"Fuck."
She moved her lips smoothly. "We'll get to that in a minute. First I want to show you that you're mine too, Draco." She twirled her tongue, catching his eyes suggestively. "Don't forget it."
"Oh... Merlin... that's... uh..." he said, rather incoherently as Hermione's messy-curled head bobbed up and down.
As he felt himself nearing the edge he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her--somewhat violently--off him.
Draco sat up and said in a commanding tone, "Get on your knees."
She complied, sticking her arse tantalizingly high in the air and resting on her elbows as she leaned forward in front of him.
He moved behind her positioning himself between her thighs.
He ran his hands along her waist, holding her there and coveting her prone figure before him. He leaned over and whispered, his voice gruff with lust. "You may want to hold onto the bedpost, love."
She moved her hands up and grasped the post. As soon as she was steady, he pulled her back onto him.
Though they'd been together many times, it was still always overwhelming when Draco took her like that. The wizard had a cock to match his ego--making it quite the impressive bit of "equipment," suitable for both fanfic and porn. The first time they'd been together, before they'd shagged, Hermione had wondered if she could accommodate all... that.
Now he sent a jolt of pleasurable pain through her. Her hands clutched the bedpost. He hadn't been kidding when he told her to hold on. She was holding on for dear life. In a good way, but holding on nonetheless.
"You feel so good," he choked out.
Hermione was well beyond speaking, her fingernails digging into the wood of the post.
"Tell me you're mine," he ordered.
"I..." she couldn't get the words out.
"Tell me."
"I'm... yours," she blurted out between shallow breaths.
Draco seemed satisfied by the admission as he reached around to touch her.
She screamed as the second wave enraptured her.
"That's right," he continued. "You're mine, you're fucking mine."
With a yell he finished. He continued to move for a few moments, finally collapsing on shaky legs against her spent form. He took a minute to collect himself.
"You're mine," he repeated softly, but no less forcefully. "And there's no need to talk. You just have to tell the Tweasel."
TBC...