Hi everyone!

I'm still alive! Still got that new job, it's still crazy, but I promised I'd write whenever I had the time, and here it is :)! Thanks to everyone who keeps supporting me, it means the world to me. I still receive notifications about this story every day and it makes my heart jump every time. Thank you so much for sticking with me!

Chapter re-cap: SMUT in the beginning (yee-haw!), slight angst in the middle and we finish with... A POV we haven't encountered in this fic yet. Yes - it's Uncle Vernon's POV! Omg!

Please let me know what you think! I appreciate each and every one of you and I hope you're doing well in these weird times. Stay safe, stay strong! 3

Love,

Flora

P.S. To those 3/4 people on who have given me a hard time for writing with "apostrophes" - I'm from Europe and I'm actually specialized in writing and appropriate punctuation marks for my country. Just because they don't fit your continent or country, doesn't mean it's wrong! To all Americans who've stuck with me even though the dialogue isn't written with the quotation marks you are used to - you are awesome and thank you so much!

Chapter 34: How Harry started his revenge on Uncle Vernon.

The sounds of Hermione's soft, sighing moans drummed through his ears and vibrated through her body as he kissed her folds slowly. He was taking his time this night – as she had been doing. He wanted to get any point of doubt out of her mind, he wanted to make sure she felt sweet and sexy and wanted, he wanted her to feel like the most worshiped woman on the planet.

He was certainly trying.

Her moans got more guttural as Harry focussed on lapping alongside her slit, finishing every stroke with a slight suckle on her most sensitive spot. He knew she was growing more and more sensitive to his touches, as he touched her everywhere but never long enough to allow her to truly build her climax. Instead he activated her nerves, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she would be on edge.

'Harry…' she sighed. Harry couldn't hide a smirk, but he persisted. He kept lapping at her core, the same movements, over and over, until he felt her hands kneading into his scalp, pulling his hairs and pushing him deeper between her legs. She pleaded once more - desperately, wantingly, forcing his name out of her throat like it was the only thing that made sense to her in that moment.

'Harry... Harry, please!'

A shocked sigh, a desperate whine, and then his name was on her lips like a mantra she couldn't stop chanting. She barely managed to finish it fully before she started pleading for him again.

'Harr-... Harry-... Ha-... Ha-... Har-...'

She was starting to lose her mind, he knew. So he gave her what she wanted.

He massaged her tenderly with his tongue, putting gentle but firm pressure on her nub, concentrating his movements on just that spot right now. She turned to mush under his touches. He felt her body start to wave, and then she started to make those mewling sounds that sent a rush to his groin. Her hands fixated on his head, pulling painfully at him right now, but he didn't care, he liked how she would lose control, loved the feeling of her giving in and not caring whether she hurt him a bit or not.

When she finally stopped moving, and lazily opened her eyes, Harry made sure to stare at her with the most smug grin he could muster.

'Oh, don't look so bloody pleased, Potter,' she purred, the tone of her voice contradicting her snide remark.

'I have every reason to look so pleased, Granger,' he teased back. 'Are you up for a round two already?'

'Insatiable,' she groaned, beckoning Harry to move up to cuddle her. He complied, kissing her softly as he placed himself behind her back, allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder. He smiled. That was a "no", at least for now.

'Who can blame me?' he whispered, his words tickling the nape of her neck. She chuckled, allowing Harry to roam his hands underneath her now fully open blouse. She was still wearing her bra, but her nipples were showing above the lace fringes. He allowed one hand to cup a breast, and Hermione leaned into his touch, still a bit too sensitive, but appreciative none the less.

'Should I remove the pads?' Harry asked, referencing to the protective armgear he was still wearing. His leather, fingerless gloves wouldn't hurt for sure, but he couldn't imagine the tougher, harder fabric of his Quidditch outfit to feel nice against Hermione's skin. She nodded, and he untied the little clasps, releasing the tougher material from his arms.

'Leave the gloves though,' she added, her eyes still closed. 'I want to know what that feels like.'

'Still the same, curious Hermione,' Harry quipped softly, kissing her neck again. 'I love you.'

'Don't be so gushy,' she recanted. 'I'm literally asking you to touch my lady parts with leather.'

'Don't forget to make notes on this when we've finished,' he teased. She opened her eyes to give him a squinted eye look, which caused him to laugh.

'I wonder what The Prophet would say, if they'd find your colour-coded pages of "research",' he continued, and now Hermione began to laugh too.

'Now, don't you make fun of my notes, mister! They helped us and me in particular, enormously-…'

'I know, it would just be hilarious. Can you imagine that article? "Jacky Simone here – this just in: Hermione Granger, conqueror of The Dark Lord, uses the colour "purple" for activities relating to foreplay"…'

Hermione hit him with the back of her hand and Harry laughed even harder.

'"Hermione Granger, defeater of He Who Must Not Be Named, makes her boyfriend's penis smell like pineapple-…" Ouch!'

She hit him on the bridge of his nose with a flick of her finger and Harry exaggeratedly winced.

'Domestic abuse! Now they actually have something to report about! "Hermione Granger, glorious defender of the safety of the Wizarding World, has no problem with beating up her poor, defenceless puppy of a boyfriend"…'

'Oh don't worry,' Hermione said, seemingly joking as well, 'they won't call me "glorious" or whatever. More like "Hermione Granger – not exactly as hideous as a Porlock's backside, but pretty darn close to it"-…'

Harry fell silent, but Hermione continued.

'"No one has any idea why illustrious Adonis Harry James Potter still bothers to put up with this studious, mediocre, plain spinster, but hey, she has a good job, so why wouldn't he-…"'

'Hermione…' Harry said, clasping her hand. She fell silent, her eyes suddenly dull. She chewed on the inside of her lip and averted her gaze.

'Hermione, you know that they are dead wrong about that, don't you?'

'Well, their reports on your looks are pretty spot on-…'

He snorted.

'Hermione, I'm not that attractive. Of course they'll paint me in a positive light now. It's easy to portray me as this handsome, mystical guy with enormous powers, blah blah blah. You know I'm not like that. You know I drool and stink and have a crinkled face in the morning.'

She laughed and shook her head.

'Harry, I-…'

'You know I hid my insecurities with a very bad coping mechanism that I now face the brunt of, you know that I have an extremely unhealthy habit of acting on the weirdest impulses and you definitely know how ridiculous I look after I've had a raid in a chicken coop.

The dullness in her eyes faded a bit and she chuckled.

'That's not called ridiculous, Harry,' she countered, with a smug smile. 'It's called ruggedly handsome. Or at the very least stupidly adorable.'

'But this isn't about me, though,' Harry interrupted, still wearing his red Quidditch robes. The situation was quite mad - Hermione half-dressed in her office clothes, he wore his way too tight fitting Quidditch attire, but they still managed to have a serious conversation. 'This is about you, Hermione. You believe that bloody Prophet, don't you?'

Hermione didn't say anything for a few seconds. He looked at her, her face now sad and fragile, and his hate for Jacky Simone grew even stronger.

'Hermione - they are full of shit. I can't put it milder than that. They have not the faintest idea what they're saying.'

Hermione gave a snicker that didn't quite reach her beautiful, brown eyes. Right, Harry thought, different approach then.

'It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, you know,' he offered, softly. 'I hate talking about difficult things too. You always put on a brave face for me, Hermione. I see it as a compliment that you show me how much it does affect you, even if you can't say it out loud.' Hermione looked him in the eye and gave him a sad smile.

'I can talk about it, Harry. It's just no use. I know that communication is key, but you're right. Everything you give attention to, grows. You're right about not wanting to talk about everything all the time. I will always hide my insecurity by overachieving, you will always have this temper that makes you do crazy things. It's a good thing we realize that about each other, isn't it?'

'It is,' Harry nodded, chuckling slightly. 'We're growing stronger every day, because we pay attention to each other. I realize more each day how much I care about you. I realize more each day how absolutely amazing you are. No one can change that - especially not some stupid Prophet-reporter.'

That was the right thing to say, as he saw her frown slowly disappear. She gave him a kiss on his cheek that felt weirdly innocent given the fact that they were still in the bed, the taste of her core still lingering on his lips.

'Tell me. How can I make you forget those comments? I know they're invading your mind right now and I don't want to give that Simone-person the satisfaction.'

She averted her gaze and wiped her nose with the palm of her hand.

'Me neither. Just... Tell me that you love me. That's enough.'

'I love you,' he said, earnestly. 'More than you will ever know.'

She looked at him, eyes big, and full of bittersweet emotions. She smiled, sniffed back a tear and cracked a smile. Strong, sweet Hermione.

'And... You know,' she added, her quick-witted self again. 'Make me forget any of those vile words by using those amazing fingers of yours.'

'Now that I am also very capable of,' he grinned, nuzzling a kiss against her temple. She allowed the contact and leaned into his mouth and his embrace.

'In this position?'

Hermione shook her head.

'I want to feel you hold me,' she said, with a strong voice. 'And I want to look you in the eye. I want to know it's you and only you.'

'Right,' Harry said, a warmth spreading through his body at Hermione's answer. 'I want to look you in the eye too. We might want to remove your skirt, though. It's too tight to budge.'

She undressed fully, and Harry gave her his Quidditch robes, that she put over her head to feel a bit less cold without the blankets warming her. She kissed him, roaming her hands over his deep red shirt, pressing against his member that was still stiff in his trousers. He tossed the shirt aside, exposing his chest to her, and she kissed his shoulders, his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. Then he opened her up, his fingerless gloves roaming over Hermione's center, gently pressing into her and making her feel at ease. It took a lot longer than usual, and when Harry finally entered her, Hermione experienced a bit of pain for the first time in weeks. He saw her jaw clench, her eyes shut, her lip quiver. But the pain subsided, and Harry was patient and careful, applying extra lube and giving her encouraging kisses, and in the end he managed to make her feel anything the Prophet told her she wasn't. Sexy, desirable, wanted. Loved.

They showered together, talked about the Prophet and how they would handle the threats. When they ended in the bed again - spent and satisfied - she told him that wearing his robes while having sex was the hottest thing they had done so far. Harry grinned confidently. Playing his "everything you want"-shtick proved successful, as it usually would.

He didn't know why it felt wrong when he thought about it as he woke up the next day.

Philip cancelled their lunch plans the next day, so Harry helped Nicky the entire morning and afternoon - doing groceries, cooking and cleaning. She was 18 weeks, but her belly was already quite prominent, and her pregnancy fatigued her enormously. She only worked one or two half shifts a week, and Ron did manage to take some extra leave to support her, but Nicky was already having a hard time, catching almost no sleep and throwing up every few days.

Despite that, Nicky was appreciative and positive. She was determined to enjoy her pregnancy, no matter how hard it was on her already, and Harry and Nicky had a great time painting one of the walls of the nursery a bright yellow. The Muggle way: Nicky was very attached to her heritage.

Finally, after re-scheduling their Wednesday dancing lessons for the next week, Harry and Hermione had dinner at Aunty Penelope's, which made them forget any tribulations altogether. Hermione's Great-Aunt had such fantastical tales, it wasn't hard to ignore any problems they had themselves.

'So,' Aunty Penelope concluded, after a nice anecdote about how she managed to shock late Uncle Geoffrey with a hilarious fit of road rage in the early stages of their relationship. 'Talking about screaming at an incompetent idiot - how is your preparation for this Thursday going, dear?'

'This Thursday?' Hermione asked, puzzled, but Harry hadn't forgotten. The meeting. The meeting where he would pose as a so-called "expert" to freak out his Uncle Vernon.

'I'm quite nervous, actually,' Harry admitted. 'I mean - I know it's just... him, but then it's also... Well, him.'

Harry kind of expected Hermione or Aunty Penelope to explain to him that Vernon wouldn't dare do anything with his co-workers present, and that it was all just good fun, and that it was no big deal, because they wouldn't understand and that was okay, but they didn't. They looked at him, just looked at him, and Hermione took Harry's hand.

'You're afraid you're going to turn into that frightened, little boy again, aren't you?' she asked.

Harry suddenly felt a lump in his throat.

'I'll be alright,' he smiled. 'He can't exactly lock me in a cupboard again.'

'It's okay to say it's too much, you know that,' Hermione continued. 'Don't force yourself to go through with this if it's not what you want to do.'

'No - I don't want to back out,' he said, firmly. 'I want to be able to stand in front of him, after all these years, and just... Show him that he didn't manage to... That they didn't manage to-...'

The words stuck in his throat. Harry didn't know why it got harder to talk about his youth as years passed. Maybe it was because he wasn't facing the threat every day anymore, or maybe it was because he was growing up and realized how messed up it was.

Maybe it was because he witnessed Teddy grow up. Because he saw the innocence. The worship of a child for their caretaker. The vulnerability that came with it. How fragile it all was.

It was too complicated. Up until a few months back, Harry had always shifted the blame. Mostly to The Dursleys, claiming that they didn't know any better, that they were socially impaired, that they had acted like that because that was who they were. Then again, he had also never stopped shifting the blame to the other involved party in his youth. Himself. He had no idea why he felt guilty for keeping up with the abuse, for allowing them to treat him like that, but he knew that he did. He had been a child, just like Teddy and Victoire and Dominique were now, and he knew he wouldn't blame them if they were treated as horribly as they were. But he did blame himself. He felt like an accomplice, somehow. He still felt guilty for being the freak. Maybe, deep down, there even was a part of him that thought that they were right.

He was a freak, after all. He'd caused the deaths of his friends, of his family. He'd given his body to whatever woman had wanted him in the pub, just because he needed to be used. Because that's all he knew. He was an instrument to be wielded for anyone's needs - a cook or a servant, as the Dursleys wanted; a brave soldier, sacrificing his life, soul and friends for the greater good, as Dumbledore wanted; a tool to warm their beds with and gossip about with their friends, like the girls wanted.

He couldn't tell Hermione and Penelope that "they didn't manage to break him". He felt broken. He felt broken for a very, very long time now. And it seemed that Hermione was the first person that managed to give him some hope of healing.

Aunty Penelope pushed a plate of freshly baked cookies towards him.

'They didn't break you, dear,' Penelope said, her old voice reassuring. 'I know you've been having a rough time, but they didn't. A broken person could never be so kindhearted, let me tell you that.'

She kept moving the plate against his arm, pestering him in a nice and light-hearted tone, until Harry caved in and grabbed a cookie. He grinned. Aunty Penelope really was an amazing woman.

'So,' he spoke, clearing his throat. He was ready. 'Give him hell, huh? Any ideas, Aunty?'

Aunty Penelope gave him the most devious grin she could muster.

'Well, I can certainly help you. I've got ages and ages of experience with annoying people. What bothers that bastard the most?'

'Noise,' Harry immediately replied. 'If people are late or things aren't running on schedule. Stains. If things are untidy or messy. Anything that's... unordinary. He is very suspicious, he got very angry when he thought I-...'

Used magic, Harry thought.

'Messed something up.'

'Would he make a scene if he was annoyed?'

'Not with anyone else present,' Harry said. 'He'd mostly blame me, say how crazy and insane I was and that it wasn't the fault of his upbringing. He'd blame my parents.'

He felt Hermione clench her teeth, but Aunty Penelope smiled broadly.

'Ah, so there's a big chance he'll try to discredit you on Thursday if he feels attacked?'

'Not likely,' Harry shook his head. 'He tries not to lose his temper with others around. If he discredits me, his colleagues will find that odd and Vernon knows that. No, if I'm in that room and he gets upset with me, he'll try to ignore my existence. They were always very good at that.'

'Then make sure that your presence can't be ignored,' Aunty Penelope smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes. 'If he needs to acknowledge you, he won't be able to do it positively. That will be his downfall. And boy, when he does lose his temper, his colleagues will see a side of him that will stay with them forever.'

Harry grinned back at Penelope, grabbing Hermione's hand.

'That is brilliant, Aunty! I think I know just how I'm going to accomplish that!'

Vernon knew what was at stake, when he checked and re-checked his paper sheets for the presentation of that day. Today was extremely important. Every part of his being was determined for him to succeed, and not without reason. This day would decide whether he and Petunia would finally be able to afford that vacation home in Majorca.

And this time, there wasn't an evil wizard disguised as a snotty, teenaged nephew to ruin his endeavors. There would be no floating cake, there would be no screeching owls, there would be no nonsense. This time, Vernon Dursley would succeed in impressing his boss and walk home with an enormous raise in his pocket. He was sure of it.

Two years after the fatal "cake and owl-incident" had taken place at 4, Privet Drive– an incident that was burned into Vernon's mind as if it had happened only yesterday – Vernon had managed to secure a promotion as head of the team. It made him responsible for the jobs and livelihoods of fourteen people and they all had to do exactly as he said, which pleased him greatly. Unfortunately, Vernon hadn't gotten the raise he'd hoped for at that time – Richard Mason had taken the money that was intended as Vernon's raise with him when he left for an early pension, triggered by the "cake and owl-incident" caused by his freak of a nephew. Petunia and Vernon had to put their idea of a dream home in Majorca on hold. It had been out of reach for years and years, until now. This project, when approved, would give him an enormous raise and a huge boost in reputation. His team just needed to deliver and when they did, all would be well.

So, naturally, he had barked his team around for three weeks straight. He'd made them work overtime until they saw cross-eyed with tiredness, but Vernon didn't care. He didn't care that one of his employees had just become a dad, and that his young wife still hadn't left the hospital – he didn't care that another had just buried his father after a long battle with cancer – he didn't care a third was so overworked he burst in tears at their last meeting – Vernon needed his plan to be approved by the board at all costs. It was a matter of punctuality, of perseverance, and of course house prices had never been so favorable at Majorca. His team needed to succeed, because if their team succeeded, it would be incredibly easy to claim their hard work to be a result of the tight ship he had run the last couple of weeks. Was that unethical? Probably. But Vernon Dursley, being the man he was, didn't care.

Vernon's team was incredibly nervous and their boss was aware of that. They knew that their jobs were at stake for this presentation. Vernon wouldn't be fired if their ideas were bad – he would deflect and tell the board it was someone else's wrong-doing. Instead, they would be fired, before they would be able to utter the word "unfair". That was one of the reasons why Vernon loved his job. There was no risk for him – if others succeeded, he did. If others failed, he didn't. It truly was the luxury he, Vernon Dursley, deserved for all the hardship he had faced in his life. And with the raise that awaited him, given to him by his overly-exhausted team, he would be able to finally afford the house that that boy had taken away from him when the brat was not even 12 years old.

Vernon didn't like thinking about "that boy". He knew the boy must have succeeded in protecting that freakish world of his, because when those folks had granted him, Petunia and Dudley permission to leave their safe-house, after months and months of being locked inside against their will, they had congratulated him. Apparently, the freak had managed to avenge his parents in some way, shape or form, and that was great news, because it allowed the Dursleys to walk away from that world altogether and never look back. From now on, it would be normalcy and no freak, no owls, no indescribable accidents, would be able to spoil that. Petunia and he had finally gotten the peace they so deserved and they had scratched all evidence of a certain black-haired, rebellious teen out of their lives. It was as if he had never existed in the first place. And when people did confront him with questions about his nephew, usually at his work when his co-workers would ask him what happened to the boy who caused "the cake and owl-incident", he'd tell them the boy had resorted to petty theft and was currently in jail, where "his sort" belonged.

Little did he know that that little white lie would come back to haunt him that very Thursday morning.

He was re-checking his paper sheets: the huge flipboard would be the building block of his story, and one very unfortunate intern had spent hours upon hours to write down every sentence in the most pristine handwriting. The girl had nearly suffered an emotional breakdown when Vernon ordered her to do the entire project again with a black marker instead of a blue one, because black markers meant stability and order and blue markers would make him out to be a sad, little push-over. But, she had pulled an all-nighter to finish the sheets, and now Vernon was feeling quite proud as he brushed past the hand-written pages. If this wouldn't impress Eric Goodall, their CEO, nothing would. And he sure wanted to make a positive impression on him. Not only because of his reputation, but he was quite sure Petunia wanted to redecorate their house next spring, and designer furniture wasn't cheap.

The sheets were in order, he wore his favorite mustard-tie, one of his interns had somehow managed to not screw up his coffee-order: today was extremely important, and he would nail it. There was nothing that would come between him and his dreamhouse anymore.

And that's when he heard the shriek.

It was a soft shriek, more a shrill hoot if anything, but the sound was so familiar that Vernon Dudley didn't need to turn around to know what he would see behind the window-frame that overlooked the Thames. He'd heard the sounds dozens of times, when he was dozing off in bed at night over the summer vacations and the noise harshly awoke him from it. He loathed the sound.

The sound of an owl.

Vernon froze. He felt the hairs on his neck rise as the screech repeated itself, and then the office door opened. He had no time to turn around and check – he plastered on his fake marketeer-smile and extended his fat arm to make a greeting gesture. It was nonsense, he convinced himself. He must have heard it wrong, and if he hadn't heard it wrong, it was probably just an innocent coincidence. Maybe owls liked to nest in tall buildings, how would he know? He didn't waste his life studying biology.

'Mister Goodall! Such a joy to have you join our meeting today,' he said, trying his best to sound as smoothly as he could. 'When I arrived to the parking lot today, I spotted a brand new BMW E63. That must have been yours, given your impeccable taste in cars.'

'It was,' Eric Goodall nodded. 'You have a keen eye, Dursley.'

The man seemed in great spirits, Vernon noticed. That bode well!

'I brought a few new experts in to advise me on your case today. I'm sure you don't mind.'

'Not at all, Mister Goodall. I know you always pick the cream of the crop. And may I compliment you on your tie? Excellent choice, if I do say so myself…'

For a moment, Vernon was afraid he'd laid it on too thick, but the pursed lips of his CEO turned into a broad smile within seconds.

'Thank you. Good luck on your presentation. There's a lot at stake today, Dursley. Don't let me down.'

'Definitely won't, sir,' Vernon nodded humbly, his wobbly chin bouncing against his inflated walked back in front of the room, checking his flipboard once more and repositioning his paper sheets and flashcards on the table in front of him. In the meantime, the large convention room filled with advisors: men and women, dressed in suits and ties or tube skirts and high heels, all fine and esteemed advisors from the CEO, he knew, all considered absolute experts in their fields. He was so busy studying a few of them, mainly the women – not because Vernon was a pervert, but because he wouldn't accept a female being his superior – that he missed the only person in the room not wearing an expertly pressed suit.

In the corner of the room stood a young man, dressed in a dark green shirt, adorned with expensive looking cufflinks. He was staring out of the window, gazing at the horizon, smirking at something that wasn't to be seen by anyone in that conference room but him. His right hand rested on his hip, seemingly caressing something at the place where a Muggle cop would carry a gun. The young man had decided to not wear his glasses when he came in. He wanted there to be a slight confusion.

Vernon hadn't noticed. The gears in his head were grinding, forcing himself to behave respectfully to the women that had managed to place above him at a business for drills for crying out loud.

In the right back of the room, the young man positioned the last vacated seat. The talking in the room quieted down.

It was time, Vernon knew. It was time to start this important day.