A/N: You're all so wonderful for taking the time to read and review. Thanks ever so much for all your kind words of encouragement. I've been giggling madly over your responses to the last chapter and I can't wait to see what you make of this 7.5k word monster =) Much love! xx-Kitten.


Firewhiskey Nights

By Kittenshift17


Chapter 5


Hermione Granger stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her shirt hung open, revealing her navy bra, her hair was falling out of its bun, and she couldn't stop thinking about what Dolohov had said about his magic attaching itself to hers. Worse, she couldn't stop thinking about the fight she'd had with Ron about her infertility and how he'd called her a whore. She hated herself a little for letting Ron get to her after all this time. She hated that Dolohov's words about her scar and his idea that he didn't believe his curse should have made her infertile were weighing heavily on her.

She let her gaze stray from her reflection to the golden haired Viking of a wizard when he strolled up to the open bathroom door and peered inside. He didn't say anything to her before stepping across the threshold and moving up behind her, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. Hermione felt a little flip inside her stomach at the sight of him. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him and his love-making skill in the past two weeks. If she was being honest, she'd fantasized about the handsome idiot more than once and she didn't know what to do about it.

Her rational mind was only too willing to point out all the reasons that he was bad news and that there could never be anything but a night of fabulous sex between them, but the rest of her just wanted to feeling his rough hands running over her skin once more.

"Rough day, Princess?" he asked, giving her a crooked little smirk as he stepped up right behind her where she stood at the sink.

He lifted his hands to lean against the vanity cupboard looking at her in the mirror while he pressed his chest against her back.

"You could say that," Hermione sighed, glancing down at the sink for a moment before turning on the cold tap and reaching for a clean cloth she spotted folded neatly on a stand by the sink.

Dampening it, she patted her face with the cool cloth, not even caring that it was going to mess up her make-up.

"How rough?" Thorfinn wanted to know, his eyes still watching her as he lowered his face towards her neck.

Hermione shivered when he nosed the collar of her blouse to one side and began trailing soft kisses along the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.

"Passed over for a research grant, realised I hate my job, got called a whore by my ex-fiancé and then assaulted by an ex-Death Eater kind of rough," Hermione admitted, letting her head fall to one side and finding her body relaxing back against his chest, unbidden, as he pressed those harmless little kisses to her neck in a way that always seemed to calm her.

"Pretty shit day then," he chuckled, "Anything I can do? I'd be happy to beat your Used Weasel bloody when he's done fantasizing about goats."

Hermione found herself laughing in spite of herself.

"Used weasel?" Hermione raised one eyebrow.

Thorfinn shrugged, jostling her slightly.

"He's a weasel," Thorfinn informed her, "A no good, used up, pathetic one."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" Hermione asked him curiously.

"I don't offer to risk my parole for just anyone, Princess," he smirked at her before nibbling at her neck again.

"What about your day?" Hermione asked conversationally, closing her eyes and leaning against him a little more, "Home in the middle of the afternoon, Rowle?"

"Shit day for me too," he told her, "Got fired. Again."

"Oh dear," Hermione opened her eyes, "What did you do?"

"Might've lost my temper when someone spat on me for being an ex-Death Eater," Thorfinn admitted.

"Where were you working that people were spitting on you?" Hermione asked, frowning over the very idea.

"Until today I was doing maintenance jobs at the Prophet offices," Thorfinn told her.

"Why?" she asked, frowning at him.

"Why was I working such a shit job?" he clarified, still kissing her neck.

Hermione nodded. Thorfinn shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not exactly easy to get a job when you're on parole and a known criminal, Baby-girl," he told her quietly, "The Prophet people hired me because it looked good for them to be able to say that they were all about rehabilitating ex-criminals in keeping with the Ministry initiative to free us and integrate us all back into society."

"But you told me Dolohov works as a freelance Curse Breaker… Why are you working maintenance?" Hermione asked him, trying to understand the idea.

He gave her a half-hearted smirk in reply, "I was a professional Quidditch player before the war. Played Beater for the Ballycastle Bats. When I was arrested and hauled off to prison they replaced me. I never bothered with qualifications at anything else after I landed my contract with them right out of Hogwarts."

"But you'd have taken your NEWTs?" she frowned at him.

"Didn't exactly ace them, Princess," he shrugged, "Mostly Acceptables and an Exceeds Expectations in Arithmancy. Not exactly stellar enough for most places to look past the brand on my arm."

"So you work shit-kicker jobs and have to put up with people spitting on you?" Hermione asked, feeling righteous indignation bubble up inside of her at the very idea.

She wouldn't say she was overly fond of Death Eaters being free in general, but Hermione Granger had never been one to let discrimination go unchecked. And besides, this particular ex-Death Eater happened to be rather gifted at getting her off.

"You scare me a little when you get that look in your eyes, Kitten," he admitted softly, watching the way her curls began to frizz out of her bun as her hair crackled with magic, her annoyance over the idea of such discrimination getting the better of her.

"I scare lots of people when I look like this," she replied, "Harry's been telling me for years that I should've gone into law instead of becoming an Unspeakable because I could've intimidated the opposition into seeing things my way with this look alone."

"Why didn't you?" he asked, regarding her curiously even as he lifted on hand from the bench and skimmed it across the taut flesh of her stomach, pressing her back against him a little more firmly.

"I didn't want to fight anymore," Hermione admitted truthfully, "After the war was over and the trials were all done, the last thing I wanted to do was to go back into a courtroom. I went back to school while Harry and Ron joined the Auror program. Got my NEWTs and picked the career that would give the reporters the least leeway into nosing into my professional life in addition to my private life. Being an Unspeakable meant I was bound by oath not to reveal the inner workings of my job."

"But you hate it," he pointed out.

"Something I didn't figure out until today when it was pointed out to me that my field of study I've been focusing on for three years was utterly useless in any practical sense," Hermione sighed.

"What were you working on?" Thorfinn asked her, using his hand on her abs to roll her hips, pressing her arse back against his growing erection.

"Wormholes," Hermione told him, "Essentially, a hole in the time-space ether that would potentially allow people to travel forwards or backward in time, or even to other dimensions or 'universes'. All very theoretical and not very practical without being able to prove they exist at all, let alone that they would be useful to wizardkind."

Thorfinn's face screwed into a frown.

"Why were you working on that?" he asked.

"I was assigned a topic when I joined the Unspeakable team," Hermione shrugged, "We all were. There were a number of things the Ministry wanted investigated and that's the one I was given. I wasted three years working on it."

"So what are you going to do now?" he asked curiously, "Quit? If you hate it, you should ditch it. No use sitting around there being miserable."

"What else would I do?" she asked.

"Anything you want. You got the best NEWT scores since Dumbledore. You could walk into any job you wanted."

Hermione bit her lip.

"What would you do?" Hermione asked him seriously.

Thorfinn shrugged, "Play Quidditch."

"I don't like heights," she rolled her eyes, "I don't think they'd hire me."

He laughed at her words, the deep rich sound stirring heat in her blood and making Hermione think about the last time she'd spent this long in his presence.

"Maybe's Potter's right?" he told her, "Maybe you should go into law. You're the type to tilt at windmills. Challenge the system and make the wizarding world change their ways. They're falling back to some of their bad habits from before the war, you know?"

"I know," she nodded, "But I'm not allowed to go into law without the vote of someone on the Wizengamot. All of the seats from the Sacred Twenty-Eight – or the houses still in existence from them – are filled with people who don't much like me."

"You're a war hero. Who says no to you?"

"Quite a few of them actually. A number of them were less than pleased with my methods and my habit of questioning their judgements and poking holes in their arguments when they were conducting the Death Eater trials after the war."

"Trust me, I know about that, Princess," he muttered, his hand on her stomach sliding a little lower, his fingers skimming under the waistband of her skirt, "You were very unpopular with some people in Azkaban."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, her breath hitching when he dipped his hand lower, his free hand moving to unzip her skirt, which slid down her legs to puddle at her feet until he could slip his fingers into her knickers.

"Not with the people you'd expect. A lot of the Death Eaters were actually pretty chuffed that because of your arguments and your intervention, most of us got a fair trial. Nah, it was them who thought they'd get away with being unbranded supporters that didn't much like you," Thorfinn chuckled softly when Hermione arched into his touch as he trailed his fingers through the soft curls at the junction of her thighs.

Hermione was only too aware of the soft moan that escaped her when he pressed two of his fingers against her clit, working it in small circles. Their topic of conversation was forgotten at the heat that engulfed her and the pleasure that assaulted her senses when he touched her like that. Her thoughts scattered and Hermione twisted slightly in his hold, stretching up to capture his lips with hers. His tongue slid against hers and a heady sense of delight swept through Hermione then.

Gods, she didn't know what it was about this wizard, but he could make her forget the whole world outside of the feel of his hands and his lips and his tongue upon her body. When he slipped two fingers inside her pussy, finding her wet and ready, he groaned into her mouth and ground his cock against her arse. Hermione rather loved that sound, if she was being honest. She'd been fantasising about the things he'd done to her two weeks ago and that sound he made could make her feel so utterly sexy that Hermione adored it.

Slipping her hands over the front of his robes, Hermione cupped him through his clothes as she snogged him senseless, trying not to let her knees buckle from the feel of his fingers working inside her suddenly aching pussy. His tongue slid against her own sinfully while Hermione worked one handed to undo his trousers. The rasp of his fly only made her hotter and his breath hitched when Hermione dipped her hand into the front of his trousers and into his boxers.

Part of her mind revolted against the idea of shagging him again, pointing out that he was a Death Eater, a criminal, not someone she should be associating with. Having shagged him while extremely drunk was one thing, and the morning after – well, that had just been a continuation of the night's debauchery – but soberly, willingly shagging the big Viking of a wizard who'd done reprehensible things was quite another. She could just imagine the look on Harry's face if she told him she was shagging a Death Eater – that she'd ever shagged one, let alone that she'd gone back for more.

"Bloody hell, Princess," he groaned softly, breaking their kiss and her train of thought with a nip to her cheek and her jaw before latching onto her neck hard enough to give her a lovebite.

Hermione wrapped her small hand around his large cock and smoothed it slowly over his turgid flesh, enjoying the way it caused him to alter the way he pumped his fingers into her slick heat. Gods, she wanted to shag him again. She'd not been laid like he'd done to her in so long – ever, if she was being honest. Other than Thorfinn, the only wizard Hermione had ever slept with was Ron and while he hadn't been rubbish, he'd often been a bit over-eager and not interested enough in foreplay to get her in the mood before she'd find herself suddenly impaled.

And there was nothing worse than the chafing burn of it going in dry.

Not that she seemed to be having that problem where Rowle was concerned. Pumping her fist over his cock repeatedly, Hermione was sure she was going to fly into orgasm from his fingers alone.

"Fuck, Princess," he muttered in her ear, "Bend over for me."

Hermione didn't even pause to think about it before complying with the directive. She simply leaned forwards, pushing her arse out in his direction. He pulled his fingers from her dripping core, gripped her hips in both hands and pulled his cock from her hold. Hermione hissed between her teeth, meeting his gaze in the mirror and noting again the brilliant blue shade of his eyes when he used his thumbs to flick her knickers from her hips, sending them skidding down her thighs to the floor. He paused at her entrance, nudging her ever so slightly and making her all the hotter for the anticipation.

"Ready, Kitten?" he asked, smirking at her.

Hermione wasn't at all sure she was ready for the heady rush of shagging him again, but she found her head nodding just the same and she cried out when he pushed inside of her, sinking, gliding deeper and deeper until he was buried to the hilt in her silken passage.

"Gods," Hermione whispered, her eyelids fluttering with the wave of pleasure that assaulted her.

Thorfinn's smug grin only made it hotter, somehow, as he withdrew slowly and Hermione clenched, trying to keep him inside of her.

"You always do that," he murmured, smiling at her in the mirror while his fingers on her hips tightened as he fought for control, "Don't worry, Princess, I'm always coming right back."

Hermione mewled when he did just that, sinking himself into her once more. And then again. And again and again until Hermione's heart was racing inside her chest, pounding out an uneven rhythm and her breath came in ragged gasps and left her in low moans of delight.

"I'm gonna…" Hermine whispered, trying to focus, trying to think, trying to do anything but revel in the coiling tightness curling low in her belly and waiting to spring free.

"Squeal for me, Princess," Thorfinn rasped in her ear, his stubble scratching her cheek and her neck, tingling along her already overworked senses and making her even hotter.

Hermione shuddered as the orgasm hit, a little squeal of his name tearing from her lips, unbidden, as her whole body pulsed and spasmed. She cried out, a rasping gasp leaving her and her magical core suddenly tingling when she felt someone else's cool fingers brushing over the flames that danced on her chest.

Dolohov.

Hermione didn't even have the brain power to summon thoughts of outrage or protest to find the Russian suddenly in the bathroom along with her and Thorfinn, his fingers on her magical core making that part of her numb.

"Ah, fuck," Thorfinn suddenly cursed when her magic spasmed in addition to her muscles and he jerked hard against her, burying himself deep inside of her as he suddenly came as though unable to keep from it, some pull of her magic forcing it out of him before he was ready.

"Interesting," Antonin was muttering to himself, eying their combined reactions and ghosting his fingers over the flames.

"Fucking hell, Toshka, get out!" Thorfinn growled at him, smoothing his hands around Hermione's abdomen to cup her mound and protect her from Antonin's view.

Hermione giggled at the very idea of him invading this way and Thorfinn's notions of protecting her dignity. As though Dolohov didn't routinely invade her life and likely spy on her when she was naked anyway?

"Right. Well, this is interesting," Dolohov muttered, "Just one thing?"

"No," Thorfinn hissed at the Russian and Hermione couldn't help the laugh that left her lips over Dolohov's crestfallen expression.

Normally she wasn't one for indulging him, but he'd exacted revenge on Ron for her after he'd called her a whore, so she was feeling rather generous right then. The post-coital high was likely making her a bit mellower to his wishes too.

"What?" Hermione asked, leaning back against Thorfinn's chest and eyeing Dolohov.

"If I do this," he pressed his palm flat against the flames on her ribs, watching the way they climbed all the way up her chest and her neck to lick at her chin.

Thorfinn groaned into her hair, twitching inside of her and making Hermione's eyes cross.

"Ah, so it does pull at your magic too," Dolohov murmured softly, "That's very interesting. Right. This is going to take some experiment and deep thinking. Carry on, children."

He nodded his head, winked at Hermione and left the bathroom, leaving the door open as he went. Hermione shook her head.

"You're sure he's not insane?" she asked, tipping her head slightly and looking over her shoulder at Thorfinn.

"Not legally," Thorfinn grumbled, "I was not ready to be finished fucking you, witch."

Hermione smiled at him in the mirror.

"Do you mean to do so again in here?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

His smirk was utterly wicked as he pulled himself free of her and scooped her up, pantie-less, before carrying her off to his bedroom like some conquering barbarian.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Thorfinn was beginning to think that he was addicted to the feel of this little witch's pussy and the sweet sounds of satisfaction she made every time she came on his cock or his tongue. Watching her ride him, slow and easy, was also fast becoming one of his favourite sights. She tipped her head back, those loose riotous curls swaying and moving with her as she glided up and down the length of his cock, her expression alight with ecstasy as though she were a small child on a merry-go-round, riding the up and down motion with glee.

His hands pillowed behind his head, he bucked his hips up into each of her downward plunges, enjoying the way she bit her lip and moaned his name the closer she got to orgasm. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd fucked her. He'd talked her out of returning to work for the afternoon, insisting that if she was going to be quitting, she might as well not bother after such a shitty day there. Honestly, he'd just wanted to fuck her until he couldn't move.

He didn't know what it was about the little vixen, but the sight of her on his cock, untamed hair all in a mess, her cheeks flushed, her scar dancing madly and her eyes wild with lust and pleasure was addictive. That, and he really liked the way she clamped down on his cock every time he withdrew it from being completely sheathed within her. He couldn't really describe it. Sure, it felt good because of the physical sensation and the receptors in his skin that enjoyed the touch, but there was a psychological element to it that made him feel like he belonged right there, bollocks-deep inside of her and she didn't want to let him go.

After several long years sitting in a prison cell with only his own hand for release, he thoroughly enjoyed every witch he bedded, but he'd be lying if he said this one wasn't special. The idea baffled him even as he drove his cock up into her downward slide, smirking to himself when she moaned throatily. There was nothing that special about her.

He'd bedded prettier witches. He'd bedded witches with bigger tits and rounder arses and more defined curves. There were purer, nicer, happier witches out there, any one of whom might be charmed into falling for him long enough for him to fuck the Ministry-mandated heir he needed into her. But as he watched Granger's back suddenly arch, his name on her tongue as she orgasm on his cock once more, Thorfinn found himself thinking that he wanted this one.

Maybe she could get pregnant, maybe she couldn't. If he was being honest, he wasn't ready for the kid the Ministry kept insistently reminding him he needed to be siring, so for the time being he was hoping she couldn't, or rather, that she wouldn't. She went boneless and limp in her exhaustion as her orgasm began to ebb and Thorfinn smirked when she sprawled across his chest, those wild curls tickling his neck and his chin. If she cared that they were both sweaty from their exertions, she didn't let on.

Flipping her until she was pressed into his mattress, Thorfinn propped himself up on his elbows, fucking her hard as he chased his own release. Using his fingers, he tilted her chin until her could claim her hot little mouth with his own, sliding his tongue against hers and savouring her taste. She whimpered in her throat at the brutal shagging and Thorfinn didn't doubt that she was probably getting sore from their vigorous session. Hell, his own body was aching all over again.

And that, he was thinking, was why he was getting addicted to the little muggleborn witch. She let him fuck her repeatedly every time he got her naked. No matter her half-hearted protests of soreness or incapability to survive another round, she let him do it and she came so fucking prettily every time that he was hooked. That, and he actually wanted to do her again and again.

Other witches he'd fucked were one-trick wonders or the type he was done with by dawn before they could go getting clingy or attached or otherwise thinking that he might be keeping them around. This one didn't ask, didn't offer, didn't hint at anything other than to complain of hunger, thirst or the cramp in her arse when he fucked her at an uncomfortable angle. Hell, she barely even spoke to him other than to direct him to fuck her harder, or there, or just like that. And Thorfinn kind of liked that.

When he'd fucked his come into her one more time, Thorfinn dropped down on top of her, pinning her to the bed and likely crushing her petite frame but too spent to move. She trailed her hands through his long hair and Thorfinn felt her press a kiss to the side of his neck.

"You alright?" he managed to grunt at her a few minutes later.

"I'm peachy," she told him, sounding sleepy.

"You hungry?" Thorfinn asked next, propping himself up on one elbow and kind of liking the way she kept tracing her hands over his shoulders and down his back before sliding them back into his hair, over and over again.

"A bit," she nodded, "I'll probably make something at home, or grab a bit with Harry later."

"You're still thinking about leaving?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her when he pulled back far enough to look at her.

"I have a cat to feed," she shrugged her shoulders.

Thorfinn almost laughed and her blasé response, obviously not caring that she wouldn't be staying the night or being treated like anything other than a really good fucking shag.

"Oi, Thorfinn?" Antonin asked, opening the bedroom door at that moment and poking his head in.

Thorfinn flung a pillow at the bastard.

"Watch it," he complained, "Are you coming out for drinks tonight? It's Friday."

"Shit," Thorfinn grumbled, glancing at Granger.

"Don't let me stop you," she help up her hands, pulling them from his hair and not even looking phased this time to have Antonin in the doorway while she was naked, "I'm supposed to feed Crooks and meet Harry for drinks tonight myself. Get off, could you? You're getting heavy."

Thorfinn snorted at the witch before rolling off. He wasn't in the mood for going out drinking, if he was being honest, but since they'd all been released, most of his ex-Death Eater associates met up every Friday night for drinks and a chat about the woes of living as 'free' citizens of Wizarding Britain.

"Dolohov?" Granger asked of the Russian wizard still awaiting Thorfinn's answer about going out, "Could you be a gentleman and bring my skirt and knickers from the bathroom?"

Thorfinn watched the witch sit up in his bed before getting to her feet, stark naked, to begin searching for her bra.

He also caught Toshka's smirk before he disappeared to bring her what she'd asked for.

"You realise he's going to impose on you even more if you're going to get comfortable with him, don't you?" Thorfinn asked the witch, his eyes on her arse – which bore a bright red depiction of his handprint on her left arse cheek – as she bent over and dug her bra out from under the blankets they'd kicked off the bed.

"He already imposes on me," she rolled her eyes, "I figure that if I humanise him rather than continuing to let him enjoy his stalker-fetish, he'll extend me some common courtesies like not walking in on me in the loo."

"Good luck with that," Thorfinn laughed, catching his shirt when she tossed it to him.

"You should probably shower if you're going out," she commented, ferreting around to find her blouse.

"Nah," he smirked, "I'll make all the lads jealous reeking of sex before the drinking begins. Bass will lose his mind."

"Well, if you let any of them lick essence of me off of you, take pictures and share, yeah?" she replied and Thorfinn paused, about to pull his shirt over his head to stare at the witch while she smirked at him.

"You're kinkier than I realised, Princess," Thorfinn smirked at her, "You know I'm not going to be able to get the images of you finger-fucking yourself to the idea of the lads licking me out of my head now, yeah?"

"That'll make for a fun night of drinking with them all, I'm sure," she replied wickedly, "Dolohov? Do you have my stuff? I swear, if I find the creepy bastard sniffing my knickers, I'm going to maim him."

She wandered out of his room wearing only her bra and her shirt, her tight arse twitching and swaying from side to side as she walked. Thorfinn smirked when he noticed the glisten of wetness between her thighs as his come trickled free of her.

"Oh, for the love of… Really, Dolohov?" Thorfinn heard her exasperated voice a few moments later.

Frowning, Thorfinn followed her out of the bedroom, still buttoning his jeans, only to find Toshka digging a spoon into a pint of ice-cream, her clothing sitting on the bench next to where he was leaning.

"What?" Toshka asked her, raising one eyebrow, "You don't want to put these back on with all that spunk leaking out of you, Zaichik."

He waved his spoon towards her sticky thighs.

Granger's cheeks turned crimson when she glanced down at herself before she stalked away and into their bathroom, muttering curses to herself. Thorfinn shook his head, watching her go.

"Why do you look like you want to hex me?" Toshka asked when Thorfinn moved over to grab Granger's things, intent on bringing them to her, not at all certain he wanted Toshka getting another eyeful of the witch's tight body.

"Fuck you," Thorfinn retorted.

"Oooh, not very friendly this afternoon," Toshka chuckled, "You'd think getting repeatedly laid for hours on end would've put you in a better mood."

Thorfinn flipped him the forks.

"Did you do the charm to test if she's pregnant?" Toshka called after him as he stomped towards the bathroom where he could hear the taps running.

He found the witch perched on the sink rinsing her skin with the cloth she'd used earlier on her face. She looked up at him and raised her eyebrows at him in question when he stomped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Why do you look like you're about to yell at me?" she frowned at him.

"You're walking around naked in front of him now?" he asked, jealousy prickling him.

"He's seen it before, I guarantee," Hermione informed him, tipping her head to one side, "The only difference this time is that I'm aware he's there and that he's looking, rather than having him peeping in my shower."

"Do you want to fuck him?" Thorfinn asked before he could think better of it.

"He's insane," she wrinkled her nose at him, "I mean, I know I've likely given you the impression that I'm a trollop or something, but I don't normally shag just anyone."

"Just me then?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her.

"Not that it's your business who I shag, but yes," she admitted, blushing and looking down at her lap for a moment.

Thorfinn found himself moving closer to her, his hand coming up of its own accord to spear through her soft folds, two fingers tunnelling into her passage.

"Ungh," she groaned when Thorfinn curled his fingers against the front wall of her slick sheath, "I can't do it again, Rowle."

"Not trying to make you," he informed her gruffly, "Tilt forwards a bit."

His free hand gripped her hip, angling her body. The trickling sound of his spunk leaking out of her and hitting the sink she sat over seemed to startle her.

"Bloody hell," she grumbled, her cheeks blooming crimson once more.

"What do you expect when I fuck you… how many times in a row was it?" he asked smugly.

"I lost count," she admitted, her cheeks an adorable shade of pink that made Thorfinn smirk.

"You sure you can't get pregnant, Princess?" he asked her, "Toshka thinks you can. And if I keep shagging this much spunk into you, you're bound to end up that way."

"Who says you're going to keep doing it?" she asked, raising one eyebrow challengingly.

Thorfinn leaned in and snogged her hotly, making her groan when he twisted his fingers to remove more of his essence from within her. Her tongue danced with his for several long minutes and Thorfinn was thinking she was trouble with a capital 'T' when his traitorous cock twitched inside his jeans at the idea of another round.

"I can't," she gasped as though sensing his thoughts, pulling back from him and shaking her head as she panted, "Not again. It stings."

Thorfinn smirked at her.

"Still think you don't want to keep doing it?" he asked her.

"I…" she bit her lip, her whiskey-coloured eyes searching his face carefully, "We can't."

Thorfinn raised his eyebrows.

"You got someone other than your Used Weasel to answer to about it?" he wanted to know.

"No, it's not that," she shook her head, "It's… I mean, you're you and I'm me."

"Well spotted, Princess," Thorfinn scoffed.

"You know what I mean," she swatted his chest in punishment for his snark, "I'm… do you know the types of things the papers would write about us if they found out we'd shagged?"

Thorfinn felt a familiar, unpleasant twist in his gut at her words. He knew what that meant even if she didn't have the guts to come right out and say it. Since his release he'd heard that speech a few too many times. The one where his Death Eater past and his criminal record was something witches wanted to try on a night or two before they went back to their safe little lives and put him in their spank bank, so to speak. The 'I couldn't be seen with a Death Eater' speech. He hated it worse than the spitting, if he was honest.

"I… don't give me that look, Rowle," Granger scolded though Thorfinn hadn't realised his expression had changed, "I'm not being a bloody elitist or trying to propagate the type of bullshit that means you got spat on today. It's not about you being a Death Eater. It's about the fact that I, unfortunately, end up on the front page of the paper entirely too often and the last thing you need when you're trying to find a witch to procreate with is to be associated with me."

"You realise that you might already be pregnant with my kid after what happened at Halloween, yeah?" Thorfinn asked her, raising his eyebrows at her.

She had the audacity to roll her eyes at him.

Reaching for her wand where it lay upon the bench, she picked it up and muttered the charm to test for pregnancy. The charm sank into her skin before rising once more, bright red bubbles emitting from her for a minute. Red. Negative. She wasn't pregnant. Thorfinn never thought he'd feel disappointed at the sight of those red bubbles.

"Dolohov's theory about the idea of his curse affecting me is sound for one reason, Rowle," she told him quietly, "It prevents me from getting pregnant. I have a one in a billion chance of falling pregnant at all, according to my test results. And carrying the pregnancy to term is even slimmer. Which brings me back to my point. You need to find someone to carry on your bloodline within the next few years or you're going to be thrown back in prison for violating the conditions of your parole. The last thing you need is something with me, casual or otherwise, complicating your chances of finding a decent witch to look past your history and let you impregnate them."

With that said, she fished his hand from between her legs and shifted to run the taps once more. She even guided his hand under the spray to cleanse his fingers of their combined juices. Part of him, the part that he was thinking must be powered by his cock, wanted to argue with her that even if she couldn't get pregnant – and he had more faith in the Toshka's theories about his magic protecting her than hindering her than he did in whatever tests she had done at St. Mungo's – they could still fuck. Hell, part of him wanted to fuck her again right that second.

His pride, however, wouldn't allow him to continue pressing the point if she was going to be difficult about it. He might not much like the point she'd made, but she was right. A condition of his parole was that he and the other bastards who'd been released to propagate the species were all to have a kid on the way, at the very least, within five years of their release. Three years on the outside and Thorfinn still hadn't found anyone he remotely wanted to consider at the bearer of his offspring. Not until the little witch sitting her bare arse over the sink of his dingy bathroom and trying to rinse his spunk from her nethers, anyway.

"You going out tonight?" he asked rather than commenting on her idea of being a hindrance to his chances at knocking someone up.

"Yes," she sighed, rolling her eyes, "I promised Harry that we'd have dinner before meeting up with everyone else for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron this evening. And I skipped last week's catch up because I really did not want Ronald screaming at me about walking in on us at Halloween where every reporter and his dragon could hear him."

"That worried about a scandal over being caught with me, eh?" Thorfinn asked bitterly, looking away from her to reach for his cologne so he could spray himself with it.

"Not at all," she shook her head, "They wouldn't even know who to write about unless I told them your name. No, I just didn't want another headline detailing my tragic and complicated relationship with my ex-fiancé splashed across the papers. I get hate mail over it because I'm always painted as the unreasonable one even when it's him flying off the handle and him cheating on me."

"My offer to maim him still stands, Princess," Thorfinn smirked at her, kind of liking the way she brushed off his bitterness as though it were utter folly.

"With luck he'll be too busy fantasising wildly inappropriate things about goats to even turn up tonight," she smirked in return, "But I may take you up on that offer someday. You're going out tonight too?"

Thorfinn nodded, "Not to the Leaky Cauldron though. Too mainstream. Too busy with bastards who think it's fun to spit on us ex-Death Eaters or to pick fights with us. That, and half the time we get refused service, depending on who's running the bar."

Her brow furrowed at the very idea and Thorfinn got the feeling that if he kept spending time with her and casually mentioning facts about the way ex-criminals were treated, she'd get up in arms enough to tilt at a few windmills again.

"They refuse to serve you?" she asked, "Who do you go with? Other than Dolohov?"

"The old crew," Thorfinn shrugged, "Rod and Bass Lestrange; Nott's kid, the Malfoy kid, Lucius too, sometimes. Selwyn, Mulciber, Carrow, Rockwood."

"All the bad guys," she smirked at him.

"Pretty much. That's how society sees it, anyway. Tom doesn't usually mind serving us if we're at the Leaky, and the little blonde thing he's grooming to take over the place – she's sweet as pie. But the other bastards don't much like us. That and it upsets the other patrons so they usually have to ask us to move along before a duel can break out," Thorfinn admitted, "The pubs in Knockturn Alley are better suited to us, and they don't care who we are or what we did."

"There are pubs in Knockturn Alley?" she asked, looking surprised.

"It's London, Princess," Thorfinn chuckled as she used his bath-towel to dry off before pulling her knickers up her legs, "If there's not a pub every three shops, the world will end. You didn't think the Leaky Cauldron was the only wizarding pub in London, did you?"

"Well, no," she admitted, "There's that other one that all the reporters and the famous people like to frequent. We never go there because Harry hates the attention. What's it called?"

"The Smoking Quill," Thorfinn supplied.

"Yeah, that's it. Have you been in there? It's terrible. And expensive. The drinks cost an arm and a leg," she rolled her eyes, "Where do you go in Knockturn Alley? Are they… decent places or are the type of place I'd get hexed?"

Thorfinn laughed out loud at her expression.

"Well, I don't imagine you'd fit into many of them, Princess. The Hag's Snatch is the worst of on the alley. Don't go in there without an escort, whatever you do," he told her.

"The Hag's Snatch? What a disgusting name for a pub!" she made a face.

"Yeah, it's not a nice place," Thorfinn chuckled, "But some of the others are alright… or would be alright for you, I should say. Us ex-Death Eater types frequent whichever one has the best Happy Hour specials each week. You'd probably handle yourself alright in The Itchy Frog, or The Lazy Spider's got good cocktails, if you drink those. Stay away from The Hunting Ground unless you like to walk on the wild side – it's one of those places frequented by vampires, werewolves and the like. I'd pay to see you in The Devil's Bed, Princess."

"Haven't I been there all afternoon?" she smirked raising an eyebrow at him and making Thorfinn laugh.

"Cute," he rolled his eyes, "But watch your mouth, or you'll end up back there."

"Threats now?" she laughed, "Anyone might think you've taken a shine to me, Rowle?"

Thorfinn grinned.

"You're the one objecting to an arrangement for casual sex, Baby-girl, not me."

She rolled her eyes at him, "You're only saying that because you like the way I moan your name, Thorfinn."

"Say it again?" he grinned.

"Don't you give me that look, Rowle, I'm already going to be late for my dinner date with Harry," she scolded, swatting at him, "Shut up and snog me so I can leave. I can't turn up reeking of you."

Thorfinn laughed at her words, catching her hips and pulling her flush against his chest. He captured her lips hungrily, already thinking about fucking her all over again and thinking he could forgo an evening spent grumbling to the lads over losing his job and putting up with Rockwood's shitty humour and Malfoy's condescension. Hell, if he could fuck her all over again until he died from exhaustion, Thorfinn was thinking he wouldn't even mind. He'd never enjoyed shagging a witch as much as he enjoyed this one.

She was breathing heavily when she pulled away, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

"I should go," she whispered.

"You don't have to," he told her.

She blinked at him before a warm smile slid across her face.

"Yes, I do. Harry will mount a full-scale man-hunt for me if I skip another Friday night. And you have people waiting on you too. Go on, off you go and get drunk with them so you can do something stupid, like knock some witch up," she gave him a little shove towards the door, still smiling at him, before she winked and disapparated with a sharp crack.

Thorfinn stared at the spot she'd left from for nigh on five minutes, thinking that he really didn't want to take her advice in the slightest. If he couldn't fuck her for the evening, he was thinking he could sleep for a week.

"Are you still pouting?" Toshka called through the door, obviously having heard Granger leaved.

Thorfinn snatched open the door to glare at the bastard he called a best friend.

"If Malfoy gives me any shit tonight, I'm punching him," Thorfinn declared.

"How are you this cranky after being laid?" Toshka shook his head, looking baffled, "The last time you shagged that little witch you were cheery for days."

"She's not pregnant," Thorfinn informed him.

Antonin's brow furrowed.

"Oh," he said, "Well, not everyone has the misfortune of knocking someone up on the first try, mate. There's always next time."

"She told me we can't have any kind of arrangement, casual or otherwise, because it would interfere with my ability to locate a witch to have a kid with so I don't violate my parole."

"Please," Antonin rolled his eyes, "You've still got ages for that."

"I kind of wanted her to be pregnant," Thorfinn admitted to his best friend.

Antonin smirked at him wickedly.

"You fancy her a bit, eh?" Antonin asked.

"She's the best fuck I've ever had," Thorfinn defended, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well," Antonin grinned, "Then what are you doing taking 'no' for an answer?"