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Eleven days had passed since Gregory Goyle's disappearance, and the devices seemed to mirror the increased tension that permeated every stone of the castle. Dumbledore observed them with tired eyes, noting how one particular instrument—a brass contraption that monitored magical disturbances in the Forbidden Forest—had been whistling almost continuously for the past week.
Something dark stirs in those woods, he thought, stroking his beard absently. Though whether it's a consequence of Mr. Goyle's disappearance or its cause remains frustratingly unclear.
The knock at his door came precisely at eight o'clock. His Heads of Houses had learned long ago that punctuality was one of the few things he insisted upon without compromise.
"Enter," he called, straightening in his chair and assuming the serene expression that had become as much a part of him as his spectacles.
They filed in with noticeably less energy than their meeting a week prior. The strain of maintaining normalcy while investigating a potential murder was evident in their bearing. Minerva's usually impeccable bun showed wisps of escaped hair, Filius's cheerful demeanor had dimmed to mere politeness, and even Severus seemed more gaunt than usual, if such a thing were possible.
Mirabel Garlick entered last, closing the door behind her with care. The young professor's vibrant auburn hair was pulled back in a severe plait, and dark circles beneath her green eyes suggested she'd been losing sleep. At twenty-seven, she was dealing with her first true crisis as a Head of House, and Dumbledore could see the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders.
"Thank you all for coming," Dumbledore began, conjuring chairs with a casual wave. The motion sent a spike of pain through his cursed hand, carefully concealed beneath glamour charms and the sleeve of his robes. "I trust you've all had sufficient time to observe and investigate within your houses?"
A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the group as they took their seats. Fawkes, perched nearby, ruffled his feathers and fixed his ancient gaze on each professor in turn, as if conducting his own assessment.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, turning to the Potions Master who stood apart from the others, back against the wall in his customary position. "Perhaps you could begin with Slytherin House?"
Snape's expression remained carefully neutral as he spoke. "My students know nothing of Goyle's whereabouts." The words came out clipped. "I've questioned them thoroughly, both formally and informally. While there are the expected rumors and speculation, I've found no evidence that any Slytherin was involved in his disappearance."
Dumbledore nodded slowly.
"And the general mood in your house?" he prompted.
"Tense," Severus admitted. "Goyle's absence has created a power vacuum among the sixth years. Without his physical presence to enforce Draco Malfoy's authority, there have been... shifts in the social hierarchy."
"Thank you, Severus." Dumbledore turned his attention to the newest Head of House. "Professor Garlick? How are the Hufflepuffs handling this situation?"
Mirabel shifted in her seat, discomfort evident in the way she twisted a loose thread on her sleeve. "I'm troubled, Headmaster," she said, her Welsh accent more pronounced in her distress. "Not by what they're saying, but by what they're not saying."
"Elaborate, please," Dumbledore encouraged gently.
"There's an apathy I didn't expect," she continued, green eyes troubled. "When I've tried to discuss Goyle's disappearance, to gauge if anyone knows anything, I'm met with... indifference. Some have even said—" She paused, seeming to struggle with the words.
"What have they said?" Dumbledore prompted.
"That his lot killed Cedric." The words came out in a rush, as if she needed to expel them quickly. "That Cedric deserved to be here, not... not deep in the ground while Death Eaters' children walk free." She looked stricken by her own students' callousness. "I've tried to address it, to remind them that we can't hold children responsible for their parents' actions, but..."
"But grief has a long memory," Dumbledore finished softly. "And young Mr. Diggory was particularly beloved."
"He was," Mirabel agreed, voice thick with emotion. "Those who are still around when he was alive still leave flowers at his memorial. They remember his kindness, his fairness. And now, with Goyle missing..." She shook her head. "I'm ashamed to say that some of my badgers seem to view it as a kind of justice."
Dumbledore felt the weight of it—not just the words, but what they represented. The poison of war seeping into the hearts of children who should have been learning about loyalty and fair play, not celebrating the possible death of a classmate.
"Thank you for your honesty, Professor," he said. "Filius? What of Ravenclaw?"
The tiny Charms professor straightened in his chair, feet dangling well above the floor. "My eagles maintain they know nothing concrete about Mr. Goyle's fate," he squeaked. "However, I've noticed a rather remarkable development regarding Miss Lovegood."
"Oh?" Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.
"She was never particularly popular within Ravenclaw," Filius admitted with visible regret. "Her unique perspective on the world often left her isolated from her housemates. But since her attack..." He gestured expressively with his small hands. "There's been a shift. Students who previously ignored or mocked her now ask after her daily. Many have attempted to visit her in the hospital wing, bringing gifts and well-wishes."
"Adversity has a way of clarifying what truly matters," Dumbledore observed.
"Indeed," Filius agreed. "Several students have expressed anger that her attacker hasn't been caught. There's a sense that the attack on Luna was an attack on Ravenclaw itself—on our values of accepting different ways of thinking." His expression grew troubled. "I worry what some might do if they discovered who was responsible."
Another weight added to Dumbledore's growing collection. Children preparing for vengeance, houses turning insular and protective. The castle dividing along lines that ran deeper than mere school rivalry.
"Minerva," he said, turning to his Deputy Headmistress. "And Gryffindor?"
For the first time in his memory, Minerva McGonagall hesitated before speaking about her lions. The pause was brief—perhaps unnoticeable to the others—but to Dumbledore, who had known her for decades, it spoke volumes.
"My students..." she began, then stopped, removing her spectacles to clean them with unusual thoroughness. "Most of them genuinely don't know anything about Goyle's disappearance."
"Most?"
Minerva replaced her spectacles, but her gaze didn't quite meet his. "I have concerns about..." Another pause, and when she continued, her voice carried a weight of reluctance that seemed to physically pain her. "About Potter."
The name fell into the room like a stone into still water. Severus straightened slightly against the wall, interest sharpening his features. Mirabel and Filius exchanged glances.
"What sort of concerns?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
"I don't believe he killed Mr. Goyle," Minerva said firmly, as if preempting Severus's inevitable accusation. "But I suspect he might... know something. About where Goyle is, or what happened to him."
"What leads you to this conclusion?"
Minerva's hands clasped tightly in her lap. "He found Miss Lovegood in the snow, dying. He sat with her for hours in the hospital wing, holding her hand even after she lost consciousness. The boy was devastated, Albus. I've never seen him so affected by violence against another student—not even when Mr. Diggory died."
"Potter has always been protective of his friends," Severus interjected, voice dripping with disdain.
"This was different," Minerva insisted, finally meeting Dumbledore's gaze. "There was something in his eyes when he talked about finding her. Something..." She struggled for words. "Something harder than I've seen before. And with Sirius Black's death still so fresh..."
She didn't need to finish. They all understood the arithmetic of grief—how loss compounded loss, how each death carved away another piece of innocence until only sharp edges remained.
"You think his godfather's death affected him more profoundly than we realized," Dumbledore said.
"I think," Minerva said carefully, "that we've been so focused on helping him process his grief in healthy ways that we might have missed signs that he was processing it in... other ways."
The delicate phrasing didn't fool anyone. She was suggesting that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, might have taken justice into his own hands. That faced with his friend's near-murder and the lack of official consequences, he might have decided to create consequences of his own.
"Thank you all," Dumbledore said after a moment's heavy silence. "Your observations have been most illuminating. I believe that's all for tonight—though Severus, if you would remain for a moment?"
The dismissal was clear. The other professors rose, filing out with murmured farewells. Mirabel cast one last troubled look back before closing the door, leaving Dumbledore alone with his Potions Master.
The moment privacy was assured, Severus moved from the wall, taking the seat Minerva had vacated.
"You visited Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said. Not a question.
"I did." Severus's dark eyes glittered. "The boy is falling apart. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days—gaunt, paranoid, jumping at shadows."
"And what did he tell you?"
"That he ordered Goyle to go to the Forbidden Forest." Severus's expression tightened. "When I pressed for details about why, he became agitated. Claimed everything was under control, that he didn't need my help."
"But you don't believe him."
"The boy is drowning," Severus said flatly. "The task the Dark Lord gave him it's beyond his capabilities. He's making desperate moves, sending an incompetent like Goyle into the Forest for Merlin knows what purpose."
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You said in our last meeting that you suspected Potter. Has that changed?"
Severus was quiet for a long moment, seeming to weigh his words. "I believe Potter killed Goyle," he said finally. "The scenario fits too well—Malfoy sends Goyle to an isolated location, Potter follows under his invisibility cloak, takes his revenge for the Lovegood girl."
"But?" Dumbledore prompted, sensing hesitation.
"But," Severus continued reluctantly, "there's a small possibility that Draco himself is responsible. His shock seems too profound for mere worry about a missing lackey. It's possible that whatever he sent Goyle to do went catastrophically wrong, and the boy is now dealing with the consequences."
"You think Draco Malfoy might have accidentally killed Gregory Goyle or he sent him to do something too dangerous?"
"Or intentionally," Severus said. "The boy is under enormous pressure. If Goyle failed him one too many times, if he became a liability..." He shrugged. "The Malfoys have never been sentimental about disposing of problems."
Dumbledore absorbed this, feeling the weight of secrets and suspicions piling ever higher. Two boys, both damaged by loss and circumstance, both potentially capable of murder. And he, supposed guardian of them all, sitting in his tower playing chess with their lives.
"If you would allow me to use Legilimency on Potter—" Severus began.
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. Dumbledore softened his tone. "No, Severus. I will not violate Harry's mind based on suspicion alone."
"Then we may never know the truth."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded. "But some truths come at too high a price. I have a meeting with Harry tonight, actually. We're to view another memory of Tom Riddle's past."
Severus's lip curled. "How convenient. Playing mentor while the boy might be hiding murder."
"We are all hiding something, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "The question is whether those secrets serve the greater good or merely our own purposes."
The Potions Master rose, recognizing the dismissal. At the door, he paused. "The boy is changing, Albus. They all are. This war is carving away at them, making them harder, older than their years."
"War does that," Dumbledore agreed sadly. "It takes children and forces them to make choices that would break grown wizards. It ages them in ways that have nothing to do with time—strips away innocence and replaces it with necessity."
Severus studied him for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder if we're protecting them or simply delaying the inevitable."
"As do I, Severus. As do I."
After Severus departed, Dumbledore sat alone in his office, surrounded by whirring instruments and centuries of accumulated knowledge. Fawkes trilled softly, a mournful sound that seemed to echo his own thoughts.
Eleven days since Goyle's disappearance. A week since the questioning began. And still, the truth remained elusive. His students—for they were all his students, even the Slytherins, even the ones who might grow up to serve Voldemort—were keeping secrets. Some to protect themselves, some to protect others, all of them learning too young that sometimes survival required deception.
He thought of Harry, coming here tonight expecting to delve into Voldemort's past, not knowing that Dumbledore planned to share his own secrets instead. The boy deserved truth, even if it came too late. Especially because it came too late.
War aged children prematurely, yes. But it also aged old men, reminding them of all the battles they'd failed to prevent, all the innocence they'd failed to preserve. Dumbledore felt every one of his years tonight, felt the weight of every decision that had led them to this moment—children potentially murdering children while the adults pretended they still had control.
The cursed hand beneath his glamour throbbed, a reminder that his time was limited. Soon, Harry would have to face this war without him. The boy needed to be ready, needed to be strong enough to do what was necessary.
Even if what was necessary was terrible. Even if it carved away pieces of his soul.
Forgive me, Harry, Dumbledore thought, not for the first time. Forgive me for the man I'm helping you become.
Hermione
The greenhouse air hung thick with moisture and the cloying sweetness of Devil's Snare blossoms—a scent that made Hermione's skin prickle with unease. Eleven days since Goyle's blood had pooled on cold stone, and still the flowers bloomed, indifferent to human concerns. She focused on the Venomous Tentacula before her, noting how its tendrils curved like grasping fingers, how the moisture on its leaves caught the light like—
Stop.
"Miss Granger, if you prune any more aggressively, we'll have a very angry plant on our hands."
Professor Garlick's voice cut through Hermione's reverie. The young professor stood close enough that Hermione caught her scent. Her teaching robes clung to her curves where the humidity had dampened the fabric, and Hermione's cock stirred traitorously beneath her own robes.
Not now. Focus on the lesson.
But focus proved elusive. Her mind kept circling back to Luna's pale face, to Goyle's shocked expression. The other students worked in pairs around them, their chatter creating a buffer of normalcy that felt increasingly fragile.
You did the right thing...he tried to kill Luna
His father is a Death Eater, he too was our enemy. I had no choice...
When class ended, Hermione began packing her supplies. Quill, parchment, dragon-hide gloves—each item carefully stowed while her classmates filed out, eager for lunch.
"Miss Granger, a moment?"
Hermione's hands stilled on her bag. Professor Garlick stood by her desk, auburn hair escaping its usually neat plait in wisps that framed her face.
"Of course, Professor."
They waited until the last student left, the greenhouse door clicking shut. In the sudden quiet, Hermione became hyperaware of every sound—the drip of water, the rustle of leaves, her own measured breathing.
"You seemed distracted today," Garlick said, green eyes searching Hermione's face. "More than usual, I mean. Everyone's been on edge since..." She trailed off, lips pressing together.
"Since Goyle disappeared." Hermione kept her voice neutral, though her pulse quickened. Did Garlick suspect?
"Yes." Garlick moved closer, and Hermione caught another wave of her scent. "How are you handling all this? I know you and Miss Lovegood... are friends."
Luna was alive because Harry had found her, and Hermione had ensured her attacker would never hurt anyone again.
"It's been difficult," Hermione admitted, allowing a calculated amount of emotion into her voice. "When I first discovered magic, I thought this world would be perfect. Above the petty cruelties of the mundane world." She laughed bitterly. "How naive I was."
Garlick's expression softened. "We all felt that way once. The magical world seemed like an escape, didn't it? From everything ordinary and painful."
"Now there's a war coming," Hermione continued, watching how Garlick's fingers worried at the edge of her desk. "And students are disappearing, or nearly dying in the snow, and everyone's just... pretending it's normal."
"It's not normal," Garlick said quietly. She looked younger suddenly, the weight of her position showing in the slight slump of her shoulders. "I was eleven when news came that You-Know-Who was gone. My parents wept with relief. For the longest time, I thought such a day would never come, but it did."
She straightened, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "A miracle happened once. It can happen again. He'll fall, Hermione. His days are numbered."
The conviction in her voice was touching, if misguided. Hermione stepped closer. "You really believe that?"
"I have to." Garlick's voice cracked slightly. "How else can I face my Hufflepuffs every day? How can I tell them everything will be alright when they're saying things like—" She stopped abruptly.
"Like what?" Hermione pressed gently.
"Like Cedric deserved to be here instead of Goyle." The words came out in a rush. "That justice has finally been served. They're children, Hermione. They shouldn't be celebrating possible death."
What struck Hermione most was the pain in Garlick's eyes, the way her composure threatened to crack.
"Cedric's death hit everyone hard," Hermione said carefully. "Especially Professor Sprout. I remember she couldn't teach for a week afterward."
Garlick's eyes widened slightly. "You knew?"
"The whole school knew. She loved all her badgers, but Cedric..." Hermione let the sentence hang. "And now you're in her position, trying to hold your house together while everything falls apart."
"I feel like I'm failing them," Garlick whispered. "Pomona made it look so easy, and I'm just... drowning."
Hermione moved without thinking, drawn by an impulse to comfort her. Her hand found Garlick's, squeezing gently.
"You're not failing them. You're here, aren't you? Trying to help even when you're struggling yourself. That matters."
Garlick looked down at their joined hands, then up at Hermione's face. When Garlick leaned in, Hermione met her halfway.
The kiss was gentle, tentative—nothing like the hungry claiming Hermione had imagined. Garlick's lips were soft, tasting faintly of the tea she favored, and for a moment Hermione let herself sink into the sweetness of it. Her cock stirred again, more insistent now, and she pulled back before her arousal became obvious.
"I should go," she said.
Garlick nodded, cheeks flushed. "Of course. I... thank you, Hermione. For listening."
Hermione gathered her things quickly, hyperaware of every brush of fabric against her body. The greenhouse door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving her alone with the pounding of her heart and the persistent ache between her legs.
The library should have been a refuge. Between classes, it usually stood empty save for Madam Pince and her eternal vigilance. Hermione needed the quiet, needed to lose herself in research that had nothing to do with death or desire or the way Professor Garlick's lips had felt against hers.
Blood dripped...Stop It
She found her favorite table in the Medieval Alchemy section, surrounded by texts that smelled of age and wisdom. But even here, she was not able to find her calm, she needed to distract herself, she needed not to think, for the first time, Hermione didn't want to think, she just wanted to lose herself.
"Hermione?"
She looked up to find Susan Bones standing uncertainly by the bookshelf. Afternoon light caught her Hufflepuff yellow tie and the bright copper of her hair, setting both ablaze.
"Susan." Hermione's voice came out steady despite the sudden rush of memories—Susan beneath her in this very library, trying to muffle her cries as Hermione fucked her like a whore. "I didn't expect anyone else to be here."
"I needed somewhere quiet to think." Susan moved closer, and Hermione caught her familiar scent—honey and fresh parchment, with something earthier beneath. "Mind if I join you?"
Hermione gestured to the chair across from her, watching how Susan moved. There was a wariness there that hadn't existed before, a careful consideration in how she held herself. The missing student, the investigation, the growing fear—it was changing all of them.
"How are your housemates handling everything?" Hermione asked, though she already knew from Garlick's report.
Susan's expression darkened. "Some better than others. There's a... divide forming. Between those who think Goyle got what he deserved and those who think we should be above such thoughts."
"And which side are you on?"
"I don't know." Susan traced patterns on the wooden table, her finger following the grain. "Part of me understands the anger, the desire for justice. But celebrating someone's possible death..." She shook her head. "That's not who we're supposed to be."
"Maybe who we're supposed to be isn't enough anymore," Hermione said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Susan looked up sharply. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" Hermione leaned back, studying Susan's shocked expression. "Luna nearly died. Goyle was walking free, no consequences, no justice. The system failed her."
"So someone took justice into their own hands?" Susan's voice dropped to a whisper. "Is that what you think happened?"
Hermione shrugged, a calculated gesture of indifference. "I think sometimes the world needs people willing to do what others won't."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.
"You've changed," Susan said finally. "Since the beginning of term, you're... different."
"We're all changing." Hermione let her gaze drop deliberately to where Susan's robes pulled tight across her chest. "Some changes are more obvious than others."
Color flooded Susan's cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Hermione..."
"I've missed you," Hermione said. "Our study sessions."
"Is that what we're calling them now?" Despite everything, Susan's lips quirked in a small smile. "I seem to remember very little studying involved."
"Perhaps we were studying other subjects." Hermione rose, moving around the table. "More practical applications."
Susan's breath caught as Hermione stopped beside her chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. "Here? Now? With everything that's happening?"
"Especially now." Hermione's hand found Susan's hair, fingers tangling in the copper strands. "Don't you need distraction? Release? Something to remind you that not everything in this world is dark?"
Hermione felt the collision of their lips like an explosion, nothing soft or timid about it. This wasn't the tentative peck she'd shared with Garlick; this was raw, desperate hunger smashing into hunger. Susan's mouth parted under hers, a little whimper slipping out that went straight to Hermione's cock, making it throb painfully against the confines of her robes. She was rock-hard now, nine inches of thick, transformed flesh straining to break free, and when Susan's hand pressed against the bulge, Hermione's breath hitched in her chest, a sharp gasp echoing Susan's own.
"Merlin," Susan panted, her voice a husky whisper laced with awe. "I'd forgotten how..."
"Big?" Hermione finished for her. Power surged through her, the thrill of claiming what she craved making her pulse race.
Susan nodded, her fingers tracing the outline of Hermione's cock through the rough fabric of her robes, exploring every inch with a teasing slowness that made Hermione's hips twitch. "Someone could come in," Susan murmured, her breath hot against Hermione's lips.
Hermione didn't hesitate. She yanked her wand from her pocket, casting silencing charms and notice-me-not spells with quick, precise flicks. "No one will hear us. No one will interrupt," she growled. The magic settled around them like a heavy, invisible shroud, sealing them into their own filthy little world amidst the dusty shelves of the library.
Susan pressed herself closer, and Hermione felt every soft curve of her body—those big tits squishing against her chest, yielding and warm where Hermione's own body was tense and demanding. Hermione's hand slid into Susan's crimson hair, the strands silky and cool against her fingers as she gripped tight, pulling Susan's face closer. "I've thought about this," she admitted, her voice rough with raw, unfiltered need. "About that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around my dick."
Susan's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with lust as she sank to her knees right there on the cold library floor. Her hands were already fumbling with Hermione's robes, tugging at the fabric with eager, trembling fingers. "I've thought about it too," Susan whispered, her voice thick with desire. "About tasting that big cock again."
The robes parted, and the cool library air hit Hermione's freed cock like a slap, making her hiss through clenched teeth. Nine inches of thick, veiny flesh stood proud, the tip already glistening with precum, the heavy weight of it bobbing slightly with each ragged breath she took. The sudden exposure made her skin prickle, the chilly air a stark contrast to the burning heat of her arousal. Susan's tongue darted out, a quick, wet flick that caught the bead of precum at the tip, and Hermione's hips jerked forward involuntarily, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the slick, warm contact.
"Eager," Susan purred, her hand wrapping around the base of Hermione's cock, her grip firm but not tight enough, teasing. Her fingers felt cool against the heated skin, and Hermione's balls tightened at the sensation. "I like that," Susan added, her voice a sultry taunt.
"Less talking," Hermione saidsnarled, her grip tightening in Susan's crimson locks, pulling just hard enough to make Susan gasp with delight. "Show me what that dirty mouth can do."
Susan didn't need to be told twice. Her lips parted taking the swollen head of Hermione's cock into the wet, scorching heat of her mouth. Hermione felt every detail—the slick slide of Susan's lips stretching around her girth, the rough texture of her tongue swirling around the sensitive crown, sending sharp jolts of pleasure shooting up her spine. A deep, guttural groan tore from Hermione's throat, swallowed by the silencing charms, but she knew Susan felt it, the way her body shuddered under the sound. Susan hummed in response, a low, vibrating sound that rippled through Hermione's cock, making her toes curl in her boots.
"Fuck," Hermione breathed, her voice a ragged whisper as Susan took more, inch by torturous inch. The wet heat enveloped her, Susan's mouth stretching wider to accommodate the thickness, her lips a tight, perfect ring around Hermione's shaft. "Such a good girl, taking my cock so well," Hermione rasped, her fingers tightening in Susan's hair, guiding her deeper.
Susan's hands gripped Hermione's thighs, fingers digging into the muscle for balance as she worked more of that massive length into her mouth. Hermione felt the strain in Susan's jaw, the way her throat fluttered as she pushed past her comfort zone, still a few inches shy of the base. When Susan pulled back with a wet, gasping breath, her lips were already swollen and shiny with spit, a thin string of precum dangling between them. "Too big," she panted, her voice hoarse, chest heaving as she struggled for air, her large breasts rising and falling with each breath, straining against her blouse.
"You can take it," Hermione said, her tone a mix of command and dark encouragement. "I'll help you." Her hands framed Susan's face, thumbs brushing over her flushed cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. Susan nodded, a small, desperate jerk of her head, giving permission, and Hermione's heart pounded with anticipation. She pushed forward slowly, watching with a focus as Susan's throat worked to take her, the muscles visibly contracting under pale skin. The sight was fucking obscene—Susan's crimson hair messy around her face, her eyes watering slightly, her mouth stretched wide around Hermione's cock.
"That's it," Hermione praised, her voice a low growl as Susan's nose finally brushed against her pelvis, all nine inches buried deep. The tight, wet heat of Susan's throat squeezed around her, a pulsing grip that made Hermione's knees weak. "Taking all of me. You look so fucking perfect with my cock down your throat."
Susan moaned around her, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through Hermione's entire body, fraying her control. She pulled back just enough to let Susan breathe, hearing the ragged, wet gasp as air rushed into her lungs, before pushing in again. Hermione found a rhythm, slow at first, feeling the drag of Susan's lips, the tight clutch of her throat, the wet, sloppy sounds of spit and precum mixing with every movement. "Schlurp, schlurp, gluck," the noises echoed in the silenced space, raw and filthy, driving Hermione's arousal higher.
"Your mouth feels fucking incredible," Hermione groaned, her eyes locked on the sight of her thick cock disappearing between Susan's stretched, red lips, glistening with saliva. "So hot and wet. Fucking made to be fucked like this." Every thrust was a claim, the roughness of her movements growing as she felt Susan relax into it, taking her deeper with less resistance. The texture of Susan's tongue pressed against the underside of her cock, rough and wet, added another layer of sensation, making Hermione's balls tighten with the building pressure.
Susan's hands slid to Hermione's ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh, pulling her deeper with each thrust, urging her on. Tears gathered at the corners of Susan's eyes, streaking down her cheeks, but she didn't pull away, didn't flinch. If anything, she seemed to crave more, her tongue working harder, her throat swallowing around Hermione's length. The sight of Susan on her knees, utterly surrendered, taking everything Hermione gave her, pushed her dangerously close to the edge. The smell of sex filled Hermione's nostrils, thick and heady, making her head spin.
"Getting close," Hermione warned, her hips stuttering, losing their steady rhythm as the pleasure coiled tight in her core. "Gonna fuckin' cum down your throat. You want that, don't you?" Her voice was rough, almost a snarl, as she fought to hold on just a little longer, savoring the tight, wet heat enveloping her cock.
Susan's answer was to swallow hard around her, her throat constricting in a deliberate, tight grip that shattered Hermione's control. The sensation was too much—the pulsing squeeze, the wet heat, the sight of Susan's tear-streaked face and swollen lips. Hermione came with a raw, guttural shout, the sound devoured by the silencing charms, her cock throbbing violently as she spilled directly down Susan's throat. Pulse after pulse of hot, thick cum flooded out, and Hermione felt every swallow, every desperate constriction of Susan's throat as she milked every fucking drop, draining her dry. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot wave that left her trembling, her hands still tangled in Susan's crimson hair, holding her in place until the last shudder passed.
When Hermione finally pulled out, slow and careful, a wet, obscene "pop" sounded as her cock slipped free from Susan's lips. Susan gasped for air, her chest heaving, those big tits straining against her blouse with each ragged breath. Her lips were swollen, red and glistening with spit and cum, a thin strand connecting them to the tip of Hermione's still-hard cock for a fleeting moment before it snapped, dripping onto Susan's chin.
"Stand up," Hermione commanded, already hardening again. The enhanced stamina was one advantage of her transformation she'd thoroughly embraced.
Susan rose on shaky legs, and Hermione immediately claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss, tasting herself on Susan's tongue. Her hands worked at Susan's clothing with renewed urgency, needing to see more skin.
"These fucking tits," Hermione growled when Susan's bra fell away, revealing full breasts topped with pink nipples. "I've dreamed about them."
She pushed Susan back against the table, attacking her breasts with lips and teeth. Susan arched beneath her, hands tangling in Hermione's hair as Hermione marked the soft flesh.
"They're so perfect," Hermione said between kisses. "So big and soft. I bet they'd feel amazing around my cock."
"Yes," Susan gasped immediately. "Please, I want that."
Hermione spelled away the rest of Susan's clothing with a wandless charm she'd perfected for exactly this purpose. Susan lay back on the table, breasts heaving with each breath, and Hermione straddled her torso.
"Push them together," she instructed, cock already leaking again at the sight.
Susan obeyed, pressing her breasts together to create a channel. Hermione slid between them with a groan, the soft flesh enveloping her cock in warmth.
"Fuck, that's good." She started thrusting, watching the head of her cock emerge and disappear. "Your tits were made for this. Made to be fucked."
"Harder," Susan urged, squeezing tighter. "Use them."
Hermione obliged, fucking Susan's breasts with increasing force. The friction was different from a mouth or pussy, but no less pleasurable. Susan's tongue darted out when Hermione's cock got close enough, licking at the head.
"Such a dirty girl," Hermione praised. "Letting me fuck your tits in the library. What would your housemates think?"
"Don't care," Susan gasped. "Just want your cum. Want you to mark me."
The words pushed Hermione over the edge again. She pulled back at the last second, hand working her cock as she came across Susan's face and breasts. Thick ropes of cum painted Susan's skin, marking her thoroughly.
"Beautiful," Hermione breathed, admiring her handiwork. Susan's face was glazed, cum dripping from her chin onto her breasts. "You look perfect covered in my cum."
Susan's hand drifted between her legs, but Hermione caught her wrist. "Not yet. I'm not done with you."
She pulled Susan up, spinning her around to bend over the table. Susan went willingly, spreading her legs in invitation. Hermione could see how wet she was, arousal coating her thighs.
"Please," Susan begged. "I need you inside me."
"Soon," Hermione promised, running her hands over Susan's ass. "But first..."
She dropped to her knees, spreading Susan wider. Her tongue found Susan's clit, circling the sensitive bud. Susan cried out, hips bucking back against Hermione's face.
"So wet," Hermione murmured against her. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," Susan moaned. "Only you. No one else makes me this wet."
Hermione rewarded her with two fingers, pumping them in and out while her tongue worked Susan's clit. Susan's inner walls clenched around the intrusion, already close from arousal alone.
"That's it," Hermione encouraged. "Cum for me. Let me taste you."
Susan shattered with a cry, flooding Hermione's mouth with her release. Hermione worked her through it, not letting up until Susan was shaking with overstimulation.
Standing, Hermione lined herself up with Susan's entrance. "Ready for more?"
"Please," Susan begged. "Need your cock. Need you to fuck me."
Hermione pushed inside in one smooth thrust, both of them groaning at the sensation. Susan was soaked, inner walls gripping Hermione's cock perfectly.
"So fucking tight," Hermione growled, starting to move. "Even after cumming, you're gripping me like a vice."
She set a punishing pace, each thrust driving Susan harder against the table. The wood creaked protest, but neither cared. Susan pushed back to meet each thrust, taking everything Hermione gave.
"Harder," Susan demanded. "Fuck me like you mean it."
Hermione's hand came down on Susan's ass with a sharp crack. "Don't tell me how to fuck you. You'll take what I give."
"Yes," Susan moaned. "Sorry, just feels so good. Your cock fills me perfectly."
"That's better." Hermione gripped Susan's hips harder, angling to hit her g-spot. "This pussy was made for my cock. No one else gets to feel how perfect you are."
The possessive words made Susan clench around her. "No one else. Only you."
Hermione reached around to play with Susan's breasts, still sticky with cum. She pinched and rolled the nipples, feeling Susan get closer to another orgasm.
"Going to cum again?" she asked. "Going to cum on my cock like a good girl?"
"Yes," Susan gasped. "So close. Please don't stop."
"Cum for me," Hermione commanded, driving in deep. "Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock."
Susan came with a scream the silencing charms swallowed, inner walls clamping down so tight Hermione had to fight not to follow. She fucked Susan through it, prolonging the pleasure until Susan collapsed against the table.
"One more," Hermione said, still hard inside her. "You can give me one more."
She pulled Susan up against her chest, cock still buried deep. One hand played with Susan's breasts while the other found her oversensitive clit.
"Too much," Susan whimpered, but her hips were already moving again.
"You can take it," Hermione insisted, circling her clit with practiced precision. "I know you can. Your body wants it, even if your mind thinks it's too much."
She was right. Despite her protests, Susan was building toward another peak. Hermione could feel it in the flutter of her inner walls, the way her breathing hitched.
"That's my good girl," Hermione praised, increasing her pace. "Taking everything I give. Going to cum for me one more time."
"Can't," Susan gasped, even as her body betrayed her. "It's too—oh fuck!"
She came apart completely, a full-body orgasm that left her shaking in Hermione's arms. This time Hermione couldn't hold back. The rhythmic clenching of Susan's pussy pulled her over the edge.
"Fuck, Susan!" She buried herself deep, cock pulsing as she filled Susan with her release. It seemed to go on forever, each spurt accompanied by another clench from Susan's still-spasming walls.
They stayed joined for long moments, both panting. Hermione pressed kisses to Susan's neck, gentling her through the aftershocks. When she finally pulled out, her cum immediately began leaking from Susan's well-used pussy.
"Let me," Hermione murmured, conjuring cloths to clean them both. Her touch was tender now, carefully wiping away the evidence of their encounter.
Susan turned in her arms once they were clean, pressing close. "That was..."
"Intense?" Hermione supplied.
"Perfect," Susan corrected, capturing her lips in a soft kiss. "Though I might not be able to walk properly for a day or two."
"Worth it?" Hermione asked with a smirk.
"Definitely worth it." Susan's fingers traced patterns on Hermione's chest. "We should probably get dressed before someone wonders why this section has been so quiet for so long."
They dressed slowly, stealing kisses between garments. Hermione helped Susan with her buttons, fingers only trembling slightly from exertion. When they were both presentable, she dispelled the privacy charms.
"Same time next week?" Susan asked with a shy smile that seemed at odds with what they'd just done.
"I'd like that," Hermione admitted. "Very much."
One more kiss, gentle and full of promise, then Susan slipped away between the shelves. Hermione sank into her chair, body humming with satisfaction.
She felt much better now. Susan was gentle, beautiful and perfect.
Hermione decided to visit Luna ten minutes later, hoping she would wake up.
Harry Potter
The spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office seemed longer than usual, each step echoing Harry's growing unease. Nine o'clock meetings meant serious business, memories of Tom Riddle.
At least it's not another funeral, he thought grimly, then immediately felt guilty for the dark humor. Sirius would have laughed at that. Sirius would have—
No. Not going there. Not tonight.
The gargoyle had already leapt aside at his approach, which meant Dumbledore was expecting him. Of course he was. The man probably knew Harry's schedule better than Harry did these days.
"Come in, Harry."
The voice came before he'd even raised his hand to knock. Harry pushed open the heavy door, cataloging the room automatically, a habit that had intensified since the Department of Mysteries. Fawkes on his perch, looking unusually subdued. The Pensieve glowing softly on its stand. Dumbledore behind his desk, hands folded, looking every one of his hundred-and-whatever years.
No immediate threats, unless you counted the bowl of lemon drops. Those things could probably survive a direct hit from a Killing Curse.
"Good evening, sir." Harry moved toward his usual chair, noting how Dumbledore tracked his movement. Not his normal benign observation—this was assessment. Evaluation.
Brilliant. He knows something.
"Good evening, Harry. I trust your day was productive?" Dumbledore's tone was pleasant, but Harry caught the slight emphasis on 'productive.' As if he might have been productive at something other than classes.
"Transfiguration was fine. McGonagall only gave me one pitying look today, so that's improvement." The sarcasm slipped out before he could stop it.
Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Minerva does worry about you. We all do."
"I'm touched." Harry kept his voice level, though inside, irritation sparked. Worry was what you did for children. He'd stopped being a child the night Cedric died. Or maybe when he'd watched Sirius fall through that damned veil. Or possibly when he'd held Luna's half-frozen body, feeling her pulse flutter like a dying bird, or maybe when he had—
"Tonight," Dumbledore continued, apparently choosing to ignore Harry's tone, "I thought we might examine another memory. Tom Riddle's first meeting with Hepzibah Smith, who was in possession of-"
"The Slytherin locket," Harry finished.
"Indeed." Dumbledore rose, moving toward the Pensieve with that careful grace that suggested hidden pain. The cursed hand, probably, though he still kept it concealed. "Before we begin, however... is there anything you wish to tell me, Harry?"
The question felt like a trap waiting to spring. Harry kept his face neutral, a skill hard-won through years of Dursley interrogations and Umbridge's tender care.
"About what, sir?" He met Dumbledore's gaze directly, green eyes to blue. No flinching. No looking away. Innocent people didn't look away.
Guilty people don't maintain eye contact this long either, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione's whispered in his mind. He ignored it.
"Anything at all," Dumbledore said softly. "These are troubled times, Harry. Sometimes the weight of secrets can be—"
"I have nothing to hide." The words came out harder than intended, each one a small act of defiance. Truth and lie twisted together—he had plenty to hide, but nothing he was willing to share. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
They stared at each other. Around them, the silver instruments whirred and clicked.
Dumbledore looked away first.
The significance of that wasn't lost on Harry. Dumbledore never looked away first. Dumbledore was the one who could stare down Voldemort, who could make Death Eaters quake with a glance. But tonight, he'd yielded.
What the hell is going on?
Instead of moving to the Pensieve as expected, Dumbledore returned to his desk, sinking into his chair with a soft sigh. "Perhaps we might postpone the memory for a few minutes. Please, sit down, Harry."
Warning bells clanged in Harry's mind. Deviation from the plan meant something had shifted. He sat carefully, body coiled and ready despite his exhaustion. The chair was the same one he'd sat in after Sirius died, when Dumbledore had finally told him about the prophecy. He wondered if it was cursed to only host life-shattering conversations.
"How much," Dumbledore began, then paused, seeming to gather himself. "How much do you know about Godric's Hollow, Harry?"
The change in topic was so unexpected that Harry's guard slipped. "It's... where my parents lived. Where they died." The words still hurt to say, even after all these years. "Their house is still there, under preservation charms."
"Yes." Dumbledore's fingers steepled, pressing against his lips. "What you may not know is that Godric's Hollow was home to several magical families. The Potters, of course. The Peverells, long ago. And..."
The pause stretched. Harry found himself leaning forward despite his better judgment.
"And?" he prompted, though part of him suddenly didn't want to know.
"The Dumbledores."
Two words. Simple statement. But Harry felt them impact like a physical blow, rearranging his understanding of... what? He wasn't even sure what this meant, only that it meant something.
"Your family lived there?"
"My parents, my brother, my sister." Dumbledore's gaze had gone distant, focused on something beyond the office walls. "A lifetime ago, it seems. Before Hogwarts. Before... many things."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, returning to the present. To Harry. "Because I find myself tired of secrets between us, Harry. We stand at the edge of war—perhaps already tumbled over it—and I think... I think there should be truth between us."
"Truth." Harry tasted the word, found it bitter. "Like the truth about the prophecy? That kind of truth?"
A hit. Dumbledore flinched, barely visible but there. "I deserved that."
"You deserve a lot of things." Harry's exhaustion was winning over caution now. "But we don't always get what we deserve, do we? Sirius didn't deserve to die. Luna didn't deserve to nearly freeze to death and nearly die from blood loss. My parents didn't deserve—"
He cut himself off, breathing hard. The portraits on the walls pretended to sleep, but he could feel their attention like cobwebs on his skin.
"No," Dumbledore agreed quietly. "We don't. Which is why I'm trying to... to do better. To be better. For you."
"I don't need—" Harry began hotly.
"Please." Dumbledore raised a hand—the good one. "Let me finish. There are things about my past, about my family, that connect to our present situation in ways I'm only beginning to understand. Things that may help you understand... everything. The war. Tom. Perhaps even yourself."
Harry sat back, suspicion and curiosity warring in his chest. "Am I in trouble?"
The question came out younger than he'd intended, a echo of eleven-year-old Harry sure he'd done something wrong by making the glass disappear at the zoo.
"No, Harry." Dumbledore's voice gentled. "You're not in trouble. I simply wish to... talk. To share things I should perhaps have shared earlier. To trust you as you've been asked to trust me."
"Asked to trust you?" Harry couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. "You mean ordered. Expected. Required."
"Perhaps." Another admission. Dumbledore was full of them tonight, apparently. "Will you listen? Not as student to Headmaster, but as... as two people who have both lost too much to this war?"
The request was so unexpected, so unlike the Dumbledore who gave orders disguised as suggestions, that Harry found himself nodding before his brain caught up.
"Okay," he said. "I'll listen."
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