The next afternoon's tutoring session with Hermione wrapped up with her nailing a flawless Animagus transformation, turning into a sleek black panther. "Brilliant," I said, waving my wand to dispel the lingering supplies with a quick Evanesco, the air clearing with a faint, ozone tang. "You've got the transformation down pat," I said as she transformed back into her normal form. Though I did notice she was certainly dressed more provocatively than normal...
She beamed up at me, cheeks pink from the effort and the thrill of success, her brown hair frizzing slightly at the edges from the humidity of the room, giving her that wild, untamed look I found so sexy. She packed her bag with those careful, precise movements that were so quintessentially Hermione—folding her notes into neat squares, sliding her quill into its case with a soft click—as if she was stalling, looking like she had something to say but was trying to gather the courage. As the Room of Requirement began to shift back to its neutral state—the tall shelves of books fading into plain stone walls and the desk retracting into the floor—she lingered by the door. Her fingers twisted the strap of her bag, knuckles whitening just a touch, and when her eyes flicked up to mine, there was that mix of Gryffindor boldness and bookworm hesitation, a storm brewing behind the brown depths that made my chest tighten in anticipation.
"Ethan... about last night. The Ball. I saw you with Tonks. Dancing. And... after."
I paused, setting my notes down on the edge of the desk with a soft rustle, reading the jealousy flickering there—not the sharp, biting kind that lashed out, but raw and vulnerable, like a girl who'd staked a quiet claim in her heart and watched it waver in the light of someone else's step. It pulled at me, that unguarded ache in her expression, the way her lower lip trembled just a fraction before she bit it to steady herself. "Hermione—"
"I know why you couldn't be seen at the dance with me," she said quickly, taking a small step closer, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that filled the space between us, the door clicking shut behind her as if the Room itself sensed the shift in her needs and sealed us in. "Boundaries. Students. Professors. All of it. But it's not fair. I feel it too—the pull, the way you look at me like I'm more than just spells and books and endless revisions. Like I'm... seen. And I want to be more. With you. All of you."
Her words hung in the air, tension growing as she stood there, red-faced, brave and trembling. And something in me snapped—the time for waiting was over as I saw the boundary between us blurring under the raw honesty in her eyes, the way her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, the faint flush creeping down her neck. "Come here," I said softly, voice rougher than I intended, extending a hand that she took without hesitation, her palm warm and slightly damp against mine as I pulled her into my arms.
R18 SCENE STARTS HERE**********************************************************************
She melted against me like she'd been waiting for the invitation all day, her body fitting perfectly into the curve of mine—soft curves pressing against my chest, her head tucking under my chin as her arms wrapped around my waist, fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt with slight desperation. "Ethan," she breathed, the word a whisper against my collarbone, and then she tilted her head up, her brown eyes wide and searching, lips parting in silent invitation. I didn't make her wait—leaning down to capture her mouth in a kiss that started tentatively and explorative, her lips soft and yielding like warm velvet, tasting of the faint peppermint from her tea and the sweeter undercurrent of her own unique flavor, something clean and bright like fresh pages and sun-warmed ink.
She sighed into it, a small, contented sound that vibrated through me, as her hands slid up my chest to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer as the kiss deepened, her tongue brushing mine in a shy, curious stroke that sent a jolt straight to my core. I groaned low, one hand tangling in her wild curls, the other sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her gently towards me as our bodies melded together, my hardness rubbing against her stomach, the evidence of just how much her touch did for me. She whimpered softly in surprise, the sound muffled against my lips, her body arching instinctively, thighs parting just enough for my knee to slip between them as we backed toward the couch, the Room shifting obligingly to provide it—plush, wide, inviting.
We tumbled onto it in a tangle of limbs, her body landing half in my lap, skirt hiking up her thighs to reveal the pale skin dotted with faint freckles, her sweater hiked up at the top as she straddled me, revealing her breasts, brown eyes dark with a mix of wonder and need. "I've wanted this," she confessed, voice breathless, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, popping them open one by one with an innocent determination that made my body heat up. "Since the first lesson. The way you explain things, the way you see me... it's not fair how much I think about it."
I helped her with the shirt, shrugging it off my shoulders as her hands explored my chest, palms flat and warm, tracing the lines of muscle with a curiosity that bordered on reverence, her touch light but lingering, sending shivers racing across my skin. "I think about you too," I murmured, my voice low and rough, one hand sliding up her thigh under her skirt, fingers brushing the edge of her panties, feeling the damp heat there that made my cock twitch against her. She gasped, rocking forward instinctively, grinding against me in a slow, tentative roll that drew a groan from deep in my chest.
"Off," she said, voice firm despite the flush creeping down her face and neck, tugging at her own sweater with urgent fingers, flinging it off over her shoulders, fully revealing the plain white bra that cupped her breasts perfectly, sized perfectly to fit in my hands, neither too small nor too large. I sat up, unhooking it with a quick flick, and she shrugged it away, baring herself to me—full, soft breasts, nipples pink and peaked, begging for attention. I leaned in, mouth closing over one, tongue swirling slow and deliberate, sucking gently as my teeth grazed the edge, just enough to sting in the best way, her moan vibrating against my lips as her head fell back, curls tumbling wild, one hand bracing on my shoulder while the other threaded through my hair, holding me there.
"Ethan—oh God," she breathed, arching into my mouth, her free hand fumbling with my belt, popping the buckle open with a clink that echoed in the quiet room, her fingers dipping inside to wrap around me, stroking slow and exploratory, her touch tentative but growing bolder. I lavished the same attention on her other breast, tongue flicking, teeth nipping, one hand sliding up her back to hold her steady as she rocked against my thigh, the damp spot on her panties growing, the scent of her arousal filling the air—sweet and musky, just the way I liked it.
I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, dark and dilated, lips swollen from our kisses, and she nodded, understanding, her hands working my pants down my hips, freeing me fully as I shifted to help, kicking them aside. She stroked me again, firmer now, her grip perfect, eyes locked on mine with that Gryffindor fire, and I groaned, one hand sliding between her legs to push her panties aside, fingers dipping into her wetness, circling her clit slow before sliding lower, pressing in deep—tight, hot, clenching around me as she gasped, hips bucking up to take more, her free hand clutching my shoulder for leverage.
"You're so wet for me," I murmured, thrusting my fingers slow, curling to hit that spot inside her that made her moan, her walls fluttering, one thumb rubbing her clit in little circles that had her moaning, breaths coming in short, desperate pants. "Tell me what you want, Hermione."
"You... inside me..." she gasped, voice breaking as she rocked against my hand, her strokes on me faltering to a slower, teasing pace that had me throbbing. "Inside me—please, Ethan, I need you."
I withdrew my fingers, bringing them to my mouth to taste her—sweet and tangy, addictive—and she watched with wide eyes, biting her lip as I positioned myself, the head of my cock nudging her entrance, slick and ready. "Like this?" I teased, pushing in just the tip, her tightness gripping me like a vice, hot and velvet, drawing a whimper from her as she nodded frantically, hips lifting to take more.
"Slow," she breathed, voice trembling but sure, and I eased in inch by inch, savoring the stretch, the way she clenched around me, walls fluttering as I filled her, bottoming out with a groan that matched her moan, her legs wrapping around my waist, heels digging into my lower back. "Oh God—full—so full," she moaned, nails scraping my shoulders as I held still, letting her adjust, feeling her pulse around me, hot and insistent, her breasts pressing against my chest, nipples grazing my skin in delicious friction, as a red stain appeared on the couch. I proactively healed her pain with the Horse Talisman.
I started slow, pulling back almost out before sliding in deep again, setting a tender rhythm that had her gasping, one hand bracing beside her head, the other stroking her side, thumb circling her nipple as I kissed her neck, tasting her salty skin, nipping the spot just below her ear that made her shiver. "You feel incredible," I murmured against her throat, thrusting a little harder, the wet slaps of our bodies filling the room, her moans growing louder and more desperate—"Ethan—yes, right there"—her hips meeting mine, rocking up to take me deeper, one leg hooking higher over my hip, changing the angle so I hit that spot inside her that made her cry out, walls clenching in rhythmic pulses that pulled me under, pleasure building hot and tight in my core.
She was close—I could feel it in the way her breaths stuttered, her nails digging rivulets into my back that healed instantly, one hand sliding down to where we joined, fingers rubbing her clit in frantic circles as I thrust faster, harder, the couch creaking under us, her moans turning to pleas—"Don't stop—oh God, Ethan, I'm—"—and then she shattered, walls spasming hot and wet around me, clenching in waves that milked me relentlessly, her cry echoing sharp and sweet as she arched off the cushions, body trembling, eyes squeezing shut in ecstasy, before passing out with a soft, sated sigh, curls fanned wild across the pillows, a faint smile curving her lips as her chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.
I followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, spilling inside her with a groan, the hot rush flooding her, marking her as mine in the most primal way, pleasure washing over me for a job well done, pulling her limp form into my arms, stroking her hair until her breathing steadied, the Room dimming its lights to a soft, intimate glow. My brilliant girl, I thought, kissing her lips, feeling her warmth seep into me as she fell asleep.
R18 SCENE ENDS HERE **************************************************************************
The Second Task: Depths and Drags
The February dawn broke cold and gray over the Black Lake, the stands along the shore packed with bundled spectators stamping their feet against the chill, breath fogging the air like dragon smoke. Whistles and cheers cut the mist as the champions lined up on the rickety wooden dock, wetsuits charmed waterproof but doing little for the bone-deep freeze. I stood with the judges, Tonks at my side in Auror leathers, her hair a defiant red flame against the gloom, hand brushing mine "accidentally" as we watched.
Harry dove first—sleek as a seal in his crocodile morph, aura sheathing him in a bubble of calm warmth that cut through the cold. He knifed through the murk, past Grindylow snags that scattered at his thrash, reaching the merfolk chorus in record time. The song's clue rang clear underwater: hostages in the colony's depths. He grabbed Parvati Patil—dark hair floating like seaweed—tucked him under his arm, and powered back, surfacing with a gasp and a grin, egg and friend intact. Time: blistering, first place locked.
Fleur followed, graceful even in the plunge—her Veela glow muted underwater but enough to ward off the weeds, aura stinging like nettles at any grabby hands. She reached the chorus smoothly, claimed Gabrielle with a fierce hug, and stroked back strong, surfacing second, sister safe, eyes finding mine in the crowd with a wink that warmed the frost.
Cedric went third—bubble-head charm on point, but the lake's currents dragged him a touch, merfolk guards more insistent. He hauled Cho up, gasping, solid but winded, taking bronze.
Krum went last—transfigured shark-head for speed, but the morph's bulk slowed him in the tight colony caves. He surfaced with Hermione, pale and sputtering, but intact—fourth, but alive.
The crowd roared as the judges tallied: Harry gold, Fleur silver, Cedric bronze, Krum getting the nod. Tonks squeezed my hand under the table. "Your boy's a fish. What's your secret?"
"Trade secret," I said, but my eyes were on Fleur, climbing the bank, water sheeting off her like liquid silver, that look saying later.
Sirius' Trial
The courtroom buzzed like a hornet's nest. Reporters packed the rafters, quills scratching madly; Wizengamot members filed into their seats, robes of royal purple flashing under the enchanted lights. At the center of it all stood Sirius Black—unshackled this time—looking both amused and defiant in a tailored suit that was tight against his muscles, enhanced with the super Soldier Serum, gray eyes glinting beneath his unkempt hair.
I stood at his right, my own suit immaculate, a subtle diss to the lame-looking traditional wizards' robes, mind sharp as a blade. NZT still flowed in my veins, every statute and sub-clause of wizarding law arrayed in my memory like neatly filed code. Every loophole, precedent, and procedural fault from the last fifty years—memorized. If there was a law that could be turned to Sirius's favor, I knew it.
Remus watched from the benches, Tonks beside him, her hair a restrained shade of auburn. Amelia Bones presided, her expression as cold and impartial as a guillotine.
The doors opened. Lucius Malfoy swept in, all serpentine grace and smug arrogance, his silver cane tapping rhythmically on the marble floor. He took his seat among the "concerned citizens"—flanked by other familiar faces in the crowd: Dolohov, Nott, and a few others who still clung to their masks even without their Dark Lord.
Bones' voice carried easily. "Mr. Cross, you stand as counsel for the defense. Present your case."
I inclined my head. "Madam Bones, esteemed members of the Wizengamot—the man before you has spent twelve years in Azkaban without trial, without counsel, and without due process. Today, we correct that failure of justice."
Lucius's smooth drawl cut through the air. "Objection, Madam Bones. The so-called Professor Cross is not a licensed barrister of this Ministry. His presence here is an insult to our system of law—"
"Overruled," Bones said without missing a beat. "He is recognized by international wizarding courts as a magical legal expert. Continue, Mr. Cross."
I smiled thinly. "Thank you, Madam Bones. As I was saying—Sirius Black was imprisoned for the murders of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. He was given no chance to testify. No Veritaserum. No Pensieve review. Not even the courtesy of a wand inspection."
Sirius crossed his arms, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "They didn't even offer me tea."
A few chuckles rippled through the gallery before dying at the glare of Fudge, seated near the front, sweat already glistening under the enchanted lights.
Lucius rose slowly, like a cobra uncoiling. "How touching," he said smoothly. "And yet, the evidence was overwhelming. Black was found at the scene with wand drawn, surrounded by the dead. He confessed to Muggles on-site. A madman, caught red-handed."
He turned, eyes flicking to me with smug satisfaction. "Mr. Cross's theatrics cannot rewrite history. The Death Eaters may have fallen, but some of us remember what real monsters look like."
I let him talk. I wanted him to. Dolohov chimed in, murmuring agreement, a few others muttering their disdain—the usual snakes slithering in chorus.
When the noise peaked, I finally moved. "Done?" I asked lightly. "Good."
I reached into my pocket and drew out the scrying orb, placing it gently on the defense table. The runes flared, silver threads weaving upward into a three-dimensional projection. "Allow me to show you what actually happened."
The courtroom dimmed as the illusion took shape: a street in Muggle London, 1981. Sirius Black facing Peter Pettigrew. Pettigrew's voice, high and frantic: "Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?!"
Then—the explosion. Smoke, screams, the crack of magic. Pettigrew vanishing into sewer grates as the crowd fled. The orb zoomed—courtesy of the orb's hybrid enchantment with Muggle tech—to a flash of fur, a rat tail whipping into darkness.
I turned, letting the silence stretch. "This recording is verified through Muggle forensic footage from nearby security cameras. Footage which, apparently, the Ministry never thought to collect," I said disdainfully.
Gasps. Murmurs. Lucius's composure cracked for half a heartbeat.
Amelia Bones leaned forward, eyes glinting. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying Peter Pettigrew faked his death, framed Sirius Black, and vanished into hiding under a transformation spell. You can verify the authenticity of both magical and Muggle evidence right now."
I flicked my wand; a secondary projection appeared—a grainy Muggle security video showing the same blast, Pettigrew's distinct shape before vanishing. Two different angles, same event.
"Veritaserum-proof. Pensieve-proof. Logic-proof."
The murmurs turned into a rising storm. Even some Wizengamot members began whispering amongst themselves, eyes darting toward Fudge.
Lucius stood again, anger bleeding through his polish. "Fabrication! Muggle trickery! This is an illusion cast by—"
"—someone smarter than you?" I interrupted, voice mild. "Don't worry, Lucius. I'll file the demonstration notes so you can try to understand them later."
A ripple of laughter—genuine, sharp, dangerous—moved through the crowd.
Around an hour later, after the Ministry verified my proof, Amelia raised her wand. "The evidence is irrefutable. The Ministry's prior ruling was a gross miscarriage of justice. By the authority vested in this council, Sirius Orion Black is hereby declared innocent of all charges!"
The room exploded in cheers. Reporters surged forward. Sirius let out a bark of laughter so pure it startled even the Aurors. "About bloody time!"
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Told you. All you needed was someone who actually reads the fine print, mate. Now, this calls for a party."
Grimmauld Place thrummed with life for the first time in years—Order members crammed into the drawing room, firewhisky flowing, Sirius at the center like a king reclaimed. Remus clapped backs, Tonks morphed party hats on the twins, even Bones cracked a smile over butterbeer. Laughter bounced off the walls, Kreacher muttering in corners but serving trays without a hex for once. Everyone was allowed out of school for a night of celebration, as they were accompanied by a teacher.
I slipped downstairs amid the noise, the house's gloom pressing in—the air stale, wallpaper peeling like old skin. Kreacher's "nest" was a tomb of dust and memories, but something tugged at me, a faint pulse of wrongness. Under a loose floorboard, my fingers closed around it: the locket. Heavy, gold, Slytherin's S gleaming. Horcrux—Voldemort's soul shard, cold as death.
Downstairs, I pulled Harry, Sirius, Lupin, and Hermione aside by the Floo, the party roar muffled. "Found this in Sirius's room. Let's talk somewhere privately."
Harry's eyes widened when I set the locket on the table. The gold gleamed dully in the flickering firelight, its serpentine "S" coiling like something alive. Even sealed, it radiated malice—like standing too close to a Dementor.
Sirius frowned. "That thing's been missing for years. Where did you—"
"Under a floorboard in Kreacher's den," I interrupted, tapping the metal with a gloved finger. "This isn't jewelry. It's a Horcrux—a fragment of Voldemort's soul."
Hermione's breath caught. "He—he split his soul? That's… that's forbidden magic, ancient and vile. How—"
"By murder," I said evenly. "Each killing tears the soul. The caster seals a piece inside an object to anchor himself to the mortal world. Destroying all fragments is the only way to kill the original soul completely."
Harry's expression darkened, comprehension dawning with dread. "So… he made more than one."
"Yes," I said. "And this is one of them."
Sirius's jaw tightened. "How the hell did this end up here?"
"Kreacher," I called. The elf appeared with a crack, clutching his filthy tea towel, glaring daggers at us.
"What does the Master want with Kreacher?" he hissed.
"Tell us about your former master, Regulus Black," I said gently but firmly. "Tell Sirius what really happened."
Kreacher blinked, the hostility faltering. "Master Regulus… good Master Regulus. He changed. He found the Dark Lord's locket, he did. Said the Dark Lord was wicked—had to be stopped. He made Kreacher go with him to a dark cave, to fetch the locket. Made Kreacher drink the potion, horrible potion, full of screams. Master Regulus took the real one, told Kreacher to take it home and destroy it… but Kreacher couldn't. The magic was too strong."
The elf's voice cracked, tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks. "Kreacher failed him. Master Regulus never came back."
Sirius swallowed hard, the bravado draining from his face. "He died trying to bring down Voldemort."
I nodded. "Your brother was a hero, Sirius. Braver than most who called themselves Order members. His failure wasn't Kreacher's—it was the curse itself."
Hermione reached out, resting a hand on the elf's shoulder. "You did what you could."
Kreacher bowed low, trembling. "Thank you, Miss."
"Now," I said, turning back to the locket, "we finish what Regulus started."
The Fragment Within
"The locket holds a piece of Voldemort's soul," I explained. "Destroying it destroys the fragment. But with the method I'm going to use, there's a secondary effect—those nearby when it breaks can absorb the echo: memories, instincts, spells. Voldemort's knowledge without his control."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "That's… possible?"
"With my methods, yes." I summoned the talismans—twelve glowing symbols circling the locket like spectral stars. "They'll filter and contain the magic. It's risky, but contained."
Before I began, I looked at Harry. "There's something else you need to know."
He met my eyes, green and steady but wary.
"You've got one inside you too. A Horcrux. It latched on the night he failed to kill you—embedded in your scar."
The color drained from his face. "What?"
"It's why you see his thoughts, his emotions. Why the pain spikes when he's near."
He took a shaky step back, one hand clutching his forehead. "So I'm—what—part of him?"
"Not anymore," I said firmly. "You're still you, Harry. This is a parasite, not identity. I can remove it, and you'll gain what it knows—its insight into his mind, his weaknesses. But you'll never be influenced by it again."
Hermione squeezed his hand, voice soft but certain. "You trust him, right?"
Harry exhaled shakily. "Yeah. Do it."
Cleansing the Scar
I set the Horse and Sheep Talismans to either side of the fireplace—their power pulsing steady as heartbeats. The air thickened with static as runes flared to life under our feet.
"Hold still," I said. "This'll sting."
Light speared from my hand to the scar. Harry gasped, knees buckling as dark vapor bled from the wound, writhing and hissing—a shadow shaped like a screaming face. Voldemort's voice, distant but unmistakable, shrieked in denial.
"Expurgo," I intoned, channeling the talismanic energy. The black mist coiled tighter, then burst in a flare of golden fire, dissolving into sparks that drifted harmlessly into Harry's skin.
He collapsed to one knee, panting, eyes wide—but when he looked up, his scar was smooth, the lightning mark barely visible. "It's… gone. I can't feel him anymore."
"Good," I said, handing him a glass of water. "He's gone—and now, so is his link to you."
"What about the knowledge?" Hermione asked softly.
Harry blinked, dazed, then his eyes sharpened, new understanding flickering there. "Spells. Rituals. All of it—I can see them. It's like remembering something I never learned."
"Assimilation complete," I said, satisfied. "Now we use that knowledge to end this properly."
The Next Hunt
I placed the locket on the stone floor. "Step back."
With a whisper, I activated the destruction sigil. The locket screamed, cracking open as smoke poured out, coiling once before the Horcrux disintegrated in a blast of gold light.
Sirius shielded his eyes. "Bloody hell."
When the light faded, only molten gold remained. The air hummed with lingering power—knowledge settling like fresh ink on parchment in the rest of our minds: locations, faces, whispers of the remaining Horcruxes.
Hermione gasped, eyes wide. "I saw them—flashes. A diary, a cup, a ring, a snake—"
"Exactly," I said. "We've got our map. We destroy the rest before he can rise again."
Sirius clasped my shoulder, grin sharp. "Looks like the war's back on our terms."
Harry straightened, eyes clear for the first time in years. "Then let's finish it."
After the party, we Portkeyed back to Hogwarts at dawn, the faint echo of the destroyed Horcrux still humming in our magic. A new tool in our arsenal.