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Minister for Magic Harry Potter has a problem.
His understanding of MLE should be crucial to this. In fact, it’s imperative. Staring at the Department Head, Kingsley Shacklebolt, he wonders two things: why they need to outpost this to a contractor and why he has never met Hermione Granger.
“Absolutely not.” She sits in front of his desk. Her eyes are glued to Kingsley. Harry is fascinated. The file on his desk with her name on the tab is full of redacted paperwork. She isn’t an Unspeakable, but she shares a lot of work with the Hit Wizards. He is curious. It’s usually a problem when he gets curious.
“Hermione.” Kingsley occupies the other chair in front of Harry’s desk. “It’s a weekend.”
“No.”
“It’s a brief conference.”
“And a ball.” Her legs cross. Harry tries not to stare. He’s a man. There are leather pants. The mathematical equation seems rather cruel. “The Minister for Magic is not part of my Ministry contract, Kingsley.”
“It’s a favor.”
The woman’s mouth quirks. “Personalizing it won’t change my mind.”
“Can I ask why?” Harry finally enters the discussion. Minerva raves about Granger. She is a good ten years younger than him.
Her gaze lands on him.
“I think,” he starts dryly. “You could at least give me that?”
“Can I be frank?” Her head tilts. “Sir,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
Harry has never been more grateful to sit behind a desk.
Granger is an anomaly.
“Sure,” he says, eyeing her.
“You’re a liability.” There is no hesitation. Her voice is sharp.
Kingsley chokes. Harry feels his mouth twitch.
“But a romantic at heart,” he quips, leaning into his seat.
That gets him. Her mouth curls.
“Regardless,” she says. “Your copious amounts of fangirls bite. Despite being a war hero, people want to know if you wash your hands with the right soap in the bathroom. And the French Minister hates you because you slept with his wife.”
“Ex-wife.” Oof, he thinks. He swallows too. Unfortunately, she’s right. The scandal nearly did him in. “She was his ex-wife already,” he says again.
“The point is,” she continues, almost gently, “your personal life outshines the good you actually do. It’s something to consider for your security. And you are asking me to consider your security, not just as your detail but as someone who has to play the part of your companion. You can at least give me that.”
A pin could drop. He’d hear. And then some. He leans into his hands, unable to tear his gaze away from her. There are freckles on her cheeks.
“Where were you fifteen years ago?”
The smile she gives him is dangerous. “Burning my primary school down.”
-
His ex-wife, Harry decides, might get a kick out of her refusing to be his pretend girlfriend. It might go hand-in with his sudden obsession. Hermione Granger, he decides, is either mildly annoyed or permanently amused by him.
“What did you think of the speech?”
He can tell you what she thought of her. In the front row. The way her gaze was fixed to him, then behind him. She had peeled the room apart before anyone in his detail did. The twitch the French Minister still gets in his presence was suddenly replaced by Hermione standing between them. He could smell the softness of her perfume. Her French was perfect. There was even an anecdote about her French grandmother, a familiarity that he didn’t have.
“It was good.” Her voice is even. He sounds boring.
“You can be honest,” he tells her.
It’s that head tilt again. A great distraction from her legs. He really likes her legs.
“Can I?” Her voice shifts. He catches it on a high. Her a go long. He can imagine her tongue pressing against her teeth.
“I can take it.”
Her mouth curls. She licks her lips too. “I don’t know,” she says. Or sings. There’s this lit to her voice that shift something in him. “I’m a lot to handle.”
“I’ve always been good with my hands.”
He means it. That’s the problem. His mouth nearly drops. The apology is on the tip of his tongue.
The French Magic Minister starts a walk in his direction.
Hermione places a hand against his hip. Her mouth catches his ear. He keeps his eyes glued to his foreign counterpart.
“Allegedly,” she says.
Harry lets his hand hovers at the small of her back.
“Sweet girl,” he warns. “I’m terribly competitive too.”
She hums.
“I’m sure you think you are.”
The French Minister reaches them. Hermione steps back. Out of sight, out of mind. Although, he watches the other man’s eyes dart to her ass and violence is ready for his fists. Hermione makes sure to send hors d'oeuvres his way.
Idle hands, his Aunt Petunia used to say, are the devil’s workshop.
-
The dress should be illegal.
In this moment, he learns two things about Hermione. The first? Gold is her color. The second? Well, he does not see her wand.
He cannot handle the dress though. The gold fabric moves as if it were glued to her skin. He can see her hips. The swell of her breasts. The open back nearly does him in too. If they dance, his palm will able to rest against her skin. It does just that too, when she comes to greet him, her mouth grazing his jaw politely.
“Are you sure,” he murmurs into her ear, “you’re not my date?”
Everyone is watching them. “I think ambiguity is half the fun,” she says, taking his arm. The Aurors around them cannot stop watching her either. He has never wanted to kill other men more. “I’ve got to keep you guessing.”
“I think I would have liked you in school.”
At that, she laughs genuinely. “No,” she says. “I doubt it. I was terribly swotty.”
“I don’t know. I could certainly make a case.”
Hermione rolls her eyes.
He takes her hand. Then traces his hand against the small of her back. The dress, the dress. His fingers interplay over the dip that rests right over her open back. He sees the headline now: MINISTER GETS HANDSY WITH MYSTERIOUS WOMAN.
“Who is on the dance card?” She doesn’t shy away. They make a step towards the cluster of people in the center of the room.
“The headmistress of Beauxbatons.” He sighs. He does have business to attend to. “Cabinet members. A Malfoy. Donors for the following year. St. Mungo’s is looking for some support.” He leans into her. His mouth catches the arch of her ear. “Perhaps you.”
Hermione laughs again. He might be obsessed. “Unfortunately, I’m working.”
“Well,” he drawls. “Your boss is an ass.’
They enter the ballroom. For the part, she remains at his side. Conversation stays polite. Her French is beautiful. He might have the slightest obsession with her voice now too. His brain starts to plot how quickly he can navigate the necessary conversations. The donors will be the hardest. They will want to talk the longest.
He looks down to talk to her. He startled into her expression. Her eyes are wandering around the ballroom. Her face reads something is off and perhaps, he should add a comment about old dogs and new tricks to whatever interview with the Prophet he’s subjected because there are some things he cannot forget. Something is wrong.
The glass is launched at his head first.
Hermione moves fast. Not a wand. A knife. The hilt flashes. His eyes widen as it glows and embeds itself into the arm of the first attacker. He is surround by Aurors. Two grab his arms, pulling him to the floor. They cover his sides.
“Room,” she orders. “Coordinate with the French.” A new knife materializes into her hand. It’s immediately embedded into the leg of another attacker, a masked man that lets out a shriek as he tumbles to the floor.
“Ma’am.”
A Hit Wizard casts a shield spell.
His muscles are right. “I can fight,” he protests.
Hermione spares a glance. “Bad for business.”
The French Minister is surrounded too. Harry watches Hermione pull out another knife. She tears her dress. The garter strap holds a set, a fucking set. The grip on his arms are tight. His fingers itch to pull out his wand.
He needs a drink.
Her French counterpart seems to break away from their Minister. The room starts to light up with curses and attack spells. He rips himself from his detail. His wand slides into his fingertips.
He grabs her wrist. Her eyes widen. His gaze is firm.
Something passes between them.
“You should go, sir,” she says. Her voice is gentle, but it’s also firm too.
“I can fight,” he says.
“Not all spaces are for you.” That is entirely too sharp for him. His eyes widen. His mouth goes slack and thin. “You should go,” she says again. She’s soft again. “I’ll see you soon.”
This time he lets the Aurors pull him away.
-
The scotch in a glass is sweating. He will pour himself another glass later, for the burn at least.
The report says assassination attempt. Kingsley owls him to say that the group has been dismantle. Security is increased. In the morning, they still have a breakfast to attend to.
There is a knock on the door.
“Open,” he says.
Hermione Granger walks in. She is still in her dress. At least, what is left of it. There is blood on her thighs. Streaked across her breasts. Her necklace is haphazard. She is wiping a knife down, otherwise unscathed, but still takes over the room and isn’t even looking at him.
At this point, he decides he needs to either return to therapy. Or sleep with her. Or both.
“Is it over?” he asks, knowing that it is.
She snorts. “You’re still a liability.”
He moves, scotch in hand. He sits on the edge of his bed. He gestures to her knife and then her leg. He almost died, of course. Why not take the shot?
“May I?”
Hermione stops cleaning her knife. She eyes him curiously. Or is it that he cannot read her expression quite yet? If she doesn’t humor him, he’ll finish his drink and sleep.
“Sure.”
His eyes widen. He takes another sip of his scotch.
She takes a step forward.
She hands him the knife, hilt first. Then raises her heel-cladded foot, pressing it directly into his thigh. All of things happen in his brain all at once. The ankle strap just does something to him. His dick is straining against his trouser. His eyes are glued to her ankle, then travel up her calf and then to her thigh where the garter strap is waiting for him. There are four knives.
“Are they all clean?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.” She licks her lips.
“Good girl,” he says, wrapping a hand around her ankle. His mouth grazes the side of her calf. She makes a soft noise. His palm flattens against her skin, then travels to the garter. His fingers slide underneath the garter and he guides the blade back into its sheath. “They’re very pretty knives,” he murmurs.
Her laugh is husky. “Thank you,” she says. “I made them myself.”
“Too bad about the dress though.”
“A tragedy,” she agrees.
“Tell me how I can take care of you,” he says.
It’s the first time he really voices his needs. It’s a strange juxtaposition of his personality. He has always had certain proclivities and of course, the wrong person, wrong time narrative. You can be in love and not understand anything about yourself. Frame that philosophy against a war, against being a teen in a war, and you partner off with someone that stands as nothing you are drawn towards. It’s taken him a divorce and years to get here.
“I want a bath,” she says.
A slow, lazy smile crosses his mouth. “And so a bath you shall get.”
-
He’s stretched her.
His eyes are glued to the way his cock slides between her folds, the way he can feel those walls fight to wrap around him tightly. She makes a soft noise.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs. His palm sweeps over her belly. He presses lightly, slowly starting to rut against her. Her clit is swollen. His mouth is dry. She’s delicious and he’s going to make sure that she knows it. “Let’s use our words,” he tells her. “Tell me what you know need.”
“I don’t know,” she gasps. Her arm is draped over her eyes. Her skin is flushed and wet too. They barely made it out of the bath before her mouth was on his. Adrenaline, they had both decided. Now, it doesn’t even matter.
His hand curls around the back of her thigh. He lifts her leg. His hips angle and she cries out again. Her cunt swallows his dick harder. He watches her fingers fumble and grab at her clit. His mouth curls. She’s so pretty, he thinks.
“I think you do,” he says. His breath catches. The angle changes everything. His hand remains on her thigh and the other on her stomach, stroking her skin, as if to foil the frantic movement of her fingers against her clit. “I think you do, sweet girl.”
This sweet girl slit a guy’s throat in front of the head of his detail. The words were something like: didn’t hesitate. He might like that too.
“You’re so big,” she moans, arching back. Her breasts, pert, her nipples a pretty rose – this is forever engraved in his brain. “I need –”
“Words,” he warns breathlessly.
“I need to come,” she begs. “Please.” He will give her everything, if she talks to him like that.
He pushes her fingers from her clit, sliding the hand from her belly down to her cunt. His thumb fixes on the swollen numb. He rubs lazily, watching as her arms fly above her head as she twists and withers. Her curls are wildly spread against the pillows. His fingers are soaked. She’s getting closer, he thinks.
“I’m so full,” she moans. Her eyes squeeze shut. He is losing his fucking mind, he decides. And in no particular order, he sees them the next, that beautiful ass in the air as he fills her again. What would she look like, he thinks, her belly rounded and his. She is making him insane. “You make me so full.”
“You’re so pretty like this,” he tells her. The words are haggard and tight in his throat. He pinches her clit. “All stretched out for me,” he says, and that, there, does it for her, because her orgasm hits, her pussy squeezes his dick, and he cannot hold her leg for much longer because he fucks her into a second orgasm and finally his own.
When he comes, his mouth seeks hers out. He swallows her cries. Her fingers are in his hair pulling tight and he’s spent, sticky. Her mouth softens against his. Her lips curl and he laughs a little into her kiss. He feels reckless and ambitious.
“I’m a selfish bastard,” he tells her, and she laughs, a soft moan slipping from her mouth as he shifts, falling against her side. His hand finds her breast. He cups it, his thumb running over her nipple. “I hope you know,” he half-warns.
Her amusement is clear. She’s breathless too.
“Like I said,” she murmurs. “A liability.”
-
Harry has known Shacklebolt for close to twenty years. The older man changed the course of his approach, war-torn and tired. He stares at Hermione. Then at Harry. Then at Hermione again. He seems perplexed at the sudden change. He is the head of MLE. They should be thankful that, at the very least, he understands how to read the room.
“I won’t talk about the professionality of it all.”
Hermione snorts. He shoots her a look, his mouth twitching.
“I am,” he drawls, “still confused as to why I’m being lectured when I am the Minister, after all.”
Kingsley sighs. “I understand.”
“I certainly don’t work for either of you,” Hermione quips too. “Given how this was more of a favor, than Ministry-mandated.”
“Would you work for me?”
She leans against his desk. Her arms cross. Her expression remains amused.
“Never,” she says. “But I might occasionally decide to pop in for the hors d'oeuvres. Maybe champagne if you go back to Paris.”
“You’ll have to get another dress,” he says lazily.
Her mouth curls. “I really might have to write that part off,” she replies, looking at Kingsley. “It was really one of my favorites.”
The man throws his hands up with a sigh. Another thing he likes about Kingsley? He knows when to cut his losses. The file is dropped unceremoniously on Harry’s desk and he excuses himself, muttering something about a headache. Or trying to convince Hermione to join MLE again, at the very least.
But when the door shut, she pushes herself off the side of his desk and moves to stand by his chair. He tilts his head up, studying her. Then she slides herself onto his lap.
“Dinner?” Her arms drape around his neck. His palms drop to her thighs. Leather pants again, he thinks. He might die a happy man. “Or should I add the stipulation to my contract?”
He laughs. “Are you hungry?”
The look in her eyes is everything. Harry watches as her tongue darts out and she licks her lips.
“You told me to use my words,” she says.