The Lost Horcrux

Bedtime Rituals

Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse (including rape) on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasleys and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history.

***

Harry hung back out of respect. He knew that Hermione was only taking off her dressing gown, but, as every sinew of his body was aching for her, he didn't trust himself to hold in his control at just this mild display of disrobing. His imagination was vivid enough to fill in the blanks his loins throbbed for, and the energies of the palace were treacherous to what should be a secret intent. Everyone from the lowest under-gardener to his Inner Circle would know what was on his mind just then.

If they didn't already, of course.

But Harry's composure was being severely tested. His mind raced at what Hermione was doing in the room beyond, no matter how simple an act it was. Not being in sight of her didn't help at all. Without being able to see, he could picture her doing it teasingly, as though knowing he was watching or thinking about her. An hour ago, the very idea would have been so absurd that Harry would have laughed it off as a symptom of his delusional mania. He might have been concerned about the depths of his mental instability. But now, he could almost convince himself this preposterous idea might actually be possible.

Especially now that Hermione had kissed him like an enamoured lover.

Harry leaned against the wall and marvelled at the evening. It was his best mother's birthday ever. Harry couldn't wipe the grin off his face, even if it only could cover half of it. Fucking Voldemort and his power curses. Silly cunt. Hermione had kissed him. Actually kissed him, with her tongue and everything. On purpose. That was something he found extremely hard to conceptualise, even though it had happened less than half an hour previous. The texture of her tongue still clung to the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to lick it off. He wore it like a private badge of honour.

Hermione had really kissed him!

He felt like a teenage boy again, ridiculously excited at the burgeoning idea of girls, as though it were a brand new thing. He shouldn't be fluttering inside like this. He'd killed people, conducted dark and dangerous ritual magic, fought the dead and the living and beaten both. He was a tough, ugly, scarred man. Not a lovesick teenager. But that's how he felt. Dizzy, and joyously quivery, and light-headed, and lost, and so flustered he could hardly hold his head in place.

And all he wanted to do was hug the girl in the next room forever. To hell with Horcruxes and snake-shagging Dark Wizards. Someone else could deal with that rubbish. But the girl herself didn't want to just hug ... she wanted to fight, too. And that stirred Harry so poignantly that he felt like squealing. He loved Neville, his Brother-In-Blood. He'd enjoyed killing Dark Wizards alongside him. With Enola, too, who killed so flawlessly she made it an art form.

But there was something about the idea of Hermione in battle, killing for him, maybe defending him, that speeded Harry's heart to reckless abandon. He couldn't describe it, or why it made him grin so foolishly. And he wasn't ignorant to the way the idea aroused him, either. The very notion of Hermione opening up aggressively on someone to protect him ... well, there was just that something about it that excited him. Harry couldn't rightly explain it, wasn't sure how to cope with it.

Because there was this hidden element to Hermione's magic that hit him in the stomach and immediately raced lower. If he had been sensible to such things, Harry might have recognised that it turned him on. But it had been so many years since that had properly happened that Harry had forgotten what it felt like.