Chapter Text
I had expected teaching to be different. How exactly, I could not say, though. I had expected the students to be more passionate about their classes, for one. At least about mine. They respected me, of course – feared me, maybe even. But I had quickly realized that none of them had read the bibliography that I had handed out at the beginning of the semester and that those who did, only did so to avoid my wrath. I never saw any of them at the conferences about dancing history that took place on campus either. I had often been frustrated with my dancers in the past, but they, at least, danced out of passion. Their fear and respect for me was just an added incentive to their work.
Cambridge, I realized, was no exception to the laziness that I had always resented in today’s youth. In meeting young adults such as Dora or Hermione, I had thought that I might have been too harsh on the younger generation. But those two were adults now and had probably also been exceptions to their kind when they were younger. Ever since I had started teaching here, a month ago, I could not stop trying to picture a younger version of Hermione striding through these very corridors. I knew that she had never attended classes in this exact building, of course, but the halls all looked the same around here.
I imagined that she would have read my bibliography if she had been one of my students. She had even done that just to interview me. I smirked to myself, reading through my notes for today’s class. Hermione was always so good. While it mostly amused me, on some days it irked me immensely. I sometimes whished I could just grab her shoulders and shake her around a little. I whished I could will her to rebel more, to speak her mind. She had never thought to argue with her boss when that old woman had decided to get rid of her. That mere fact just baffled me. I had thought about barging into her office myself when Hermione had told me about it.
Hermione thought that this Minerva person would be sorry enough when our book became an even bigger success than the Dumbledore biography. She was Swiss-neutral like that. I sometimes wondered if she had ever held a grudge against anyone. She didn’t even seem annoyed by that pathetic ex of hers. I hadn’t run into him since I had started teaching, but I often wished I would. I could just leave my leg hanging, have him flying across the corridor in his stupidly long vest. Hermione did seem somewhat cross about her parents, but she never talked about them.
Andy would say that I could just ask. Andy always thought that I was not interested in anyone beside myself. I don’t think that she would have understood if I had told her that I simply didn’t see myself asking people about their life like it was any of my business. But that was maybe just because I was so annoyed at everyone butting into my own life without reason all the time. Which would probably become an even greater tendency after the book came out.
I sighed and folded my notes over to shove them into my satchel. Hermione had bought that one for me after she had sawn that I was planning to teach with one of my larger Saint Laurent purses. The satchel was quite alright, of shiny burgundy leather. I had expected her to buy a black one, because she always resorted to black when she did not know what to get me. I had been sceptical at first. I only wore red for Christmas and special occasions. But Hermione’s choice had been rather ingenious. My outfits were always so dark that the bag shone on my hip every day. I knew that it helped the students spotting me from afar. When I neared the classroom, some turned around at the sound of steps – no heels as of yet, but I was not losing hope. Then their eyes slipped down my body, dropped to my satchel, and all at once, panic ran over them. They straightened their backs, jumped off the ground where they had been sitting, readjusted their own bags on their shoulders. It was always quite fun to watch. One might even call it a dance.
Today was no different. I heard the distant voices dying out as I came closer. A few rushed orders. Get up, Ryan. Shut up, Leanne, she’s coming. It made me smirk and wonder at the same time. I had this fantasy of sneaking up on them one day, even taking off my shoes to do so if I had to. They probably talked about me quite often before I arrived. People had always liked to gossip about me. I guessed I was just one those people who others wondered about. It was not even like I was that secretive. There was not much more to me than what met the eye. But they always liked to imagine that I was hiding things. I suspected even Hermione thought so.
I was reminded of one of our talks, after finishing the book. I thought of this sudden emptiness that had washed over me at the idea that everything I was had now been poured into this book and I was left with nothing. But then Hermione had looked up to me and said I feel like there are dozens more books to write about you, Bella. I feel like I could write about you my whole life and never really know you. I had brushed it off back then. I had said that, of course, I would always keep enough skeletons in my closet to keep her entertained. She had argued that she had not meant it that way, and I had laughed. But the thought had stayed with me. It sometimes scared me how fascinating Hermione thought I was. What would happen once she realized that she had reached the bottom of what I was?
But maybe that fear only stemmed from what Sofia had once told me, after one of our many fights. Don’t you ever think, Belle? She had asked me, throwing her long hands about. I had just stared at her, frowning. I swear, she had continued, sometimes when I talk to you, it feels like there is nothing more to you than what you do. And when you’re done doing these things, you forget about them entirely. I had told her that I didn’t see what she meant and that she was clearly just looking for reasons to have a fight – and that this particular reason had to be one of her least crafty ones. She had tried to explain but had given up on it after a moment. I knew what she had meant of course. Cissy had once told me something similar after I had spaced out of one of her talks about some book. It’s like you’re scared of any form of depth, she had said.
Teaching here was bringing all this back up, there was no denying it. I distinctly remembered waking up with a start the morning of my first day here. Hermione was still fast asleep and, luckily, she did not witness my slight panic attack. It suddenly dawned on me, how ludicrous it was for me to teach at university level when I myself had stopped school at seventeen to dance full-time instead. They will know, I had thought at once. They’ll take one look at me and see that I know nothing. I had thought that hands would rise in all directions and assault me with questions that I had no answer to. But still, I had slid out of bed, willed myself to stretch, taken a shower, moisturized my skin, applied my scar gel, done my hair and make-up – the whole morning dance. By the time I smacked Hermione out of her sleep, the panic had subsided.
And just as today, my students did not oppose any sort of threat to my status or teachings. They stared at me blankly day after day, some of them taking notes, others still trying to wake up. Those who did ask questions only wanted me to repeat something. No one ever seemed to wonder whether what I said was true or lacked precision. They just took it as it was.
“You’ll have your first marked exam next week,” I said shortly before the class was over. “You know I’m only on campus twice a week and don’t answer emails when I’m not in Cambridge. So, if you have any questions about the exam, ask them now.”
That seemed to shake them up a little. Some of them straightened in their chairs and started whispering between themselves. Others pulled out their phones, probably to write the date down in their calendars. At last, a few hands rose in the air. I nodded towards Ryan, a small boy with bright blue eyes and a faint Irish accent who often came in late.
“What if we can’t be there, Miss?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t you be there?” I questioned with a frown. “You’re only supposed to be absent if you’re sick. Or are you purposely planning to be sick, Connolly?”
A few giggles ran through the lecture hall. I saw Leanne, that nasty daddy’s girl, mouthing purposely planning, with a disgruntled frown. I thought that there was a word for putting two synonyms next to each other and that Hermione would probably know it.
“No, Miss,” Ryan said, his ears burning up. “It’s my grandmother, she passed yesterday. I’m going back to Dublin for the funeral next week, that’s all.”
My smirk vanished. Why did I always have to be like that? I always assumed the worst of people, didn’t I? But then you can’t be disappointed, I answered myself.
“Well then you’ll have to see that with administration,” I shrugged. “We’ll see if you can take the exam when you come back.”
“Thank you, Miss,” Ryan nodded.
I then turned to Leanne, in the back, who was always whispering things to her friends during my classes. She usually became quiet when I turned around to stare at her. She was wearing one of her perfect student ensembles today, with the white blouse, the V-neck sweater, the tweed jacket and the straight trousers. It always galled me that she would look so serious and be this chatty. I often dreamt about throwing a piece of chalk at her when I heard her whispering behind my back. I suspected the students of not realizing how well teachers could hear them, even when our backs were turned. The acoustics on these lecture halls were pretty astonishing.
“I was wondering, Miss Black,” she said in her annoyingly sweet tone, “do we need to read all the syllabus before next week’s exam?”
“No, that’s for the final one,” I sighed.
“Not even part of it, then?” Leanne insisted. “Because we already discussed the first two references. It would only make sense…”
“Would you maybe like to write the assignment yourself, Miss O’Rourke?” I intervened. “You seem pretty invested in the subject.”
She turned crimson also, but differently so than Connolly. Red patches formed on the base of her neck, where the first button of her shirt was open. They blotched upwards to her cheeks, and I wondered if she wouldn’t just start crying. I grimaced at the thought. She shook her head no but didn’t seem to find the strength to say anything else.
A few more questions were raised, and one of them was even pertinent. It came from Padma, an older Indian girl with a long shiny plait who didn’t really seem to fit in with the others. She had to be about thirty; I suspected her of returning to university after working for a few years. She asked whether students who had a job could also take the exam at another time if they were working that day. She added that she would gladly take it even before the actual date if I did not want her to have an unfair advantage on others. Which was when I realized that she was probably still working and had only taken a few hours off to come here.
I had told myself that I would keep as far from my students as possible. I knew that I wasn’t planning on being a teacher for long, and I knew that the students wouldn’t like me anyway. So, it surprised me when I heard myself offer Padma to come into my office on Thursday to take the exam. It also seemed to surprise Padma and the other students, who exchanged meaningful looks. And so, it starts again, I sighed to myself. More rumours about my inappropriate relationships with young women.
And still, I felt a hint of pride. I thought that I still had it, this power over women. I knew that Padma liked me on some level – let it only be as a teacher. There was no denying that I dreaded turning fifty, which was only a couple of years from now. Without my strict dancing schedule, my body was slowly giving way to age, and that fucking ankle wasn’t helping anything. But it was vain and ridiculous, of course, to pride myself in my power to seduce other women now that I had Hermione. I knew that she would hate the idea of me forming any kind of relationship with one of my students. After all, her affair with her ex had probably started that way. She knew how fast such a thing could go. And yet still, I had invited Padma to my office, even though I had asked my students to write me emails instead of disturbing me in my office.
As so often, I was relieved when it was time to release my students. I watched them slowly pour out of the room, most of them without a glance at me, some with an anxious wave or a quick goodbye. Padma stayed behind, predictably. I supposed that my offer must have sounded like an invitation to invest in further planning. I noticed that she was wearing the same type of satchel that Hermione took with her everywhere she went. It seemed like days had passed since I had kissed her in the kitchen this morning.
“I wanted to thank you, Professor,” Padma said when she reached my desk – she was one of the rare students who actually called me professor, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. “When would I least bother you on Thursday?”
I stared at her kind smile for a moment. It always bothered me, how kind she was. I couldn’t quite say why. Then I opened my calendar – another gift from Hermione – to see what I had written down for Thursday. I only used that paper calendar for university related business, which meant that it was mostly blank. On Thursday, I had written down finally write that fucking exam for the 1st years. Padma gave a muffled giggle, and I realized that she had read that entry upside down. I should have been cross with her, I realized, but I felt myself smiling instead.
“You can come after lunch,” I proposed. “That’ll leave you until four, when I have to teach my master class.”
“Around half past one then?” Padma asked.
“Sure,” I shrugged, writing it down.
“Thank you, professor,” Padma said, and I only nodded.
She smiled again and turned to leave after saying goodbye, and I wondered why I didn’t find her as insufferable as the other students. Maybe because she seemed like the kind of woman who had her own life, and whose days didn’t revolve around classes alone. Maybe I liked that she seemed more grounded than all these pseudo-intellectual tweed-jacket-wearing snoots. Maybe she reminded me of Hermione.
I was still wondering about that when I strode down the hall towards my office. It also popped into my mind that most guest lecturers probably didn’t have their own office, and that they had given me that privilege because of my fame. But then there was something dark blocking the bright winter light coming from the large gothic windows, and I looked up to it. I was suddenly facing the long, sallow face of Igor Karkaroff, the university president himself.
“Miss Black,” he said in his weirdly unctuous tone. “I was hoping to see you.”
“Why?”
“I was merely wondering how you were fitting in.”
It was clear to me that he had sought me out for something else entirely, but I could not guess what yet. I tried to smile, but I just knew that it was coming out as some sort of ironic rictus. Cissy had never passed her diplomatic skills onto me. Or to be fair, I had never bothered to learn. I liked the idea of people knowing how I felt about them – especially when I could not stand them.
“Just great,” I said, hearing the heavy irony in my tone. “Do you want something from me?”
Karkaroff brought a hand to his goatee, twisting it annoyedly. I knew that he was still debating with himself whether he had made the right choice by hiring me. Again, I thought of that Severus person and the hold he seemed to have on this man.
“Well,” he said after a moment. “If you ever needed anything from me, your agent knows where to find me.”
“You mean my sister Narcissa?” I asked. “Your friend Lucius’ wife?”
“Former wife, I believe.”
I tried to fight it, but a corner of my mouth jumped up. I hadn’t been imagining things. He did stare at Cissy a lot during our meeting.
“I’ll tell her that,” I smirked.
Karkaroff nodded also – rather tensely, I thought – then waved and continued his journey across the hall. I suspected him of leaving his office just to find me, and now he was probably looking for the most natural way to find back to it without retracing his steps.
As soon as I had reached my office, I locked the door and pushed my boot off my foot. My ankle was swollen again, but not quite red yet. It had been purple after my first day. I should have taken a seat at some time during the lecture, I knew that. I should probably even have put my splint back on as soon as my ankle had started hurting. But I just couldn’t. I could not imagine myself limping around in front of dozens of students. I had tried to shove the thought away, but every time I looked at my ankle, I remembered that I had hurt the exact same leg as my mother. Her problem was her knee, but it boiled down to the same. If I gave in to the pain, I would be limping exactly like she did. I would look just as pathetic. And that thought was unbearable.
I called Hermione around noon, once I had bought a salad and a small muffin from the cafeteria. I was ripping off the plastic film with one hand and the other held the telephone. While it rang, I wondered when I had become this person, who would call their partner during lunch hours even though they had seen them in the morning and would meet them again in the evening. I hung up after the third ring and put my phone on silencer. I paused on my saving screen for a moment. It was a picture of Hermione’s smiling profile, taken without her notice. I had found it amongst the hundreds of photographs that had been shot during the last rehearsals of the show I had been working on when I had first met her.
I dove into my salad with force, glanced at my phone when Hermione’s name lit up on it. She was calling me back. I stared at the screen for long seconds and realized that I did not want to pick up, that I did not like the idea of her knowing that I was eating lunch alone in my office. Again. After a moment, the screen went dark again, and I resumed eating, cursing myself for how petty of a person I was.
The commute was probably what I hated most about my job at Cambridge. The train ride just seemed to become longer every time. And more crowded, also. Every now and then, I would bump into someone I knew from the theatre or from one of the dancing schools. I still taught at the Fuller school twice a week. I had chosen that one for sentimental reasons, though the reasons I gave Cissy had been pragmatic. It’s the one with the best students, I had said. Narcissa hadn’t argued with that. She had simply arranged for someone to take over on my two other schools.
As so often, Hermione was already there when I came home. I could smell dinner as soon as the elevator doors opened. I paused in front of the door for a moment, wondering when exactly she had moved in. She still had her flat outside of town, right over her friend Ginny’s, but she hardly ever went there anymore. My place was bigger and closer to her work. It made sense for her to be here. Yet it bothered me one some evenings that I would spend the day in crowded spaces and come home to a place where I could not be with myself either. But then I usually thought of how ungrateful I was being, because Hermione always had dinner ready when I came home, and she never left her things lying around, and she even cleaned the flat without me ever asking for it.
“Hey,” she greeted me with a smile from the kitchen when I came in. “You look a bit tired.”
“I am tired,” I sighed, taking off my shoes and coat, dropping my satchel next to them.
I slouched to the kitchen area and kissed her temple. I didn’t want to disturb her while she was cooking. But then I thought that it probably wouldn’t bother her at all if I kissed her straight on the lips or even slid a hand underneath her shirt and tweaked a nipple. She was permissive like that. With me, at least.
Hermione turned to me, pushed a lone lock behind my ear, stroking my cheek in the process, and my foul thoughts vanished. I smiled, and she leant towards me to kiss my lips. She pulled back right after; her sauce needed stirring. From the looks of it, she was preparing some pasta dish.
“We’re almost done with the proof-reading,” she said after a moment. “We should be able to publish the memoir in April, just like we wanted to. I was talking with Mr Merrythought, and we thought it would be nice to book a venue and have a proper launching party. What do you think?”
“Yeah, that sounds nice,” I shrugged. “Did you talk that over with Narcissa? She usually likes to plan those things.”
“Not yet,” she said. “I wanted your opinion about it before I asked her.”
I nodded, and I knew that Hermione was picking up on my mood, but she didn’t say anything about it. She continued talking about the publishing process, and how glad she was that she had found that freelance proof-reader, and how tremendous a job she was doing. As so often, I tuned out. I knew that I was supposed to care about all that, because it was my book we were talking about, but I just didn’t. I cared about what would happen once we book was out and people read it, but anything in between meant nothing to me.
Then we were suddenly washing our plates – Hermione didn’t like using the dishwasher when it was only the two of us – and I wondered where the evening had gone. I clearly wasn’t the only one to think so, because Hermione stayed still next to the sink once she had handed me the last plate. I was still rubbing it absent-mindedly, even though it was already dry. After a moment, she gently took it from my hands and placed it on top of the others, inside the cupboard.
“Bella,” she said softly. “Is everything alright?”
I blinked a few times, wondering where my plate had gone.
“Why do you ask?” I wondered with a frown.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, pouting a little. “I just feel like you’re drifting away these days. Since you’ve started working at Cambridge, actually.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but she continued.
“But maybe that’s also my fault,” she said. “I know I’ve had my head deep in the book lately, and maybe I’m not really there for you. Which is stupid of me, because we already see each other so much less now that you’re in Cambridge every other day and I’m at Prometheus all day long. I’m sorry.”
I stayed silent for a moment. I had not expected her to apologize, of all things. I wanted to apologize myself, even though I was still struggling to point out what exactly I was doing wrong. But she was right. I was out of it lately. Part of me, I considered, was still seeing this whole thing as a parenthesis. Part of me still thought that I would return to my normal life sooner or later. But instead of explaining that to Hermione, I just shrugged.
“Why don’t we visit your mother this weekend?” I heard myself say. “Didn’t you say it’s her birthday?”
Hermione’s brows slowly furrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. She always did that when she was trying to solve a mystery – or really just doing her morning crosswords.
“We don’t have to,” she said. “I usually just call her and have flowers delivered to her house.”
“But she doesn’t live that far, right?” I continued. “And we’ve already settled that your mother is someone that I just have to meet.”
Hermione smiled at that, and my heart was suddenly lighter – which was when I realized that it had been heavy all this time. I then understood that this was my way of apologizing, and that Hermione also knew that. I had just admitted that I had done something wrong.
“Alright then,” she still smiled. “But I should warn you, she’ll be asking you all sorts of questions. She’s been dying to meet you for ages.”
“She knows about me?”
Hermione’s smile died a little, and I realized that my tone had been harsh. Most of my questions came out harsh anyway. There was no working around it, really.
“I mean,” I continued, softening my tone, “I thought you were speaking to her that much.”
“She calls me every now and then,” Hermione shrugged. “Does it bother you that I told her about us?”
“No,” I smiled. “I’m glad. I didn’t know if you wanted to tell your parents.”
Hermione laughed at that, though I did not understand why.
“Well, I’ve practically met your entire family,” she said between giggles, “it’s only fair my mother knows about you, isn’t it?”
“That’s true,” I smiled.
There was warmth pooling in my stomach when Hermione walked over to me and crawled into my arms, pressing my back against the counter. But then I was also thinking about what I had just put into motion. I was meeting her parents, formally. I had never met anyone’s parents. Well, Sofia’s parents weren’t in the picture, to be fair. She had been raised by an aunt who didn’t care much about her after she turned eighteen and entered the ballet. But still.
Hermione’s lips were on my neck now, and Sofia vanished from my thoughts. I looked down to her and smiled. I was happy again, thankful for Hermione’s existence, here, against my chest. And still, I cursed myself for being so complicated and uncertain about everything. There was no doubt in Hermione’s eyes when she looked at me. She wanted to be here, with me. There was no one else in her mind when I held her. It should have soothed me, encouraged me to be better, but it only startled me. When she looked at me like that, all I could think about was that I had too much power over her.
I brought a hand to the back of her head, stroke her hair, and felt the delicate shape of her neck beneath my fingers. I thought that I could probably hold her there, tightly, almost choke her, and that she would still want to be with me. I felt for her spine. It became real for a moment. It would not cost me much, I considered. But then I was disgusted with myself and her at the same time. I was disgusted with us. It had been different with Sofia. We had been free. Well, she had been. Maybe she had had that sort of hold on me. Maybe she would still have it if she had not withdrawn from my life without notice.
My scars started burning at once and I closed my eyes, pressing my eyelids shut. I tried to focus on the feel of Hermione’s rough curls beneath my fingers, her moist breath against my neck, her warm weight against my front. My heartbeat slowly stilled. I wondered whether she could feel it. I wondered whether she had taken my hand in hers because she did feel my momentary anxiety.
She looked up to me again, met my eyes. Again, I thought of how kind and warm Hermione’s eyes were. Unlike any eyes I knew. Black family members either had cold blue eyes or black unreadable ones. Hermione’s were chestnut, like a warm autumn breeze. But then I considered that wind did not have any colour.
Hermione leaned in, kissed me again, with more passion this time. My hands moved around her waist out of habit. I knew how to read her kisses and give her what she wanted. I slowly leant off the counter and pushed her backwards, meeting her urgency. She gasped when I grabbed her thighs and sat her down on the opposite counter.
“Bella,” she breathed out.
I closed my eyelids for a moment, then met her eyes. I kissed her again, started unbuttoning her blouse. It was easy and natural, like always. She was wearing one of the lacy bras I had recently gifted her, and I felt its thin edges tickling my cheeks when I kissed the valley between her breasts. I was tempted to open the front clasp with my teeth, but then found that I wasn’t sure I knew how to do that. It popped open with a pressure of my fingers, and I took one of Hermione’s nipples into my mouth, looking up to her as I did so.
Her cheeks were pink already. She always showed a sense of shame when I looked into her eyes while pleasuring her. It was one of the things I loved about having sex with her. It was so easy to unsettle her. I both found pride and arousal at the idea of seeing her in this state, this woman who rarely exuded any ounce of sex. I doubted people could imagine that she often was on the receiving end of a dildo and sucked her own fluids off it afterwards. She probably even blushed about it herself when she thought back to it afterwards.
Hermione’s shirt and bra had fallen to the kitchen tiles, and I focused on the feel of her skin again, kissing her stomach as my fingers toyed with the button of her trousers. She was wearing those wide-legged black trousers she had worn on one of her first meetings with me. As soon as she had lifted her hips from the counter, it fell to the ground. She had maybe lost some weight since starting to work at that publishing house. I was tempted to take a step back, to admire how out of place she looked, sitting in her knickers on the kitchen counter. I was reminded that the kitchen light was one and the curtains weren’t drawn. But Hermione’s voice kept me from it.
“Take me,” she said. “Please, Bella…”
I kissed her again, my hands holding on to her hips.
“How?” I asked against her lips.
“Here…”
“How?” I insisted.
She licked her lips. Our foreheads were pressing against one another. She looked away, her breathing heavy already. I smirked at her slight embarrassment. I usually liked what came out of her mouth after such a long hesitation.
“Bend me over,” she said at last, her voice shaking a little. “Take me like you did the first time.”
My smirk widened, and I pulled her off the counter. I spun her around right after, pressing down between her shoulders, until her breasts were crushed against the counter. It must be cold against her nipples, I considered. She did not wince though. Her thighs were twitching, and she had brought her hands together underneath her face, sheltering it from the hard surface.
I knelt behind her, studying the back of her legs. The small of my back strained a little, but it was nothing compared to the pain in my ankle. I ran my nails from the crook of her knees to the hem of her knickers, appreciating that goosebumps that erupted on her skin. I pushed myself back up, slipped my fingers around her kickers, and bent over to kiss her back.
“All the way?” I asked.
There was silence as she hesitated.
“No,” she said. “Just on the thighs.”
I nodded and pulled her underwear right beneath the roundness of her rear. She did have a spectacular arse. Most women I had been with had nothing to hold on to. I grabbed a cheek, sinking my thumb into it. I was overtaken by the urge to slap it. I wondered how often I would have to rain down on her until her skin turned red. Her complexion was darker than mine. At least ten times, I thought.
I brought my index finger to the back of her slit, gathering the moisture I found in her curls. She was always so wet for me. I wondered when it had started pooling into her knickers. Right when I had passed the door, or later, when our bodies had touched for the first time that evening? My finger travelled downwards, along her slit, searching for her clit. She twitched when I found it. I pressed down, and she gave a deep moan. I drew a few circles around it, then swiftly moved back and plunged two fingers into her core.
“Ahh…” she moaned. “Yes…”
I propped my free hand onto the counter next to her hip, closed my eyes, and focused on the feel of her around my fingers. She was tight. Tighter than usual. Backed-up, I thought. Or worried. Neither was a pleasant thought. I settled for a slow rhythm, reading her breath. I slowly felt her relax around me. I smiled to myself. While it wasn’t my instinct, gentleness was always rewarding with Hermione.
She tightened again when I added a third finger, but I found she was ready by then. I increased my pace slightly, appreciating the wet sounds that ran across the kitchen. Without even opening my eyes, I knew that she was embarrassed by them. Her cheeks were probably brightly pink. My smile widened. I opened my eyes. Hermione’s hands were beside her head now, one of her cheeks pressed against the counter – to cool her skin, I thought. I brought my free hand to her hair, pushed it aside, and leant over to kiss the back of her neck, my fingers deep inside it.
“Mhh…” she moaned appreciatively, rocking her hips to urge me for movement.
I pulled out again, pushed back in.
“Are you close?”
“A little more,” she said in a strained voice.
I nodded and took my hand back, snaking it around her hip. She gasped when it found her clit, and her walls closed in on me. I pushed through and circled her nub. She called my name a first time, then a second, louder. I continued, focusing on the shortening of her breath, the twitching of her walls and the trembling of her thighs. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her back. She was close. Her body came to a halt, her back arching, her chest lifting from the counter, her walls tightening around my fingers almost painfully. I stilled. Then her body slackened again, she fell back down and her walls spasmed in waves for a few more seconds.
I kissed the small of her back, then withdrew my fingers from her channel. I contemplated them for a moment, unsure whether I preferred to lick them clean myself or to have her do it. She always looked precious with her lips wrapped around something of mine. I was still pondering about that when she flopped around awkwardly to face me. I was reminded of the knickers stuck around her thighs. I looked down to them, then to her pink cheeks and glazed eyes. I brought my fingers to her lips without thinking. Her tongue darted out, licking at the tip of my digits. Then she suddenly sucked me in entirely, my fingers caught in her wet mouth, her tongue circling them. She was staring at me, her soft gaze slowly focusing again.
She was undeniably hot. And I was the only one to know her like that. I never had to ask to be sure that she had never been this free, sexually speaking, with anyone else. It was written in her every movement, in the slight fascination in her eyes every time we had sex. She smiled shily – though with pride – then let go of my fingers. I tilted my head questioningly.
“Is it weird?” she asked. “That I find it so hot when you stay in your clothes?”
“Why would that be weird?”
She shrugged.
“You don’t find that weird?” she insisted. “People usually both get naked when they have sex.”
“No, I often don’t.”
She gave a small giggle.
“That’s true,” she gave in. “But would you let me touch you if I stayed completely dressed?”
“I think you already did,” I argued.
“But you undressed me right after.”
I tilted my head again, thinkingly this time. I took a step forward and pulled her knickers back up. Her fluids were running from her slit quite distractingly.
“I think I would let you, yes,” I said after a moment. “I even think we should do that sometime soon.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, and I realized that she had not expected me to give it much thought. Maybe she had just asked it as a joke. But the moment she suggested it, I realized that the idea itself did something to me. I liked the idea of inverting our normal course of action. I found I also liked the idea of testing her, of seeing how far she could go.
I kissed her forehead and she fell against my front with a small laugh.
“You...” she sighed smilingly. “You always manage to surprise me.”
“Do I?”
She nodded against my chest, laughing again. I rolled my arms around her shoulders and threw a look to the closest window. I suddenly felt very protective of her. If I had not feared that my ankle might give in, I would have carried her to bed in my arms. Instead, I reached behind her and pulled her shirt onto her shoulders. She looked up to me, smiled again, tiredly this time, and we walked to the bedroom hand in hand.
Hermione fell asleep right away. She was already far gone when I came out of the bathroom after my shower. I smiled to myself at the sight of her. She always slept spread-eagled, with her hair chaotically plastered against her face. But then I felt my inner self scoff, and my smile faded. What was I even doing, smiling at someone’s sleeping face, like some sappy romantic?
I slid into bed at last, then patted my nightstand for my phone. I had wanted to check the time, I think. But what I saw blanked my mind completely. Sofia’s name was swimming before my eyes, brightly white against the surrounding darkness. I put the phone back down abruptly, its face against the nightstand. I rolled onto my back, my eyes set on the four-posters’ ceiling. For a moment, I thought that I might be able to fall asleep. But then I rolled over on my side again and reached for my phone. I had to know.