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Someone is talking to her, and she should be paying attention. It’s the polite thing to do, Hermione knows this, but right then Regulus gets up and wanders out of the room, and Hermione’s eyes follow his slender form as he slips out the door.
She can’t stop watching him. She’s a brilliant professional woman with a high-powered job who knows better, and yet she’s drawn to him like a foolish fwooper to a flame, knowing full well its feathers will get singed, but swooping ever closer anyway.
And so she watches.
She notices when he moves. Every miniscule flinch or widening of his eyes. Notices when he gets overwhelmed by their rowdy group and withdraws. When he opens his mouth to participate in some discussion and thinks better of it.
She always notices the ghosts in his haunted grey eyes and serious expressions.
And she feels. Fuck, does she feel. When he speaks, his low, soft voice transforms her normally sensible insides to a gaping black hole that wants to pull him in and never let him go.
When he plays the piano, his hands fly over the keys, luring the most beautiful sounds from the instrument. She watches his beautiful, long fingers and imagines the filthy things they could do to her.
Imagines being played by him like an instrument, softly at first, then faster and faster until she reaches a crescendo and—
Her cunt clenches in aching emptiness.
Well fuck her.
Or not in this case, which truly is tragic.
Sometimes she thinks she catches him watching her too. But nothing ever changes. They get together, they watch. They part. Until they get together again.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
“Alright everyone, let’s do this! Here are the teams for Charades.”
Ginny’s enthusiastic call for attention pulls Hermione from her thoughts about naked, dark-haired men playing her. Man. Just the one, really.
This is her cue to get lost too. She has zero desire to play any games right now. Not that she usually does, but being snowed in apparently makes Ginny more enthusiastic about group activities and Hermione gets proportionally extra-not-interested.
She slips out before Ginny-Dictator-of-Group-Games has a chance to stop her and wanders aimlessly through the rooms of the cabin Harry and Draco have rented, pretending to look at the art on the walls. The place is extravagant—it’s huge, plenty of bedrooms for everyone, a large shared kitchen and living space for eating and games. It has a massive garden as well, where they were planning to have their solstice bonfire tonight. She isn’t surprised at the opulence; of course those two would go all out the first time they’re in charge of the group’s solstice friend trip.
She’s also not be surprised that neither Draco nor Harry did a lick of research and their entire group is now trapped in the North Pennines, snowed in by the giant storm that moved in last night and hasn’t let up since. The roads are closed, the floo network in this part of the country is shut down, and there is no chance of apparating or flying anywhere in that blizzard.
Needless to say, their outdoor solstice celebration is off as well, as the garden is already covered in snow piles anyway. Hence Ginny’s game-dictatorship in the living space trying to find entertainment for everyone.
A gust of wind hits the cabin walls just then, shaking the sturdy walls. Hermione tucks the blanket she’s wrapped in a little tighter around herself and tries to feel less morose. Sometimes, she feels like this cabin. Unsettled, shaken, something about her life not not quite right, but unsure what to do about it.
Sirius’s raucous laughter follows Hermione up the stairs and she walks a little faster in case someone comes looking for her.
She turns down the hallway upstairs and systematically walks through every room.
Not looking for Regulus.
Not not looking for him either.
The room she finally meanders into at the end of the hall has a huge window, and Hermione walks over and looks at the swirling whiteness outside. The snow storm is obscuring the sparse afternoon light, settling the room in a soft greyness. Not quite dark but not light either. An in-between space where it almost feels like time doesn’t exist.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
She doesn’t jump when he speaks. Her startle reflex is still over-active even seven years after the war, but it’s like a part of her knew he was there.
Regulus has been out of Azkaban for five years, but his voice remains soft, like he’s not used to speaking. Or like he’s broken it by screaming too much. Hermione cannot comprehend how he is still even remotely functioning. Sirius was in Azkaban for twelve years and barely held on to his sanity. Regulus was trapped there until five years ago, stowed away by Dumbledore allegedly for protection and thought dead by everyone else.
Fucking Albus Dumbledore and his machinations, ruining one life after another for the Greater Good.
She turns around to face Reg, who is sitting in a large armchair looking out the window.
“Why is that?”
He regards her for a long moment, head tilted slightly.
“The solstice is a time for new beginnings and hope. You all are here to celebrate those things. Things that I don’t really believe in anymore.”
“Good thing you’re not dramatic.”
He frowns. “You don’t want to convince me that I’m wrong? That you are all so very thrilled to hang out with a tired old man in his mid-forties?”
“You’re not quite in your mid-forties yet,” Hermione counters. “But is that what you want me to say? You want to hear that no, really, you’re a delight to have along and your brooding never puts a damper on anyone’s mood?”
She’s not sure why she’s pushing him. Normally, they’re all so very careful around Regulus, trying to be sensitive and understanding of what he’s been through. But with all the watching she’s definitely not doing, she sees him. Sees how he also flinches when someone backs away from an argument with him. Sees the glimpses of frustration he tries to hide when he’s coddled.
When she doesn’t sycophantically pat him on the head and tell him he’s wonderful, he looks momentarily confused before a glint of something flickers through his eyes.
“Are you saying that you don’t enjoy spending pity time with old men?”
It’s like he is trying to get a reaction and Hermione shouldn’t be turned on by picking a fight with Regulus Black, but heat rushes through her anyway, pooling in her gut with no regard for decorum.
She crosses her arms and leans against the window at her back. The coolness from the glass seeps through her layers of blanket-and-clothes and she hopes the chill will help her calm her hormones, which quite clearly have gone insane.
And then she proceeds to poke him anyway.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Reg, Sirius always joins us for these trips and he’s older than you.”
Regulus scoffs. “Sirius will be young at heart when he’s a century old. He belongs with your chaotic band of misfits. I, on the other hand, have been old since I was a child. I stand out like a crooked broom in a straight race when we’re all together like this.” He gestures with his hand at the general space and Hermione’s eyes catch on the small movement.
She has noticed this too. Regulus is always so rigidly in control that even with small things like gestures he doesn’t let go. He makes no big arm movements or loud noises. He’s always contained and disciplined, making himself smaller, taking up less space.
What would he look like if he just let go?
Perhaps it’s the snowstorm or the odd feeling of suspended reality hanging in the dim room. Or perhaps, Hermione is just tired of longing. And so she takes a step forward, and then another, not sure what she’s going to do but sure she wants to do it.
“Isn’t it a bit gauche to fish for compliments, Mr. Black?”
She stops before him and he blinks up at her, grey eyes wide.
“What?”
She has pushed him, tipped him off-kilter, and he licks his lips nervously. And fuck it, that small gesture goes right to her cunt.
“It sounds like you want me to argue with you and tell you you do belong with our ‘chaotic band of misfits’ as you call us. Certainly, you’re not the only one who isn’t in his twenties, both your brother and Blaise’s husband are older than you. They both seem to fit in just fine.”
His eyes narrow a little but Hermione barrels on.
“So the question really is…why don’t you just let yourself be a little more…chaotic?”
He is staring at her now, and she sees it—the desire when it flickers across his face.
“I’m certain you have it in you,” she purrs, unable to resist teasing him just a little.
“I don’t know how.” Reg’s voice cracks, brittle with want and despair. “I can’t let go.”
The moment teeters on a precipice, and Hermione hesitates. She can make a placating comment and walk away. Or she can jump off that precipice and see if they can maybe fly.
Letting the blanket slip from her shoulders, Hermione steps off the ledge and sinks to her knees in front of him, keeping her hands in her lap for now.
“Do you want me to help you? Let go, I mean.”
She can see the arguments dance across his face. I’m too old, too broken, too damaged, too much, not enough—
Before he can voice any of them, she places her hands on his knees and Regulus stills.
“Is this alright?”
A pulse flutters in his neck and it’s all she can resist not to reach up and trace it with her tongue. She forces herself to sit still—she wants to make sure Reg is fully on board with whatever madness she’s leading them into.
The silence stretches and Hermione shifts just a little, seeking friction, something, anything to ease the need pulsing in her cunt.
Reg inhales sharply at her movement, grey eyes aflame. Slowly he nods. “Yeah. Yes. It’s alright.”
A wave of her hand and a wandless spell, and the door closes and locks with a soft click. Hermione turns back to Regulus and slides her hands farther up his thighs, and his breaths come faster the higher she moves.
“Are you sure?”
Hermione wants this, wants him so badly she can barely think, but… She would never force anyone and she wants this to be his decision.
Reg’s hands are clenched around the arm rests, knuckles white. Breathing ragged, he whispers, “I want… I don’t know how but—”
The look he gives her is desperate, scared. He looks younger than he is and not for the first time, Hermione wonders what it’s like to be forty-two but only having truly lived half of that time. And that’s assuming the time under Walburga’s gentle hand counts as proper living anyway.
Hermione sits up on her knees and pauses. She has an idea but it’s half-baked and possibly crazy.
“Please help me stop thinking,” Reg says, making the decision for her.
She pulls her wand out from where she’s tucked it into her hair and her curls tumble down from the top bun they’ve been trapped in.
“You’re so beautiful,” Reg whispers and Hermione can’t help herself. She leans up and presses her lips against his. Reg kisses her back slowly, like he’s unsure it’s really happening. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and tentative, and yet her blood is simmering in her veins as her nipples tighten and she wants more.
She forces herself to slow down and when she pulls back, Reg’s pale cheeks are flushed. His hands twitch on the armrests that he’s still clinging to.
“Hermione—” he pleads.
“I…have an idea.” With a flick of her wand, a velvet rope tumbles from it and winds itself loosely around his left arm. “Is this alright?”
Reg nods wordlessly.
“I need you to say it, Reg,” she says softly.
“Yes.” It’s a whisper that winds through her, trailing molten lava in its wake as she winds the velvet ribbons around his arms, tying him to the armrests. Reg’s shoulders drop, tension leaving him as the ropes tighten. The sound of his relieved breath goes straight to her core. Fucking hell, this man is hotter than he has any right to be. She wants to tear off his clothes and trail her hands and tongue over his body. Wants to learn his scars and ticklish places. Wants to fuck him on every surface of this damn cabin.
Instead she makes herself move slowly as she lays her wand down and reaches for the button of his trousers.
“Still good?”
He nods, then remembers. “Yes. Yes, it’s good. I’m good. I’m—”
Hermione bites her lip to hold in her smile at his rambling and unbuttons his trousers. He’s hard already, his cock tenting his pants and the evidence of his desire gives her a heady feeling of power. When she pulls his cock out he makes a small noise, and Hermione looks up at him from her position on the floor. Lips parted and grey eyes wide, he stares at her, wonder and lust dancing in his eyes.
He is long and thick, filling her palm when she wraps her fingers around him and she has to bite her lip to not moan at how delectable he feels in her hand.
She casts a lubrication spell and begins to stroke him, long, firm strokes that make Reg mutter half-formed words as her hand slides up and down his length. Hermione loses herself to the sensations. The rug under her knees grounding her in the moment. The silk-covered steel, hard in her hand that twitches when she flicks her thumb over the tip. The sounds. Gods, the breathy moans Reg is making are so bloody beautiful. And sexy as hell, a pipeline straight to her core that makes her dizzy with need.
She looks up and he is still watching her, wide-eyed and still. His jaw is clenched and the pulse in his throat is beating a fast staccato rhythm now. When she leans forward and trails her tongue up the length of his lovely cock, Reg gasps in an inhale.
“Alright?”
“Yes,” he hisses and when she strokes him in slow strokes as she sucks the tip into her mouth, she thinks he might stop breathing entirely. His cock is already leaking pre-cum, the taste salty on her tongue and she slowly, deliberately licks the very tip of him, tracing the slit. Reg’s moan sends another jolt of want to her core. She’s soaking wet already and he hasn’t even touched her—apparently three years of fantasizing about the man counts as foreplay. Each of her heartbeats spur her on to go faster, take more, be filled by him—the need scorching through her veins until she’s practically vibrating with it.
She begins moving her head, sucking him into her mouth, and pulling off, one hand stroking him and the other caressing his thighs, his abdomen. She reaches her hand up under his shirt, tracing his chest, and squeezes his pecs while she pulls him deep in her throat.
“Oh shit, that’s—fuck—”
He’s trembling and pleasure makes her chest clench at his appreciation of her touch. She hums around him in approval.
“Merlin!” His hips buck up, pushing him deeper into her throat and words spill from his lips as he trembles. “Gods, oh fuck, this is so—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”
Hermione responds by pulling back slowly, then sucking him in once more, both hands sliding to his arse now. When he twitches upwards again she helps him thrust even farther into her throat. She works to relax around his length, and her mouth is gloriously full of him, and it’s still not enough.
His breaths come faster now, as she licks, sucks, hands caressing any part of him she can reach.
“Hermione,” he moans, “I can’t—I’m going to—gods, I—” His hips move as if of their own accord, small thrusts upward, hands gripping the armrests, arms twitching against the ropes holding them down. “I’m—ah fuck, I—”
She is tempted to have him come right now. She longs for him to grab her hair and fuck her mouth until he comes. Wants to swallow his cum and watch him watch her.
Eventually she will do just that. For now, she’s not ready for this to be over.
She pulls off him and holds down his hips with her hands, pushing him into the chair.
“Not yet.”
He makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat. It’s sweet and endearing and turns her on even more. Hermione searches his face for any hint of hesitation and finds none. Just an immense relief and an echo of the want that’s pulsing through her veins with each heartbeat.
“Alright, tell me what to do.” Reg’s voice is a little rougher, colored by his lust and the game they’re playing, and there’s a small smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth, one she rarely gets to see.
She was right. He does want to relinquish control completely. She knows it from herself—there is freedom in restraints like these, freedom to stop thinking. Overthinking. Over-analyzing. Everything gets stripped away and the mind can finally, blissfully rest.
“Oh, I will.” She grabs her wand and stands, placing one knee on the chair, right between his thighs, tantalizing close to his cock but not quite touching him. He shifts a little seeking the contact and she flicks her wand, adding restrains around his waist that pull him back towards the chair.
“Did I say you could move?”
His eyes are shiny and the tiny smirk blooms a fraction bigger, reminding Hermione that underneath the baggage and damage, there’s a man who once liked to play with danger. It’s titillating.
“Sorry.”
“I don’t think you are at all sorry,” she purrs, the lava inside her bubbling hotter by the second. “But we can change that.” She lifts her wand and cocks an eyebrow at Reg. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” he hisses, drawing out the s into a delightful sibilant sound that makes her nipples tighten and further stokes the heat within her.
With a flick of her wand, his clothes vanish, leaving him gorgeously, gloriously naked. Hermione swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. How is a woman expected to not pounce on him when he looks like that. Forcing her own want down, she deliberately lets her eyes graze over him. Pale, strong, sinewy, delectable. There are some brutal-looking scars she thinks he may have gotten from the inferi in the lake, some smaller ones in various places. His dark mark is faded but still visible. His scars have stories he’ll tell her one day, when she memorizes each of them. Today she’s just admiring the whole picture.
“Nice.”
He blushes furiously and it’s fucking adorable.
A second flick and Hermione’s leggings and sweatshirt are transformed into that same shirt on her now. It’s just barely long enough to cover her bare arse.
“Salazar’s fucking balls, that’s hot, ” Reg swears, eyes burning as he takes her in. “Nifty—” his voice cracks. “Nifty piece of magic that.”
Hermione hums in agreement, for once entirely uninterested in listening to compliments about her brilliance. Her hands are too busy exploring the planes of Reg’s chest. She traces his scars gently, first with her fingertips then her tongue, enjoying the taste of his skin; soap, and cologne, and something undefinably him, a taste-scent that has become familiar to her. He squirms in his bonds, but remains silent. When she leans in and sucks on one nipple, he breaks. “Salazar’s arse, Hermione, that’s—”
She does it again, tweaking the other one with her fingers.
“Please—” he whispers.
“Please what, Regulus?” she asks, trailing kisses up to his neck.
“Please. I don’t know, I want— I need to— I’m—”
“Mmmh,” she mumbles against his skin. “Sounds like you’re not quite ready yet. You’re still overthinking.”
She nips at his neck and closes her palm around his cock once more, stroking it painstakingly slowly. Reg bucks against the ropes now, breaths coming faster once more. When she glances at him, she’s mesmerized. His pupils are blown wide, leaving just a sliver of grey. His normally perfectly coiffed hair is messy from when she ran her hands through it, and his pale cheeks are flushed a lovely pink that travels down his chest. He is gorgeous and looks so damn fuckable she can barely breathe.
Fuck, she’s teasing him, but she’s as far gone herself and she doesn’t want to wait any longer. She is on fire, her cunt soaking wet, and she’s aching for him to fill her.
She pushes her knee a little closer until it rests against his balls and he makes a sharp breathy sound.
“Do you want this?” she asks, not dropping her gaze.
“Yes.”
It’s certain, unequivocal, and Hermione shifts, straddling him in the chair. She lines herself up with his cock, teasing it with gentle brushes of her cunt. Reg stares at the place where they’re just barely touching and she’s not entirely sure if he is remembering to breathe now.
“Are you sure?” She tips his face up to look at her. His eyes are clear and calm, the usual haunted look in them pushed out by desire.
“I am sure,” he says, voice steady. “I have not been this sure of anything in a very long time. Hermione... I know I’m old— No, wait.”
He shakes his head, stopping her from speaking.
“I am a mess of broken pieces, and some days I am barely holding it together. But I am tired of not living.”
As he speaks, something like wonder blooms in his grey eyes.
“I know what I want. I’ve known what I wanted for a long time.” He swallows, eyes scorching into her soul. “You. I want you.”
A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and the raw need in his eyes mirror the need throbbing through her veins. But his voice is steady.
“I don’t want to hide anymore.”
“I—” Hermione swallows back the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm her at his declaration. “Me neither,” she finally says. She leans in and kisses him, brushes gentle kisses over his lips, tiny promises of whatever this will become.
Then, without breaking their gaze, she keeps her grip on his chin and lowers herself onto him with excruciating slowness until the tip of his cock is inside her. No matter how much she wants to feel him inside her, wants him to fuck her fast and hard, until they explode into a million bright stars, she also wants to relish this moment. Stretch it out forever.
They hover, suspended somewhere in the space between before and after.
Hermione’s thighs shake from holding herself up, but she won’t rush this. She has waited too goddamn long for this moment, too many days, months, years of watching and longing to hurry anything up now.
A flick of her hand and a wandless spell loosens the ropes tying Reg down, and he shakes them off, not looking away from her. And then his hands and lips are everywhere, incendiary touches and caresses, and she’s the one moaning, as she arches into his touch.
He tightens his grip and lowers her down onto him, his cock stretching her deliciously, just teetering on the edge of pain but remaining all pleasure until he’s fully buried inside her.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You—” Reg exhales a sharp gasp. “You are so wet.” His cock twitches inside her and the muscle in his jaw is ticking, the strain on his face of holding still visible on his face. He still doesn’t move. “Are you sure?” he asks. “There are so many reasons—”
Hermione silences him with a searing kiss, and then she begins to move, slowly at first, lifting up until just the tip of his cock is inside her and sliding back down. Their lips come together, their tongues brush and explore and she continues moving as she’s filled with him, stretched around his hard length, heat building inside her once more.
“Gods, yes, fuckkk—” Regulus moans, uninhibited and filled with something that sounds a lot like exhilaration. The sound fuels something more in her, spurring Hermione on.
She moves faster, riding him, hands locked behind his neck for balance, and throws her head back, losing herself in the moment. His grip on her waist tightens and he thrusts up into her, burying himself fully in her cunt, moving her on him. Thrust after thrust, the world narrows to this cabin cocooned in snow in the middle of nowhere, the room bathed in otherworldly dim light, the two of them here, coming together.
Their breaths and moans, the slick sounds of their bodies moving are the only sounds she can hear, the rest of the world fading away, inconsequential. Hermione’s limbs tremble, heat bubbling, gathering at her center, as words tumble from her lips—please, yes, harder, more—
She is so close—bright, blazing, a volcano poised to erupt, and Regulus thrusts again, deep and hard—
And she’s coming, an explosion of light in her mind and body, obliterating her completely. She clenches around his cock, and Reg’s thrust become eratic, harder, his words turn to moans of fuck, yes, Merlin, please—
He stiffens, hands gripping her tightly—and then his cock is spilling cum into her, his thrusts slowing until they’re still.
Breathing hard, Hermione doesn’t move for one heartbeat or a million; she’s not sure what time is any longer. All she is sure of is that this is right. This, them, together. It’s like the world has shifted around them, atoms falling into place like puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly, and she can’t imagine how things ever worked before this moment.
Eventually they pull apart, only for Regulus to tug her close to his chest and summon a blanket to wrap around them. They sit in silence and watch the snow fall outside.
“It’s the shortest day of the year,” she mumbles eventually against his bare chest, nuzzling in a little closer.
As usual, Reg seems to follow her train of thought. “Endings. And beginnings,” he responds, kissing the top of her head as he tightens his grip on her a fraction.
The room is dark now, the weak solstice light finally accepting defeat against the snow storm, and yet light is burning bright within Hermione. She intertwines her fingers with Reg’s and presses a kiss against his hand. “So you can in fact let go,” she teases him, letting some of the brightness spill over.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, like nothing has changed.
“Not of you,” Reg responds and she can hear the joy in his voice. “Never of you.”
And somehow everything is different.