Problems With Dentists

By Pigwidgeon37

Hermione Granger truly loved her parents. Only sometimes they made it a little hard for her, and today definitely belonged to ‘sometimes’. ‘Sometimes’ did not occur too often, and, in fact, it pretty much summed up the times Jonathan and Melanie Granger attempted to meddle with her life. Those situations—and, to do her parents justice, there were few of them—were not improved in the least by Hermione’s conflicting emotions of anger at them, because they’d done it again, and at herself, partly because she hadn’t recognized the attempt in time, and partly because she felt she shouldn’t be angry with them, for they only meant well. To make a long story short, every occurrence of ‘sometimes’ made her firmly decide that she would go and see an analyst, which, of course, she never did.

However, the invitation to accompany them to a dentists’ congress that was to take place in a castle near the town of Morlaix had been far too tempting to be refused. She had been to the South of France, but never to Brittany, so that the mere thought of being able to explore a part of the country that was dripping with magic, myths and historical monuments galore made her tingle with anticipation. The icing on the cake had been the promise that, after the congress ended, her parents would hire a car and drive through Brittany with her, following a route their brilliant daughter was thereby asked to establish. This last detail had left no room for thoughts of an eventual rejection of the idea, and Hermione had left the house immediately after breakfast, to raid London’s bookstores for relevant works on general history, history of art, and architecture. A short visit to Diagon Alley had completed her array of background reading by some significant texts concerning Brittany’s magical past and present.

To prepare their tour had been fun, the flight from Stanstead to Brest not too stressful—surprisingly so, because they were in the middle of July—the transfer by bus interesting, for it offered a glimpse of what she was going to see in more detail some days later, and the castle was simply breathtaking. Right now, though, she was sitting down for dinner which, as far as the cooking was concerned, would most certainly leave nothing to be desired. The surroundings were perfect as well—small tables for four persons scattered generously among the stone pillars of an enormous space in the castle’s basement, bathed in the mellow shine of a multitude of candles and in the most discreet of indirect lights certainly did nothing to bother her. But on those tables, there were small cards indicating the names of their occupants, and when they had approached their own posts, guided by a very distinguished-looking maître d’, Hermione had spotted immediately that the table was set for four, and that there were four cards instead of only three.

 “Mum,” she said through gritted teeth, “Tell me instantly who you’ve invited to eat with us.”

Her father snorted.

Melanie Granger, who was already used to this kind of scenes and knew her lines perfectly, put up a brilliant smile. “Cuthbert Wimpole, of course.”

“Who is Cuthbert Wimpole?”

“A dentist, of course, my dear. Come on, take this seat here in the corner, the light seems to be most favourable.”

“Mum,” Hermione said exasperatedly, “I supposed he was a dentist. That’s why I didn’t ask what he does for a living, but who he is.”

“He is, of course, the son of Reginald Wimpole, my dear friend from university,” her father chimed in. “A very nice young man, actually, three years your senior—”

Careful not to say anything she might regret later, but seething with anger, Hermione hissed “I don’t know how many times I told you that I’m not interested in Muggles, partner-wise.”

“Of course, darling,” her mother replied, putting a soothing hand on hers, “And I truly respect that. But since I haven’t yet been introduced to any nice young wizard, I—”

“Yes,” Hermione interrupted her, “I know. I’m fully aware of the fact that your friends keep asking you whether I haven’t finally found myself a boyfriend, and that there’s nothing you’d like better than a bunch of grandchildren, but I’m sorry. Truly sorry to have to disappoint you. No Muggle, and certainly no dentist. And no nice young wizard either. If I told you once, I told you a thousand times that I want someone special, and if I have to wait ten years, I’ll—”

“Good evening, everybody.”

Hermione’s head shot up. Groaning inwardly, she forced her face into a smile which probably looked more like a grimace. Cuthbert Wimpole seemed to be delighted all the same. After having shaken her father’s hand, he took her mother’s to kiss it and then, to Hermione’s horror, proceeded to do the same with hers. For the first time, she regretted that she didn’t work out on a regular basis, otherwise she would have had an easier time forcing down his arm, thus limiting their greeting to a handshake.

Blonde. Insipid. Normal. So exhaustingly normal that she couldn’t resist playing the arrogant blue-stocking. And she sure as hell knew enough of Muggle science and culture to pull it off easily, although she studied Advanced Transfiguration at Urquhart Magical University. When they had arrived at their dessert, Cuthbert Wimpole was thoroughly subdued, and her mother was giving her furious stares. Jonathan Granger was fixedly looking down into his plate, as if the Mousse de Fraises aux Extraits de Poivre Vert et de Basilique were currently revealing the secrets of the universe to him—he secretly agreed with Hermione that she needed somebody truly special and that Cuthbert, nice as he was, did not meet her standards from whichever point of view, in spite of being his friend’s son. But he had promised his wife to play along, and so he did. On the other hand, he had not pledged that he wouldn’t enjoy the vivisection of yet another young man her mother deemed suitable for her. Hence he had more or less retired into silence, delighting in his daughter’s display of sparkling wit and the chef’s equally brilliant creations.

Having slaughtered the young man’s self-esteem, Hermione allowed herself a leisurely look round the hall. Maybe she should reconsider her choices as far as Muggles and dentists were concerned, she thought. Over there, three tables away from them in the corner, was a table adorned by four magnificent specimens of the human race, sub-category dentist, who were talking Italian or Spanish—she wasn’t quite sure, for they were too far away. But would she ever gather enough courage to chat up one of those? Probably not. Now one of them was looking directly at her. And gesticulating to his colleague sitting next to him. His hands! Oh, he had the most wonderful hands.

Hermione felt herself getting slightly aroused. Which was embarrassing, to say the least, for she was sitting at the same table with her parents and Cuthbert Wimpole, whose hands didn’t cause a similar effect. On the contrary. Twenty-one and still a virgin. That was the sad truth, and Wimpole was not going to be the one who changed it. A virgin who was completely thrown off-balance when she saw a pair of slim, strong male hands garnished by… Shit. A wedding band.

“…but you young people maybe would like to stay up a little longer, wouldn’t you?” It was not so much her mother’s voice than her shoe making painful contact with her right ankle that jerked Hermione out of her musings.

She should have been a little more attentive, for she had missed the cue. Before she could object, Cuthbert had already enthusiastically agreed and offered to accompany her on a stroll through the vast park. “Considering that you’re so interested in historical sites,” he said, with the rapturous look of a kitten that has just caught its first mouse and is now eagerly presenting it to its master, “I’m sure you’ll take pleasure in visiting the ruin.”

It was hard to keep her face from smiling, but young Mr. Wimpole would have taken it personally, while it was meant for the ruin. A smile per procurationem, so to say. Fighting hard not to jump up from the table and run out in search of the monument, Hermione uttered nothing but a noncommittal “Mmmh,” while rummaging through her memory, but without finding anything. How come she had missed that piece of information?

“Fine then,” her mother said in a tone of voice so cheerful that the temptation to smile instantly dissipated, “So the two of you go for a stroll while we retire to our chambers.”

Hermione gave her father a pleading look, but he was dragged away with more force than most people would have given Melanie Granger credit for. Unless she wanted to be exceptionally rude, Hermione didn’t have any choice but to follow the young man, which she did—reluctantly and sullenly.

One thing, however, was to be said in favour of this stroll: the night was magnificent, the air tepid and so soft it seemed to caress the skin with thousands of minuscule hands, the scent of jasmine and roses was overwhelming, and a nearly full, enormous yellow moon was beginning to peer over the roof of the castle. She decided to concentrate solely on the marvellous scenery, and successfully drowned out the voice of Cuthbert Wimpole, who had launched into some deadly boring anecdote about his university days, which he seemed to think incredibly funny. The last words she had absorbed before turning off the volume were that they were heading in the direction of the ruin. They couldn’t enter, he had told her, for it was closed off for danger of  collapse.

Hermione was thoroughly enjoying the perfumed air and cool breeze, totally oblivious of her companion, when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, slapping his forehead, “Oh, good heavens! I have to call my mother immediately. I’m not sure whether I’ve closed the gas when I left my flat. And—” he fumbled through his pockets “—I’m not sure where I left my cell phone.”

“No problem,” she said, feeling thoroughly relieved, “Just go back and make your call, I’ll stay out here a little longer.”

“I’m truly sorry, Hermione, but I just have to—”

“No problem, really,” she interrupted him. “I know the feeling—” which, of course, was a blatant lie “—it’s going to spoil your night’s sleep unless you make sure everything is okay.”

Cuthbert Wimpole thanked her profusely, turned round and returned to the castle. Feeling suddenly very cheerful and light-headed, Hermione continued to walk along the gravel path, which soon grew a little narrower and was not strewn with gravel anymore. She would have a look at the ruin and then return to her room. The moonlit remainders of a medieval fortress were simply too alluring to be left undiscovered. It had to be somewhere behind those high trees over there…

When, all of a sudden and without any trace of a sound announcing anybody’s arrival, an arm was clamped round her waist, she gasped. Her reaction would have been to scream for help, but a hand closed firmly over her mouth, thus effectively preventing her from producing a single loud noise. The arm that held her had also immobilized her arms, squeezing them tightly to her body, so that she could not even grab for her wand. She tried to hit the aggressor on the shin with her right heel, but he seemed to have foreseen her move and deftly avoided the blow.

“What are you doing here?” a voice hissed into her left ear.

From the sound of it, she could not have judged whether it belonged to a man or woman, but the body she was being pressed against was definitely male. And it had to be a rather stupid male, she thought, for how could he expect her to answer if his hand kept her mouth shut? He seemed to have noticed the problem, too, for now he muttered “I’ll take my hand off your mouth, but if you as much as try to scream, I promise you’ll regret it. And I always keep my promises.”

Hermione’s mind was racing. Had he wanted to rape her, he would never have asked her what she was doing here. So she had maybe intruded upon something she wasn’t intended to witness—a drug dealers’ meeting or something of the kind. Asphodel and Wormwood… Why on earth had that sprung to her mind now? She had more important things to deal with.

The hand left her face and she tried to give an impression of supreme calm, attempting to keep her voice from trembling. “I was just going for a walk and I assure you, I haven’t seen anything, least of all your face.”

The arm clutched her a little more tightly and the man chuckled softly.

“Oh, fuck!” she said, realizing that he probably did want to rape her, for drug dealers weren’t supposed to chuckle, at least not in her mental universe.

“By all means,” came the dry reply from behind, “But before please tell me how you arrived in this part of the park.”

I’m going to be raped, Hermione thought, and not even by an intelligent human being! What an incredibly stupid question to ask. “I walked here, of course,” she replied tersely, “Or did you think I was driving through he park in a yellow submarine?”

“You walked here… I see. Very interesting indeed.” The arm that had until now only been immobilizing her lifted her up—rather effortlessly, she thought—and the voice continued “If you try to kick me, you’ll—”

“Regret it. Thank you, but there’s no need to repeat yourself.” She wouldn’t have tried, anyway, for her feet could only reach his shins and not his genitals, which would have been the only successful method of self-defence. To cause pain to a man who seemed to be considerably taller than herself and could lift her up one-handedly would not have been a wise idea.

While he carried her a few yards in the direction she’d been heading into, Hermione suddenly realized that she was in France, but the unknown aggressor had addressed her in English. A rabid British dentist, on the hunt for victims? The idea was so funny that she snorted in spite of herself. The hand returned to her mouth immediately.

“I thought I had made myself clear enough. Stay quiet.”

Finally, he put her down. “Tell me what you see there.” The hand left her mouth to point ahead of them.

Lit by the silvery shine of the moon, she distinguished the outlines of a massive building, blunt and forbidding. Very massive—it rather seemed to be an enormous, yet strangely regular-shaped rock than something created by human hands. There were… yes, those were undoubtedly windows, some of them even lit by a faint, yellow glow…

“But isn’t this supposed to be a ruin?” she blurted out.

To her immense astonishment, she was immediately released, so that she lost her balance and staggered slightly.

“I beg your pardon,” the man said, now in a normal tone of voice—and quite a voice it was, all silk and velvet and really, really sensual… “But you’ll understand that in the interest of anti-Muggle security…”

Finally, realization struck. “Oh,” she said, turning round to look at him. She couldn’t see his face, though, for he had pulled up the hood of his cloak. “So that’s it! I had no idea, really—”

“That much was fairly obvious,” came the terse reply. “Are you lost?”

“N-no, I told you I was going for a walk. I’m here incognito, so to say, I’m Muggle-born, and staying over there, at the castle, in the company of my parents. And of a very boring young man…”

“You don’t seem too old yourself,” he commented, with an audible smile.

“No, in fact he’s three years my senior. But he’s a mere puppy my mother wants to force upon me—you know how mothers are.”

A slight hesitation. “Uh, well, not in exactly the sense you seem to have in mind. But I get the general idea. So you’re not interested, I presume?”

How strange it was, to stand here in the dark—and the spot they currently occupied was even darker for a large tree cast its shadow over them—and talk to a complete stranger, whom she had thought to be a drug dealer only minutes ago. But he was a wizard, and a British one to boot. Voldemort was dead and gone, practically all the Death Eaters exterminated like the vermin they had been… No reason to be afraid, then.

“No,” she replied, “I’m not interested. First because I don’t really like young men, and second because I’d prefer a wizard, to own the truth.”

“You don’t like young men or you don’t like young men?” he asked, amusement vibrating in his voice.

“Young men, of course,” she said indignantly. “I don’t have anything against men, in fact, I…” She stopped. The situation might have more than just a touch of the unreal, but that didn’t mean she had to spill out all her innermost secrets.

“So you’d prefer an old wizard?” he continued.

“Well, not exactly old,” Hermione said, “Not as old as Headmaster Dumbledore, anyway—you know Albus Dumbledore, don’t you?”

“Of course,” the stranger replied, “Who wouldn’t? So you went to Hogwarts?”

“Yes, I graduated three years ago.”

“Really. And now?”

“I’m at the UMU. Studying Advanced Transfiguration.”

“And you haven’t found yourself a suitable boyfriend there?”

She shook her head, looking down at her feet. “No, I’m still single, and still a bloody—” She stopped herself just in time.

The stranger chuckled again, deep down in his throat—it was a strangely erotic sound, she thought. “A bloody what?” he asked. “Not a virgin, by any chance?”

Now Hermione was glad that it was so dark, because she felt her face go very hot indeed. “Er, yes,” she mumbled.

A feather-light touch under her chin. “And you would like to be relieved of that burden?”

She swallowed convulsively. “Well, even if I would never have put it so bluntly—yes, I would. I’m the only one, you know. All my friends are constantly talking about sex and about their latest mind-blowing experiences, and all I can do is pretend I’d already had plenty of it and wasn’t interested anymore. There are books, you know,” she said, and he snorted. “No need to make fun of me. For conversation’s sake, they provide more than enough knowledge.”

“I see,” he said. “And to put it bluntly yet again: I would be delighted to give you a… uh, hand. No pun intended.”

Hermione was, to say the least, dumbstruck. This was the kind of thing she, and probably many other women, sometimes fantasized about—the shadow lover, emerging from the dark with a voice like warm honey, knowledgeable hands and, most importantly, wanting her and her alone… well, this last part maybe didn’t suit to perfection, because he had been rather nonchalant, but who’d bother with details when fantasies became reality?

She took a deep breath, and before her rational self could start screaming at her whether she had gone totally mad, she said, a little shakily “Okay.”

“How very poetic indeed,” the stranger observed. “But I suggest that we move to a somewhat more secluded place. I’m sorry, but I cannot take you there—” he pointed towards the so-called ruin “—for the place is swarming with colleagues. Annual Conference of the International Warlocks’ Council.”

Encircling her shoulders with his arm, he led her off the path and deeper into the park that more and more resembled a wood. After a few minutes of silent walking, he stopped under a group of trees, where the ground was covered by low, soft grass.

“This seems to be an ideal spot,” he said. “Now, some preparations, if you don’t mind.”

It was very dark under the canopy of leaves, but Hermione dimly recognized that he was drawing his wand. Moving around her in a circle, he first marked the area, on which he subsequently cast a privacy and then a sound muffling spell. Upon hearing the second one, she felt herself blush again. Another charm, this time to cushion the ground, and he was standing close to her, their bodies touching. Slowly, his arms came around her and the velvety voice was now very close to her ear, so that she involuntarily shuddered when he murmured “What about kissing?”

What the hell was she supposed to do with her arms? Right now, they were hanging uselessly at her sides, but then they could be put to better use. She encircled the stranger’s back and let her hands wander tentatively. Mmh, she thought, lean. That’s nice. Further exploration told her that he was muscled, but not overly so. Even better.

“Kissing? Well, I’ve been kissed a few times, but it wasn’t exactly spectacular, to tell the truth.”

“Ah?” he said, “Well, the impression that kissing isn’t spectacular should be immediately rectified. May I propose that we choose a more comfortable position, though? There’s a considerable difference between our heights.”

That was definitely a good idea, she thought. She barely came up to his shoulder. Taking her hands off his back, she moved away from him by one step and sat down on the magically cushioned ground. The stranger followed suit and, sitting close to her, exerted a gentle pressure against her left shoulder.

“Relax,” he muttered, “And lie back. No need to be afraid.”

The instinct of not exposing her vulnerable chest and stomach to somebody she didn’t know was almost overwhelming, but she gave herself a mental shake and reclined, feeling that he was lying down next to her. His forearm slid under her neck, and his other hand cupped her left cheek. From the almost imperceptible increase of temperature, she felt that his face was nearing hers. Her heart was beating so furiously that she had some difficulties breathing—and then she felt his lips brush hers ever so lightly. Now that he was so close to her, she was able to identify his scent: something spicy, like clove or cinnamon, and lavender, and… yes, definitely sandalwood. Dry and warm. Like his lips. They were moving over hers, nearly without touching them, but the feeling was sensational. Suddenly, she remembered that she had arms. Anxious not to break that delicious touch of lips on lips, she let her hands glide to his back once again, and started to caress him, slowly and with a bit of pressure. The stranger obviously found this to his liking, for the teasing of his lips against hers became a little more forceful.

They remained like this for a while. His hand slowly left her cheek and moved down to stroke first her neck and ear, then still further down until it rested on her breast. The summer dress Hermione was wearing was made of very thin material, and her bra was nothing but a spider’s web of lace. The sensation of his palm gently cupping her breast was therefore nearly unfiltered and very intense. Her hands clenched on his back and she arched her hips against his thigh.

“Mmmh,” he murmured against her mouth, “More the sensitive type, aren’t we?”

When she felt his tongue gliding over her lips, she drew him still closer to her and opened her mouth slightly, hoping that he would take the hint. He did. The shadow lover tasted of coffee and, not unpleasantly, cigarette. How fortunate that she had had strawberry parfait for dessert, she thought. And the hint of green pepper and basil shouldn’t be too bad, either. She only hoped he liked basil. This was the last clear thought she had for the next few minutes—the kiss was simply too mind-blowing to allow any but the most basic brain activity, which consisted of ordering her left leg to encircle his hips, her nipples to grow taut and her hands to grab as much of him as they could get. Her tongue didn’t seem to need any guidance, it was evidently on autopilot, choosing a destination she definitely liked: his mouth. Only when they broke the kiss, she realized that he had long hair, which was now brushing her face. Pulling him down to her once again, into another kiss, fiercer and more hungry than the first had been, she buried her right hand in the soft strands. Whatever the colour, it was gorgeous to the touch.

“I think,” he said, when they broke apart again, “that it would be a definitely brilliant idea to get rid of my robes.”

Hermione giggled and released him so that he could sit up and take off the garment. “And… uh, your shirt, maybe?” she asked tentatively.

“Your wish is my command. And your help is, of course, appreciated.”

So she sat up, too. His shadowy outline was barely visible—he had to wear black or at least a very dark colour, otherwise it would have reflected what little light there was. Her hands found the collar of his shirt, though. Bracing herself not to squeak in horror in case they encountered a mat of hair, she opened the first three buttons, while he was working his way up from the bottom. What a lucky girl she was. Smooth, soft skin, with the merest hint of capillary presence at the centre of his chest. And the scent of clove was getting the upper hand with regard to the other components.

“Speaking of sensitive,” she muttered when he drew in a sharp breath under the touch of her hands on his nipples.

“Indeed,” he replied dryly, and pushed her to lie down again. She had expected another kiss and thus gave a small shriek when she felt his teeth nibbling at her still-taut—or taut-again, she really didn’t know, nor did she care—nipples. “And now, my dear, just to re-establish the balance, let us get you out of that dress, nice as it undoubtedly is.”

She sensed his hands undoing the buttons of her dress one by one, each of them taking him down by two inches—now he was at her ribcage, now at her belly, now… oh Gods, but that did feel good, and it was only his knuckles touching her panties. One more button. Now he had definitely reached very sensitive area. To judge from the warmth that spread through her belly, all her blood had to be there, but also in her thighs, because he undid another button, and then another one, now he was halfway down her thighs… two more, and the dress fell open.

She felt him lie down beside her again, his hand slid under her neck once more, and then his mouth was on her left breast and his other hand on the hollow of her knee and she really couldn’t resist anymore, she had tried to stay silent, but now she simply had to moan. His mouth left her nipple.

“Finally,” he said, “This was starting to become a bit frustrating.” And he dedicated his attention to the other breast, while his hand travelled lazily up the inside of her right thigh, kneading gently, then again grazing the skin with his nails.

She didn’t attempt to stay silent anymore, but even sighing and moaning wasn’t enough to ease the tension building up inside her. Neither was shifting frantically, so that his hand would reach the spot between her legs where she wanted to be touched by those fingers… somewhere along the road she had noticed that they were just as she liked them—long, slim, warm and dry…

“Please!” she finally moaned. If he didn’t understand body language, not even when the body in question was screaming, she had to try with articulate speech.

Her breast was released and his head came up, his long hair sweeping over her cheek.

“Ye-es?” he said.

Searching the inscrutable darkness for his eyes without finding them, she uttered another “Please!”

It hadn’t been a wise move, she thought, for not only had his mouth stopped caressing her breasts—and it was bad enough that her bra was still in place, denying her the full pleasure of it—but now his right hand came to a standstill.

“How is it that women become so strangely monosyllabic at times?” he said, his husky voice full of mockery. “Although, in your case, it might be due to understandable embarrassment.” He kissed her, deeply but softly. “Or is it lack of vocabulary?” Another kiss. It only served to increase the urge to be touched. “So, let us be lenient. Do you want me to touch you here?”

Finally… “Yes, please!” Her hips rose by their own accord to intensify the contact. She was only wearing her panties and bra, but it was definitely too much. “Help me out of my underwear!” she said into his mouth, amidst another kiss.

“With the utmost pleasure,” he replied, rising a little. She rolled towards him so that he could easily unclasp her bra. At last, the annoying thing was gone, only to be followed, seconds later, by her panties.

“You too!” she breathed, letting her hands wander down his chest and stomach in order to encounter the waistband and consequently the fly of his trousers.

Emboldened by the almost total darkness, she went a little further down—and was surprised to find out that erections were not called hard-on for nothing, that the hardness was really considerable and… yes, very big indeed. What she found to be even more pleasant, though, was that now it was his turn to moan a faint “Yes!”

“Now who is being monosyllabic?” she said and gave a gentle squeeze. His breath became a little ragged, and even more so when she examined the fly of his trousers to feel whether they were closed by a zipper or buttons. Buttons. And she was right-handed. Well, she would have to try her best with her left hand.

While she was slowly working her way along the row of minuscule buttons, he simply let himself fall onto his back, but had the good sense of cupping both her breasts with his now-free hands. Yes, she thought, that was much better. When she had finished undoing what must have been at least fifteen buttons—it had been impossible to count them, for his hands always made her lose her thread when she had arrived at two—he slightly lifted his hips to allow her to pull the trousers down. Two soft thuds told her that he had thrown off his shoes. Joining their efforts, they managed to slide the garment completely off his legs—they were slim and slightly muscular to the touch, like the rest of his body.

When she was about to return to a more thorough examination of the hardness still covered by his underpants, she felt herself being gently pushed down again. The sudden sensation of skin against skin was simply delicious, and she moved even closer towards him, so that her breasts rubbed against his chest and his erection was nudging her right thigh. A silk-clad erection, to be exact.

“Still determined?” he asked. She nodded. “I’m delighted. In that case, I believe that there’s some unfinished business I have to attend to…”

His hand travelled down her body, leisurely, with many stops in between, until it arrived at her pubic curls, where it remained for a moment, as if to give her time to get used to the intimate touch. Searching and finding her lips—there had to be some kind of strange magnetism between their mouths, she thought, for they found each other so easily—he kissed her, as gently as he had the first time, and meanwhile brought her thighs apart. The sudden cold, enhanced by the wetness she felt between her legs, only served to further arouse her. Then, finally, he parted her folds and one of those lovely, long fingers delved between them to caress her, moving, circling, gliding easily wherever it fancied, back and forth, making her moan in sheer, blissful ecstasy.

“Oh, yes, that feels good, doesn’t it?” he muttered, never ceasing the movement of his finger. “How about this, then?”

The finger slid into her, and she gave a little squeak of surprise. “Heavenly,” she whispered against his lips.

“Really? And this?” The finger had found some magical spot inside her vagina, touching and teasing it, so that she had to dig her nails into his skin to remind herself that she was still here, and that this was really happening.

“Oh God, don’t you dare stop this!” she moaned.

“But you would allow me to add something, wouldn’t you?—I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, when all she could utter was an inarticulate sigh of pleasure.

His thumb found her clitoris and started circling, slowly and with little pressure, while his other finger was still moving inside her.

Was it just an impression, or had her nerve ends really decided to push their tendrils through her skin? If they hadn’t, it pretty much felt as if they had. She wanted to wrap herself around him, to increase the contact between their bodies, but then he would have to stop those delightful ministrations. So she had to be content by kissing him and sensing his chest resting lightly against her upper body, while his hand never stopped, slowly but gradually driving her upwards in a spiral of the greatest physical pleasure she had ever felt. By now, they could have been in the centre of a crowd of people staring at them, and she would not have cared in the least. Her whole being was concentrated into this spiral of breathless longing, spinning higher and higher…

When she had reached the spiral’s end and was catapulted into space by an almighty explosion, she heard herself scream, as if she weren’t inside her own body anymore, but fortunately she was, or she wouldn’t have felt those rhythmical contractions inside her belly…

He slowly withdrew his hand and held her, kissing her forehead and nose and eyes, whispering softly into her ear, his voice too low for her to understand what he was saying, until her shuddering subsided and she felt she had returned to this planet again. A planet where men had erections, definitely. She reached down to touch him and said “Didn’t we…um, have some kind of project?”

“Unless you changed your mind, yes, we do.”

“If it’s only half as good as what you just did to me, I certainly won’t change my mind.”

“It might be even better,” he answered lightly, “But I don’t think I can do it with my boxers on. If you would kindly…”

She nodded and slid her fingers under the waistband of his shorts, he lifted his hips, and she pulled the garment down. With a quick movement of his legs, he chucked it off. She brushed along his length with her fingertips. “It’s… a little bigger than I thought,” she ventured, again grateful for the darkness that made it so much easier to pronounce certain things she wasn’t sure she could have uttered had he been able to see her face.

“I take this as a compliment,” he said, shifting his weight so that she had to lie back again. “But believe me, it’s going to fit perfectly.”

Now he was lying on top of her—his lean, rather wiry frame wasn’t too heavy, and to feel his weight upon her, immobilizing her to a certain degree, was oddly comforting and arousing at the same time. He gently nudged her thighs further apart with his knee. She felt the tip of his penis pressing slightly at her opening, hot and faintly throbbing, and sensed her own arousal building up again.

“Shouldn’t you tell me that it might hurt a bit?” she asked, while impatiently stroking his back and buttocks.

“What with the menstrual hygiene you girls use nowadays, this cliché definitely belongs to the past,” he answered matter-of-factly, “But try to relax anyway.”

With that, he gently pushed into her, withdrew and pushed deeper, withdrew again and finally entered her completely. He had been right. It didn’t hurt, and it fit perfectly. And it was the most wonderful feeling of… well of fullness, of completion, and of total nearness.

“Kiss me,” she muttered, and he obliged, contemporaneously starting to move inside her, causing her to wrap her legs around his hips and her arms more firmly around his torso. “It’s not half as good, it’s at least twice as good,” she managed to choke, trying to sound articulate, but the words got a little slurry all the same.

Incredible as it seemed, for she had felt so peacefully sated only moments ago, the spiralling started again, and, as she had told him before, it really was more pleasurable now, for her own ascent was accompanied by his. She could feel that he was controlling himself—his shoulders and back were tense, and she only hoped he would last a little longer. This was too good to end anytime soon. She couldn’t get enough of stroking his back with her hands and his thighs with her feet, relishing his moans and his heavy breathing, the kisses that became increasingly hungry and devouring. And now he had found that spot inside her again, which drove her crazy, which made her clutch his shoulders and bite his neck… she felt herself tense more and more and again, she was hurled out into space by the fierce contractions inside her. With a last thrust, he joined her, and now they were floating together, hearts racing, covered in sweat despite the cool night air, holding on to each other, until they drifted softly back to the warm ground.

They remained silent for a long while. Then he said “If anybody had told me that I was going to have the best sex ever with a virgin, I would have laughed in their face. Which serves to demonstrate that to be proven wrong doesn’t necessarily have to be unpleasant.”

“No,” she said, when she felt he was going to withdraw, “Remain like this. Inside me. I… I like the feeling.”

“I’ll become too heavy for you.”

“No, you won’t. Relax. Please. It’s wonderful to feel you like this.”

So he stayed on top of her. Their kisses were sweet now, languid and tired; they stroked each other—it was different now, like reading a book she had devoured because she couldn’t wait to learn how it ended all over again, more carefully this time, paying more attention to the details. Then Hermione thought of her parents, and what they would say if they knew… laughter bubbled up inside her, irresistible, impossible to contain, until she couldn’t restrain the urge anymore.

The shadow lover gave a soft groan. “I suppose you don’t have the faintest idea of what that laughter is doing to me.”

This only made her laugh more. “No,” she panted, “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell—Oh! Yes, I think I got the idea. Oh, this is bloody wonderful…”

“Agreed,” he murmured, “This is bloody wonderful. Oh, Hermione…”

Burying his face in her hair, he started thrusting again, excruciatingly slowly. He was so close to her, so close—

“What did you just call me?” Speaking was becoming increasingly difficult, but she had to ask—how could the stranger know her name?

“I called you Hermione… That’s… oh Gods, yes, don’t stop that, yes… that’s your name, isn’t it?”

It seemed to drive him crazy when she stroked that spot at the small of his back, just above his buttocks, and she did not stop, just as he had asked her to. “Yes,” she panted, “That’s my name… but—”

She decided that kissing while he was moving inside her was preferable to conversation, however interesting it might be. When she was on the verge of coming, he released her mouth and muttered into her ear “Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for seducing a teacher.”

Although her blood was everywhere but in her brain right now, she put the pieces together quickly enough—Asphodel and Wormwood, oh my God!—to cry out his name when she came, and while the shivers were slowly ebbing away she muttered “Severus!” again and again.

The moon had risen high in the inky night sky and was shining through the leaves upon the ivory sculpture of two lovers lying on the ground, lazily caressing each other, limbs still entwined. One of them moved, tossing her long, brown hair back over her shoulder, and propped herself up on her right elbow.

“Do you have any particular problems with dentists?” she asked.

THE END