Hermione doesn’t really remember how it began. A chance touch, a heated look, too much firewhisky one dark evening, a whisper of a dare, tongues and hands and bodies and sweet release.

As she lets her robe fall to the floor, she doesn’t care. It is what it is. An escape from a world torn asunder by war, a few brief hours of pleasure, inhibitions left at the door as they find their own distraction from the stress and fear they face outside them.

Hedonism. Debauchery. Immoral. All these words come to mind as she steps closer to the bed.

Her gaze surveys the man waiting for them. He always arrives first. Stories to the Lord whose mark he bears, lies that spill from his tongue with practice and perfection, and he disappears into the shadows to seek solace in them. Her former professor, unpleasant and unattractive, frightening and arousing. She feels warmth in her belly, wetness on the lips of her cunt, heat in her face and chest as her skin flushes from the coldness of his gaze. Coldness that hides the heat and desire, that conceals the need and ache he feels for them.

She kneels on the end of the bed and glances over her shoulder. He is always late unless he arrives with her. They cannot lie to their friends in the way their other lies to his Lord. Instead, they talk of research and disappear into the shadows to escape to this place. They know that no other would understand so they don’t bother trying. He sheds his robe and removes his glasses, leaving behind a hero with far too much weight on his shoulders as he steps forward, becoming simply a man who needs, wants, aches.

His fingers dance along her spine before they tangle in her hair. He is hard against her arse as he rubs her, his lips claiming hers in a desperate kiss that speaks far more than words. They do not need words, her and him. They never have. A look, a touch, a smile, a kiss speak far more than dialogue after dialogue. Words are for another place, another time, for shadowed corners. Whispers of feelings no one can know until this war is finally over.

A soft groan, barely audible, ends their kiss. They look at him, their cheeks pressed together, nude and aching, and he licks his lips. He needs and they are willing to give, to take, to claim as their own. She crawls up his nude form, noting the scars and sharp hips, the indention on his belly where she lingers and gives him a disapproving look. You should eat more, her gaze scolds before she leans down and licks the underside of his cock.

A tongue on her arse licks from her tight pucker to her clit, firm licks that speak of practice and knowledge of what makes her squirm. It distracts her from scolding and she moans against the head of his cock. He stares at them, silent and severe, and she shudders as she begins to suck his cock. It is slender and long like the rest of him. His hair is unwashed, surrounding his face in a curtain of blackness that reminds her of the risk he takes (greater than theirs) to be there with them.

His lip quivers and he exhales softly as she nuzzles the coarse curls that surround his length. He throbs in her throat as she sucks, licks, teases. Her arse is stretched by two fingers, wet as he licks her, his thumb brushing against her wet cunt as he reaches around her to grip the cock she is sucking. Hips raise at the touch of rough fingers around his erection and she raises her head before she chokes. She is dripping with arousal, nipples tight, body beginning to glisten with a sheen of sweat as she pushes back against his hand, his lips, his tongue.

A low growl signifies that it’s time. She releases his cock with a soft plop as it falls from her lips, saliva on her lips and chin as she kisses her way up his thin body and positions her cunt above his cock. Gentle hands grip her hips and force her down, his cock thrusting into her, spreading her open as he arches up into her tight heat. He keeps holding her hips, controlling her movements even as he moves behind her.

There is a shift. She gasps as he moves deeper inside her cunt as he holds her tight against his chest. He moves, his legs now bent, sitting up against pillows, his hands tight on her arms as she changes position. Her feet are now on the bed, a cock behind her arse, his hand stroking the cock as he leans over her shoulder. Wet kissing by her ear makes her moan, her fingernails curl against her thigh, and her breasts rub against the soft hair on his chest. There will be bruises on her wrist by morning but she doesn’t care.

Her head falls back against his shoulder as he presses inside her arse. Soon, she is full. They move deep, her body rocks between them, they kiss, she kisses, tongues and hands and teeth and lips. The room is silent save for the sounds they make as they fuck. Harry is gentle with her arse. Severus is rough with her cunt. She’s caught between them, pulled and pushed, willingly giving and taking, wanting and needing.

He spills in her arse, a groan against her neck, his chest sweaty as he rests against her back and pants. He slides out finally, come dripping from her as she finds herself shoved against the mattress. He growls softly and bites her shoulder, her neck, her lips as he thrusts hard and fast, his cock so deep on every shove forward. A rough fingertip rubs her clit and she feels Harry’s breath on her arm as he reaches between them.

She comes with a soft cry, tightening and squeezing, milking his cock as he grunts and spills inside her. They lie there in the tangled sheets damp with sweat and come, silent as they touch and squeeze, reluctant to leave this sanctuary they’ve managed to find.

The End