Continuing Tales

The Catfish

A Harry Potter Story
by Miss Dasti

Part 16 of 25

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The guestroom was finally back to its original state of irreproachability. Hermione cast a Rennervate over Belgium, but the dog remained fast asleep, drained by the emotional roller-coaster of yesterday.

"You and me both." Hermione levitated the poor beast onto the freshly made guest bed to sleep it off. Crookshanks leapt up to join her, and the two dozed just as companionably as ever. They really were an odd match—but not, she supposed, the oddest in the apartment…

Hermione went back into the living room with a book and a mug of tea. She supposed she'd have to write Belby now, make sure he knew she was still alive… she had more than a reasonable amount of accumulated vacation time: perhaps now was the time to dip into it. All this would eventually go towards furthering her career, wouldn't it? The card Ink had given her was lying on the table in the kitchen; she'd have to sit down with Lucius to decide what exactly they should do with it. It wasn't a business card, as she'd originally thought. Every inch of it was black and she couldn't find a single bit of text on it. Perhaps he'd given her a blank by accident, damn him.

She'd set her mug down and was just opening her book when Lucius came into the room. He'd cleaned up—his hair was still damp—but it seemed he'd forgotten to put on clothes because all he wore was a towel around his waist and a look of such intensity it made her recoil a bit inside. She checked his eyes: normal enough pupils. The Doxie must've worn off.

"Lucius?" She stood up, stepped nervously towards him. He didn't respond. "What—?"

"I think," he said, dragging the words out into a long, languid drawl, "you and I should address this elephant in the room, Miss Granger. Because frankly I've had enough."

And he stalked towards her, slow and predatory, undoing his towel and tossing it carelessly aside as he neared. She gasped aloud and took a staggering step back, shocked voiceless by the sudden attack. To an outsider she was sure her reaction must've looked exaggerated, comical even, but Lucius didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice. She tried not to stare at him as she continued to back away from his menacing advance, but he was so damn aesthetically pleasing, the lines of him so gorgeously drawn it was impossible not to gawk a little. He moved up upon her and grabbed her by the forearms, shoving her back, down, down onto the couch. Her legs were knocked out from under her and she yelped a little as she fell, Lucius on top of her.

And then, slowly, so slowly it was mesmerizing, he lowered his face to hers. She couldn't look anywhere but his eyes—dark gray, witheringly intense, so deep she felt a swoop of vertigo, closer and closer. A thought flitted across her mind of the magical boas in India, how they'd hypnotize villagers with just their eyes, and subdue them with a life-crushing embrace and a single bite. She was about to be subdued, she knew it—he was locking her in, she couldn't look away, there was no escape.

So close now—instinctively she flitted her tongue over her lips in preparation for the absolute bliss that she'd come to associate with his kiss, but at the last moment he gave her an indolent smirk, those eyes bright with amusement, and moved aside, down, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, dragging those demon's lips in a feather-light arc to her shoulder. The soft touch ignited every tender nerve-ending in her body. She gasped again, but it was a very different sound now, and followed up almost immediately by a whimper as he nipped the gentle sloping of her neck at the base near her shoulder.

"Do you want this?" Was it really a question? She couldn't tell if he was asking consent or talking dirty, the low rumble of seduction seemed perpetually in his voice—but either way, as he whispered the words into her collarbone, all of his lovely, hypnotic movements stopped, every bit of him froze, and that was a tragedy. While her brain tried to make sense of his words (as they didn't register right away) she noticed for the first time that he was absolutely draped over her, nearly all of his weight pressing her into the couch; he was heavy, but it was such a delicious weight she hardly even noticed. His need was evident; a blush rose into her already red cheeks as she noticed his length pressed against her inner-thigh. He'd somehow settled between her legs without her even being aware. Really, those eyes—they shouldn't be allowed.

She swallowed and looked back into them, felt another great swooping of vertigo, and said in a voice that was more a puff of air than an actual word, "Yes."

The eyes sharpened.

He ripped her blouse up over her head in such a sudden, violent movement that she gasped in shock again, for a moment frightened—then dizzy with lust. He dealt with her trousers in similar fashion, abrading her with his roughness; her bra and knickers followed suit, he barely glanced at them; then, to her surprise, he slid back off her and looked down at her face, her body, studying her properly, proprietarily, drinking her in with slow semicircles of his cold, gray eyes.

She reddened even more under his gaze, tried to cover herself but it was halfhearted; she had no idea why she was feeling so absurdly shy now, he'd seen her naked before. But not like this. She could've fooled herself that he hadn't actually looked earlier, but not this time around. When her hands tried to slide in front of her breasts and sex, he glared at her, reached in and forced them away again, so brutally that she didn't try a second time.

He leaned in, and with his fingertips, traced the lines of her face, her lips, her jaw, over her closed eyes (which snapped open again as soon as his touch had passed), down her neck and over the hollow of her throat, around the curve of her breasts and the aching peaks of her nipples; he ran his hands down over her ribs (she juddered a little) and the slope of her waist, lower, lower over her hips and thighs, finally coming to rest on either side of her knees.

"Good god, but aren't you beautiful," he murmured, his assessment of her complete. "Just… exquisite. You have no idea what you do to me."

Well, she had some idea, if his raging erection was anything to judge off, but it was his praise that had her nearly weeping: he'd spoken with such heartfelt sincerity, such soft hunger in his eyes, it reduced her to a puddle of schmaltz on the couch covers. They locked gazes, and he leaned in to kiss her—never gently, always with a sharp touch of teeth and a coarseness that left her reeling when he drew back. Nevertheless, it was done for her. They both knew it.

His sentimentality didn't last long. With a growl he grabbed her legs and hiked them up around his waist, yanking her in, angling her body up so her sex was exposed to him, wet and blushing. He gazed down at it, and with a slight frown that she found bizarrely endearing, reached in with a hand and slid his fingers between her lips, parting her, sliding up to circle her clitoris.

She'd been wrong. She thought that perhaps Narcissa's body had been more sexually receptive than hers—like perhaps her nerves were more sensitive or something. But that was definitely not true. As Lucius ran the pad of his thumb over Hermione's most sensitive spot, she knew it was just him that drew such dizzying reactions out of her, whether she was in Narcissa's skin or her own. In fact, she'd dare to say it was even more intense this way, because now she was Hermione Granger, and he was looking at her body, lavishing attention on her flesh with such amorous focus. He was hard for her. And it was making her brain spin in her skull.

"Lucius," she panted. His eyes darted up at her, minnow-like, then back down; he understood the plea, and holy Merlin on cocaine, he was going to oblige.

With another yank on her lower half, he was lined up with her, the head of his cock nestling into the wet fire between her legs; she made a noise like a baby bird and her eyes shot up to his face, but he was zeroed in on the point of contact like his life depended on it. He rocked his hips, nudging her apart—and—fuck—he'd pressed in, the dark crown of his cock had vanished into her—and then he was suddenly leaning down, grabbing the back of her neck and thrusting once, twice, ten times, driving fully into her unyielding body while she howled and writhed against him. In no time at all the room was filled with the sharp slap of his pelvis on her loins, her buttocks against his thighs: he was totally encapsulated. She'd taken every inch of him and she had no idea where to put it all.

Jesus, it hurt. It hurt badly—almost as bad as the loss of her virginity, but unlike then, it also felt lusciously, deliriously good. The ache of his violent intrusion mingled in heady harmony with a ringing pleasure so strong, she realized this couldn't possibly last very long, at least not for her. No doubt the pain came from her not having gotten any in god knew how long, that and the previous dick she'd had in her wasn't anything like the one tearing her apart now. He was so thick he was killing her. She knew she was making quite a bit of noise, all of it incoherent; Lucius, for his part, didn't seem to be listening to her cries of mingled dismay and delight. In fact he seemed to have become quite deaf since he buried himself to the hilt in her. He'd tilted his head back and exhaled at the ceiling, delirious as he crashed against her, unfazed by the drag of her nails down his arms, unmoved by her wailing. She locked her legs around him and writhed, half of her desperately trying to adjust while the other half struggled to match his pace. He didn't slow and he didn't acknowledge her frantic movements, just went on hewing her open as if he'd been born especially for the task and nothing in the world was going to deter him.

Tears had just slipped free of her lashes, overwhelmed tears—she'd never been taken so hard, it had never been like this, it was too much, wasn't it? But no thought of stopping him even crossed her mind; that would be an apocalypse, surely the end of the world. When Lucius reached in to the point of their juncture and began massaging her clit in tight, fast circles, the tone of Hermione's cries changed almost immediately. Boiling pleasure now far overpowered the pain, coursing in powerful waves through her veins, and suddenly it was more than she could handle. The sensations waging war on her sex was enough to make her cling to him as if for dear life—no more scrabbling, no more trying to adjust, he was now her only life-line in this storm and all she could do was hold on. The slide of his cock grew potently sweet between her thighs, abetting he burn he drew from her clit. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and pulled him, if possible, closer, arching into him, moaning and gasping and rocking into each forceful shove of his hips.

He was looking at her now, scanning her face; he looked beautiful, an archangel, glowing and vibrant, his lips parted, his face all smooth loose pleasure; evidently he got some kind of cue from her own expression because without warning he hoisted her legs up over his shoulders, tugged her further under him, bent her in half and started to rut her in earnest. She screamed and scratched at his back, crosshatching the canvas of his skin in pinks and—as he pistoned harder and began to strike something extrasensory inside her—reds. She could feel everything. God, to have a mirror mounted on the ceiling now—

Lucius, hitherto silent aside from a few deep sighs, arched his neck and moaned. She'd never heard a man sound more superbly pleased about anything. His lunges slowed and, as their movements became more deliberate, more languid and sensual, in the same moment they both shuddered, as if hit with a chill. Hermione could finally see why people became addicted to sex; it used to mystify her. No, here, with this man, she understood at last what it meant to forget the line between your own skin and someone else's. They were practically tailored for each other. It felt so insanely good—so sweet. Even though he was laying into her more slowly, every shift of his cock still sent pleasure radiating from her sex in glittering ripples.

But in no time she was squirming again, trying to get him to increase the tempo. He resisted—stalling when she dug her heels into his buttocks and tried to force him. Her cunt was singing, trilling but the pleasure had hit a torturous plateau from this pace—was he doing it on purpose? She tried to focus on his expression—it was hard to process any other sensory input outside of her thighs at the moment—and when she saw he was smirking she knew.


He breathed a quiet, sinister laugh at her admonishment. "I detect some distress, Miss Granger."

"Is this some kind of game to you?" she snarled up at him. He only laughed—a full, melodious laugh she might've otherwise enjoyed if it hadn't been at her expense, and he went on plunging away at her at his own fucking leisure until she was nearly crying from the glorious agony of it. He was getting a kick out of her suffering; she could feel him twitching inside her with every other thrust and she knew he must've been closing in on his own orgasm.

"Oh, fuck you," she groaned. A glow of sweat had broken on both their bodies, easing the blazing friction between them; the place of their joining was a hot mess and Hermione could feel her arousal sluicing down her buttocks, painting her inner thighs, slicking up the ridges of his hipbones. She couldn't remember ever being so ridiculously wet—

"Very well," he breathed back, and with a rough motion that had her stomach turning somersaults, he'd reversed them, rolling onto his back and yanking her up so she was on top. It was so sudden and jarring that he nearly slipped out, and she nearly fell right off the couch. He steadied her with a reassuring hand, looking at her expectantly; it was extraordinarily strange, being above him, looking down on the supremely arrogant face that normally had several inches on her. He didn't look terribly arrogant now. No, lying there like that with a pink blush in his finely carved cheekbones and damp tendrils of pale hair splayed around him, he looked somehow more human than ever. When she'd gone on gawking for a few seconds too long, he purred with a lilt of amusement, "Well? Go on then. Fuck me."

His tone niggled her a bit, and she gave him a vindictive squeeze, dragging herself off him and then pistoning back down, once, coarsely, her hands splayed on his chest. He let out a little gasp and his eyes rolled slightly in their sockets, and for a second he looked wonderstruck, and she realized then that they may not have been on such uneven footing after all. This felt just as good to him as it did to her. She supposed it should've been obvious before, but having finally realized it, she felt a great upwelling of confidence, empowerment—they were equals, she was a match for him. So she rode him, and by god, he loved it.

Hermione wasn't usually a fan of being on top. She'd always found it cumbersome and had never derived much pleasure from it—but at that point she'd given up trying to compare her prior knowledge about sex to whatever the hell Lucius did to her. As far as she was concerned, this was a completely different act. Those brutally hot hands splayed over her hipbones, gripping her tight as she rolled on his cock; they slid up her body, between her bouncing breasts, pressing on her, urging her to lean back; she acquiesced to the shift in position, moving her hands from the firmness of his chest to his thighs; as she arched her back, Lucius increased the tempo of his counterthrusts, moving in perfect discordance to her own, and as he was prone to doing, the man struck gold: Hermione broke the strangled silence with a full-bodied cry of ecstasy as the length of his cock stroked some glorious place inside of her, continuously, again and again, the frisson mounting with each pounding lurch of his hips, and she couldn't keep quiet, the neighbors were likely to hear, but nothing had ever concerned her less—

When she came, her entire body seemed to experience it all at once; a full, sweeping plunge of everything. She cried out again, choked and strangled; the air seemed to have been wrung from her. For some unidentifiable amount of time—perhaps only a few seconds, perhaps a day or two—she became so absorbed in the thundering heat of her release that she didn't notice Lucius grabbing her chin and forcing her to look down at him as she came; she was aware only of the rigid length of cock still pounding in and out of her clenching sex in faster, harder cycles, until his hands were on her hips again pressing her down on him with enough strength to bruise, and he followed her into oblivion. She'd never felt anything quite so delicious as him twitching inside her while she came down off her coital high—and his gasping, groaning reaction as he did it? To die for.

When the last judder of his orgasm died off, a calm settled on them, thick and intoxicating. They remained in position, blinking, like they'd both been hit by a train and were too stunned in the aftermath to react. Hermione finally settled herself down on his chest, overcome with sudden exhaustion, and his arms came around her almost reverently; he rolled so that they lay facing each other on the couch, their noses an inch apart, swapping breath, touching everywhere. As she returned from the glorious place he'd flung her, a little reality settled in, and with it, a most unwelcome rush of anxiety.

Merlin's balls. She'd just had sex with Lucius Malfoy. Phenomenal sex. But while she'd been a blissful blank slate all throughout, there were now a million and one things jostling to the fore of her brain, like a murder of crows descending on a carcass. Malfoy was the very last person she should be shacking up with—and shacking up was the very last activity she should've been pursuing at a time like this! All the virulent seduction in the world hadn't made him any more right for her than before. He was still a criminal, still a bigot and his life was still an unnavigable rat's nest. He was still older, still abhorred by her friends, unsuitable for any sort of long-term commitment—she nearly laughed at the thought. But Hermione had never exactly dabbled much in "casual sex." She thought suddenly about tomorrow, or next week, or after they'd sent Raleigh and Ink and the whole lot of them in prison—would Lucius pretend this never happened? Would he treat her with the same frostiness as before? Could he possibly still hate her? And in the end, would he just up and leave, goodbye, good riddance?

Logical as ever, her brain presented her with the answer: yes, that would be the only way, the only thing that made sense. And how could she possibly handle that? He'd just ruined her. Given her a taste of what her body could do, of what she could experience—and now he was going to take it away.

Lucius' eyes had closed, but they reopened now and focused on her, all drowsiness gone, as if he could detect her sharp downward spiral in the shift of her breath. She couldn't bear to look into those eyes now. As far as she was concerned he was practically already a traitor. She opened her mouth, partially to ask him to move so she could get up—and found his lips on hers.

At first she resisted, hounded by her doubts. But something changed. Something about this kiss was different. There were a lot of unsaid things behind it; she could feel them stirring just out of reach, just behind the veil of his eyes, which were, like hers, still partly opened as their mouths moved together. Perhaps he couldn't speak his mind frankly here, so open and exposed in front of her, without the buffer of Polyjuice or Doxie or even clothing. Perhaps he was trying to do so now. So she gave in a little, closing her eyes, and he drug her back beneath the surface, deep into himself.

Yes, this was different. This was sincere and vulnerable and real—reassuring—a glimpse of him she rarely saw. His hands were moving on her in deferential strokes, somehow more intimate than sexual, clutching tenderly, pulling her close. She touched him back, running fingers tactilely over his velveteen skin, tracing the lines she'd raised on his back in the throes of lust.

She could've wept. The babble in her mind slowly quieted, replaced now by something small and fragile and even more terrible in its own way.

Oh, you're a cruel man, Lucius Malfoy, she thought hazily, smiling despite herself against this lips. How dare you give me hope.

"So when you said we should 'address this elephant in the room,' you weren't talking about your… part… were you?"

A ringing silence hung in the air. Hermione almost regretted speaking as soon as she had. They'd been lying together, kissing, massaging, and quite frankly snuggling when you got right down to it; it was so bizarre to see Lucius being this affectionate, or looking at her with that much warmth, though even in this he wasn't terribly maudlin: he'd surprise her with a bite or a rough repositioning of their bodies every now and again, his eyes going steely, predatory, and in those moments she was reminded that she wasn't playing with a kitten. She found that she liked it. There was something so delicious about being intimate with such an intimidating figure; it was intoxicating. She'd gotten so drunk off it, in fact, she'd gone and blurted the first funny thought that had occurred to her. She'd said it without even pausing to consider how he'd react.

Damn her bloody mouth.

Lucius, who had been nibbling a tingling line up the ridge of her ear, paused, and looked at her in such disbelief she didn't know whether to laugh at his expression or die of embarrassment. Then he laughed—so suddenly it surprised her. It was soft laughter, more incredulous than anything, but it grew in strength when he took in her expression of mingled fear and embarrassment. The sound was infectious; in no time Hermione found herself giggling right along with him, burying her face against his chest. She could feel the catharsis—the shared relief.

"Oh dear," he said, his throaty voice so deliciously tinged with mirth that she instinctively snuggled closer, "What do you think of me? Really. I hadn't initially, but now I'm going to say yes. That is exactly what I meant." He stretched against her, rolling his broad shoulders, and then made to pull away. Hermione reached for her wand and cast a quick cleansing charm on them, both having still borne the unmistakable signs of a thorough sexing. But as she made to return it to the side table, movement caught the corner of her eye. She spun around and had to stifle a scream.

Belgium was sitting in the mouth of the hall, staring at Hermione and her master with a haunted look in her blue eyes. Crookshanks sat beside her, glaring at them with irritable disapproval. At Hermione's reaction, Lucius had stiffened and turned around sharply, too, but relaxed at the sight of the animals. He even snorted out soft laughter.

"Away, Belgium," he ordered, flicking his fingers. The dog obeyed, but she was still hollow-eyed as she moved off, like a traumatized war veteran. Crookshanks huffed and sauntered off after her, clearly put out by all their inappropriate behavior.

"Oh my god," Hermione breathed. "They—they weren't watching, were they?"

Lucius chuckled again. "I didn't notice them at the door when we turned over. But I could perform an Obliviate, to be sure?" When she continued to look mortified, he tutted impatiently. "Oh come now Miss Granger, I'm sure the animals, who walk around naked and do their business in the streets, will forgive us our indiscretion. Don't fret so much. It depresses the immune system."

She couldn't help but match his wry smirk. She stretched, and her smile broadened despite herself when he drew her extended body in for a last embrace, pecking a kiss to her breast.

Then he rose and gathered up his towel, and she her clothes, recovering themselves; almost immediately after slinging it back around his hips he returned to her on the couch and settled near her—their familiarity now tacit. She supposed she should've found it strange, but she didn't. It felt natural, sitting there with him, leaning into him even, his arm around her, his hand at her hip. It made no sense. But it felt so good.

"Tell me about last night," he purred. She glanced at him; he was serious now, and under the seriousness she could detect just a hair of concern. "I hope you were safe? I had ordered an elf to keep close watch on you but in the chaos of last night, I'm not sure if it was done. Ink is an unsavory character. I would not prefer it if you were ever alone with him."

"It's necessary," Hermione said. "If we're going to succeed he's got to let his guard down a little, and for that, we've got to be alone." She sighed and reached for her abandoned tea. It was cold now.

"Did he do anything to you?"

She nearly shivered at the low menace in his voice. "We had a conversation, nothing else, I was almost afraid the whole night would be a waste because he wouldn't let anything slip, but then he gave me this"—she waved her wand, summoning the card and handing it to him—"and said I should be in touch. I thought it was a business card but it's not. Do you know what it is?"

Lucius scowled at it, turning it in his hands. Eventually he nodded. "It's a catcalling card. You may use it to send messages, and when activated on both ends, it can act as a Portkey." He tossed it down on the coffee table and sighed, leaning back into the couch, drawing her with him. "It is enough. That will be our ticket into Ink's private life—or rather, your ticket."

His eyes darkened. "Their deliberate attack on me is worrisome. They are getting restless and that is not good—I had not anticipated their acting so boldly against me so early. It must be because Draco is becoming even more impressionable. I don't know if they will call another meeting soon, but if they do, it may be to kill me—unless they lose Draco. They need one of us in order to hold the company and maintain their front." He looked at her, solemn. "We have to capture him. Bring him someplace safe, make him disappear. With him out of the picture, they will be forced to keep me alive—and that will bide us time enough for you to ingrain yourself with Ink. But we must act quickly. After last night, we will not have so much leisure time to plan—and Draco will not come quietly."

The Catfish

A Harry Potter Story
by Miss Dasti

Part 16 of 25

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