Continuing Tales

The Catfish

A Harry Potter Story
by Miss Dasti

Part 23 of 25

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You know, Divination was a fool's discipline. Hermione certain of it now. To explain: at this very moment she was basking in a state of absolute bliss, curled up with Lucius Malfoy in a vast, sumptuous bed surrounded by his scent and proprietary arms. She was warm and relaxed and could scarcely recall ever feeling better.

Anyone claiming the ability to predict such a scenario was a total fraud, no doubt about it.

How strange, that most of her friends would be sick if they could see her now… and in choosing to ignore that reality, she was also avoiding the truth—something else she never used to do but now did on a regular basis. She realized it didn't matter whether she was doing it out of selfishness or self-preservation: either way she knew the veneer would crack beneath the slightest inspection. So she did everything short of self-Obliviation to keep the facts at arm's length.

Lucius had carried her all the way to the guestroom. The moment he laid her down on the counterpane she buckled into a deathlike sleep so instantly, she couldn't remember her head hitting the pillow.

At some point she awoke to find herself under the covers, still in her dress and utterly alone. Or so she thought. It took a few seconds, but she found him in the gray dark, lying on the other side of the bed with his back to her. The bed was large enough that she could stretch out her arm to its full length and still miss him with her fingertips.

Merlin, he's so hot. The heat radiated off him like a cherry-red coal… such a contradiction to his usual icy demeanor. She could tell by his breathing he was fast asleep.

It didn't offend her that he'd chosen to lie so far away. Lucius wasn't so different from a cat when it came to the give-and-take of affections; she was grateful he'd chosen to spend the night with her at all—and it didn't stop her from fitting herself against his back and roping an arm around him anyway.

She smiled and breathed in the absolute comfort of the moment. He'd woken up the second she moved, but it seemed tonight he would allow her her liberties.

Not for too long, of course. "You're cold," he grumbled.

"I should think I'd feel cold against you," she murmured back. "You're approaching the melting point of most transition metals."

He tsked and rolled over, and for a second she thought he might get out of bed, but he was just turning to face her, repositioning her so that he was the one bracketing her. "Better. Now be still. It's nearly five in the morning and today is bound to be difficult. You need your rest."

Almost immediately, Hermione felt her temperature skyrocket to match his.

He put on a good show of going back to sleep, but Hermione simply couldn't find a comfortable enough position for her bottom in his lap, so she kept having to wriggle closer until eventually, he clamped an arm around her to hold her still—but not before she got his full attention.

"Be still, or I shall punish you," he growled.

The threat made her want to be anything but still. There was no denying the obvious, what with it pressing hard into her thigh, but she knew this was just a game he wanted to win more than anything. And she'd be damned if she didn't give him some healthy opposition…

Mindful to rub against his raging erection as much as possible, she turned in his arms to leer up at him. He was still pretending to sleep—eyes shut and all—and she wondered if this was how the boys felt in the presence of a veela. This want. How could any woman (or any person really) not want to fuck him on sight?

Well, Ginny called him an evil stork, she thought. Perhaps he's just my own personal veela. He isn't a common sort of handsome. There's the hair, for one. Her smile broadened and she dared brush her fingertips over the vainglorious locks. And his body. He doesn't look like he ran himself through a wire fence. Indeed, there was an elegance to him often absent in those brawny Witch Weekly models. She knew he was fit, he'd proven as much when he'd carried her to bed and she'd felt the firmness through his clothes, but (and she knew he would hate her for thinking it) the lines of his muscles were smooth and lithe. And despite the air of vitality he wore about him like a fine cloak, there were years on him. Years well carried, she thought; years that only added to his appeal. But still, some women would count it against him.

Idly, she wondered why he brought her to the guestroom and not to his own bed. Maybe it had just been less of a walk. He'd been toting her along, after all. And while that was a perfectly acceptable explanation, her mind, always eager to destroy her happiness, quickly supplied a different theory: what if he hadn't wanted to bring her there? What if he didn't want her contaminating his private space? What if he reserved his bed especially for someone else, someone he'd shared it with for many years and still loved and wanted back and will take back the moment the opportunity presents itself—

As if he could sense her starting to melt down, Lucius placed the palm of his hand flat against the side of her head and applied a soft, firm pressure to her scalp. It was strange, but effective: her mind went blank.

"Does it hurt to live with such neurosis?" he purred, his voice exceptionally gravelly. Though his eyes were still shut, a curve had appeared on that wicked mouth.

She huffed and tried to squirm out of his arms—not very hard, mind.

He sighed. "Settle yourself; I only noticed you seemed to be dwelling on something unpleasant. Pray tell, darling."

Despite herself, Hermione felt a hum between her legs. Merlin, he could get me wet at a funeral. She really didn't want to answer him, though, as it might send him away. Or worse, he might give her an honest answer, and when the subject was Narcissa, there was simply too much uncertainty between them to risk it.

So she tried to kiss the smirk off his face instead.

"Hm," he thrummed, taking a moment to enjoy her advance, then pulling away to speak again; she snaked her arms around his neck and managed to get a hand on the back of his head under all that silky hair, holding him fast against her lips. He chuckled and tilted his head up; she gave him a gentle, pouting bite on his exposed throat.

"Miss Granger," he purred, "Do not attempt to use sex to distract me. There's a tired adage I could apply."

Hermione would never be more horny than inquisitive. She stopped kissing a path up his throat to ask, "How does it go?"

He looked down his nose at her, and it was interesting to see him at this angle and not get a hearty dose of condescension. "You can't catch a shrake in a net, as nets are all they know."

Hermione considered. "So in this hypothetical, sex is the net, and you are the shrake, correct? Or am I the net and my sexual advances are the shrake? Or—"

She heard him tsk and suddenly she was lost in his kiss again. They were both flushed and panting when they broke apart, and Hermione was reminded she was knickerless under her dress.

"Hold on," she bleated, "you can't distract me. I'm distracting you."

"I can and will seize control whenever the situation allows," Lucius growled, sinking beneath the covers. "Now for god's sake, woman, be still. There are things I would like to do to you and I'd rather we leave the rough play for another night…"

Rough… play? He didn't give her time to ask; she felt him pull down her dress until both of her breasts swelled out above the neckline and gasped when he sucked non-too-gently on the unprotected flesh. She had to go more or less au naturel since Fergus had supplied her a tourniquet instead of a bra, but now she couldn't've been more thankful for it.

As was his way, Lucius would not share anything, her attention included, and he reclaimed it by taking one of her soft nipples in his mouth and teasing it awake. She leaned into the careful strokes of his tongue and jumped when he nipped her; the pain made a beeline right for her sex, electrifying the hard little bud of her clit, and she found herself flexing her spine and making a noise that was both pained and pining. A few seconds more and he had her dress flung onto the floor; when he found her completely nude underneath, he made a sound of pleasure so erotic she could've melted into the sheets.

He pulled his fingertips in a cruel half-moon around her core, applying just enough pressure to the supple outer lips to draw up her desire but give her little gratification. "Are you wet, I wonder?" he mused. "I wonder…" And she thought (or rather, desperately hoped) he might put one of those lovely fingers inside her. But he did her one better.

Shoving the blankets aside, he shouldered her legs, laid her sex open with his thumbs and after a very personal scrutiny, he murmured, "Oh, yes… how could I have doubted." He blew softly on her clit and she whined. "Look at you flutter. You have such a gorgeous cunt. Even more so when teased…" He gave her a faint smile over the rise of her mons. She sobbed. "Hush now, pet. I would never leave you wanting." And his mouth proceeded to redeem itself twice over for all the hate it had ever pledged.

Hermione closed her eyes and let her head fall back, immersing herself fully in his carnal worship and pushing herself to feel everything, to commit everything to memory so that no matter what happened in the nebulous future, she could always come back to this.

My happy place.

It didn't take long for the pitch of her moans to change. He would make her come with only his lips and tongue but she didn't want to, not now, not empty—she wanted to grip and clutch him and have her release affirmed. He ignored her whimpers; she looked down and saw his eyes were closed and he was very much preoccupied. With some effort she managed to gasp out: "I want you inside me."

How gauche. If she hadn't been so desperate, she would've grimaced at herself.

Though his mouth was currently pressed in a hot open kiss over her bud, she could still detect a smirk there. A finger slide inside her, stroking her inner-walls. It was not what she wanted, and she knew he knew it, but the finger was gone before she could protest and she felt it pressing farther back, into her arse.

She tensed up. Ah. So he'd just been lubricating. It took her a moment to decide whether she liked it; he slid in to his first knuckle and stopped, still working her with his mouth but watching her closely through half-lidded eyes. It was… different. But not off-putting. How could it be, with his tongue stroking all of her hottest nerve-endings and the insertion only magnifying it? When she relaxed, he was emboldened, and slid his finger in to the next knuckle, augmenting the deeper intrusion with two more fingers to her cunt.

He worked her thusly and she couldn't remember ever feeling this sort of good. She was stuffed to the brim, the intrusion in her arse had become a point of brilliant pleasure and the way he worked her sex brought her right to the edge of orgasm at frightening speeds. She had a moment of clarity before the fall—No wait I want to—oh god damn you—but she was too far gone to speak: when she opened her mouth all that came out were the incoherent sounds of a fierce climax.

Lucius sat back, giving her a pleased once-over as he wiped his chin, then (realizing just how saturated he was) reached for his wand to clean himself more thoroughly as she recovered.

"That's not fair," she panted at length. "I wanted your cock inside me, you git."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you complaining—"

"No no," she rushed, "I only wanted—"

"Oh, I know exactly what you wanted." He made a slow, predatory advance on her, impelling her back into the pillows, crawling up her body until their noses brushed. "I can feel it," he murmured, "You're trembling for me." His fingertips slid through her sex again, triggering another spasm like an aftershock.

Abruptly he grabbed her leg under the knee and hiked it over his hip, yanking her against him; his cock found its place immediately as if drawn by a magnet, nestling into her just enough to avoid penetration but still enough to drive her wild. And even though she suspected he had some other trickery in mind she decided to take matters into her own hands: using his broad shoulders as leverage she hoisted herself fully onto his length before he could reposition her again.

He was fully sheathed before he could stop her, and while they both let out sounds of ecstasy at the tightness of their fit, his was tinged with exasperation.

"You can't let me have my fun, can you?" There was a slur to his words, as if he were drunk. Hermione took a moment to appreciate that he was in fact drunk on her.

"Let me have mine for once," she slurred back, pulling him in.

For a messy few seconds all foreplay was abandoned and they simply fucked in lotus. There was no cadence, nobody was in control; they moved and took and gave in a sudden frenzy. Hermione left stripes on his shoulders, imprints of teeth on his ear and a bruise where she'd bit rather hard on his neck when his cock had struck magic inside her. He matched the marks with purple love-bites to her breasts and a row of hand-shaped bruises on her hips.

Hermione felt it was a homecoming of sorts: reuniting of their bodies had unleashed a floodgate that wouldn't be calmed, not by anything.

Except, of course, Lucius' compulsive need to control everything.

Hermione was just zoning in on her second orgasm when he lifted her out of his lap, lying her back in the pillows none too gently. Hermione made a noise that was both mad and despairing, but quieted when he did something curious: he laid on his side, so their bodies formed a right angle, and made an interesting knot of their legs. Hers were bent, one lying over his hip and the other planted firmly on the mattress, and he crisscrossed them with his own.

She frowned at the configuration, but there was no pause for questions: Lucius pushed his cock back inside her, steadily so that she felt every inch, and she let out a wondering, gasping groan. In this position, she was experiencing the formidable width of him at a completely different angle than usual, and oh, this was—how did this feel so—new? He was stimulating nerves she hadn't realized existed; it felt, for lack of a better word, sweet. Whatever he was doing was working terribly well and now she was awash in this bright, trilling sensation that was completely different from―yet somehow reminiscent of―sugar on the tongue.

The look on his face as he watched her reaction was so smug, she normally would've wanted to slap him, but for once she thought it was well-earned.

He fucked her slowly in this position, moving only a few inches, and it was glorious agony. She dug her heels into him and fought for more, pled with him to take her harder and faster, begged him to end the saccharine torture, but he only put a hand over her mouth. Which was just as well, because when she came it was lightning through her veins and she would've woken the whole Manor with her screams. Tears stung her eyes; her clit had become hypersensitive and thank god Lucius did not last much longer than her, because if he had continued it would have done her real harm.

She loved watching him come. He was so magnificent. In her seemingly endless orgasm she had his cock locked in a deathgrip and, by virtue of their position, every jolting contraction felt amplified; he was gasping and groaning and riding her through and with each pump she gripped him harder—she could feel his cum dripping out of her, painting them both in thick, hot white, pure

They came down slowly together, muscles loosening each in turn until they both lay boneless and panting in the rumpled bedclothes. Eventually Lucius spoke. "That was… rather effective. I had not guessed you were so very partial to being fucked sideways, Miss Granger. Interesting." With some effort Hermione lifted her head to frown at him. He was watching her through half-lidded eyes, and his expression was nothing if not satisfied.

"What's interesting?"

"Well… not everyone has identical reactions to every touch or position. Some are stimulated more by certain angles—that is to say, people have favorites that work well for them. And if I am not mistaken, we've found one to which your body is… very receptive. Of course, I had been curious…"

"Had you?"

"Yes. Curious to discover you… what you enjoy, what strikes the deepest chords in you. And I had hoped you were open to trying new things. After all, you may be surprised to learn what your body enjoys…"

She laughed a little breathlessly. "If you're asking whether or not I'd be willing to experiment with you, then yes. Absolutely."

His eyes sharpened. "Oh?" Gently, he untangled their legs and slid up the bed to lie beside her on the pillows, stroking his fingertips over her clavicle and around her breast, his lovely mouth pressed to her shoulder. "Well, aren't you the proper little deviant. Tell me: what is the farthest you have ventured beyond the—ah—confines of the norm?"

She hesitated. "You mean, the most I've tried besides vanilla?"

He smiled a bit wryly at her semantics. "Let me ask you this: have you ever required a safe word?"

She flushed. "No."

He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Well if you want to experiment with me, darling, you may need one." At the look on her face, he tossed his head back and laughed. "Oh calm down, my dear, I'm not going to string you up from the rafters and beat you with an oar. I do like to play rough, yes, but as I said before I should like to leave it for another time… and only if you want it." He reached up to tilt her head and kiss her deeply, silencing the sudden whirlwind in her mind. "It is a playful suggestion, my dear," he murmured, "Not a warning, and certainly not an ultimatum."

She relaxed, and pulled him in for another kiss. They remained that way for some time, luxuriating in each other until Hermione felt an insistent nudging in her side. Lucius was moving in to nibble at her ear when he paused, glancing down at Hermione's hand wrapped tight around his cock. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly.

"Once again, pet?"

"Yes," Hermione muttered. Then she added thoughtfully, "But can we… try something?"


Astoria smiled to herself as she prepared to feed Scorpius. "Yes, again, you prick. He needs just a few ounces, but he has to eat every few hours until he's old enough to nurse. It won't be long. The Developing Drought's done wonders for him, his lungs are completely functional now and soon we'll be able to get rid of the Bubble."

Draco did not take his face out of his hands but he kept talking. "You don't need to tell me that. He's already louder than that godforsaken airstrike siren you've stuck him in—in fact, what do we even need it for?"

Astoria sighed, patting her poor, bedraggled husband on the shoulder. "He's strong, but not strong enough to stay outside the Bubble very long. It keeps him warm. Just be patient."

She knew better than to get worked up over Draco's tone. He wasn't trying to sound resentful, and he wasn't upset at Scorpius—he was just exhausted beyond his limits and even at the best of times, she'd never known him to be tactful.

When he didn't respond, she leaned into him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Do you want to try feeding him this time?"

Draco pulled his face out of his hands and looked at her. For a moment he seemed unsure of what he'd just heard: his eyes darted from her smiling face to the bassinette and back, wide and full of doubt. "Yeah, no," he said eventually, "all of that stuff—that's for you to do."

"Oh come on, it's not hard. I can teach you and then we can take it in shifts."

He realized that she was giving him an opportunity to be useful and some of the tension leeched out of him. That's what he liked, Draco: he'd never seize a chance to help but he lived for someone to ask. Now he was bound to take one of two paths. Either he'd double-down on his first answer out of pure bullheadedness, or he'd comply, but with a hearty dose of his own distinctive sense of humor.

"No offense, Tor," he drawled, casting a quick look over her, "I know it's been awhile after all, but as much as I'd love a chance to squeeze those gorgeous tits again I'd rather not do it over our son's face. Kind of a turnoff. Sorry if that's your thing."

Option Two it was, then.

Astoria smiled wide and leaned very close into her husband's face. "Either you learn to feed this baby," she whispered, "or I'm going to snap from the sleep deprivation and give him to Fergus to raise."

Draco straighten up. "So you do it with a spell, yeah? Which one? And how do I open this Bubble thing?"


Astoria, Draco and Scorpius all jumped at the sound of the window shattering; Scorpius burst into a fresh wave of tears. Something large and white hurdled across the room and crashed into the tapestry above the fireplace, falling to the hearthrug in a shower of feathers; Astoria leaped in front of Scorpius' bassinette and Draco leaped in front of her, and they both began talking at once.

"What the fuck is that?!"

"Oh my god—"

"Tori, the baby—"

"It's a bird, it's one of the peacocks—"

Draco edged closer. "That's—that's Fairway. There's a letter tied to him."

Astoria caught his arm. "Don't open it. You don't know what's in there."

"It's got our names on," he said, peering at the address on the front. He pulled out of her grasp and untied the letter from Fairway's leg.

"Is it dead?" Astoria whispered.

Draco frowned at the bird. "Yes. I can't see damage to him other than what the window did… looks like an Avada." As he unraveled the letter, Astoria took a tentative peek out the window. She could see Fergus standing out there in the middle of the lawn looking gobsmacked; as soon as he spotted her, he straightened up and began shouting at the other elves to re-secure the premises.

Draco inhaled sharply, crumpling the letter and shoving it into his pocket. "Fairway never leaves the yard. They got in somehow. Get the baby into the hall lavatory, it hasn't got windows—I've got to take this to Father."

"Draco, wait—"

But he was already racing off down the hall.

Draco hurtled through the main East Wing corridor, having found the study and master bedroom both empty and now following only a vague inkling of where his father might be. He hadn't been at the Manor properly for ages, but he still knew it better than the little flat he shared with Tori; he also knew all his father's haunts within it, having shadowed the man for the better part of his life. With each step he muttered a curse at the man for being impossible to come by only when he was needed.

He burst through the solarium doors, nearly taking them off their hinges; the Manor's newest house-elf (who'd been busy tending to the perennials) dropped its watering can and screamed.

"You," he snapped at it, because he couldn't be assed to keep up with all their stupid-fuck names, "where is my father?"

It looked terrified. "Begging your pardon, sir, Virgil doesn't―er―I doesn't know."

He glowered at it. "Well can you explain why you're in here pissing about when there's been a major security breach and all the other elves are outside dealing with it?"

"Virgil isn't―I isn't hearing of any security breach, sir."

Draco frowned, having a sudden suspicion. "What's my name?"

It was like he'd asked the elf to turn itself inside out. The eyes, already grotesquely large, bulged in its shriveled little head. "Sir?"

"All the other elves know my name," Draco snarled. "So what's my name? Or have you forgotten who you're pretending to work for?"

The elf made a sudden movement as if to apparate, but Draco lunged in and grabbed it by the skinny little neck. "Fergus!" he roared. "You let in a mole!"

There was a crack (Virgil squealed and twisted in Draco's fist) and Fergus appeared, looking thoroughly harassed. "What?" he spat, his eyes flashing between Draco and his captive. "What's the meaning of this?"

Draco lifted the elf and shook it. "You just gave Francis' old position to this thing, didn't you? Did you bother to check its background?"

Fergus peered skeptically at Virgil. "My hiring process is very involved. Of course," he smiled a grim, terrifying smile, pushing aside Draco's hand so he could take hold of Virgil himself, "I could always double-check."

"Wait!" Draco cut in before Fergus could apparate, "Do you know where my father is?"

For the tiniest fraction of a second, Fergus hesitated. "I believe he went to the guest suite I issued to Miss Granger."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"He had some business to discuss with her." Fergus' face might have been deadpan, but there was something in his tone that Draco didn't trust. Before he could press further, however, Fergus bent his gaze back on Virgil, who was standing there looking ready to piss himself. "Shall we?" With a mocking gesture and a sharp snap, Fergus apparated away.

Draco knew, as a rule, he should never trust Fergus. He knew that twisted little fuck lived to make his life hell. Still, Draco never realized just how depraved Fergus was―not until today.

It was easy enough to find the suite, and Draco walked in without knocking because, well, it was his house. He would live to regret that decision a thousand times over. To be fair, the two people occupying said room were the absolute last two people on the planet he would expect to find in a compromising situation. Why should he have thought to knock? Who could ever expect the horrors in store?

The door had been cracked so he entered without noise. As soon as he was inside, he froze, staring uncomprehendingly. The scene playing out in front of him was total nonsense. When at last he was able to (literally) make heads or tails of it, his first thought was that he was witnessing a ghastly crime. He felt as if someone had punched him full-force in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. It was not long, however, before he realized this―whatever this was―was not violence. No, those were not the movements and sounds of torture and distress. But it was still a crime. A crime against humanity.

When Astoria found Draco sitting hunched against the wall near his father's study, she feared the worst. She approached her husband with a deep sense of trepidation, sitting beside him and, after a time, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Did something happen?"

"Yes," Draco bit off. He looked devastated. Astoria knew what must have happened: he must have received word that his mother had been killed.

"Oh Draco," she said, leaning in to wrap her arms around him, "I'm so sorry."

He leaned into her touch, and his mouth thinned to a hard line, as if he were holding back tears. "It just… doesn't make sense."

"You can't make sense out of things like this," she soothed. "I am so sorry, Draco. How… how did you find out?"

He turned tortured eyes to her. "I saw it."

Tori gasped. "They did it here? In front of you?"

"Yes," Draco choked out. "In my house!"

"Well what happened? Did you chase them off? Are they gone?"

"No! They're―they're still going at it!"

"Wait, still? They're still around?" Tori clambered to her feet and drew her wand.

Draco looked at her, dazed. "Are you… hold on, are you going to break them up?"

Clearly her husband was in deep shock. And Merlin only knew where Lucius and Granger were. Tori knew she would have to duel Raleigh's cronies―perhaps Raleigh himself―alone. "I've got to! Where are they, Draco?"

"Oh god, please no!" Draco was on his feet now, grabbing for her arms. "Stay here―don't―just leave them alone―"

She gaped at him. "Why in Merlin's name would I leave them alone? Draco, our son is right down the stairs! I've got to protect him!"

Now he looked confused. "Protect him from what? Wait, what are we talking about right now?"

"I'm talking about you seeing Raleigh and his pals killing your mother! What are you talking about?"

Draco stared at her long and hard. "Yeah, I was talking about that too."

"Draco Malfoy, if you don't tell me what you were talking about right now so help me―"

"I can't… don't make me say it!" Draco moaned. "Just―it's nothing to do with my mum, okay?"

"Draco, we don't have time for this. Your mother is in danger and there was a security breach here." Ignoring his protests, Tori squared her shoulders and pushed her way into the guestroom.

"Oh god," Hermione whimpered, "yes―"

Lucius growled, grabbing her at the bend of her elbows and pulling her arms back, forcing her to arch; had she not been blindfolded, their eyes would've met. He straddled both her legs and drove into the amplified tightness between them, his eyes darting between her slack face to the hot, wet point of their joining. He clenched his teeth to bite back a groan as her pussylips gripped him hard on each pull-out; if he pulled too far, he could make out the ridge of his corona through the stretched flesh. It was too much; he realized he would come too soon.

He was just thumbing the little ring of her arsehole and debating whether or not a numbing charm would be enough to get him inside when there was a flicker of motion in his peripherals. He looked around and saw Astoria standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. He froze mid-thrust, experienced a moment of chagrin at being discovered in such an inappropriate situation, then seriously considered… "plowing on," as it were.

"Oh no god Lucius," Hermione gasped, wriggling underneath him, "I'm so close, I'm so close, please don't stop please…"

Lucius glanced from Astoria to Hermione and back―then, deciding to pretend his daughter-in-law didn't exist, he grabbed the back of Hermione's neck, forced her down so she was fully prone and rode her hard right over her peak.

"Oh my god," Astoria scoffed, barely audible over Hermione's coming, "I hate to break this up but we have a situation out here!"

Lucius did not appear to have a firm grasp of the English language anymore: he'd buried his face in the crook of Hermione's shoulder and was very obviously in the middle of his vinegar strokes, Astoria might as well have been barking at him. But underneath him, Hermione was slowly reemerging from her sexual high, and the first thing she did was tug down her blindfold.

Astoria had never seen anyone look so horrified. Hermione was incapable of speech―incapable of doing anything, really, except staring with her mouth hanging open, her face as red as a fried tomato, and Lucius didn't seem much inclined to break the silence, either.

Well, at least they got through it this time, Astoria thought wryly. "Somebody got into the yard. They killed one of the peacocks and they sent a message with it, apparently Raleigh has Narcissa and is holding her hostage. We need to act. Fast. Draco and I will be waiting in the hall." She turned and left.

The room was silent as a mortuary in her wake.

Hermione could still feel Lucius pulsing inside of her, could still feel her sex flutter and spasm around him, and it was like he was reading her mind when he grumbled, "That woman could have better timing." In a moment he'd withdrawn and slid off the bed to locate his clothes; Hermione sat up and self-consciously drew the sheets around her, even though they were now alone.

"What are we going to do?" she asked him. "Go to Arles?"

"I," he placed a delicate stress on the vowel, "am going to Arles, yes."

Immediately she felt a rush of indignation. "You can't be thinking of leaving me behind?"

"I am."

"That isn't fair. I'm responsible for this mess. I want to help."

He frowned at her. "I realize that hanging around Potter has given you a martyr complex and an insatiable addiction to adrenaline but I see no reason why I should enable you. For what it's worth"―he pulled on a shirt and began doing up the buttons―"I don't hold you accountable for any of this."

Hermione scowled. "I'm coming. And it's final. Merlin, men and their egos…"

He gave her a sideways look. "Fine. But we follow my lead." He tugged his sleeves straight and made to leave the room, stopping only when Hermione called after him: "Um, Lucius?"

He glanced back at her.

"I don't have any proper clothes."

He smirked. "And?" The look she gave him only seemed to amuse him more. "Settle down. I'll have different garments brought up. But dress quickly; we leave for France at once."

The Catfish

A Harry Potter Story
by Miss Dasti

Part 23 of 25

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