# Gryffindor Boys' NEWT Reward
## Chapter 2
The portrait swung shut behind them, sealing the room in silence. The fire had been stoked—someone had prepared this—and the flames cast dancing shadows across the couches, the windows, the five men standing in a loose semicircle.
Hermione stood at the center, Ron's hand still pressed against her lower back. Her heart hammered so loudly she could barely hear her own breathing.
Harry stepped forward.
He moved differently now. Slower. Deliberate. The boy she'd studied alongside for seven years had vanished, replaced by something that made her thighs press together involuntarily.
"On your knees."
The words landed like a spell. Her body responded before her mind caught up—knees bending, robes pooling around her thighs, the rough weave of the carpet pressing into her shins. Ron's hand slipped away, leaving her unsupported.
"Good girl."
Good girl. Two words that shouldn't have made warmth bloom in her chest. But they did. They spread through her like warm butter, softening her shoulders, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.
Harry's trousers were dark, the fabric stretched taut across his thighs. She could see the outline—a thick ridge curving against his left leg—and her mouth went dry.
He reached down, slowly, and unfastened his belt. The metal clink echoed in the quiet room. Button. Zipper. Each sound distinct, each one pulling her breath higher into her throat.
"Come closer."
She crawled. The carpet scraped her knees. She didn't care.
Behind her, someone shifted. Ron's ragged exhale. Dean's low chuckle. Seamus whispering something she couldn't catch. But her focus narrowed to the waistband of Harry's trousers, to the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath, to the smell that hit her as she leaned in.
Sweat. Musk. Something sharp and masculine that filled her nostrils and made her eyelids flutter.
Harry's cock sprang free as he pushed his trousers down. Thick. Longer than Ron's. Veins tracing up the shaft like roots. The head was dark, flushed, already slick with a clear bead of moisture that caught the firelight.
"Smell it first."
Her face hovered inches away. Heat radiated off him. The scent was overwhelming—salt, skin, the lingering trace of arousal that made her lungs clench. She inhaled, deep and desperate, and a sound escaped her throat. A whimper she hadn't meant to make.
"You like that."
Not a question.
She nodded, her lips brushing against his shaft. The contact sent electricity through her jaw.
"Use your words."
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, I—"
"Then open your mouth."
Her lips parted. Her tongue extended.
Harry grabbed a fistful of her hair—not hard, but firm, guiding her forward until the head of his cock pressed against her tongue. The taste hit her: salt and skin, the faint bitterness of precum. She closed her lips around him and heard him hiss from somewhere above.
"That's it. Take it."
She sank deeper. The weight of him filled her mouth, pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, pulled back, took a breath, and tried again. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking what she couldn't reach.
Harry's hips began to move. Shallow thrusts at first, testing, then longer, driving deeper into her throat. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked, felt him pulse against her tongue.
"Look at him."
She turned her eyes, still bobbing on Harry's cock, and found Ron.
He was pressed against the armchair, his trousers tented obscenely, both hands gripping the fabric of his robes. His face was red. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. A drop of sweat traced down his temple.
"See how hard he is," Harry said, his voice rougher now. "Watching his girlfriend choke on my cock. That's what gets him off. That's what you do to him."
Hermione moaned around the flesh in her mouth. The vibration made Harry's hips stutter.
"Take it out."
She released him with a wet pop, saliva stringing from her lips to his tip. Her chin was slick. Her eyes burned.
"Now strip. All of it."
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her robes. The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling around her knees. Beneath, her blouse clung to her breasts—she was sweating, she realized. Heat radiated off her skin like she had a fever.
Harry watched, his cock bobbing in front of her face. She unbuttoned her blouse with trembling hands. The bra followed, hooks yielding to her clumsy fingers. Her breasts fell free, nipples pebbled tight in the fire-warmed air.
"Stand up."
She rose on shaky legs.
Harry's hand found her throat. Not squeezing—just resting there, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. His eyes traveled down her body, cataloguing every curve, every goosebump.
"Turn around. Bend over the table."
She obeyed. The table was cool against her stomach, the wood smooth from years of parchment and elbows. Her hands splayed across scattered notes—their study notes, from just weeks ago. The irony sliced through her arousal like a blade.
Behind her, Harry's hands parted her thighs. Her skirt was still on, bunched around her waist. He tugged it down, baring her to the firelight. Her knickers were soaked—she could feel the dampness against her skin, could feel it spread as Harry's fingers traced the fabric.
"So wet." His voice came from directly behind her. "This is from sucking my cock? From knowing Ron's watching?"
"Yes." The word came out broken.
Harry's fingers hooked into her knickers and pulled them down her thighs. The air hit her cunt—cool, shocking—and she gasped.
Behind her, the sound of spitting. Wet, deliberate.
His thumb pressed against her entrance. Circled. Then pushed inside.
She cried out, hips bucking against the table. His thumb was thick, probing, finding the rough spot on her front wall that made her vision blur. He worked her slowly, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her still.
"Ron." Harry's voice didn't waver. "Come here."
Footsteps. Slow. Reluctant.
Ron appeared at her side, his face a mask of shame and hunger. His trousers were still tented, a dark spot spreading at the tip.
"Watch." Harry's thumb curled inside her, pressing deeper. "Watch her take my cock."
He withdrew his hand. The emptiness made her whimper. Then something else pressed against her—wider, hotter, the familiar shape of his shaft nudging between her folds.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Tell me you want my cock inside you."
"Please—" Her voice cracked. "Please, Harry, I want your cock, I want you inside me, I want—"
He thrust.
The stretch was breathtaking. He was bigger than Ron, wider, filling her in a way that made her toes curl against the carpet. She heard herself moan, long and low, as he seated himself to the hilt.
"Fuck." His breath hissed through his teeth. "You're so fucking tight."
He pulled back, almost all the way out, and drove in again. The table scraped against the floor. A quill rolled off the edge, clattering somewhere below.
Harry set a rhythm. Deep, measured strokes that drove the air from her lungs with each impact. Her breasts swung beneath her, nipples brushing against the parchment. She watched Ron's face—watched his eyes track every inch of Harry's cock disappearing into her body.
"Touch yourself," Harry ordered. "Show her what she does to you."
Ron's hand moved to his trousers. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, freeing himself. His cock stood hard and angry, smaller than Harry's, glistening at the tip.
"Stroke it. Look at her while you stroke it."
Ron's fist wrapped around his shaft. He pumped slowly, his eyes locked on Hermione's face, on the way her lips parted with each thrust, on the drool collecting at the corner of her mouth.
"Faster."
Harry's hips slammed into her. The rhythm turned brutal. Each thrust drove her forward, her knuckles white against the table's edge. The fire crackled. Someone—Dean or Seamus—groaned from across the room.
"You're going to come," Harry said, his voice strained. "You're going to come on my cock, and Ron's going to watch, and then I'm going to fill you up."
The pressure built in her belly, coiling tight. Harry's hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, pressing hard circles that made her whole body clench.
"Come for me."
She shattered.
The orgasm tore through her like a Breaking Charm, violent and consuming. Her walls clamped around him, her voice breaking into a scream she barely recognized. Ron's hand stilled on his cock, his mouth open, watching her convulse.
Harry kept thrusting through it.
Two more. Three. Then he buried himself deep, and she felt it—hot pulses flooding her, filling her, dripping down her thighs as he pulled out.
The silence stretched.
Harry's hand patted her flank. "Good girl."
She stayed bent over the table, trembling, Harry's seed seeping from her body onto the scattered notes of their revision.
Ron's breath came in ragged gasps. His knuckles were white around his still-hard cock.
And across the room, Neville stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the stone floor.