aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 16 - Part 2
She smiled the smile she had learned at dinner tables. "How nice."
She went to her dorm and folded robes she had already folded. Astoria's letters from home sat on the nightstand unopened. She did not open them. She sat on the edge of the bed, put her hand between her legs over her skirt, and pressed once, hard, thinking about Hermione's collar. Then she took her hand away, washed it, and pinned her hair up for the feast.
Hermione sat on her own bed in Gryffindor tower with a piece of parchment and a quill and wrote Dear Mum and Dad and then stopped. There was no version of the last two days that belonged in a letter. There was no version of the choker that belonged there either. She folded the blank sheet, put it in her trunk, and changed her collar pin so the silver sat lower, fully covered.
Harry was already in the common room when she came down. He looked better on his feet. Pale, but better. Ron was still in the ward, which Harry announced like a personal failure.
"He's going to miss the whole thing," Harry said.
"He'll hear it from you in ten minutes. You'll tell it worse than it was."
"That's the idea."
On the way past the notice board she saw her own name once, small, on a sheet about summer reading that Roland had posted for the whole year so the apprentice list would not look like a secret. It helped. It also made the choker feel heavier.
They walked down together. The moving staircases were packed. Someone asked Harry if Dumbledore was going to say Quirrell's name. Harry said he did not know. Hermione watched the back of a Slytherin head two flights below and knew, without seeing the face, that it was Daphne. The walk. The shoulders. The way people moved out of the way without being asked.
The Great Hall doors were open.
Green and silver everywhere. Banners. Ribbons. The hourglasses visible through the entrance like a threat. Gold plates already out. The noise hit them in a wave — last night of term, no exam tomorrow, everyone talking at once because silence would mean thinking about the third floor.
Hermione followed Harry to the Gryffindor table. Seats had been saved by the simple method of Dean and Seamus putting books on them and daring anyone to move the books. She sat. Harry sat. The bench was already warm from people who had come in early.
She smoothed her skirt under the table, felt the cotton of her knickers against a pussy that was still tender, and looked up.
Staff table first. Always.
Dumbledore in the centre, already smiling at something Flitwick had said. Minerva on his right, spine straight, tartan at her throat, face set for a long night. Snape on the far side, staring at the Slytherin table the way he stared at essays he intended to fail. Aurora further down, dark skin catching the candlelight, already bored in a way that looked like elegance. And Roland.
He sat where he always sat. Not next to Minerva. Not far enough away that it looked like he had chosen the distance. Sleeves rolled once. Goblet untouched. He was looking at the Hall the way he looked at a room he already knew the ending of.
Hermione's left hand found her goblet. Her right stayed in her lap.
Across the Hall, at the Slytherin table, Daphne sat with Pansy on one side and a boy whose name she never used on the other. She had the same view Hermione did, just reversed. Staff table. Roland. The Gryffindor girl with her collar too high.
Daphne picked up her fork. She did not eat.
Dumbledore stood.
The Hall took a few seconds to notice, then a few more to shut up. Spoons settled. Someone at the Hufflepuff table laughed once and got elbowed.
"Another year," Dumbledore said, and the usual ripple of noise went through because he always started like that and people liked knowing the shape of it.
He talked about the third floor. He did not say trapdoor. He did not say dog. He said the corridor would open again in September and that students would do well to remember that locked doors at Hogwarts were locked for reasons that did not always appear on notices.
He talked about a professor who was no longer with them. He did not say Quirrell. He said the Defence post would be filled over the summer, and that he had every confidence next year's appointment would be memorable. A few people laughed. They did not know why they were laughing. It was enough that he had given them permission.
He made a joke about Filch and a missing cat that had not been missing. Filch, against the far wall, did not laugh. The Hall did, gratefully.
Hermione watched Roland through all of it. He had not looked at her yet. He would. She knew the timing of him now. He let a room finish its public business before he used it.
Dumbledore set his hands on the back of his chair.
"Now," he said. "House points."
The Hall leaned forward as one animal.
Slytherin had led for weeks. Everyone knew the numbers. Green sat in the hourglasses like a fact that had already won. Daphne's back was perfectly straight. At the Gryffindor table, Seamus muttered, "Here it comes," and Dean told him to shut up.
Dumbledore looked at Harry.
Hermione's right hand slid under the tablecloth.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore said, "for logic and a rare gift. Sixty points."
The Gryffindor table went off like a charm with the limiter taken off.
Benches slammed. Goblets jumped. Dean shouted straight into Hermione's left ear. Seamus climbed halfway up before someone yanked him down by the robe. Harry went red to the roots and stared at Dumbledore like the number might change if he blinked. Across the Hall the Slytherin table locked. Forks stopped. Pansy's mouth opened and shut. The green in the hourglasses did not move yet, but the noise made it look like it should have.
Roland did not change his face. He turned his head the same degree he would have turned it for any announcement. His hand stayed on the stem of his goblet.
Hermione's right hand was under the cloth.
She kept her left around the goblet so it looked like excitement. Under the table her fingers found the damp cotton between her legs and pressed. She was still swollen from yesterday morning. The first touch made her jaw go tight. She worked the seam once, twice, and felt herself soak through it.
Harry was saying something. She nodded without hearing it.
Dumbledore waited for the worst of the shouting to dip.
"Miss Hermione Granger."
Her name hit the Hall and turned it.
Harry yelled. Dean yelled. A whole stretch of the Gryffindor bench came up off the wood. Hermione had to stand. Half a second. Collar tight. Choker hidden. She sat back down before her knees could do anything stupid, and when her ass hit the bench her fingers were already past the cotton, two of them, sliding into a pussy that opened for her like it had been waiting for the sound of his voice saying her name in public again.
Fifty points, Dumbledore said, for the cool use of intellect when others would have panicked.
She did not hear the rest of the sentence. Roland had looked at her.
Not a nod. Not a mouth moving. Just his eyes on hers across the length of the Hall while a few hundred people shouted her name, and her fingers went to three because two was not enough. She was slick to the knuckle. Sore, stretched, dripping on her own hand. She held his look and did not blink.
Daphne's fork stopped so hard it clicked against the plate.
"And Ronald Weasley," Dumbledore went on, mild as anything, "for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years. Fifty points."
The table exploded again. Harry shouted Ron's name at the ceiling like Ron could hear it in the ward. Seamus started a chant that died on the second beat. Hermione was not listening. She was watching the staff table and fucking herself under the cloth at the same pace as the clapping.
In. Out. Wet. The sound was small and filthy and no one could hear it because the Hall was a single throat.
She kept her shoulders still. She kept her face in the shape of pride. When a deeper stroke dragged over the swollen spot inside her, her lips parted once, just enough, then she closed them and looked like a girl who had won points.
Roland looked like a man listening to the Headmaster.
He was not.
Daphne saw all of it.
She was the only one at the Slytherin table sitting at the right angle: staff table in front of her, Gryffindor bench across the gold plates, Hermione's right shoulder doing a tiny roll that the tablecloth almost hid. She saw Roland's attention land and stay. She saw Hermione's mouth open and shut.
The polite mask lasted one breath.
Then Daphne's own hand went under the Slytherin cloth.
Pansy was talking. "They can't just — he can't just — that's one hundred and sixty points, that's theft, that's—"
"I know," Daphne said, and smiled, and slumped a fraction as if the joke had landed.
Her fingers shoved her knickers aside and went straight in. She was already wet and that made her angrier. Two fingers, then three, faster than Hermione, meaner, using the heel of her palm on her clit until her thighs jumped. She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood.
If the Mudblood was going to sit there and cum in the Hall with his eyes on her, Daphne was not going to sit dry and watch it.
"Neville Longbottom," Dumbledore said.
The Hall had not come all the way down from Ron. It went back up.
"Ten points," Dumbledore said, "for standing up to his friends."
Neville made a noise that was not a word. The hourglasses finally moved.
Green dropped. A long, ugly pour. Red and gold smashed up the glass on the other side and kept climbing. The banners ripped themselves inside out with a sound like wet canvas. Lions. Scarlet. Gold. The Hall became one roaring mouth.
Nobody was looking down.
That was the whole trick.
Hermione's left hand stayed on the goblet. Her right pumped. Three fingers, knuckle-deep, curling, the wet slap of it lost under benches banging and someone starting a song that died immediately. Her bushy hair shook when she breathed. Under the robe her tits were heavy, nipples tight against the white shirt, rising and falling in a rhythm that did not match cheering. She squeezed her thighs around her own wrist and stared at Roland like she was daring him to look away first.
He did not.
She mouthed it. No voice. Just the shape.
Fuck me.
Then, because she could not help it, the rest of it, filthy and silent and only for him:
I'm fingering my cunt in front of everyone. I'm still open from before. You split me on that pitch and I can feel it. I'm going to squirt on this bench and they're all going to think I'm shouting for Harry.
Her face stayed proud. Eyes bright. Cheeks pink. Anyone looking at her from the side would have seen a girl glowing because Gryffindor had stolen the cup. Harry, on her left, saw exactly that. He grabbed her shoulder and shook it, laughing, and the shake drove her fingers deeper. Her mouth fell open. She turned it into a shout.
"Gryffindor!"
It came out cracked.
Roland's thumb moved once on the stem of his goblet. That was all.
From the staff table it was a study in who was watching what. Minerva had her eyes on the hourglasses, mouth a thin line, already doing the politics of a cup that had just changed colour. Snape had not looked away from Harry since the sixty. Dumbledore was enjoying himself. Aurora was watching the banners.
Roland watched the two girls work.
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