aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 16 - Part 3
"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.
Hermione's shoulder told the truth even when her face did not. A small roll. A tighter grip on the goblet. The way her bushy hair shook when she had to breathe through something she could not show. He knew that pace. He had set it yesterday on the pitch with his cock. She was copying it with her own fingers in front of four houses and calling it cheering.
Daphne was easier to read if you had sat across from her at family dinners. Too still. Too much smile. The boy on her left had no idea his bench-mate had her hand in her cunt. Roland did. He had taught her not to waste a room.
Across the Hall Daphne watched Hermione's face and timed herself to it on purpose. Not affection. Scoring. Her own fingers were a mess, slick to the wrist, the wet noise under the Slytherin cloth louder than she wanted and still not loud enough to matter. Her firm tits strained the buttons of her blouse when she breathed in. Her ass was clenched on the bench. Blonde hair perfect. Expression polite. Under the table she was fucking herself like she hated the hand doing it.
Pansy leaned in. "Are you all right? You look—"
"I'm fine," Daphne said. "I'm enjoying the speech."
She dragged her fingers out and shoved them back in harder. Her eyelashes fluttered once. She corrected it.
Look at me, she thought, and then did not wait for him to. She looked at Roland anyway, grey eyes flat and hot, and added, silent, vicious:
She's dripping for you in front of her whole house. So am I. Family cunt. Not hers. You put runes on her throat and I'm still the one who knows how you like it. I'm going to finish on my own hand in your Hall and you're going to sit there and take it.
Roland's gaze flicked.
Not long. A cut across the gold plates, Slytherin bench, his niece's mouth set in that dinner-table line, and back to Hermione. He had seen enough. Both of them. Both hands working. Both of them using the roar for cover.
The loudest stretch of it hit all at once. Clapping. Wood. A first-year screaming. Banners still snapping themselves into lions.
Hermione came apart.
It started in her belly and went down. Her pussy clenched so hard her fingers got trapped. She kept rubbing anyway, frantic, sloppy, the sore stretch from yesterday turning the orgasm sharp. She squirted on the third stroke past the peak, a hot gush over her hand, through the cotton, onto the bench between her thighs. She locked her legs so it would not run down and be seen. Her face went tight, eyes wet, teeth closed, and the sound that wanted out became another shout.
"Gryffindor—!"
Harry whooped and shook her again. "You did it, you did it—"
She nodded, panting through her nose, and did not take her eyes off Roland. Aftershocks jumped through her. She was soaked to mid-thigh. The smell of her own cunt sat under the roast and the smoke and a hundred bodies and went nowhere.
Daphne watched Hermione's face crack and followed her over.
Three seconds. That was the gap. She rubbed her clit in tight, nasty circles and came with her mouth shut and her eyes on Roland, as if he had reached across the Hall and done it to her himself. Her orgasm was angry. Her thighs shook under the cloth. She squirted less than Hermione, a sharp wet pulse that soaked her knickers and the inside of her skirt, and she sat through it with her spine straight and her fork in her left hand like nothing in the world had happened.
A breath. That was the noise she made. Less than a breath.
Pansy was still talking about theft.
Daphne swallowed. She pulled her hand out slowly, wiped it on the inner hem of her robe the same way she had seen Hermione's shoulder twitch toward her own hem, and set both hands on the table.
She looked at Hermione.
She looked at Roland.
She looked at her plate.
Then she smiled the Greengrass smile, small and clean, and kept it there for the rest of the speeches.
Hermione took her hand back. The air under the table was humid. She wiped her fingers on the inner hem of her robe like she was smoothing a crease, drank water, and did not look at the Slytherin table. Her legs were still locked. If she opened them, it would show. She sat in the wet patch and let it cool against her skin.
Roland turned his face toward Dumbledore as if the last four minutes were not a fact in the room.
McGonagall was watching the hourglasses. Snape was watching Harry. Dumbledore had already moved on to summer, to trains, to the tired joke about not feeding owls chocolate on the Express. Ron, in the ward, did not hear any of it. Harry was trying to stand on the bench. Dean pulled him down. The Hall laughed at Harry instead of looking under any tablecloths.
Pudding arrived while people were still hoarse.
Treacle tart. Something pink that wobbled. A mountain of trifle that lost a slice every time a Gryffindor elbow hit the bowl. The banners had settled. Red and gold hung like they had always been there. The green was gone from the walls and still sitting in a few faces at the Slytherin table.
Hermione ate three bites she could not taste. She could feel the mess between her legs every time she shifted. The choker was a warm ring under her collar. When Harry turned to tell Seamus the ward version of Ron's fifty points, she risked one look at the staff table.
Roland was eating. Not fast. Not slow. He cut, he lifted, he drank. He did not look back. That was the rest of the lesson. She had done it. Daphne had done it. He had watched. Now the Hall was a Hall again.
Fine.
She pressed her thighs together and felt herself twitch, oversensitive, and had to breathe through her nose to keep from making a face.
At the Slytherin table Pansy had moved from theft to letters home.
"My father is going to peel the walls," Pansy said. "One Hundred and Seventy points. In five minutes. It's obscene."
"It is," Daphne said.
"You're very calm."
"Would you like me to scream?"
Pansy shut up.
Daphne ate pudding because that was what you did when you had just squirted under the Slytherin cloth and the Deputy Headmistress was fifty feet away. The taste was fine. Her knickers were a wet rag. When she uncrossed her legs under the table the air hit her and she had to put the spoon down for a second. She picked it up again. Her face did not move.
She could still see Hermione's mouth from here. The shape of fuck me. The cracked shout. Uncle Roland sitting through all of it with his goblet in his hand like the year had gone exactly the way he expected.
Daphne wanted to walk the length of the Hall, climb into his lap in front of Godric's whole table, and show the Mudblood what family looked like when it was done properly. She sat there and ate trifle instead.
Dumbledore dismissed them in stages. Seventh-years first, then the noise of benches. The Express was mentioned four more times. Someone at Hufflepuff started crying because they were happy. Filch shouted about crumbs.
Roland stayed seated until it was correct to stand. Not a minute sooner. Minerva rose with Dumbledore. Aurora was already gone. Snape swept out like the banners had personally offended him. Roland set his napkin down, pushed his chair in, and left by the staff door with the same unreadable walk he used in empty corridors.
Hermione waited until Harry was done promising to tell Ron every second of it, twice, with gestures.
"Come on," she said. "Before the staircases start fighting."
She stood carefully. The wet patch stayed on the bench. No one looked at benches. She smoothed her skirt down over thighs that were still shining on the inside and walked out of the Hall with her collar high and her left hand empty and her right smelling like her own cunt no matter how hard she had wiped it.
The castle emptied upward in knots.
Gryffindor went red and loud toward the tower. Slytherin went green and quiet toward the dungeons. Prefects shouted about trunks and curfew and the train at dawn as if anyone was listening.
Hermione stayed with Harry as far as the moving staircases because that was what it was supposed to look like from outside. He was still talking. She made the right noises. At the third landing she stopped.
"I need the loo," she said. "I'll catch up."
"Don't fall in," Harry said, because he was Harry, and then he was gone in a clot of red.
She did not go to the loo.
She stood in an alcove off the landing, put her back to the stone, and slid her hand under her skirt one more time just to feel how ruined she was. Slippery. Swollen. Still pulsing. She took the hand out, looked at it in the torchlight, and laughed once, under her breath, ugly and pleased.
"Good girl," she whispered, in his cadence, not hers. Then she wiped her fingers on the stone and went up.
Daphne did not go looking for anyone either.
She walked the dungeon corridor with Pansy as far as the common room door, said good night in the voice her mother used for charity dinners, and peeled off toward the dorms. Inside, she locked the stall in the bathroom, put one foot on the closed lid, and pushed two fingers back into herself just to confirm the mess. She came again in under a minute, silent, forehead against the wood, blonde hair still pinned, a string of spit connecting her bottom lip to her teeth.
"Uncle," she said into the door.
Then she washed her hands until they were raw, fixed her hair, and went to pack.
Minerva did not go to him straight from the Hall.
She stayed because that was the job. Dumbledore wanted a word about September staffing and said it as if staffing were the only thing that had happened in a week. She gave him names. She did not give him the other sentence sitting in her mouth. He thanked her, patted the air near her elbow, and drifted off toward the staff door with the satisfied look of a man who had put a cup back where he wanted it.
Filch caught her in the entrance hall about crumbs and a first-year who had hexed a suit of armour into singing. She dealt with both. A seventh-year prefect found her on the second landing, crying about a toad that was not lost so much as hiding in a boot, and Minerva stood there and listened until the girl could breathe. Then she sent her to Pomfrey with a note and a look that closed the subject.
Only after that did she walk.
She did not take the staff staircase. She took the long way, past portraits that were mostly asleep and a suit of armour still humming one note, so that no one who mattered would see the Deputy Headmistress on that particular flight of stairs at that particular hour. Her hair was still up. Her tartan was still straight. Under the wool her tits sat heavy, her hips rolled with the walk she used in corridors, and the wetness that had nothing to do with the feast had already started. Two days of not saying it. Two days of watching him drink tea like the third floor had been a weather report.
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