I do not own Harry Potter.


The violence and concussion of our bodies remind me that this is very, very wrong. She slides up my thigh, slick with the salt and the sweet that is her. I know that she loves the bump and the grind of us. She loves the heat, the crashing, the pleasure-pain of us. She loves the hurry and the secret.

And how can I but love her back? How, with this wild creature beneath me, squirming and ready to eat me alive, can I but love her back?

Hermione is on her way to marriage with my brother. She is nervous, she tells me, nervous that Ronald will be inadequate. One evening not long ago, she went so far as to ask me, "Why can't you be a boy?" I laughed in her face. I cried when she left. I fucked her when she came back. That was the first time. Now, she comes to me in the night and entreats me the same way each time: she grabs my hand and presses it against her, wet, willing, waiting for me.

I am on my way to damnation with my hand inside of her.

She hammers against me and I watch her abandon. "I love you," I whisper, and she is perilously still for a moment, biting her lip. The walls of her cunt pulse around my fingers. Eyebrows, barely visible beneath her thick hair, knit together in concentration. I can tell she wants release just as bad as she doesn't want to hurt me.

"Tell me again," she pants, and does her best to still her heaving breast. "Tell me again, Ginny."

"I love you," I breathe. I splay the fingers of my free hand across her chest. Her heartbeat thrums a quick beat. I suck in another breath and shakily, I tell her, "And this hurts."

She grabs my hand before I can pull it from her, shifts it further up, deeper inside of her – a promise that she can make me feel better – and resumes her rocking. Fucking bitch, Hermione, but a smart bitch. She's going to get what she needs from me before letting me go.

But now she won't look at me. Her eyes are closed tight.