Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

The Pinkerton agent had only blanks for Harry. He presented pictures, taken with a tele lens, half a dozen for each of the possible candidates. Yes, there was a superficial similarity with Wormtail, but Harry could discard all of them. One candidate had been photographed because the agents could not exclude that he was Voldemort, not from the phantom picture Harry had built in the designer studio.

Harry could exclude it after a short glance. As ugly as that guy looked, he was just too human.

Back at Hogwarts, Harry got mail from Paul Sillitoe, sent with the Magical Tours service - a thick envelope, raising the hope that Paul had found something else.

Yes he had, although not about Voldemort. When opening the envelope, Harry found an issue of a magazine called Forbes - obviously a business magazine, and the cover story was about Groucho and Narita Spectors. Harry learned that Narita was the market leader in this new branch of the entertainment industry, with Groucho as the brain tank in the joint venture.

As if this was anywhere new to him.

Into his time of waiting stepped Hermione with her newest developments; the trip to Haiti was due. To Harry's surprise, they also had to visit Caprien Marût.

"He needs a backup potion," explained Hermione. "If the last one was right, he won't change at full moon - but if not, this one will protect him."

"Well, okay. And Armodéc?"

"I have to be present when he drinks it - and to be ready with some antidote."

Harry stared at her. "Are you going to poison him?"

Hermione looked grim. "Not if he's been honest - and if not, I'll be ready."

Harry had no idea what she had in mind, but agreed with her that he was better off not knowing in advance. What worried him a bit was that they had to stay overnight.

"What should happen, Harry?" Hermione smiled. "If he's going to try something, you're there to protect me, right?"

He would be there - so far, her statement was true. Otherwise ... Harry didn't think he had already seen all tricks of that loup-garou - more exactly, experienced. He suggested to let himself deliver the flask to Caprien Marût, since he had to announce their visit on the Ile de la Tortue anyway. But no, Hermione wanted to see her successful candidate.

Well, understandably so. Harry apparated to the island. Announcing their visit seemed wrong, but coming unannounced would not give him a better feeling.

Monsieur Armodéc looked delighted, hearing about the guests he was going to host.

From the island, Harry apparated to Saint Marc, informing Benoît that they'd expect him, next day at five o'clock local time, in Gros-Morne to translate - hopefully for the last time.

This prospect seemed to raise quite some inspirition in the young man. The last time meant that afterwards, this wonderful broomstick would be irrevocably his own.

* * *

Programming a portkey from the Hogwarts Express platform to the marketplace of Gros-Morne in Haiti, just so, under the eyes of an excited Hermione - Harry felt a deep satisfaction from his hard-earned skill. This skill, together with his aikido and his haragei, were his own arts not inherited from a dark wizard, which made them more precious than any other.

Well - not to forget another art learned from a Japanese teacher, although this particular skill found little employment, recently.

Hermione was unprepared for the heat, for the humidity in the air, even in the shadows of the few trees. Hearing her gasps, seeing her sweat-streaked face, Harry offered an instant return.

No way - a challenge was a challenge for an incurable suffer-it-all, so by the time Benoît arrived with Caprien Marût, and after having dropped as many clothes as appropriate, Hermione felt ready.

The potions witch and the - hopefully cured - loup-garou looked at each other, smiled with mutual sympathy, although for different reasons - and then the curse of Babylon kicked in.

Hermione didn't get a word Caprien Marût was saying. She hardly could follow Benoît, with the result that every remark had to pass three mouths before reaching the final pair of ears.

With respect to this cumbersome style of conversation, the participants at the two ends of the translation chain kept their remarks pretty short and to the point. Hermione gave the flask to Caprien Marût directly, sent the message through the chain that he might use the potion - please - at the last instant he felt master of his own decision, and to report whatever might happen until then, if it was the same as always, or different.

Then she announced a premium of twenty galleons if Caprien would come through without the potion - if he could return the flask still sealed. This promise raised a fierce determination in her candidate's face, and that was it - they all said goodbye, and a moment later, Harry and Hermione were alone under the trees.

Harry bought two cans of soda in the cafeteria across the street and passed one of them over to Hermione, who had waited in the shadow. "Well," he said, "that's your success candidate. What's your impression?"

Hermione took a long gulp, belched quite unladylike, and said, "I had no idea, Harry. This is so - so totally different from what I'd expected. An island in the Caribbeans - sounds romantic and all, until you're there ... I owe you."

"I'll come back to that." Harry grinned. "But this was the simple part; Caprien looks meaner than he is. What do you honestly expect? Will it hold at full moon?"

Hermione sighed. "That's the kind of question at which every scientist is seriously tempted to look for some divination ... My best guess is, he'll feel a few symptoms, and if I'm lucky, that's all, and it won't be more the next month. This last touch - Harry, I'd need twenty or more werewolves to straighten out the last rough edges."

"You'll have to pay the premium, regardless of what happens - twenty galleons are a small fortune here. My advice - for the next times, reduce it to ten, and keep to Caprien Marût. He's reliable, and if you use signs and written words, you'll come through without a translator."

"You might be right." Then Hermione looked confident. "But who said there's still something to fine-tune? I mean, look at your portkey - you had this place in mind, and I came out right here, not across the street, not up in the trees. Why shouldn't the potion fit equally well?"

Harry chuckled. "Don't ask me - potions aren't my strongest. All I know is, a portkey is something that works or doesn't - there's nothing in-between. I never had trouble with addressing the wrong spot."

"We'll be wiser in a few days. Okay, Harry - then the Ile de la Tortue, please, and nothing in-between."

This place was more to Hermione's taste, with the fresh breeze from the sea and the view of the colonial-style house surrounded by trees. The door opened to show Beatrice, who greeted both of them with the same smile, much to Harry's relief.

---

Monsieur Armodéc looked extremely pleased. "Ah, Mademoiselle Granger, welcome in this house - I've been waiting for this encounter for quite a while."

"Good evening, Monsieur Armodéc. I've been waiting too - except that my waiting will still take a while, I'm afraid." Nothing in Hermione's face gave the slightest hint that, for all she expected, her waiting would come to a sudden end next morning.

The host's answer told Harry that any haragei he had suspected in this man could only be severely limited, unless Hermione's control extended even to her thoughts and feelings.

Which wasn't impossible, after all.

Today's dinner offered a novelty for Harry - less from the food, which was excellent as usual, more from the conversation: he could sit and watch, and listen. Of course he was involved every now and then, and Monsieur Armodéc asked him again for his progress in the search for Voldemort, apparently for reasons of politeness rather than true interest, because he didn't press when Harry answered evasively. Most of the time, however, Hermione was talking.

And she enjoyed it.

Naturally, the first subject was potions in general, the Wolfsbane potion in particular, and Hermione's way into this project as the real issue, because their host couldn't care less about one recipe versus another. When Hermione confessed openly that she was aiming at scientific success as much as fame, Monsieur Armodéc found an elegant course to a more familiar topic.

"Fame ... It's always fascinating for me to hear why people want to be famous. What is your motivation, Mademoiselle Granger?"

"Very simple - I want to know how it is to be famous."

The loup-garou smiled. "Just curiosity? Forgive me if I don't believe that I already heard the full truth. Did it play a role being a student at Harry's side, like so many others?"

Taking the opportunity for supporting his friend as much as teasing her, Harry answered grinning, "Hermione isn't like so many others."

Into the laughter, Beatrice said, "Apparently not. This combination - I have to admit, Mademoiselle Granger, you surprised me a bit."

"Why's that?" Hermione's voice sounded friendly, though much en garde - the young woman was still unknown territory for her, aside from her obvious function in this household.

However, Beatrice's answer broke the ice. "Whatever I had expected, on the background of a complicated potion - not someone that attractive."

Hermione beamed.

Monsieur Armodéc used the momentum. "For most women, fame is inseparably linked with a man, or even with several of them. Is there a man at your side, Mademoiselle Granger?"

"Yes. His name is Viktor Krum."

"Aah - Monsieur Krum." The host looked satisfied. "I'd say - little by little, your aim at your own fame becomes understandable. Monsieur Krum has made many headlines in his time."

Hermione shrugged. "Sure, but you follow the wrong track there. Quidditch doesn't impress me much, and fame didn't impress Viktor much. For him, this was a side-effect he couldn't avoid."

"Then maybe, for him, your fame will be another side-effect he can't avoid."

Hermione's answer came with the speed of a returned Bludger, only with a bit more smile. "Viktor doesn't object a working brain, not in the library nor in another room. Do you?"

Beatrice beamed.

Monsieur Armodéc took it with grace. "I'm not single-minded, my dear Mademoiselle, even though I might stress a subject more than usual - whether in conversation or otherwise ..."

Beatrice grinned, while Hermione kept her expression unchanged.

"... and certainly I don't think of a person as an object. A term like object of desire may fit a piece of art, a collector's item; using it for a woman is distasteful, a breach of taste."

---

Monsieur Armodéc had reached his favourite topic. And Hermione didn't let him wait. "So you'd prefer a subject of desire?"

Monsieur Armodéc stated that words were an inadequate means to express his convictions - ah, satisfyingly. Hermione left no doubt that words were the only means within any realistic scope.

Monsieur Armodéc agreed that it might have been a bit premature to discuss such fundamental beliefs at this first meeting. Hermione earned Harry's admiration when she - even in the heat of this discussion - suppressed any hint that, for all she planned, this was a case of now or never.

Then Beatrice asked Harry how he, his friend Ron, and Hermione were going along in their discussions at Hogwarts.

"That's simple," answered Harry. "Hermione's our genius, so we sit and listen."

Beatrice didn't buy this picture.

"It's true," assured Harry. "Well - another question is whether we take the advice."

Monsieur Armodéc expressed doubts that these discussions would run as quietly as Harry was painting them. Harry confessed that his summary might have neglected the typical atmosphere a bit.

"And what happens if Mademoiselle Granger insists - or is driving her point too far?"

Harry looked with some astonishment at their host. This question could no longer be rated as close to a hidden insult - it had crossed an invisible borderline. Maybe the man wasn't as good a loser in discussions as in Go.

"Then we adjust the perspective," he replied.

"And how?"

"In a private conversation."

The moment of silence at the dinner table told everyone that the subject of driving a point too far had presented its own example. Then, as elegantly as before, Monsieur Armodéc switched to another topic - walking to a sideboard, returning with a carafe.

"This red wine," he explained, "has been breathing since afternoon - I hope it's ready now, so we can celebrate this day." He filled four glasses to half, raised his own. "To a charming guest who can handle potions as well as points of perspective."

Hermione smiled, raised her glass. "To a generous host who can take them both."

Even for Harry's palate, not trained at all, the wine tasted delicious. Light at the first instant, developing a rich flavour after a moment, and a mild fire running down the throat. Origin and year didn't tell him anything, in contrast to Hermione, who looked impressed, pleasing their host sufficiently.

While the carafe was emptied, the conversation kept barely above small talk level, circling around the question how close a skilled potions witch - or wizard - might come to the unique taste of a certain wine. Beatrice surprised Harry as well as Hermione with her own contributions, giving proof that she knew how to use a cauldron.

Then it was time to finish the evening, in particular with respect to two guests for whom it was six hours later.

In the guest suite, Hermione looked around. "Our host knows how to live - just the decent amount of luxury. Only his own style isn't quite as decent."

"Don't tell me it came as a surprise."

"You've warned me, that's true - but I thought you were exaggerating." Hermione smiled archly. "You weren't - which raises the question what happened to you during all those visits. This suite here" - her glance went around and then returned to Harry - "is very inviting."

Harry watched her face, wondering if the invitation he saw there was only in his imagination. "I didn't stay overnight often, remember?"

"Yes, and I wonder why. Does our host carry both ways?"

Harry chuckled. "Not as far as I know - and that's been my last comment on this issue."

"Pity ... In particular since I feel wide awake - which is a surprise, considering the time of day. Just in the mood for some stories - old ones or new ones. Is this a portkey effect, Harry?"

"Definitely not. I figure it's a portwine effect - I mean this red wine, of course ... Unless it's your own chemistry."

But Hermione was right - Harry didn't feel sleepy either, more the opposite - this wine seemed to raise thoughts he couldn't welcome - for several reasons, each of them having its own first name and its own family name.

Apparently unimpressed from his reluctance, Hermione said, "My chemistry is fine - maybe doing a bit overtime ... By the way, you've been very kind during the dinner, not answering that question. I'm grateful for that."

"Of course I didn't, not him ..." Seeing Hermione's expression, Harry knew that there was nothing just in his imagination. He said, "And now, let's go to bed ..."

He had her full approval.

"... you in yours and me in mine, okay?"

Hermione responded his smile. "Well, then ... maybe you're right, Harry."

---

Lying in his bed, Harry tried to tell himself that it would be better this way - in the long run, regardless of the few weeks of freedom he'd been granted from a major authority in this regard. Unfortunately, he didn't have to convince his mind, while his body stubbornly kept a different opinion, emphasizing some benefits in the short run. And sleepiness would not come - lying with his eyes closed, Harry felt a storm of thoughts whirling through his mind.

And there was something else - something with the room.

Motionlessly, Harry scanned around with all his senses. Then he registered the irregularity - some noise, barely above audible level. Listening with concentration, he felt almost sure he could hear a woman's voice: sighing, moaning, then stopping.

A moment later, it was back, more audibly. The moaning had grown stronger; it was longer and more rhythmic, and now it was unmistakable, these were the sounds of a woman making love, with this sharp outtake of breath at the end of each thrust.

Damn - somewhere, Monsieur Armodéc was using his virility with his flower of the night, and these walls were just too thin, or Beatrice too loud ... Harry couldn't keep his mind off, his hardness growing in sync with the noise.

There was a sound from the door. With a single motion, he switched on the light and seized for his wand. Startled, he saw Hermione enter the room.

She wore a loose fitting night dress - a shirt falling over short pants, shining silkily, perfect for the tropical night, opening here and there for viewing angles. She reached the bed.

"Harry, can you hear this? ... Yes of course, it's here too." Hermione looked at him, her face flushed. "When did it start here?"

"Some minutes ago, maybe three, or five. Monsieur Armodéc's quite busy, huh?"

"Could be - only, to me it sounds more like a tape recording."

"A tape recording?"

"Yes. It sounds real enough, but still ... In my room, it started some minutes earlier. First I had the same thought and even suspected you of having a visitor. Then, more from one second to the next, I had a feeling as though any moment my door would open and someone would come in, expecting me ready for everything. That's why I came over. Can you close the door?"

Not daring to come out, Harry grabbed his wand again and pointed it at the lock.

Click

"Great, thanks." Hermione's eyes sparkled. "You didn't want to come out, did you?"

"Erm - no ..."

"Save it - I'm not better off, not after five minutes listening."

The sound stopped. After a moment of silence, it was back again - now with bass drums in the background, and the woman's voice on top, sobbing, groaning, a small outcry, then rapid gasping, accelerating more, changing to long, hoarse moans, rising in pitch.

Harry was trembling, the blood singing in his veins, his hardness almost painful. He felt his own wetness. He glanced at Hermione, sitting on the bed, saw her nipples erect, peeking through the silky shirt, saw her face come around, her eyes meeting his.

The voice was whimpering, loud and shrill. Then it stopped for an instant, in which only the drums could be heard, to return with a throaty grunt, and another, changing again to rapid gasps.

Hermione, her eyes not leaving Harry's face, reached for her shirt and started to move it over her head.

By the time she had finished, Harry had pushed his own shirt off, had his pants down, and was out of the bed. He stood in front of her, his trembling replaced by determination, his flesh twisting expectantly.

This moaning was Hermione's own. She leaned back, her elbows on the bedcover. Harry reached for her waistband and pushed the flimsy piece of silk down, suppressing the impulse to tear it apart. He pushed her legs aside. Her own outcry almost drowned in the deep growl of the drums.

This was no time for artful manoeuvers. He felt her legs close around his hips, shortening his movements. Even so, his body pushed as hard as he could, banging against the body underneath, his grunts as well as her gasps lost in the hammering rhythm that filled the room.

Her orgasm rose, short, hard, just when his own had faded.

---

Breaking the lock of her legs, he moved her fully onto the bed and climbed between her legs. Kneeling, looking at her, he saw undiminished hunger in her face, a mirror of his own desire.

He moved her calves up and grabbed her wrists. With her legs over his arms, she was lying fully exposed before him, curled up.

Regaining some mood for a more leisurely pace, he let his flesh slide along her and then drew himself back, only to resume the same path. Then, slowly, he moved into her. Out, and into her again. And out. And in.

Even though her response was strong, and her moaning louder than his own hard breathing, this game was going to push himself uphill much quicker than her. Retreating a bit, he dropped her legs and laid himself onto her, stroking in tiny movements, teasing a tiny spot, or pressing harder with the weight of his body.

Now he could balance himself for a time, while Hermione was wriggling under him, her breath coming in long jets. When he felt her close to the next peak, he dived again, finally moving quicker when her moaning became desperate, until her body arched up.

Withdrawing again, he moved her around until she was lying on her side. One leg between hers, his arms holding her back and her breast, he moved with her again, ready to travel without haste toward the clouds and the rain.

The drums had grown in volume, the woman's voice was coming through only with a short cry every now and then. Harry saw Hermione's mouth open and close in time to his movements, an expression of deepest concentration in her face.

Startled by something, he stopped and looked up.

A young woman, light brown, naked except for white ribbons around her wrists and ankles, her skin shimmering with some oil, was approaching them. Now she appeared in Hermione's view, raising a small cry of surprise.

The woman's voice was casual, husky. "Don't stop, 'arry." She climbed onto the bed and knelt with Hermione's head between her thighs. Her arms stroked over Hermione's flanks, and back, then her hand was grabbing Hermione's breast, pressing hard.

Another cry from Hermione, pained as much as ecstatic.

The young woman met Harry's stare. "Go ahead, ride your mare."

He wasn't dreaming, this was reality, as real as his renewed hardness. He pushed, quicker than before, staring at the woman, her pointed breasts, as she pressed herself against Hermione's hair, and at Hermione's face, partly obscured, showing a total surrender to the sensations - from his thrusting and from the woman's hands, which were kneading her breasts, pinching her nipples.

Moments later, he stopped, pressing himself against Hermione's body while his spasms rose, hard, almost painful.

The woman had taken over command. She ordered him to move himself and Hermione a bit downward, giving her more room. Then she turned Hermione onto her back. "Spread her legs, 'arry - and hold them."

He obeyed, watching Hermione's body twisting in anticipation of new, torturing pleasures.

The glistening body, Hermione's arms between her legs, was now kneeling over Hermione's head. Leaning forward, the ribbon-marked hands moved over Hermione's body, and toward Harry, the sensual mouth ordered, "Spread her wider."

The drums had reduced in volume. Harry saw the rapid rise and fall of Hermione's chest, heard the ragged gasps of her breath. Then the woman's hand, fingers stretched flat, hit Hermione's between her legs, raising a cry, followed by hoarse groans.

In spite of his climax only moments ago, Harry felt himself hardening again.

The woman's other hand caressed Hermione, stroking, then a gentle slap, and another, to continue with stroking.

Hermione's groaning changed to a long, sobbing cry, while her body twisted in sharp spasms, not stopping, as the woman's hand wasn't stopping either.

Then it was over. Hermione, eyes closed, still kept breathing noisily while the woman moved off her. Next moment, she was approaching Harry.

Now she was behind him, her breasts at his shoulders, her mouth at his ear, her hand stroking his hardness, which made him groan. "It's your turn, 'arry."

Still in her grip, her nails digging into his pulsing flesh, he had to move forward, stretch his legs.

"Lie down." She pressed his shoulders onto the bed, had his arms between her legs, was over him.

Harry was lost, out of time, all his senses concentrating at the spots of stimulation across his body. He would have climaxed quickly, if not for the woman’s skillful fingers prolonging this unbearable pleasure beyond imagination.

Even so - moments later, he started to tremble, felt his heat rise again, and then he was spent.

Eyes still closed, he felt the invader leave, and the thighs around his head go off. Too weak to check, Harry didn't see through which door the woman had entered the room, and now left.

* * *

In the silence, Hermione's movements seemed unnaturally loud when she stretched herself at his side, face-down, her cheeks flushed. "You still alive, Harry?"

"Almost ... And you?"

"More than ever. Watching what she did to you, and knowing how it feels, after my own treatment moments earlier ... It was incredible." She was breathing hard.

Harry looked at her incredulously. "Wasn't it enough yet?"

"Enough, yes - too much, it feels as if I can't stop. Certainly I can't climax again, and still, I'm so tuned up ..." Harry saw her right arm move under her stomach, between her legs, saw her expression change to a grimace of pain as much as pleasure.

Only now, he realized what had happened. The wine - it had been exposed to the air as much as to some spice, with astonishing effects. They were both doped, in a mild version of what he'd experienced before.

"We're drugged. It was in the wine. I know this stuff - let me help you."

Harry moved up and climbed over her left leg. He pushed the other leg aside and her arms away. His fingers stroked her intimately, slowly, gently, a quiet rhythm.

Almost as expected, Hermione calmed down, sighing only when his finger traced her most sensitive spot. Harry took it as a signal to stop, to stretch himself alongside her.

She smiled. "I knew there's been something, and I'm glad you know how to handle it. Was it the same?"

"No - much worse. This is a mild version, so we can hope for some sleep before the night's over."

"Are you sleepy? I'm done and all, but I can't sleep yet."

She was right. He was groggy, not sleepy.

After some minutes, Hermione turned around, to lie on her back.

Harry smiled. "Let's have a test - how about your sleepiness now?" His hand moved over her breasts and down farther still. As an answer, Hermione moved her legs to offer more playground.

"You're an unsatiable want-it-all, huh?"

"No, that's not correct. I just go for opportunities, in particular when there's such a perfect excuse."

"Some opportunities turn out a fake, at closer inspection." Harry's hand stopped, however without leaving. Hermione lay motionlessly, savouring his touch.

They kept so for a while.

About to settle for sleep, Harry stiffened, feeling the same reaction from Hermione: the drums were back, faintly still, and this orgiastic voice.

"Oh no!"

For some minutes, they kept listening. Even now, these sounds were enough to send a slight tingling through Harry's groin. Apparently, the effect on Hermione was still stronger.

Then the volume grew again, the slow bass rhythm accelerating.

Hermione stared at him, her mouth open, her breath quickening, an expression of helplessness in her face. "Harry ..."

Would this never end? His mind wanted to refuse, while his flesh was already responding. "Please, no ..."

Too late. Hermione was up, to put his arms over his head, to move on top of him, her thighs closing his view.

While he felt her hand stroking over his hardening cock, her other hand moving deeper, Harry heard her voice, hard, commanding, vibrating with lust. "Spread your legs ... wide, wider ..."

* * *

Harry came awake early, considering the events of the night, and the long day before. After having used the bathroom, climbing under the cover again, he knew why - the dope was still working, its effect apparently more stretched than reduced. Feeling and smelling Hermione's body so close to his own was enough to let his hardness grow again.

Was this the reason, or had he sent an involuntary wave? Hermione opened her eyes, murmured, "Just a sec ..." and disappeared in the bathroom.

Returning, she stopped before the bed. "It surely's a mistake to come inside."

"You're totally right."

"Who wants to be right?" She climbed under the cover.

"Not me - all I have in mind is this particular mistake." Harry moved onto her, into her, feeling her warm and ready.

Her legs crossed over the small of his back. "That's the finish ... Take your time."

He did - moving slowly, pausing, savouring this sweet sensation which lacked the frenzy of the previous acts, still more thrilling because this time it was fully on purpose.

He knew that Hermione felt the same, that for her this was a forbidden game, raising her pleasure from the breaking of rules. And in addition to that, he used his trick - sending a mind wave which made him calm down just a bit while he felt Hermione's body go tense, erupt, and relax.

He whispered. "Finish is when I'm finished, right?"

Which happened sooner than expected, and planned, simply because this was just another challenge for Hermione, to be mastered with efficiency and for mutual pleasure.

When Harry was lying at her side, Hermione sighed. "That was a wonderful end to a wonderful night. Not quite what I've been looking for, though no reason to complain."

"You mean this dope came in just handy?"

"Yes, pretty much so. It broke your resistance. It increased the - er, fever, and it's a good excuse."

"Yeah, I noticed - there hasn't been much of a resistance from your side."

He felt more than he saw her smiling. "Absolutely not. That's been on my mind for quite some time."

He pondered this unsurprising confession for a while. His eyes scanning the ceiling, he asked, "Hunting for a trophy?"

Hermione's hand trailed over his stomach. "Not a trophy - I just wanted to know. Not as a general question, actually it was quite specific - only you."

Did he feel pleased? Maybe ... What he felt mostly was satisfaction, and calmness.

Although not everywhere, as Hermione's hand was trailing deeper. With his eyes closed, he heard her ask, "Is this still the dope or is it your normal standard for early morning?"

"It's non-standard, that's for sure ..." He issued a low moan. "Stop it, please - the excuse doesn't hold any longer."

"No, probably not." There was a trace of remorse in Hermione's voice, and defiance. "Which is a pity, because something else's holding, and getting longer ..."

A bad disciple of his own gospel, Harry let his hand explore the inside of her thighs, moving upward. Had been a mistake ... What he sensed was wiping off his calmness while Hermione started trembling, breathing harder.

Keeping a slight pressure, he asked, "When this woman was - ruling you, did you melt away?"

"Yes." It came in a small voice.

"It's domination and surrender, right?"

Her sharp groan was confirmation enough - response to his question as much as to his fingers.

"Turn onto your stomach."

With a trembling sigh, she obeyed.

---

He moved her arms onto her back, held them together, his lips touching her palms, whispering.

A gasp, and a helpless moan - Hermione's wrists were tied with some ribbon, soft but strong. Harry's hands stroked her flanks, caressed her buttocks. "You're defenseless ... at my mercy."

A whimpering.

"But I have no mercy." With a sharp twist, he spread her thighs with both hands.

A small outcry, followed by ragged breathing.

He inched closer, positioning himself, seized for her head, grabbing the curly mop of her hair. "You're my prisoner." Pressing her head onto the pillow, he pushed back into her.

A choked sound, a fluttering around him - if not for the previous efforts, they both would have collapsed instantly.

His fingers, claws again, moved over her breasts. Digging deeper, he found her nipples, held them, pinched with his fingers, then his nails.

Another wave of pleasure, almost finishing them off.

Digging his nails into the muscles of her thighs, he started again, then he felt her no longer fluttering, catching him, pressing a groan out of his lungs, and more out of his flesh.

He found the strength to untie her, so she could rest her arms more comfortably. Then, for a while, they were lying motionlessly - only his numb flesh was relaxing, shrinking. Finally, he withdrew to lie on her side again.

Hermione's head turned a bit, her eyes watching his face. "That's been you, not the dope."

"The game we played, yes - although, without the dope, it hadn't been possible."

"This game - "

"It's terrific, isn't it? And addictive - but for all I know, it's not limited to any particular player."

A short grin, apparently Hermione was too exhausted even to giggle. "And how do I teach some other player this trick with the manacles?"

"Oh ..." Harry grinned back. "Have a wand ready. Besides, the real tying isn't really necessary - the imagination alone's enough, after you know how - "

"Yes, I can imagine."

They both smiled about this joke as weakly as their bodies felt, then Hermione said, "Harry, I'll remember this, and I do believe you'll remember too, but otherwise, this night didn't take place."

"And this morning."

"In particular this morning. To be precise - no mentioning to anyone - never. Okay?"

"Just so?"

Her head came up, showing the familiar expression - genius at work, maybe alienated a bit by the scene. "I wanted to be screwed by you - and I wanted to screw you. And you've been available, with body and with your mind. But only so much. I have no intention to break with Viktor, I don't want to hurt him ... And you, you're not gaining anything by answering certain questions."

Harry thought for a moment, grinned. "If I have a bad conscience, then only toward Viktor, because ... Anyway, you're right, this ought to be something that's - "

"A dream."

"No!" Seeing her surprise, Harry added, "For some reason, I can't think of it as a dream - but I know what you mean."

With a quick motion, Hermione moved onto him. "You're tempting my curiosity so much, Harry - tell me, who was it when you've been doped here for the first time?"

"That's none of your ..." His reply ended in a pained moan as Hermione was rubbing herself against him.

She smiled maliciously, still moving. "Please."

"No."

She sat up, kneeling over him. "This game you're bound to lose - you have no chance!"

He knew she was right. "At that occasion, Armodéc had someone else - Désirée was her name. He chose Beatrice after Désirée left."

"I thought so - something in the way she looked." With a triumphant smile, Hermione jumped up and out of the bed. "Okay, Harry - see you in a while."

* * *

No question - the dope had held regiment over all four people gathering for the breakfast. Yet as though in some common agreement, there was no remark or glance to hint anything unusual. Monsieur Armodéc asked, "What's the best time for your potion, Mademoiselle Granger - before or after the breakfast?"

"Before, I think."

"So be it then." The loup-garou took the flask, broke the seal to drink, and gulped it down. "Hmmm ... banana, I'd say - like a milk shake, which won't be rated as my first choice ..."

He froze for a second, coughed, and looked at the flask. Then, with widening eyes, he stared at Hermione. "What did you ..."

The question never finished. Next moment, a grimace of pain distorted the man's face - his hands clutching toward his stomach, he bent forward like in a cramp, moaning.

Beatrice looked alarmed, her stare moving from the hunched figure to Hermione, and back.

Hermione's face showed a grim smile. "Does it hurt, Monsieur Armodéc?"

"Stupid question - can't you see what it does to me?" Their host seemed unable to sit upright, to take his hands off his stomach. "Did you poison me?"

"Not that I know of. Yes, there's a new ingredient, but it should be well digestible with a werewolf's metabolism." Hermione showed no surprise. "Do you have an explanation for this, Monsieur Armodéc?"

"How could I?" The anger in the man's voice changed to pleading. "I'm no potions wizard - and I'm suffering, so can't you do something to help me?"

For all Harry knew, after having realized which plot Hermione was playing out, suffering had to be the only true part in their host's reply.

Hermione said, "I have an antidote - only, for a werewof, it's highly dangerous."

"I'M NO WEREWOLF!" After this outburst, Monsieur Armodéc nearly collapsed, losing all dignity. "You've figured it out - yes, it's true, and now please give me something to ease this terrible pain!"

After a short glance toward Harry, who nodded, Hermione extracted another flask from her bag, broke the seal, and held it in front of the man's face. "Drink this."

Fabrice Armodéc did as instructed. Seconds later, he relaxed visibly - his head came up, his hands came to rest on the table. "That's ... thank you."

Hermione's voice was sharp. "Don't thank me. Tell us the story, right away!"

There wasn't much of a story, according to what they were told in the next minutes - with pauses, with apologetic smiles, from a man no longer justifying to be addressed Sire.

Young Fabrice, at the age of fourteen, had been bitten by what was suspected as a werewolf. His parents took precautions immediately, preparing for the first time when this illness was expected to show its horrible effects.

Until the first full moon, the boy realized a dramatic change in attitude. Before the accident, his father had reprimanded him often enough for his laziness, sloppiness, for his overboarding fantasy - while now, everything he did, or said, seemed justified by his state, at least excused. It was intriguing.

Then the night arrived. Alone in his quarter, locked inside, young Fabrice became aware that it had been no werewolf, just a wild dog probably. The howling the boy issued was that of disappointment and frustration - starting next morning, he would be made responsible again for all his actions. Unless ...

And so he became a loup-garou. Nobody showed surprise when he went for all literature about werewolves, about symptoms and typical signs. He was released from all his duties, could start a life of careful luxury with just one obligation - never to hurt an innocent witness of his state.

It worked extremely well, thanks to a society in which loup-garous were common, an accepted species, still more thanks to his parents' money. Fabrice had found a dream come true - girls were almost lining up to find out how it was with a loup-garou, in particular with this one - well educated, charming, rich.

---

Over the years, of course, Fabrice found out that he had a price to pay which included more than a bit of howling and rambling once every four weeks. The price was isolation and the lack of any close relationship. Then word came round that the Hogwarts school was looking for some volunteers to participate in a werewolf cure. For Fabrice Armodéc, desperate for human contact beyond the level of a paid mistress, the temptation was too much, in particular since he expected to come in touch with some people known to be at Hogwarts.

So at least this part had been true.

Harry regretted having come without Nagini. Although, the man's collapse seemed complete, Harry didn't suspect any lies in this story - save some skipped details of embarrassing nature, maybe. He asked, "Then why didn't you just pretend to feel some effect?"

"I knew I would never match the reports of the other candidates. And it was a kind of challenge - somehow, I couldn't give up my cover, hoped that this significant difference would send more people into this house ... I was right, wasn't I?"

The words, the face - Harry was looking at an ould rou‚, no longer the impressive appearance of a dark-skinned grandseigneur with a preference for naughty topics. He turned to Beatrice. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Did you know?"

"From what?" The young woman looked at a figure that seemed shrunk, then back to Harry. "I met him when this cure was already running, remember? Maybe I've been suspecting something, but ... It wasn't my business."

"No, it wasn't." Harry turned to Hermione. "Since when did you suspect him?"

"For months. But I had to wait until I could be here personally. This test without me being present to give the antidote in time, and to be ready if something went wrong, that was too risky. And I kept it to myself so he couldn't be forewarned."

Which made clear that Hermione's opinion of Harry as a spy was more limited than some other. Well - she was right, wasn't she?

Harry nodded. "And now?"

Hermione's glance scanned over the old man, the young woman. "We're done here. Let's go."

Fabrice Armodéc's head came up. "What are you going to do, now that you know about me?"

"You tricked me; I tricked you." Hermione shrugged. "So that's it. Some people at Hogwarts will know, but I don't feel like running around and telling everybody." There was acid in her voice. "Who cares about you?"

The man twitched. "And what about you, Harry?"

"My name's Potter, Monsieur Armodéc. Otherwise - I'm Hermione's messenger, and maybe you're lucky for that. Her answer extends to me, anyway."

Their host made an attempt to regain some dignity. "But you ought to admit that I made your visits as agreeable as possible, with everything - "

"Beatrice can say that, but not you!" Harry almost spat the words. "Her intention was honest ... But why wasting time with a grudge against you? The lie of your life - how could that be topped with anything worse?"

He looked at Beatrice and smiled. "We won't see each other again. Adieu, Beatrice."

"Adieu, 'arry."

The permanent portkey back to Hogwarts, for which Harry hadn't found a safe place, no longer caused a problem. He made the one-timer for Hermione just outside, at the handrail.