OMG. With everything going on regarding the pandemic/quarantine, I completely forgot about this -_-.

In response to a guest review inquiring if I'm suggesting Harry Potter is gay:

The short answer? No. The long answer? There is an entire spectrum of sexual orientations. There is not simply 'straight or gay'. There's so many different ways individuals identify, not in terms of sexual identity, but in terms of sexual orientation (these are two separate things). Being attracted to another member of one's own gender does not automatically mean said person is homosexual. Please be a bit more open-minded.

Chapter Twenty

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's mind, some little voice was wondering why she wasn't questioning how, exactly, she'd ended up here.

Not 'here' in the sense of being in this dark, massive wizarding estate with werewolves crawling all about the place. No. 'Here' meaning . . . .

Here meaning on her knees, her hands gripping the footboard of the bed as Fenrir withdrew and plunged forward again and again. Here, with every motion of him behind her causing her limbs to tense and her entire body to shiver, whimpered moans escaping her throat to mingle with the panting growls he uttered.

Because of that, she had a perfectly clear recollection. She had acted first, after all, pulling him to her and leaning up in his lap to kiss him.

She remembered perfectly their fevered rush to remove each other's clothes, the race of fingers shaking with anticipation. Remembered perfectly the brush of hungry mouths across skin as it was bared.

Remembered—rather thankfully—the ticklish feeling that rushed across her lower abdomen as he cast a contraceptive charm before tossing his wand aside with their discarded clothes.

Remembered perhaps a bit too clearly the sound she'd let out, some yelped mix of delight and surprise, as he'd thrown her onto her back and buried his face between her thighs. And the way he'd groaned deep in the back of his throat—a purely animalistic noise of hunger and contentment—as he brought her to orgasm with the swirling pressure of his tongue.

Remembered how he'd shot up to loom over her the moment the last shivering aftershock left her. How he'd leaned close and spoke into her ear in a soft, growling whisper. "On your knees, my pretty thing."

Though her limbs had been reluctant to follow her commands, she did as she was told. Yet, as she'd knelt there before him, blinking up at him in such a bizarrely innocent way given what they were up to, he smirked. Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he held her gaze, he made a spinning gesture with one hand.

Yes, she'd thought, inwardly giggling, her senses overtaken by what felt like some drunken, hazy stupor, like wolves. For some reason, she found the odd appropriateness of it wildly amusing, even as she once more did as he instructed.

He'd slid his arms around her to guide her hands, wrapping her fingers around the top of the footboard. Her eyes had actually drifted closed at the feel of him gripping the hair at the back of her head in his fist. He positioned himself and then clamped his free hand over her hip to steady her.

How she managed to keep herself from letting out an ecstatic scream as he'd slammed his pelvis forward, burying himself within her in one hard and fast movement, she still didn't know.

How long had they been going at it now? Hours? Minutes? How could this feel like forever, yet like mere moments, all at once?

Her hazy mind couldn't make sense of the time around the blissfully blurry edges of his thrusts. Pleasure and pain rushed through her with every jarring motion—she'd always heard one could enhance the other because they were so closely linked. She'd never had a reference for that statement's truthfulness until now.

Fenrir growled as her body started growing taut. Somehow she recognized the sound that met her ears as one of satisfaction. As though she'd heard it a hundred times before and knew it by heart.

She also recognized the sudden frenzied jerking of his hips. That he was trying to meet her didn't stop him from slipping the hand that held her side down between her thighs, rubbing over her in rushed, erratic circles.

Hermione threw her head back, biting hard into her lip to keep from screaming as the added sensation of his fingers working against her and his own body freezing up in that harsh final thrust behind her pushed her over the edge.

It seemed another moment of not knowing how much time was passing while fine tremors shook through both of them. Now she knew . . . .

As their orgasms ebbed, she understood. As they slowly, languidly regained the ability to move, she understood. This was what she'd wanted. This was what she'd somehow known was going to happen if she gave into him.

This, as he slowly withdrew, dusting breathless, exhausted kisses across her shoulders. As he gathered her into his arms and collapsed backward onto the bed.

This, that she'd somehow known and expected, as they fell asleep curled around each other. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for them.

Lucius had so wanted to discuss matters when Narcissa returned to their room. Or at least that was what he'd wanted when he first returned and decided he would try to hedge her woes out of her so they could openly discuss the now very obvious troubles between them.

If things should end, then that was a decision they needed to reach together, not because she felt alone, or because he felt vindictive and neither of them knew where the other one stood. They could not continue on as they were, together-yet-not.

However, as he waited . . . that petty, small part of him, that part of him that needed to control things, that needed to be the one to decide everything reared its head. And, like some broken children's toy, he had no idea how to put that part of himself back in its neat little box.

He'd thought he should lay in the bed, pretend to sleep, and then when she returned, show her he was wide awake and pepper her with questions about where she'd been. Or perhaps she should return to see him sitting up, that he should pretend to be puzzled that she had managed to stumble into a bedroom unaccompanied.

And oh, how he hated himself for being such a wretch in these imagined scenarios. He had no proof anything beyond friendship existed between Narcissa and Dolohov. He'd seen only a show of friendship, of shared confidence. Of trust.

Perhaps that was the issue, for he could not think if he and Narcissa trusted one another, anymore.

He knew that he was not being fair to Narcissa to condemn her for something she might not have done, something she might not even be considering . . . . Something he, himself, might even push her to with his own anger and resentment at his own failings.

Yet, somehow, he could not help himself as he began a methodical search of his wardrobe, of his bureau drawers. He painstakingly extracted a few days worth of attire from undergarments to robes, even changes of nightclothes.

Setting the neat bundles atop his nightstand, he sat up on his side of the bed and waited, his back against the headboard and his legs outstretched as though he were lounging. And with each passing moment, that part that was small and petty grew.

Eventually, the door opened. He took a quick inventory of her appearance as she stepped inside. Her hair was still unmussed, robe still belted, nothing about her countenance would suggest anything untoward happened between her and her new friend. But that petty part of him could not let go of the simple fact that that did not mean their meeting was wholly innocent, either.

After a step, Narcissa gave a start. Her blue eyes shot wide and she continued forward, her footfalls mechanical, as she saw Lucius sitting up. Then she noticed the bundle of clothes on the night table beside him.

Normally so cool and collected, the gulp she forced down her throat was audible in the otherwise silent room.

"Out for a little late night stroll, were we?"

Shrugging, she collected herself. "Well, Lucius, you know when I can't sleep—"

"Never mind," he said, standing in a fluid motion and snapping his fingers for one of their elves to appear. As he waited, he tacked on, "I have seen to it that your nocturnal wanderings will no longer trouble my sleep."

Her jaw fell as she watched a servant appear, take the bundle of clothes from the night table, and await instructions.

"To my father's old room, if you would."

The elf nodded and poofed away.

"Lucius?"

Meeting her gaze, he could feel that he was already kicking himself for being so vile right now, but he could not help this impulse. He was very much going to regret this in the morning, but just now, he had to go through with this bit of vindictive plotting.

One corner of his mouth plucked upward in a mirthless smirk as he reached down, smoothing a hand across the covers. "Don't worry, I made sure to keep this side warm for Dolohov. Good night, Narcissa."

Her shock lodged a knot in her throat. She turned with his movement as he strode to the door, but couldn't force herself to say a word until he was already out in the corridor. "Lucius! It's—"

The sound of the door slamming shut behind him cut her off.

Narcissa's expression crumbled as she lowered herself to sit on her side of the bed. She hated the damnable mist of tears she could feel welling in her eyes.

She'd known all along how shaky things were between them. Known all along one misunderstanding could be enough to send them spiraling apart. She didn't understand her own feelings, and she now recognized that she understood his feelings even less than she thought she had if he wouldn't even allow her the benefit of explaining herself.

Maybe an end would be a relief.

Looking toward the door, she shook her head. "It's not what you think," she said in a pained whisper.

Maybe they were broken beyond repair, after all.

Hermione stretched, feeling comfortable and secure in a way she had never imagined she could. Opening her eyes, she could see the first streaks of sunlight peeking through the windows.

Today was too important to lie there, snuggled up against his deliciously solid and muscled frame, but that was precisely what she wanted to do. She pushed back against his warmth, delighting in the way he reflexively tightened his arms around her.

She could scarcely believe that with everything happening around them, she wanted to smile. She felt so oddly content.

All because she'd shagged Greyback?

Holding in a snicker—she knew it had to be something more than that, perhaps something to do with her werewolf blood telling her this was right—she did let herself smile. And with that smile, she turned in Fenrir's arms to look up at him.

He wasn't sure if he was or wasn't expecting to wake up to her screaming at him, but that's certainly what happened. Opening his eyes, he saw her standing before the mirror above the bureau. There was no time to appreciate the view of her naked form in the morning light as his gaze landed on the bloody teeth marks in her shoulder.

He could see in her reflection the betrayal and confusion playing across her face. But, as she looked at him in the mirror, he turned his attention to his own face.

Practically stumbling off the bed, he came to stand behind her, just as confused as he touched his fingers to his lips. His crimson-stained lips.

It was little comfort that the betrayal in her eyes faded. He could see that her confusion only grew at the awareness of his own. At some point last night, he'd bitten her.

And neither of them even remembered.