The Story of H

Author's Note: Thank you for staying loyal. I will finish this work, though it will be at a very very slow pace. In the meantime, if you need more smut, check out my work on Kindle under the name Zoe Lore. My first book has just launched under the title Pretty Little Doll. I'll let you guys in on a little secret: it'll be free from Thursday to Saturday of this week.

Now enjoy the first of many updates to come over the next year.

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Hermione met the lazing Queen of the Nile with lowered eyes and a blushing face that could not be seen for the ink smeared across her cheeks.

“Ha!” came the haughty voice, “So Head Girl has been giving head in the broom closet, has she?”

Hermione muttered the password and glared at her feet.

Cleopatra ignored her and continued on in her taunting, raising a golden goblet in toast of conquests—whose, was left for speculation-- and said, “By the looks at it, it seems you had yourself a group affair. If only you--”

“Frolicking Fairies!” Hermione screamed in frustration.

“Alright! Alright!”

Hermione was through the portrait hole and across the common room before the painting had completed opened. She wasn't in the room to hear it swing shut.

She didn't bother to pick up the books that toppled off of her desk as she rushed past them. She threw herself towards her bed like a sailor towards a siren, and there she cried and screamed into her pillow. When she raised her head up, light was streaming across the room. If Hermione had slept, she didn't feel like it. Her body ached, especially the muscles in her thighs and lower back, and when she finally convinced herself to get up and shower, either the world was shaking beneath her or she was made of jello.

Slowly, she trudged to the bathroom. Once there, Hermione ventured a peek at herself. Her uniform was wrinkled and stained, the ink hadn't lost its black luster; it's darkness reminded her of raven wings or the dark tresses of a particular potions master. The connection brought her spinning back to reality—he had dismissed her, spurned her, flung her from his office when she admitted to desiring the horrible things he had done to her. As she berated herself, she stripped, not caring to unbutton any garment as was evidenced by the ripping sound echoing through the marble bathroom.

In the shower, she turned the water to the hottest setting, convinced by her damaged pride that she needed to scold and scour the foolishness away, like it was sitting there among the ink and sweat at the surface. Of course, the moment the water made contact with her skin, she jumped forward, swearing. She set the water for a slightly less ambitious temperature and washed away the evidence of last night.

She finished getting ready, fed Crookshanks, and headed to the Great Hall, determined to not make eye contact with the bat of the dungeons, least she be tempted to turn him into one, or least she implode from utter humiliation.

When she got to the Great Hall, it was empty, save for a single ghost floating across the empty tables.

“Head girl is headed for a detention, she is,” cackled, Peeves.

Realizing she was late, and late for potions at that, Hermione muttered, “Shit,” and turned on her toe.

Peeves raced behind her as she sprinted.

“Such foul language! What would everyone say?” He called after her.

Hermione turned and made a rude gesture at him. He howled with laughter but left her alone and floated off in the general direction of the Hufflepuff halls, hellbent on tutorring someone more prone to tears than the Gryffindor.

It left Hermione to run panting into the potions classroom.

Heads snapped in her direction. Hermione knew how she looked: her damp hair was frizzed and reaching new levels bushy from her run; her face was bright red from the exertion and embarrassment; and her shirt tail had managed to come untucked on the left side.

“Miss Granger. Twenty points for being late. Ten points for your lack of grooming. Another twenty points for your interruption. I realize that you feel your celebrity status places you above a Hogwarts education; however, you should at least have the curtsey not to enter a room like a stampeding Hippogriff with a perm and interrupt the learning of others not as privileged as yourself. Put your things down and see yourself to the bathroom. Do not return until you are within dress code.”

Hermione did not raise her eyes to meet his. If she had, she would have seen that he did not look at her, but rather a space of some remarkable interest about one foot above her head. No one else for that matter noticed the lack of eye contact between the two.

Without argument, Hermione mumbled “Yes, sir.”
She complied, walking to the bathroom numbly. It was one foot in front of the other. Her fingers tripped over the waistband of the Hogwarts skirt, securing the edge of her shirt as best as she could. Her tie was straightened, following the line of her sternum. Her hair found its way into a bun. When she had made herself as presentable as possible, she walked back down the hallway to the potions room.

Inside, it was empty. Her things had been left near her seat, but not a soul, not even the potions master, was anywhere to be found. Cauldrons were scrubbed clean, and freshly brewed potions sat along the front of the teacher's desk like soldiers or little french school girls from a childhood story. The class had begun without her presence. It had concluded without her presence.

Things were running despite her mortification. And that is what Hermione needed to do. She would press on. She would confront Professor Snape about what had happened tonight during her scheduled detention. Now, she needed to focus on making it through the day. History of Magic was next.

Hermione grabbed her bag and hurried to the history classroom as quickly as she could. She managed to catch up with a few stragglers and find her seat next to Thomas before the lecture began.

He flashed her a smile which she returned, though it lacked the same enthusiasm and charm.

She turned to rummage in her bag for parchment and a self-inking quill. At the top of the bag was an envelope. Flipping it over, she found her name written in a neat, spider-lettered scrawl that made her stomach confused as to whether it should drop or release a swarm of butterflies.