100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
11,645
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
11,645
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Hero
Title: Hero
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: DARK!fic, M/F
Summary: #89 – Hero. He had a habit of saving her.
Word Count: 1,087 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Suggested by donquixote17.
Prompt 89 – Hero
“Get down!”
Hermione Granger could not see the source of the barking, male voice, but she complied. Throwing herself to the rubble strewn street, she felt a Blasting Hex fly over her, and heard the sound of rotten flesh being torn apart. She did not even gag as a heavy, dead arm landed upon the backs of her knees.
“Hurry, ve must run now!”
A large, paw-like hand grasped her arm, wrenching her forward and up, and suddenly, Hermione was running.
It had been a mistake to go into Brighton, and as she ran, she wondered what possessed her to attempt the city or any city for that matter. She ran with no regard to direction, or who it was that was dragging her along.
The sun had begun to set, and Hermione began to hear the screeches of dead voices behind her. The streets gave way to a fence and Hermione let her body collide with it, her head buzzing illogical thoughts.
“I vill lift you, Her-my-nee…”
Hermione blinked, her eyes catching sight of part of a face under a thick cowl of a cloak. However, before she could speak, she was being lifted and forced to climb. Jumping over the thick wrought-iron gate, she found herself rolling upon a lawn.
“Hurry! Run to the palace!”
With still too much adrenaline to burn, Hermione did not stop to question, but began running up an unkempt lawn to a structure she had only seen in pictures.
Brighton’s Royal Palace was a white structure that caught the glowing orange rays of the setting sun as if the structure were aflame, but to Hermione, it looked like sanctuary.
How she managed to get inside, how she suddenly felt as if all the dark, dead things outside would not harm her that night, she could not say. All she knew was that she was again being pulled into chambers, all looted, all destroyed, until she was set down before a fireplace and given a plate of food which consisted mostly of canned fruits and meats.
When the cloak was doffed and a face floated before hers in the firelight, all Hermione could say weakly was: “My hero, once again.”
Viktor Krum had not aged well, and it seemed that life had been as hard on him as it had on Hermione. The scars across his dark brow, intersecting the bridge of his beaklike nose, it made him appear like one of the sculptures of Roman Emperors she had seen smashed in one of the chambers she had passed.
“Vhy are you here? Vhere are your friends?” he asked, his thick fingers brushing her filthy hair from her soot-covered face.
“Dead, like everyone. Why are you here?”
Viktor’s face darkened. “My vife and I vere here on holiday. She died veeks ago.”
Hermione wanted to seem sympathetic, but she had lost so many that her sympathy was all used before ever reaching Brighton.
“I tried Portkeys, I tried Apparation, nothing vorks,” Viktor grumbled rising to his feet before the fire.
Hermione watched him as she ate slowly, she knew he meaning all too well.
Viktor was just as substantial as she remembered, and once again, he had saved her life.
They spoke at length about what they had seen, or had not seen. Hermione was the first living person he had seen in weeks. They spoke of what the cause of their entrapment on the island of Britain could be, and what had caused the Inferi to wake. Neither had any answers.
“They vill not come to this place. I do not know vhy,” Viktor answered when Hermione had asked if they would have to run again. “It is safe here, ve can sleep.”
Hermione found herself in Viktor’s arms, just as small as ever against his hulking, muscular body. In the firelight of one of the grandest fireplaces Hermione had ever seen, he kissed her, not caring that she was dirty and smelled of death.
To touch another living person was like breathing to Hermione. Ever since Gloucester, she had seen no one.
Her hands ran along his scarred face, marveling the life she saw in his dark eyes, ignoring the fact that he was not handsome. Her dirty fingers ran over the hard planes of his chest, down along a trail of dark hair to his hard member. He grunted softly when she touched him. Years and years before, he had been the one to take her maidenhead, and years and years before, he had saved her. Her hero.
The manner in which his rough hands cupped her full breasts, the way he looked up at her as she positioned herself over his cock, it made Hermione feel safe—even it was for only one night.
Viktor, uncharacteristically, whimpered when Hermione took his length. She could see the tears in his eyes, but she moved all the same. Her hero was lost in his memories of another woman, one that he loved, one who surely had a matching silver wedding band upon her dead finger. Hermione did not cry, she had wasted her tears long before reaching Brighton.
Hermione rode Viktor, relishing the warmth of his large body, relishing the groans ripping from his throat despite his memories. He felt so large inside her body, larger than he did the first time they had coupled years before. As Hermione threw her head back to wail, her climax crashing upon her, she wondered if Viktor had had any children.
The world outside had gone mad, but Hermione did not care as Viktor manipulated her scrawny, malnourished body to rest above her, his thickly veined cock impaling her faster and faster. She knew that the act, sex, was not out of love, and would not be ‘love’ for her for a long time. The world outside had gone mad, and the sick, twisted truth of it all—what did make tears wet her eyes—was that she, perhaps being the last woman alive in Britain, could never act as an Eve.
Viktor cried her name as together they came, Hermione’s body arching into Viktor’s, her cries consciously muffled as not to arouse attention from the death outside.
Her hero’s seed scalded her skin even as they lay together, their thoughts on sleep. It was then Hermione cried, silently. Her poor hero…his reward would be as cold and lacking as ever. Hermione wondered why Viktor seemed so adamant on saving her.
It was the world that needed saving, and not Hermione Granger.
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: DARK!fic, M/F
Summary: #89 – Hero. He had a habit of saving her.
Word Count: 1,087 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Suggested by donquixote17.
Prompt 89 – Hero
“Get down!”
Hermione Granger could not see the source of the barking, male voice, but she complied. Throwing herself to the rubble strewn street, she felt a Blasting Hex fly over her, and heard the sound of rotten flesh being torn apart. She did not even gag as a heavy, dead arm landed upon the backs of her knees.
“Hurry, ve must run now!”
A large, paw-like hand grasped her arm, wrenching her forward and up, and suddenly, Hermione was running.
It had been a mistake to go into Brighton, and as she ran, she wondered what possessed her to attempt the city or any city for that matter. She ran with no regard to direction, or who it was that was dragging her along.
The sun had begun to set, and Hermione began to hear the screeches of dead voices behind her. The streets gave way to a fence and Hermione let her body collide with it, her head buzzing illogical thoughts.
“I vill lift you, Her-my-nee…”
Hermione blinked, her eyes catching sight of part of a face under a thick cowl of a cloak. However, before she could speak, she was being lifted and forced to climb. Jumping over the thick wrought-iron gate, she found herself rolling upon a lawn.
“Hurry! Run to the palace!”
With still too much adrenaline to burn, Hermione did not stop to question, but began running up an unkempt lawn to a structure she had only seen in pictures.
Brighton’s Royal Palace was a white structure that caught the glowing orange rays of the setting sun as if the structure were aflame, but to Hermione, it looked like sanctuary.
How she managed to get inside, how she suddenly felt as if all the dark, dead things outside would not harm her that night, she could not say. All she knew was that she was again being pulled into chambers, all looted, all destroyed, until she was set down before a fireplace and given a plate of food which consisted mostly of canned fruits and meats.
When the cloak was doffed and a face floated before hers in the firelight, all Hermione could say weakly was: “My hero, once again.”
Viktor Krum had not aged well, and it seemed that life had been as hard on him as it had on Hermione. The scars across his dark brow, intersecting the bridge of his beaklike nose, it made him appear like one of the sculptures of Roman Emperors she had seen smashed in one of the chambers she had passed.
“Vhy are you here? Vhere are your friends?” he asked, his thick fingers brushing her filthy hair from her soot-covered face.
“Dead, like everyone. Why are you here?”
Viktor’s face darkened. “My vife and I vere here on holiday. She died veeks ago.”
Hermione wanted to seem sympathetic, but she had lost so many that her sympathy was all used before ever reaching Brighton.
“I tried Portkeys, I tried Apparation, nothing vorks,” Viktor grumbled rising to his feet before the fire.
Hermione watched him as she ate slowly, she knew he meaning all too well.
Viktor was just as substantial as she remembered, and once again, he had saved her life.
They spoke at length about what they had seen, or had not seen. Hermione was the first living person he had seen in weeks. They spoke of what the cause of their entrapment on the island of Britain could be, and what had caused the Inferi to wake. Neither had any answers.
“They vill not come to this place. I do not know vhy,” Viktor answered when Hermione had asked if they would have to run again. “It is safe here, ve can sleep.”
Hermione found herself in Viktor’s arms, just as small as ever against his hulking, muscular body. In the firelight of one of the grandest fireplaces Hermione had ever seen, he kissed her, not caring that she was dirty and smelled of death.
To touch another living person was like breathing to Hermione. Ever since Gloucester, she had seen no one.
Her hands ran along his scarred face, marveling the life she saw in his dark eyes, ignoring the fact that he was not handsome. Her dirty fingers ran over the hard planes of his chest, down along a trail of dark hair to his hard member. He grunted softly when she touched him. Years and years before, he had been the one to take her maidenhead, and years and years before, he had saved her. Her hero.
The manner in which his rough hands cupped her full breasts, the way he looked up at her as she positioned herself over his cock, it made Hermione feel safe—even it was for only one night.
Viktor, uncharacteristically, whimpered when Hermione took his length. She could see the tears in his eyes, but she moved all the same. Her hero was lost in his memories of another woman, one that he loved, one who surely had a matching silver wedding band upon her dead finger. Hermione did not cry, she had wasted her tears long before reaching Brighton.
Hermione rode Viktor, relishing the warmth of his large body, relishing the groans ripping from his throat despite his memories. He felt so large inside her body, larger than he did the first time they had coupled years before. As Hermione threw her head back to wail, her climax crashing upon her, she wondered if Viktor had had any children.
The world outside had gone mad, but Hermione did not care as Viktor manipulated her scrawny, malnourished body to rest above her, his thickly veined cock impaling her faster and faster. She knew that the act, sex, was not out of love, and would not be ‘love’ for her for a long time. The world outside had gone mad, and the sick, twisted truth of it all—what did make tears wet her eyes—was that she, perhaps being the last woman alive in Britain, could never act as an Eve.
Viktor cried her name as together they came, Hermione’s body arching into Viktor’s, her cries consciously muffled as not to arouse attention from the death outside.
Her hero’s seed scalded her skin even as they lay together, their thoughts on sleep. It was then Hermione cried, silently. Her poor hero…his reward would be as cold and lacking as ever. Hermione wondered why Viktor seemed so adamant on saving her.
It was the world that needed saving, and not Hermione Granger.