Chapter 2: Kreacher Comforts Part 2
The master bedroom of 12 Grimmauld Place was one of the few areas where the decay that infested the house was slightly abated. Perhaps Kreacher still occasionally tidied up to preserve his Mistress’ chambers, or maybe there were a few lingering preservation charms still hanging on for dear life. Either way, it merely looked like it had been abandoned for a few months rather than a few decades. The doorway opened, slowly and carefully to prevent the corroded brass hinges from squeaking. Hermione’s hair entered the room first, the bushy mane of light-brown hair extending several inches beyond the doorway before her eyes had a chance to peer inside, somewhat ruining her attempt at stealth. Nevertheless, she cautiously scanned the room with the air of a cat burglar breaking into a museum. Kreacher took a particular dislike to anyone disturbing the master bedroom and any Order members who had decided to sleep in the large, four-poster bed often woke up with spiders in their hair. With no one else around for the house-elf to vent his ire on, Hermione had made sure to avoid the place, until today. Satisfied that Kreacher wasn’t lurking around the place, Hermione slowly crept into the room. With Ron and Harry both gone, she had thrown herself into research (when she wasn’t having to deal with Kreacher’s nonsense). Studying was what she had always been best at and if she managed to find some vital secret or hidden strategy that might help turn the tide against Voldemort and his Death Eaters...then maybe Ron and Harry would stop hating her. It was worth a try, at least. Hermione had already read every book in 12 Grimmauld Place cover-to-cover and back again, a not-insignificant task considering the impressive collection that the Black family had accumulated over the generations. Many of the books had been fascinating works of magical history and spellcraft but none had contained anything particularly applicable to her current situation. Now there was only one bookshelf in the old house that she hadn’t examined: the private collection of Walburga Black herself. She had noticed it shortly after the trio had taken shelter in 12 Grimmauld Place, but hadn’t had a chance to browse before Kreacher had chased her out of the room with hateful shrieks. That had been before she had become his “Mistress” but she didn’t see things playing out any better a second time. Still, the coast seemed to be clear this time, so she approached the ancient bookshelf by the bed. It was a huge, black monolith, a towering furniture fortress made from dark, ebony wood. It probably cost more than her parent’s house and looked solid enough to serve as a blast shield in an emergency. Its dusty shelves were lined with rows of books, packed so tightly that you wouldn’t be able to fit a magazine in between them. For a moment, the excitement of browsing these new tomes made Hermione forget her distressing situation. As she ran a finger along the threadbare spines of the books, she could think of nothing beyond the joy of newly-discovered knowledge. Her finger alighted on one book and she tilted her head to make out the title, picked out in gilded ink along the spine. Beating Off The Bludgers. Hermione blinked, her mind taking a moment to parse the title. She shook her head, half-convinced that she had misread the faded label. She flicked her finger a few books rightward, landing on another book. Wands Aflame: Tales of Passion. Her eyes were growing wider now, but somehow she managed to avoid putting two and two together, jumping instead to a third book. Captive Of The Centaurs. “Probably...some kind of survivor’s story. Maybe about diplomacy with magical creatures.” Unthinking, she reached out and pulled the book off the shelf. The cover was well-used and there were several dog-eared pages. She opened the book to one of these sections and let her eyes fall on a random paragraph.
Nessus’ gnarled hands ripped at the fabric of my robes, baring my breasts to the cool night air. Steam rose from his sweat-dappled flanks as he roughly caressed me with fingers and tongue. One hairy, muscular arm reaching between my legs and probed at the petals of my womanly flower, finding them already wet with dew.
“Good…” His damp breath was hot on my neck as his fingers delved deeper. “You’ll need to be nice and slick for what comes next.”
I didn’t need to be told what to do...using my torn robe as padding I knelt on all fours, raising my hips and bringing my chamber of secrets up to meet his massive-
Hermione snapped the book shut, face beet red and her hair somehow more frazzled than it had been just a second before. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her clothes suddenly felt very tight and restrictive. She chided herself for reacting like that, she was an adult now, after all. She and Ron had even been together long enough that they had started having sex (at least until Ron left in a huff the month before) but they were both still new and Ron was still a very nervous and clumsy lover, to use the word charitably. But doing that with a centaur…? Wow... She considered giving up her search and leaving, but managed to convince herself that it wasn’t a proper investigation if she didn’t check more books. After all, maybe there were some proper magical books hidden here and there among the trashy bodice-rippers. Maybe. Her hands were shaking slightly as her fingers hovered over the other books. The Velvet Wand, Turpia Scripto, The Joys of Hex, Bound By The Witch-Hunter, XXXtreme Incantations, Surrendering To The Dark Arts, The Warlock’s Passion, Sex the Muggle Way, Dominated by Dementors, Eldritch Pleasures, Arcana and Ecstasy. “No, no, no. They can’t all be...adult literature!” Desperate, she yanked another volume from the shelf, entitled Dragon Riders of Perth, and flipped to a random page.
Emily Macfusty ran her fingers over the dark scales of the young dragon. The dragon let out a rumble of pleasure deep in its chest and nuzzled her, its long tubular tongue slipping beneath the thin, white fabric of her cotton chemise and caressing her skin. She shuddered with pleasure, shrugging the light dress off her shoulders and allowing the dragon to explore her naked body with its tongue.
Tonight, they would forge a pact with their bodies and she would be able to soar through the sky on the back of a dragon, riding it just as it would ride her tonight...and many nights to come. While its tongue continued to flick between her legs, she reached down between the young dragon’s haunches, coaxing the shaft of its phallus free of its sheath. The light glistened on the length of the dragon’s might and her body ached with anticipation as she imagined-
Hermione realized she was starting to breathe heavily and was reading far more of the book than was necessary to determine its nature. The creaky old house was suffused with late-Autumn chill and she was wearing only a pair of trousers and a light sweater but she still felt like she was burning up. Son of a banshee, I didn’t realize how pent up I’ve been...I’d even settle for Ron’s clumsy wand-work right about now. I might not even have to finish on my own for once. “Unicorn turds,” she swore with a sigh, putting the book back in place among the rest of the well-read wizard erotica. “I don’t think I’m going to find the secret to winning a war among Walburga Black’s private smut library.” She made a foul face at the thought of the old woman in the portrait and her private use of the library. She gave the room another once-over, wondering if there might be more...practical...books tucked away somewhere else, but there was nothing to be found. Wiping a strand of hair away from her face, she wondered what she should do next. Should she try and visit Harry and Ron? Maybe if she showed Ron how much she was missing him right now then he might be more amenable to mending fences...but he was also in a small house full of his own relatives. Not exactly the ideal place for a tryst. Frustrated, she decided that, for now, her best option was to get ready for bed and tackle the problem in the morning. She turned to leave but hesitated at the doorway for a long moment. Blushing furiously, she crept back to the bookshelf and picked out a volume that didn’t look too absurdly scandalous: Hot Springs Paradise. She gave it a tug but encountered surprising resistance. Gripping the spine of the book she pulled harder. There was a loud, mechanical snap as the book was pulled halfway free of the shelf. The floor trembled and there was a loud, mechanical grinding noise, causing Hermione to fall backwards onto her bum. At the command of some antiquated charm, the bookshelf slid aside on hidden tracks, eliciting groans of protest from long-rusted and unused mechanisms. “Swish and flicker…” Hermione murmured under her breath as she examined the space behind the bookcase. It was a large room, bigger than most living rooms, covered floor to ceiling in large, black marble tiles. Dominating the space was what appeared to be a shallow pool or bath, although it was currently empty. Several gilded gargoyles hung above the pool, the placement and shape of their mouths indicating that they were probably designed as water spouts. Other than the pool itself, the main feature of the room was a large, floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over a tranquil, moonlit forest that spilled down the side of a tall hill or mountain. “Walburga had a private hot springs hidden behind her porn stash?” Hermione shook her head with wonder at the waste of it all. She had been staying in 12 Grimmauld Place long enough to know the layout and this wall would have been flush with the building right behind it. The only way this space could possibly exist would be with a powerful, permanent Expansion Charm. And certainly there was no-where in the middle of London with a view like that, meaning the window was enchanted as well. “I suppose the old bag knew how to treat herself…” She was idly wondering how the gargoyle-heads hooked up to the plumbing in the rest of the house when she heard a noise behind her. It was a high-pitched, hissing growl, like a furious tea kettle. Turning, she saw Kreacher, crouching on the canopy of the four-poster bed and staring at her with abject rage and hatred. “Kreacher, I-” Her attempted explanation was cut off by an explosion of fury from the house-elf. “No right! No right!” He hopped down from the top of the bed, sliding down one of the posts to the floor. “Stupid mud-child has no right to be here! Go! Go! Go!” “I’m just looking!” She protested, her worry about Kreacher’s anger instantly transforming into stubborn defiance. “There’s nothing wrong with looking, is there?” If Kreacher had hair he probably would have pulled it out with rage. In fact, he looked angry enough that Hermione was starting to worry he might try pulling out his teeth! He stomped his feet, turning in a circle. A bizarre little jig of fury. “No right! No right! This place belongs to the true Mistress!! Not you. Not you!!” “Oh?” Hermione narrowed her eyes, the trials of the last few weeks finally beginning to fray her tightly woven sense of ethics. “Have you forgotten who your Mistress is now?” Kreacher’s eyes widened and he reared back as though Hermione had physically struck him. She immediately regretted the rash statement...it wasn’t quite giving him an order but it was definitely out of bounds, even for as foul a creature as Kreacher. Before she could apologize, he regained what passed for composure and snapped his finger. The book she had pulled popped back into its place and the bookshelf began to slide back once more. “Stupid, fake, foul, smelly, fat Mistress may own Kreacher.” He snarled. “But not house! She doesn’t own house! Doesn’t own bath! Doesn’t own books!” “You’re right, but my friend Harry does. Shall I call him back and show him this bathhouse you’ve kept hidden away up here? See what he thinks? Maybe we could invite a few friends for a nice, long soak.” Kreacher fell silent at that threat and Hermione breathed an internal sigh of relief that the house-elf fell for her bluff. Not having any friends of his own, Kreacher didn’t seem to quite understand the rift that had formed between Hermione, Harry and Ron. “That’s what I thought,” Hermione smirked down at the angry husk of a house-elf. “Don’t worry though, I was just curious. I don’t particularly feel like a bath right now anyway.” To her surprise, Kreacher didn’t burst back with an angry invective. Instead, he shook his head, hunching his shoulders up even higher (making him look very much like the gargoyle spouts in the hot springs) and snapped his fingers, apparating away. Hermione felt a momentary surge of satisfaction but that was quickly tainted by a sense of looming dread. She may have won that bit of verbal sparring...but without some new book of magic who knew how long she and Kreacher would be alone together. She’d probably face the consequences for that brief victory soon enough. “This needs to be sorted...once and for all.”
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Despite 12 Grimmauld Place containing over half-a-dozen empty bedchambers, Kreacher preferred to sleep in his traditional home: the kitchen located in the basement. He had a den tucked inside one of the disused cabinets, filled with moth-eaten sheets and rotting doilies. Cramped quarters even by the standards of a house-elf. Every night, Kreacher would retire to his den, snoring so loudly it could be heard on the first floor. The rotting staircase creaked under Hermione’s feet as she descended into the basement. She froze, listening for any sign that Kreacher had heard her, but his snoring continued unabated. Heart pounding, she slowly descended the remaining steps. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the glowing embers in the fireplace. Down here, Kreacher’s snoring was even louder, echoing off the stone walls and causing the cabinet door to rattle with every breath. Hermione cautiously approached the cabinet, a cloth bundle in her hands. It was a thick, wooly sweater and a pair of matching knitted pants, both sized for the diminutive proportions of a house-elf. She had knitted them herself, intended as a gift to free Kreacher from servitude. A gift he had steadfastly refused to accept. For all that he seemed to hate her with a bitter passion, he seemed to find the idea of freedom even more unbearable. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how house-elves think. Hermione laid the clothes quietly on the table and turned towards the cabinet, whose door was slightly ajar. She drew her wand from her handbag and, using the tip, pushed the cabinet door open. The dim, flickering light from the fireplace illuminated his face, glistening on the thin line of drool trickling from his mouth. His face was twisted into an angry grimace. Hermione wasn’t sure if he was having an unpleasant dream or if his face was just stuck that way after years of being a hateful git. There was a moment of hesitation as she pointed her wand at Kreacher’s sleeping head. What she had planned didn’t exactly feel right, but being alone with Kreacher was like being trapped in a pressure cooker with no release valve. Things had reached a point where drastic action was needed to prevent an explosion. Besides, it was for his own good, in the end. “ Dormio!” Her wand flared to life and Kreacher snorted, startled by the sudden noise. However, the sleeping charm hit him before he had a chance to regain consciousness, causing him to jolt briefly before falling into an even deeper sleep. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when another snore rattled the rafters. She poked Kreacher’s cheek with the tip of her wand, but there was no reaction. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be waking up until morning, Hermione steeled herself for the next part. She partially closed the door, leaving a crack of only a few inches. She didn’t want to see the results of this next spell. It was a spell that she had never intended to use, learning it only for the purpose of the counterspell which was an essential tool for every witch in Hogwarts, given the pranks horny young warlocks could dream up. Turning her head away, she pointed her wand through the crack in the cabinet door. “ Denudo!!” The incantation echoed in the small stone room and she had a horrifying vision of Ron and Harry stepping through the flue in the basement right at this moment, but there was no backing out now. There was the sound of laces and cloth rippling as Kreacher’s clothing yanked itself off of the sleeping elf and shot out of the cabinet. She considered for a moment and followed this up with another spell. “ Acio Cloth!” She winced slightly as she heard Kreacher smack against the ceiling of his little den as his nest of decaying fabric was yanked out from under him. She felt bad, but house-elves were tough little things and all of this would be for nothing if he just turned his bedding into a new ratty toga. “ Wingardium Leviosa!” Hermione flicked her wand, sending the pile of stained cloth skyward and floating it towards the fireplace. There was a burst of flame and a waft of foul-smelling smoke as they were consumed one-by-one. Burning Kreacher’s meager possessions felt wrong but there was nothing else to do at this point. She picked up the sweater and pants she had knit for him and folded them neatly before placing them right in front of Kreacher’s den. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a folded note and opened it to review the contents one last time. Kreacher, please accept my apologies but I have decided that I can no longer abide the dreadful state of your clothing and have disposed of them. As you pointed out last night, number 12 Grimmauld Street and its contents belong to my friend Harry Potter, and I cannot in good conscience give you permission to craft yourself any new garments from his belongings. Instead, I have provided you with suitable new clothes. I hope, given the situation, that you will accept them, along with your freedom. Folding the note back up, she placed it atop the pile of clothes. The front had Kreacher’s name emblazoned on it in large, neat letters. Her plan completed, she left Kreacher snoring in the cabinet as she ascended the stairs.
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