Chapter 5: Kreacher Comforts Part 5
The next evening, the smoldering embers in the hearth of 12 Grimmauld Place’s kitchen sparked and flared to life. The flames flickered, shifting from a cheery red-orange to a roaring column of green fire that lapped at the grate of the fireplace. With a puff of ash and green smoke, Ron Weasley burst into the kitchen. He quickly moved out of the way, allowing the second traveler to step into the room: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Both young wizards dusted ash and soot from their clothes, looking around the kitchen. Ron noted, with some surprise, that Kreacher’s nook in the kitchen cupboard had been filled with clean, white sheets rather than the ratty old linens he usually slept on. The house-elf himself was nowhere to be seen. “Been a while, hasn’t it,” Harry muttered, looking apprehensive. His friend’s words distracted Ron from his previous trail of thought and the young ginger lad nodded in agreement. “Yeah...I’m probably not going to hear the end of it for quite a while, am I?” “We definitely owe Hermione an apology...but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Once she hears the news about Gryffindor’s sword then she’ll forget all about the recent unpleasantness.” “Probably.” Ron wasn’t so sure, but he did have hope that he might still have a girlfriend after all this. After all, everyone had been under a lot of stress in the past few weeks. Surely she’d understand. Surely. “The sooner we get it over with, the better,” Harry reassured him, sensing some of Ron’s disquiet. “It’s like ripping off a band-aid.” “What’s a band-aid?” Harry shook his head slightly, reminding himself that Ron had grown up in a wizarding family and similes rarely translated well between the Muggle and wizarding world. One of the reasons he had missed Hermione these past few weeks. She at least knew what band-aids were and didn’t think type-writers were operated by tiny imps working the mechanisms. “Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s go find her. The sooner we apologize, the sooner we can move past this, right?” “Right. And maybe once we defeat You-Know-Who, then I bet all this will be forgotten. It’ll be just like a bad dream.” “Yeah.” Harry headed for the stairs, shoes clopping on the old stone, changing to the sound of creaking floorboards as he came up to the first floor. He heaved a small sigh of relief at the sight of Walburga Black’s portrait tightly covered in canvas and wrapped in a heavy rope. The last thing they needed was to set off that old bag of awful pigments. The first place they checked was the library on the first floor. Hermione had definitely been there: the sitting tables were piled high with books and several cups of mostly-drunk tea sat nearby. But there was no sign of her now. Then they moved up to the third floor, where most of the guest bedrooms were located in 12 Grimmauld place. These were the rooms where most of the Order of the Phoenix had chosen to bed down while sheltering there. Nothing. One of the bedrooms was certainly full of her books and her clothes...but no sign of Hermione herself. With growing concern, they moved up to the fourth floor, checking on the old bedroom occupied by Sirius Black...no sign of Hermione. “Maybe...maybe she popped out to buy some supplies?” Ron suggested, nervously. “She’d know that was too dangerous.” Harry shook his head. “Besides, there were months of provisions here. Not to mention all the supplies she keeps in the hide-away inside her bag.” As they trudged back down the stairs, it was Ron who that the large door leading to the master bedroom was slightly ajar, letting a thin sliver of candlelight through. They hadn’t even bothered to check it, knowing how Kreacher reacted to anyone trying to sleep in Walburga’s old bed. Even when Order of the Phoenix members were sleeping two to a bed, they hadn’t dared intrude on the master bedroom for fear of being targeted by Kreacher’s hateful pranks. The two shared a look of confusion. “Well...she does own him, doesn’t she?” Ron shrugged. “Trust me, owning Kreacher doesn’t mean he won’t treat you like garbage,” Harry muttered. He felt a pang of guilt at foisting the nasty little goblin off on Hermione. But then again, she was the one going on and on and on about being nice to house-elves and freeing them. “Well, where else could she be?” Ron countered. Harry didn’t have an answer to that. “Hermione, it’s Ron and Harry. We just wanted to say sorry.” Ron called out as he pushed on the doorway. With a creak of aged wood, the two of them pushed open the door to the master bedroom. Before it opened completely it occurred to Ron that they should have knocked. “Sorry for barging in, I hope you’re decent and…” His mouth dropped open as he pushed his way into the room. Harry followed quickly behind before stumbling into Ron’s rigid back. “Hey, what’s the big ide--” Harry’s voice died on his lips, his eyes widening and his mouth joining Ron’s Muted by the silence-spells on the house, they hadn’t heard the rough, violent squeaking of the giant bed’s springs. Nor the ragged panting, intermixed with groans and moans of pleasure. On the bed, Hermione crouched on all fours, her frizzy brown hair framing a face that was beaded with sweat and flushed with exertion. She was naked, her full breasts buried in the bedsheets as she raised her tight, round ass into the air. Clinging to her ass, his own skinny body not even touching the ground, was Kreacher. The house-elf’s enormous cock was filling her pussy and it’s shaft glistened as the house-elf desperately pumped his bony little ass over and over again like a miniature jackhammer. Hermione’s fists bunched in the bedsheets as Kreacher vigorously fucked her from behind. Neither seemed to notice the two young wizards entering the room. “Fuck me harder! Do it, you hear me?” Hermione gasped, poking her ass higher into the air in a desperate attempt to force Kreacher further inside her. “I said fuck me you limp-wanded piece of troll shit!” “Blast-ended skank!” Kreacher snarled. “Kreacher would fuck harder if Kreacher didn’t have to listen to his mud-slut mistress constantly whining!” There was a loud thump as Ron fell backwards to the floor, fainting dead away in shock. Even in unconsciousness, his face was fixed into a rictus expression of surprise. For his part, Harry simply stared, hypnotized by the sight of Kreacher’s huge testicles slapping against Hermione’s bare thighs, a small tent forming in his pants.