Chapter 7: Kreacher Comforts Part 7
The silence that followed Hermione’s raw whisper – "Everywhere" – was absolute. Thick. Suffocating. It pressed down, heavier than the velvet bedspread, heavier than Kreacher’s petrified weight still buried deep within her. Dust motes hung suspended in the stale air, illuminated by the single guttering candle.
Then, the world outside the door fractured.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, EVERYWHERE?" Ron’s roar shattered the stillness, vibrating through the wood, shaking the ancient hinges. A fist slammed against the door, hard enough to make the heavy oak panel groan. "HERMIONE! What in Merlin’s name is happening? Open this door! OPEN IT NOW!"
The violence of his voice, the raw, betrayed fury in it, acted like a stinging hex straight to Hermione’s core. Shame, colder and sharper than any blade, sliced through the lingering haze of illicit sensation. Kreacher flinched violently against her back, a strangled yelp escaping his thin lips. His massive cock pulsed once, thick and hot, a horrifying reminder trapped inside her. His clawed hands spasmed on her hips, digging in painfully.
The door shuddered under another thunderous blow. Dust cascaded from the frame. Kreacher’s breath hitched in Hermione’s ear, a wet, terrified rasp. His bony fingers dug deeper into her flesh, anchoring himself as much as hurting her. That impossible weight, still buried impossibly deep inside her, felt like a burning brand of guilt.
"HERMIONE!" Ron's voice cracked, raw with confusion morphing into something darker. "What the hell is that smell? What are you doing in there?" His fist hammered the wood again. "Open the sodding door!"
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, the coarse velvet of the dusty bedsphere rough against her cheek. The fading, shameful pulse of her own climax warred with the icy flood of panic. Kreacher trembled against her back, a thin whimper escaping him. His breath smelled of stale tea and something metallic. "Master Wheezy..." he croaked, his voice barely audible, laced with pure dread.
"Ron," she said, her voice unexpectedly steady, cutting through the thick tension. "You really don't want to see what's in here." A challenge. A warning. A terrible truth. Her knuckles were white on the bolt.
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Breathing on the other side of the door, harsh and ragged. Then Ron’s voice, lower now, dangerous. "What did you just say?" Confusion curdled into disbelief. "Hermione... is someone in there with you? Who is it?"
Kreacher flinched violently, a full-body spasm that made Hermione gasp as he shifted inside her. His claws raked her skin. "Mistress must not tell!" he hissed, a desperate, guttural sound against her spine. "Kreacher will be punished! Kreacher will be..."
"Shut it," Hermione whispered fiercely, her own fear momentarily eclipsed by a surge of protective anger directed at the trembling creature fused to her. She couldn't let Ron hurt him. The thought was absurd, terrifying, yet undeniable. The weight between her legs shifted again, a visceral reminder of the madness she’d embraced.
"Tell me who it is!" Ron roared, the door vibrating with the force of his voice. "NOW, Hermione!" Another crashing blow landed, wood splintering faintly near the lock. "Or I swear I'll blast it down!"
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pressed her forehead harder against the cold wood of the headboard. Sweat slicked her skin where Kreacher's body pressed against her back. His ragged breathing mingled with her own. The sour stench of fear and sex hung thick in the air. She could feel the frantic beat of his pulse where his thin chest pressed against her spine.
"Ron," she repeated, forcing the steadiness back, pushing every ounce of command she possessed into the single syllable. "Walk. Away." The words hung in the dusty gloom. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the ominous creak of the ancient bedsprings beneath them. Kreacher whimpered softly, a sound of pure animal terror.
The silence from the hallway was abrupt, thick, and somehow worse than the pounding. It pressed in, amplifying the frantic beat of Hermione’s heart against her ribs and Kreacher’s shallow, terrified gasps against the damp skin of her back. Dust motes drifted undisturbed in the feeble candlelight.
Kreacher remained utterly rigid, petrified, his bony frame locked against hers, the immense weight and heat of him still buried deep within her a shocking counterpoint to his fear. His breath hitched in ragged bursts, smelling faintly of mildew and terror. The silence beyond the door felt like a held breath, a coiled spring.
Hermione closed her eyes, pressing her cheek harder into the rough velvet. The panic receded, replaced by a reckless, dizzying surge of defiance, a dangerous heat blooming low in her belly, drowning out the shame. Ron hadn’t left; she could practically feel his confused, furious presence radiating through the wood. But he’d stopped trying to break in.
The stillness stretched, taut. Kreacher made another tiny, pitiful whimpering sound, trembling violently. His clawed hands still gripped her hips, knuckles white. The sheer, improbable enormity of him inside her pulsed faintly, a reminder of the madness she’d craved.
"Kreacher," Hermione breathed, the word barely audible, muffled against the bedspread. It wasn't command, not yet. Just his name, thick with something dangerous.
The house-elf flinched as if stung. "Mistress?" His voice was a terrified rasp, a thread of confusion woven through the fear. "Master Wheezy... he is..."
"Shhh." Hermione shifted her hips, the smallest, most deliberate movement. A slick, internal slide that drew a sharp, involuntary gasp from her own lips. The sensation was overwhelming, intense, pushing back the cold dread. "Forget him."
Kreacher froze again, utterly bewildered. His bulbous eyes blinked rapidly in the gloom. "Forget...?" The concept seemed alien, impossible. His loyalty, his terror, were ingrained, physical things.
"He doesn't matter," Hermione hissed, urgency sharpening her whisper. She pushed back more firmly this time, arching slightly against him, forcing him impossibly deeper. A low groan escaped her, half-pain, half-desperation. "Right now... you matter. This matters. Move, Kreacher."
The command, laced with that raw, undeniable need, cut through his terror like a knife. It bypassed his ingrained obedience to the Wheezys, tapping into something older, deeper – the compulsion to serve the Mistress, here, now. A confused whine escaped him, high-pitched and trembling. But his bony hips twitched.
Another small thrust, tentative, testing. The friction ignited sparks along Hermione’s nerves. "Yes," she breathed, the word exhaled on a wave of relief and dark need. "Like that. Harder."
The ancient elf shuddered. Fear warred with ingrained servitude and the undeniable biological response to her heat, her demand, the sheer physical impossibility of her body accepting him. His claws tightened almost painfully on her hips again, bracing. He drew a ragged breath that rattled in his chest.
Then, with a low, guttural sound that was more anguish than pleasure, Kreacher pulled back, the withdrawal agonizingly slow, stretching her unbearably. Hermione bit down on the velvet to stifle a cry. The silence from the hall was absolute, listening.
He slammed back in.
The impact drove the breath from Hermione’s lungs in a choked gasp. The ancient bedframe shrieked in protest, a violent, splintering sound that echoed in the cavernous room. Dust rained down onto the covers. Kreacher let out a strangled yelp, driven by her command and his own terrified confusion.
"Again," Hermione demanded, her voice raw, pushing against him, meeting the next thrust. The sheer, brutal fullness overwhelmed thought, obliterating Ron, obliterating the war, obliterating everything but the punishing rhythm and the terrifying creature giving it to her. Their ragged breathing, the wet slap of skin, the tortured groans of the bed, filled the oppressive silence.
A sharp intake of breath, distinctly human, came from just beyond the door. Then Ron’s voice, low, tight with dawning, horrified comprehension, slicing through the animal sounds within the room: "...Kreacher?"
The name hung in the air like a curse, thick and suffocating. "Kreacher?" Ron’s voice wasn’t a roar anymore. It was a whisper scraped raw, disbelief warping the single word into something monstrous. It echoed the wet slap of skin, the tortured groan of the ancient bedsprings, the ragged, animal gasps from inside the room.
Hermione froze mid-arch, the command dying on her lips. Kreacher whimpered, a high-pitched sound of pure terror vibrating against her spine. His bony hips stuttered, the immense weight inside her pulsing erratically. Dust drifted down onto her sweat-slicked shoulder. The silence from the hallway was absolute, heavier than the velvet drapes blocking the weak November light.
He knew. Ron knew. The realization slammed into Hermione colder than any Dementor. Shame flooded back, icy and sharp, momentarily eclipsing the desperate heat coiling low in her belly. Kreacher trembled violently, his claws digging into her hips like tiny knives. "Master Wheezy... Kreacher is sorry... Kreacher is bad..." he babbled, his voice cracking with panic.
"Stop," Hermione hissed, the word sharp, cutting through his terrified rambling. Not gentle. Commanding. She squeezed her eyes shut against the rough velvet. The silence beyond the door pressed in, thick with Ron’s stunned horror. She could almost feel his eyes burning through the wood, picturing the scene he could only hear: the rhythmic creak, the wet sounds, her gasps mingling with the elf’s terrified whimpers.
Kreacher remained rigid, petrified. His breath hitched in shallow bursts against her skin. The sheer, impossible fullness of him inside her was a constant, burning reminder of the line she’d crossed, irrevocably. Ron hadn’t moved. No pounding. No shouting. Just that awful, listening silence.
Hermione’s jaw tightened. The icy shame warred violently with the reckless defiance that had driven her here, with the raw, undeniable need that Kreacher’s grotesque anatomy somehow fulfilled. The war outside felt distant, abstract. This, the crushing weight, the terrifying intimacy, the utter wrongness of it… this was real. This was now. And Ron’s silent judgment was just another wall in this suffocating prison.
"Forget him," she breathed again, her voice lower, rougher. She pushed back deliberately, grinding against Kreacher’s bony pelvis. The friction sent sparks along her overloaded nerves, a jolt that momentarily drowned out everything else. A choked gasp escaped her. "He doesn't exist. Only this. Only now."
Kreacher flinched. Confusion warred with ingrained terror. "But Mistress... Master Wheezy... he hears..." His voice was a thin thread of despair.
"Let him hear," Hermione snarled, the defiance flaring hot and dangerous. She arched harder, forcing him impossibly deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a brutal stretch bordering on pain, yet undeniably potent. "Let him know. Move, Kreacher. Now."
The command, laced with raw, undeniable authority and that dark, desperate need, finally pierced his terror. It overrode the ingrained fear of the Wheezys, tapping directly into the primal compulsion to obey her, the Mistress demanding service here. A low, guttural groan escaped him, part anguish, part surrender. His claws tightened, anchoring them both.
He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, the drag against her sensitive flesh making her whimper into the bedspread. The silence from the hall remained absolute, a held breath. Then, driven by her command and the undeniable biological response to her heat and pressure, Kreacher slammed forward.
The impact jarred Hermione’s teeth. The bedframe shrieked again, a violent protest echoing in the gloom. Kreacher gasped, a wet, ragged sound. Hermione cried out, the sound muffled but unmistakable – a mix of shock and dark, undeniable pleasure.
"Harder," she demanded, her voice thick, pushing back against him, meeting the next thrust. The punishing rhythm resumed, louder now, more desperate. The wet slap of skin, Kreacher’s terrified whimpers, Hermione’s choked gasps, the bed’s tortured groans – they filled the room, spilling out into the silent hallway.
Ron didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try the door. He just stood there, stunned into absolute immobility, listening to the impossible, horrific sounds of Hermione Granger finding oblivion with Kreacher buried deep inside her. The single candle flame flickered wildly, casting monstrous, leaping shadows on the peeling wallpaper.
The single candle flame flickered wildly, casting monstrous, leaping shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Ron’s horrified silence pressed against the door like a physical weight, thick and suffocating. Kreacher whimpered, a high-pitched keen of pure terror vibrating against Hermione’s sweat-slicked spine, his bony hips stuttering against hers. "Master Wheezy... Kreacher is bad elf..." he babbled, his voice cracking, the immense weight buried deep within her pulsing erratically with his fear.
"Stop talking," Hermione hissed, the command sharp, cutting through his panic. Shame warred violently with the reckless defiance burning low in her belly. She squeezed her eyes shut against the rough velvet bedspread, the silence beyond the door amplifying every ragged breath, every tortured groan of the ancient bedsprings beneath them. Ron hadn’t moved; his stunned horror was a palpable force radiating through the wood.
"Forget him," she breathed again, her voice rougher now, laced with a desperate urgency that brooked no argument. She pushed back deliberately, grinding against Kreacher’s pelvis, the friction igniting sparks along her overloaded nerves. A choked gasp escaped her lips. "Only this. Only now. Move."
The command, raw and undeniable, pierced Kreacher’s terror. It overrode the ingrained fear of the Wheezys, tapping directly into the primal compulsion to obey her, the Mistress demanding service. A low, guttural groan escaped him, part anguish, part surrender. His claws dug deeper into her hips, anchoring them both.
He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, the drag against her sensitive flesh making her whimper. The silence from the hall remained absolute, a held breath. Then, driven by her command and the undeniable biological response to her heat and pressure, Kreacher slammed forward.
The impact jarred Hermione’s teeth. The bedframe shrieked again, a violent, splintering protest echoing in the gloom. Kreacher gasped, a wet, ragged sound. Hermione cried out, the sound muffled but unmistakable – shock tangled with dark, undeniable pleasure.
"Harder," she demanded, her voice thick, pushing back against him, meeting the next thrust. The punishing rhythm resumed, louder now, more desperate. The wet slap of skin, Kreacher’s terrified whimpers, Hermione’s choked gasps, the bed’s tortured groans – they filled the room, spilling out into the silent hallway where Ron stood frozen.
Kreacher obeyed. Fear transmuted into frantic, terrified energy. His bony hips pistoned, driven by Hermione’s hissed commands and the overwhelming sensory feedback. Each thrust was a desperate, jarring impact. Hermione arched, meeting him, her fingers clawing at the velvet, lost in the brutal rhythm obliterating thought. The bed groaned louder, a deep, protesting creak with every drive forward.
"Yesss," she gasped, the word dissolving into a moan as he buried himself impossibly deep again. The ancient oak frame protested violently. A sharp crack sounded beneath them, sharp as a breaking bone. Dust cascaded onto their tangled bodies. Kreacher whimpered, his thrusts faltering momentarily.
"Don't stop!" Hermione snarled, pushing back fiercely. "Harder!"
He obeyed. With a final, desperate surge, fueled by terror and Hermione’s raw command, Kreacher drove into her with all his wiry strength. There was a moment of suspended tension, a horrible creaking groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the house.
There was a moment of suspended tension, a horrible creaking groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the house. Then, with a final, splintering crack louder than Kreacher’s terrified gasp, the ancient oak bedframe beneath them gave way. Hermione cried out as the world tilted violently sideways, the mattress collapsing onto the dusty floorboards in a chaotic heap of velvet, feathers, and tangled limbs.
Kreacher yelped, a sharp, animal sound of pure panic, his bony body landing heavily atop Hermione. The impact drove his impossible length impossibly deeper, forcing a choked gasp from her lungs. Dust billowed around them, thick and choking in the flickering candlelight. His claws scrabbled desperately against her skin, trying to right himself, his bulbous eyes wide with terror. "Mistress! Kreacher is sorry! Kreacher broke the bed!"
Hermione lay winded, pinned beneath his wiry weight and the suffocating reality of the collapsed bed. Shards of wood dug into her back. The silence from the hallway was absolute, heavier than the dust motes swirling in the air. Ron hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken. He was still out there, listening to the splintering wood, her cry, Kreacher’s frantic apology. Shame threatened to drown her, cold and sharp.
But the heat radiating from where Kreacher was still buried deep within her pulsed, insistent. The fall had shifted him, pressing against places that ignited sparks behind her closed eyelids. The sheer, brutal fullness obliterated thought. The war, Ron’s horrified silence, the splintered bed – it all receded into a dull roar beneath the insistent thrum of sensation. Kreacher trembled violently against her, frozen in terror, waiting for punishment.
"Are you hurt?" Hermione rasped, the question startling even herself. Her voice was raw, scraped thin.
Kreacher blinked, utterly bewildered. "Hurt? Mistress... Kreacher... Kreacher broke the bed!" He sounded near tears, his thin chest heaving against hers. His cock twitched involuntarily inside her, a hot, thick pulse that made her hips jerk.
"Forget the bed," Hermione breathed. She shifted beneath him, wincing at the wood shards, but the movement caused a slick, internal slide that stole her breath. Her hand found his bony shoulder, not pushing him away, but anchoring. His skin felt papery, cold. "Are you hurt?"
He stared down at her, his bulbous eyes reflecting the guttering candle flame. Confusion warred with ingrained terror. "Kreacher... Kreacher is not hurt, Mistress." His voice was a thin whisper. He remained utterly rigid, terrified to move, terrified of the silence beyond the door, terrified of the impossible thing still connecting them.
Hermione’s gaze locked with his. The defiance surged back, reckless and hot, fueled by the pulsing heat low in her belly and the sheer, terrifying intimacy of their position. Dust coated her lips. She ignored it. "Then stop apologizing," she whispered, her voice gaining strength. She arched her hips slightly, deliberately, pressing up against him. The friction was electric. Kreacher gasped, a sharp intake of breath. "You didn’t finish."
His eyes widened impossibly further. "Mistress...?" The concept seemed alien. Unthinkable. Master Wheezy was listening. The bed was broken. He was a bad elf.
"Finish," Hermione commanded, her voice low and rough, cutting through his terror. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "Here. Now. On the floor." She pushed up again, harder this time, grinding against his bony pelvis. "Move."
The command, raw and undeniable, pierced the fog of his panic. It bypassed reason, bypassed fear of Ron, bypassed everything but the primal urge to obey her, the Mistress demanding completion. A low, guttural groan escaped him, torn from somewhere deep. His claws dug into the mattress feathers beside her head. His terror didn’t vanish; it fused with a frantic, compelled energy.
He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, the drag against her sensitive flesh making her whimper. The silence from the hall pressed down. Dust settled on their sweat-slicked skin. Then, driven solely by her command, Kreacher thrust forward.
It was awkward, desperate, jarring against the uneven floorboards. But it was movement. Deep. Hermione cried out, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. Kreacher whimpered, his thrusts gaining a frantic, terrified rhythm. The wet sounds resumed, louder now on the hard floor, mingling with their ragged breaths and the faint settling of broken wood.
"Harder," Hermione gasped, meeting each clumsy, powerful drive. She wrapped her legs around his thin waist, pulling him deeper, anchoring him. "Don't think. Just... give it to me." Her voice broke on the last word.
Kreacher obeyed. Fear and compulsion became a single, driving force. His bony hips pistoned, each thrust a desperate, jarring impact. Hermione arched, her head pressing back into the feathers, lost in the brutal rhythm. The broken bed frame was forgotten. Ron’s silent judgment was a distant shadow. There was only this: the punishing fullness, the ancient elf’s terrified gasps against her neck, the slick heat, the overwhelming wrongness that felt terrifyingly right.
His rhythm became frantic, erratic. A high-pitched whine built in his throat. "Mistress... Kreacher... Kreacher is..." He couldn't form the words, overwhelmed by sensation and terror and the sheer impossibility of release.
"Let go," Hermione breathed, her own climax coiling tight, inevitable. She tightened around him, pulling him impossibly deeper with her legs. "Now, Kreacher. Give me everything."
A strangled cry tore from him, raw and anguished. His body locked, rigid against hers. His claws tore feathers from the mattress. Inside her, he pulsed violently, a hot, thick flood that seemed endless, triggering her own release with shocking force. She gasped, a sound ripped from her throat, her body convulsing around him, wave after wave obliterating thought, shame, fear, everything but the shocking, visceral reality of Kreacher buried deep inside her, emptying himself completely.
She went utterly limp beneath him. Boneless. Breathless. The only sound was Kreacher’s ragged, terrified panting against her neck and the frantic hammering of her own heart. Dust motes drifted undisturbed in the failing candlelight. The silence from the hallway remained absolute, a suffocating shroud. She didn't fight it. Didn't push Kreacher away. Didn't try to explain or hide.
She simply lay there, pinned beneath the trembling elf and the crushing weight of what she’d done, what she’d demanded, what she’d taken. The surrender was total. Complete. Her body accepted his weight, his presence, the lingering pulse deep within her. Her mind, for the first time in months, was terrifyingly, utterly quiet. The war outside, the judgment beyond the door, the shattered bed beneath her… none of it mattered. Only the stillness, the exhaustion, and the terrifying, undeniable truth of Kreacher’s spent body pressed against hers. She closed her eyes.