Chapter 2: Attic Surrender
The silence after was different. Before, it had been a held breath, a waiting. Now it was a spent thing, thick and woolly, stuffed with the echoes of what they’d done. Kreacher’s ragged breathing slowly evened out, becoming a faint wheeze. Molly stared at the water stain on the opposite wall, shaped like a distorted dragon. The taste of him was still in her mouth, a bitter, metallic anchor in the unreal haze.
She should feel revulsion. She should be scrambling to her feet, vomiting into a crate, weeping with shame.
Instead, she felt a profound, humming emptiness. An ache. It started low in her belly, a deep, hollow throb that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with the memory of weight, of heat, of being filled. Her mouth had been a channel, a proof of concept. It wasn't enough. The curiosity had crystallized into a single, sharp need.
She turned her head to look at him. He was shrunk back against the vanished cabinet, knees drawn up, looking ancient and deflated. The mighty, veined thing between his legs was softening, glistening with her saliva and his release, a spent grotesquerie. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice scraped raw.
His bulbous eyes slid toward her, wary, expecting a curse.
Molly shifted on the dusty floorboards, turning her whole body to face him. The movement made her skirt ride up. The cool air touched her knees. “You said it was a curse.”
Kreacher nodded once, a jerky motion.
“A weapon,” she continued, her gaze dropping to it. “Too ugly for polite witches to bear.”
Another nod. A flicker of the old bitterness returned to his face. “Kreacher spoke the truth. The witch has seen. She has… tasted. The curse is real.”
“I don’t believe you,” Molly said softly.
His head snapped up, confusion replacing the bitterness.
She reached out, not for his cock, but for his hand. His skin was like dry parchment stretched over bird bones. He flinched but didn’t pull away. She placed his knobby hand on the swell of her breast, over her cotton blouse. His whole arm trembled. “A weapon hurts,” she whispered, leaning closer. Her breath stirred the few white hairs on his head. “A curse destroys. Did that feel like destruction?”
He made a small, trapped sound. His fingers, against all instinct, curled slightly, feeling the soft, ample flesh beneath the fabric. The contrast was absurd. His pathetic hand on her, a symbol of every warm, nurturing thing he’d been taught to despise.
“It felt like a truth,” Molly breathed, her own hand coming up to cover his, pressing it into her. “An ugly, massive truth. And I want more of it.”
Kreacher’s eyes were wide pools of terrified confusion. “The witch is mad. The blood-traitor madness. Kreacher is filth. Kreacher defiled her.”
“You did,” she agreed, a strange, sharp smile touching her lips. “And I let you. And now I’m asking you to do it again. Properly.”
The word hung in the air. Properly.
She saw the understanding dawn in his eyes, slow and horrifying. He tried to pull his hand back, but she held it fast. “No! Impossible! The witch… the Weasley witch is… is big. But Kreacher is… Kreacher is more. It is a curse! It would tear her. It would break her.” He said it with a perverse mix of horror and pride.
A thrill, cold and sharp, went through her. The danger of it. The sheer, physical impossibility. It called to the part of her that had dueled Bellatrix Lestrange, that faced down a hundred horrors for her family. This was a different kind of battlefield.
“You don’t know that,” she challenged, her voice low. “Your pure-blood mistresses never tried, did they? They just looked and called it a curse and left you to ache with it.” She released his hand and instead began unbuttoning her blouse. Her fingers were steady. This was a task. “I’m not a pure-blood mistress. I’m a mother of seven. I’m built differently.”
The blouse fell open. Her sensible bra was plain white cotton. She shrugged out of the blouse, letting it join her robes on the floor. The attic air was cool on her skin. Kreacher made a sound like a teakettle dying. He was staring, not at her eyes, not at her body, but at the space between them, as if the very fact of her exposed skin was a blinding light.
“And you,” Molly said, her hands going to the waistband of her skirt. “You’re not just a cursed elf right now. You’re the only one here.”
She pushed her skirt and underwear down over her hips, wiggling to free herself from the fabric, kicking it aside. She didn’t lie back. She stayed kneeling, presenting herself to him in the gritty dust. Vulnerable. Open. An invitation to an act that seemed to defy physics.
“Kreacher cannot,” he whispered, but his protest was hollow. His body was betraying him. As he stared, the spent flesh began to stir, thickening, rising again from its nest with a heavy, inevitable life of its own. The curse re-arming itself.
“You can,” she said. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the floor, arching her back. The posture was animal, submissive, yet her voice was iron. “You will. Or I’ll tell everyone you attacked me. That I fought you off. Who will they believe, Kreacher? The beloved Molly Weasley, or the bitter Black house-elf found hiding in her attic?”
It was a brutal, calculating lie. They both knew it. The threat wasn’t in its truth, but in the power it gave her to name what this was. To frame it. His fear of discovery was a tangible thing in the air, but it was now tangled with this new, dazzling possibility.
With a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his twisted soul, Kreacher moved. He didn’t approach her like a lover. He shuffled forward on his knees, his enormous erection leading the way like the prow of a ship. He stopped, the swollen head of him just brushing the curls between her legs. The contact was electric. Molly gasped. He was so hot. The sheer scale of him, even just that touch, was a promise of obliteration.
“It will not fit,” he moaned, but he was rocking forward, just slightly, smearing the moisture from his tip against her.
“Try,” she demanded, her voice cracking. She pushed back against him, a desperate, awkward motion. “Just try.”
He placed one trembling hand on the swell of her hip, his touch shockingly light. The other hand fumbled between his own legs, trying to guide himself. It was clumsy, ridiculous. The head, broad and smooth, pressed against her entrance. There was resistance. Not just physical, but a lifetime of resistance.
Molly closed her eyes. She thought of Arthur’s kind, familiar touch. She thought of floral aprons and Sunday dinners and the safe, worn path of her life. Then she pushed all of it out. She focused on the heat, the pressure, the monstrous reality of this elf at her back. She forced her muscles to relax, to yield.
“Please,” she heard herself whimper. It wasn’t a word she used often.
It broke him. With a desperate, snarling grunt, Kreacher shoved forward.
The pain was instant and brilliant, a white-hot lance of pure stretch. Molly cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the attic. It burned. It felt like splitting. She saw stars behind her closed eyelids. Her nails scraped against the floorboards.
He froze, buried only an inch or two inside, panting. “Kreacher is hurting the witch! He is—it is a curse!”
“Don’t stop,” she gritted out, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. The pain was subsiding, morphing into a deep, unbelievable fullness. A stretching burn that was already becoming something else. A claiming. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He obeyed. Another shove, slower this time, a relentless, impossible invasion. Molly’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. She could feel every ridge, every vein, a topography of flesh mapping her insides. It was too much. It was everything. Her body, stretched beyond any previous understanding, began to ache with a strange, welcome throb. The sharp pain receded, replaced by a pressure so profound it touched her very core.
Kreacher was making a continuous, low wail, a sound of torment and ecstasy. He was fully sheathed now, as far as he could go, which was not nearly his full length, but enough to feel like he was rearranging her organs. His bony hips were flush against her ample backside. He was shaking violently.
“Move,” she commanded, her voice thick.
He began to rock. Small, tentative movements at first. The friction was unreal. A slick, hot slide that rubbed against places untouched for decades, if ever. The overwhelming fullness began to pulse with a rhythm of its own. The pain was a memory, a ghost at the edges of a spreading, molten heat.
Molly pushed back against him, meeting his timid thrusts. A guttural sound escaped her. “Yes.”
That single word unleashed him. His wail cut off, replaced by ragged, snarling breaths. His hands clawed at her hips, finding purchase. His thrusts became stronger, deeper, each one a jolt that pushed a grunt from her lungs. The slapping sound of their bodies meeting—his frail frame, her soft flesh—filled the attic. It was crude, mechanical, and devastatingly effective.
The world narrowed to the pistoning drive of him inside her, to the scrape of her knees on the rough wood, to the smell of sex and dust and old magic. Molly’s mind emptied. There was no Black family, no Weasley family, no war, no moral code. There was only this: a bitter, ancient creature and a mother of seven, connected in the most primal, forbidden way possible. His size wasn’t a curse here. It was a fact. A brutal, glorious fact that was filling an emptiness she’d refused to name.
Her own climax built not as a spark, but as a tidal wave, drawn from the depths of that incredible fullness. It started as a tight, coiling pressure deep within, then burst outward, radiating from where he filled her to the very tips of her fingers and toes. She convulsed around him, a series of clenching, involuntary spasms that tore a raw, shouting cry from her throat, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
It triggered his end. With a final, shattered cry of “Mistress!”, he slammed into her and froze. His release was a volcanic surge, hot and endless, pumping into her already overfilled depths. He collapsed forward over her back, his weight slight but his presence immense, his face buried in her sweaty red hair, sobbing brokenly.
They stayed like that, locked together, for a long time. The only sounds were their slowing breaths and the settling of the old house around them. The dust continued to fall, indifferent, coating their joined bodies.
Slowly, feeling began to return. The ache between her legs was monumental, a sore, stretched, thoroughly used feeling. Kreacher’s soft whimpering in her ear. The chill of the air on her sweaty skin.
He slipped out of her, and the sensation was a loss, a sudden, empty coolness followed by a hot, wet rush down her thighs. Molly didn’t move. She couldn’t.