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"What on earth is that?" Astoria asked, not bothering to hide the look of horror on her face.
Hermione looked down at herself, lips tightening. She couldn't see anything obviously wrong with the 'Jolly Holiday' Mary Poppins dress she was wearing. She'd transfigured everything accurately, even down to the exact amount of buttons on the heeled boots she'd copied (which were still uncomfortable despite the cushioning charms) and she was one step shy of being able to break out into a round of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. The only thing she thought she might be missing was a carousel horse or a team of penguins to follow her along, but that seemed a bit excessive.
"You said costumes were required," Hermione adjusted the gauzy bow at her chin and tilted her hat.
Astoria made a derisive noise and drew out her wand, pointing it toward the back end of the flat. "That is not what I meant, Granger, and you know it."
If someone had asked Hermione a year ago if she would have ever struck up a friendship with the youngest Greengrass sister, she probably would have pulled something laughing. But Astoria had shown up with her CV and declared that Hermione would find no other assistant on her journey to Minister for Magic better than her. As it turned out, she had been right. She had a sneaking suspicion that Astoria had managed to turn away all the other applicants through some kind of nefarious action, but she never could prove it and by the time the three month trial period was over, she couldn't imagine trying to navigate the upper ranks of the Ministry without her.
She still wouldn't let Hermione call her 'Girl Friday' though and it had taken some strong convincing to allow the word 'friend' to be tossed about (privately of course!) instead of coworkers or one's personal assistant. It was that friendship that put the ornately embossed invitation to the Samhain celebration at the Flint estate in Norfolk into Hermione's hands. Apparently having an assistant who was still in good standing with old pureblood circles had its advantages.
Her intention at first was that she would politely decline. Pureblood circles had been slow to fall apart and there was still a class divide despite all that had happened in the last decade. She didn't really think that anyone wanted a headstrong, mostly liberal, and determined Gryffindor muggleborn at their fancy celebration. That had been quickly shot down by her even more determined friend-slash-assistant.
"I know exactly what will happen though," Hermione had said. "I'll show up and it will be uncomfortable for everyone."
"Or..." Astoria paused, sending off a number of memos as she spoke. "You will have the ear of some of the more left-leaning purebloods who are looking to try and change that level of society from within." She looked Hermione up and down. "Plus there's always the costume you can impress them with."
But apparently that hadn't been the right costume and before Hermione could just make the suggestion that Astoria give regrets and that she just go home and curl up on her sofa with a very large cup of spiced apple cider and a good book, a garment bag was already been thrust into Hermione's hands. Astoria pointed toward a room that looked to be just a simple guest bedroom and tutted as she looked at the delicate watch around her wrist. With a sigh, Hermione clutched the bag to her chest and marched into the room wondering all the while when the roles had reversed and Astoria had become the one in charge.
⠁⭒*.✩.*⭒⠁
"I can't believe you talked me into this, Astoria," Hermione muttered, clutching the cape around her shoulders.
Astoria smiled, running her finger along the edge of her mouth as she looked into a little mirror. Snapping the little compact closed, she gave Hermione a look. "I can't believe you let me." She reached out and twisted a curl over the ornate mask covering half of Hermione's face. "Relax, Granger. This is how Marcus' celebrations go."
Shifting uncomfortably, Hermione looked up at the house. The long drive up to the front door was lined with bonfires. The flames were high enough and magically charged that the long path felt as though it was indoors and the cold wind of the North Sea was held back. She expected the fires and she even looked to see if there were perhaps tables of food set out for the dead that might visit. But other than flame, Hermione didn't see much of what might be considered a Samhain ritual.
Though she suspected that, like everything, true traditions had fallen to the wayside and been replaced with things that were more scandalous.
Stepping up to the door, Hermione wondered how easily she could get her hands on some floo powder and make a hasty escape. She should have known better. She should have said no at the first zip of the garment bag that Astoria had handed her. There would be nothing of talk after all of this at how Minister for Magic hopeful, Hermione Granger, was seen cavorting in an inappropriate costume at a pureblood party. She was going to have so much damage control in the morning if she didn't find a way out of this.
"Sign here," a voice spoke, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts.
She looked over at the masked young man standing at the door, holding a clipboard and a quill out to her. Astoria had already put her extravagantly loopy signature onto one of the lines. The inkpot floating next to the board was filled with an ink that was garnet-red and mimicked blood so well that she almost had to smile at the forethought. Taking the board, Hermione quickly skimmed the words at the top.
"A secrecy contract?" she asked, looking over at Astoria. "Really?"
Hermione's eyes went wide, watching the other woman pull the ties of her cloak. The fabric fell from her shoulders and puddled on the floor before being whisked away by what might have been an elf. Calling what Astoria wore a costume was being very generous. Sheer tulle fell over her body, gathered and held by a gold collar around her neck. It gave her a gauzy ethereal look which would have been all well and fine, but that Astoria wore nothing beneath. Her naked breasts rose high against the fabric and the few jewels that she'd affixed to her skin, just above the cleft between her legs, sparkled in the candlelight. She adjusted the white feathered mask around her face and inspected her fingernails before giving Hermione an impatient look.
"Everyone signs that. What happens at Marcus' party is never spoken about beyond these walls." A wicked smile that Hermione had not yet seen in the months they'd worked together appeared on Astoria's face. "So you, Miss 'Soon-to-Be-Minister', will have the opportunity to show off a little."
There was a very brief moment where Hermione thought she might just shove the clipboard back into the hands of the young man standing at the door. Old memories of her name being bandied about the press swam to the surface. She didn't want to be in that position again and had done her very best to lead an uneventful life since the war was over. The papers wrote about Harry and they occasionally wrote about Ron, though usually only when it involved some kind of Auror-related escapade.
Her life, however, was not worth writing about. She was quiet. She followed the rules. She wrote policies and created change from within but through proper legislation and sound arguments with the Wizengamot.
In other words. Boring.
Glancing over at Astoria who had taken to greeting someone dressed in strategically placed vine leaves and little else, Hermione sucked in a deep breath before returning her attention to the clipboard in hand. She dipped her quill into the floating pot of ink and signed her name with a flourish that wasn't terribly outlandish. A warm tingle wound itself around her wrist and travelled up her arm and then her neck to dance over her lips as if to magically sew them together. She touched her mouth, but the sensation had only been that, a sensation. No threads sealed her lips together, but she was certain that any attempt at talking about this event outside of the house would be held back by whatever had just travelled over her skin. Astoria gestured that she was going to head further into the house and before Hermione could ask her to wait, she'd disappeared.
"Your cloak, madam," an elf stood by her knee, arms outstretched.
For a long moment, she stood there and contemplated the idea of using the cloak as part of her costume so she didn't have to remove it. But before she realised what was happening her fingers had pulled at the ribbon around her neck and the cloak had dropped from her shoulders. Instead of a wave of embarrassment washing over her, Hermione felt something that was almost like empowerment. The cloak vanished with the elf and she was left standing in the corridor.
The costume that Astoria had given her to change into really didn't have any business being called anything, let alone a costume. Two long strips of silky fabric looped over either shoulder and draped down her front and back, held at the waist by a metal belt. Astoria had cast a few spells to keep the fabric in place when Hermione had protested, but aside from it crossing in front and in the back, there was very little it held from view. Her breasts were barely concealed and the drapes of fabric caught between her legs, leaving her hips bare to the room. On each leg was a long black stocking and the only thing holding them up was garter ribbons around her thighs.
Strangely, and quite suddenly, Hermione found that she wasn't that concerned anymore.
"If you think the hallway is nice, just wait until you get into the main ballroom," said a low voice beside her as a goblet appeared in front of her face.
Hermione turned to face the owner of the voice and the hand that extended the goblet, not immediately recognizing the owner behind the mask. She stepped back and gave him a scrutinising look, lifting her chin slightly. His dark hair was slicked back and the simple black domino across his eyes shouldn't have made him that indistinguishable, but she knew there had to be magic involved because she simply couldn't place him.
A loose billowing shirt hung askew on his shoulders and was untucked from scandalously tight trousers. Hermione's eyes slid over his frame and she knew that she oughtn't focus on the prominent bulge of his cock, but she couldn't help herself. The heat from the thoughts that tickled the back of her head warmed her skin all over and sudden images of him easily peeling away the scant bit of fabric that covered her body began to flood her mind. To keep those thoughts from revealing themselves, she quickly took the goblet from his hand and drank down the contents, not caring if it was a potion, or alcohol, or even poison, so long as it kept him from knowing just what she had been thinking
"I think you might be overdressed," she said when she found her voice, skin buzzing and cheeks still very very warm.
"More for the imagination," he said, holding out his elbow. "Welcome to the party."
⠁⭒*.✩.*⭒⠁
Hermione awoke with a start, acutely aware that she was not in her own bed. The sheets, the pillowcases, the blankets, they all felt so much more luxurious than the plain cotton that she normally opted for. Pinching her eyes closed, she carefully slipped a hand under the covers and felt along her chest, letting out a sigh of relief. Despite the minimal coverage that it provided, the fabric and its sticking charms had stayed in place. So, it seemed, all she had done was fall asleep at some point.
In someone's bed. Or maybe a guest bed? She wasn't sure.
Lifting her head, Hermione cracked open her eyes. Another wave of relief washed over her at the other side of the bed being empty and un-rumpled. Though that relief was quickly followed by something that felt like disappointment. She'd flirted with masked strangers, hadn't she? She'd seen others carefully duck away into the shadows and she'd witnessed some very public displays in the light. But she, boring Hermione Granger, had ended up sleeping and dressed in a room by herself.
With a sigh, she slid from the covers. The cold floor quickly chilled her feet through the sheer stockings she still wore and sent shivers up over her skin as she tiptoed her way to one of the closed doors on the other side of the room. Behind the door was a hallway, candles extinguished and the steady sounds of a house at rest. Instead of leaving to find the closest fireplace and access to the Floo, Hermione shut the door and crept to the other, pulling it open to find exactly what she needed.
A toilet.
Stepping inside, she'd only meant to quickly relieve herself before being on her way. Except the toilet faced the biggest open shower she'd ever seen in her life and before she had even realised she'd made the decision, Hermione had removed the belt from around her waist which released the spells on the fabric. She peeled the stockings from her thighs and the "costume" slipped from her shoulders. One moment she was standing in the middle of the bathroom and in the next heartbeat she was under a rainfall of water that was the exact right amount of hot.
The room quickly filled with steam and Hermione turned her face to the water, scrubbing at the sleep and whatever makeup still remained on her skin.
Part of her wished that someone would step in under the water and she let her fingers wander over her skin as her mind played out a fantasy of impossibly tight trousers and a billowy shirt and all of that being stripped away in favour of her being pressed up against the tile. Squeezing her thighs together, she drew in a deep breath, knowing that she was going to have to take care of things when she got back home or face a day of frustration and irritability. With a resigned sigh, she turned off the water and grabbed a fluffy towel, wrapping it around herself before stooping to pick up the fabric and belt. How she would try and get it back on, she didn't know, but she supposed the Flint's wouldn't miss a towel if that was all she was going to have to travel home in.
"It's a nice shower, isn't it?"
To her credit, Hermione didn't scream at the voice or the person sitting on the bed she had vacated. Marcus Flint lounged on the side of the bed that hadn't been disturbed, one leg stretched out and the other hanging off the edge, his foot on the floor. Gone was the billowy shirt and the black domino and Hermione wondered how she hadn't recognised him as they had talked and danced the night before.
"I'll return the towel once I'm home," she said, not answering his question, her feet and legs refusing to move. "I trust the secrecy contract will apply once I'm gone."
A sly smile cracked across Marcus' face and his eyes roamed over all the parts of her that weren't covered by the towel. "Worried that the newspapers will talk of how the next Minister for Magic was seen leaving my house in a scandalous state of undress?"
"I'm not!" She protested. "Well maybe. Perhaps. I don't know. It's not like I did anything that led to this scandalous state of undress. It was just a shower."
"Did you want to?" he asked, pushing himself up from the bed.
"Of c-course not!" The stammer in her protest did little in the way of being at all convincing.
"You could..." he proposed.
"I couldn't..." she said, watching him stand and cross the room.
"No one would know," Marcus said, looking down at her and boldly drawing a finger along the edge of the towel tucked over itself at her breasts. "You said you didn't know when you'd lost your adventurousness and you wanted it back."
Memories of their conversation between dances came flooding back. She was sure she'd had far more to drink than she'd intended and all of the thoughts just came spilling out. Her dull life. Her cat. The costume she'd originally thought to wear. Even the fact that she hadn't been with anyone since the last, very public, breakdown of her previous relationship. She'd laid it all out for him, thinking that no one would ever know. Or that he'd even remember.
And now he was so very close to her.
"You wouldn't tell?" she asked, almost hating at how hesitant and small her voice sounded.
Marcus made a motion across his lips as if sealing it with a key. "Couldn't if I tried."
She allowed herself to smile. "Then I would like to do something that justifies this state of undress..."
"Good." Marcus gripped the edge of the towel and pulled it from her body before pressing his mouth against hers.
Hermione didn't want to spend the kiss comparing it to others, but she couldn't help herself. Mostly because this was unlike any kiss she'd ever had. Marcus' mouth moved across hers in a dangerous way, possessive and rough. She'd never considered herself to have ever been savaged by a kiss, but this one felt just that her lips tingled at the contact. Heat spread from her mouth to her chest and beyond.
Only it wasn't heat.
It was a touch.
His mouth continued to move over hers and at the same time his hand cupped a breast, squeezing before sliding down her torso and over her hip before slipping over her thigh and then up between to settle against the curls between her thighs. If they hadn't still been damp from the shower, they were certainly slick now and Hermione couldn't hold back the soft moan as his fingers probed further, sliding through the curls. Her legs parted more for him and she let out a soft cry when he found her clit, already swollen and aching for any sort of physical contact.
Dragging her mouth from his, Hermione kissed along his rough jaw. Her hands curled in his hair, tugging his head to the side so she could nip at his earlobe. "Don't be gentle," she said. "I don't want gentle."
A rumbling chuckle was his only response before she felt Marcus' arms under her legs and lifted her. The next moment she was on the bed. Marcus set her down, hips at the edge of the mattress and pushed her thighs apart as he dropped down to kneel between her knees. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows to look at him, but before she could say another word, he leaned forward, his mouth pressing to her cunt.
At the first flick of his tongue over her clit, Hermione was undone and all she could manage was breathy moans of encouragement. Her whole body arched at the movement of his lips, tongue and the scrape of his teeth and she rocked her hips up from the bed, trying to draw him in deeper. He answered the movement by sliding fingers into her, thrusting them in and out as if he was playing her like an instrument.
When the orgasm shook her body, Hermione allowed herself to scream.
It didn't end there.
Before she could even think of recovering, Marcus had gotten to his feet and settled between her aching thighs and clenching cunt. She couldn't remember if he'd been wearing trousers before this and she found that she didn't actually care because they were gone and he was as naked as she was. The head of his cock slid over her sensitive flesh drawing a cry of pleasure from Hermione's throat. His hands moved under her arse, squeezing before lifting her, angling her hips as he thrust himself deep into her with a loud groan of his own.
Hermione's hands moved to his chest, fingertips digging into the skin as he rocked against her. Every movement seemed to drive deeper, hitting all the very best parts within her and each snap of his hips made little stars burst behind her eyes.
"Harder," she whispered.
He responded, his movements quickening and his hand slipping between their bodies. She felt his thumb press against her clit and the cry that ripped from her throat was almost guttural in its intensity. Her whole body arched as the second orgasm ripped through her. Moments later, Marcus let out an equally intense cry and she felt the shuddering spasm of his orgasm inside her before collapsing heavily on top of her.
Hermione relished the weight of him for a long moment as they breathed in unison, their heart rates slowing eventually. She dragged her fingers over his sweaty brow and then leaned close to kiss him deeply. His hand moved to her hip and he shifted until they were less awkwardly sprawled on the bed, kissing her neck and then down to the curve of her breast flicking a tongue across a nipple.
"I think you might need another shower," he said against her skin, his hips rocking against hers and grinned wickedly at the rather un-sexy squelch that could be heard. "Then perhaps we might see a return of those delightful stockings you had on last night?"
"There might be room for negotiations in that regard." Hermione flushed and glanced toward the shower. "But another shower sounds about right. I might. A long one. I might use up all your hot water."
"I don't think it has a limit." He gave her a sly look and pulled from her arms. He held out his hand and inclined his head. "I've never tested it."
She looked at him before taking his hand and letting herself be led.
As it turned out there was a limit to the hot water. But it took a long time for it to run out in the end.
And the negotiations on the stockings were quite the success.