Hermione Granger Fucks Her Way Through History (Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Multiple, NC-17)
Hermione Granger Fucks Her Way Through History (Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Multiple, NC-17)
TRIGGER WARNING: WIZARDS
TRIGGER WARNING: MAGIC
TRIGGER WARNING: WITCHES
TRIGGER WARNING: WANDS
TRIGGER WARNING: SPELLS
TRIGGER WARNING: WANDS (MAGIC)
TRIGGER WARNING: INCANTATIONS
TRIGGER WARNING: INVOCATION (AND MILD EVOCATION)
TRIGGER WARNING: IMPLIED HEXES
TRIGGER WARNING: SPELLCRAFT AND/OR WITCHCRAFT
TRIGGER WARNING: VIOLATION OF CAUSALITY
Author:
buttsnax
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Multiple
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,071
Warnings: (See trigger warnings.)
Notes: This was a challenge for me to write as I am very much afraid of wizards. I felt, however, that in order to grow as an author I would have to confront my fears, unlike the cowardly wizard, who needs only brew a potion of +5 fear resistance. While it was a struggle, now that the story is complete I can look upon it with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that I have triumphed and made something beautiful with my labor: a sense of satisfaction that the lazy sorcerer will never understand, as he conjures his wants and wishes directly from the ether with no regard for the laws of conservation of mass or energy.
I have tried to approach the subject from as much of a neutral point as possible, but I must admit that I think it is only natural to hold a slight bias. After all, there is a reason private aircraft licenses have a stringently enforced minimum of 35+ hours of flight time. But of course Mr. Fancy Robes over here thinks that just because he can fly with a few spoken words and a vial of fairy dust he's just as good!
Summary: The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais.
The wedding march was just reaching its crescendo when a beamingly radiant Hermione took the last step up to the wedding dais. Ginny, her maid of honor, smiled supportively as the bride turned and faced Ron, who stood in stunned awe of his future wife.
Hermione wore a full traditional wizard bridal gown, which to a muggle would have looked like a normal wedding dress several centuries out of date, except with magic. It boasted an impossibly long flowing train that moved, serpentine-like, of its own accord. A fairy seamstress had sewn precious gems into the fabric, which itself was woven from dragon silk. Hermione was glad her dress came from a dragon and not a spider’s butt. Spiders are gross.
If she had done her research she would have learned that, though technically some garments have been constructed with spider silk, none are commercially available. Instead, most commercially sold silk is made from caterpillars; more precisely, the larval stage of Bombyx mori, the silkworm moth, or alternatively but less commonly Bombyx mandarina, the wild moth from which B. mori was domesticated. But she had been too busy learning about werewolves and planting tiny screaming babies into dirt.
The music faded. Ron’s fingers trembled as he pulled the veil back from Hermione’s rosy face. The two locked eyes, and Hermione bit her lip and grinned.
“We are gathered here today,” began the stately wizard clerk--priests are not generally welcome at wizard weddings--who was officiating, “to celebrate this wizard marriage between Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.”
From the audience Hermione’s mother loudly blew her nose.
“As is traditional,” the officiator continued, “both parties will now express their vows with magic fireworks, because we wizard folk have neither shame nor any sense of practicality.”
Hermione pulled out her wand and gracefully waved a spell in front of the wedding altar. A thousand shooting stars rained down from the sky, and then, to the delighted oohs and ahs of the audience, burst into red flames, spelling out “I LOVE YOU RON” before turning into diamonds and raining down on the wedding. All wizard diamonds are ethically-sourced and cruelty-free, but only because gnomes aren’t considered people.
Ron gulped. He nervously raised his wand and jerked it around a couple of times. A tiny red heart puffed into the air, smelling faintly of goblin farts, before dissipating.
“Wait,” he said. “I can do better.”
He waved his arm again, more frantically this time. A spark of white light burst from his wand before it snapped in half with a crack.
“It’s okay,” comforted Hermione, grabbing his hand and holding it in hers. “I’m marrying you, not your wand.”
The redness in Ron’s cheeks cooled, and he put his broken wand away.
“Do you, Ronald Weasely, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wizard-wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in curses and hexes, in this world and the next, and the astral plane, and in that space between worlds where everything has too many eyes, until death or irrevocable transformation do you part?”
Ron squeezed Hermione’s palm. “I do.”
“And do you, Hermione Granger, take this man, through all that same awful stuff, to be your lawfully wedded wizard-husband?”
The question hung in the air with such weight that Hermione felt it in her chest.
Did she . . . ? Yes. But there was still time left to take care of some unfinished business.
She gently touched the amulet of interlocking rings that hung at her neck. Ron’s expectant expression faded from view as time twisted around her, flinging her back decades as she waved her wand to displace herself from her own wedding.
Hermione was no longer standing at the altar, but rather in a richly appointed bedroom not that far a distance from her ceremony, but some years ago in the past. The room wasn’t large, but it was impeccably furnished in a way that bespoke both class and importance. A great four poster bed loomed in one corner. It was a bed Hermione was intimately familiar with.
She heard a gasp behind her.
“Hermione!” cried a woman’s voice. “I swear, I will never get used to you doing that.”
Hermione laughed gayly--things were about to get very gay indeed--and turned around to greet her friend.
“Hello again, Margaret!” she said brightly to the middle-aged woman who sat pen in hand at her desk wearing only a dressing robe. Hermione twirled in her wedding gown, showing off.
“Ah,” said Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, somewhat resignedly. She set down her pen and stood up to admire her visitor. “So the day has finally come. You look amazing.” She said this smiling, but Hermione registered the slight sadness in her eyes.
Hermione grabbed her hand and held it in hers. Margaret’s grip firm as iron, but her hands were soft. Hermione missed that softness.
“I suppose I can’t keep doing this,” Hermione said, lowering her eyes from Margaret’s visage. “Not after tonight.”
Margaret chuckled and hugged Hermione close. “What are you talking about? If there’s any sadness, it’s only regret that I can’t be there.” She raised a pale brow. “You came here last week and that was two years after you married.”
So it was. Hermione laughed and drew Margaret in for a kiss. One hand cupped the Baroness’ face as the other slid around her waist.
“I do get around, don’t I?” she teased. “So why don’t you help me out of this dress?”
Such a bold request would have made others blush, but Margaret had done this dance many times and was not easily flustered. Yet, Hermione's delicate features and boundless curiosity charmed her. She silently led Hermione to the bedside.
With a graceful flick Hermione tossed her bouquet on the nightstand, turning her back to Margaret so she could unzip her dress. Shivering, her dress slid off, exposing her bare flesh.
“Young lady,” Margaret began, her robe falling from her shoulders as she pulled Hermione down on the mattress. “I am extraordinarily patient provided I get my own way in the end.”
***
The guard posted outside the Prime Minister’s door knew that this sort of thing happened from time to time. His job, he had been instructed quite clearly, was neither to pass judgement, nor attempt to understand exactly how such things were possible.
Nevertheless, it bothered him when it happened. His buddy Anthony was in the Queen’s Guard and always went on about tourists and the like trying to get a rise out of him. Well, Anthony didn’t know the half of it. Try keeping a straight face when a room away the Prime Minister is getting horizontal with a very vocal magic lady.
“Maggie, I can barely stand it--oh!” A girlish voice shrieked.
“I've got a woman's ability to stick to a job and get on with it when everyone else walks off and leaves it,” came the Prime Minister’s voice.
The guard tried not to imagine who the other woman could be. But it was hard--occasionally literally, but mostly figuratively.
“Yes, yes! Now that’s how you pay a bedroom tax.”
Ms. Thatcher sure was having a good time. Despite his best efforts this led to him to ponder what the Prime Minister looked like naked, which he found suited him less.
“Be gentle, dear. That’s not the Falkland Islands down there.”
The guard tried to think of all the ways into 10 Downing Street as the other woman piped up.
“Oh god, fuck me like a family of six on a housing waitlist!”
He had concluded that dealing with tourists sounded brilliant and wondered if Anthony couldn’t get him a transfer into the Queen’s Guard when he heard the doorknob turn.
A petite brunette wrapped in only a sheet stepped into the hallway.
“I’m afraid Ms.Thatcher will be requiring a new bed,” she said, matter of factly.
The guard dashed inside to investigate. The Prime Minister lay asleep in the great bed, or what had been a bed--one of the posts had cracked in half, and the canopy was ripped open. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes and no small number of rubber toys, many of which would not be invented for decades, and some of which would not even be legal for a few more years. Though he would end up leaving the service altogether within a month, the toys and the brief glimpse of Hermione would feature prominently in the guard’s dreams for years following.
After verifying that the Prime Minister was merely asleep and perfectly safe, he closed the door behind him. The young lady, however, had vanished.
“We have code sixty-nine,” the guard said, activating his radio. “Again.”
***
As much as Hermione dearly loved Margaret, tonight was special, and she required further . . . satiating. She wanted someone new this time. All of time and space belonged to her, and with her unprecedented mastery of magic she was definitely getting some historical dick tonight.
Touching the time turner again, she arrived in early sixteenth-century Germany. A quick detour yielded a skirt and bodice filched from a manor wardrobe. With a little wand work she altered her bodice to reveal more of her decolletage than was in fashion at the time. She matched it with some partlets and a kirtle, but, dissatisfied with the effect on her bosom, fashioned an invisible brassiere from the raw ether to perk up her breasts.
Satisfied, she made a visit to Wittenberg University, drawing eyes by showing perhaps a bit too much ankle, and waited until the man she was seeking came by.
“Hey there,” she cooed in perfect German as a monk passed through the university gates, oblivious to her charms. “Feeling like confessing your sins?”
“Excuse me,” he said brusquely, pushing past her.
Hmm. Hermione adjusted her bodice to reveal even more cleavage, though it was now clearly anachronistic in comparison with the flat, square necklines popular at the time. Sacrifices had to be made, she thought. An alluring figure was more important than historical accuracy when it came to matters of the flesh.
“What I’m trying to say is, let’s do it Adam and Eve style,” she said, leaning forward. “Because your serpent is tempting me.”
“My dear, I don’t quite think you understand what you are--” Martin Luther began to protest, half-choking as Hermione’s fingers crept upward and groped the monk’s holy stones.
He stiffened with shock, then stiffened otherwise. Hermione grinned wolfishly and whispered, “I’ve got ninety-five theses, but your dick ain’t one.”
Martin began to waver in the face of Hermione’s powerful perfume, concocted from the blood of a vixen in heat. “I don’t understand,” he warbled, face flushed.
“I want you to nail me up against the door of the All Saints’ Church,” said Hermione breathily, her hand now on Martin’s undeniably stiff member of The College of His Pants.
“This is . . . most inappropriate,” Martin gasped out, struggling to fight the air of magical seduction that was helped along by years of chastity. It was much easier to deny the charms of the flesh when the flesh wasn’t grabbing him down there. Also when the flesh was riddled with syphilis--that helped too.
“I tried to fuck Pope Leo X, but I think he likes boys,” Hermione mentioned casually before pulling Martin’s finger in her mouth.
“That,” said Martin emphatically, grabbing Hermione around the waist as he made up his mind, “is just one of the many ways we hold a difference of opinion.” He pulled her deeper into an alleyway where the eyes of a casual passerby would not reach them. His hands were all over her; a few minutes later she had ripped her bodice open and lost her underwear somewhere in the dirty grime of the neglected alleyway.
She pulled down his pants and found him now fully erect.
Martin grinned.
“Here I stand,” he said. “I can do no other.”
***
It was over all too soon.
“I’m so sorry,” said Martin ashamedly, staring down at his feet. “I’ve been celibate for so many years . . .”
“Whatever,” said a rather cross Hermione. She tightened her bodice with a tug. “I’m sure you can buy an indulgence for it.”
Martin winced.
Hermione looked around the darkened alley futilely, then sighed and raised her wand. “Accio panties!”
“Maybe we could meet again sometime?” asked Martin hopefully.
“Nah,” Hermione said, touching her necklace. That was the last he saw of her.
***
Martin Luther having left a sour taste in her mouth, literally, Hermione flung herself even further back in time. Maybe it was wrong of her to seduce another man like that on her wedding day--but inwardly she knew that infidelity knew no gender. She desired the comfort of a woman, and she knew just who would give her what she needed.
Using her time-turner, she brought herself to the palace entrance. The sun beat down on her forehead, and the sandstone floor burned her feet through her stockings. Perhaps it would have been wise to change into more appropriate period attire. A shirtless, bronze-skinned soldier stood in front of her, his hand on his sword.
“You may not pass,” he commanded in accented Greek.
“Listen here,” Hermione bristled. “Do you know who I am? I can turn your ass into a toad so fast you’ll think it’s the plagues come again. I am at ‘hide your firstborn’ levels of giving a fuck today.”
“I, ah, I recognize you, great priestess,” said the guard, who, at this moment--though they were separated by thousands of years and a continent--would have felt great kinship with Margaret Thatcher’s personal guard.
“Though your dress is strange, I know you,” he continued with great trepidation that would prove to be entirely warranted. “But I cannot let you pass. The Pharaoh is indisposed and has said that none may interrupt.”
“I don’t have time for this,” snapped Hermione, gripping her wand.
“Mutatio rana!” she exclaimed, zapping the guard with a spell.
The guard was now a toad.
“Ribbit,” he said, and hopped away.
Hermione stormed through the great double doors to the Pharaoh's personal chambers. There were other guards present, but having witnessed her powers they seemed much less inclined to stop her.
“Cleopatra!” she yelled, barging into the Pharaoh's bedroom. “I’m wetter than than the flooding of the Nile during the season of Akhet and I could use a festival of fulfillment right now, if you know what I mean.”
She paused. “Oh.”
Entwined on the bed before her was the woman Hermione was hoping to see and a man who was not the Pharaoh.
“Hermione,” said Cleopatra from the bed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “I see that.”
“This is Julius,” Cleopatra continued. “He and I are kinda . . . well, we have an arrangement.”
“Hi there,” greeted Julius with a wave.
Hermione scratched her chin.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I think I forgot to check my timeline.”
“No no,” Cleopatra said, motioning for Hermione to come forward. “It’s quite alright.” She glanced at Julius, who nodded. Julius was down for anything. “You could join us if you like.”
Hermione looked at Julius, then back at Cleopatra. Julius seemed like a cool dude.
“Sure, why not,” Hermione said, her mood very much improved since her lackluster three minutes with Martin. She stripped out of her 16th-century dress. “Let’s make history.”
***
Several hours later the limbs of three exhausted bodies lay tangled on the mattress. Julius really was down for anything. Damn.
“Wow,” said Hermione after she’d finally caught her breath. “I really needed that.”
“You’re welcome back anytime,” said Cleopatra, head resting on Hermione’s breast.
Julius ran his calloused hands over Hermione’s lithe frame.
“Veni, vidi, vici,” he whispered.
Hermione grinned.
“So you did,” she said, rolling out of bed. “I haven’t seen anyone come like that since Vesuvius.”
Julius furrowed his brow, not understanding.
“Oh right,” Hermione said, chuckling. “Give it a few years. Trust me, it’ll be pretty clever.”
“You are a strange woman,” he said, eyes skimming over her body. “I hope you will join our bed again someday.”
Hermione stretched languidly and picked up her wand. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to go now. There’s somewhere important I have to be.”
Before departing, she turned to Julius one last time.
“I don’t usually do this, because meddling with the timestream is dangerous,” she said. “But really, with the workout you gave me it would be a damn shame for anything to happen to you.”
Hermione picked up the time turner. “Seriously though, don’t trust anyone named Brutus.”
***
Her cravings satisfied, Hermione made a quick detour back (or forward, depending on your point of view) to 10 Downing Street to reclaim her dress. Margaret helped her shimmy back into the gown, and put up her hair (Margaret could have been a hairdresser if she wanted, but her mother never would have allowed it). A dash of judicious magic restored Hermione’s smudged makeup, and, upon checking her reflection in the mirror, a second spell pulled the dried semen out of her hair.
“Are you ready?” asked Margaret, standing behind Hermione as the young witch gazed upon herself. Hermione adjusted her bouquet and took a steadying breath.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I think I am.”
Margaret patted her back, and Hermione caught her eyes in the mirror.
“Until our next meeting,” she said softly, facing her friend. She touched the time turner once more, and was gone.
***
Hermione had calculated her return to the wedding perfectly. As she reappeared at Ron’s side there wasn’t so much as a twitch to betray her adventures.
She looked into Ron’s adoring face, the time-turner dangling innocently from her neck.
“I do.”