NEW FIC and ART! "Spoils of War" Neville/Hannah NC-17
“Spoils of War”
by Thanfiction
Neville/Hannah
NC-17, het
Art in mechanical charcoal pencil on paper
Summary: Passions run high in the aftermath of battle.
Part of the Dumbledore's Army universe.
OOO
The Slytherin common room, by virture of its hidden location in the very depths of the castle, had been spared the destruction that the battle had wrought upon the rest of Hogwarts, but it was hard to tell. Chairs had been upended, their cushions slashed, their carved frames stomped and broken. The empty portraits had been cut to ribbons, the banners and hangings torn from the walls, and the fireplace blazed with green cloth that was rapidly charring black and spitting sparks onto the rug, setting a dozen tiny, smoldering fires.
Neville did not even hear the door open as he sunk the Sword deep into the comfortable green upholstery of the couch. “Did you do all this?”
He startled, whirling quickly with the blade raised instantly to strike before he even recognized the voice. “Hannah!” For a moment, his heart caught with how very close he had come to attacking her, but she didn’t seem frightened, and he nodded as he turned back to return his attentions to the demolition of the couch. “Every…goddamned…bit of it….” Neville growled between stabs and hacks.
Her voice was not exactly reproachful, rather almost curious as she kept safely back from the reach of the Sword, bending down to pick up the severed head of a silver serpent that had once acted as a lamp hook. “Don’t you think there’s been enough destruction for one day?”
“They didn’t fight!” He set the Sword on the stone floor with incongruous care, then dug his hands into the slashes it had left and tore them apart, scattering stuffing into the air in thick handfuls. “Those bastards let us die for their freedoms too, and they didn’t shed one drop of their own cowardly, slinking, sniveling blood! Gryffindor’s blown to pieces, Ravenclaw’s a pile of rubble, your House caught fire when they blasted the kitchens…I’m not letting them get away with it!”
There was a long pause where all he could hear was the sound of his own hoarse breathing and the rasping of tearing cloth, then she spoke again, and there was a hard edge to her words. “Have you gotten the dorms yet?”
Neville looked up, and there was a smile on his mouth that never touched the anger blazing in his eyes, but he knew that she could see how much he was in love with her in that smile. “No.”
“I think you’ve done enough to the common room, mind if I help?” Hannah pushed up her still-bloody sleeves and drew her wand. “I want to start with the seventh-years…Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle’s room.”
He nodded, then paused as his eyes scanned over the tall, arched doors with their heavy iron bands and open-mouthed fanged knockers. “I don’t know -“
She interrupted him by aiming her wand at the nearest door. There was a flash, a bang, and it blew apart in a cloud of sparks and splinters that made him have to turn away, shielding his face. When he looked back, she was peering calmly through the opening, shaking her head matter-of-factly. “Nope.”
They blew off four more doors before they found it, the dormitory instantly recognizable by the expensive dragon-leather trunk resting at the foot of the center bed, an ornate silver “M” emblazoned beautifully over the lid. Between the two of them, they made short work of the room. The trunk was the first to go, engulfed with a Confringo curse that reduced the lavish trunk and its contents to ashes and twisted iron bands, and then they turned to the others, followed by the beds themselves, the nightstands, even the half-finished homework that lay on a table that was no more than matchsticks within minutes.
Neville wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead, grinning. “Do you think we should leave a calling card, or do you think they’ll be able to figure it out?”
But Hannah wasn’t looking at the remains of the dormitory, she was looking at him, and her green eyes were burning as darkly as the smoking trunks. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
He tilted his head, frowning in sudden worry. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No…” she stepped forward, slipping her wand back into her belt as she raised her arms to wrap them around his neck. Her tongue flicked out over her lips, and her eyes locked with his. “I want to kiss you.”
Neville pulled in a deep breath, surprised but also suddenly very, very aware of how warm the skin of her bare forearms was on the back of his neck, of how her body pressed against his, of every breath that swelled her breasts soft and firm into his chest. His own pulse was still speeding from the exertion of their rampage, but now there was more to it as well, and he swallowed hard, forcing his hands to take her wrists and push her away. “Hannah, we can’t.”
“If you mean that you’re bloody and sweaty and covered in dust and Merlin knows, I don’t give a damn,” she said fiercely, twisting her wrists away. She pushed in close again, pressing herself to him deliberately and wrapping her arms around his waist under the shredded shirt. “You’re alive, and maybe it’s messed up, but you’re….” The words trailed off into a moan as she ran her tongue along the exposed line of his upper arm where the sleeve had been stripped away, and it took all his willpower to shove her off of him again.
He held out his hands, seeing that they were shaking with the effort of controlling everything that was mounting now, and his voice came so low and feral that he almost didn’t recognize it. “You don’t understand. I’m not okay right now, Hannah. I’m…I’ve been fighting all night. I’ve seen a lot of people I love die. I’m angry - no, I’m furious - and I’ve been running on all my lowest, nastiest instincts for hours. If you try that again, I’m going to wind up fucking you right there on what’s left of Malfoy’s bed.”
She gasped, and he knew that she was shocked to hear him use a word he never had in her presence before, but there seemed to be something else to it as well, something that raised a flush high on her cheeks and made her eyes fall lazily half-closed as her lips parted. She looked…but she couldn’t be. Not when he was filthy and enraged and they’d just spent the last half hour breaking things.
Yet his own body was responding just as impossibly, just as nonsensically. It seemed to realize for the first time since it had all ended that they had survived, and that for them, unlike oh, so many others, it was not too late. He wanted to grab her, wanted to feel her, taste her, take her right there, do something every bit as primal as fighting for your survival but something that was good and life rather than evil and death. His face felt flushed, and he turned away, forcing himself not to look at her as he squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hands tightly into fists at his sides as he hissed out one final warning. “Get. Out. Of. Here.”
Hannah did not leave. Instead, he felt her hands on his back, sliding under the shirt, slipping around to his stomach, tracing the lines of the muscles with her palms down to the waistband of his trousers, then starting to ease beneath….
It was too much. He had warned her. Neville snapped.
Whirling on the spot, he grabbed her hard by the shoulders, crushing his mouth to hers in a fierce, deep kiss, tongue thrusting deep into her mouth, hands raising now to fist in the dusty golden curls as he yanked her to him. Then he had broken the kiss, and he bent just enough to scoop his arms under her and lift her off her feet. They crossed the debris-strewn room in three strides, and then he threw her down onto the slashed mattress in a cloud of feathers, the strips of the bed-hangings fluttering around her as she lay sprawled, panting hard and grinning up at him.
Her hands went to her collar, but he was faster, taking the scorched fabric in both hands and yanking it open with a scatter of burst buttons. It took every ounce of remaining sanity, but he paused just long enough to see her nod, see that she hadn’t changed her mind, and then their bodies crashed together in writhing limbs and seeking hands and tearing cloth hungering for naked flesh.
Twice they had been intimate before, once in his Grandfather’s old hothouse and once on the Astronomy tower, but those had been gentle, tentative, careful and almost innocent despite the carnality of the deed itself. Not this time. This time it was passion, in every sense of the word, emotions raised to every extreme of rage and fear and anguish and joy and lust that had poured over them that night in the blood of friends and enemies, expressed in gasps and sweat and screams and no trace of inhibition.
Hannah’s nails dug deep into his shoulders as he pulled off the panties that were the last scrap of cloth she had still worn, arching herself up against his mouth as his lips pulled hard on her nipples, nipping and sucking them fiercely as his tongue rubbed the taut, puckered nubs. She was writhing, groaning, hissing like a cat, and the sounds seemed to strike his blood like firewhisky. He braced his hands against what was left of the mattress on either side of her, running his mouth down the plane of her stomach, then burying his face between her thighs.
She screamed as his tongue found her clit, her legs slamming hard into the sides of his head, and he shifted back onto his heels, grabbing her ass and lifting her tighter into his mouth. He had never tasted, never smelled anything more intoxicating, and he wanted to drink her in, sucking at the wet folds and pushing his tongue as deep as it would go, the scruff of two days unshaven rough against the satin-smooth wetness of her inner thighs. Her hips were pulsing, he could feel her cunt trembling against his mouth, and despite how good - how fucking incredible this was - his body was demanding more too fiercely to ignore, and she was begging, she was pleading, and if he could have resisted himself, the sound of her voice saying those things was more than he could ever hold out against.
He pulled her legs from around his shoulders, shoving her down on the bed again, and now he was on top of her, over her…oh, god…INSIDE her. It had never been like this before. So hot, so wet, so tight, so desperate, nothing held back, not worrying, not trying to do anything but just let their bodies and their needs and their instincts run completely away with them. He bit his lip, his breath coming in hard, gutteral rasps as he thrust into her again and again, so hard that it had to be hurting her, had to be tearing her apart, but she was whimpering in pleasure, not pain, her legs tightening on his hips, her own body pushing up to meet his just as quickly, just as savagely.
For what could have been seconds or minutes or hours or days he drove into her, any rhythm quickly abandoned into a frenzy of hardandfastandinandoutandohyesohjustlikethat. Then she was clenching around him, her cries rising to a high, trembling little scream, and the scars on his shoulders split under her nails and she had curled all the way off the bed to cling against him and every muscle was tightening, his own scream a distant sound under the roaring pulse and the shattering insanity.
He came harder than he had ever thought possible, every nerve firing hotly, every sense an inferno of pleasure, and this was everything and nothing like the Cruciatus Curse, pleasure raised to a height as maddening, as impossible as the pain had been. It swept over him in deep, pounding waves, driving him under and drowning his senses in ecstacy, then it began to fade at last, leaving him breathless and shuddering, collapsed over her in a tangle of salt and wet and hot and shaking.
They lay together for a long time, hands wandering rather aimlessly over one another’s bodies, pushing clinging hair from faces, murmuring things that they understood neither saying nor hearing, but didn’t need to. Then her breathing had slowed, her fingers trailed to a halt over his chest, and he realized that she had fallen asleep, and it really seemed like an astonishingly good idea as his body abruptly informed him that it had been almost thirty-six hours.
For the briefest of moments, he considered trying to seal the shattered door, to pull pieces of clothing or bed hangings over them again, but it just wasn’t worth the effort. He didn’t really care if they were found. If they were old enough to die, then damned if they weren’t old enough to live.
THE END