Drabbles

“Riddle,” she hissed, her hand jumping behind to find his shoulder in an automatic attempt to hold him off. “What are you–”

He tsked, drawing the zipper further down. “You know the arrangement.”

She did, and so she let her hand drop. 

The air was cool on her exposed skin, the entirety of her back gradually made bare. Even in her private office, she felt on display. This was the most public place he’d initiated their deal, and she worried at the implication that he was escalating. 

Only a wall separated them from full court. The session would open in minutes and as Minister, she needed to be present to do the honors. 

But she couldn’t open the Wizengamot without a dress. And she couldn’t fix her dress until he was finished with her. 

Riddle’s lips pressed to the ridge of her spine and she shuddered reflexively, hating, as she always did, the way her body responded to him. 

“The arrangement,” Riddle drawled, lips and fingers as lazy as his tone, “is that you get to play as Minister…however you want.”

Hermione kept her gaze on the wall ahead of her, imagining the gathering crowd just beyond; the hoards of Magibarristers and citizens, all of them ready to hear what their esteemed Minister had to say about the matter they were gathered to deliberate on. 

“And I…” Riddle got on his knees behind her, the position as falsely subservient as Hermione was to the people she governed. “…get to play with you whenever I want.”

Riddle held the strings that cinched the magical world together, the resurrection of his corporeal form so Godlike, the masses had fallen quickly into unified, awe-filled line. He’d done it; he’d bested death. The world thought his soul was healed. 

Hermione knew better. 

Everyone had an agenda, and hers wouldn’t be hampered by the forked tongue currently wetting the base of her spine, nor the hands snaking under her skirt, fingers brushing over her bum to nestle between her legs. 

She had bigger aims than even the issues brought before her within the open court or the closed door dealings in her office. 

Her aims were international. Global. Revolutionary. She would upend the order of things, finally fix them. With or without her citizens full support; without, even, their full knowledge. 

Riddle understood her. He used it, and she, him. 

“I want you hot and silky when you take your throne,” he murmured, circling her clit with the tip of his finger. “Thinking of me waiting here for you. Patient but hungry.”

She widened her stance without hesitation, obeying the press of his other hand at the inside of her thigh. His satisfaction rumbled against her arsecheek, his teeth nipping at her through the material of her dress. 

Resistance was a word she was slowly redefining. It was more mental than physical now; her body unable to distinguish his touch from that of a proper lover, the resistance of her cunt as feeble as that of her nipples and her breath, all of her succumbing to the wash of arousal that he so easily drew from her. 

He knew it, too; could feel the way she was already warm and soft for him, taking his finger easily all the way to his palm. He fucked her with it slowly, stroking inside her until she was so wet, she could hear it. 

His retreat was strategic, as it always was. He managed to make her miss him, make her almost want to beg.

Without his presence behind her, she felt like an island, isolated and exposed. A world unto her own, separate from the rest of her kin; a tiny kingdom that existed only to protect her land from the sea serpent. 

She and Riddle worked like the teeth of the zipper he was slowly bringing together up her spine; complementary halves, opposites that fit when forced, to make the garment stronger. 

She hated him for it, but only because she couldn’t hate herself. If she did, it would be all over.

He stepped back and her adrenaline surged, wanting to run. Wanting to fight. 

Instead, she swept forcibly steady hands over her clothing and her hair, confirming she would present as the fortitude of goodness and mercy she’d taught the world to see. 

He would take her later — she’d let him, would come for him, even, in whichever way he demanded — but until then, she was the goddamn Minister of Magic. For Britain only, first, but soon…

She was a kingdom unto her own. And her own would soon be everyone. 

She brought her shoulders down and back, finding the pose that made her look as strong as she felt, but even so she took a discreet but steadying inhale before she turned to retrieve the documents she needed to preside over court. 

He was standing at her desk, behind the expanse of mahogany, pulling back her chair. 

His presence there made a mockery of her privileged position, and the easy way he sank into the buttery leather seat was a level of disrespect she barely tolerated. 

“I’m going to fuck you as soon as you step back through these doors, Minister ,” he said, gaze intent on hers. “I’ll sit here, and you’ll sit here.” 

He spread his thighs, hand dropping to barely graze the bulge at his lap. 

“And then you’ll tell me all about the little laws you established. The creatures you saved. The lives you touched. And while you do, I’ll open you up on my cock. Whether you’re ready for me or not.”

Not even Riddle knew the full extent of her ambition, nor the machinations she was setting into place which would bring it to fruition. 

She liked him thinking that her aims were only as lofty as her predecessors; it gave her a thrill to imagine his shock when the first of her dominoes began to fall. 

She couldn’t help but smirk at him. 

He tilted his head as he surveyed her, and then his eyes darkened, mouth curling up to match the way hers had made her expression distinctly knowing. 

“I suggest you keep yourself ready for me, Minister,” he murmured.

 And maybe she did hate herself a little bit, because despite it all, she knew she wouldn’t have to try. 

But then again…

He might make a very fine King.