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hp fic: Long Shot
Title: Long Shot
Pairing: Harry/Hermione/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A fool and his money are soon parted.
Warnings: Voyeurism
Notes: Written for the![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88)
trio_fqf, here. Thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
petulantgod and happiestwhen for the beta.
Long Shot
::
Place Your Bets
(put your money where your mouth is)
"I'm having a thought."
"Just the one?"
"Prat."
"You are."
"You want to hear this, or not?"
"Go on, then."
"Well, term started today, and it seems the pressing issue this year is how Harry, Hermione, and Ron will pair off."
"Oh, that's obvious."
"I know that, and you know that, but apparently, they don't know that."
"They? You mean Harry, Hermione, and Ron?"
"Yeah, all right. Them, too. But I mean the other students."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"I think we should run a pool. A book, if you like. Odds on all possible combinations."
"Even the obvious?"
"Even the obvious. Only, what's obvious to us is not obvious to them."
"We'll make a mint!"
"I know."
"You're brilliant!"
"I know."
"Arse. When should we start?"
"Immediately, of course. You know what they say -- a fool and his money are soon parted."
Draco
(Harry and Ron ~ 37 to 1)
The sun is just starting to set when Draco walks outside, the sky bleeding purple and red. The clouds are large, pink-tinged, hanging just above the horizon, and a chill wind picks up, swirling trails of autumn leaves across the ground.
Draco makes his way to the Quidditch shed quickly, upset with himself for leaving his rucksack there after his earlier practise. He needs his books; he has homework in both Potions and Transfigurations, and it's getting late. He doesn't want to miss dinner, and he needs to check on Borgin's progress with the Vanishing Cabinet.
The door is slightly ajar when Draco arrives, hanging open a little more than an inch. He hears people inside -- shuffling, muffled conversation -- and he leans close to listen. He nudges the door gently, hoping to see better, and freezes, his fingers hovering over the rough wood.
It's Potter and Weasley, and to his horror, Potter is naked, and Weasley might as well be. Potter is sprawled on one of the benches, his long legs stretched out lazily, and Weasley is between them, his large, freckled hands curved around Harry's hips.
Draco sees Weasley's lips part, sees his tongue dart out, glistening and pink, and with a sudden, sick chill Draco knows what's going to happen, but he's too shocked to look away before it does, before Potter's cock disappears into Weasley's mouth.
Potter throws his head back and moans low, a rough, positively filthy sound that Draco could have done without. Potter grips the bench until his fingers go white, bloodless, and his hips hitch up, fighting the press of Weasley's hands.
Weasley lifts his head, Potter's cock sliding between his lips, and his tongue swirls quickly over the tip before he sucking it back in again. Weasley reaches up, cupping Potter's balls, making Potter gasp and bite at his lower lip, and Potter pries one of his hands away from the bench to tangle his fingers in Weasley's hair.
Draco watches, horrified, unable to make himself move. He wants to leave, needs to leave before he's violently ill, but his feet feel heavy, weighted, rooted to the spot. He closes his eyes, but it doesn't help in the least; he can still hear them, hear Potter's hitched breaths and the soft-wet sounds of Weasley's mouth.
"Oh God, Ron."
Potter's arching off the bench now, rocking his hips and fucking Weasley's mouth, and Draco's stomach twists, sickly and sour. Potter makes a desperate, broken sound, thrusting up hard, and Draco realises Potter's about to come a split-second before he does.
Weasley mouths his way up Potter's body, pressing sloppy kisses to Potter's belly, chest, and neck before licking his way into Potter's mouth. They kiss lazily, sloppily, and Weasley shifts, straddling the bench and rutting shamelessly against Potter's leg.
Potter works an arm between them, his hand wrapping around Weasley's cock, and he strokes Weasley hard and fast, making Weasley moan into his mouth. Draco reaches for the door, finally able to make himself move, but it's too late, Weasley is already coming, spurting white and thick over Potter's fingers.
After more kissing than Draco thinks is absolutely necessary they move, untangling their arms and legs and rising from the bench. They head for the showers, and once Draco hears the pipe rumble and the water spray to life, he opens the door just enough to poke his head it.
"Accio rucksack!" he hisses.
Draco turns and flees, running for the castle without bothering to shut the door. He still feels queasy, his stomach twisting and knotting, and he doubts he'll be able to eat dinner, doubts he'll be able to sleep tonight.
He tries to console himself with the rumour Pansy told him earlier. If it turns out to be true, he'll at least be able to put the information to good use.
--
"Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here."
"Spare me," Draco says shortly. He glances over his shoulder, then leans across the counter. "I understand you're running a book."
"Possibly."
Draco sighs heavily, pursing his lips. "Are you, or are you not?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'd like to place a bet," Draco snaps, drumming his fingers irritably on the counter. The wood is slightly sticky, and Draco is sure he doesn't want to know why.
"Well, that changes everything. There're four ways to bet, and you can only bet on one, so choose wisely."
"Ten Galleons, on Potter and Weasley," Draco says.
"Interesting choice. Are you sure you don't want to look at the odds?"
"No. I know what I -- I know what I want," Draco insists. "Potter and Weasley."
"Your loss, Malfoy. Here's your ticket, and just so you know, there's an unpleasant surprise in store if you try to tamper with it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Draco drawls, sneering.
"See that you do. Run along, then. The book doesn't close until the end of term."
Colin
(Harry and Hermione ~ 64 to 1)
The corridors are dark this late, shadows dancing in front of the statues and stretching across the floor. Colin does his best to hide in them, and takes care to walk as quietly as possible. It's well past curfew, and if he gets detention he won't be able to photograph tomorrow's Quidditch match.
He hurries, even though he has plenty of time. He's not set to meet Luna for another twenty minutes, but he thinks heading outside now is safer than loitering in the halls. The greenhouses are listed on the rounds, but the prefects rarely make it out there, especially now that the weather has turned cold.
Colin jumps at a noise, his stomach knotting nervously. He thinks it might be voices, but he can't be sure, can't tell if it's a person, or just a portrait settling in for the night. He hears it again; it's low, wordless, and he ducks behind a suit of armour, glancing about nervously as he folds himself up in the slim shadow it casts along the wall.
He peers out into the corridor, and he spots Harry Potter as soon as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He's almost directly across from Colin, tucked against a statue of Hubert the Humpbacked, and his mouth his moving slowly up Hermione Granger's neck.
Hermione's hands slide up Harry's arms, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. She pulls him close, murmuring something Colin can't hear, and her tongue flicks out, tracing the shell of Harry's ear. The corridor is quiet, the heavy silence punctuated by soft snores from the portrait over Colin's head, and when Harry's mouth finds Hermione's, the slippery, wet sound seems overloud in the stillness, seems to echo in Colin's ears.
Colin averts his gaze quickly, colour rushing to his cheeks, the hammering of his heart barely masking the slick slide of their lips and tongues. He leans against the suit of armour, half-tempted to cover his face with his hands, and he tries to decide if he should risk walking past them, or if he should just go back the way he came.
Hermione moans quietly, and Colin glances up just as Harry pushes her back against the wall. He rucks up her skirt, his fingers catching in the heavy grey folds, and he slides a hand between her legs. Hermione's breath catches with a sharp hiss, and Colin gapes at them, his mouth hanging open.
He doesn't want to watch, knows he shouldn't watch, but he can't make himself look away. He's trapped by a twisted sense of satisfaction, because he knows now he's been right about the two of them all along, and he almost wishes Dennis was here with him so he could gloat.
Hermione's hand leaves Harry's shoulder, disappearing between their bodies, and Harry moans, burying his head in Hermione's neck. Colin can't see what Hermione is doing, but he knows she's touching Harry from the slow rock of his hips, knows she has her hand curled around his cock.
The armour's elbow joint jabs Colin in the side, and he realises he's leaning around it to get a better look. He pulls back quickly, his back hitting the wall hard, and his camera bounces on his chest. He puts a hand up to still it, and he pauses, his fingers tightening on the smooth plastic.
Dennis will never believe him in a million years, and neither will anyone else. He feels a brief pang of guilt as he removes the flashbulb and lifts the camera to his face, but he ignores it. He tells himself he's not betraying his friends, that he's only protecting his investment.
There's not really enough light, and the shadows seem thicker from behind the lens. He leans out a bit, trying to get as clear a shot as possible. Hermione shudders against Harry just as the shutter clicks, and Colin hopes she doesn't blur.
Hermione's eyes are closed when the camera settles against Colin's chest. Harry buries his face in the curve of Hermione's shoulder, and Colin slips down the hallway as Harry hisses Hermione's name against her neck.
--
Colin pulls on the door, and it sticks stubbornly in the jamb. He yanks hard, both hands curled around the handle, and it gives suddenly, swinging into him unexpectedly. It knocks him onto the ground, and the bells hanging on the handle laugh at him, jingling loudly.
"Smooth entrance, Creevey."
Colin blushes, and dusts himself off, his camera bouncing against his chest.
"I've already told you, we don't sell film for Muggle cameras."
"I know," Colin says. "I brought plenty back when I went home for the Christmas holiday."
"Well, what brings you in, then?"
"I've come to collect on my bet," Colin announces, approaching the counter.
"Louder, Creevey. I don't think the goblins at Gringotts heard you."
Colin winces, ducking his head. Only goblins are allowed to publicly run books. The Ministry rarely checks up on rumours of outside betting; they have other things to worry about, but the goblins are notorious for making trouble for competition.
"Besides, Creevey, the book is open until the end of term."
"But I've proof!" Colin protests. "There's no sense taking more bets if they've already sorted themselves out!"
"Proof, you say. Let's see, then."
Colin quickly pulls a photograph out of his back pocket. It's a little bent, since he'd landed on it when he fell. He flattens a creased corner and sets it on the counter.
"Bit dark, isn't it?"
In the picture, Harry and Hermione snog, unconcerned with the conversation taking place over their head.
"The lighting in that corridor was horrible," Colin explains. "If I'd used the flashbulb, they'd've known I was there."
"That's what they all say."
Harry pushes Hermione up against the wall, his hand disappearing under her skirt. Colin makes a funny, whinging noise and flips the photograph over.
"Like I said, the book is open until the end of term."
"What about my proof?" Colin asks.
"Doctored, no doubt."
"It is not!" Colin insists, his face colouring. He snatches at the photograph, but his hand is batted away, and the photograph disappears under the counter.
"End of term, Creevey. You'll have to wait like everyone else."
Blaise
(Ron and Hermione ~ 13 to 1)
Blaise doesn't understand why his mother had insisted he take Muggle Studies. He's the only Slytherin in a class full of Hufflepuffs, something his house mates are kind enough to remind him of constantly, and he honestly has no interest in how Muggles get on without magic.
He has an essay due in the morning, fourteen inches on the Muggle post, and he hasn't started it. Delivering the Royal Mail by Uriel Goatley, the Library's only book on the subject, has been with Cho Chang for most of the week.
Muggle Studies is hidden in the rear of the library, a small, sparse section with just a handful of books and a meagre stack of Muggle newspapers and magazines. Blaise glances at the third shelf, his eyes darting right for the space he'd been expecting to find -- an inch-wide slot between Goatley's Coins and Notes of Muggle Britain and Electricity: The Muggle Form of Magic.
Blaise frowns, his fingers tightening on his rucksack strap, and decides he's going up to Ravenclaw Tower to have a word with Chang. She's not even taking Muggle Studies, and he needs that book. He couldn't care about the Muggle post, but he refuses to get a bad mark in a class on a subject that is so mind-numbingly simple.
"Ron, we can't. We'll get caught."
"No we won't. No one ever goes into Muggle Studies."
Blaise hears a sigh, then the rustle of fabric and the soft hiss of a zip. This is quickly followed by another sigh, the protesting squeak of a rickety, library chair, and then something that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Curious, Blaise peers around the bookshelf, and when he sees who and what, he wishes he hadn't.
Weasley is slumped low in a chair with Granger straddling his lap, her face hidden under a cloud of hair and her skirt spread out to cover them. She has her arms draped over his shoulders, holding a thick book behind his neck, and Blaise realises in horror that Weasley has her knickers clutched in his hand.
Granger shifts on top of him, rocking her hips slowly, catching her feet on the chair's legs for leverage. Weasley's eyes slide closed, spots of colour blooming on his cheeks, and he lets out a soft, low moan that Blaise thinks will give him nightmares.
Blaise can't believe that he's watching this; it's too disgusting to think about, let alone see, but he seems unable to move, and he's gripping the bookshelf so tightly he can almost feel the wood grain reshaping his skin. He closes his eyes for a moment, but he can still hear them -- hitched gasps, breathy moans, the creaking grind of the chair's legs against the floor -- and he opens them, because for some reason, he can't not.
Weasley starts to move, thrusting up into her as she rocks against him. She murmurs his name, her voice thin and needy, and she quickens her pace, leaning heavily on his shoulders. Weasley pulls a face as the edge of the book she's holding catches him in the back of the neck, and Blaise thinks she should have been Sorted in Ravenclaw, the way she gets off on parchment and ink.
He doesn't want to watch any more, doesn't want to see any more, but it almost seems like he doesn't have a choice. He feels compelled to look, feels compelled to stare, caught up in the same sick fascination that makes people look at nasty scars and broomstick accidents.
Weasley grabs her by the hips, her knickers spilling pink and flimsy between his fingers, and he slams into her roughly, his arse lifting off the seat. She shudders hard, gasping, the book slipping from her hands, and Weasley thrusts into her again, arching up so far he sends the chair sliding across the floor.
Blaise's lip curls as he realises he just watched Granger come, but then Weasley does too, growling, and Blaise shudders with disdain. He feels dirty, like he's rolled around on the Quidditch pitch after a hard rain, and when Weasley tips Granger's face up for a kiss, Blaise is finally able to turn away.
He tries not to think about it as he heads for the front of the Library, but he knows he'll be haunted by it every time he sees them in class. He glances at Pince as he passes her, tempted to snitch on them out of spite, but after a moment, he decides to keep the information to himself for a little while.
--
"How can I help you?"
Blaise frowns at the elderly witch lingering next to him. She gives him an affronted look, but moves away, and when she's out of earshot, he leans over the counter.
"I'm interested in placing a bet."
"Gambling is Gringotts business, except the books for the Kneazle races. Mundungus Fletcher runs those, but I wouldn't suggest it. He has a tallying system that's his wholly his own."
"You're saying you're not running a pool?" Blaise asks, lifting any eyebrow.
"Too right."
"Shame," Blaise says, sighing. "I was thinking of placing a fairly healthy bet."
"How healthy?"
"Fifteen Galleons," Blaise replies, pulling the coins from his pocket. They glint brightly as he stacks them on the counter.
"I've a book, then. How are you betting?"
"Weasley and the Mudblood," Blaise says.
"I'm sorry. Did I say I had a book?"
"Granger," Blaise snaps, rolling his eyes. "Weasley and Granger."
"All right, fifteen Galleons on Weasley and Granger. I'm running a side bet on that, if you're interested. Put up one more Galleon, toward the possibility of Harry and Ginny, and it'll double your odds on Hermione and Ron."
"Really," Blaise murmurs.
"Really. If it doesn't happen, you're still straight odds for Hermione and Ron, and you're only out a Galleon."
Blaise hides a smile and tosses another Galleon on the counter.
"What's your name, then?"
"Blaise Zabini."
"Zabini. Zabini. That sounds familiar. Oh, that's right! Your mum was in here the other day. Quite a looker, she was. I hated to see her leave, but I did like watching her go."
Neville
(Harry and Hermione and Ron ~ 128 to 1)
The lights are out when Neville gets back upstairs, and he's careful as he makes his way across the room. The moonlight gleaming through the window is almost enough to see by, but he's unused to walking in the Invisibility Cloak. It's heavy and awkward, winding around his arms and tangling around his feet.
He doesn't understand how Harry sneaks about in this thing all the time. He'd only gone out to the greenhouses, because he forgot to water his mugwort during Herbology, and it'd been an awful experience. It had taken him forever just to get downstairs, and he'd tripped several times.
Harry's trunk is open, the lid propped against the foot of his bed, and Neville wonders if he should just drop the Invisibility Cloak inside. Neville stands in front of Harry's trunk for a moment, twisting the cloak between his fingers, then, noticing Harry's drapes are open, decides to to ask him.
They are not open much, just enough that Neville can stick his head inside. Harry doesn't seem to notice Neville, in spite of the fact that he is looking right at him, and Neville realises two things at once -- he's still wearing the Cloak, and Harry is not alone.
Hermione is kneeling between his legs, one hand splayed across his belly, the other curled around his cock. Ron is behind her, gripping her tightly by the hips, driving in and out of her slowly. They are muted in the failing light, faded to shades of grey, but Hermione's tongue is almost pink when it darts out to swirl over the head of Harry's cock, and Neville can just catch the red in Ron's hair.
Neville is suddenly embarrassed, even though he knows they are unaware of him, and his face flushes, heat prickling over his skin. He knows he should leave them and go to bed, knows this is not for him to see, but he finds he can't stop, finds he wants to see what they look like together.
Ron thrusts into Hermione, urging her forward, and Harry's cock slides deep into her mouth. Harry arches up, his fingers twisting in the duvet and his eyes widening, and Neville feels a chill sweep over his skin, forgetting for a brief, panicked moment that Harry can't see him.
They slide together in a perfect rhythm, the boys' movements rocking Hermione between them. They seem to fit, like pieces of a puzzle, seem connected, Ron inside Hermione and Hermione around Harry and Harry's fingers tangled with Ron's at Hermione's hip.
Ron leans over Hermione's body as he thrusts, brushing away her hair to mouth at the back of her neck, and Hermione presses up into him, moaning quietly around Harry's cock. Hermione's hands slide up Harry's belly, smoothing over his chest, and Harry murmurs her name, then Ron's, as her small fingers dance over his nipples.
It makes sense, Neville thinks, seems like the best way for things to have worked out. He can't imagine one without the other two, can't imagine two of them pairing off and leaving the other behind. They're too close to be separated, they compliment each other too well, and always have.
Ron's hand slips from Hermione's hip, dipping between her legs, and she shudders, her body tensing. Her fingers dig into Harry's skin, nails leaving thin trails down his chest, and Ron pushes into her hard, moaning low against her neck.
Harry arches up off the bed, his hands snagging in Hermione's hair, and Ron slips out of her, moving to lie alongside them. He kisses Harry, his tongue tracing Harry's lips before sliding in his mouth, and Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his hips snapping up hard.
Hermione moves up Harry's body, collapsing against his chest and trading kisses with him and Ron, and Ron murmurs, his voice so low and hoarse Neville can't quite make out the words. Neville turns away, sneaking inside his bed, and hopes his Remembrall will remind him to return Harry's cloak in the morning.
--
"Afternoon!" Neville says brightly.
"Longbottom. I'd say it's good to see you, but..."
"I know." Neville smiles and leans on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. "What've you got for me?"
"An arseload of money, you lucky tosser." A sack hits the counter with a solid clink. "You were the only one to bet that way, so it's all yours."
"All of it?" Neville asks, his eyes widening.
"Minus our cut, of course. Fifteen percent off the top, but you are still a rich man."
"Thank you," Neville says, lifting the sack. It's heavier than it looks, and is too big to fit in his pocket. "No hard feelings, I hope?"
"Oh, not a one. You only ruined the whole scheme."
"You knew it was possible when you opened the books," Neville says sensibly.
"Possible, but not probable. If no one had bet that way, we'd've kept every Knut."
"And you honestly thought no one would bet that way?" Neville asks.
"Of course not. We wouldn't've bothered if we had. How did you figure it out, then?"
"Oh," Neville says, smiling. "It was obvious, really."
Winner Take All
(a fool and his money are soon parted)
Mr Weasley and the twins are at work, and Mrs Weasley took Ginny to Diagon Alley for the day. The Burrow is strangely quiet without them, and when Neville crashes through the Floo it is sudden, startling.
"Neville!" Harry says, with a lazy wave. He's stretched out on the couch, his head in Hermione's lap.
"Afternoon, Harry!" Neville says. He tucks the sack he's holding under his arm and brushes himself off. "Hermione, Ron."
"What've you got?" Ron asks. He's cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, leaning against Hermione's legs.
"Is that what I think it is?" Hermione asks, smiling.
"End of term," Neville replies. He sits down next to her, and she nudges Harry out of the way just as Neville drops the sack in her lap.
"How much is it?" Hermione asks, peering inside.
"I've not counted it yet," Neville replies. "I'm sure it's a good amount. It was heavy enough."
"I'm giving you half," Hermione says.
"You don't have to," Neville says, shaking his head. "It's yours."
"Nonsense," Hermione insists. "I wouldn't have it, if not for you. It wouldn't have done for me to place the bet myself."
"Bet?" Ron asks. He reaches for the sack, but Hermione bats his hand away. "What bet?"
"A pool opened at the beginning of term, on how the three of us would pair off," Hermione explains. Harry's eyes widen, and Ron makes a choking sound. "Nearly half the school bet."
"What?" Harry asks.
"Apparently, the smart money was on Ron and I," she continues. "And there was a bonus riding on Harry and Ginny."
"Hang on," Ron says, shaking his head. "The goblins were running a book on us?"
"Of course not," Hermione says. "Weren't you listening in History of Magic? They are only licensed for sporting events. It was one of main reasons behind the rebellion of 1897, and--"
"Who was running it, then?" Harry asks.
"Fred and George," Neville replies.
"Wankers," Ron mutters.
"Anyway, when I heard about it, I sent Neville in to place a bet on the three of us," Hermione says. She lifts the bag, and it clinks loudly. "Not a popular bet, I take it?" she asks, looking at Neville.
"Yours was the only one," Neville says. "They were right mad about giving all that money to me."
"When did you place it?" Harry asks.
"Christmas," Hermione says, pulling a slip of red and gold paper from the bag. She hands it to Harry, and he lifts an eyebrow at her after a quick glance.
"Wait a minute," Ron says. "We weren't even... I mean, the three of us weren't--"
"No, we weren't," she says, smiling. "But really, it was only a matter of time."
FIN
Pairing: Harry/Hermione/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A fool and his money are soon parted.
Warnings: Voyeurism
Notes: Written for the
trio_fqf, here. Thanks to petulantgod and happiestwhen for the beta. ::
Place Your Bets
(put your money where your mouth is)
"I'm having a thought."
"Just the one?"
"Prat."
"You are."
"You want to hear this, or not?"
"Go on, then."
"Well, term started today, and it seems the pressing issue this year is how Harry, Hermione, and Ron will pair off."
"Oh, that's obvious."
"I know that, and you know that, but apparently, they don't know that."
"They? You mean Harry, Hermione, and Ron?"
"Yeah, all right. Them, too. But I mean the other students."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"I think we should run a pool. A book, if you like. Odds on all possible combinations."
"Even the obvious?"
"Even the obvious. Only, what's obvious to us is not obvious to them."
"We'll make a mint!"
"I know."
"You're brilliant!"
"I know."
"Arse. When should we start?"
"Immediately, of course. You know what they say -- a fool and his money are soon parted."
Draco
(Harry and Ron ~ 37 to 1)
The sun is just starting to set when Draco walks outside, the sky bleeding purple and red. The clouds are large, pink-tinged, hanging just above the horizon, and a chill wind picks up, swirling trails of autumn leaves across the ground.
Draco makes his way to the Quidditch shed quickly, upset with himself for leaving his rucksack there after his earlier practise. He needs his books; he has homework in both Potions and Transfigurations, and it's getting late. He doesn't want to miss dinner, and he needs to check on Borgin's progress with the Vanishing Cabinet.
The door is slightly ajar when Draco arrives, hanging open a little more than an inch. He hears people inside -- shuffling, muffled conversation -- and he leans close to listen. He nudges the door gently, hoping to see better, and freezes, his fingers hovering over the rough wood.
It's Potter and Weasley, and to his horror, Potter is naked, and Weasley might as well be. Potter is sprawled on one of the benches, his long legs stretched out lazily, and Weasley is between them, his large, freckled hands curved around Harry's hips.
Draco sees Weasley's lips part, sees his tongue dart out, glistening and pink, and with a sudden, sick chill Draco knows what's going to happen, but he's too shocked to look away before it does, before Potter's cock disappears into Weasley's mouth.
Potter throws his head back and moans low, a rough, positively filthy sound that Draco could have done without. Potter grips the bench until his fingers go white, bloodless, and his hips hitch up, fighting the press of Weasley's hands.
Weasley lifts his head, Potter's cock sliding between his lips, and his tongue swirls quickly over the tip before he sucking it back in again. Weasley reaches up, cupping Potter's balls, making Potter gasp and bite at his lower lip, and Potter pries one of his hands away from the bench to tangle his fingers in Weasley's hair.
Draco watches, horrified, unable to make himself move. He wants to leave, needs to leave before he's violently ill, but his feet feel heavy, weighted, rooted to the spot. He closes his eyes, but it doesn't help in the least; he can still hear them, hear Potter's hitched breaths and the soft-wet sounds of Weasley's mouth.
"Oh God, Ron."
Potter's arching off the bench now, rocking his hips and fucking Weasley's mouth, and Draco's stomach twists, sickly and sour. Potter makes a desperate, broken sound, thrusting up hard, and Draco realises Potter's about to come a split-second before he does.
Weasley mouths his way up Potter's body, pressing sloppy kisses to Potter's belly, chest, and neck before licking his way into Potter's mouth. They kiss lazily, sloppily, and Weasley shifts, straddling the bench and rutting shamelessly against Potter's leg.
Potter works an arm between them, his hand wrapping around Weasley's cock, and he strokes Weasley hard and fast, making Weasley moan into his mouth. Draco reaches for the door, finally able to make himself move, but it's too late, Weasley is already coming, spurting white and thick over Potter's fingers.
After more kissing than Draco thinks is absolutely necessary they move, untangling their arms and legs and rising from the bench. They head for the showers, and once Draco hears the pipe rumble and the water spray to life, he opens the door just enough to poke his head it.
"Accio rucksack!" he hisses.
Draco turns and flees, running for the castle without bothering to shut the door. He still feels queasy, his stomach twisting and knotting, and he doubts he'll be able to eat dinner, doubts he'll be able to sleep tonight.
He tries to console himself with the rumour Pansy told him earlier. If it turns out to be true, he'll at least be able to put the information to good use.
--
"Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here."
"Spare me," Draco says shortly. He glances over his shoulder, then leans across the counter. "I understand you're running a book."
"Possibly."
Draco sighs heavily, pursing his lips. "Are you, or are you not?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'd like to place a bet," Draco snaps, drumming his fingers irritably on the counter. The wood is slightly sticky, and Draco is sure he doesn't want to know why.
"Well, that changes everything. There're four ways to bet, and you can only bet on one, so choose wisely."
"Ten Galleons, on Potter and Weasley," Draco says.
"Interesting choice. Are you sure you don't want to look at the odds?"
"No. I know what I -- I know what I want," Draco insists. "Potter and Weasley."
"Your loss, Malfoy. Here's your ticket, and just so you know, there's an unpleasant surprise in store if you try to tamper with it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Draco drawls, sneering.
"See that you do. Run along, then. The book doesn't close until the end of term."
(Harry and Hermione ~ 64 to 1)
The corridors are dark this late, shadows dancing in front of the statues and stretching across the floor. Colin does his best to hide in them, and takes care to walk as quietly as possible. It's well past curfew, and if he gets detention he won't be able to photograph tomorrow's Quidditch match.
He hurries, even though he has plenty of time. He's not set to meet Luna for another twenty minutes, but he thinks heading outside now is safer than loitering in the halls. The greenhouses are listed on the rounds, but the prefects rarely make it out there, especially now that the weather has turned cold.
Colin jumps at a noise, his stomach knotting nervously. He thinks it might be voices, but he can't be sure, can't tell if it's a person, or just a portrait settling in for the night. He hears it again; it's low, wordless, and he ducks behind a suit of armour, glancing about nervously as he folds himself up in the slim shadow it casts along the wall.
He peers out into the corridor, and he spots Harry Potter as soon as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He's almost directly across from Colin, tucked against a statue of Hubert the Humpbacked, and his mouth his moving slowly up Hermione Granger's neck.
Hermione's hands slide up Harry's arms, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. She pulls him close, murmuring something Colin can't hear, and her tongue flicks out, tracing the shell of Harry's ear. The corridor is quiet, the heavy silence punctuated by soft snores from the portrait over Colin's head, and when Harry's mouth finds Hermione's, the slippery, wet sound seems overloud in the stillness, seems to echo in Colin's ears.
Colin averts his gaze quickly, colour rushing to his cheeks, the hammering of his heart barely masking the slick slide of their lips and tongues. He leans against the suit of armour, half-tempted to cover his face with his hands, and he tries to decide if he should risk walking past them, or if he should just go back the way he came.
Hermione moans quietly, and Colin glances up just as Harry pushes her back against the wall. He rucks up her skirt, his fingers catching in the heavy grey folds, and he slides a hand between her legs. Hermione's breath catches with a sharp hiss, and Colin gapes at them, his mouth hanging open.
He doesn't want to watch, knows he shouldn't watch, but he can't make himself look away. He's trapped by a twisted sense of satisfaction, because he knows now he's been right about the two of them all along, and he almost wishes Dennis was here with him so he could gloat.
Hermione's hand leaves Harry's shoulder, disappearing between their bodies, and Harry moans, burying his head in Hermione's neck. Colin can't see what Hermione is doing, but he knows she's touching Harry from the slow rock of his hips, knows she has her hand curled around his cock.
The armour's elbow joint jabs Colin in the side, and he realises he's leaning around it to get a better look. He pulls back quickly, his back hitting the wall hard, and his camera bounces on his chest. He puts a hand up to still it, and he pauses, his fingers tightening on the smooth plastic.
Dennis will never believe him in a million years, and neither will anyone else. He feels a brief pang of guilt as he removes the flashbulb and lifts the camera to his face, but he ignores it. He tells himself he's not betraying his friends, that he's only protecting his investment.
There's not really enough light, and the shadows seem thicker from behind the lens. He leans out a bit, trying to get as clear a shot as possible. Hermione shudders against Harry just as the shutter clicks, and Colin hopes she doesn't blur.
Hermione's eyes are closed when the camera settles against Colin's chest. Harry buries his face in the curve of Hermione's shoulder, and Colin slips down the hallway as Harry hisses Hermione's name against her neck.
--
Colin pulls on the door, and it sticks stubbornly in the jamb. He yanks hard, both hands curled around the handle, and it gives suddenly, swinging into him unexpectedly. It knocks him onto the ground, and the bells hanging on the handle laugh at him, jingling loudly.
"Smooth entrance, Creevey."
Colin blushes, and dusts himself off, his camera bouncing against his chest.
"I've already told you, we don't sell film for Muggle cameras."
"I know," Colin says. "I brought plenty back when I went home for the Christmas holiday."
"Well, what brings you in, then?"
"I've come to collect on my bet," Colin announces, approaching the counter.
"Louder, Creevey. I don't think the goblins at Gringotts heard you."
Colin winces, ducking his head. Only goblins are allowed to publicly run books. The Ministry rarely checks up on rumours of outside betting; they have other things to worry about, but the goblins are notorious for making trouble for competition.
"Besides, Creevey, the book is open until the end of term."
"But I've proof!" Colin protests. "There's no sense taking more bets if they've already sorted themselves out!"
"Proof, you say. Let's see, then."
Colin quickly pulls a photograph out of his back pocket. It's a little bent, since he'd landed on it when he fell. He flattens a creased corner and sets it on the counter.
"Bit dark, isn't it?"
In the picture, Harry and Hermione snog, unconcerned with the conversation taking place over their head.
"The lighting in that corridor was horrible," Colin explains. "If I'd used the flashbulb, they'd've known I was there."
"That's what they all say."
Harry pushes Hermione up against the wall, his hand disappearing under her skirt. Colin makes a funny, whinging noise and flips the photograph over.
"Like I said, the book is open until the end of term."
"What about my proof?" Colin asks.
"Doctored, no doubt."
"It is not!" Colin insists, his face colouring. He snatches at the photograph, but his hand is batted away, and the photograph disappears under the counter.
"End of term, Creevey. You'll have to wait like everyone else."
(Ron and Hermione ~ 13 to 1)
Blaise doesn't understand why his mother had insisted he take Muggle Studies. He's the only Slytherin in a class full of Hufflepuffs, something his house mates are kind enough to remind him of constantly, and he honestly has no interest in how Muggles get on without magic.
He has an essay due in the morning, fourteen inches on the Muggle post, and he hasn't started it. Delivering the Royal Mail by Uriel Goatley, the Library's only book on the subject, has been with Cho Chang for most of the week.
Muggle Studies is hidden in the rear of the library, a small, sparse section with just a handful of books and a meagre stack of Muggle newspapers and magazines. Blaise glances at the third shelf, his eyes darting right for the space he'd been expecting to find -- an inch-wide slot between Goatley's Coins and Notes of Muggle Britain and Electricity: The Muggle Form of Magic.
Blaise frowns, his fingers tightening on his rucksack strap, and decides he's going up to Ravenclaw Tower to have a word with Chang. She's not even taking Muggle Studies, and he needs that book. He couldn't care about the Muggle post, but he refuses to get a bad mark in a class on a subject that is so mind-numbingly simple.
"Ron, we can't. We'll get caught."
"No we won't. No one ever goes into Muggle Studies."
Blaise hears a sigh, then the rustle of fabric and the soft hiss of a zip. This is quickly followed by another sigh, the protesting squeak of a rickety, library chair, and then something that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Curious, Blaise peers around the bookshelf, and when he sees who and what, he wishes he hadn't.
Weasley is slumped low in a chair with Granger straddling his lap, her face hidden under a cloud of hair and her skirt spread out to cover them. She has her arms draped over his shoulders, holding a thick book behind his neck, and Blaise realises in horror that Weasley has her knickers clutched in his hand.
Granger shifts on top of him, rocking her hips slowly, catching her feet on the chair's legs for leverage. Weasley's eyes slide closed, spots of colour blooming on his cheeks, and he lets out a soft, low moan that Blaise thinks will give him nightmares.
Blaise can't believe that he's watching this; it's too disgusting to think about, let alone see, but he seems unable to move, and he's gripping the bookshelf so tightly he can almost feel the wood grain reshaping his skin. He closes his eyes for a moment, but he can still hear them -- hitched gasps, breathy moans, the creaking grind of the chair's legs against the floor -- and he opens them, because for some reason, he can't not.
Weasley starts to move, thrusting up into her as she rocks against him. She murmurs his name, her voice thin and needy, and she quickens her pace, leaning heavily on his shoulders. Weasley pulls a face as the edge of the book she's holding catches him in the back of the neck, and Blaise thinks she should have been Sorted in Ravenclaw, the way she gets off on parchment and ink.
He doesn't want to watch any more, doesn't want to see any more, but it almost seems like he doesn't have a choice. He feels compelled to look, feels compelled to stare, caught up in the same sick fascination that makes people look at nasty scars and broomstick accidents.
Weasley grabs her by the hips, her knickers spilling pink and flimsy between his fingers, and he slams into her roughly, his arse lifting off the seat. She shudders hard, gasping, the book slipping from her hands, and Weasley thrusts into her again, arching up so far he sends the chair sliding across the floor.
Blaise's lip curls as he realises he just watched Granger come, but then Weasley does too, growling, and Blaise shudders with disdain. He feels dirty, like he's rolled around on the Quidditch pitch after a hard rain, and when Weasley tips Granger's face up for a kiss, Blaise is finally able to turn away.
He tries not to think about it as he heads for the front of the Library, but he knows he'll be haunted by it every time he sees them in class. He glances at Pince as he passes her, tempted to snitch on them out of spite, but after a moment, he decides to keep the information to himself for a little while.
--
"How can I help you?"
Blaise frowns at the elderly witch lingering next to him. She gives him an affronted look, but moves away, and when she's out of earshot, he leans over the counter.
"I'm interested in placing a bet."
"Gambling is Gringotts business, except the books for the Kneazle races. Mundungus Fletcher runs those, but I wouldn't suggest it. He has a tallying system that's his wholly his own."
"You're saying you're not running a pool?" Blaise asks, lifting any eyebrow.
"Too right."
"Shame," Blaise says, sighing. "I was thinking of placing a fairly healthy bet."
"How healthy?"
"Fifteen Galleons," Blaise replies, pulling the coins from his pocket. They glint brightly as he stacks them on the counter.
"I've a book, then. How are you betting?"
"Weasley and the Mudblood," Blaise says.
"I'm sorry. Did I say I had a book?"
"Granger," Blaise snaps, rolling his eyes. "Weasley and Granger."
"All right, fifteen Galleons on Weasley and Granger. I'm running a side bet on that, if you're interested. Put up one more Galleon, toward the possibility of Harry and Ginny, and it'll double your odds on Hermione and Ron."
"Really," Blaise murmurs.
"Really. If it doesn't happen, you're still straight odds for Hermione and Ron, and you're only out a Galleon."
Blaise hides a smile and tosses another Galleon on the counter.
"What's your name, then?"
"Blaise Zabini."
"Zabini. Zabini. That sounds familiar. Oh, that's right! Your mum was in here the other day. Quite a looker, she was. I hated to see her leave, but I did like watching her go."
(Harry and Hermione and Ron ~ 128 to 1)
The lights are out when Neville gets back upstairs, and he's careful as he makes his way across the room. The moonlight gleaming through the window is almost enough to see by, but he's unused to walking in the Invisibility Cloak. It's heavy and awkward, winding around his arms and tangling around his feet.
He doesn't understand how Harry sneaks about in this thing all the time. He'd only gone out to the greenhouses, because he forgot to water his mugwort during Herbology, and it'd been an awful experience. It had taken him forever just to get downstairs, and he'd tripped several times.
Harry's trunk is open, the lid propped against the foot of his bed, and Neville wonders if he should just drop the Invisibility Cloak inside. Neville stands in front of Harry's trunk for a moment, twisting the cloak between his fingers, then, noticing Harry's drapes are open, decides to to ask him.
They are not open much, just enough that Neville can stick his head inside. Harry doesn't seem to notice Neville, in spite of the fact that he is looking right at him, and Neville realises two things at once -- he's still wearing the Cloak, and Harry is not alone.
Hermione is kneeling between his legs, one hand splayed across his belly, the other curled around his cock. Ron is behind her, gripping her tightly by the hips, driving in and out of her slowly. They are muted in the failing light, faded to shades of grey, but Hermione's tongue is almost pink when it darts out to swirl over the head of Harry's cock, and Neville can just catch the red in Ron's hair.
Neville is suddenly embarrassed, even though he knows they are unaware of him, and his face flushes, heat prickling over his skin. He knows he should leave them and go to bed, knows this is not for him to see, but he finds he can't stop, finds he wants to see what they look like together.
Ron thrusts into Hermione, urging her forward, and Harry's cock slides deep into her mouth. Harry arches up, his fingers twisting in the duvet and his eyes widening, and Neville feels a chill sweep over his skin, forgetting for a brief, panicked moment that Harry can't see him.
They slide together in a perfect rhythm, the boys' movements rocking Hermione between them. They seem to fit, like pieces of a puzzle, seem connected, Ron inside Hermione and Hermione around Harry and Harry's fingers tangled with Ron's at Hermione's hip.
Ron leans over Hermione's body as he thrusts, brushing away her hair to mouth at the back of her neck, and Hermione presses up into him, moaning quietly around Harry's cock. Hermione's hands slide up Harry's belly, smoothing over his chest, and Harry murmurs her name, then Ron's, as her small fingers dance over his nipples.
It makes sense, Neville thinks, seems like the best way for things to have worked out. He can't imagine one without the other two, can't imagine two of them pairing off and leaving the other behind. They're too close to be separated, they compliment each other too well, and always have.
Ron's hand slips from Hermione's hip, dipping between her legs, and she shudders, her body tensing. Her fingers dig into Harry's skin, nails leaving thin trails down his chest, and Ron pushes into her hard, moaning low against her neck.
Harry arches up off the bed, his hands snagging in Hermione's hair, and Ron slips out of her, moving to lie alongside them. He kisses Harry, his tongue tracing Harry's lips before sliding in his mouth, and Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his hips snapping up hard.
Hermione moves up Harry's body, collapsing against his chest and trading kisses with him and Ron, and Ron murmurs, his voice so low and hoarse Neville can't quite make out the words. Neville turns away, sneaking inside his bed, and hopes his Remembrall will remind him to return Harry's cloak in the morning.
--
"Afternoon!" Neville says brightly.
"Longbottom. I'd say it's good to see you, but..."
"I know." Neville smiles and leans on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. "What've you got for me?"
"An arseload of money, you lucky tosser." A sack hits the counter with a solid clink. "You were the only one to bet that way, so it's all yours."
"All of it?" Neville asks, his eyes widening.
"Minus our cut, of course. Fifteen percent off the top, but you are still a rich man."
"Thank you," Neville says, lifting the sack. It's heavier than it looks, and is too big to fit in his pocket. "No hard feelings, I hope?"
"Oh, not a one. You only ruined the whole scheme."
"You knew it was possible when you opened the books," Neville says sensibly.
"Possible, but not probable. If no one had bet that way, we'd've kept every Knut."
"And you honestly thought no one would bet that way?" Neville asks.
"Of course not. We wouldn't've bothered if we had. How did you figure it out, then?"
"Oh," Neville says, smiling. "It was obvious, really."
Winner Take All
(a fool and his money are soon parted)
Mr Weasley and the twins are at work, and Mrs Weasley took Ginny to Diagon Alley for the day. The Burrow is strangely quiet without them, and when Neville crashes through the Floo it is sudden, startling.
"Neville!" Harry says, with a lazy wave. He's stretched out on the couch, his head in Hermione's lap.
"Afternoon, Harry!" Neville says. He tucks the sack he's holding under his arm and brushes himself off. "Hermione, Ron."
"What've you got?" Ron asks. He's cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, leaning against Hermione's legs.
"Is that what I think it is?" Hermione asks, smiling.
"End of term," Neville replies. He sits down next to her, and she nudges Harry out of the way just as Neville drops the sack in her lap.
"How much is it?" Hermione asks, peering inside.
"I've not counted it yet," Neville replies. "I'm sure it's a good amount. It was heavy enough."
"I'm giving you half," Hermione says.
"You don't have to," Neville says, shaking his head. "It's yours."
"Nonsense," Hermione insists. "I wouldn't have it, if not for you. It wouldn't have done for me to place the bet myself."
"Bet?" Ron asks. He reaches for the sack, but Hermione bats his hand away. "What bet?"
"A pool opened at the beginning of term, on how the three of us would pair off," Hermione explains. Harry's eyes widen, and Ron makes a choking sound. "Nearly half the school bet."
"What?" Harry asks.
"Apparently, the smart money was on Ron and I," she continues. "And there was a bonus riding on Harry and Ginny."
"Hang on," Ron says, shaking his head. "The goblins were running a book on us?"
"Of course not," Hermione says. "Weren't you listening in History of Magic? They are only licensed for sporting events. It was one of main reasons behind the rebellion of 1897, and--"
"Who was running it, then?" Harry asks.
"Fred and George," Neville replies.
"Wankers," Ron mutters.
"Anyway, when I heard about it, I sent Neville in to place a bet on the three of us," Hermione says. She lifts the bag, and it clinks loudly. "Not a popular bet, I take it?" she asks, looking at Neville.
"Yours was the only one," Neville says. "They were right mad about giving all that money to me."
"When did you place it?" Harry asks.
"Christmas," Hermione says, pulling a slip of red and gold paper from the bag. She hands it to Harry, and he lifts an eyebrow at her after a quick glance.
"Wait a minute," Ron says. "We weren't even... I mean, the three of us weren't--"
"No, we weren't," she says, smiling. "But really, it was only a matter of time."