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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Pansy’s phone pinged as she walked into Oliver Wood's office. She pulled out her phone with a frown that melted into a warm smile when she saw who the text was from. 

Seamus: Off work in two hours, macushla. Shepherd's Pie for dinner? 

Her smile grew wider as she texted him back. He was always so considerate, asking her if she approved the meal before he began making it. None of the guys she had dated before knew how to cook, much less ask her if she wanted something else for their shared meals.

Hell, not even her parents cared. She had to eat the same unseasoned meals purebloods always had even if sometimes it made her feel quite sick. 

Hogwarts had been a welcoming change. She'd never been happier to eat than when she was there, relishing in its feasts. She had blossomed from a sunken faced girl to a curvaceous woman and, Salazar, did she love it. She missed Hogwarts terribly after they graduated, but was determined keep her life well seasoned. 

And life became so much spicier when Seamus came along.

Seamus took his role in her life seriously, making sure she was filled quite constantly. And it wasn't just food. 

Pansy: Lovely. I'll pick up some dessert, shall I? What would you like? Cheesecake? 

Another ping. 

Seamus: Buy yourself whatever you want, love. The only sweet thing I'm having tonight is that perfect little cunt. 

Pansy shoved the phone back into her bag as she stepped into the office. 

Two years with the Irish hunk and she still got flustered easily. It was embarrassing. Sometimes it seemed like Seamus was hardly trying. He just didn't need to. 

Wood was smiling warmly at her, an open palm at the seat before his desk. “Ms Parkinson, I've been expecting you. Please, have a seat.”

She sat down, squeezing her thighs together under her pencil skirt, trying not to think of that cheeky smile and broad shoulders, as Wood kindly went through the list of housing available on the market at that time. 

Oliver Wood, who had once been a Keeper for the British International Quidditch Team before his unfortunate accident with a certain Bulgarian Seeker, both banned permanently from the game. 

Pansy remembered that the scandal was massive, but really couldn't be bothered to remember the details. Quidditch wasn't interesting, she'd decided long ago. Not even with all the drama that ensued. 

Besides, she'd bumped into Seamus at the club around the time that the scandal broke out, and Seamus, with his rolled sleeves and the top two buttons of his pristine white shirt opened, had stolen all her attention. 

Pansy had been too distracted by him to acknowledge anything else, choosing to spend all her time under his large muscular body and it tensed and he groaned in a mixture of filthy degradation and Gaelic, fucking her 'til she couldn't feel her legs, and then fucking her some more. 

“... When are you looking to moving in?” Wood looked up at her from the file he was reading from, a page half turned in his hand. 

“Oh, it's a birthday gift,” Pansy said with a shrug. Why did this even matter? She'd never purchased a house before, much less a magical one. Surely it could not be that complicated, could it? 

“A birthday gift?” Wood repeated, slightly bewildered. 

“For my boyfriend,” She clarified but then Pansy’s eyes narrowed, annoyed with him for making her explain herself and with her for explaining. “Is that a problem?”

Wood cleared his throat, abruptly snapping out of his lapse of professionalism and shuffled some papers around. 

“Apologies, ma'am. A fast-tracked claim to purchase a house of historical value usually entails that the Wizarding family would like to move in quickly.” Wood paused, frowning as he thought. “Magical houses help with raising families, especially parts of it which are difficult to our kind like pregnancies, for example. Oh—”

He broke off, turning to Pansy sheepishly as he came to his very annoying conclusion. She could see his mind tick through the information he'd spilt. He obviously thought she was pregnant. 

Pansy was very impatient now. “Mr Wood, am I to take my business elsewhere? I hear that a Bulgarian real estate agent is making quite a name for himself.”

Wood got to his feet, speaking hurriedly. “Of course not, ma'am. I do have a few lovely houses on the market. If you can follow me, I'll show you around.”

Well, that hit the mark. Pansy scoffed before accepting. 

Seamus’ birthday was a week away.

The poor man did too much around his tiny flat in addition to looking after her needs, exhausted from his long hours at his club, fixing and cleaning it in the morning and working the bar at night. Even with magic at his aid, there were some messier patrons who chose to indulge in questionable potions that resulted in quite unpleasant disasters in the corners of the club that required more manual chores. 

Yes, a lovely magical house would do Seamus a world of good. 

Chapter Text

Elsewhere, more people were on a house hunting mission of their own, following said Bulgarian Real Estate Agent. 

How the mighty had fallen. 

Once Quidditch star of the ages, Viktor Krum was now strutting around London with his thick accent and blood-red suits, talking about the availability of muggle houses in comparison to magical ones for the past two hours with Theo just praying he would show them the house and shut up. 

The more the man ahead of Theo spoke, the more fumed a very impatient blonde trailing behind Theo with a beautiful curly-haired witch by his side. 

“The top of the house is actually bigger than the bottom,” Draco mocked in a nasty hiss, leaning close to Hermione’s ear. “Is that what he is too, Granger? Tell me. Do Theo and I please you so little that you seek out your Salazar damned ex as our realtor for our home?”

Oh, fuck.

There he goes again. Just taunting her into a fiery spitting rage which will in turn spiral his own taunts. 

Draco acted out of a place of insecurity, both Theo and Hermione were well aware, but it didn't mean that his taunts didn't sting when he unleashed them in his cruel ways. 

Deep breath. 

Five. Four. Three—

“You fucking prat,” she hissed back. Theo glanced over his shoulder, seeing her move closer to Draco to reprimand him without having to yell. “You know it's not because of that! He knows of houses that suit our needs!”

The curls, having come loose from the beautiful braid Theo had done for her before the left, crackled with raw power which was a sure sign that she was close, so very close to either needing to be very well fucked or cursing someone's entire bloodline out. 

Theo sighed, wanting nothing but to hug her tight, but she would be increasingly prickly at the moment so he kept his hands to himself. 

“Zare is this beautiful house in Santorini that is built especially for magical families of two males and a female,” Viktor droned on, clueless to the brawl about to break out right behind him. “One bath set in the verandah that is lined with magical stones of Athens, allowing the female to be pregnant with twins in every fertility circle, one child from each male.”

Theo didn't think that was possible, having read about the many ruses magical realtors employed when selling a house as such. They claimed that houses helped fertility, which Theo considered barmy at best. Some said that a few homes were charmed to lock Soulmates together, only to be released when they consummated their love to their heart's content. 

There were yet others with stories that were essentially death traps, threatening to kill its occupants if its own appetite for sexual voyeurism wasn't satiated. 

Stories of utter hippogriff shit told to make homes more appealing to whatever depraved audience of wizardkind they think they would be hosting. 

Seriously? A horny house? What's next? Fucking a door? 

“That will not be necessary, Krum,” Theo said aloud, hoping to drown out the squabbling going on behind him. “I have no wish for children of my own.”

It was true. Theo had no wish to further the house of Nott, burdening a child with the weight that had been his for so long. The three of them had discussed it in great length, about having children. Draco wanted an heir, and Hermione was ready for children. The only thing holding them back was Theo. He didn't mind Hermione carrying Draco's baby. No, that wasn't the problem. 

Theo didn't think that he was a person children were safe around, despite what Draco and Hermione reassured him. 

The memories of his father were raw in his mind, the scars along his spine would never let him forget. 

Why couldn't they see that the purity of a child had no place in his wretched hands? 

Krum clicked his tongue in disappointment. 

“Shame,” His deep voice rumbled, “I have found a similar one somewhere in Godric’s Hollow. Did I tell you zat we learned how to enchant infrastructure at Durmstrang? Magik Architecture was always my favorite.”

He had. Three times already. Draco and Hermione had fought and made out five times since. They had still to see one scrap of a house and Theo already wanted to die. 

It was going to be a long, long day. 

Krum wouldn't shut up about rubbish magical architectural theories that Hermione debated amidst arguing with Draco and the Bulgarian's mouth clicked shut, a shadow passing over his face as he looked at her. 

“Hermione,” Draco hissed, pulling her back to his side. “I promise on Merlin and Salazar and their forbidden love that I will test fate, risk Azkaban, if only to stop that prick from eyeing you.”

“Oh, stop, Draco.” But her voice was breathless again. Just as she sounded when she was needy. Theo knew what she was feeling. She enjoyed it when Draco got possessive. Theo did too. 

Once. 

Sure enough, when Viktor finally took the turn through a hidden pathway that led to a magical neighborhood in the heart of London, their arguing had ceased into soft, passionate promises full of heat and lust. 

“You're going to suck Theo off, darling. While I prepare your pretty little hole with my tongue. Will you like that, love?” 

Hermione whined needily, leaning into Draco's side, the soft sound shot straight to Theo’s core, cock stirring in his black slacks. He wanted to kiss her softly, across her shoulders, down the valley of her breasts, lick her sweet little cunt—

“I want you to pull my hair and call me your whore.” She whispered loud enough for Theo to hear. 

Theo's hard-on died immediately. 

There was a time he enjoyed the rough love, the degradation. Loved being tied up, come on his face, edged for hours 'till he cried. 

But he couldn't do it anymore. Not to himself or anyone else. And he just didn't know why. 

Now he caved for a gentle hand and long cuddles in a hammock, watching the sun set in quietness with his lovers by his side, but he was too afraid to say it. 

It wasn't as though he had fallen out of love with either of them. Definitely not. 

Draco and Hermione were the two halves of his whole heart, both fiery and fierce in their love. He loved them dearly, relishing in his early mornings when he woke up to them on either side, peaceful in their slumber. They looked so sweet, so lovely, so relaxed. If only it stayed that way. 

They loved him too, he knew. Their sweet Theo, they called him. 

Snow to their fire. Their soft snow, gentle to the touch. 

But of late, Theo felt like he couldn't breathe. The flames were too hot, burning at both ends and the snow was melting away. 

Puddling. 

Drying up.

Maybe because he was older now, his thirtieth birthday was barely a week away, or maybe it was the constant arguments. From the first thing in the morning to the last thing at night, all he heard was them yelling. 

Draco and Hermione reassured him often: they didn't fight because they hated each other, they could never hate each other. People fought in relationships sometimes and that's how they loved too. 

Draco’s parents did, Hermione’s as well. Nothing bad ever happened. Never. 

Theo nodded as he always did, agreeing with them as he went back to his breakfast of cereal, the muggle kind with those tiny marshmallows, and they kissed his forehead, kissed his cheek. 

It's okay, they said with wide smiles. This was how people loved. Draco with his beautiful eyes, Hermione with her lovely curls. 

But somewhere inside Theodore Nott was the six-year-old watching from the keyhole of a truck as his parents screamed at each other, hexes flying, and he trembled as he remembered the fear, even as he spooned another into his mouth, the cold milk and the crunch of the sweetness doing nothing to deter his rabid memories. 

The trunk felt real once more, the lid closing on him again and his hands shook. Ice flooded his veins up from his fingertips, curling their way to his heart and tightening their hold, making its beat stutter. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

Deep breaths. 

In. Out. In.

Good. 

Draco and Hermione were nothing like his parents. They wouldn't hurt each other, surely not. 

But still, perhaps the apartment was too small now for three. In the end, it was Theo who suggested they buy a house to call their own. 

Draco had been disowned by his family for choosing to love both Hermione and Theo. Theo, on the other hand, didn't want to return to Nott Manor, what with the darkness that lay inside. Hermione had a small flat that the two boys moved into six years ago when they got caught up in their feelings for each other, and that's where they had lived since. Draco and Theo had been lovers since they were 18, Hermione completed them. 

But now Theo assumed that they'd grown too much as people. 

The other two agreed surprisingly but had hurried on to planning children, which Theo did not see coming at all. 

Hermione was ready. 

Draco was ready. 

Theo was not.

But he was sweet Theo. The one who didn't raise his voice, the one who didn't argue. The one who just wanted to love. In his darkest hour, he grew quiet. 

Like the six-year-old, hidden in the trunk. 

So he nodded and went on with their plans like he always did. The only condition he laid was that he would not father the child. No. The Nott line would end with him. The madness could not be allowed to continue. 

The house hunting went ahead quickly as Hermione discovered soon after that the fallen Bulgarian Quidditch player had started a successful magical real estate agency helping families of all kinds find homes perfect for their every need, including starting a family. 

Which brought them to today.

“This house was put on the market three days ago,” Viktor opened the gate to a beautiful garden with trees lining the enclosure, full of fruit and flowers of every kind. “Every owner has testified to its fertility prowess. The house needs life. It loves life and it loves love. Perfect for the passionate ones.”

Theo's steps faltered. An arm wrapped itself around his waist and pulled him against a warm body. 

“Perfect for us, don't you think, snowflake?” Draco nuzzled the crook of Theo’s neck and Theo shut his eyes, tilting his head away, letting him.

This was what felt good, what felt real. Warmth and softness. Draco felt so familiar, so real. He was Theo’s past for as long as he could remember. 

This was such a peaceful act, so why did Theo’s throat bob in trepidation?

Why did he want to slink away when his favorite place was by his lovers? 

Hermione laughed then from Draco's other side, the most magical sound in the world. 

Theo loved her voice, her musical laughter. He loved seeing her happy, loved making her laugh. He would come up with all sorts of ridiculousness to see her giggle. Yet, today… he wanted to flee from it, from them, like a coward he's always been. 

The coward his father always said he was. 

The whip raised, gleaming with magical hate. 

His back, burning.

His hands cut, bleeding. 

He blinked, looking at his hands. The scars from the whips had long since faded. No blood covered them.

The blood wasn't forever, it didn't stay.

But then neither would peace. 

They drew closer to the house, Draco's arms around both his lovers’ waists. His pleasing scent, cinnamon and apple, which normally soothed Theo, did nothing to quell the nerves, tightening slowly, coiling within the pit of his belly. 

The house was growing closer, large, homely, and welcoming. 

But all Theo wanted to do was flee. 

Chapter Text

Seamus: Starting out. Prep looks good.

He had included a picture with his text. Cheeky smile, a towel over his muscular shoulder, messy hair and the muscle of his forearm bulging as he held the phone up, giving her the absolute delicious view of the trail of hair on his lower abs leading into his gray pants… and of course, the saucepan sizzling away in front of him. 

Funny how she almost didn't notice the food.

Seamus: Sweating the veggies out. Got me all hot too.

Pansy wished she was home. 

She wished she was there, perched on the pantry top with her wine in her hand because he never let her help. He would talk to her about his day, as mundane it may be, but it would always make him smile. His voice tugged the strings on her soul in a melody of joy that she had never known before.

How she wished she was home now. 

Pansy: Gray sweatpants, love? You know what that does to me. 

Seamus: What does it do to you? Use your words, girl. 

Pansy: I want to lick you. Taste you. Suck you. 

Seamus: Dinner first, Pansy. Then I'll fuck your mouth and your cunt. Come home. Soon.

She was hot now, all over, but especially low at her core, tingling with the anticipation of having him tonight. Her nipples were so hard, begging to be touched. How could she now? She'd just followed Oliver into the fourth house they were visiting. 

Pansy: Promise? 

Seamus: Always. 

Pansy hated that she couldn't hide away the soft smile on her face fast enough when Oliver wheeled around to explain something to her, slightly taken aback by the look on her face. That was enough to get her mad again. 

“What?” She snapped, glaring at him.

“Nothing,” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, and turned around to the old cabinets that lined the walls. It wasn't ostentatious in the worst way. Pansy had been used to Magical Homes from her younger years, there was definitely more ridiculous decor than this. 

Wood went on, picking up from where he had stopped. He had shown her the bottom level and they had made their way to the large open kitchen. Pansy could see Seamus putting the open space to good use. There were two wooden work spaces in the center. One on which he could prepare pies and the other on which he could fuck her. “The house was very recently put on the market - three days ago, in fact. It's had many, many owners from the time it was built and every owner has recommended it for the passionate, young couple full of life.”

He motioned to the rustic tiled low wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area, both of which were partitioned from the rest of the house, like a cocoon of their own. “It is said that the house’s foundation was poured over a vial of Aphrodite’s blood, promising a constant bond of prosperity and love for the families who made this their first home.”

Pansy ran her fingers along the marbled pantry top, a thrum she felt from beneath the old setting and she inhaled deeply, shutting her eyes slowly. She could see it almost before her eyes, how they would live here. 

Their first home, secluded from prying eyes, hidden by flowering trees of fruit and plenty. 

Home. A home with Seamus. 

She wanted it. Oh, she wanted it so bad. Perhaps it was the home, but she knew for certain now that any happiness she would have was by his side and hand in his hand. 

And the house was perfect. There was nowhere better to start a future of love and laughter.

“I'll take it." She spun around on her heel, cutting Wood off. 

“I beg your pardon?” Wood stared back, uncertainly, hand in mid-gesture at the coffered ceilings. 

“The house.” She rolled her eyes, her tone biting. What did he expect? They'd been looking at a maddening amount of houses. Surely she meant she wanted to buy it. “I'll buy it.”

Wood stared. Blinked. Parted his lips to say something when they heard sounds from upstairs - quarreling. Screaming?

What is Salazar's name? 

Pansy looked up, frowning slightly and turned back to Wood with a pointed arched brow. 

Wood said hastily, remembering himself. “It's possible that other realtors have been showing the house around. Like I explained before, magical homes especially like this one are rare, especially ones like this. An open house showing, if you will—”

Pansy folded her arms, looking unimpressed. Wood looked away, “I'll… I'll announce the bid. Let me go get the forms from the living room and we'll need your signature and then… yes, well…” His voice trailed off, still a little surprised that Pansy hadn't anything negative to say about the house. Unlike the last four he'd shown her. 

She scoffed. 

Wood took one last look at her face and fled to get the papers. She rolled her eyes again, very annoyed at his incompetence, but then a small smile crept on her face as she looked around the kitchen once more. 

As lovely as it was, she was sure Seamus would find his own ways of bringing life to the slate that she presented him. That was the way with them. He brought the color that her life was sorely missing. 

Pansy Parkinson was a pianoforte, stately and grand, meant to be a statement piece at a ball, standing aloof and proud in a corner. That had been her role in life, what she was raised as and what she believed all her life till one evening led her to the club where it all began. 

Seamus served her a lovely drink (“On the house for a former classmate,” he had said with a wink), but she was drunk on his sweet words and cheekiness, taking him to bed that very night and breaking all her personal rules in choosing partners in the process. He was not what she'd been taught to want - not pureblood, not aristocratic, but Pansy had never been more sure about anything in her life. 

Seamus was her pianist, with his lovely long fingers playing the keys to her soul. 

What a lovely melody they made. 

Chapter Text

They were yelling again. At each other. 

Theo pressed himself against the wall, letting his head fall back and a low sigh escaped his lips, shaking fingers curling into fists in his pockets. The house was beautiful - lovely and rustic. The ground floor was a wonderful kitchen and dining area, a large sitting room and the upstairs had a library and three bedrooms. 

Yet, Theo found it claustrophobic. 

They were in the master bedroom, there was only a single large bed at the center and enough room to arrange their own possessions the way they wanted, a separate adjoining room that they'd decided to give Draco as a closet since a cupboard would definitely be insufficient, even with Hermione’s incredible extension charms. 

And yet, it was too small. 

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face agonizingly slowly and his breathing grew shallow. Was it suddenly too hot in here? 

His throat bobbed as he looked at them, they had started arguing about something silly. Was it about moving the bed to another angle? No, it was about replacing the bed entirely. Yes, that was it. Hermione thought the bed suited the house, rustic as it was. Draco was determined not to use someone else's bed for something so personal as sharing their love. 

Theo's throat grew tight, his face burning with a heat of a thousand suns. Their words were a blur and even the ones Krum spoke but were silenced by the two flames at once. 

Hermione and Draco, so bright and beautiful. The sun and moon, night and day. Two halves of a whole. So where did that leave him? 

“Please…” A raspy whisper crawled up his throat and out his paled lips. 

They didn't hear him, of course. 

Draco threw his hands up and stepped closer to Hermione, looming over her and she pulled her wand out and pressed the end of it at the bob of Draco's neck. Draco smirked down at her, but Theo couldn't stand it anymore. 

Through the peephole. Wands out. A woman screaming. Flashing lights. A crumpled body on the floor. 

His body was shaking now. Someone had grabbed his right shoulder, a voice garbled at his ear. A pair of arms hugged him from the other. Quiet sobbing. Not out of pain, no. Afraid. Someone was afraid. 

“Theo,” a woman was crying. “Theo, it's okay.”

Mum? 

“Come on, love,” a man's voice cracked. “We're here, Theo. Open your eyes please.”

That was definitely not his father. 

He blinked, staring as Draco's face came into focus. Only then did he realize that he'd been screaming. His throat was on fire. Viktor Krum was standing at the back, close to the bedroom door, looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

Why was he here? And he was looking like an abomination of a tall arse with that scowl on his face. 

Then Theo remembered. The house. The house they were going to buy. Walls as wooden as the sides of his trunk. Large enough to live in, with at least ten rooms on both floors, but still too small.

Still couldn't breathe. 

“I can't do this." He stared down at his shaky hands, curling his fingers into fists. They still wouldn't stop shaking. “I can't. I can't do this. No more. No more.”

His words were incoherent, unfamiliar babbles. Was he losing it completely? 

Hermione pulled away, uncertainly. “Theo?”

“I can't… It's too much. Too much. I need—” He broke off, looking from Hermione’s large brown eyes to Draco's narrowed gray ones, brows furrowed in concern. He prayed Draco wouldn't hate him, prayed he would understand. “I can't do this anymore.”

Draco stayed quiet. 

“Theo, what are you talking about?” Hermione cried. 

A moment passed, he tried to get a hold of himself, slowing his breathing. Merlin, his throat ached. 

He turned to her slowly. Offered her the ghost of a smile, calming down now. The finality of what he had to do, he was certain now. Even though it hurt, he had to. He wouldn't survive it otherwise. 

Hermione, he thought to himself, her face was so lovely. Always so lovely. He could kiss the constellations on her face forever. 

His hand was always so big against her cheek, his thumb swiping a tear that trickled down that small face. She knew - smart little witch. He leaned in to place his lips gently on her forehead. 

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” He whispered against her skin. “I can't do this anymore.”

A moment passed. That was all she needed. She was a smart witch, the smartest he'd ever met. 

“No!” She broke down again, sobbing. “No, you can't!”

Finally, Draco spoke. “Why?”

Theo tore his gaze away from Hermione, his hand falling to his side and he was staring instead at the leg of the bed before him. The curve of the wood twisting up into the frame above. It was certainly a beautiful piece of furniture. 

“Theo,” Draco's voice was gentler now. Something about that gentleness made Theo feel more vulnerable than ever. 

“I... I... She was thirty,” Theo whispered, trying to not fall apart. “She was in her thirties. They were always fighting. She was screaming. He… He—”

“Theo, we would never hurt each other,” Draco's voice grew quieter still, rubbing Theo’s back comfortingly. Draco understood now. “We're not them. We won't kill each other. I promise, love.”

“I know… But I can't… It's too much. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't live like this.”

“I understand. It's okay. We will always love you,” Draco inhaled deeply before he choked out painfully. “You can let go.”

Theo made a small sound, almost a whimper and he was sure he'd be in pieces if Hermione and Draco didn't take him into their arms, holding every bit of him together. He held onto them closer, his chest shuddering with every shaky breath. How perfectly he fit in between them. How much he loved them. 

How terrible it felt knowing that he had to let go. 

Viktor interrupted then, hurriedly. “If I may, this house is proven to strengthen bonds of love and perhaps—“

“Krum, get the fuck out,” Draco snarled, shooting a glare at the Bulgarian over his shoulder. Viktor straightened stiffly, clearly annoyed, nodding before he thundered out, every stride promising revenge. 

“Fucker,” Draco muttered before returning to nestle his face into the crook of Theo’s neck. “I can't believe you dated him once, Granger.”

But before Hermione could open her mouth, Theo answered, “Draco, shut it.” And by some miracle, Draco listened.

Maybe it was the serenity of the quiet moment or the knowledge that it was goodbye, Theo was not sure, but he held on for a while before he let go, placing a chaste kiss onto each of their lovely lips, before he pulled back with a small smile. 

“I'm sorry, love,” Draco said gruffly, blinking hard even as silver lined the storms of his eyes. “We didn't mean to hurt you.”

“It's okay. It's alright,” Theo kissed him again. “You two are twin flames and you burn so very bright. Like the sun. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you two even if it blinded me. But the pain is too much and I cannot ask of you both to change who you are for me. I love you too much for who you are. Both of you. You're perfect and you're perfect for each other.”

Hermione whimpered, holding onto him tighter as though she was afraid to let go, wetting his shoulder with her tears and he rubbed her back gently. 

“I will always love you, both of you,” Theo said quietly. “But I can't stay.”

She nodded, finally pulling away. He hated being the reason she cried. Hated the tears escaping her eyes. Hated himself more for causing them. 

He pulled himself away from them reluctantly, missing the warmth of their bodies immediately, but he couldn't falter now. Pushing to his feet, he crossed over to the door. He looked at their faces once more, memorizing them for one last time. 

“I'm so sorry, my loves,” he said quietly, walking out and closing the door behind him. He heard her let out a quiet wail, Draco shushing her quickly. He could see it even now, how they broke in the wake of his decision. 

His sigh was heavy, his heart heavier and every step down the stairs was a heartbreak of its own. 

Chapter Text

All his life, Oliver Wood had dreamed of Quidditch, of playing it professionally. 

There was nothing more refreshing, more freeing to him than soaring through the skies, wind whipping through the short crop of his hair, biting his cheeks as he zoomed after his goals. 

When he had got into the game in a professional capacity, it was as though every piece of his life had set into place and he was where he had always meant to be. He'd joined the Puddlemere United reserve team straight out of Hogwarts, but the war happened and his undiluted hope had faltered. 

The war took an unfortunately long time that Oliver hadn't accounted for in his career plans (surely Harry could have won it in six months rather than let it span for over a year. The Daily Prophet did say that it took just one duel between The Boy Who Lived and Voldemort to win), but Oliver was glad that his career found footing once more in the wake of the economic disaster that was the war. 

He had been surprised that his chance to get into an international Quidditch team came soon after, even more so at his first team meeting when he discovered that he was not the only new recruit - a face familiar to the entire Wizarding World, but familiar to Oliver in ways not many could say. 

Viktor Krum looked up at him with those hazy, black eyes and for a moment, it was like they were back in Hogwarts, the terrible year that the Quidditch Cup was canceled in favor of the Triwizard Tournament. 

Those days Oliver spent practicing alone in the Quidditch Pitch late at night and into the early hours of the dawn. He had hated the intrusion of all the Triwizard Tournament drama upsetting an entire year of perfectly good Quidditch. 

The rough voice of the Bulgarian caught him off guard when he stomped back to the lockers after ridding himself of his frustrations. 

“The turns. It eez too sharp. Slow down your mind.”

Oliver had scowled. “Piss off.”

A deep chuckle as the eighteen-year-old in Durmstrang red pushed to his feet from the bench offside, leather boots crunching the gravel of the sides of the Quidditch pitch as he crossed over to Oliver. 

Krum was his age, both of them in their final years at school, but Viktor Krum had been a part of the Bulgarian Quidditch Team that played in the World Cup. Not just played, but made it to the finals, too.

He stood taller and wider than the lean Oliver, but Oliver wasn't one to cower. Never. He was far too much a Gryffindor for that. 

Krum cleared his throat. “My name iz Viktor. I have been watching you. You have talent. Skill. But you have no patience.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes, flicking the buttons off his gloves and sliding them off. “I don't care what you think.” 

But he did find it slightly amusing that Krum felt the need to introduce himself. Viktor licked his lips, watching Oliver flex his fingers as he pulled off the gloves and moved to unbutton the cuffs of his Quidditch robes, rolling up his sleeves. 

Viktor nodded. “If it is not ze problem, I would like to join you for these…” He waved a hand towards the pitch. “Friendly practice. I miss eet. Flying.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, walking into the changing rooms, but he called out over his shoulder. “You can join me, but we're not friends.”

Oliver was surprised when Krum turned up, even more that he knew exactly what times Oliver favored his practice sessions. Krum was remarkably good at it, just as expected and the two shared the same streak of sportsmanship underneath it all. 

“You need to relax, Oliver,” he rumbled in his deep voice, following Oliver to the changing rooms. He'd joined him for ten practices now and three of them, like this evening's, were in the rain. 

That didn't upset either wizard though. 

Oliver snorted, undoing his robes and dropping them into a small basket at a side. “Easier said than done, Krum.” 

He couldn't help but notice the Bulgarian pull off his own jumper, revealing the heavily tattooed torso with a healthy smattering of dark hair across his chest and abs. He thought he'd be used to it by now, having seen enough of his teammates strip in the same manner, but something about Krum made the back of his neck prick and his cheeks feel hot. 

“I fear you do not know how to relax, my friend,” Krum observed, bending down at his waist to lower his face enough to wash the mud off his straight-cut jawline. “I worry about you. Life iz about having fun and living, not just being empty and angry.”

“Quite a bit of thinking you've done, eh? But it's none of your concern. Seems like you need to be put into your place. Keep talking shit and maybe I will,” Oliver grumbled, annoyed and too distracted by Krum to think straight as he stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain close. 

When he came out, towel hanging low on his waist, Krum was still standing there, mouth slightly parted. 

“What?” Oliver said defensively, slightly unnerved by the almost hungry manner in which Krum’s eyes raked over him. 

Krum’s lips slanted up into a wicked smile and he lowered himself onto his knees, purring, “Iz thiz my place, Oliver?” 

His low baritone did nothing to alleviate the heat that blazed through Oliver’s body and Oliver loosed a growl, fisting those soft black locks, not too long nor too short, and forced Krum to look up. “Your place is where I tell you it is. Now turn around.”

“As you wish, Oliver.” 

Fuck, his accent. The way his tongue rolled over his name. No wonder Oliver always felt at the tipping point around Krum. 

It surprised him that what he felt wasn't merely rage. It was attraction.  

Huh. Well, there's a first time for everything. 

Oliver enjoyed Viktor Krum’s company for his Quidditch practices after that evening. They began to spend as much time in the locker rooms together as they did on the pitch. Oliver calmed down for the first time in his life, finding that he could, in fact, have more to his life than just Quidditch. He got used to having Viktor with him, enjoying their conversations, but enjoying rimming him even more. 

So when Krum took Hermione to the Yule Ball, it was safe to say that Oliver’s temper was justified. 

He twisted the collar of Krum’s cloak, pinning him to the outside wall of the castle when Krum followed him out the Yule Ball, having watched him all night. Krum gasped for breath, eyeing the wand Oliver aimed at the bob of his throat warily. 

“You lousy fuck,” Oliver gritted, straining the muscle of his arm to hold Krum back. “Why do you bend over every day for me only to go ahead and kiss a girl?”

Krum breathed in deeply, or at least he tried to, before groaning, “Iz that not what you wanted? What you needed? What would help you relax? You wanted nothing else from me. I did what I did for you.”

Oliver let go, stepping back, confused. “You did that for me? I thought... Pleasure was mutual”

Krum nodded, rubbing his neck, but he did not look at Oliver. “Zat is not to say I did not enjoy it. But you do not require my kisses or my love. Just my flesh. You never did ask for more. You were content. And I could not demand that of you. For if you were content, so was I.”

That conversation burned itself into Oliver’s mind. It felt eerily like a confession, but was it one?

And more importantly, did Oliver feel the same? 

He had just walked away from Viktor, unable to understand it all and not knowing what to do about these feelings he couldn't understand. Viktor avoided the Quidditch Pitch after that and Oliver wallowed in his misery. 

The Tri Wizard Tournament came to an end. An unfortunate end, it was true, but that also meant that the foreigners left. Viktor included. 

Oliver didn't even say goodbye. He didn't know how to. 

He met that hooded dark gaze once more as Durmstrang walked out of Hogwarts one last time. Why did that made him feel so miserable? 

There wasn't anyone he could talk to about it anyway. Merlin knew that he probably would be shunned by the boys for thinking that he was in love with Viktor Krum. They had already been joking that Oliver was going to marry his broomstick. 

It didn't matter. Oliver didn't let himself wallow in it. What they had, whatever it was, was over and life moved on. 

But when Krum looked at him with those big black eyes and a hint of vulnerability, thick lashes fluttering and said his name in that despicably sexy voice, even so many years later, Oliver couldn't help himself. 

What ensued was lips meeting in the shadows of the changing rooms after practice, biting, sucking and nipping, because Oliver was older now and he wanted to give Viktor what he needed.

And he knew now that he loved Viktor. 

“Demand of me what you need,” He whispered to Krum, watching the Bulgarian swirl his tongue around his cock. “Demand of me everything. My love is yours.”

But it turned out, no matter how hazy Viktor’s eyes got or how lovely his whimpers and cries sounded, there was always something he wanted more and Oliver found himself unable to deliver. Because Viktor wanted too much. 

Then the arguments started, all too soon. Then those arguments escalated. Viktor accused him of hating children. 

Oliver denied it vehemently, saying that Viktor always found grounds to push him more than he could bear and this was something he could move ahead on. Because Oliver - he didn't want children. None of his own. He'd seen the terrors of war too much to even consider the possibility of one. That was where he drew the line. 

What ensued was the bitterest fistfight, in the public eye when Oliver caught Viktor kissing a blonde girl after a particularly victorious match. 

They lost their places in the Quidditch world, shamed and shunned for their behavior even though no one knew exactly why they'd fought. No one would ever guess that Oliver Wood had Viktor Krum on his knees every time they could, thrusting himself into the Bulgarian’s lovely drooling mouth, whispering adulations of every sort as he fisted his long dark hair. 

It broke Oliver, who cast dating aside indefinitely and threw himself into real estate, only to find that Krum followed him into the field, determined to thwart his success. 

It ached him constantly - his first love, his only love - and even while he stifled through the papers in the large ornamental dining room, he could feel Viktor’s familiar magic in the building. Maybe his memory was taunting him. 

Perhaps Viktor had been there recently. The wounds would never heal, but he'd accepted that now. His heart knew the rhythm of Viktor’s own too well to ever forget it. 

The door opened and Oliver froze, then relaxed as a confused brunette pushed in through the door, looking back at it with a frown when it vanished.

But Oliver looked at the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Oliver, for the life in him, couldn't place him anywhere. He was young, tall and dressed with an air of class that simply could not be purchased. No. This man was well dressed in comfortable enough clothing and his messy brown curls were styled with care. 

And Merlin, the man was beautiful. 

“Sorry,” The young man said, glancing at Oliver nervously, “Thought this was the way out.”

Oliver chuckled, looking up with a smile as he finally pulled out the document he was looking for from the large file with a flourish. The file was a part of the house, records of ownership went back to when it was first built and the stamp was generations old but never needed fresh ink. 

A simple sign by the new owner and the realtor, then a quick stamp and the house would be promised to Ms Pansy Parkinson. 

But it seemed the house already knew that. 

“Don't worry your head. There's someone purchasing the house and is displeased about the ruckus. The house tries to act out in favor of the one that wants it, confusing you in the process,” Oliver shrugged but the young man immediately looked guilty.

“That would have been my family and me...” He paused, looked away and corrected himself softly, his face crumpling with an ache. “My... friends and I. On behalf of all of us, I most sincerely apologize.”

“House hunting is stressful,” Oliver walked up to the brunette with his pretty brown curls and sad brown eyes and patted his back in an attempt to be comforting. He didn't know why. Oliver just didn't like the look of hurt on the younger man's face. “It's alright. Things happen. I've seen worse things happen in a house hunt. Some houses hunt you back. The door here just shifting itself to be a mild annoyance. Ah, here it is.”

He reached out for the door on the right, only to find it locked. Oliver frowned and tried again. 

Wait, that wasn't right. The door couldn't be locked up without an owner's permission, especially when the realtors were around. It was a simple charm that had been perfected in days of old to protect the housing trade. 

“Fuck,” Oliver muttered, casting the charm over the door. 

Nothing happened. 

He did it again and the man beside him got agitated. 

“What's wrong? Why can't we use an Alohomora?” He shifted from one foot to another and leaned over Oliver’s shoulder. His scent wafted over to Oliver, orange and cinnamon. Oh, he smelled good, but Oliver had to focus on the door, casting another charm, reading the runes that formed on the door. 

“Fuck, this doesn't make sense,” Oliver growled, running his hands through his light brown hair in frustration. “Why has it been charmed shut by a real estate agent? Especially with clients still inside?”

He turned to his companion who paled, backing away to the couch and dropping onto it with a series of quick sharp breaths, turning wide fearful eyes at Oliver. Big, beautiful, brown eyes. 

Very beautiful eyes. 

“We're… We're stuck?” The man whispered, his hands began to shake. 

Oliver knew the signs of a panic attack when he saw one. Quickly, he crossed over to the man, sitting by him and rubbing his back. 

“Hey, look. It will be fine. I'll get us out of here.” He paused as a sudden thought struck him. “Who did you say was your agent again?”

The young man gave him a weak smile. A beautiful, weak smile. He was a handsome man, younger than him and faintly familiar, but still very good-looking. 

“I didn't.”

“Who was it then?”

“Viktor Krum.” 

Oliver breathed in so sharply he thought he burst his windpipe. 

The man furrowed his pretty brows. “You look upset.”

But before Oliver could say anything, the door began to shake. 

Rattle. Groan.

He threw an arm in front of the man, protectively, glancing around with caution. Some houses were more prone to violence than others, but this house was a genteel one. 

“What's going on?” The man gasped, clutching Oliver's arm. 

Oliver didn't know. 

The house shook again.

Then he heard clicks. Soft ones. Many of them. The ornamental cupboard flicked open all its glass doors, smashing them into each other and Oliver threw a mild protego over them, covering the young man with his own body for good measure. 

He glanced over his shoulder, his heart racing as he saw the ornaments of the many creatures come alive and crawl out of the cupboards. 

“Holy fuck,” the man said. 

Merlin, he even sounded pretty when he swore. 

Chapter Text

Hermione was sobbing uncontrollably into Draco’s shoulder. 

He had her in his arms, wrapping them around her tight with his lips on her forehead, letting her weep into his crisp white linen shirt, squeezing his eyes tight as he pulled her as close as he could, needing her warmth as much as she needed him. 

Perhaps even more. 

Draco Malfoy was only as strong as the love his favorite people had for him, and that had always been his undoing. 

For when the ones he loved moved their attention off him to another object of more importance, Draco felt wrecked beyond reason, like no force in the world that fill him up again. 

He would have fought for Theo to stay. But even he couldn't be as selfish. 

He'd seen the way Theo quieted when Hermione and him argued, but it was not until Theo collapsed today that Draco knew for certain how badly it was affecting him. 

And then Theo had spoken about her. It all made sense. Draco was the only one Theo had ever spoken to about everything he'd seen, the fights, the trunk and her.

Theo's mother, who died after a terrible fight with her husband turned ugly like it usually did, only to result in the hot-tempered Old Nott hexing her right at her chest, stopping her heart entirely. All the while, her six-year-old son watched fearfully from a closed trunk in the very room. 

Draco could only very vaguely remember Theo’s mother, having grown up in the same social circles. It couldn't have been because of the portraits at Nott Manor, because there were none left of her - Theo’s father had burned them all, claiming that he felt her mocking him for the life he was leading after she was gone. 

What Draco did remember was that she had the same smile he loved so much, large brown curls that fell below her shoulders and those kind brown eyes that her son had inherited. Theo was an echo of her even if he didn't see it. 

And as much as he wanted to yell and tuck Theo to his chest and fight everything that threatened to tear the man away from him, he couldn't. He couldn't hurt Theo with his selfishness. 

Draco loved Theo too much to stop him from leaving, even if it killed him inside to do it. 

He knew he had to be strong though. He would cry later tonight when he was alone. Right now he had Hermione to think of. Sweet, soft Hermione who was hurt and upset, but loved Theo too. She was too self-sacrificing to stop him too - the Gryffindor in her still burned strong even though she'd had enough Slytherin pumped into her to quell it.

Still, the lion prevailed for a while and now she was crying, strong enough to show her vulnerability to him. 

Draco always admired her for it. 

He kissed the top of her head, tucking her back under his chin and stroked down her beautiful hair and her back. “It's okay, love. I'm here.”

“Draco, I didn't mean to hurt him,” Hermione wailed, tilting her chin up and he saw the tears trickle down unceasingly. 

His heart broke. All over again. Shattering into pieces. “Neither did I, little love. But we need to think of him now. He needs to breathe. We've been choking him with our behavior. You understand that don't you? We need what's good for him and if he thinks he needs to step away, we will support him. Okay?” 

Hermione nodded and that's when it happened. 

Everything shook, the floor beneath them, the frames on the walls, the drawers of the dresser. 

Draco instinctively pulled Hermione hard into his chest, his protectiveness flaring, and snarled. “What the fuck?”

Glaring around at the room for its incompetence. The door shut loudly, emitting a strange squelching sound and the room rattled again. 

Hermione squeaked as Draco squeezed her harder against his hard chest, his panic rising to an all-time high as his head spun around, noting every shaking item. 

“Draco, I can't breathe!”

“Love, I'm sorry. But I can't let you get hurt.”

“Draco!”

“Granger! For once, just let me look after you!”

Hermione grabbed his cheeks then, tugging his face down to hers and kissing him just how he needed it, hard and rough and demanding enough for him to forget about their predicament for the moment. He melted into her kiss at once, reciprocating with the same urgency and when they pulled away from one another, he gave her a soft smile. 

Draco didn't even notice that the room had stopped shaking. 

Then the house groaned again and Hermione found herself smashed against the hard expanse of his chest once more. 

“Draco!” she wriggled, trying to escape his tight hold, but the man was too fucking strong. 

“Hermione,” he hissed, very alarmed suddenly. “The fucking walls are moving!”

He picked her up and tossed her onto the bed behind them, standing before it as he pulled his wand out of the harness strapped to his left thigh. 

“Draco,” She gasped, scrambling to her knees and pulling her own wand out from her dress pocket. He'd just said something entirely impossible, but the fear that lined his posh accent was unmistakable. He knew she could hear it. 

So, Hermione turned and stared at the bottom of the wall on her right, holding onto the end frame as Draco grew more frantic, whipping his head back and forth. 

The he met her gaze once more.

And the horrified look on her face told him what he needed to know - he was right. 

The wall seemed to get closer and closer. 

Inch by inch, the floorboards were swallowed up on either side. 

Ever so slowly. 

Chapter Text

His heavy footsteps crunched on the path as he made his way out the back door and to the very end of the lush garden where the trees were so heavily ladened with fruit that they bent over, aching to be relieved of their sweet, glorious burden in the dying light of the eve. 

He turned back to look at the stately, beautiful home and smirked. 

Viktor Krum was a man of many talents, which he often prided himself on. He knew what was right - for himself and others - and would do everything he could to prove it to them. This attitude of his had helped him propel through the ranks at an early age, combining his talents and his ruthlessness, but even if it did hit the slightest of snags, he knew he was not wrong. 

A deep thinker, the wizard was keen in his observations of others. He'd known of Oliver Woods’ attraction to him almost immediately when they first met, even if Oliver didn't understand the feelings himself. 

It was unfortunate that Oliver was too hard-headed to see the impeccable vision Viktor had for their future, but the man had made his mistake and Viktor would not be responsible for the mistakes of others. 

He had seen Oliver around, the man looked worn out and tired, and Viktor was secretly very pleased.

Oliver had given up dating —it didn't take Viktor long to find that out. Perhaps he missed Viktor as much as he should. Good. Viktor had enough lovers of his own, but he had wanted everything with Oliver.

A future.

Pity Oliver was too weak to see it, he had been a brilliant lover. 

He still didn't understand why Oliver had chosen to pursue real estate. It was the complete opposite to Quidditch and curiosity and hate fueled Viktor’s need to follow wherever Oliver went.

Magik architecture was a frightening field, he knew well, and when one didn't know the intricate nature of magical homes well, magical real estate would consume one whole. 

Literally. 

Right now, Viktor was sure that this house was perfect for the family of three that he'd been watching. It was remarkably stupid of them to let one go without even fighting for him to stay. 

No. This would not do.

Viktor knew the house - its history and purpose - and he knew he was right in doing what he did now. He knew of the Athena bind. 

Clearing his throat, he jabbed his wand at his throat and uttered “Sonorus”. 

His voice magically amplified to carry into and through the huge house that stood before him. 

“Greetings,” Krum said warmly, “Ze house is locked from leaving and ze house desires love and passion. It has been charmed to let go and only let go when it's been fulfilled of its need for family, love and sex. Blessed by blood of Athena herself. Give it what it needs. Zat will prove to you zat you do need each other and you are family. Your essence iz your key to freedom. Remember that and give it to ze house.”

He mumbled, “Quietus”, tucked his hands into the pockets of his blood-red coat and smirked at the house, plucking a ripe cherry tomato off the vine and munched, revelling in its sweetness as its juice trickled down the side of his lips into his stubble.  

His plan was wonderful, he thought to himself, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. There was no wizard smarter than he was.

He would definitely be selling the house to the family today.

Chapter Text

Dinner was in the oven, the pudding in the fridge. His kitchen was cleaned so well that the marble of his work table gleamed and he could even see the reflection of his dimpled cheek on the surface. 

Perfect. The night had to be perfect for her. 

He showered, taking his time to lather himself thrice with his body wash, knowing just how much she enjoyed his smell, pressing her small face into his neck as she breathed him in. 

Godric, she was perfect. He loved her so much sometimes that he couldn't even believe she was his. A part of him felt that she deserved better, more than what he could afford to give her. Because if anyone deserved to have fucking diamonds on strings across her cunt and those lovely tits, it was his woman. 

His Pansy. 

He couldn't afford to give her that - diamond studded lingerie and all. But he did get her one. A large diamond on a ring, sitting in a plush purple velvet inside a small black leather box in his bedside stool. 

Seamus planned to ask her the night of his birthday. They had planned a quiet evening at the beachside in a cabana and he couldn't wait.

Was he afraid that she might say no? A bit, perhaps.

But she was worth the risk. Her smiles, her sweet smiles. He would be a fool not to ask if he could wake up to that smile every morning for the rest of his life. 

Seamus hoped, by every saint he knew, that she would say yes.

His hair was still wet when he jumped into bed in nothing but some loose pants and he decided he would call his beautiful woman and ask her what time her perky arse would be back home. 

She answered on the second ring. 

“Ello, little lady,” Seamus drawled, tucking his arm behind his head and grinned up at the ceiling, blissful in the moment. “When would you be makin’ my night with your presence?”

“Hello, Finnigan,” But Seamus could hear the smirk in her tone. “Maybe I changed my mind and I won't be coming over tonight.”

“Pity,” Seamus answered amicably. “Guess I'd dress yer pillow here up in yer knickers and pretend I'm fucking it instead, yeah?”

This time he heard her giggle. 

“Warms me whole, that laugh. Every time,” He chuckled. “I miss yer, Pans. Come on home. Dinner’s cooking up and my bed’s gone cold.”

“I will, my leprechaun. I'm coming for my gold.” 

He groaned at her tease. “Ain't gonna lead you to no pot of gold, princess. Just straight to me cock.”

“And who says that's not the gold I want,” She cooed and even over the phone, Seamus shuddered slightly at her words.

She was a jewel, his woman. 

“Merlin, Pansy. Yer killing me. I'm gonna eat yer out till yer begging me to stop.” He grumbled, missing the taste of her already. He heard her laughing once more. 

“I'm coming home soon, Seamus.” He heard her pause following the slamming of a door. 

“Pans?” He asked uncertainly. “Where are yer?”

He heard her hesitate when she answered. “Just in this house. Nowhere special. Why?”

This time he took a moment. He trusted Pansy implicitly and she knew it. “Well, I don't like no one slamming the door on me girl. So let me ask you this, babe, are you okay?”

He heard her breathe in deep and her voice grew gentler. “Oh, love. I'm okay. It was probably the wind. I—”

She was cut off by some loud man talking on her side and Seamus sat up on the bed, alarmed now. 

“Pansy?!” 

She didn't answer. 

“Pansy, who was that? Love, tell me! Is someone making yer uncomfortable?” Seamus was panicking now, feeling breathless all of a sudden. He didn't like what he'd heard, not one bit. 

An old feeling crept up in him, a feeling he had thought he had wrestled long ago into nothingness, but no. It was back. 

And Seamus felt like he was going to blow something up anytime now. 

“Pansy?!” 

“Seamus, something's wrong!”

Fuck Merlin’s slimy titties. Pansy was scared. Fuck, Pansy was never scared. What was going on? Where was she?? 

“What happened?” He pushed himself off the bed and began to pace the length of the room, clutching his phone to his ear tightly. “Sweetheart?!”

Her voice was a shaky whisper. “Seamus, there's something wrong. I'm trying to buy this house, but now I'm sealed inside and the doors are all jammed and no spell works on them and I can't apparate!! I'm so scared, Seamus. I'm so scared! The voice said that I need to give the house what it wants to leave.”

His heart was thudding in his ears and his voice grew hoarse. “What does the house want, Pans?”

A beat. He couldn't breathe. 

“Seamus, the house wants me to come.”

Chapter Text

Theo was on his hands and feet on the couch with Oliver Wood on the floor by his side, with his sleeves rolled up.

Oliver's brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his wand outstretched as he levitated an unfortunate mouse —that had crept into the room from a hole in the wall right before the room sealed itself— over the little monsters of mayhem. 

This was a right fucking nightmare.

Ornaments of every kind hissed and followed the mouse with murderous rage, waving their tiny arms and clucking along the wood. Theo could only imagine what they'd do if they reached him and the very fit realtor by his side.

Hermione had sent a patronus immediately after Krum’s announcement, asking Theo if he had left the house before the seal. He had sent one back saying he was stuck with Oliver Wood, who had been almost shy when introduced himself.

Something Theo found adorable. Maybe this wasn't the best time to think so, but he couldn't help it. 

Hermione had answered back immediately saying that in order to give the house what it wanted, they had all needed to come. 

But unfortunately, they would have to give it to the house.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

Anyway, Oliver had immediately informed his client who he had left in the kitchen (Pansy, to Theo’s greatest surprise). But her problem was greater.

She was alone. 

Right now, Theo couldn't think of anything else. He was afraid for himself. The miniature ornaments were ancient with disfigured faces and worn-out paint, making for a more menacing approach as they dragged their ceramic bodies towards the living breathing bodies. Theo had chucked a file at them, yet they weren't fazed by their approach in the least, even though one of the larger ones did rip the entire folder in two. 

That's when Oliver picked up the unfortunate mouse. 

“Can't stop them, can't hold them back. Fuck…” Oliver hissed through clenched teeth as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Oliver had been trying to keep the ornaments away from them 'til Theo figured out a way to unlock the door, but nothing seemed to work.

Theo eyed the man, he was desperately trying to fix the problem, tugging to loosen his tie as his panic grew but he kept an even, almost kind, tone with Theo. It was obvious that Oliver was trying to reign in his own feelings to make it less terrifying for Theo and Theo was grateful. 

His eyes fell upon the stamp Oliver had dropped when the house started shaking. He picked it up, working his mind through the curse on the house and trying, trying so very hard to make sense of this madness. 

He turned the stamp about, looking at the seal of the house and ran his thumb along the bulbous head of the wooden handle of old. He wondered to himself what the house meant by wanting their come when it hit him. The sigil was an old rune — a mark of Athena. 

It was a fertile house, supposed to be blessed by Athena herself. 

Love, laughter, sex and bonds. That's what she demanded. 

“Oliver!” Wood flinched at his sudden proclamation, but his attention on the mouse didn't cease. Theo cringed at himself and spoke quieter. “Oliver, I think we need to use the house to fuck each other.”

Oliver dropped the mouse in shock. The mouse squeaked loudly and scurried to the furthest end of the room, scrambling to slide under the door, but falling miserably as the ornaments slowly turned and made their way to it. 

Theo couldn't watch. He grabbed Oliver’s face and turned it his way. He wasn't sure that Oliver was into men, but he had a sense that Oliver was. 

Well, anyway there wasn't any time for playing it coy now. 

“Oliver,” he said, “We need to fuck to get out of here. It's Athena's house. She demands sex. Love. Love making. The act will be an offering. Then the house would let us go. That's what Krum meant. We need to involve the house. We could use this.”

Theo pushed the stamp into Oliver's hand and gave him a meaningful look, hoping he would understand. 

The mouse began screaming in agony now and Oliver took in a shaky breath, breathing out through parted lips slowly. 

“I can't do that to you. You wouldn't want me to do that to you. I'm... I'm not someone who could make another happy,” He sounded hoarse, tortured. But there was a glimmer of vulnerability in those eyes.

Oliver had been hurt. Hurt by an ex-lover, Theo realized and he leaned in to press a soft kiss onto his right cheek. 

“Hey,” he whispered as Oliver breathed in shakily, wrapping his thick, long fingers around Theo’s small wrists as he cupped his cheeks. He was being so gentle, so very gentle. Like he was afraid to hurt Theo. “It's okay. We're going to be okay. You're going to save me, okay? You're going to save us both.”

Oliver shuddered again, closing his eyes tight

“It's okay. We'll be fine. I want you to.” Theo turned to kiss his other cheek and Oliver looked up at him, eyes widened. 

“Truly?” The uncertainty in the former Quidditch star’s voice saddened Theo’s gentle heart. 

He nodded. “Can I kiss you, Oliver?”

A soft answer. “If you want to.”

Theo leaned in to give him a tentative kiss on his lips, licking a stripe along his lower lip and Oliver grabbed onto Theo’s waist, opening his mouth to him. Oliver tasted of smoke and whiskey, and Theo couldn't help but groan, prompting Oliver to slide his hands up his body and into his hair as he moved up and onto Theo, his kisses turning desperate. 

“Tell me to stop,” Oliver mumbled against his lips, flicking his tongue against Theo's mouth. They shuddered as the mouse’s screams crescendoed to a blood-curdling screech. 

Whatever was happening to the mouse would soon turn to them. The realization chilled the room further. Theo knew Oliver was thinking the same as he pressed his hips desperately against Theo’s. The desperation of a man who didn't want to die, even if it meant fucking a stranger. A desperation to match Theo’s own.

Neither of them wanted to die. 

“Don't want you to stop,” Theo moaned into his mouth, pushing back and reveling in the feel of Oliver’s hardness as he ground against him. His own dick throbbing in his pants. “Can't stop. Need to fuck or we die.”

“No. You have a choice. You will always have a choice,” Oliver hissed, one of his hands slipping down to curl around Theo’s neck, the determination in his eyes making the curly brunette quiver. “I could make you come. Save you and then jerk off.”

Fuck, why was he being so thoughtful? Especially at a time like this?

“No, it won't work. The house demands our essence.” Theo reminded him and then vanished his own clothes wordlessly, watching Oliver’s eyes darken as they trekked a blazing path down Theo’s firm, muscular torso and down to where his leaking cock slapped against his toned stomach.

Theo shuddered at the goosebumps that rose to his skin and Oliver pulled him by his neck into another searing kiss. 

When he pulled back, Theo was in a breathless daze, grasping Oliver’s shoulders to steady himself and the older man kissed his temple, trailing his large calloused fingers - proof of his years of Quidditch - trickling over his ribs and coming to rest on his waist. 

“You are beautiful. So, so very beautiful,” Oliver’s voice was a gentle whisper into his ear. “I wish I could do this right. I'm sorry. Turn around. I'll be gentle, I promise.”

Theo bit back a smile, unable to stop the heat on his face.

He turned over and immediately regretted it. 

He could see the slow drag of the animated cupboard pieces dragging themselves slowly towards the couch that they were on. Some of them splattered with blood on their deformed faces. All of them creepy, especially one of a Santa Claus that has a faded smile with blood splashed against its wicked teeth. 

Fucking hell, who ever thought it was reasonable to decorate a house with ugly shitty figurines like that?

Theo braced himself with his hands on the arm of the couch as Oliver nudged his knees apart. He shut his eyes, waiting and not wanting to see the murder ceramics, but was pleasantly surprised to feel the light brushes of kisses along his spine and moaned as he felt those warm lips on his puckered hole. Theo reached down between his legs to rub his aching, demanding cock and then gasped as Oliver’s hand wrapped his own, joining him as they stroked along his weeping cock. 

Then Oliver’s tongue pushed in, making Theo moan out loud, deep and slutty. 

“Fuck, I wish I could do this right,” Oliver grunted, lathering his tongue along Theo's hole, holding his cheeks apart. “I want to take my time with you. You're so perfect. So fucking delicious.”

The words made him flush some more and Theo whined, needily. “Please, Oliver. I need your wood.”

He heard Oliver chuckle lowly and missed the warmth of his tongue as he moved away. His hole was suddenly warm and wet, dripping with a lubrication charm and Theo whined again, peeking his eyes open. 

The ceramics were close. 

“Oliver, there's no time!”

“Shhhh, my sweet. Deep breaths,” Oliver cooed, slipping a finger and Theo forgot about the death figurines for a minute. “There we goooo. Oh, Theo… You're perfect. Can you take two fingers, my sweet? Ohhh, Perfect…” 

Theo moaned as pleasure coursed through him at the praise and the scissoring of Oliver’s fingers inside him. His cock throbbed as it dropped onto the couch and Theo could weep as Oliver pulled back his fingers. 

“Patience, my sweet. We need to make sure we don't die. Are you ready?” The stubborn feel of the smooth wood nudged him from behind and Theo bit his lip, nodding. Oliver was gentle as he pushed the bulbous head in and Theo arched his back, feeling full, but unsatisfied. 

“More!” he whimpered, arching his back and groaning as Oliver turned it slowly inside him, then let go. 

“Oliver!”

“So needy.” Another chuckle followed by the soft rustle of a zipper and Theo gasped in surprise as Oliver’s strong hand grasped his neck, forcing him to look over his shoulder and meet his lips with a demanding kiss, Oliver’s cock hot and heavy on Theo’s back, settling down the makeshift butt plug as he reached down and grabbed Theo’s dick, pumping it slowly. 

Theo whimpered and Oliver hissed, nipping his lip. The drag of the ceramics grew closer. 

“Oliver, I'm gonna… I'm—” 

“No, you're not. We come together, my sweet. You and me.”

Theo collapsed onto the arm as Oliver let go, moving off him. He felt the stamp pulled out from him and gasped, feeling empty and needy all over again. 

“Oliver,” he whined. 

Oliver hissed as he pushed in, but didn't relent. 

“Tell me to stop, Theo,” he groaned, thrusting into Theo at a rapid pace and Theo gasped, grabbing onto the arm of the couch for any kind of support. 

“Oliver. I'm... I'm not gonna last. Feels so good. Want you to come in me.” He was a babbling mess, relishing in the way that he was filled so well. The ceramics were at the couch now, but Theo was far too gone in his pleasure to care. “Oliver!”

Theo moaned loudly and Oliver followed, rutting into him as he roared, spilling ropes of thick hot come into the brunette. 

He pulled out immediately and Theo's knees gave way, but Oliver’s arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back, flush against his body and Oliver worked Theo’s dick, pumping it as Theo came. Theo was dazed, feeling warm, loving the feel of Oliver’s fingers, rubbing his now limp dick slowly, his lips in the crook of Theo’s neck, kissing and whispering praise against his skin. 

Before them, the ceramics stopped in their tracks. 

The ugly Santa Claus fell over and shattered his head. 

And Theo laughed - loudly, tiredly and relieved - sagging back into Oliver’s arms. 

Chapter Text

Pansy had never been more of a mess. 

How she had managed to find herself on the top of a marbled kitchen island with her legs spread open, skirt hiked up and her fingers on her clit while her sexy Irish boyfriend guided her to her climax with the rumble of his calming deep voice, she had no idea.

Especially when she had been told via patronus by the fucking realtor in his most professional words that she would have to come to leave. 

She was going to murder the man when she got out of there. 

She would probably end up in Azkaban. Pansy strongly doubted anyone would believe her if she ever did speak about it. Even to her closest friends - Daphne Greengrass or Blaise Zabini. 

Not that she would. But still. 

This was the peak of the most ridiculous things that ever happened in her life and she had been friends with Theodore Nott for years. 

She probably shouldn't have thought of him at that very moment. 

The wisp of silver patronus of a panther jumped through the locked door, coming to curl up onto the low wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area and from its opened mouth fell Theo’s silky voice. 

“Hello, sweet Pansy. Fancy finding you stuck here too,” his voice purred. 

Seamus’s agitated voice spilled over the speaker. “Who the fuck is that, Pansy?!”

“Shhhh, Seamus,” she hissed, waving the saucepan in her hand and whacking off one of the tiles that had crawled up to the countertop. 

Because that's what Pansy had to face.

The silvery patronus continued. 

“You might have realized by now that the house is a wee bit upset.”

“You don't say,” Pansy grumbled, using every bit of strength she had to slap the saucepan on another tile that had crawled onto the marble worktop. 

Pansy had been on the phone with Seamus when she got stuck in the kitchen. The house had rumbled and then there was silence. 

Then the pretty tiles fell off the wall, clattering onto the floor. She had started, but she wasn't afraid. 

‘Til the tiles wriggled - thin twig-like legs stretched out eight ways from each tile and pushed them up. 

Then they crawled towards her.

The spells had not worked neither had the screaming, so she'd resorted to smashing them away from her with the first thing she had picked up - a saucepan. 

Seamus hadn't hung up, but she was certain that he had blown up quite a few things if the sounds from his end were anything to go with and his hasty, “Don't ye worry ‘bout that. It's the cat.”

Seamus had no cat. 

Pansy would have been offended that he had even thought of lying to her if she was not occupied with her current unfortunate predicament of being chased by tile spiders. 

She'd scrambled onto the worktop, screaming and bashing the saucepan with her phone enchanted to hover close by and Seamus tried at least five times to apparate into the house, but it seemed to have sealed up from outsiders as well. 

But Seamus, the hunk of an Irish treasure that he was, remembered that Pansy needed to come and calmed down enough to coach Pansy into a climax. Which was how she'd ended up, fingers coating in her arousal and her legs spread apart on the kitchen island, knickers pulled to the side while her boyfriend grasped filthy things over the phone, stroking the shaft of his length on his side and he told her how she made him lose every drop of sanity and spend he had with just her sweet little whimpers. 

She had come twice and still it hadn't worked. Pansy wanted to cry. And Pansy never cried. 

Theo's patronus continued quite unruffled, surprisingly, like he wasn't in trouble of any sort. Did the house hate on only strong women? Sexist fucking house. 

Fuck it. 

And fuck the bloody tile spiders nipping her ankles again. She swung her saucepan onto it and it sailed across the kitchen, slamming onto the wall and shattering into pieces as had its fellow tile spiders that had fallen victim to Pansy. 

“If you've heard Krum’s little announcement, you'd know that we've got to come to leave this lovely home,” said Theo’s voice. 

Lovely was not the word Pansy would use to describe the house. Hellish, perhaps. 

"What the daft bugger neglected to mention is that we must use something belonging to the house as part of our sexual escapade.” The silvery panther seemed to wink at Pansy, who felt quite embarrassed now in her quite vulnerable state, a flush spreading up her neck. 

“Anyway, toodles love. I have my hero to snog.”

And the patronus vanished. 

“Who's he snogging?” Seamus sounded curious. 

Of course, that's what catches his bloody mind now. 

“Fuck me,” Pansy choked out, holding onto the saucepan for dear life, swinging at another tile spider that arrived atop the counter. 

“Wish I could, love,” Seamus said soothingly over the phone. 

“Seamus,” she choked on a sob. 

“Baby, Pansy… Yer so strong, love of me life. Don't cry. Yer the strongest person I know.” His voice tethered her to sanity. She knew then there would be no life without him. “Come on, Pansy.”

“I can't do this…”

“Of course yer can. Yer gunna come home and then I'm gunna kiss yer so good and then I'm gunna feed yer dinner. Run yer a bath. Yer'd like that, won't you? I'll wash yer myself, sweetheart. Just come home to me, kay?”

Pansy brushed her tears with her sleeve and nodded, warmth flooding through her shudders just at his words alone. 

“Okay… I'm ready.” Her voice was thick. 

“Right. Now what ‘ave we got?” 

“A fucking saucepan,” Pansy grumbled, looking around, but everything else was out of her reach. 

“Describe it to me.” His voice grew low and she whimpered. She knew that voice. It whispered against her skin, trailed hot down between the valley of her breasts, over her soft round stomach down into her core, stroking flames so high she was burning up. 

She swallowed, looking at the ceramic saucepan in her shaking hand. It was old, very old, but heavy and sturdy enough to smash tile spiders. The blue paint on its side was chipped, reminding her of her grandma's old French tea set back at Parkinson Hall - one of the homes of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. 

“It's old…” she began lamely. Her eyes flicked to the bottom of the kitchen island as she heard the telltale scuttle of clinking spider legs and one peeked up just as she suspected, only to be met with the sharp end of the stiletto on her foot that sent it tumbling off. 

Not as good as a saucepan smash, but it would do. 

“Alright, lovely. And the handle?” His voice was encouraging. 

Pansy considered the saucepan for a moment, frowning at its globular end. “Larger at the end and narrows as it goes.”

A pause at the other end of the phone line and then he said softly, “Yer ready for it, macushla. Ye’ve been such a good girl, Pansy. Ye’ve come so good, haven't you, my love?”

She nodded with a sharp intake of breath, knowing he couldn't see her.

“How wet are yer, Pans?”

“I can't do it!”

“Shhh… Baby… deep breaths. Remember that night, yer wanted me to tie yer up and fuck yer from behind? God, you were so wet. Yer felt so fuckin’ good.”

Pansy felt a shiver run down her back. She remembered that night, had wanted it rough and she still was wet enough for him even though he had barely touched her. 

“C’mon Pansy, push it in. Take it slowly, baby.” 

Pansy shuddered, willing her to forget the tapping of the spider tile legs on the sides of the kitchen island as they tried to find a way up. It's a good thing they did not have the sense to follow the path their successful peers had. 

She had to do this. She needed to do this. Fuck, even Theo was safe. She could do this. 

Pansy laid back down and parted her legs wider. Then she pushed the head of the handle into her slowly, whimpering as she did, her fingers working her clit. 

“There's my good girl.” Seamus groaned at her whimper and she could hear the heady lust in the deep rumble of his voice. 

“Are you touching yourself?” she asked breathlessly. 

“Mmm... Yeahhh…” He moaned. She could picture him with his calloused fingers stroking his thick shaft and she clenched around nothing, aching for him. “Thinking of yer cunt taking me every inch deep. Push it in, baby. Think of me when you do.”

She moaned as she pressed the cold end of the round bulb into her wet core. 

“It's too big.” Her hand shook with fear and arousal. 

“Pansy,” He chuckled lowly, grunting as his voice turned to a whisper. “Yer said the same thing when I fucked yer first, love. Come on, baby. Do it. I swear I'mma worship yer little cunt every fucking day when ye get back to me.”

Pansy blinked back the warm tears that pooled in her eyes. Her hand stopped shaking. 

Seamus sounded gruff now. Emotions bled into his words. “Yer hear me, Pansy? I'm never gonna let yer go. Now let me hear you, princess. Don't hold back.”

She didn't. Two more lubrication spells just in case and she moaned out loud as she pushed in, feeling full almost immediately, and then dragged it out to push it in again. 

Unholy were her moans. 

“Oh baby, yes. There yer go, Pansy. Are you rubbing your clit, darlin'?” His voice was a muffled moan over the phone. 

She gasped. “Yes. Seamus—”

“That's a good girl, Pans. Fuuuck… Say my name again. Fuck that saucepan. Go on, baby.”

She whimpered as she moved the saucepan, its handle rubbing on her every wall and she couldn't think, her slender fingers rubbing on her clit in quick circles. 

A tile spider made its way to the top of the counter, but her eyes blurred as she looked down between her legs where she saw the saucepan disappear into herself and she barely noticed anything but her own pleasure. 

“Seamus… “ She gasped, the prick of the tile spider bit into the skin of her foot through her heels after it climbed onto her shaky leg. 

She accidentally pressed the head of the pan deeper and her vision whitened as pleasure uncoiled like the creasing head of a snake, screaming. “Fuuuucccck…”

“Oh yeah, Pansy…” His voice was guttural and she knew he was coming, blissfully unaware of what Pansy was going through and she screamed, pulling the saucepan out just as the spider bit her—fangs gashing through her soft skin—in pain and pleasure as the saucepan dragged along her walls, propelling her to a climax.

She sat up, saucepan out and its handle dripping with her essence as she watched the tile spider tumble off the table and crash into a million pieces when it hit the ground, inanimate at last. 

Her foot was stinging. Bleeding. She could not stop crying. 

“Pansy?” Seamus was worried over the phone as he heard her sobbing over the phone. “Pansy? Baby? Didn't it work?”

Nothing but her wails of pain. “What happened? Pansy?”

No answer, just the crying - growing hysterical in pitch. 

“Pansy?!”

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn't understand it. 

She had come, Draco had come. 

So why weren't the fucking walls stopping? 

“Maybe,” she gasped, holding onto the headboard as he rutted into her from behind, his hips snapping against her arse in that constant pace of thrusts that she always enjoyed. “Maybe you're doing it wrong.”

He came to an abrupt halt with his last thrust pushing her up almost on her knees. She knew he was panting even though his stamina to fuck hadn't wavered in the least. 

Draco Malfoy was a wonderful lover. 

“What?” he asked incredulously. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Merlin, it sounded even more stupid now that she had to repeat it. She took a deep breath to steady herself. 

“Maybe… You're doing it wrong?”

“What? Are you saying I'm fucking you wrong?”

“... Yes.”

“I'm fucking you wrong?”

“Draco, look around us. We're minutes away from being crushed by the walls. The doors won't open and—”

“And that is supposed to be my fault?” He hissed with a sharp upward thrust that had her clenching down on him so hard that, for a moment, she did not know where he ended and where she began. 

She shuddered and breathed in again, shifting around his thick shaft and relishing in his glorious feel. 

“Well, why have the walls not stopped moving?”

“Maybe it's because some stupid witch decided to get her psychotic ex-boyfriend involved in perhaps the most important decision in her life and lost us our snowflake and now our lives.” He snapped his hips again with a low growl, before shifting his position to one that made her see stars. 

She whimpered, her hands slipping off the headboard, as he punctured his next sentence with powerful thrusts that had her keening. 

“Why.” Thrust. “Will.” Thrust. “You.” Thrust. “Never.” Thrust. “Listen.” Thrust. “Damned.” Thrust. “Witch?!” He groaned then, dropping his head onto her back as he reached around to rub her clit in agonising slow circles as he continued to rut her into the mattress. “Fuuuuckk…”

“Piss. Off. Malfoy,” She moved, moaning as her walls squeezed tight around his throbbing shaft and he groaned some more. His sound vibrated through her entire being, almost making her tip the over edge once more as another orgasm coiled within her. 

Then he groaned again. 

Merlin, she could live off his sounds alone. 

If she wasn't crushed to death by a homicidal house, that is. 

He pulled out before she came - the prick that he was - and she spun around, her lips pulled back in a vicious snarl as they glared at each other, panting, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat and cum. 

“You threw my knickers at the wall and it got mad and started moving faster!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that would happen?!”

“You're a pain in my ass. Even the house doesn't want you.”

“Oh yeah, love? Am I? Do I need to take you over my knee, Granger? Show you the true meaning of pain?”

“Fuck, yes,” she breathed, staring up into those steely eyes, hooded with lust.

How had they come so close? She didn't even remember moving. So, so close that his breath was warm on her face. Drawn together by a magnetic kind of attraction. 

Then they were kissing again. Furious, desperate kisses. He nipped her lip, she tugged his hair. He moaned into her mouth. She pushed him down and fucked herself on his dick while he held her waist so hard she was sure his hands would be imprinted there forever. 

And maybe she was a little insane, but that thought almost made her come immediately. To be branded by him forever. She would brand him too. 

“Property of Hermione Jean Granger.”

Maybe on his arse. That would be a treat to read every time she pegged him. Oh, yes. 

She knew he would like it. 

Perhaps Theo had a point about Draco and her. Maybe they were a tad too much. 

The walls cracked eerily and they swallowed over her bra that Draco had so carelessly flung aside. 

It was then that Theo's patronus pounced into the room, telling them of the need to use something of the house in the act itself. 

“The fuck does that mean?” Draco yelled at the disappearing silver wisp. “We're fucking on the bed. The fucking house should have stopped trying to murder us a while back! Filthy voyeur cunt of bricks and mortar! Damn Athena!”

Apparently, the house didn't take too kindly to Draco yelling at it, because the walls seemed to move at an even faster pace now. The blond yelped, summoning the clothes off the floor as the walls groaned, moving closer and closer to the bed. 

Hermione, furious at him, smacked Draco’s arse hard as he crouched on the bed and then looked around to find something, anything, that could save them. 

“Fuck… the thanks I get for saving your clothes,” Draco scowled, rubbing his reddened bum. His cock liked it though, twitching up once more. But Hermione had no time for that now, scrambling to the side of the bed and yanking open the drawer of the bedside table, rustling through a few trinkets left there.

“Shut up, won't you? I'm trying to… Aha!”

There she found it and pulled it out with a flourish. 

“Here we go,” she whispered with a manic gleam in her eyes as she turned to Draco, holding up a small ring between her thumb and forefinger.

Draco looked at it, then back up at her eyes and back at it again. Then cracked a wide smile. 

“Brilliant witch,” he said hoarsely with a chuckle, plucking it from her with his long, clever fingers. 

“Wait. What are you—?”

The nerve of the bastard, he didn't even ask. Hermione seethed, chest heaving as she watched him slip it on his finger and then he looked up with a grin, moving over her and nuzzling her neck before biting down on her pulse point.

Merlin, that felt good. So good that Hermione forgot she was mad at him. She arched herself against him with a throaty moan as he licked the bruise, curling an arm around her and his other hand cupped her slick heat. His moan against her neck had her quivering again. 

“Fuck, Hermione. You're so fucking perfect.”

“Oh, shut up and fuck me already.”

"Mmm... Cruel, cruel woman. All mine. Salazar, you're mine."

Then he slipped his ringed finger in, then another, and she whimpered at the coolness and the curl of his fingers. His thumb slotted onto her clit and moved in quick flicks and she rolled her hips on his fingers. 

Heat twisted in her gut and her eyes rolled as their mouths collided, tongues battling for dominance till she came on his fingers with a scream. 

“Fuck… Draaacooo…”

“That's it, love. Give it to me.” He nipped her lip as she gasped. Then rolled his tongue along its swell, but they were rudely interrupted by the jolt as the walls hit either side of the bed. 

“Fuck the house,” Draco growled. His fingers slipped out quickly and she immediately missed the feeling of being full of him. 

Full of him. 

Ring. 

She glared at the ring on his finger before she viciously tugged at him, the bed groaning and rattling as the walls pressed harder against its sides. 

“Fuck, Hermione. What are you—?” Draco spluttered as she yanked it clean off and mumbled, “Engorgio”. 

“Spells do not work on the house, silly witch,” Draco covered her with his body, hissing into her ear. “Don't do anything stupid. Let it have me and you can leave. You can be free. Find Theo and—”

“Shut up!” Hermione’s wild curls crackled with magic and her eyes narrowed. “Just fucking shut up, Malfoy. You don't get to die on me. She does not own the space between, or time. Engorgio!” screamed the witch at the ring, then up at the ceiling. “Tempus Immobulus!”

Everything stopped. The walls, the sounds and even Draco himself, eyes wide open, frozen in surprise. 

Good. It worked. 

She didn't have time to waste. The spell wouldn't last too long. She pushed Draco over. 

The ring, now much bigger, slipped down the thick width of Draco’s shaft quite easily as it was slick with her essence, and nestled at the bottom. A little too loose, but it mattered not. 

Hermione climbed on top of her lover, watching a smirk twist up his lips ever so slowly (a sign that the time spell was spent) as she sank down onto him, so very slick and ready. She fucked herself on his dick, bouncing easily and moaned as the slight curve of his dick rubbed just the right spot.

The time spell ceased, and the world and its sounds crashed together at once. Draco's hands found her waist and gripped so hard that Hermione was sure she would feel it well into next week. 

Just the way she liked it.

Godric, his hair was so soft and she tugged hard on it as she laved her tongue into his mouth, licking his own tongue and teeth as they fucked like the animals they were while the walls tried to crush them and the bed they were on. 

Draco’s hips jerked up in one final sharp thrust and his spend shot into Hermione, making her eyes roll back. She moaned louder as he licked and flicked his tongue along her breasts, trailing it hot along her exposed length of neck to her lips, which he nibbled gently. 

“Brilliant witch,” he whispered. 

Hermione shut her eyes as her heart raced in its chest, fluttering at the praise, as she came down from the moment of exhilaration. She took a moment to steady her breathing before she opened her eyes and looked deep into the molten mercury looking at her ever so fondly. 

Her nails trailed down the back of his neck and she watched him shiver for a moment, content in the peace that followed the problem, for the walls had ceased in their murderous rage. 

Then she frowned. 

“Draco, the door. The walls have moved past it. How do we—?”

She was rudely interrupted by a click behind her and both of them looked around to see the window behind the bed open up wide of its own accord. 

“I guess you were right, Granger,” Draco chuckled, relief coating his voice and he rubbed her back. “The house wants us to fuck off.”

Chapter Text

Viktor Krum had fallen asleep under the green apple tree. 

It was a perfect evening, the air was cool and the world was at peace. The garden, laden with delights, had the sweetest smell of fruit that lulled the large man to sleep while he propped himself against the large trunk and waited. The birds sang and the crickets too. So very much at peace was the world. 

Except for the house rattling and groaning not too far from him, threatening death to the people inside, but Viktor had been far used to noisier bed partners so that didn't bother him in the slightest. 

A loud clang, like that of a doorbell, awoke the Bulgarian, who started and then pushed up to his feet with a grin as he brushed off his clothes. 

Every door of the house clicked open and then swung outwards slowly. 

This was it. He had done it. Viktor gave himself a mental pat on the back. He had not simply sold a house but had saved a family from breaking apart as well. How very brilliant was he? Pity that Oliver Wood hadn't understood it. 

His smirk dropped as a woman he had never met dragged a foot behind her as she pulled away from what would have been the separate door on the side — the door to the kitchen from the gardens — with nothing but an antique saucepan in her hand. 

Her clothes were in disarray. There was blood, dried on her leg as she moved out, eyes swollen with the result of obvious tears as her eyes took in her surroundings, her lips pulled back into a vicious growl as she set those sharp narrowed eyes on him. 

Who was she? Why was she here? Had there been—

Oh… Had there been more people inside? Was he in trouble? Did he need to get rid of any bodies before the next realtor arrived? 

Should he get rid of this feral-looking woman? His mind raced. Merlin, he didn't know what to do. On one hand, she was already weak, if the blood and pale lips were anything to go by. On the other, the saucepan she held looked evil. 

As if on cue, Oliver Wood stumbled out the front door, followed by another. A younger man. But Viktor’s heart stuttered in his chest at the sight of his old flame. 

Hair disheveled and shirt rumpled, his sleeves so deliciously rolled back to reveal those corded, tattooed arms that Viktor had spent many a night tracing poetry onto, with his tongue as a quill. 

There was an ache, deeper than the regret he had felt for locking up whoever the woman was in Athena's house, when he looked at Oliver and how he wrapped an arm around the waist of the younger man. 

The younger man, who Viktor now realized was the third who was breaking apart from the other two. The asshole who had forced Viktor to go to such extreme measures to make sure the house was sold. 

Oliver smiled at the bastard. Just like he had once smiled at Viktor and the Bulgarian almost crashed to his knees with a heartbreaking moan. 

What had he done? 

But that wasn't the worst part. 

The other two — the tiny witch and the silver-haired wizard — shimmied down the vine on the old wall of the house, climbing down from the window. She was wearing the blond’s shirt and her own jeans. He was wearing just his slacks. 

Five sets of angry eyes glared at Krum. 

He gulped, feeling sick in his stomach. He probably shouldn't have gorged on so much of the fruit in the garden. 

He backed away as the people walked towards him menacingly. Their anger flickering over in tidal waves of magical heat — all aimed at him so he turned, knowing he had to cross the anti-apparition ward beyond the garden fence and flee. 

He was almost at the garden gate when it swung open and a bare-chested man with sandy brown hair pushed in. He pursed his lips as he looked Krum up and down. 

“You Krum? The realtor?”

Oh, an Irishman. Krum nodded, eager to get out. But the man's hands curled into fists at his sides, before he growled, “No one hurts my Pansy.”

Krum tried to say something. He did. But the last thing he saw before he blacked out into a painful oblivion was Seamus’s fist moving quickly to his face before it hit smack in the middle with a nose-cracking thud.

Chapter Text

Oliver had seen the look on their faces. They loved him, loved Theo. 

Because why else would they sit beside the brunette while he slowly munched on an orange from the garden, licking the juice that trickled down his pretty pink lips as if they could taste it on their own tongues? As if they wanted to taste it and relish in the sweetness of his mouth melded with the tart of the fruit. 

Oliver knew that was what they were thinking of because he was thinking of it too. 

His chest tightened as he sat away, looking around him at the many who were there. So many of them from Gringotts for the burned down house and from the Ministry conducting investigations. 

Because after Seamus (Theo had been kind enough to introduce them later) punched Krum in the face, he had run to the wounded Pansy, kissing her all over her face. Asking her if she was okay. If he needed to take her to the hospital. 

She only had to choke out, “The house hurt me, but I'll be fine,” when the young man turned his furious gaze at the dreadful place and immediately there was an explosion and the house was in flames. 

A result of Seamus’s wild magic, apparently. 

But the house deserved it, Oliver thought to himself. Fucking murder house, he shuddered. 

But they had to wait till the Aurors arrived and were through with their questioning. Healers were there too, attending to Pansy’s leg as she gave her statement, her fingers laced with the Irishman who refused to leave her side even for a moment. 

Krum would face trial for what he had done, putting so many in harm’s way. 

Oliver watched as the healers levitated his unconscious body out, realising that for the first time, he felt nothing, absolutely nothing for the Bulgarian. Not love, not hate, not worry. Absolutely nothing. 

He ought to thank Theo for it. Theo. Lovely, beautiful Theo who was now lying down in the grass with his hands tucked behind his head with that gorgeous smile on his face as his companions watched him tenderly. He would never know the power he held in those soft smooth hands. 

As they waited for the doors to unlock, Theo had spoken to him, curled up by Oliver’s side on the couch. Theo told him everything while Oliver trailed gentle fingers along his beautiful body. How he had come to the house with his partners but how he had decided to walk away only to get locked in with Oliver himself. 

Did he regret walking away? Would he run back to them? 

Oliver shook away the thoughts that plagued his mind. An Auror nodded at him — he was dismissed— and Oliver pushed to his feet, trudging through the garden. He breathed a sigh of relief as he finally left the garden of the terrible place. 

“Hey, wait up!”

Oliver tried to ignore the way his heart leapt at the sound of Theo's voice as the man caught up to him. 

“Draco said he saw you leave. Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” Those brown eyes twinkled ever so mischievously. Gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. 

Oliver wanted to see them roll back. 

Fuck, he cursed inwardly, schooling his face into gentleness when he answered. “You were where you belong…”

Theo's eyes widened and then narrowed. “You were leaving without saying goodbye.” He folded his arms and a look of hurt etched itself on his lovely face. “I cannot believe that you would do that to me.”

Oliver pained at the sight, wanting nothing but to kiss it better. 

“You deserve better.”

“I'll be the judge of that, thanks.”

“Theodore, please…”

“Oliver,” he walked up to him, scowling, “You promised.”

He did? What? When? 

The confusion would have been apparent to Theo because he chuckled, unfolding his arms and cupping Oliver’s cheeks with both hands. 

“You said if you had the time, you'd take me slowly. Well, I want that. I want you.”

Oliver breathed in sharply. “Truly?”

“Yes. You're stuck with me now. Sue Krum, but I think I like the taste of you now and I don't want to leave ‘til I've had my fill.” Theo shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Oliver couldn't stop his grin, his hands finding their home in Theo's waist. “I'm possessive, Theodore. I'll hunt you down if you try to leave.” He buried his face in the crook of Theo's neck, breathing him in. Orange and cinnamon. If only he could bottle up that lovely smell forever. 

“Or you'll mope ‘til I come home.”

“... Am I that obvious?” Oliver whispered, smiling. 

“I'm afraid so, Woody.” Theo's arms tightened around Oliver. 

“Theodore…”

“Come on, where are we going? I can't let you buzz off alone, now can I? What kind of boyfriend would that make me?”

“Anywhere that doesn't involve a house hunt. I'm gonna resign and do something else. Also… Boyfriend?”

“Coach Quidditch to kids at Percy Weasley’s primary school like you have always wanted?” Theo arched his eyebrow as they walked together now, side by side. “Yes, boyfriend. I know you like it. Tell me you don't. Go on.”

Oliver chuckled, blushing and amazed that Theo had been paying attention to his random mumblings. 

“Yeah. I'd like that. And maybe I'd like the boyfriend thing too.”

“Let's make your dream happen then, boyfriend.” Theo's hand slipped into Oliver’s and they shared a soft glance. 

“And yours, Theo? What of your dreams?” Oliver leaned in to brush his lips against the brunette’s. 

Theo smiled bright and beautiful. “I think my dreams are coming true. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe this is too soon but I get that feeling when I look at you. That you are all my dreams come true.”

Oliver took in a sharp breath and pulled Theo into his arms, wrapping himself tight around the brunette and crushing his lips down onto Theo's. Needy and demanding like he'd been starving for years untold and was finally allowed to feast. 

Merlin, this man would be the death of him. But Oliver would die happy. Happier than he had been in years. 

As Theo melded against Oliver, tugging his hair with his pretty little fingers, Oliver wondered if this was all just for the moment. If it would fade soon. But when Theo whimpered into his mouth, Oliver kissed him harder, holding him as though he was precious. Fragile. Deciding right then that it didn't matter if Theo wanted to move on in a week or a month or a year. Oliver was going to enjoy the moment, treat the brunette with the reverence he deserved and he would not regret a moment. Not one moment spent in the company of Theodore Nott. 

Maybe, just maybe Athena's house had been a blessing after all.