Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

Not Exactly Romance
by Amanuensis

Pairings: Harry/Hermione/Ron, Sirius/Snape
Categories: PWP, Voyeurism, Threesome
A/N: Written for wave 3 of the pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest for teaspoon14, who requested: "SS/SB+TRIO, trio spying on S/S at grimmauld place & getting off on it (AU, trio 17+) no heavy kink." You may assume this is AU if you like, but (at least until we see HBP) there's nothing to say that this couldn't also be post-resurrection Sirius and that the seventh-year trio are back in 12 Grimmauld Place for the holidays. Thanks to betas pauraque and florahart.


They were really, really too old for all three of them to be hiding under the Invisibility Cloak anymore, Harry thought.

But Hermione hadn't believed them. She was always the first one to notice that sort of thing, she'd insisted, and she hadn't seen any hint of romance between the two.

That was when Ron had squirmed uncomfortably, and Harry had looked away, and at last Ron had said, "I wouldn't call it romance. Not by half."

And the rest of the conversation...

Well, it had ended with the three of them crowded together under the Invisibility Cloak, and Harry pressed directly against Hermione's right shoulder and smelling not only her hair but her neck, and praying she wouldn't shift in his direction because his altogether inappropriate erection was going to make direct contact with her bum if she did.

And Ron. He could smell Ron, too, this close, and Ron smelled like he did after Quidditch practice, and Harry knew he'd just showered. Could Hermione tell? How could she not?

Far, far too old.

He didn't dare look at Ron. No doubt he was trying to keep his own erection off Hermione's bum. Harry wondered if the sense of wrong he got from that was jealousy. Not that he could sort that out now. The smell from Hermione's neck and the erection he couldn't seem to will away and his bloody godfather with bloody Snape, mustn't forget that.

They weren't in the same room with the two; they might be stupid but not suicidal. The servant's access hall had been Hermione's idea-- even more disused than everything else in 12 Grimmauld Place, the hall had walls thin as parchment and rotted as the late Mrs. Black's heart. It took no effort to break away bits from about a wall knothole until they had a gap large enough to peer into Sirius's room.

Harry never failed to be impressed by the degree of sneakiness Hermione was capable of when she fancied it necessary.

It couldn't have been a very big gap, or it would have been noticed from inside the room. But Hermione had suggested the Invisibililty Cloak, and so the gap was something more than a mousehole fit only to put one's eye to. And, Hermione had said, if they kept the hallway dim, the gap would be lost in the ugly repeating-key wallpaper pattern that lined Sirius's room.

Which meant all three of them could look at the same time.

Which was good, because when Hermione's breath escaped in the softest of "Oh,"'s, Harry wouldn't have known whether to shove her out of the way in order to see what could get her to sound like that, or to put his hands on either side of her face and turn her towards him so that he could seal his mouth over hers and get her to breathe like that into his mouth. Oh, fuck.

And what would Ron have done, if he'd done that? Deck him? Leave? At that moment Harry didn't care. He was sweating and aching and Hermione smelled like that and was making noises like that and, fuck, he had the stark view of his godfather pinning Snape up against the opposite wall with his mouth against Snape's mouth--and also with his hand on his chest but more with his mouth--and his other hand reaching into the opening of Snape's robes to yank at his flies with no more patience than Dudley confronted by the wrapping paper on one of his birthday gifts. Sirius, bloody fuck, Sirius, what are you doing? This is Snape, his mind wailed, overcome by the wrongness of it.

His body didn't seem to care what his mind thought. It was fucking hot.

Snape's sallow face contorted and Harry knew, even though Snape's robes concealed it, that Sirius had Snape's cock in hand. He saw how the tendons in Sirius's wrist shifted just so, knew Sirius had his hand wrapped about it, just as fiercely as Harry would fist his own cock when he was on the verge of coming. Now Sirius was shoving back the robes from Snape's hips with his other hand, getting his prize out into the open where he could see it. Where all of them could see it. Harry heard Ron swallow. Snape's cock--Harry'd thought he'd never ever have thought those two words together--was beet red and rock hard in Sirius's fingers, and what brought the sight back from startling to hot was the look Sirius was giving that hard prick: satisfied, snide, hungry.

Sirius went to his knees. Harry watched in glorious horror as Sirius seemed to ready the cock in his hand as he leaned forward, drawing the head of it to and then into his mouth with a noise, with a set of his shoulders, with an upward cast of his eyes that made Harry wonder why he'd ever believed the one sucking cock was the one inconvenienced. Sirius made it seem the most coveted act possible, made it a thing forced on the other. Sirius had Snape at his mercy, and wasn't that an even more delicious thought.

Harry watched as Snape splayed himself against the wall: legs spreading, arms out to his sides, fingers clawed and with the nails digging ruts into the ancient wallpaper. Snape's head tilted back, mouth open but soundless save for his breaths, eyes not closed but straining to look down from that position to take in the sight of Sirius sucking his cock in ever deeper. The two had their gazes not locked but questing for each other, fighting physical limits to stay targeted, to say I see you doing this; I see you having it done.

Oh, fuck. Harry had to get out of there. Had to leave and wank off before he ground himself against Hermione or the wall or his own bloody hand right there, because he knew he would any moment, but fuck if he could move from the spot. Not when Sirius was shifting the hand that had been encircling Snape's prick to catch and bring forward Snape's bollocks, rolling the sac in his hand while the other was in his own lap, unbuttoning his trousers with hasty, careless greed, diving inside to grab at his own cock, his face tightening just that much as he did so. Not when--

--not when Hermione made another "Oh..." sound again, but this one closer to an ah than the last, and Harry could feel her hand brush by his leg in their unbearably close, sweat-humid space as she fisted her hands in her skirt, and she swayed--

Later he knew he hadn't meant it, had only wanted to keep her from falling against the wall and making noise. When his arm shot out to circle her about her waist, he hadn't planned to have his hand end directly on her breast. He hadn't.

He had no time to draw away--barely had time to realize he'd done it, before Hermione's own hand was covering his, squeezing his hand over her chest, and he could feel her nipple, pebble-hard against his palm.

What he did next had no meant or didn't mean in it at all. With no mental excuses, not even that he was only trying to smother his own groan, Harry pushed his mouth against the back of Hermione's neck and pressed his own hips into hers, his cock aching for the contact. She'd never forgive him. Ron, at whom Harry couldn't even look, wouldn't forgive him. There was nothing he could do about it.

That was when Ron's arm snaked out and wrapped about both of them.

Hermione was the first to act. She had Ron's other hand in hers, took it and set it upon her other breast, covering it with her hand as she had Harry's. A heartbeat later, it wasn't Hermione Ron was looking at; it was Harry's eyes he was meeting, Harry's gaze he was holding--

Harry didn't know what had passed between them in that look, but he understood, and knew Ron understood, and the arm that was about both Hermione and Harry's waists tightened and Ron too was now molded against Hermione. He ducked his head, which obscured his eyes for a moment in the folds of the cloak, pushing his mouth to Hermione's temple in an awkward, permission-seeking kiss that Harry recognized right away.

Hermione was--as usual--one step ahead of them. Her hands over theirs moved away, but it was only to yank at the edge of her blouse, freeing it, and then she had her hands on theirs again and was lifting them from her chest, directing them underneath her blouse this time, and Harry had his fingers on sweaty skin and sheer silky material and the softness of her breast beneath, and his thumb was on the very tip of her nipple through the bra and when he moved it she shivered.

He kissed her. Closer to the side of her face this time, not quite so brave enough to call it her cheek, much less the corner of her mouth. If he tried to pull her bra to the side, would she stop him? He wanted to do it, to have done it--not so much because her skin beneath his hand would be so much better but because he wanted to know she was bare underneath his fingers and that she was letting him. Oh, God, yes.

He was aware that, quite without consulting him, his hips had started a rhythm, pressed where they were against Hermione's splendid bum. Was Ron doing the same? Was Hermione at all upset about this, God, were they making too much noise? Behind the gap, Sirius was still on his knees, still sucking with slow deliberate back-and-forths of his head, stopping to withdraw his mouth and apply his tongue to the head of Snape's cock with an unhurried deliberateness that looked more evil than any injustice Snape had ever meted out against him.. Snape was far less quiet about it now and Harry was glad for that, wanting more noise to drown out their own sounds. The huffs and groans Snape was making were arousing as well as obscuring, but Harry was too far gone to even think about whether that was disturbing.

Beneath Hermione's blouse Harry felt a shift of Ron's hand and knew that he'd tunnelled under that filmy scrap covering her nipple. And Hermione wasn't reacting except to breathe harder. Yes. Harry did the same, sliding his fingers beneath, feeling how warm the skin was, touching the crinkly part about the nipple, realizing it was more about the touch of skin on skin after all and not just the nakedness. His fingers brushed Ron's and it wasn't strange or off-putting, to feel that. It was Hermione, and so there was Ron, and that was all right. Better than all right--it struck him that no one else could have had just that thought, and that was...electric, lewd, fabulous.

There was a moment of shuffling beneath the cloak--Hermione was reaching for his other hand, where it was pressed against her shoulder, but it was awkward. She was trying to draw it forward but was in the wrong position for that. Instinct made Harry take his right hand from her breast, instead, and slide it into her grasp. Hermione was plucking at the waist of her skirt in front and she set Harry's damp hand against her belly, pushing his fingertips just under the waistband of the skirt. Harry's arousal surged like steam; no one could have lacked the instinct to guess what she wanted. What she was giving him.

His fingers pushed down beneath the material and under the elastic waist of her knickers; no hesitation about whether to stay above or below those. Her belly was so damp; when he touched the hairline beneath he did pause, wanting to go further but uncertain all the same. She wouldn't stop him? Would he know what to do? But Hermione wasn't stopping him; she was moving her legs apart, planting her feet--

--and Ron, Ron's hand she'd guided into position behind her, where it was easier for him to get to her with his right hand, beneath her skirt, her knickers half-pulled down to her thighs by his hand already. Hermione was shuddering; Ron's fingers were exploring down her bum-cleft and Harry felt an explosion of need or jealousy to be doing that too. He pushed his way through the silky damp hair until he met wetness and soft openings of skin and a thrust of Hermione's hips against his fingers that he tried to use as direction, to learn where she wanted to be touched.

His fingers met Ron's, there where she was most wet. Again the sense of shamefully pleasurable happiness that this was right for them, and wouldn't have been had there been just one different person in the mix. He pulled his hand back slightly, arm hugging into Hermione's belly so that his wrist wouldn't cramp, and tried to recreate that hip-thrust of hers using his fingers. There. Right in between the folds, all around there. Hermione was pushing against his fingertips as he stroked her, and Ron's fingers were doing something else that made her hips buck in that direction as well, her feet planted wide and her mouth trying to hold back her own panting.

Harry was straddling the top of her thigh, though his cock seemed to have the idea that it could come very nicely even without the contact. There was plenty of motivation without it--Hermione writhing under his hands and Ron's and her sight of Sirius and Snape having it off with each other just beyond the wall--not that that last was distressing him, either. Snape had sunk to the floor--hang on, had Snape come? Harry couldn't believe he might have missed that--and was divesting Sirius of his trousers altogether, shoving him back upon the floor and forcing his legs apart--not that Sirius needed the forcing. He arched his back as Snape crawled between his legs and took Sirius's straining prick into his own mouth, Sirius's fingers biting at Snape's shoulders. Snape didn't linger upon Sirius's cock for long, but pulled away and dove instead at Sirius's bollocks, lashing them and the skin about them with his tongue until Sirius snarled, "You fucker,"--the first words either of them had said in long minutes. As if in response to the insult, Snape backed off, set his thumbs on either side of Sirius's buttocks, spread them, and dove forward with his tongue again. Harry had no time to be incredulous or disgusted--the howl it produced from his godfather as Snape tongued his arse was enough to make Harry moan aloud himself.

It drove him to push his mouth against Hermione's, sucking at her lips to stop his own cry, pulling her breath into his mouth as he'd wanted to all this time. Her mouth was moving under his, she was kissing him back in the same frantic devouring way. And when he let her go to breathe, he knew to draw back, because Ron wasn't going to have any less for himself, as he ducked in to kiss Hermione as well--and, watching their mouths cling, Hermione didn't give Ron any less just because he'd been second. Maybe because he'd been second, Harry wondered, not liking the tang of jealousy that hinted at, but remembering that his fingers were not an inch away from Ron's in Hermione's wet pussy, and that he should kick himself for caring.

He reached beneath Hermione's skirt with his free hand and caressed her exposed bum, feeling its curve and the way it flexed beneath him as he squeezed it and the bit of hair that tickled his fingers as he neared the cleft, and he didn't know if that was what pushed him over but he didn't care. His hands were full of her and she wanted it and wanted them both and he was okay with it and the moaning from the next room was obscene and filthy and all three of them liked it and God, he came against Hermione's thigh in an explosion that barely let him keep his feet except that falling would have been disastrous, barely let him keep stroking her except that it was automatic now, barely kept him from noticing when Hermione, and then Ron, came except that a dead man couldn't have missed noticing that--Hermione clamping her thighs on his hand and shuddering as if killed and Ron throwing his head back with a yell that he somehow managed to keep soundless.

He did miss noticing when Sirius came. Fortunately both he and Snape were lying on the floor, panting and showing no inclination to move--or indication that anything had been overheard--by the time Harry was able to look.

Harry braved himself for the moment needing the most courage of all: looking at the faces of his two friends.

Who looked as if they'd needed to work up the same courage. But were not looking away.

He'd been right the first time. Definitely too old.

Not, Harry thought, that that was a bad thing.



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