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To a Portrait	By : CeliaEquus Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 10530 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the Harry Potter franchise, and am making no money from any of my fan fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-To a Portrait
- 1
“To a Portrait”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” – Sherlock Holmes, ‘The Sign of the Four’.

Harry and Ron were outside, talking. Hermione was still cold towards Ron – he had, after all, behaved like a right prat and broken her heart along with it – so she had thrown them out of the tent for a couple of hours.

There was a muffled voice from inside the bag. Ever since they had moved on from the Forest of Dean, Phineas Nigellus Black had been trying to find out where they were. Hermione had been reluctant to keep him up-to-date, just in case he was actually reporting to Severus Snape. How else could someone have found out where they were? She found all of Harry’s theories hard to believe. The only conclusion she could reach was that Phineas had told someone where they were. Suspect after suspect passed through her mind, until only one logical answer remained.

Severus Snape. He had ample opportunity to talk to the portraits on a regular basis, could possibly get a hold of the Sword of Gryffindor, was no doubt capable of Apparation and casting a Patronus… But why would he help them?

She reached a conclusion, and pulled Black’s portrait out of her beaded bag.

“It is about time,” Phineas grumbled, brushing non-existent dust from his painted robes.

“I want to know why you would tell Professor Snape where we are,” she said. He glared at her.

“Why would I tell him?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “What would I gain from such a thing?”

“Slytherins,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and leaning back on her pillows. She had propped him up at the end of her bed. “Do you only ever think of yourselves?”

“Hold your tongue, young lady!”

“Then how am I to tell you where we are?” she said. “Isn’t that what you keep asking me?” He scowled. “Surely you can understand my reluctance. You have overheard too much. Who knows how much you are passing on? Oh.” She smirked. “No pun intended.”

“Not amusing,” he said. “For your information, my concern is for the school, and it is not in the school’s best interests for things to continue the way they are.”

“You are not a blood purist?”

“I dislike humans equally, although I do believe Purebloods to be superior.”

“I gathered as much.” There was silence as they continued to watch each other. Hermione shifted position, and felt something digging into her back. She realised that it was one of the romance books she had brought with her, for those moments she needed a break. They helped shut her brain down at night so that she could sleep. Reading books on magic merely kept her awake.

Now distracted, she pulled out the book and opened it to the dog-eared page, then settled down to read.

She grew so involved with the steamy scene between the hero and heroine that she missed the throat-clearing at first. It wasn’t until her head fell back and she put herself in the female lead’s place, fantasising away, that she heard someone call her name.

“Yes?” she said dreamily.

“Miss Granger, pay attention to me!”

She stared blearily at Phineas. He looked annoyed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I should not have to see beneath your night attire when I am trying to ascertain information,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” she said.

Then an idea occurred to her.

“Mr. Black,” she continued, dropping her voice. “Tell me why Professor Snape would help us.”

“No.”

“Aha! So he did help us.” His frown deepened. “Tell me why.”

“No.”

“Tell me, or I’ll…” She pulled her pyjama shorts down, revealing damp knickers. Phineas’ attention was immediately diverted. She slid one finger under the material and began to stroke herself. As soon as she moaned, he turned around.

“That is completely inappropriate!” he said.

“Why?” She removed her underwear. “You’re not my professor. You’re not even touching me.”

He turned back slowly, his gaze zeroing in on the glistening juncture between her legs, growing wetter as she continued to torture herself.

“If you finish yourself off for me,” he said softly, and she gaped at him, “then I will tell you what you wish to know. However, I also ask that you tell me where you are, for your safety. Do we have an understanding?”

Hermione hadn’t anticipated this backfiring on her.

“You… you really want me to… to masturbate in front of you?” she asked, ending on a squeak.

“Do it, and I will tell you everything that I can about Headmaster Snape,” he said, eyes fixated on her hand.

It was a quick debate. The book had stirred her up, as such books usually did; and the idea of him watching was so… wicked. Deliciously debauched.

“Why?” she whispered.

“I may be dead, but I am still a man,” he said, his eyes briefly meeting hers.

There was the sound of loud laughter outside, and Hermione glanced at the flaps of the tent. She whipped a curtain across the bed, just in case one of the boys came inside and decided to investigate. She couldn’t risk using a charm to mute herself or silence the surrounding area, so she would just have to be quiet.

“Fine then,” she said. The princess of Gryffindor never pictured herself masturbating to a portrait to gain information, but she was wanted to know. And when Hermione Granger wanted to know something, she would do what she could to find out.

Reclining against the pillows, she cocked her legs open further. She was surprised when he spoke.

“More,” he said. She widened them. “More, girl!”

Biting her lower lip, she moved her legs perpendicular to her body, displaying herself fully to the painted wizard. He seemed to lean forward.

“Closer.”

She shifted herself nearer to him, hips first, and winced at the aches in her muscles from such a position. But he held up her hands, and she left her feet in place.

“Perfect,” he said. “You look so clean and wet. Are you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.

“And are you tight? Slip a finger inside and tell me how tight you are.”

Hermione had never tried penetration. Rubbing herself had always been enough, and she was saving herself for marriage. But she complied with his wishes, and slid a single digit into herself. Her walls clasped around.

“Yes, sir.”

“Add another. Go on.” She did so, moaning. “Do they fit?”

“Just a bit… Headmaster.”

Phineas smirked darkly. “Good. Are you a virgin, girl? Are you untouched?”

“I am, sir.” Her voice was weak as she moved her fingers in and out slowly. “No one has touched me here before.”

“Further, girl,” he said, eyes still transfixed on her moving hand. “Push them deeper inside.” She cried out as she complied, her hips bucking. “Stimulate yourself with your other hand. You know what to do, you naughty girl. Filthy girl.” His voice was getting louder, penetrating the fog of Hermione’s mind.

“Oh, Phineas,” she said. She began to rub her swollen pearl.

“Stop!” She halted, whimpering. “Show me inside. And leave your feet where they are.”

Hermione pushed herself forward with her hands, the pain increasing from the unnatural stretch. Soon, her pelvis was nearly touching the canvas, and Phineas raised a hand.

“Closer,” he hissed. “I want to touch you.”

There was no point in saying that he couldn’t. She laid back and used her hands to spread herself, before pressing right against the paint, hoping that it wouldn’t come off.

What she didn’t expect was for the brushwork to tickle her clitoris. She arched into the painting, ignoring her aching muscles, and the shift of colours brought her closer. Three fingers shoved themselves into her, pressing hard against her walls, and she came with a loud gasp.

It wasn’t until halfway through her recovery that she realised the fingers were still there, yet her hands were either side of her body. She looked down between her legs, and paled when she saw that a lifelike hand had emerged from the portrait. It looked like an honest-to-goodness, flesh and blood limb, ensconced in velvet and trimmed with lace.

Phineas continued to rub her insides, widening her with a twist here and there, and brushing against a particularly sensitive spot every so often. Her fascination took a backseat as her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Wow,” she said, trying to muster some energy. “That was… incredible.”

“We must do this again sometime, Miss Granger,” he said. “A nice little Mudblood, aren’t you?”

At his words she froze, and then wrenched herself away. The arm slithered back into the painting and became part of the artwork again.

“Mudblood,” she said. “And proud of it.” She swallowed the lump of shame in her throat, and then hardened her voice. “Now fulfil your side of the bargain, Black.”

“One day I could fulfil so much more than that,” he murmured, looking her in the eye. “Don’t you think so? There is so much more to magical portraits than you realise. I could show you the true meaning of… impurity.” She remained stone-faced. “Very well. Here is what I can tell you about Severus Snape.”

A/N: I have no idea where this twisted plot bunny came from. (No pun intended.) I suppose it was just another way to write Hermione/Phineas without using time-travel or death/resurrection magic. Yes, I’m quite bizarre, and you should be grateful that none of you have ever actually met me. Although I have a friend – who also writes fan fiction – who really does give me a run for my money.
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To a Portrait