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Quartet	By : OracleObscured Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 128263 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 11
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 12
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- 14
A/N: DS: Hahahaha! Sorry, next POV is Hermione (your chapter must have gotten cut--my apologies ;))
*snort* Snuggernaut sounds like a military-grade Snuggie. (Or Snuggies for astronauts.) And Snapenstein would have been the most perfect euphemism.
13—Operetta
“You belong among the wildflowers.”—Tom Petty
(Hermione)
Despite the mayhem of yet another manic Monday, Hermione was walking on air, practically skipping through the herds of bleary-eyed Ministry workers as they shuffled through the halls. A string of quizzical glances followed her bouncy strut, and she knew the sordid source of her newfound vivacity must have been written all over her face, but she couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Am I glowing? It felt as if every pore in her body was radiating with white hot light. I’m probably blinding everyone with my sex tan. No wonder they’re all staring.
Draco had been waiting for her at the lifts that morning, sporting his own wicked grin, and they’d ridden to their respective floors crammed into the back corner like sardines. They couldn’t really talk with so many people around, but that didn’t stop Draco from getting in a good-morning grope. His fingertips had wandered down the track of her spine, lingering on the band of her bra before skiing down the slope of her lower back. Forgoing the blunt efficiency of a grabbing hand, he’d opted for pinpoint accuracy and, light as a feather, drew a single digit along the crack of her arse. Hermione had no idea how he managed such precision through the nebulous miasma of her Ministry Robes, but she couldn’t think of a better way to begin the week. He had followed the crevice of her cheeks all the way in until his fingers were between her thighs, wiggling into the fissure like a snake. Her startled gasp garnered a glance from those around them, and Hermione quickly faked a throat-clearing cough to cover her slip. Pushing her arse back into Draco’s body, she bum-blocked any further public exploration.
Undeterred, Draco had relocated, slipping his hand along her side and stroking her flank as he ground his bulging crotch into her rump. Someone must have set that blasted lift to warp speed, because their covert foreplay was over all too soon. As he disembarked, Draco caught her hand and, with a wickedly saccharine smile, told her he’d come and get her for lunch.
Mmmmmmm, she thought as she turned down corridor to her cubicle. She could do with a bite. And a lick.
Hermione was relieved the sexual conquest hadn’t diminished his affections; in between that weekend's masturbatory musings and cunny convalescence, she’d been wondering which Draco would show up on Monday morning. He had his own agenda when it came to dating, and he’d been known to “shag ‘em and bag ‘em” on more than one occasion. If she had come in and found him flirting with the witch at the front desk, she would have been disappointed but not surprised. Draco didn’t stay with women long, but she hoped he’d put her in a different category. They were friends first, so maybe that qualified her for some kind of extended “mate rate” on the Malfoy shag-o-meter. She could do with some regular physical relief, and maybe Draco needed something from her too—like a date with a detectable IQ . . . or maybe just someone who actually cared.
And what about Lucius? And Snape. Would they owl her again? Did they need a hit of Hermione the way she needed a triple-shot of Slytherin? Did I seriously just think that? An inappropriate grin spread over her face. Yes, I did. Bad girl, Hermione. No, wait. Brilliant girl. Accepting that dinner invitation was the smartest thing you’ve done in ages.
The whole situation was utterly bizarre, but she was riding high on her victory, giddy with relief. All those years of sexual stagnation had been obliterated by one night of wet and wild fucking. And not only had the three of them surpassed her imagination, they’d made her feel like a goddess among women. She was a superhero of sex. Hermione Granger: Dirty Diva, Purveyor of Pussy Power. Like Clark Kent, her everyday persona was her mask, hiding her true identity with boring robes and mild-mannered meetings. But when the mask came off, she was unstoppable, and none of them seemed to think her raging libido was anything she should keep under wraps.
Perhaps that was what had affected her so greatly. They’d not only embraced her deviance, they’d encouraged her to give them more, to let out everything she’d been holding back. When she’d tried opening up to previous boyfriends, they’d all dismissed her desires with an air of concern, as if wanting something more than a perfunctory shag was abnormal. She hadn’t even suggested anything that dirty, but they had all either nervously laughed off her fantasies or given her that look of horror that made her feel like a deranged pervert. After repeated rejections, she’d learned to keep her wilder ideas to herself.
But with the three of them, Hermione felt as if she’d found some fellow perverts who shared her tastes. She hadn’t even been given the chance to fantasize; they were constantly coming at her with all they had.
Hermione snorted. Literally. Snape had shellacked her in semen once again, and Lucius’s cum had been dripping from her entrance for what felt like hours. And Draco . . . She ducked her head to hide her grin. After her spectacular finish atop the Erection of Elegance, Draco had politely waited for her to catch her breath before asking if he could come on her tits. She hadn’t hesitated, excited by the prospect of not only witnessing the eruption but wearing him home.
Draco had rolled her over and resumed the shagging, and when he was ready to blow, he’d pulled out and straddled her waist, shooting his entire load across her chest with the accuracy of a sniper. Her nipples had been been the main targets, but he’d covered each breast thoroughly, taking the time really do the job right. By the time he ran out of ammo, she appeared to be sporting a spackle bikini.
It was quite lovely, and she hated to destroy all his hard work, but she couldn't leave it to dry; so as he lay next to her, panting in exhaustion, Hermione had slowly rubbed his seed into her skin, massaging her breasts the way she did when she was alone, making sure he saw the way her fingers teased and tweaked each nipple.
The look of wonder on his face was the most perfect ending to the most perfect night.
When she got home, Crookshanks had greeted her with a discerning sniff, and at the first hint of his reproachful “meow,” she shooed him away and sprawled out on the couch to marinate in her accomplishments. Despite the continued disapproval from the flat’s feline contingent, Hermione had waited till Sunday before she relented and washed off her coating of sealant. The scent kept them all fresh in her mind, and the lingering aroma was inspiring to say the least.
In fact, she’d been so inspired that she'd spent the rest of the weekend “reminiscing" with her hand in her panties . . . although the shower head had filled in for Lucius a few times. Her pussy suggested the zucchini in the fridge could be a surrogate Snape, but Hermione was too sore to start propositioning her produce. It had taken two full days for her to stop limping around the flat like a saddle sore cowgirl. She probably shouldn’t have gone from no fuckings to three fuckings all in one go. Prudence suggested a progressive course of stretching before any future rendezvous.
Running through a possible sexual warmup routine in her head, Hermione distractedly curled around the wall of her cubicle—and stopped short. Holy harpies! A vase with at least three dozen orange roses sat in the center of her desk like some kind of floral explosion, and a small bouquet of mismatched flowers lay on the blotter beside it. Had Draco sent all this?
She plucked the card from the roses to investigate.
Hermione,
I can’t stop thinking about Friday night. These flowers can’t compete with your luscious garden, but I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed tilling your field.
If you’re interested, I’d like to have dinner with you again this Friday. And yes, I mean a real dinner. Alone. Just us. With silverware. Think about it and let me know.
—LM
Hermione, convinced she’d misread the card, squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed at her lids until her eyes watered; but a second inspection revealed the exact same message. It was real. Mr. Malfoy seriously wanted to see her again—and her pussy gushed out an affirmation that the feeling was mutual. She couldn’t help wondering what he would be like on his own, but she also couldn’t stop imaging how awkward the whole affair might be. They'd never been alone before. What on earth would they say to each other?
Her pussy was sure to talk her into it, and she just knew she’d be owling her acceptance before nightfall.
Picking up the smaller bouquet, Hermione studied the odd assortment of flowers. No two were alike. Gardenia. Orchid. One was a wildflower—Queen Anne’s Lace. She used to pick that as a child. Two were tulips. She wasn’t sure about some of the other varieties. What a strange combination. There was a card tucked into the green tissue paper, and she slid it out, bursting with curiosity.
Dear Miss Granger,
If you’re free this weekend, I would like to speak with you. I’m sure you don’t want to be seen coming and going from my private quarters at Hogwarts, so if you’d like to meet, simply name the place.
Arcanum celans in floribus.
S
Snape wanted to “talk” to her? Is that Slytherin code for “shag your brains out with my enormous cock”? In her experience men avoided most conversation as if they were allergic to words. Even Harry and Ron, who were closer to her than anyone, didn’t like to “just talk.” They blathered on about Quidditch and work, but they never delved into anything deeper. Of all the males she knew, Draco was probably the chattiest; he could discuss the intricacies of Ministry politics and also navigate more personal subjects, like what Hermione was reading or how she was handling an emotional case. But he never brought up anything too revealing unless he was sloshed.
And what did arcanum celans in floribus mean? Arcane meant secret or mystery, and she was fairly certain floribus must have something to do with flowers. She needed a Latin to English dictionary—or a language professor.
"Hermione," Florence muttered, coming around the corner with her nose buried in a case file. "Have you looked at this background info the Justice Department sen— Whoa."
The older woman stopped her tracks when she noticed the grandiose arrangement on Hermione’s desk. Her grey brows shot up, peeking from the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses, and she turned to Hermione with a growing smile. "Fun weekend?"
Hermione's mouth fell open in an O of shock. Florence was a shrewd woman to be sure—with a wit as sharp as her spiky grey hair—but Hermione had never seen her point that high-powered perception at anything other than a case, and she was thrown by the sudden attention. "What makes you say that?"
Flo's smile grew. "I haven't seen orange roses since I was girl. They're the flower of passion."
Hermione blushed. "Are they?"
Laughing softly, Florence nodded. "Most men would just buy red. Unless he's fond of the color, or thinks you are, he’s trying to send you a message."
Passion. That was good fit for Lucius.
"Now, these," Flo said, gesturing at the bouquet in Hermione’s hand with he tip of her quill. "These are much more interesting."
"Really? I thought they were pretty, but . . . I've never been sent anything like it. Do you know what these are?" She pointed to the flowers she couldn’t identify.
"I most certainly do. My father was a Muggle florist. I grew up in a greenhouse. That's freesia, gardenia, orchid, yellow iris, ranunculus, sweet pea, Queen Anne's lace, and purple iris."
"Do they mean something like the orange roses?" Except for their medicinal qualities, Hermione didn't know much else about flowers, just what she'd learned in Potions and Herbology.
"Well," Florence said, closing her folder. "All together it paints a revealing picture, but separately they suggest something more specific. Freesia is a flower of thoughtfulness and innocence. Orchids are also symbols of thoughtfulness, but they're much more suggestive of exotic beauty and femininity. Combined with these other flowers, the person who sent you these wants you to know they worship your womanly attributes."
Hermione blushed brighter.
"The purple iris is hope . . . and wisdom. Yellow is passion."
There sure was a whole lot of passion in her life all the sudden.
"Gardenia is sweet purity and secret love.” Flo snickered when she saw Hermione’s stricken expression. “Don't look so frightened. This man isn’t obsessed with you or anything. I think he just finds you charming."
Snape finds me charming?
"Ranunculus is all about charm, and the orchid also has a connection to charm and refinement. There are so many flowers in this bouquet that speak of innocence, I think he's trying to make it clear his interest in you is more than lust. The sweet pea represents delicate pleasure and bliss. I always liked that description—delicate pleasure. But it also indicates a separation or departure after having a good time. You must have been busy this weekend."
Hermione bit back her smile. "What about the Queen Anne's lace?"
"That's the one that made this whole bundle so much more intriguing. It symbolizes sanctuary. A haven. It denotes complexity and, once again, a delicateness."
Complex might be the understatement of the year. "You don't happen to know Latin, do you?"
Florence snorted and shook her head. "Not really. I know Latin names for flowers if that's what you're after."
"Does floribus mean flowers?"
"Yes."
Secret or mysterious something something flowers. "You don't happen to know anyone who speaks Latin, do you?"
She nodded. "Charles in maintenance."
Hermione stared at her. "The guy with the glasses and the notebook in his coveralls?"
Flo smiled. "He's just working here while he finishes his first book. It gives him more time to write."
Hermione spun around to her desk. "Tell Bernard I'll be at the morning review in just a minute,” Hermione said, searching for a quill and parchment. “I can't think with a mystery hanging over my head."
She penned a quick note and sent it off.
The reply fluttered in just as she was returning from her morning meeting.
Hi, Hermione,
This was the most entertaining memo I've ever gotten on a Monday morning in maintenance. Your phrase roughly translates to "The secret hidden in the flowers." I hope that makes sense to you.
—Charles
Hermione smiled. Snape had been giving her a clue. He'd wanted her to find the bouquet’s secret code.
Did he really think she could be his “sanctuary”? What did that even mean? And what more did he want to say?
She was willing to meet him to find out.
Operetta—a short opera, usually on a light or humorous theme and typically having spoken dialogue
“Wildflowers” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Written by Tom Petty. Released in 1994.
Tom on writing Wildflowers: I just took a deep breath and it came out. The whole song. Stream of consciousness: words, music, chords. Finished it. I mean, I just played it into a tape recorder and I played the whole song and I never played it again. I actually only spent three and a half minutes on that whole song. So I’d come back for days playing that tape, thinking there must be something wrong here because this just came too easy. And then I realized that there’s probably nothing wrong at all.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ozgmyx919a4
Flower meanings came mostly from theflowerexpert.com
*Thanks to julia-augusta for the Latin fix.*
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