Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Gauntlet	By : BirdofFire Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 10159 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I am responsible for all that you have read and enjoyed in... Oh, wait, wrong disclaimer. Ahem. All rights for the creation of the Harry Potter series are property of JK Rowling. I do not make any profit from them or this work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-I
- 2-II
- 3-III
- 4-IV
- 5-V
- 6-VI
- 7-VII
- 8-VIII
- 3
- 4
- 5
IV

“In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”

― Robert Frost

Slamming his office door shut, Harry tightened the hold he had on the overflowing file in his grasp. Beyond him was the darkened main hallway of the Auror department, gloomy as the grave and twice as silent. The numerous doors along it were all closed, signalling that, as had been the case all week, Harry was the last person to leave the office. Considering the fact that it was well past nine o’clock, though, it was hardly surprising.

The Man who Triumphed started making his way down the corridor, his handsome features occasionally lit up by the spotlights dotted here and there in the ceiling. Fatigue clearly weighed him down; his shoulders slightly stooped and face drawn with tiredness.

It had been a long week. Several hospital visits aside, Harry had had to deal with the fallout from Hermione’s attack and fortnight long stay at St. Mungo’s. Translation: he’d had to spend the last few days fending off the assorted (and often commendably imaginative) attempts of the media to get the inside scoop on just what had kept his best friend in comatose state for over two weeks. It was only thanks to the impenetrable wards surrounding his department that he’d managed to keep most of them at bay. However, there were still reporters hanging around the Ministry’s entrance hall, desperate for even one word from a member of the illustrious Golden Trio. Ron had taken to sleeping in his office (Luna was more than happy to bring him food and supplies, though Harry suspected that that wasn’t the only thing she was there for), while Hermione’s presence at Grimmauld Place meant that Harry was duty bound to go home as often as he could (though he always waited until most reporters had given up for the day and headed home, with only the most dedicated remaining behind).

But the reporters weren’t even the most persistent people Harry had to put up with. With Hermione having made it clear that she was in no mood to see either one of them, Viktor and Malfoy had taken to staking out his and Ron’s offices, turning up at all hours of the day, demanding to see their estranged girlfriend. Harry had always known that neither man liked taking no for an answer, but even he hadn’t realised just how – ferociousthey could be when it came to the former Gryffindor Princess. He had had his office door blasted in so many times that there was now a permanent black outline around the doorway. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing in days and he hadn’t been this on edge since the war. The youngest male Weasley had taken to flinging curses Malfoy’s way every time he turned up, but the latter wasn’t one of the best duellists in Europe for nothing; Ron’s eyebrows still showed no signs of growing back.

At this point, the only thing he could be thankful for was that the location of 12 Grimmauld Place was still only known by a select few. The old wards put in place by countless generations of the House of Black still held strong and, after Hermione had reinforced them with a few of her own, not even an insect could get in or out without prior permission.

But Harry’s attempt to dodge errant boyfriends, reporters, well-meaning but now irritating well-wishers and the numerous gossip-mongers who continued to flock to his office in search of news, wasn’t the only reason for his late nights. Though neither he nor Ron had told Hermione of their latest case, she was still firmly at the forefront of their minds. No one attacked their best friend and got away with it. No one.

Having been the first on the scene of Hermione’s attack (and having had to go against every screaming instinct to take their best friend to St. Mungo’s themselves), they’d been relieved when, less than an hour later, they and their team had tracked and captured the bastard responsible. He had been cowering in a dank shop doorway in Knockturn Alley, begging the proprietor to let him in. But even those who lived on the very edge of the law knew not to cross Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in this post-war landscape, if only for the sake of keeping their livelihood.

Lorcan Yaxley, snivelling little git, was the nephew of the infamous death eater and, with a slicked back ponytail and blunt features, bore a remarkable resemblance to his uncle. Lorcan’s looks were all he had in common with his infamous relative, however, for the moment he was pushed into an interview room back at the Ministry, he had started singing. If they were to take him at his word (and, considering his word wasn’t worth shit, Harry wasn’t all too happy with that), Lorcan was angry at the way in which the Ministry had handled the Yaxleys’ previously considerable finances after the war (they’d been seized as reparation) and, with Hermione being one of the Finance Department’s most prominent workers as well as a member of the Golden Trio, he had decided to take his anger out on her. The fact that Lorcan also held her partly responsible for his uncle’s death at George’s hands over seven years ago certainly hadn’t helped either.

Harry, Ron and their team of Aurors had been all set to cart his arse off to Azkaban to await trial, with the express permission of Minister Shacklebolt. But, after Hermione had woken up and the shocking extent of her injuries had come to light, they’d had to drag him back out of his temporary cell in the bowels of the Ministry and question him again. The little shit had been of no help, though. Apparently, having had no wish to be done for using an unforgiveable against the ‘golden girl’ of Wizarding Britain (Lorcan had spat that part; spittle flying from his mouth almost as fast as Ron had across the room) he had found the ancient, untraceable curse in an old book in Yaxley Hall – something that imitated the effects of Imperio without all the nastily obvious side effects. Lorcan had only focussed on its being easier to cover up, and had paid no mind to it being a lot harder to control. And here was the kicker: he had no idea how it actually worked or how to erase its effects.

Harry had had to physically hold Ron back at that part. The red-haired man was 6”4 and well-built with it; Harry’s arms had ached for hours afterwards.

More than four days after Hermione had revealed the complexities of her curse-induced memory loss, the doctors over at St. Mungo’s still had no idea of how to lift it and were sticking to their original prognosis: that Hermione would recover a lot faster (and a lot better) if she were to move back in with Viktor and Malfoy.

But Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.

Harry came to a standstill in front of the lift, watching as the numbers counted down to his floor. With all that his best friend had on her plate, the last thing he wanted was to tell her about Yaxley’s little experiment. Knowing Hermione, she’d take over the investigation herself, and Harry would rather her spend the time recovering. It was just a shame that-

   “Potter!”

   Harry stiffened at the irritatingly familiar, cut-glass tones echoing around the empty foyer. Shit.

   “Potter!”

   His gaze remained fixed on the countdown that had never seemed slower. He pushed the lift button repeatedly in vain hope that it would speed things up. Meanwhile the click clack of heels against the stone floor sounded closer and closer.

   “Potter!”

   Irritated, Harry turned just as the click-clack came to a stop. Before him, clad in a smart muggle business suit (that quite a few in the wizarding world had taken a shine to since the war), was one of the last people he wanted to see: Pansy Parkinson. The dark-haired woman had her hands on her hips, annoyance in her blue eyes.

   “What is it, Parkinson?” he asked, bluntly. She prodded him sharply with a red-taloned hand.

   “Don’t you ‘what is it, Parkinson’, me,” she hissed as he stared back at her, unmoved. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week. How dareyou not answer my owls?”

   “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Parkinson,” Harry stressed, glaring down at the dark-haired former Slytherin. “I’ve been a little busy, lately.” Pansy’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm bleeding through his tone.

   “And that’s another thing,” Pansy continued, undeterred. “You were supposed to convince Hermione to go home and what did you do? Had her move in with you! Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?”

   “Provided a safe haven for my best friend?” Sarcasm abound.

   “Viktor and Draco are out of their minds.” Pansy paid as little mind to Harry as a hippo would a fly, prodding him harshly with her nails. “And guess whose house they keep visiting? Mine! All because you’ve barred them from Grimmauld Place. I haven’t slept in days.”

   “And that is my problem, how?” Harry asked, green eyes narrowed. “Hermione is my focus right now, not those two.”

   “If that were true, you’d have had her move back in with them. You heard what the doctors said. It’s her best chance to get her memory back.”

   “Oh?” Harry laughed, derisively. “Do you want to be the one to try and convince Hermione Granger to do something she doesn’t want to? The last person who tried that barely escaped with their arse cheeks still attached.”

   “You and Ron are her best friends, Potter,” Pansy spat. “If anyone’s capable of doing it and remaining six feet above ground, it’s you two.” Pansy was trying her level best, but Harry had just about had it. After almost forty-eight hours with no sleep and subsisting on sandwiches and Pepper-Up potion alone, he was done putting up with the storm of bullshit that had been raining down on him all week.

   “You know what, Pansy? If you think we’ve been doing such a shitty job of it, why don’t you come over and try yourself?” He swung back around to face the now open lift and adjusted the overflowing file, before stepping through the doors. When he heard the click-clack of heels stepping into the lift behind him, his heart sank. He hadn’t actually expected Parkinson to take him up on his offer.

Fuck that, what had he been thinking? She was a former Slytherin. Of course, she would use his offer as later protection against Hermione’s formidable temper.

   “I think that’s a fantastic idea, Potter.” Pansy looked like the cat with the ill-gotten cream, milk and cheese. Sighing heavily, Harry pressed the button to take them down to the main foyer.

Oh, well. After fending off ex-boyfriends and reporters, dealing with Yaxley and having the St. Mungo’s staff tell him to leave time and time again – that there was nothing more they could do for Hermione (Harry was someone else who didn’t take no for an answer) – Harry thought that he’d done as much as he could.

Parkinson was Hermione’s problem, now.

….

Humming quietly to herself, Hermione tipped the chopped onions into the frying pan. The delicious smell of frying meat wafted through the huge kitchen as she added oregano and a few chilli peppers to the mix. The kitchen had been one of the rooms most changed by the renovations a few years ago, with a paved stone floor and warm brown accented fittings. Hermione stood at the massive hob; three pans containing rice, meat and steaming vegetables merrily cooking away.

In the days immediately after the war, when the public and press were hankering for anything Golden Trio, Hermione, Harry and Ron had sought refuge in the dark rooms of 12 Grimmauld Place. While Harry and Ron had taken to playing chess game after chess game and watching the television that Hermione had managed to coax into running on waves of magical energy, their female best friend, had taken up cooking. After all the running, hiding and relentless stress of the war, Hermione had needed something that didn’t require her to think: a safe haven that didn’t ask too much of her. Cooking gave her that and, eager to improve on her somewhat shoddy skills, Hermione took to it like a duck to water. By the time she’d devoured the various culinary books she found in the old Black library, the mass hysteria surrounding the trio had died down, somewhat, but Hermione had continued to hone her skills whenever she could. And, over the last few days, she’d had plenty of time to do so.

Hermione had spent the day after moving back into Grimmauld Place unpacking her boxes. Harry, being the lovely best friend that he was, had brought all her essentials: toiletries, clothes, books, as well as her work files. The only bad thing was that she’d had no idea of what her latest case was about - she’d had to relearn everything in the file. And she knew what that meant: either Viktor or Malfoy was involved and, seeing as Viktor was still a seeker for Puddlemere United (she’d confirmed with Ron), that meant that her department had once again requested the services of Malfoy Enterprises.

It also meant that Hermione would have to break her habit of the last week and actually meet up with the Malfoy heir, and sooner rather than later.

Still, she wasn’t going to let that get her down, Hermione thought as she stirred the frying pan with a spatula. She’d realised just last night that the emotional rollercoaster she’d been riding for the last week was down to muggle psychiatrist Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief. Denial had been first, followed by anger and bargaining. Depression had hit her the day she had moved back into Grimmauld Place, pulling her irresistibly under for longer than any of the other stages. The final stage, acceptance, hadn’t graced Hermione with its presence until late last night, but had brought its good friend, clarity, along with it. What had happened, Hermione had realised, hadn’t been her fault. She hadn’t been attacked for personal reasons, per se; more for her involvement in killing off someone who had no business living and if she was going to have to put up with a comparatively minor inconvenience like forgetting a few things in exchange for it, then that was a price she was willing to pay. Unfair, perhaps, but when had things ever really been fair?

That aside, the guilt over Penelope and Viktor’s break-up, and the role she had apparently played in it, still weighed heavily on her mind. Hermione refused to compound an error by returning to her former, scandalous ways and, as for Viktor and Malfoy, well, they were just going to have to understand that things would be going back to the way she remembered them.

Nodding firmly despite the fact that there was no one to see, Hermione popped a sweet green pepper into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, concentrating on the assorted flavours. Salt, definitely more salt.

Just as she picked up the salt mill and shook it above the steaming vegetables, the sound of the front door unlocking upstairs travelled down to the kitchen. Heavy footfalls were accompanied by a familiar click-clacking on the stairs until, a moment later, the door to the kitchen swung open. Hermione glanced up to see her raven-haired best friend dump a rain-splattered file on the oak side-table and a tall, slender woman enter immediately behind him.

   “Hermione, darling, how are you?” Pansy’s smile was brighter than the overhead lighting, instantly sparking Hermione’s suspicions. The former Slytherin slunk her way across the stone floor, eyes shining with innocence. But Hermione had spent enough time around Pansy to know when she was up to something and, right then, she was up to something.

   “I’m fine, Pansy,” Hermione answered, eyeing the dark-haired woman, carefully. A gasp escaped her as she was swept up in a hug, the other woman clutching her tightly. “Thanks for asking,” Hermione continued when she was finally released. Her eyes narrowed as Pansy held her at arms’ length, the tall woman’s gaze now on the merry hob. Wanting an indication of just what her friend was up to now, Hermione glanced over at the silent green-eyed man now standing on the other side of the island in the centre of the kitchen.

“She’s trying to convince you to move back in with Malfoy and Viktor.” Harry didn’t even try to feign ignorance, which was no surprise. In fact, for whatever reason, he looked almost gleeful. Pansy whipped around to glare at her betrayer.

   “Thanks a lot, Potter,” she spat, eyes flashing. Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned back to the now cooked meat. She had been having such a great day, too. Beguiling blue eyes turned themselves on her, widened for added dramatic effect. But Pansy would have to get up a hell of a lot earlier to trick Hermione.

   “It’s not going to happen, Pans.” Hermione popped a strip of beef into her mouth, closing her eyes in appreciation at the sudden burst of delicious, full-bodied flavour. Her bliss was interrupted by a heavy, irritated sigh.

   “I don’t see why not, Hermione,” Pansy answered bluntly, hand now on hip. “It’s the best thing for everyone: you’ll get your memory back a lot faster, Draco and Viktor will stop coming round to mine so I can finally get some sleep and Potter –” she waved a negligent hand in his direction, to which Harry showed no visible reaction, chewing away on a sweet red pepper. “- can go back to whatever he used to do here before you showed up.” Pansy reached for the plate of beef but Hermione snatched it away, annoyed.

   “Well, Harry can ‘go back’ to what he used to tomorrow when I go back to work,” Hermione snapped, tumbling the steamed vegetables onto a warmed plate. Harry looked up, eyebrows shooting up the ceiling in surprise.

   “Already?” he asked, puzzled. “You’ve only been out of St. Mungo’s for a few days.”

   “And I’m bored out of my skull, Harry.” Hermione stooped, opened the oven and removed a warmed dish from its middle rack. Spooning fried rice onto the dish, she continued, “I’m more than ready to get back to work, believe me.” Harry looked a little doubtful, but Pansy, seeing this as an opportunity to reinforce her case, straightened up.

   “And there’s no reason why you can’t use this chance to seize the reins; take back control of your life in every way,” Pansy stated, gesturing with gusto.

   “I’m not moving back in with those two, Pans, so you can just forget it.” Hermione placed the salt and pepper mills besides the food-filled dishes.

   “But-”

   “I said no, Pansy.” And Hermione’s stern expression told the other woman that she meant every word. Pouting with frustration (but by no means giving up. It was virtually a Slytherin rule to understand when it was best to retreat and bide one’s time, and Pansy was up there with the best of them), Pansy fell silent and leant against the pine surface. Thoroughly amused and vindicated, Harry chuckled, nastily, and popped another red pepper into his mouth.

   “Now,” Hermione continued, brightly, picking up the dish of rice. “Who’s hungry?”

Well, there we are! Once again, no direct interaction with Viktor or Draco, but that’s what the next few chapters are for.

My muse is spitting out ideas at a ridiculous rate (and they’re eating me out of house and home). I can barely keep with them, so this story is being written even faster than I expected (and the chapters are getting considerably longer, as well).

Expect V sometime next week.

Till next time,

TBOF.
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The Gauntlet