The Daily Prophet: Three people have reportedly broken into the Gringotts.
McGonagall, scoffing: What idiots
*Front cover on the daily prophet, showing Harry, Ron, and Hermione riding a dragon out of the building*
McGonagall: Wait, those are my idiots
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SUMMARY: Bill returns from Cairo, but doubt began to creep into your mind during his absence, dredging up old wounds for the both of you.
CW: MDNI 18+, smut, mischievious twins, pleasuredom!Bill, angst angst angst angst, mentions of Fenrir’s attack and the war, mentions of divorce, some rough oral and piv, slight breeding kink, possessive!Bill, fluffy HEA
AN: this is now a completed series! yay!
masterlist
It was strange sitting in Bill’s office without him, curled up in the armchair he devoured you in, book open in your lap. You'd been trying for an hour to decipher his notes on a particular curse, tracing the small, angular letters with tired eyes, but your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of its writer to absorb any of it.
Bill had been in Cairo for 12 days, six hours, and nine minutes, every tick of the clock like a barb in your skin, leeching black, poisonous doubt into your blood.
Would he still want you when he returned? Will the time away give him clarity to how insane you both were acting? Would you be reduced to a fling? No longer desirable now that you've been flung?
The time, the space, was making you second guess yourself, second guess him. What you were doing was reckless. Stupid, even. Risking the future you'd imagined for yourself since you were a first year at Hogwarts. You’d be a stain on Bill’s impressive career, and the thought of him eventually coming to resent you, regret you, for possibly ruining a decade of hard work…it made you physically ill.
Could you do that to him? To yourself?
But fuck, you wanted him desperately, the ache for him like a hole in your lungs. You found yourself spending longer and longer hours in his office, craving his presence, his aura, and the sanctuary of his space was the closest you could come to replicating that.
You sighed and set the notes aside for the night, the sun having set some hours before. With unhurried movements, you packed up your belongings and tidied his office on the off chance he returned the following day. You wanted it to be presentable for him, leaving no evidence that you'd been holed up there for nearly two weeks, besides the stack of completed work.
You took the Floo Station to the nearest one by your flat like you always did, ready to wash off your makeup, get into your pajamas, and order some Chinese food. Rain was coming down in sheets, wind buffeting against your coat, but when you rounded the corner towards your flat, the bulk of a man standing in the rain in front of your door stopped you in your tracks.
It took less than a heartbeat for you to realize who it was.
“Bill?” You gasped, and he lifted his head, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, copper hair pulled back in a messy bun.
He took a step towards you. “Sorry, I—”
You launched yourself at him, completely overcome with relief, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “You're home,” you whispered, relaxing fully when his arm looped around your waist, holding you tightly against his chest under the safety of the umbrella.
“I'm home,” he sighed, nuzzling into the top of your head. He smelled of train cars and petrichor, with lingering traces of cologne applied hours earlier, and you wanted to breathe it like air. “Can we go inside?” He asked, settling his hand on your hip with a soft squeeze.
“Yes! Merlin, sorry,” you giggled, a twinge of nerves in your stomach at the thought of having Bill inside your little flat.
You reluctantly pulled away and riffled through your bag for your keys. Bill's arm slid around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest as he nosed into the curve of your shoulder. Butterflies rioted in your stomach, your hands growing so clumsy to nearly dropped your key while you inserted it into the lock.
“Missed you, little bird,” he mumbled, pressing a tender kiss to your pulse.
“I missed you too,” you said, leaning your head against his. You managed to get the door open and Bill released you so you could move inside, and he closed the door behind you both, collapsing the umbrella and setting it by the door. “So, how were things in Egypt?” You asked, hanging your bag on the hook.
Bill slid your rain-soaked jacket off your shoulders, down your arms, his touch feather light, and hung it up as well. “You really want to talk about work? That's where you just came from, isn't it?” He said while shirking his own coat.
You flushed, embarrassed that he saw through you so easily. “It is,” you admitted. “And as long as you're alright, I don't want to talk about work.”
He smirked, reaching out to cradle your face in his hand, the other settling on your hip. “I'm perfect now, love. Although, we’re going to have a discussion about your work-life balance.”
You snorted. “Really? William ‘Never-Takes-A-Day-Off’ Weasley is going to lecture me on working too much?”
“Backtalk, too? Have you forgotten your manners while I was away?” He backed you against your kitchen island, lips a breath away from yours.
“No, sir,” you hummed, barely suppressing a grin as days worth of pent up desire came surging forth, your pulse racing between your legs.
He sighed, breath fanning against your cheek. “Merlin, you sound so pretty.” His hand on your hip moved around your back, pressing your bodies together. “Haven't felt anything soft in days,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
“Take me to bed?” You asked, brushing an escaped strand of hair from his face and tucking it behind his ear.
“Thought you'd never ask,” he chuckled and scooped you up into his arms—
Knock knock!
“Open up! We brought pizza!” The twins serenaded through the door, and Bill swiveled his head to look at you.
“Oh fuck, I completely forgot.” You squirmed and Bill set you back on your feet, though he didn't relinquish his hold. “We planned a movie night.”
“Tell them to bugger off,” he huffed, bending down to kiss your neck.
“Bill, that's rude!”
“Don't care,” he muttered, lapping at your pulse, and your mind began to drift, lost in the feeling of him.
“We’re getting soaked out here!” George called.
“Don't make me break in!” Fred warned, knocking with a little more force. “I'd hate to do it again!”
“Again?” Bill's head snapped towards the door.
“Just—fuck, get in the closet!” You tried to push Bill towards your bedroom, but only managed to move him a few steps.
“Why did he break in before?” He asked, fighting a smile at your helpless attempt to move him.
“I locked myself out! I'll get rid of them, just, please get in there!” You pushed your shoulder into his sternum, peddling your legs like cartoon character.
He sighed, taking a step back and nearly sending your sprawling onto the floor. “Ten minutes.”
“Thank you!”
Bill chuckled and walked the rest of the way into your bedroom at the same moment you heard George cast alohomora.
The twins barged in, wands raised as if you were in peril.
“What took you so bloody long?”
“Why are you just standing there?”
“Whose coat is that?”
“I, actually, um—” you wracked your brain for an excuse.
“Darling, is there a man in this flat?” George asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Uh—yes!” you whispered back. “I met him at work and we hit it off. I'm sorry, I forgot about our plans.”
George scoffed, a teasing smirk on his face. “So you'd rather have a shag then hang out with us?”
“Y’know, if you needed to blow off a little steam—” Fred started when something crashed in your closet, making the three of you jump.
“Is he…in your closet?” George raised an eyebrow.
“No, no! That's, uh—”
Fred pushed past you, striding into your room.
“Fred!” You snapped, trying to grab him, but he batted your hand away. “Just please, go.”
“You sure you know this bloke well enough to be here alone with him?” Fred asked, moving closer to the closet, the humor having drained from his voice.
“What's his name?” George asked. “Maybe Bill’s mentioned him?”
“It’s, uh—”
“You don't even know his name?” Fred whisper-shouted, glaring at you with a strange mix of pride and concern.
“No, I do! He, uh—”
“Are you okay?” George asked, his brothers concern reflected in his face. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “You're shaking, love.”
“Did this prick scare you?” Fred asked, turning his attention back to the closet door.
“No! Merlin’s sake, please just go! I'm fine!”
“Hey, fuckface, what are you doing in her closet?” Fred banged on the door, and you died a little inside.
Silence echoed around the flat.
“Open the door, mate,” Fred ordered, and George pulled you a little closer to his chest.
More silence. You had no doubt Bill had apparated, and the twins were about to think you were insane.
“Three, two—” Fred yanked open the door, revealing his older brother standing in the middle of your closet, his arms crossed over his chest. “B-Bill?” Fred stammered, taking a step back.
“You two have some fucking nerve,” Bill growled, and the twins scattered as he dashed out of the closet after them.
“We're sorry! We didn't know!” George called, vaulting over your couch.
“What the fuck, y/n?” Fred shouted, diving under your bed.
“Would it kill you two to mind your own fucking business?” Bill dragged Fred out by his ankles, his little brother desperately clawing at the ground.
You'd find it funny if it weren't for your secret being out, the very thing that kept you up every night for the last two weeks.
“You're the one fucking our friend!” George shouted, effectively diverting attention from his twin.
Bill turned on him, throwing one of your pillows at his head. “I'm not fucking her!”
Fred scurried behind your bedroom door. “Then why are you here so late!”
“And hiding in like a ghoul in the closet!”
“Can we just calm down—” You tried.
“I just got back from—come here, you little shit! I just got back from Cairo and needed to check in with her—George!”
“Bullshit!” Fred countered. “You're fucking our girl!”
“Hey!”
Bill froze, turning his head to peer at Fred, pillow aloft.
“Your girl?” Bill challenged, and you groaned.
“See! I knew it! Oh fuck—” Bill chucked the pillow at Fred and he apparated at the same instant, the pillow flying right through where he was standing and landing on your bed.
“Fucker,” Bill bit.
“Congratulations on your boning! Bye!” George chirped, apparating too.
Bill sighed, turning to you.
“Couldn't keep your cool, huh?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.
“They won't say anything,” he said, smoothing back his hair.
“I know, it's just—” Tendrils of anxiety wrapped around your throat, tightening until you were silenced.
“What, love?” He asked, taking a careful step towards you, sensing your mounting anxiety.
“What are we doing? This is—”
Bill was quiet for a moment. “You said you wanted this,” he murmured, a sharpness around the edges of his words.
“I do!” You cried, frustrated with yourself. “But that doesn't mean we should be doing it. Bill, if it got out that you were screwing your intern, your career would be over. And so would mine, before it even started. I mean, hiding from our coworkers, from your family, it’s just…”
His jaw flexed, shoulders squaring. “So you want to end things here? Go back to before we—” he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is that what you really want?”
Tears burned your eyes, nausea churning in your stomach. “I don't know—”
“I don't believe you,” he growled. “The way you look at me, the way you were holding me not even ten minutes ago—” his voice cracked. “I don't believe that you want to end this.”
“Maybe it isn't what I want, but it's what we should do. You know that, Bill,” you said through the lump in your throat, voice pinched and small. “We need to stop before this goes too far.”
He looked like you'd slapped him. “What do you mean ‘too far’?”
You turned away from him, tears coming in earnest now. He stalked into your bedroom and caught your elbow, spinning you back around.
“Tell me what you meant,” he pleaded, pulling your hands away from you face, your eyes wet and puffy with tears.
“You know what I meant!” You shouted, yanking your hands out of his grip.
“So even with the potential for…that, you’re still going to end this?” He asked, his voice low. “That isn't worth it to you?”
You couldn't answer him, you arms wrapped around yourself as you trembled, biting back the sob on the tip of your tongue.
“Answer me,” he repeated, softening his voice.
“What if you resent me? What if you—” your voice fractured, brittle with shame and fear. “What if you regret me?”
He leaned down, forcing you to meet his eye. “There's a lot of things I regret on my life,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But I never thought I would get the chance to love someone again, not after Fenrir. Not after the war, not after the divorce—” he drew a shaky inhale.
Guilt dogged at you, and you opened your mouth to speak, but he pressed on.
“There's nothing I wouldn't risk to have that chance again. I would give up everything, my career, my house, all of it. And regardless of what happens between us, I'll never regret you.” He cupped your face again, and this time you allowed him, eyes swimming with unshed tears, your heart mending and breaking all at once.
“Bill, I—”
“Don’t say anything else. I want you to sleep on it,” he said, straightening. “Take the day off tomorrow, too. Then you can tell me what you want to do, and we'll do it.” His voice was firm, but not unkind, a tone of finality that had you nodding in acceptance. “Goodnight, love.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, then released you, apparating away before you could blink.
You were left stunned and alone in your torn apart bedroom, reeling from Bill’s words. Growing weak, your knees folded beneath you and you collapsed onto the floor, a sob bursting from your chest.
Such a coward, you scolded yourself. Of course he's worth the risk.
You wanted or rush over to Shell Cottage and tell him, beg him to forgive you for being so stupid, but he told you to sleep on it. To be sure of whatever answer you gave him. So you shirked your work wear and climbed into bed, squeezing your eyes shut, and prayed for sleep to take you swiftly.
It didn't. You laid awake for hours, until finally, at two o’clock in the morning, you couldn't stand it any longer.
You pulled on your lucky pair of jeans and jumper, washed away your smudged makeup, and apparated to Shell Cottage.
When you landed sprawled in his yard instead of standing on his front porch, it occurred to you that surprising the Curse-breaker in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm was a stupid idea, but it was too late now.
Bill wrenched open the door, hair rumpled and dressed only in sweatpants, his wand aimed at you, green wisps of magic dancing at the end of it. Thunder rolled overhead, a crack of lightning making you jump.
“Bill,” you gasped, stepping into the light of his front porch, and he nearly dropped his wand.
“Y/n? What the fuck are you—”
“I'm sorry about what I said.” You jumped headfirst into your apology, needing to get it out before it drowned you. “I was scared and stupid and I didn't mean it. I want you, no matter the risks. I can't let you—I can't let this go by without trying.” Tears will spilling down your cheeks again, mixing with the rain, your words coming out in hiccuping gasps. “I'd never forgive myself for being too cowardly to try.”
Bill bound down the steps, grabbing you by the throat and silencing you with a savage, bruising kiss. He kissed you the way a drunkard takes to a keg, ravenous and greedy. You could taste whisky on his tongue, smoke on his breath, but it only made you kiss him harder, open yourself wider for him to devour.
“Inside,” he gruffed when you broke the kiss to breathe. “Now.”
You obliged, hurrying up the slick steps with him on your tail. The cottage was cozy and dimly lit, a fireplace roaring in the corner and the moon serving as the only illumination. There were books everywhere, piles of blankets and shelves lined with trinkets, art hung on every wall.
Taking advantage of your distraction, Bill scooped you up bridal-style, one arm notched under your knees, the other around your mid-back. You gasped in surprise, but quickly settled into the warmth of his chest, leaning your head against his bare shoulder to kiss along his rain-damp clavicle.
“I told you to sleep on it,” he murmured, carrying you across the living room and up a set of stairs.
“Couldn't,” you hummed, licking a jagged scar on his shoulder. “Not without fixing things.”
“Neither could I,” he said, nudging open a door with his foot and carrying you across the threshold. It was his bedroom, decorated with even more of his findings and a giant four-poster bed made of solid wood, the quilt a thick woven masterpiece that you only got to admire for a second before he was dropping you onto it and shirking your wet clothes.
He paused, muttering an incendio to light the fire place, and you sat up, head level with his sternum. Hesitantly, you kissed a long his abdomen, tracing the dips and swells of his muscles, his scars with your lips.
He hummed low in his chest, petting a hand over your damp hair. “Whatcha doin’, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice silken.
“Nothin’,” you mumbled, licking along one his scars, growing bolder as he placated you with scalp scratches. “Wanted to touch you.”
He chuckled. “Been wanting you to touch me—” he groaned when you shifted your body to lay down on the bed, kissing along the grooves of his hips, teasing the edge of his waistband with your fingers. “Baby, you don't have to—”
You cut him by licking a stripe over the hard bulge of his cock, feeling it twitch and swell through the fabric. You nearly moaned at the feel of him, thick and long and warm, and your pussy purred, fluttering around nothing.
“You want my cock, darling?” He asked, gently sweeping your hair into a ponytail, the strands held together by his fist.
You nodded, looking up at him through your lashes.
He tsked, smirking. “I suppose I could indulge you for a bit.” With his free hand, he reached into the front his pants, freeing himself. He wrapped his hand around the base, a pearl of precum squeezing from the swollen tip.
You caught the salty morsel with your tongue, kitten licking the underside of him. He tasted fucking divine, velvety smooth and masculine, and your jaw fell open on its own accord, eager to take more of him.
“Such a good girl,” he cooed, feeding the first few inches into your mouth before retreating, patting your tongue with his cockhead when it chased him past your lips. “Fuck, look at you. So eager to please.”
He eased himself back into your mouth, holding still so you could move at your own pace, bobbing your head in slow, sloppy movements, savoring the heavy feel of him on your tongue.
Soft, breathy moans spilled from his lips, his hand tugging a bit harder at your roots. He started moving you up and down his length, his hips rocking forward, thrusting gently into your mouth. You moaned around him, fisting the sheets below you as a flood of arousal made you pussy throb.
“Oh, darling. You want me to be rough, don't you?” He hummed, pulling his hips back until just the tip rested on your tongue.
Your eyes lifted to his and you nodded the best you could. Please, please use me.
“Your safe word is ‘hex’, okay?”
You nodded again, pleading with your eyes.
He thrust back into your mouth, his fist keeping your head in place as he forced his cock as deep as it could go. He set a punishing pace, fucking your face with every ounce of the brutality you knew he kept locked up right in his chest, hidden from the world.
Now, hidden from everyone but you.
You both needed to let go of control, to surrender to the truth in your heart, and with each other, it was starting to seem not only possible, but safe.
“Such a good fucking slut, gagging on my cock—this what you wanted? To be pushed to your limits?” Bill clutched your jaw with his other hand, feeling the strain in your muscles, the force of him stretching your mouth wider, and he groaned, head tipping back on his shoulders. “I'm gonna mold that pretty little throat in the shape of my cock, yeah? You're mine. This throat is mine.”
You could only whimper, taking every savage thrust like it was a gift from god. More than happy to worship at the altar of Bill Weasley.
He withdrew suddenly, leaving you gasping for air, a thread of drool connecting you. He craned your head back, lifting you until your hands left the mattress, back bent like a doll.
“This is it now, you understand? I won't go back.” His voice was rough with intensity, eyes shining with sincerity, vulnerability despite his hold on you.
“This is it,” you repeated, shuffling your knees underneath you and reaching for him. He loosened his hold so you could wrap your arms around his neck, molding your tender mouth against his in an attempt to convey what your were feeling, how much you needed him.
He kissed you back harder as thunder boomed above you, tongue twining with yours, and low groan loosened from his chest. He released you fully, sliding his hands down your back and scooping you up by your thighs, guiding your legs around his waist.
He held you aloft for a few moments, basking in the heat of the kiss, but it wasn't long until you were squirming in his hold, trying to create more friction between your bodies as desire blazed under your skin, raging like the storm outside.
In a quick movement, he broke the kiss and dropped you back onto the bed, sprawled on your back. Before you had time to process what happened, his rough hands forced your thighs apart, revealing the puffy, drippy state of you. One of his hands slid up to part your folds, exposing your sensitive bundle of nerves to the cool air of the room.
Again, you had the echo of the feeling that you were an artifact under his jurisdiction, being examined with the utmost attention, like the code to cracking you open was written on your skin.
Bill saw you down to the soul, and it terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.
“You're perfect,” he murmured, moving to ease his middle finger inside of you, curling his knuckle to prod that gooey spot inside you and draw a moan from your lips. “The most beautiful curse I've ever had to break.”
“Bill,” you whined, hands grabbing at the sheets, hips trying to rock against his hand, needing more.
He smirked. “Seems I've already broken you, needy little thing. Haven't even gotten started.” He leaned down, laving his tongue over your clit before sucking it between his teeth, and you keened, vision tunneling as bliss washed over you. The relief so palpable it brought tears to your eyes.
He added a second finger, setting a slow but intense pace, stretching and molding you with his fingers, his mouth messily slurping on your clit to keep you loose and moaning beneath him. Pleasure singed every nerve, burning through your muscles like lactic acid, eating into your bones until they were gelatinous, a puddle of simpering goo on Bill’s bed. He was doing just enough to elicit pleasure but not enough to make you cum, and it was starting to make you desperate again, bucking your hips against him in search of more.
“Hush,” he scolded, swatting at your inner thigh when you opened your mouth to beg. “You'll be begging me to stop coming soon enough.”
You couldn't tell if it was a promise or a threat, but either way, you snapped your mouth shut, a fresh wave of arousal making your pussy clench around his fingers.
He took some mercy on you though, and picked up the pace with his fingers fucking you with his hand while he kissed up your stomach, leaving a trail of slick from his chin over your stomach to your tits. He guided a pert nipple into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue before sucking hard, and your back bowed off the bed as you cried out for him.
You tangled your fingers into his hair, urging him closer, and he obliged, bathing your tits with his lips and tongue, using his teeth to elicit sharp gasps of pain before soothing the sting with pleasure. Your orgasm began to build, winding like a gear in your low belly until you were barely able to breathe, every scrap of energy drawn to the apex of your thighs.
“Merlin, your tight, love,” he murmured against the side of your tit, kissing his way back down between your legs. “Ready to come for me?”
“Please, Bill—fuck, please,” you mewled, dragging him by the hair to your needy clit.
“So pretty when you beg,” he purred, swirling his tongue just around your clit, careful to avoid direct contact. “Who does this pussy belong to?”
“You,” you immediately answered, trying to chase his tongue with your pelvis. “I'm yours, Bill.”
He grinned. “That's right. Mine.” With that, he fastened his lips around your clit and sucked hard, curling his fingers against your g-spot at the same moment, and something inside you gave way. You came with a scream, bliss bursting through like a tsunami and dragging you under.
It filled your mind and soul, an endless torrent of bliss drowning you in its bottomless depth. When if finally spit you back out, gasping and overwrought on the shore of Bill's bed, he was still lapping at you, his face and shirt soaked with your release.
“Good fucking girl, well done,” he cooed, withdrawing his fingers to massage the ache from your trembling thighs, his tongue dipping down to drink at the pool of your pleasure. “Twice more, now. That's my girl.”
You shook your head, feeling like a wrung out sponge, but sure enough, Bill has to ratcheted back up in no time, screaming his name, clenching around his fingers as you came a second and third time. It was like magic, the way he coaxed your body into doing what he wanted, even when you thought you couldn't. Playing you like an instrument, drawing whatever song he wanted from your body.
When you came down from the third, twitching and raw, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, he finally relented.
“Did so well, darling,” he cooed, easing his fingers from you and licking them clean. “Are you alright?” He asked, resting his cheek on your thigh as you caught your breath.
You nodded, grasping at his hair again to pull him up your body. He obliged with a chuckle, letting you crash your mouth to his in a desperate, messy kiss, your essence on his tongue making your head spin even more.
“Fuck me, please,” you mumbled into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist and tugging him fully onto the bed.
“Insatiable,” he purred with approval, shifting to slide down his sweatpants fully and kicking them off. He grasped himself, sawing through your drenched slit with a groan. “This was all I could think about in Cairo,” he rasped. “Being balls deep in this fucking pussy, feeling your wrapped around me, squeezing my cock the way you do my fingers.”
“Please, baby. Need you so bad,” you whined, rocking your hips in time with his.
“Need doesn't begin to cover what I'm feeling.” His voice was a strained growl, a primal sort of plea, and it drew another whimper from your chest. “You remember your safe word?” He asked, nearly trembling with effort of not burying himself to the hilt.
You nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He shuddered, a breathy moan fanning against your neck, as his control severed. He slammed his cock into you, sheathing himself completely in your depths, and you both cried out, clinging to one another as he dragged his hips back, then slammed them forward again and again. Rutting into you like a feral beast. Brutalizing every inch of your overworked pussy, your overworked mind, until you were brainless, boneless, his to claim entirely.
“Feels even fucking better—shit, baby. So fucking tight and hot, so wet f’me. My perfect little cunt takin’ me so well.”
You could only moan and nod, eager as a bobblehead. “Yours,” you parroted, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“Mine,” he gruffed, yanking your head back by your hair so he could ravish your neck with his teeth and tongue.
You were so sensitive from before that you could already feel that knot tightening a fourth time, making you flutter and clench around him as he railed you.
“Come for me, love. Give it to me,” he growled, his free hand dipping down to work your clit, his thrusts growing rougher by the second. Tearing you apart on his cock.
Nothing else would ever satisfy you the way he was, he was molding you into the shape of him, ruining you for anyone else. No one could please you the way he did, understand your body so viscerally, so completely, that it bowed to him before it did you.
He owned you mind, body, and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way, because you knew that you owned him too. Like a lion on a leash.
“Come with me, come with me,” you cried, your trembling body trying to meet him thrust for thrust.
“Fuck yes,” he huffed, breath hot and heavy against your neck. “Gonna paint this cunt white. Make you mine.”
“Yes, yes! Fuck, Bill, I’m—” You came so hard you couldn't even scream, your mouth falling open as pleasure exploded from your center, a bomb detonating in the depths of your soul.
Bill sank in his teeth into your neck, bottoming out while his cock kicked inside of you, fulfilling his promise and painting your insides with his release. You collapsed onto the bed, scattered pieces in the swallow of space, half-there with Bill as he fucked you both through it, kissing at your neck and muttering praise, and half-gone, a disembodied soul floating on a river of bliss.
Slowly, you returned piece by piece until air slammed back into your lungs and you were gasping, shivering, clinging desperately to him.
“Sh, sh I’ve got you. You're alright,” he shushed, shifting on the bed to fold you into his chest, raining kisses over your forehead and temple. “You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you.”
“That was—” you panted, feeling the race of his heart under his skin, in perfect synchronicity with yours.
“I've never felt anything like that,” he murmured, nosing into your hair and taking a deep breath. “Like you.”
“Me neither.” You wrapped your arms around his middle snuggling closer. “You're a madman,” you chuckled, and you felt him smile.
“Only for you.”
You were quiet for awhile, the room filled with the sounds of your laborers breathing, the onslaught of rain on the roof, the pop and crackle of the fire.
“I'm sorry for leaving like that before,” Bill whispered, breaking the drowsy quiet. “I didn't trust myself to not lash out…” his voice trailed off, his hands tightening a bit around your body, like he was scared you'd pull away from him at the reminder of before.
“Thank you for trying to protect me,” you responded, lightly tracing the scars along his back, and tension in his body melted.
“Nothing’s going to hurt you, especially not me,” he said, lifting his head to look into your eyes, his dark irises so soft and sincere. “You really think you could fall for me?” He asked, bumping your nose with his.
“I think I've already started,” you whispered, bashful, and he beamed, catching your lips in a light, languid kiss.
“I know I was supposed to be the one teaching you…” he murmured against your mouth, kissing along your jaw, down your neck. “But you've opened my eyes so much, helped me learn the lessons I was avoiding—” his voice caught, and he buried his face in your neck, holding your naked body pressed against his, not even air separating you. “I feel like I can be the man I want to be with you,” he confessed, pressing a kiss to the bite mark he'd left along the curve of your throat. “Like I don't have to hide anymore.”
“You're mine too,” you whispered, and he loosed a breathy sound, almost like a whine, and held you even tighter. “And I want you exactly as wild and stubborn and clever and complex as you are.”
Bill shifted upwards, catching your final words with his mouth, moving purposefully, indulgently, against yours. Saying everything he couldn't express with words, and your heart was so full it started leaking from your eyes, tears snaking down your cheeks and getting caught in the kiss.
He moved his lips to catch your tears, shushing you softly. “I'm yours,” he said, pecking your lips again. “And I have those good-for-nothing jackasses to thank for it.”
You burst out laughing, flopping back onto his pillows. “They're going to be so damn smug.”
Bill groaned, burying his face in your tits. “Worth it when I get to show you off and crush their dreams.”
“They'll live,” you giggled, combing your fingers through his hair.
Bill's alarm suddenly blared from the side table. “Silencio,” he barked, and the clock fell silent once again. “We're calling out,” he mumbled.
You nodded, sleep already starting to tug at you, your limbs going heavy on the mattress. “As long as the boss says it's okay.”
He huffed a laugh. “Good thing he's a pretty laid back guy.”
You rolled your eyes behind closed lids, and hummed in agreement. That was a lesson for another day.
Thank you so much for reading and supporting this series! This is the last part of the core series, but I'm considering doing a few extra drabbles that go along with it (let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see!)
Regulus was tempted to cast a disillusionment charm on himself as they walked through the leaky cauldron. The pub fell into silence, the crackling fire the only sound in the usually noisy pub. The story of the entire trial had been in that morning's Daily Prophet and every other pitiful excuse for literature news rags.
The Goblins peered at them suspiciously as they entered Gringotts and told them what they were here to do.
“Lord and Lady Black are still living. What makes you think you can take all their gold?” said Gragnott, the goblin dealing with them.
“As I am sure you are well aware, they are now in Azkaban, which means everything passes to the heir, which is me,” Sirius said, his back ramrod straight as he stared the goblin down.
“Hmmm,” Gragnott grumbled and began leafing through a heavy leather-bound book. “Yes, it’s here. All assets belonging to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black now belong to Mr Sirius Orion Black,” he rechecked the book. “The third,” he added. “Would you like a run-through of all your new gains, Lord Black?”
“Just call me Sirius,” Sirius told the goblin. Regulus had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from smirking. Sirius must hate being called Lord Black.
“No,” Gragnott said sternly and returned to the book. He began listing everything the Black family owned. After half an hour of listening to him, Sirius had finally had enough.
“All right, I get it, I own a lot of shit now. Is there any way to get a list sent to me at Hogwarts that I can look at at my leisure?”
“Of course, Lord Black, you only had to ask,” Gragnott bobbed his head slightly in a bow, his lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth as he goaded Sirius. Monty put a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, and Regulus saw the fight go out of him
“Thank you, Gragnott. There is one other thing I would like you to do today, if it is possible. I would like you to add Regulus Arcturus Black to the list of heirs and grant him full control over all assets, the same as me.” Gragnott gave Sirius a funny look, but nodded all the same. I shall amend the book,” he said, picking up a goblin silver quill and scribbling something at the bottom of the page.
“Congratulations, Lord Black, you are now a joint benefactor with the other Lord Black of the Black family portfolio.”
“Well, that was easy enough,” Sirius grinned as they walked out into the dull winter light.
“Is there anything else you boys want to do while we’re here?” Monty asked, looking around at the shops.
“No, thanks,” Sirius said. “I’d rather go home. Effie said she’d make us brownies, and I’ve been dying for one all morning.”
“Good idea,” Monty grinned, but Regulus could see the slight strain in the corner of his eyes. The streets were busier now, and everyone was whispering about them. Monty led them to an apparation point and whizzed them away to the safety of Potter Manor.
summary — you and bill spend a snow day on the couch
word count — 100
warnings — 18+ MDNI, smut
author’s note — just a quick one!
a cold, snowy day kept bill weasley on the sofa, you between his legs as his lips parted with a husky groan surfacing. one hand was laced in your hair as the other held the hem of his shirt just above his belly button. you occasionally looked up at him, as his breath hitched, causing his stomach to cave in as your mouth continued to engulf his length in a thick layer of saliva. you continued to work further down his girth, trying to relearn it after his absence from home.
I got tagged by @phoenixortheflame and @kamaela to do this game which is posting a deleted snippet from a fic but I will be open and honest—up until this month I had to get everything done in my one (1) good week a month and usually write so close to deadline that I don't take stuff out wholesale, so this would be a confusing bunch of words and half-sentences if I could even find them?? So instead I will give you this snippet of a fuck-or-die drarry fic I started in the summer and will someday hopefully finish :)
“It’s a sex ritual,” Draco shouts, directly into Harry’s face. “Sex magic. The price is an offering of sexual energy. One of us has to agree to—to receive—to accept the—the enthusiastic attentions of the other, in a ritualised display of—”
Harry’s hand shoots into the air.
Draco blinks.
Then blinks again.
And then he leans back and stares, lips parted.
“Potter.” He’s exactly as soft as the singing magic. “Have you raised your hand?”
“Yep.”
“Do you understand what I’ve just said?”
“You said one of us has to get railed, hard, in order to do the ritual. I volunteer. To get railed,” Harry adds, in case it wasn’t clear what he was putting himself forwards for. “By you.” Can’t be any mistaking it now. “I accept your, er, enthusiastic attentions.”
Draco swallows. “Grudgingly?”
“What?”
“Are you only volunteering because you’re afraid to die in this vault? I realise the issues of consent in this case are quite thorny, so if another arrangement would be more—”
“I haven’t got thorns.”
“Excuse me?” Draco leans back in, as if he has to see Harry’s lips move to believe it.
“I haven’t got any thorns,” Harry says, louder. “No thorns of consent. I definitely want you to rail me enthusiastically. I enthusiastically want that. Unless you don’t, in which case you can, like, close your eyes. Or Obliviate me afterwards. Or we can both get Obliviated. I’d rather not, though. Get Obliviated, I mean. But—”
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Interesting facts about how Gringotts vaults work...
How you access Gringotts vaults is interesting, and felt oddly inconsistent to me throughout the books, so I want to take a look at it. As in, all the times Gringotts vaults are accessed and how they are accessed. Becouse a lot of fanon and Weasley bashing fics put a lot of emphasis on vault keys, but I don't think vault keys are that important, especially not with the older vaults.
In the books, we only see vault keys in Philosopher's Stone and after that they are shockingly absent.
“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”
“You have his key, sir?”
“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter...
[...]
“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.
The goblin looked at it closely.
“That seems to be in order.”
“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”
The goblin read the letter carefully.
“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”
(PS, Ch5)
Our first encounter with Gringotts is in PS, even this early we see two means of identifying yourself as someone who should have access to a vault:
Vault key - for Harry's trust vault from his parents
A letter from the vault owner.
This suggests that the key, rather than the only means of opening the vault, works as an identification method to show the owner gave the key to access the vault to whoever is trying to access it or is accessing it themselves. I will note it's odd the goblin doesn't identify Hagrid or Harry as who they are since a key could hypothetically be easily stolen.
It's why the letter seems to make more sense. It's a letter of temporary power of attorney signed by Dumbledore that gives Hagrid the right to access a vault in his possession. This is actually something that makes way more sense than the key, which I'll come back to later.
But the point of it all, is that Gringotts cares more about identifying who the person is and that they're allowed to access a vault than if they have a key. The key seems to be just one tool to do so.
The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag
(CoS, Ch4)
In CoS, we don't see anyone bringing up a key, and it's likely they just identified themselves in the bank by other means. As I mentioned, what matters is a person's identity, not the key.
At the beginning of PoA we see further evidence of how the key isn't really that important:
Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his vault at Gringotts, he had to exercise a lot of self-control not to spend the whole lot at once.
(PoA, Ch4)
As Harry's able to access his vault without it.
And Harry seems to be aware he doesn't actually need a key to access his vault, since he plans to do so when on the Knight Bus:
The sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then set off — where, he didn’t know.
(PoA, Ch3)
So the fact a key isn't really needed for vault access at Gringotts is common knowledge in-universe.
But the most interesting implications regarding vault access, come from the ending of PoA:
There is something I never got around to telling you during our brief meeting. It was I who sent you the Firebolt —
[...]
Crookshanks took the order to the Owl Office for me. I used your name but told them to take the gold from my own Gringotts vault. Please consider it as thirteen birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather.
(PoA, Ch22)
This is from the letter Sirius sends Harry at the end of the book and the implications are fascinating to me. I stumbled upon this quote when looking for something else and decided to draft up this post just because of it.
Like, Sirius sent a letter to Gringotts with Crookshanks, identifying himself as Harry (did he forge Harry's signature? Did he do something else? Do they have magical signatures?) to access his own vault. This has so many implications.
Again we see what Gringotts cares for is the identity of the person asking to access the vault, not any magical vault key.
Either the signature Gringotts has for Harry is incorrect or Sirius leaned to forge Harry's signature. both options could be hilarious for fic purposes.
Harry, at the age of 13, can access his own vault and Sirius' vault with just his identity.
That last one implies two things:
There is no minimum age for Gringotts vaults access or, if there is, it's something low, like 11 or 12. This means wizarding children are essentially treated as adults when it comes to banking since Harry had to exercise self-control over his own money at the beginning of PoA and there were no vault rules or laws that would limit his access to it.
Sirius made Harry his heir before he was sent to Azkaban. It was always my headcanon, but this is evidence of it. I mean, if Harry wasn't Sirius' heir there would be no reason for Sirius to be able to use Harry's identity to access his own vault legally.
Now, I know Weasley-bashing fics love to use the fact Molly buys Harry stuff with money from his own vault as evidence of theft:
“Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon Alley. And
she’s got some gold out of your vault for you . . . and she’s washed
all your socks.”
(GoF, Ch10)
But that doesn't seem to be the case. Harry isn't surprised she did it, and Molly told Harry she would be buying him things the day before. It's possible he even gave her a letter to let her access his vault himself. If Harry wasn't aware of it happening, I think he would have mentioned it's odd. Harry's pretty perceptive and not stupid, so I think it's likely he had given his permission to that since he knew of the plan ahead of Molly going to Diagon whenever it happened.
(Mostly I think JKR didn't feel like writing everyone shopping in Diagon Alley again every book so it was an excuse to have it happen off-page)
The final occasion of vault access I want to examine is with the Lestrange Vault in Deathly Hallows:
“Madam Lestrange!” said the goblin, evidently startled. “Dear me! How-how may I help you today?”
“I wish to enter my vault,” said Hermione.
The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Harry glanced around. Not only was Travers hanging back, watching, but several other goblins had looked up from their work to stare at Hermione.
“You have . . . identification?” asked the goblin.
“Identification? I-I have never been asked for identification before!” said Hermione.
“They know!” whispered Griphook in Harry’s ear, “They must have been warned there might be an imposter!”
“Your wand will do, madam,” said the goblin.
[...]
“Make him press his hand to the door!” Griphook urged Harry, who turned his wand again upon Bogrod. The old goblin obeyed, pressing his palm to the wood, and the door of the vault melted away to reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor, the skins of strange creatures
(DH, Ch26)
Again, what Hermione is asked for is identification, not a key. From Griphook's reaction, it seems asking for identification is usually not necessary. I assume, usually Gringotts goblins have another way of knowing who stands before them, it would explain why the characters are never really asked for a key after book 1 — the goblins just recognized Harry and let him enter. (I'd get to why they didn't in PS later)
Also from the above quote, we see that a Gringotts goblin can just magically open even the oldest, most high-security vaults, making the vault key from the first book completely moot. We also don't really see keys used since then in, well, any of the books. We do see Harry mention it in DH:
“I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world....”
(DH, Ch24)
But no one seems to be using them.
I think having a key to a vault means you have the physical key, yes, but it's more symbolic than something you have to have with you to open your vault. It's like a token that says you have vault number 687, not that it's the only means of accessing the vault since clearly, your identity is enough.
So, the question is, since vault keys or wand IDs aren't the usual means to identify oneself, how do goblins know? How do you usually identify yourself? How do they know who can access which vault just by looking at them? And why was the key asked for in PS?
Well, I have a bit of a theory/headcanon/speculation about this based on the evidence I mentioned above:
A Gringotts key is essentially a signifier for the ownership of a vault (goblin ownership, the vault is borrowed by wizards, and whenever vaults switch hands wizards likely have to pay for them again).
In book 1, the key was needed since Harry has never stepped foot in Gringotts before. The key acted as an identification for Harry who didn't have a wand yet and who the goblins just met for the first time.
After Harry was identified once, the goblins just recognized him. As they do everyone else. (Since a letter from Dumbledore saying Hagrid can access his vault is enough, they didn't ask Hagrid for any identification (not that he has a wand he can give them)).
I believe goblins just have a brilliant memory for faces and once someone enters the bank once, they are remembered from then on. (I also assume you need to sign something so they have a handwriting sample to identify your writing by. Which they also have a great memory of).
I think goblins are just magically really good at remembering details. It fits what we see about goblin-made artifacts which are very detailed and ornate. How goblins just remember who owes what and who took what. So, I think the identification method at Gringotts is goblins' really good memory.
That's why The Thief's Downfall is important. It removes enchantments that change someone's appearance which is how goblins identify people.
All this means Sirius learned how to forge Harry's handwriting to buy him a Firebolt, which is a fun concept. (Where are all the fics of Sirius being brilliant at forgery?)
This is a bit of a random tangent, but I found it interesting.
Lily Evans was a muggle-born witch; she was born and raised in an ordinary muggle family, without any knowledge of the existence of the wizarding world until her letter had arrived. It had only been a month before term started when she discovered magic even existed at all, yet in that short span of time, she had swallowed anything she could find.
But Mira would never know her.
The friends who had known her mother intimately were killed in the same war that had claimed Lily herself. Thus, Mira heard the same few scraps of memories many times—most of them from Slughorn—and pieced together the fragments of her life to form an opinion as to who she was. There were rare memories that Sirius had been willing to share before, but it was mainly Remus who'd occasionally speak about her fondly—but they were all gone, now.
Snape, too. In fact, Mira was pretty sure that he had known her mother so much better than anyone else. She had been oblivious to their...complicated relationship—and that he even knew her during one of their failed Legilimency lessons. He refused to acknowledge Lily until the final moments of his life. And Mira, being occupied with defeating Voldemort, had not thought of storing all of his memories so later, she could peacefully watch how her mother grew up—before the war, before the bloodshed, and before her daughter had been conceived to end her mother's life before it truly began.
Just like Hermione she was, Mira thought, glancing at her friend as the goblins led them towards the lift. The tension in her face hadn't gone away since the goblins had revealed the blood vial and inheritance results.
Mira didn't think she'd ever stop imagining her mum; borrowed and recycled memories conjured out of what came out of Sirius, Remus, and other survivors of the first war. She needed her more than ever—a mother, not a friend—to hold her in her arms whenever she woke up from the nightmares that plagued her dreams just as much as they did when awake.
Her throat tightened. With the discovery of the strange blood she had soaring through her veins, and the strange lineage records of her mother, there was no doubt that this originated from her maternal side—whatever Mira will discover, Lily had gone through.
Although, they both were not sure if Lily had discovered the truth behind this—pushed into war, marriage, pregnancy, and hiding as soon as she had left Hogwarts. Dead, before her brain could fully develop—before she even had the chance to explore adulthood.
There's no chance in hell that Petunia will know anything. If she did, she wouldn't tell me anything. Mira's lips pressed into a thin line, shaking her head as the group stepped onto the cart that lead to the vaults.
Hermione tensed at the mention of the woman—the same one who had, out of pure spite and jealousy of her sister's magic, abused and isolated her orphaned child. She gritted her teeth and a sudden grunt of annoyance escaped her lips. Of course, she won't. Don't expect anything from her—from them.
All friends of Mira's—her true family, by everything but blood—had a special hatred for the woman, her husband, and their bully of a child. Mira had kept the circumstances of her childhood a secret her entire life, especially her cupboard. The only reason they had found out was when Petunia had sent her a letter, non-subtly asking for money—it seemed as if she had just realized that her late brother-in-law was, in fact, a very wealthy man.
Ron had proceeded to rip the letter and shove a chocolate frog in her face.
The black cart jolted hard to the side, forcing Hermione to grab onto Mira's wrist to steady her. Svish, who was driving, said nothing; didn't so much as glance back at the pair. They descended deeper, the rails curving sharply as the shadows grew thicker, the air colder.
Hermione hugged herself; her eyes were tightly shut, trying to avoid looking at the beneath her. Her hair, as always, was a storm of thick brown curls; the rush of wind tossed strands around her face, catching her mouth and lashes. She shoved them back impatiently, but one hand inevitably gripped onto her friend's sleeve.
Mira, in contrast, stared ahead unnervingly still without blinking—her pale hair, almost luminous amongst the dark and flicker of the torches, whipped across her face almost weightlessly, as if it were natural. With her gaze partially hidden by her flowing locks and her face sharply defined by dancing flames, she appeared completely at home among the darkness. It was as though the night was not just brushing against her but flowing alongside her, as if she were a star amongst the pitch-black sky.
Although she did not speak, or sent her friend a telepathic message, Hermione felt as if she weren't look at a young traumatized teenager anymore—she looked more like a mythical being evoked by darkness itself. Powerful.
Mira's voice in her mind briefly distracted her from the terrifying view below her; the abnormally wide tracks that the cart was being driven on revealed a gaping hole in the middle—completely, utterly terrifying; she did not dare to look down twice. 'Mione...Why is my mum's vault so far down?
She, briefly, turned her head to the side, squinting her eyes to look at her friend through the whipping wind as they headed closer to the vault.
Hermione raised her brows and sarcastically replied in her head; through the noise of the cart, a bitter laugh escape her lips. Your mum was muggle-born, Mira, so really, her vault shouldn't be this deep. I heard that the deeper the vaults are, the more security measures it has—mostly to guard the fortunes of ancient pureblood families. But... given what we've discovered today, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised.
The cart rattled violently as they turned into a darker tunnel. They were beginning to slow down, and the screeching jolt of the cart stopping, causing them to jerk forward, indicated they had arrived to the vault. The sparks that had bursted briefly from the rails died against the ominous stone of the platform.
Mira blinked. This was deeper than her father's vault, and he was a pureblood with centuries of lineage behind him.
"Vault Seven Hundred Fourteen," Svish announced, voice clipped. He did not even glance back at the pair before he hopped out of the cart, landing in front of the vault—however, not with the ease of a creature who had walked amongst these vaults for god knows how many times.
Mira stepped out of the cart, the boots clattering against the stone creating an echo. She nearly stumbled into Svish, who had shockingly paused before the vault doors. His clawed fingers hovered just above his pocket, as if he was frightened to take the key to unlock it.
Behind her, Hermione remained frozen in the cart, one palm pressed against her chest as she dragged in shallow, uneven breaths.
Mira turned, raising a brow. Her white hair — thin strands unusually in-place despite the heavy wind they had to endure — shifted as she teased, "Hermione.. are you going to move, or do you fancy staying here 'til Christmas?"
Hermione glared, still pale and breathing heavily. "Give me a second, would you? I don't remember the cart being so... terrifying."
That's because you haven't been this below before. Mira stifled a snort, to which her friend rolled her eyes.
There was a reason that Ron and Mira were the most...athletic within their trio. Hermione had refused to touch a broom since their first lesson back when they first met. She preferred to support her boyfriend and best-friend from the sidelines; maybe occasionally shifting her attention to a book or two.
It took an impatient look from Mira before Hermione huffed, finally clambering out with trembling legs. She landed not-so gracefully next to her friend, her fingers instinctively clutched her sleeve, tightly as if her life depended on it. Although, the post-ride fear had, seemingly, almost entirely evaporated as her brown eyes landed on the looming vault doors directly in front of them—her breath hitched lightly.
It was not the normal smooth bronze and gold facaded doors that they'd seen on other levels, all of which were intricately carved to convey luxury despite the contents of the vault. Instead, the Evans vault looked menacing—carved from a very dark stone..or perhaps steel? Maybe obsidian? It was also sculpted with runes none of them recognized.
Some of the stone had cracked in them, although it was impossible to tell the cause of it. Long and short jagged indentations were marked deep into the doors, as though something, or someone, had attempted to claw its way into it; the gouges looked to be almost like an animal's claws..or maybe, a sword—a very strong one, at that, as it seemed to everyone that the vault seemed to emit a sense of rawness...broken and tangled ancient power.
Mira had thought for a moment, that the vault could be decaying; if the doors were rotted or crumbling like abandoned structures do. But there were no vines, no moss, or any signs of reclamation. It was expected though, since the vault was enchanted and situated in the most protected area on the planet—judging by the physical stability of the doors, however, it looked as if it had gone through many bottles and it was magic that was keeping it alive.
The dim light from the torches only made it vault door look more.. ruined.
"What happened... to this vault?" Hermione asked quietly, stepping closer to study the strange runes on the door. Before he could reply, she answered her own question, "Attacked, wasn't it? Someone tried to break in."
So much for Gringotts being an unbreakable bank. Hermione's wry voice slipped into her head. If we count Nicolas Flamel's stone, isn't this the third time something like this has happened?
Mira felt her lips twitch but said nothing, eyes refusing to stray from the wounds of her vault. She would have laughed if this weren't a matter of her own vault—her mum's.
Svish hesitated, but turned around to face the girls. "I have been told that the door remembers," he said finally, his voice low. "We have attempted to find an answer and we have tried to replace the doors for the sake of the bank's...reputation. But, as I believe you witches have also realized, we do not know what..occurred."
Finally, an answer. Somewhat, at least. It only further strengthened their suspicions of the goblins knowing a lot more than they were telling them.
Mira frowned, eyes darting towards the black marks. "And who told you this?"
The goblin's dark eyes flicked to hers briefly before moving back to the door; his hand reached into the pocket in his vest, producing a small, but older key that looked to be of the same material as the door."This vault should not exist. It has been here for a much longer time than you think."
The witches exchanged glances, a gnawing question hanging between them—they both had forgotten to ask the most important question.
Hermione was the first to muster her voice. "How long, exactly, has this vault here?"
Svish's clawed hand tightened on the key, now dangling at his side. "Goblins live longer than witches—we walk these halls for centuries." He paused, as though he was weighing his words before he spoke, and as if the mere thought unsettled him. "yet, this vault has been here before my time."
Mira felt her stomach coil, eyes widening. She was sure Hermione felt just as weirded out as her, judging by the sickly pale colour on her face.
At first glance, anyone could tell that Svish was one of the younger ones at the bank, despite having been working there for decades.
At a minimum of 50 years, this vault was here—Hermione jumped to a conclusion—and definitely longer than that.
"Perhaps it belonged to your mum's ancestors, Mira," Hermione offered aloud, though the words sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. She was grappling onto logic as much as she could. But almost immediately, she shook her head, frowning harder. "No—that doesn't make sense. That wouldn't explain why your mum was the only one who can access it. If this had been in her family for generations, others would've—"
She cut herself off, inhaling suddenly as soon as she realized that no rational or logic could explain whatever they had found today.. But, the simplest explanation could be that Lily Potter was not who the world thought her to be.
She glanced at Mira, who stood tensely by her side.
He caught his breath, as if deliberating whether he should speak or not. But he continued, "I can assure you, Mrs. Potter felt just as troubled. A muggle-born witch should not have.. this." He drawled out the end with what almost sounded like bitterness.
Mira swallowed hard, her throat tight, but before she could speak, Svish turned his sharp gaze on her. He looked at her properly, for the first time without disdain since the war. His black eyes looked lifeless, reflecting something unknown, something almost... watchful.
"It is a shame," Svish said softly, his voice dropping into something quieter, something nearly reluctant, "that she passed so young."
The silence, accompanied with the strange mix of false sympathy and an undercurrent of something else in this tone, lingered in the air—deliberate and tense. Mira had stiffened at the sound of his voice, not sure whether he was mocking her mother's death or merely frustrated and bitter at the unsolved mystery; Lily had definitely known about this strange vault..the question was whether she had discovered the truth or not.
If she did, all those secrets had been buried with her in her grave—too late for her daughter to know, as she had only just came across the existence of this vault...and the blood.
Just as he opened his mouth to say more, all eyes darted to Hermione lifting a thin, manicured finger toward the ruined door.
Svish's reaction was instant.
The hiss that tore from him was vicious, closer to an animal's with his sharp teeth bared. "Do. Not. Touch, Miss Granger!"
Hermione jerked back as if she had been burnt, hands immediately falling to her sides—even Mira had flinched, both at the unnatural intensity of his voice, and at the sheer anger and threatening included in it.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Mira's gaze slid back to the door, her stomach twisting as her mind pieced together the implications:
The claw marks.
Svish's reaction to Hermione attempting to touch the door.
The overall damage done to the door.
She looked at Hermione, who had gone pale, the same realization reflected in her wide eyes. The conclusion seemed unavoidable: someone had tried to break into this vault before. And if Svish was so intent on keeping them away from the door...didn't that mean...
The goblins tried to go in.
"...You've tried, haven't you?" Mira's voice came out softer than she intended; her attempt to hide the shakiness in her voice had failed immediately. "The goblins... you—you tried to force it open, didn't you?"
Svish's head snapped so quickly towards her, he must've had whiplash—the usual blank mask that he wore had slipped into an expression indicating unfathomable fury. For a goblin to be accused of something like this... she knew it was the worst of all insults.
"That," he spat angrily, the most emotion he had ever shown in his words, "would be a violation of Gringotts law."
Hermione swallowed, unable to shake the unease pooling in her chest. "And yet," she spoke, almost to herself, "something tried." She didn't know if she should believe them.
"...Yes. Something did," was all he bothered to say to her before turning to Mira and dropping the key onto her unsteady hand. "The vault recognizes blood. No other can open—or make an attempt to unlock—this vault."
"So, if I had touched it..." Hermione trailed off, her voice wobbling just enough to betray nerves.
"It would have harmed you," Svish said at last, giving the smallest of nods. The anger has disappeared, replaced with eerie certainty. "Yes. The contents of this vault is protected solely for the blood it was made for. To anyone else... there would most likely be consequences."
Heat rushed through Mira even as the icy cold of the underground prickled against her skin. She glanced at the lifeless runes along the scarred stone, and for the first time felt the weight of what Svish was saying settle properly.
The vault knows its blood.
The thought made her anxious. She wasn't even certain who she was beyond "Mira Potter." Her entire life, she was just that, with an extra emphasis on "The Girl-Who-Lived," and "The Chosen One"—she realized that she would be recognized with these titles for the remainder of her life. But this vault—her mum's vault—was built to recognize her bloodline only.
Hermione's voice whispered across their connection, quiet and uneasy this time: Well. At least now we know I'm not welcome. Brilliant.
Mira might have smiled if her chest didn't feel so heavy.
Blood wards were usually used to protect family manors—an extra measure for security. It was to make sure that only family members, and approved friends, were able to enter and go, without having to worry about intruders. To protect a vault, however.. that is very unusual.
Her boots echoed on the wet stone floor as she approached the door, ignoring the goblin's piercing eyes flickering between her back and the lock. With each step, the faint hum beneath her feet grew stronger — it travelled up her legs and arms, causing a shiver to run down her spine... it was like something vast and buried was stirred faintly in recognition.
Mira slid the key into the slot.
A faint, resonant click sounded, and all three individuals held their breath.
Hermione instinctively stepped forward, close enough to her friend, but far enough from the vault's blood wards.
The vault slit open.
As Mira pulled the heavy door, shadows pooled unnaturally along the floor, stretching long and thin as though escaped the vault by some silent command—both strangely solacing and uncomfortable—towards her. She had let go of the door handle out of a sudden, a sudden breath escaping her lips in shock, as the small shadows circled her body.
Behind her, Hermione gasped.
Mira swallowed, the shadows curling lazily around her shoulders. They weren't real — they never were — but ever since the war, her dreams had left her with lingering fragments she couldn't shake.
Sometimes, when she woke in the dead of night, she swore she could see things moving at the edges of her room. Shadows twisting unnaturally....shapes forming where they shouldn't. On occasion, those "shadows" would shape into forms of her dead loved ones—she could recall waking up, the morning after a particularly difficult day, to her father staring down at her. But before he could speak, he had disappeared when she had screamed and tumbled out of bed.
Most of the time, though, they whispered, though she could never quite catch the words—only softly, low and old, like echoes.
Nightmares, she told herself. Just nightmares. Everyone had them after the war.
Just like whatever this was that had come out of the vault.
A hallucination.
Mira ignored the way Svish's eyes had gone wide, the first real crack in his composure, and the metallic groan of the vault door as it wrenched itself open wider. The sound wasn't neat or clean, with no sounds of the typical goblin machinery. It was strained, almost agonized, like a monster being forced awake after centuries of sleep.
The seam split wider and wider, until what it revealed made her falter.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
She felt her brows furrow. At first glance, the contents of the vault looked like any other at Gringotts: neat stacks of Gold-Galleons and Sickles, and messy trays of heaped bronze Knuts—mounds of gold coins were the first thing she saw. It looked just like her father's vault.
That's...it? Hermione spoke incredulously through the bond; behind her, she threw her hands in the air in irritation. Honestly, after all that fuss.
Mira stepped inside cautiously, lips twitching when she heard her friend's huff at frustration of not being able to go in with her. The moment she crossed into the vault, the invisible ward bent around her like water parting. The shadows continued to curl around her feet, yet the first thing she noticed was how wrong—but also right—everything felt.
She walked further in—every step she took felt like a risk. The air in here, felt different—thicker, somehow heavier, as if strong magic settled into this stone and had isolated itself here.
Her gaze swept around the chamber.
There was another space, in the corner, that was more... personal. With a bit of relief blooming in her chest at the thought of having her mother's personal belongings, her eyes locked onto a small wooden trunk, frayed and used, tucked against the wall; it was her mother's Hogwarts trunk.
She felt her feet carry her there before she could realize—she crouched down, her pale fingertips instinctively tracing the letters carved onto the wood: L.E. It hadn't even registered to her that her hands were trembling, before she pulled it back and held it to her chest.
Mira swallowed against the pang of longing and grief that rose in her throat. There would be another time to view the contents of the trunk in private...not when she was being carefully watched by a suspicious cunning goblin.
She would return.
Her gaze moved to some of the items next to the trunk: a neatly folded cloak, covered in a layer of dust, that no one had worn in decades, and a large cardboard box labelled: Textbooks. She felt her throat tightened, eyes blurring with tears—this felt too human...too real—proof that her mother had been a real person at one point in time.
Her mum had left most of her things here.
Not stored, not abandoned. Left intentionally.
Mira stood frozen in the quiet weight of it. Her mother hadn't packed these things away as one would trinkets meant to be forgotten. She had left them behind because she'd known that her daughter would cherish these items.
Somewhere, deep down, when they went into hiding, Lily Evans Potter had known she wouldn't be making it out alive.
Mira shut her eyes briefly, forcing a steady breath past the ache threatening to lodge in her chest.
Mira. Hermione's gentle voice popped into her head—of course, she had also spotted the belongings in the corner that looked so warm compared to the cold, harsh environment of the vaults. I know it hurts.. just..remember I'm here, okay? Always.
Blinking back the tears once more, Mira turned her head towards the vault door and forced a smile; she ignored the beady eyes of the goblin, who's gaze still hadn't strayed from her.
Mira slowly stood up from her crouched position near the trunk and forced to keep herself moving, deeper into the vault where shadows pressed thicker. She had stopped in her tracks, suddenly, when pitch-black darkness surrounded her, thick and opaque, consuming the vault around her until she couldn't see more than a foot ahead—it happened so quickly, that her eyes darted around maniacally, looking for escape.
The temperature had also dropped sharply, and with the weight of the darkness around her, she felt like she was being pulled in a certain direction. The shadows, who usually flew so frantically around her, now stood still, shaped into what looked like human beings....and they stood at her—stared at her.
Although she had only taken a few steps from her mother's trunk, it felt like she had just stepped into a morgue—.
—Gazing into the black silhouettes of the dead.
However, as messed up it may be, the fear eventually dulled as she stood there for what felt like hours. The shadows stood in their spots in front of her, but she could not tell their intentions.... yet something deep inside her—the same something that made her chest ache with familiarity—pulled her closer.
The sound of Hermione's fearful voice slipped into her mind once again. Mira? Where did you go? We can't see you!
What are you talking about? I'm right here, Mira replied, frozen; her hands were starting to become icy. A chill froze her to her spot, however, when something else caught her attention.
Her mouth went dry, when she realized what stood in front of her.
MIRA!
She flinched at the sound of her friend's franctic yell in her head, and let out a shaky exhale. Looking away from the second door for a brief moment, she turned around to face where Hermione and Svish stood.
She could see them clearly, but somehow, they could not see her.
I'm alright, Hermione. I'm not sure why you can't see me, Mira explained, ignoring the strange tingling sensations of the darkness around her—it had caught her off guard before, however, it felt awfully comforting now. Before her friend could reply with another one of her protective, nervous remarks, she continued, but listen to me...
