In His Father’s Footsteps Ch.2 (Harry Potter) (NSFW)

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The Sorting Ceremony at Hogwarts was one of Harry's favorite events of the year, as much as any Quidditch match or feast, because it was a matter of legacy.

The late, unlamented dark psychopath had driven magical Britain to the verge of a terminal population decline as swathes of muggleborn, halfbloods, and ‘blood traitors’ died in the face of the rampaging Death Eaters.

It was only at the old cottage in Godric’s Hollow that his parents and a small number of trusted fighters from the Order of the Phoenix brought him down, binding him with a spell, potion, and a lead-lined concrete sarcophagus, now safely consigned to the deepest depths of the Atlantic.

Every year, Harry counted the number of students that went under Godric Gryffindor’s old hat, remembering the nadir of no more than forty students in his year and a similar number in the year below—the result of the tumultuous last two years of Voldemort’s purges and the subsequent excision his mother and her allies had carried out against the scattered Death Eaters.

Now, with every year that passed, he got to watch Nott and his little coterie of bigots looking increasingly angry and fearful as more and more students joined from traditionally ‘light’ families and, worse, those who were quite obviously muggleborns—or rather, ‘first gens.’

He suspected it wouldn’t be long until even within the hallowed halls of the House of Salazar Slytherin, the purist faction, or at least the most militant purists, were reduced to social outcasts.

“Mister Potter!” They weren’t far from the Great Hall’s doors when the sharp Highland brogue of Professor McGonagall cut across the Entrance Hall, bringing Harry, Hermione, and Daphne to a sudden halt as they turned to see the Deputy Headmistress cutting through the crowd of students, a pillar of tartan-lined robes.

“Mister Potter, if you would spare me a few moments?” It wasn’t a question, but before Harry could do more than glance at the girls at his sides, McGonagall turned to them; “Miss Granger, this will affect you as well, and since even Professor Snape has yet to invent a solvent potent enough to detach you from my Lions, Miss Greengrass, you might as well follow me too.”

They were swiftly joined by Neville Longbottom, the male Gryffindor prefect for their year. McGonagall led them to the antechamber where she usually received the incoming First Years before the sorting ceremony.

Waiting for them was a young woman, not more than ten years their elder. Dark-haired with a pink flush about her cheeks of someone who spent a deal of time outdoors and a roguish smirk that played about her lips—A contrast to McGonagall’s stern regard for her students.

Not that Harry cared for her dignity that much…

“Aunt Minnie!” He exclaimed as soon as the door swung closed behind them, galumphing her in a bear hug, pleased to realize that he was overtaking the Transfiguration mistress in height despite her being one of the taller members of the faculty.

“Gods, I should never have indulged your father and his band of terrors.” McGonagall shook her head in despair as she patted Harry on the back. “That or I should have retired before you could bring a fresh generation of Potter chaos to my school.”

“Grey is a stately color,” Harry argued.

“Indeed, Mister Potter? Sadly, I’ve been going white since you turned up in this castle.” McGonagall sighed, though she knew from the giggle behind her that she wasn’t doing a particularly good job hiding her fondness for the son of two of her favorite students and the godson of two more—Three if you counted Remus Lupin.

“I didn’t bring you here to discuss the effects on one’s coiffure of extended exposure to Potters and associated chaos-doers. I’d like to introduce you to Miss—”

“Gwenog Jones!” Neville gasped. The boy had been looking back and forth between the unfamiliar face and his godbrother’s fearless approach to their feared Professor. It had taken him a minute to place the woman’s face when she wasn’t wearing Harpies’ yellow.

“Y’ve heard of me then?” The newcomer raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t have to share a common room for three years with your sister,” Hermione commented, a wry look on her face. “Hestia couldn’t go a day without mentioning your achievements.”

“Miss Jones,” McGonagall continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “recently suffered an injury which requires a period of respite from the rigors of the pitch. At the request of Madam Hooch, Miss Jones has most charitably agreed to take on a role here at Hogwarts, mentoring Quidditch players of such sufficient talent as to be worthy of official attention.”

Harry pumped a fist in the air, grinning widely, which McGonagall ignored but for a moment’s pause.

“However…” she spared him a stern glance, “as I’m sure you’re aware, over the past few years, I have been taking up increasing amounts of the administrative burden of this school in my role as Deputy Headmistress, something that I am largely capable of doing alongside my duties as Professor of Transfiguration. I fear I cannot offer the same attention to the position of Head of Gryffindor House. I have offered Miss Jones this appointment, though the unusual nature of this occasion, I would ask that you give her all due support.”

“Of course.” Hermione accepted immediately, with Neville nodded, though Harry still looked faintly confused as McGonagall turned to him.

“Mister Potter. As you are aware, the year above you has a limited selection of candidates for the role of Prefect. Those to whom I offered the position declined, and the only one who might have accepted is—”

“McLaggen. A boy playing man, a braggart, and an idiot who I wouldn’t trust to pour piss out of a boot,” Daphne chimed in, a faintly insolent smirk on her face.

“Aptly, if crudely put, Miss Greengrass,” McGonagall admitted. “I had been prepared to let sleeping dogs lie and be down by one Prefect. However, I find myself with a fresh appointment as Head of Gryffindor. Mister Potter, while you are not cut out for enforcing the rules, you have never been anything less than a credit to our house when dealing with younger students.”

She reached out and pinned a badge to his robes. “Congratulations, Prefect Potter.”

Harry was still catching flies when Hermione, who, most charitably was not laughing at him, ushered him out and through the Entrance Hall to rejoin the student body, flanked by Neville, who was doing his best to maintain a straight face every time he looked at his godbrother.

Daphne, by contrast, fixed him with a mocking smirk, one that meant that she really was laughing at him, a smirk she wore all the way to the Slytherin table, where she sat down amidst her ‘court’ with all the regal disdain of an empress.

They were largely the remaining non-militant traditionalists, people who had flocked to her banner not out of fondness or friendship but for the protection and status that came from being associated with her.

They weren’t friends.

The blonde remained at the Slytherin table only through the Sorting itself. As soon as it was done and the last of the new First Years were ushered to their tables. She rose from her seat, the murmur of discussion growing quiet, and crossed the hall without a backward glance.

She carelessly elbowed aside one of Harry’s dormmates and slid down onto the bench next to him, shooting a brief smirk at Hermione, who just sighed and let her head rest on her newly-minted boyfriend’s shoulder, carefully ignoring Katie snapping her fingers and holding out an open hand to Alicia. A couple of silver Sickles changed hands.

When the feast came to an end, Hermione and—after a very fond farewell from Daphne, who took her time in cuddling herself up to him—Harry ushered the new Gryffindors up the castle and through the passage concealed behind the Portrait of the Fat Lady.

Most of the students were glad to see their dorms and the beds that awaited them… Most of the students… not Harry and Hermione. Even as the last of the First Years vanished up the stairs to their dormitories, Harry could see his girlfriend watching him out of the corner of her eye while worrying her lower lip. A classic nervous tic.

This time, he didn’t hesitate and swept his girlfriend up, depositing them both on their favorite couch, a comfortably squidgy affair of red leather situated conveniently in the shadows of the hearth.

Brushing stray locks of Hermione’s hair back, Harry leaned in and kissed her soundly, this time a little more familiar with snogging his girlfriend, relishing the rumble of satisfaction that built in her chest. As soon as they had to break for breath, he trailed kisses down her jaw and nipped at the soft, smooth skin of her throat, his hands settling at the hem of her shirt where it had come loose.

Hermione wasn’t passive in this exchange, arching her back at the burning touch of her boyfriend, her own lips leaving a trail of heat down Harry’s cheek.

“For fuck—Enough, you two!” They were suddenly interrupted by the presence of their new head of house who had approached unseen, a look of exasperation plastered across her face as Harry and Hermione tried to spring apart, only to end up in a pile of limbs and robes on the rug in front of their sofa.

“Sorry, Miss Jones.” Harry tried to give her a winning smile, spoiled by the fact that Hermione was burying her face in his robe out of mortification.

“Merlin. Look, you two got lucky this time, but McG will be breathing down my neck if she gets wind of you two necking in front of the impressionable firsties.”

“We won’t—” Harry tried, only for the Gwenog to dismiss his protest with a wave of her hand.

“I’m not that much older than you. I know telling you to take vows of chastity won’t work, so I’ll just tell you to find somewhere private for this.” She paused for a moment, considering something. “Tell you what, since I will rely on you for help while I settle in. I’m sure you know, but each house has rooms for a head boy and head girl. At the moment, the Gryffindor ones are empty. It’s behind the portrait of Muldoon Cragg, and the password is ‘Nevis,’ as in the mountain.”

With that, she departed, and Hermione finally managed to look Harry in the eyes, even if she was still blushing. He saw in her gaze a considering look and an unfamiliar emotion beyond it.

His girlfriend was suddenly on her feet, tugging him up without giving him a moment, dragging him across the Gryffindor common room, hissing out the password, and pulling him into the passageway beyond.

“Hermione!” Harry protested, only to be ignored until she’d pulled him into a room, the lamps around the walls lighting at a swish of her wand, illuminating a chamber much in the same style as the common room, but smaller and more intimate, with two doors on the far side, each with a brass plaque bearing the title of their occupant.

“Hermione!” Harry snapped, this time getting her attention. “Aren’t you moving a bit too fast?”

“Harry, we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend for four years,” Hermione glared at him. “Only due to obliviousness and cowardice, it’s taken until today to admit it to each other. I’m not asking us to do more than sleep together tonight, especially since someone ate enough treacle tart for a month. Still, I won’t deal with my dorm mates tonight when I could be cuddled up in bed with you.”

“But our trunks and our PJs aren’t—” Harry got half the thought out before shutting his mouth. Why was he objecting anyway?

Hermione pulled him into the Head Boy’s bedroom, a lamp coming on when the door opened, bathing it in a warm light.

There was a four-poster bed, easily double the size of their already generously sized dorm beds. A large desk carved from dark wood, a window concealed by crimson curtains. A hearth of stone with a good supply of cut logs set to one side and a door, which, when opened, revealed a bathroom with the usual toilet, sink, and shower, but also a full-size plunge pool sunk into the flagstones.

“We are so making use of that.” Hermione decided as Harry set about casting spells that replaced toothpaste and mouthwash. It was enough for the time being before she pushed him out of the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

Harry was more than a little bemused by his demure best friend turning into a fiery little wildcat on him. He sank onto the edge of the bed, shrugging off his robes, kicking off his shoes, and undoing his tie.

He’d done no more by the time Hermione returned, stealing the breath from his body as she sauntered back in, her hair, usually done up, brushed out in gentle curls that hung loose, and her body clad in nothing more than a lacey set of lingerie, displaying her house affiliation with the gold fittings and the crimson of lace.

Hermione also displayed that she had grown up a fair bit over the past year or two. Harry struggled to tear his eyes from tracing her body from her swaying hips and the close-fitting panties that hid concealed so little, past the soft-yet-hard midriff between the two pieces of lingerie, developed by necessity, keeping up with him as a duellist and climbing the seven floors and many towers of Hogwarts.

Finally, his gaze fixated on his girlfriend’s breasts. She wasn’t Lavender or Susan, but Hermione was far, far from flat-chested, and the scraps of lace that formed her brasserie barely contained her chest.

“Like it?” Hermione gave him a confidant smirk, doing a little twirl.

“Hermione, if I’ve never said this before, please forgive me for being an idiot.” Harry took a deep breath, suddenly finding his throat very tight as his girlfriend sauntered up to him, her hands finding his. “You, Hermione Granger, are beautiful.”

He kissed her thoroughly, relishing every whimper, every taste, every moment of their embrace, relishing how eagerly Hermione let his tongue explore her mouth, spending what felt like hours with her nearly-nude form pressed up against his body.

It was all he could do not to weep as she pushed him back, marshaling a stern look that she fixed upon him.

“You, Mister, are wearing far too much.”

“Oh?” Harry asked.

“Mhmm.” Hermione nodded, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, deftly unfastening them one-by-one until it opened. “Oh.”

Her breath hitched as she slid it off his shoulders, licking her lips as she surveyed her boyfriend’s musculature, well-formed and lithe, the build of the professional duellist he was well on the way to becoming.

“Hermione likes?” Harry asked. She wanted to carve that smirk off his face for a moment.

“Hermione likes. A lot.” He chuckled at her reply, capturing her lips in a breath-stealing kiss for a long moment until she pulled back. “Trousers, too.”

“You’ll leave me in just my boxers and socks?” Harry gave her a wounded look.

“Hmm… boxers, maybe, just maybe, you can keep them, for now at least. Socks, no, I don’t think you’ll need them.” Hermione decided as she took things into her own hands and divested her boyfriend of the offending trousers, giving him a moment to relieve himself of everything but the aforementioned underwear before pushing him back down on the bed.

“Hermione?!” Harry yelped, reaching for the covers as he realized that she wasn’t following him and tracing her gaze, which was far, far below his eyes.

“What? You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Harry, far from it, in fact. If you’ve inherited that… I can see why your mum managed to bring your family back from the edge of extinction to the point that the only larger family is the Weasleys.”

“Please, can we not talk about either Weasleys or my parents while we’re in our underclothes,” Harry groaned.

“...Or?” Hermione’s eyes glimmered with mischief.

“Or I find out what sort of punishments a responsible boyfriend should inflict on his disobedient little girlfriend,” Harry threatened, unaware of the flush of heat that erupted in Hermione’s loins at that proclamation.

“I’ll be a good, obedient girlfriend,” she mumbled, accepting Harry’s invitation as he lifted the covers to allow her to slide into the bed, suddenly very aware of his proximity as he doused the light with a wordless spell.

He then slid under the covers next to her, his arms wrapping around her slim waist, and pulled her body flush with his, her back pressed into his chest and his lips once again finding the curve of her neck.

“Good girl,” Harry murmured, the warmth of his breath washing across her skin.

Hermione was thankful that he couldn’t see the flush steadily overtaking her as Harry let one hand trail across her abdomen, tracing a seam of muscle until he reached her hip.

“Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Mmm?”

“Just… wandering hands. Make sure they don’t not wander. I’d be a very disappointed girlfriend if I’d gone to all the effort getting all this lace for you and found that you didn’t want to explore.” Hermione knew he could feel the naughty smile she was sporting, even with his face buried in her mane.

“Hardly all this lace, sweetheart,” Harry chuckled. Hermione could feel the vibrations from his chest. “I’m not sure how you could have managed any less.”

His fingers danced a rhythm down her skin and along the edge of her panties, maddeningly close yet remaining just beyond reach.

“We can find out,” she offered, eventually.

“We can,” Harry agreed, his fingers finally falling still. “Night, sweetie.”

Even as she murmured a response, Hermione found herself tasting the words, the titles he’d given her.

Sweetheart. Sweetie.

There were far worse fates than to be Harry’s Sweetheart.

Really, there were few better fates, in her opinion.

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