The Hogwarts Hookup Chronicles Ch. 3

Chapter 3 - So Easy

“Well, well, Meester Potter,” Fleur had said, leaning casually against the desk. Her blouse still had two buttons undone, offering a nice view that Harry had tried—and failed—not to notice. “I ‘ope zat was worth ze risk, non?”

Harry had stammered something incoherent, but Fleur just smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Relax, ‘Arry. I will not report you. But…” She tilted her head, her silver-blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, “perhaps next time, choose a less obvious place, hmm? You were quite loud.”

His cheeks had burned, but before he could apologize, she waved a hand dismissively. “Off you go, then. I won’t keep you from… celebrating your success.”

And just like that, she let him leave, her teasing laughter following him into the corridor. At first, he’d been terrified she might change her mind or report him later, but the longer he walked without catastrophe striking, the more the fear gave way to something else.

Pride.

Merlin’s pants, he thought, I got head. Not just head—amazing head. In a classroom. From Romilda Vane. His first time doing anything like that, and he could already cross it off the bucket list. Harry grinned to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets as he continued walking. He wasn’t just The Boy Who Lived anymore. He was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Got a Blowjob.

It was stupid, probably immature, but he couldn’t help it. He felt good. His steps were lighter, his chest puffed out just a little more. And as he walked, his thoughts kept circling back to one thing—when he’d get to feel that again. Harry smirked to himself, the idea of Romilda on her knees once more sending a jolt of excitement through him.

When Harry stepped into the Gryffindor common room, he was relieved to see it wasn’t too busy yet. A few first-years were huddled in the corner, whispering over some parchment, but no one paid him much attention. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, not when he was still riding high from earlier.

Grabbing a towel and a change of clothes, he made a beeline for the showers in the boys’ dormitory. The warm water hit him, and Harry let out a long sigh. For a few minutes, he just stood there, letting the heat relax his muscles.

But as much as the shower was meant to clear his head, it only filled it with images of Romilda. Her hands on him. Her lips. The way she’d looked up at him with that playful, wicked grin… Harry groaned under his breath, shaking his head.

This beats the hell out of wanking under the covers when no one’s around, he thought, laughing softly to himself. He’d spent the last six years sneaking off for some private time when he knew the dorm was empty. But now? Now he’d had the real thing, and the difference was night and day.

His chest swelled with pride as he scrubbed at his hair, the water streaming down his back. I’m not just some clueless kid anymore, he thought. He grinned to himself, reliving the moment in the classroom again.

By the time Harry made it to the pitch, the Gryffindor team was already milling around, their brooms in hand, the usual buzz of pre-practice chatter in full swing. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the field, and Harry instantly felt better just being there. Nothing cleared his head like flying.

“Oi, Potter, finally decided to show up, did ya?” McLaggen called, leaning on his broom with a smirk. “Thought maybe you’d taken an early retirement.”

“Maybe I just like making an entrance,” Harry shot back, grinning as he joined the group.

Seamus and Dean, both reserves for the team, were already chucking a Quaffle back and forth. “Oi, Harry,” Seamus said with a laugh, “Dean reckons he can outfly you. What d’you think about that?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I think Dean’s been sniffing too many potion fumes.”

Dean laughed, lobbing the Quaffle at Harry, who caught it easily. “Yeah, well, don’t get cocky, mate. Just ‘cause you’re the Chosen One doesn’t mean you’re chosen for everything.”

The team erupted into laughter, and Harry rolled his eyes as he mounted his Firebolt. “Alright, let’s see if you lot can actually keep up with me today.”

As soon as they were airborne, all of Harry’s earlier worries melted away. The wind rushed past his face, the steady rhythm of his broom beneath him like second nature. He darted through the sky, weaving between the other players as they tossed the Quaffle back and forth.

“Oi, Potter!” McLaggen bellowed from his post as Keeper. “You’re moving like a bloody snail today! Gonna speed it up, or d’you need a push?”

Harry smirked, gripping his broom tighter. “Try and keep up, McLaggen!” he shouted, diving into a sharp spiral that left McLaggen swearing behind him.

The rest of the team whooped and cheered as the practice turned into an all-out scrimmage. It wasn’t long before the usual banter took over.

“Oi, Seamus, you going blind?” Dean yelled as Seamus completely missed a pass.

“Piss off, mate! Least I don’t fly like I’ve got a broomstick up me arse!” Seamus shot back, sticking out his tongue.

“Language, boys!” McLaggen barked, though his grin made it clear he didn’t mean it. “We’re Gryffindors, not bloody Slytherins!”

Harry laughed along with the rest, feeling lighter than he had in days. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about Voldemort, or Horcruxes, or saving the wizarding world. Up here, it was just him, his broom, and the game.

The Gryffindor team filed into the locker room, still buzzing from a solid practice. Harry sat down on the bench, letting his broom rest against the wall, and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. His heart was still pounding, but not just from flying—it had been a hell of a day so far, and the grin on his face hadn’t faded for a second.

McLaggen flopped onto the bench next to him, already running his mouth like always. “Alright, Potter, what’s the deal? You’ve been walking around all bloody smug since you got here. Spill it—did you finally get laid or something?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then leaned back with a smirk, making a casual gesture with his hand—bringing it to his lips and mimicking an exaggerated sucking motion.

“Romilda.” Harry whispered.

McLaggen froze for half a second, and then his face split into a wide grin. “No fucking way!” he shouted, laughing so loud the rest of the team glanced over curiously. “Romilda? She sucked you off?”

Harry nodded, his grin stretching even wider.

“Potter!” McLaggen barked, leaning forward with a look of mock disbelief. “You dog! She finally got to you, huh? Tell me—how was she?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the casualness of the question. “Wait—you mean… you too?”

“Of course me too,” McLaggen said, laughing like it was obvious. “Romilda’s easy, mate. Five minutes of smooth talk, and she’s all sucky sucky. Guaranteed. She’s like a bloody Niffler when it comes to blokes with confidence.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Wait… so you’re saying…?”

“I’ve got her every Saturday,” McLaggen said smugly, crossing his arms. “She’s my weekly stress relief. Though I’ll tell you—she doesn’t deepthroat like Lavender.”

Harry blinked again, his brain struggling to keep up. “Lavender?”

“Oh, yeah,” McLaggen said with a grin. “Lavender’s better, no contest. But Romilda’s eager, and she doesn’t need much convincing. Just give her a wink and a bit of charm, and she’s down.”

Harry stared at him, his earlier smugness now replaced with a strange mix of shock and confusion.

Later that evening, Harry slumped into the armchair opposite Hermione by the Gryffindor common room fire. She looked up from her book, her expression switching from mild annoyance to curiosity when she saw his face.

“What now?” she asked, setting the book down. “You look like you just had a run-in with Peeves.”

Harry hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about Romilda,” he said, leaning forward.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re back to that, are we? Alright, go on.”

“Well, remember how you told me to… you know, take the lead?”

“Yes,” Hermione said slowly. “What did you do?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks already turning red. “She, uh… she gave me a blowjob.”

Hermione blinked. “In a broom closet again?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “In a classroom. And Fleur was there.”

Hermione froze, her mouth dropping open. “Fleur Delacour was there? Watching you?”

“Not on purpose!” Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “She was just… in the back, doing some kind of intern stuff. Romilda and I didn’t see her.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Harry, I swear, only you could get caught in a situation like that. The Boy Who Lived… and Got Sucked Off in Front of Fleur Delacour!”

“Can we not make it sound so ridiculous?” Harry muttered, glaring at her.

“But it is ridiculous!” Hermione shot back, still laughing. “I mean, come on, Harry. This is wild even for you.”

Harry let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not even the problem.”

“Oh? What is the problem, then?” Hermione asked, finally sobering up.

Harry hesitated. “McLaggen said… he said Romilda’s easy. That she’s done this with loads of guys. And now I feel… I don’t know, bad? Like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Hermione tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, his voice low. “I guess… I thought it meant something. Like, she wanted to be with me or something. And now it feels like I was just… another guy.”

Hermione sighed, leaning forward in her chair. “Harry, you’re romanticizing it.”

“Romanticizing it?”

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “You’re projecting your own feelings onto her. You think it’s this big deal because, for you, it is. But for Romilda? It’s probably not. She’s just having fun. And you need to realize that not everyone sees these things the way you do.”

Harry frowned, trying to process her words. “So… you’re saying it didn’t mean anything to her?”

“Probably not,” Hermione said bluntly. “Romilda’s not thinking about dating you just because she went down on you, Harry. She’s not thinking about relationships at all. Right now, she’s probably got someone else’s cock in her mouth.”

Harry stared at her, his jaw dropping. “Hermione!”

“What?” Hermione said, shrugging. “It’s the truth. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll stop feeling bad about it.”

Harry looked away, his thoughts spinning. “I guess I just… assumed it meant something because it would mean something to me.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, nodding. “You’re measuring her by your own feelings. But she’s not you, Harry. She’s not thinking the way you are. And honestly? It’s not her fault you got your hopes up.”

Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is such a mess.”

“It’s only a mess if you let it be,” Hermione said. “Romilda’s not trying to hurt you. She’s just… doing what she does. Your job is to recognize what kind of person she is and decide if you’re okay with it.”

Harry blinked at her. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

Hermione sighed. “You have two choices. Either accept that this is just fun for her and go along with it, or walk away if that’s not what you want. But don’t expect her to change. That’s not fair to her—or you.”

Harry slumped in his chair, staring at the fire again. “I just… I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out,” Hermione said. “Because McLaggen’s already got it figured out, and I doubt he’s losing sleep over it.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, he’s got her scheduled every Saturday.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a smirk. “McLaggen understands what she’s about. And he’s fine with it. So, ask yourself—can you be fine with it too?”

Harry didn’t answer, his thoughts a tangled mess as Hermione picked up her book again.

The Great Hall was bustling as usual, the clatter of cutlery and chatter of students filling the air. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, absentmindedly poking at a pile of mashed potatoes on his plate. His mind was miles away, replaying the whirlwind of the past two days like a never-ending Pensieve.

Across the room, Romilda Vane caught his eye. She was sitting with her friends, a sly smirk tugging at her lips as she tilted her head, sending him a very deliberate, very Romilda look. It was the kind of look that made Harry’s stomach tighten and his thoughts go fuzzy. She threw in a small wave, her grin widening when she saw his reaction.

Harry swallowed hard and looked back down at his plate, his appetite nowhere to be found. His brain felt like it was splitting in two. On one hand, there was a part of him that wanted to march over there, grab her by the hand, and find the nearest empty classroom. That part was loud, impulsive, and thoroughly enjoying the memory of what had happened in classroom with her.

But then there was the other part. The part that couldn’t stop overthinking.

He couldn’t help it. Romilda was hot, no doubt about it. She was confident, sexy, and clearly interested in him. But… was she girlfriend material?

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to what Hermione had said. Romilda wasn’t looking for a relationship. She wasn’t thinking about love or commitment. She was just having fun. And honestly? That wasn’t what Harry wanted—not deep down.

He wanted… more.

He wanted someone who’d care about him, someone who’d see him as more than just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Someone who’d want to be with him for him—not just because he was convenient or exciting or famous.

Romilda wasn’t that someone. She was fun, sure, but she wasn’t it.

Harry’s fork scraped against his plate as he set it down, his grip tightening slightly. What did he even want from Romilda now? Did he want her to be his girlfriend? No. She wasn’t the kind of girl he could see himself with, not long-term.

But did he want to stop seeing her altogether?

The memory of her lips on him, the heat of her body pressed against his—it was enough to make his face flush. He didn’t want to stop. Not yet.

The answer hit him like a bludger to the gut: he needed to stop romanticizing her. Romilda was fun. That was it. She wasn’t girlfriend material, and that was fine. She didn’t need to be. He’d enjoy the time they had together, but he wouldn’t fool himself into thinking it was more than what it was.

If he wanted a real relationship—something with depth, something meaningful—he’d save those feelings for a girl who deserved them. A girl who wasn’t offering blowjobs in classrooms on a whim.

Harry let out a long breath, the weight on his chest lifting slightly. He glanced back at Romilda, who was now laughing at something one of her friends had said. She glanced his way again, biting her lip in that teasing way she always did.

For now? He’d take Hermione’s advice and stop overthinking.

Harry smirked to himself, then glanced back at Romilda. She was still watching him, her lips curling into a playful smile as she bit her lip. With a quick, suggestive motion of his head toward the exit of the Great Hall, Harry gave her the signal.

Romilda’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes lighting up with excitement. She leaned back in her seat, casually tossing her hair over her shoulder as if she wasn’t already halfway out the door in her head. Then, with a subtle nod, she confirmed it.

Harry pushed his plate aside and stood up and made his way to the exit. He didn’t even have to look back to know Romilda was counting the seconds.

Two minutes later, as he walked past an empty corridor near the Grand Staircase, the sound of light, quick footsteps echoed behind him.

“Harry,” Romilda called softly.

He turned just as she caught up to him, her hand sliding over his arm and gripping it lightly. Her cheeks were flushed, and the cheeky grin on her face made it clear she already knew where this was going.

“Mm,” she purred, “I can’t wait to suck you off, baby.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head at her shamelessness. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward a nearby broom closet.

Romilda giggled and tightened her grip on his arm as he led the way. Her excitement was infectious, and by the time they reached the closet and slipped inside, Harry couldn’t help but feel a surge of anticipation building in his chest.

So easy, so easy… Harry thought, his lips curling into a grin.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving them in the dim, quiet space once again.