Together We're Harmony Chapter 11 (Patreon)

Content Warnings: Breast Play, Belting, Masochism.

The first thing she registered when she woke up was the unfamiliar sensation around her neck. It took her a moment to comprehend what it was, her panic at the strange pressure giving way to pure, unadulterated happiness.

Harry had collared her.

I’m Hermione Potter, she thought with a large smile plastered on her sleepy face. She rubbed her eyes, blearily staring at the empty space in the bed next to her. She turned to the nightstand on her side of the bed, gently swiveling the clock on it towards her so she could study the time.

They’d gotten home at eleven. Well, Harry had brought her home at eleven after the ceremony. She had passed out after her earth-shattering orgasm and had only the faintest recollections of him dressing her with the aid of their friends, and the taxi ride back to Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

It was now three in the morning, and her husband was not in bed.

She swiped her sore tongue over her dry lips to wet them, reluctantly slipping out of the warm comfort of their bed. Grabbing her nightgown from the ottoman in front of their armoire, she wrapped the flimsy fabric around her naked body and padded downstairs.

She could see the orange glow of a flickering fire through the half-ajar door of their newly renovated living room when she reached the ground floor. Drawing the nightgown tightly around her shivering body, she slipped into the room, smiling at the sight of her husband occupying the tattered armchair by the fire. It had once belonged to Sirius Black and was one of the few strings that still connected Harry to his dead godfather.

She watched in silence as he raised the glass in his hand, taking a small sip of the amber liquid it held. Her eyes roved over her husband’s bare, sculpted chest, taking in the tanned skin and faint scars crisscrossing it, not wishing to break his peace just yet.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked quietly after a minute of silently admiring him, moving to perch herself on the arm of the chair. She gently took the glass from his hands, shuddering at the familiar burn of the firewhiskey making its way down her throat.

“No. I didn’t mean to wake you, pet, I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, peering into the fire with an inscrutable expression on his face. There was a strange sense of loss and sorrow in his eyes, and for one horrible second, she feared he regretted marrying her.

“I’ve heard telling your wife your troubles often eases the burden,” Hermione whispered, a quiet yelp escaping her lips when Harry wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her down into his lap.

“But you’re not just my wife, are you, princess?” Harry asked quietly, burying his face in her hair. The effects of the copious amounts of Sleakeasy she had used to tame her hair for the ceremony had finally worn off, leaving her hair as soft and bushy as ever. He kissed her head, sighing softly. “You gave your body, heart, and soul to me, and in turn, I promised to care for you.”

“That I did. And does my heart not hurt to see my husband unhappy? If you truly wish to care for it, sir, then you will tell me what bothers you,” Hermione responded, grinning internally at her flawless logic.

Sometimes, it was her only defense against the stubbornness of her husband.

“It’s my birthday in a week.”

“I would say that’s a good thing, daddy,” Hermione teased, snuggling into his warm chest. Her body trembled with suppressed excitement as his hands pulled the flimsily secured nightgown down her arms and tossed the fabric to the floor, leaving her naked on his lap. “Makes it much harder for you to forget our anniversary.”

“I’ll be a year older than they ever were,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

She didn’t need to ask who ‘they’ were. There were times she hated herself for what she had asked for as her wedding present. It felt so utterly selfish, to pluck her parents away from their happy lives in Australia for a daughter they did not remember and probably no longer wanted. To have them in their lives when it would be a constant reminder to Harry of what he had lost.

“They never got what we have. They married in a seedy chapel, with only Sirius as their witness. They lived their entire lives as husband and wife in hiding,” Harry continued, breaking her free of her thoughts. “It feels unfair. What did I do to deserve all this happiness? What I wouldn’t give…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

“They were married. It didn’t matter to them if they lived in a manor or a small cottage, just as it wouldn’t matter to me,” Hermione murmured, gently peppering his warm skin with kisses. “As long as they had each other, as long as they had you, they were happy.”

She pulled away, straddling his lap and cupping his cheeks with her small hands. She gently pulled him down till his tormented emerald eyes locked with her warm brown ones. “Everything we have is superficial, daddy. Does it make our lives more interesting? It definitely does that. Does that mean we need any of it to be happy? No. I would trade it all for a life in a hovel if that trade meant I got to spend that life with you,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “You are my happiness, daddy. Our child will be my happiness. I think that was true for your parents too. How they married wasn’t important as long as your mother could call herself Lily Potter, and your father could call her his wife.”

“I bet they would have been livid at us for getting married in secret.”

“Probably.” Hermione chuckled. She didn’t know a lot about his parents, but she knew Lily Potter had been a woman of strong opinions. In all likelihood, she wouldn’t have taken the news of her only son eloping very well.

“You know who’d have loved it, though?” Hermione asked playfully, her lips twitching.

“Who?”

“Sirius.”

“Oh, I bet he would have insisted on being present at your collaring ceremony,” Harry replied with a fond snort.

“Do you ever regret dropping the Resurrection Stone in the forest that night?”

“No.” Harry sighed, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “It would have only brought sorrow to me, darling. I would be trapped in the past forever, deprived of the future I want to make with you.” He sighed again, louder this time. “No, it is best to let the dead have their peace. All we can do is live our lives in a way that makes them proud,” he said, his eyes roving the length of her naked body.

“I don’t think they’d be very proud of the look you’re giving me, sir,” Hermione teased, swiping the half-filled glass of firewhiskey from his hands once more.

“And what look is that?”

“Oh, you know,” Hermione murmured, tilting the glass and letting its contents spill onto her body. The sticky liquid coated her bare breasts, giving them a gentle sheen in the dim light of the room. “Your ‘my wife is so beautiful, where’s the nearest flat surface so I can bend her over it and rail her’ look.”

“And what does my wife think about that look?” Harry asked, his lips twitching.

Hermione grinned in her mind, glad that her gambit to distract Harry from the grief gripping his soul had worked. He had suffered for too long and lost too much for the wounds to heal in a single night. But she would be there, holding his hand as his wife and partner at every step of the healing process.

Besides, she thought, straightening her back, what’s a journey without a few fun distractions?

“She thinks you are far too wound up to fuck her like she wants,” Hermione teased, setting the empty glass on the coffee table close to the chair. “She thinks you need a drink.”

“We seem to be all out of firewhiskey, my love.”

“There’s some left,” Hermione whispered, her fingers threading through his hair, gently guiding his lips to her creamy breasts. A breathy moan escaped her lips as he lapped at the firewhiskey dripping from the sweetly curved mounds, her hold in his hair tightening. “D-daddy!” she whimpered when he captured her swollen, throbbing nipple between his lips. He suckled her aching teat and her head dropped on top of him, whispering loving adorations into his hair as he lavished attention on her breasts.

“Y-you don’t mix milk and alcohol, sir,” Hermione mumbled, going red at the memory of her experience with breast pumps in the club. That was one toy they didn’t personally own, but the delicious pressure was something she was eager to experience again. She wondered how she could subtly ask him to buy her a pair.

“Silly girl.” Harry pulled away, the sadness in his eyes replaced with a playful twinkle. The casual way in which he degraded her caused a trickle of arousal to seep out of her aching cunt. “You don’t make milk after a single pumping.”

She knew that, of course. But he had always been shy about this side, about some of his darker desires. He had never once degraded or humiliated her, despite her repeated insistence that she was fascinated by those (and other, more hardcore) kinks.

She had half expected him to reject her offer of total surrender at their collaring ceremony. But he had been pleased by the act and appeared to settle into their new roles with remarkable ease.

She relished the thought of a future where he wouldn’t shy away from occasionally using her like she was nothing more than a set of holes.

“I’m not a silly girl,” Hermione murmured, faking a pout. As much as he liked it when she was bratty, she knew her innocent princess routine drove him wild.

Funny how he likes me to be a brat when he’s in a soft mood and loves it when I’m his princess whenever he wants to utterly ruin me.

She was prevented from analyzing that dichotomy by his thumb pressing between her lips. She drew it deeper, gently sucking on it and looking up at him through hooded eyes.

“No?” Harry asked, the tightness in his crotch already unbearable at her behavior.

“Nuh-uh,” Hermione mumbled and shook her head, her hair flying around wildly.

“Do you mean to say you’re not my silly, cock-crazed, dirty little cumslut, Miss Granger?”

She whispered at the gentle pressure of his open hand pressing flat against her sore cunt. He began to gently massage her pussy with his palm and she was certain it was already more than she could bare.

It’s not fair, she thought petulantly. The effect and control he had over her body would have terrified her if she didn’t trust him with every fiber of her being.

Despite the desperate whimpers dripping from her lips, she marshaled her face into a haughty expression. “I’m Mrs. Potter, daddy!” she growled. She groaned at the gentle slap to her already sore pussy.

“Don’t you be insolent with me, girl,” Harry hissed. The dark undercurrent in his voice was full of authority and filled with lust, awakening a white-hot coil of arousal deep in her core.

“And what if I am?” she gasped, desperately grinding against the finger he had pushed inside her tight snatch. “What if I’m an insolent princess, daddy? What then?” she goaded him, knowing he was so very close to breaking. Their ceremony had been the kindling, and now she intended to light the fire.

“Then you’ll be punished. Severely,” Harry hissed.

Hermione had the temerity to giggle. “Master,” she whispered, using a rarely used title for him. She gently began to grind against his crotch, her juices staining the black fabric of his wedding trousers. “In all our years together you’ve never done anything harsher than spanking my ass with your palm or with whatever wooden tool you have handy. I love that our sex is intense and mind-blowing, but you’re not the severely punishing kind, daddy. You’re a softie,” Hermione teased, leaning in for a kiss.

Her efforts were interrupted by him gently pushing her off his lap. The thick rug of the living room absorbed most of the impact, but she groaned quietly as she hit the floor. His eyes were fixed on the gentle jiggling of her pert breasts, his face a mixture of lust and calm determination.

Hermione got a distinct feeling that she was about to learn a lesson. If the ceremony had been about collaring her, this… this was about breaking her in.

He grabbed her wrist and hoisted her up to her feet, pulling her to the coffee table and roughly bending her over it. She turned her head to rest her cheek on the cool wood, studying the mess of cardboard boxes piled up on each other.

“What’re these?” Hermione asked, unable to help her curiosity.

“Wedding gifts, from our friends.”

“What’s in them?”

“Ask one more question or speak out of turn again, and I’ll keep going till you safeword,” Harry warned.

Such threats were usually idle teasing, but his tone made it clear he was no longer playing. The idea that he’d seriously continue to spank her till her pride allowed her to use the safe word promptly shut her up.

“Yes, master,” Hermione whispered, gently wiggling her ass. She wondered what he planned to use. The kitchen was close by, but she could also spy her hairbrush on the mantle above the fireplace.

It has been far too long since I’ve had that hairbrush on my ass.

“I took the liberty of drafting your submissive contract while you were asleep,” Harry murmured, looking at the sheaf of papers above Hermione. It was what he had tried to distract himself with from the thoughts that had plagued him ever since they had returned to Number 12. “Pick them up and start reading them.”

Hermione complied, her eyes scanning the index to study the various sections that he had neatly divided the submissive contract into.

“This contract is now your life.”

Hermione nodded, knowing her husband meant that quite literally. She had to live her life according to the rules laid out in what she was reading.

She flipped the page, beginning to read Section I, which detailed her daily routine.

“I may ask you to read aloud at any time, Mrs. Potter, so make sure you pay attention. I’ll know if you get anything wrong,” Harry warned. He pulled his belt free from the trousers, folding it in half.

“Yes, sir.” Hermione propped herself up on her elbows, her chin resting on her hands as she began to carefully read every rule and clause. Despite her immense curiosity to know what he was doing, she resisted the urge to look back. She had accepted the role of his submissive both in and out of bed, and had to learn to act the part.

Something had changed in him too. It was subtle, but the love in his voice (which she doubted he could hide no matter what they were doing) was intermixed with a tone of cold authority that terrified her. Which, strange as it sounded, was turning her on like nothing else.

Fear is an aphrodisiac, she reminded herself by way of an explanation. And I’m a bloody masochist.

Harry pulled his hand away, the leather cutting through the air with a soft swish until it made contact with his submissive’s creamy rump with a loud CRACK.

Her pert asscheeks jiggled violently with the force of the strike, an angry red welt forming on her unblemished skin.

She screamed, blacking out for a second as a flood of sudden pain coursed through her body and overloaded her brain.

“What are you?” Harry asked, rubbing the cool leather of his belt against her throbbing ass.

“Y-your wife. Y-your submissive,” Hermione mumbled in between sobs, the tears streaming down her face completely ruining the makeup she had applied for the wedding.

“And?” Harry asked, pulling the belt away. Hermione braced, forcing herself to relax to be better able to handle his punishment. Harry brought the belt down her ass with the same amount of force.

CRACK.

“What else are you?” Harry asked calmly, studying the welt that had formed just below the first one.

She hesitated, which was a mistake, because her master brought the belt down on her thighs without mercy.

Her throat had no more strength after the first minute of screaming, and she simply sobbed, her mascara intermingling with the tears and leaving thick black trails down her face.

She was frozen in place, her hands refusing her brain’s subconscious commands to move back and protect her rump from further blows. She simply stared at the contract before her dumbly, her fat tears dripping down from her jaw and splashing against the paper.

“Will you make me ask a third time?” His voice was softer this time. He rested the belt on her back, his hands gently kneading her throbbing cheeks.

She whimpered, but slowly shook her head. He wasn’t going to stop until he heard it from her, so she said it. “I’m y-your s-slut,” she mumbled, not sure what was redder, her face or her ass. “Y-your cumdump. Your… set of holes to use as you set fit,” she whispered, pressing her thighs together to hide her arousal from him.

It was a futile effort. The heady scent of it pervaded the air around them, and the rather clumsy way in which clamped her legs together made it obvious what she was trying to do.

Harry laughed. “You did say you were interested in this,” he murmured, setting the belt down on the table. “Did you like it?”

Hermione nodded shyly, unable to voice her desire for pain out loud.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Hermione wanted to nod again. This was what she had dreamed of. This was what they had been building towards their entire relationship.

This exchange of power, this lifestyle that was so perverse and yet so loving.

But she didn’t want him to do it simply because it was something she desired.

“Do you?” Hermione asked breathlessly. Her tears had stopped, ruining both her face and the page of the contract she had been reading.

She needed that confirmation before she said yes.

“Is it bad that I’m loving every second of this? Everyone says marriage is a partnership. And yet here I am, relishing the thought of such a lifestyle.”

“It is a partnership, sir,” Hermione replied quietly. “You may have all the control, but I have all the power. If I say no to anything in this contract, it goes away. It’s a balance, daddy, just like every other relationship.”

“That’s…”

“The smart way to look at it,” Hermione replied teasingly, resting her head on the table, enjoying the comfort of the cool wood on her skin.

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about insolence?” Harry teased, rummaging in the very top box of the pile. It was a present from Teresa, and she had been kind enough to give them all manner of things to help ease their transition to their new lifestyle.

“I think I remember telling you it’ll require a lot of effort to make sure I learn my lesson,” Hermione shot back, the afterglow of her punishment awakening her bratty side. She wished Harry would turn her around so she could rest her bum on the table to give her burning skin some comfort. She tried to do it on her own, but her legs simply refused to cooperate.

“We’ll see.” Harry chuckled, pulling out the small box of salve and unscrewing its cap. He kept the lid on the table and dipped two fingers inside the thick paste, gathering an ample amount.

Hermione hissed at the sudden coolness, curiously turning her head to look back at him, “What’s that, sir?” she asked, watching him gently smear the paste on the welts on her ass.

“Aloe cream.”

“It feels good,” Hermione mumbled, closing her eyes.

“It’s a gift from Teresa. I’ll probably have to buy an entire barrel from her if you keep being your insolent self,” he teased.

They lapsed into silence, enjoying each other’s company as he smeared a thick layer of the cream onto her skin.

“Mione? Why don’t you call me by my name anymore?” Harry asked quietly.

“Dunno.” Hermione flushed. “This just feels right,” she said shyly. “Do you not like it?”

“I do like it. I really do,” Harry whispered, gently gathering her limp body in his arms and carrying her back up to bed.

She’s right. This does feel right.

Notes:

To be honest, these two fit so well together the story just flowed!