For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The hours that followed her realization were a special kind of hell. Hermione locked her door and retreated into the suffocating silence of her room, pacing like a caged animal. The diagnosis replayed in her mind, each word a hammer blow: Siphon. Parasite. Leech.
The chilling emptiness in her core was getting worse. It was no longer a passive void but an active, gnawing beast. A constant, draining cold seeped from her center, making her teeth chatter and her muscles ache. It was a hunger so profound it felt like it was consuming her from the inside out, turning her own life force into ash. She understood now that the magic she'd felt from Harry's touch wasn't just a solution; it was a temporary reprieve. The hunger would only grow, and if she didn't feed it, she had a terrifying suspicion that it would eventually consume her entirely, leaving behind an empty husk.
Her mind, a desperate prisoner, searched for alternatives. Was there a potion she could brew? A counter-ritual she could perform? But she knew, with the cold certainty of a master arcanist, that she was in uncharted territory. The Umbral Grimoire dealt with magic that was primal, fundamental. This wasn't a curse to be broken; it was a re-writing of her own spiritual DNA.
The knocking came again in the late afternoon, heavier this time, more insistent.
"Hermione, open this door. Now." Harry's voice had lost its earlier confusion. It was now firm, the command of a man used to taking charge. "You can't just lock yourself away. I'm not leaving."
She squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, Harry. Please, just go away. He was the source of her temptation, the walking, talking answer to the gnawing agony inside her, and his presence was an unbearable torture.
"I mean it," he said, his voice closer now, as if he were leaning against the wood. "I'll get a professor if I have to. I'll say you've been cursed. Don't make me do that."
The threat worked, as he knew it would. The last thing she needed was McGonagall or Flitwick trying to run diagnostic spells on a condition that had no precedent. With a shuddering breath that felt like drawing ice into her lungs, she dragged herself to the door and unlocked it.
Harry practically fell into the room, his momentum carrying him forward. He looked angry, his green eyes flashing with a mixture of frustration and deep-seated fear. "What is going on with you? You look even worse than before."
He reached for her again instinctively, and she flinched back violently, a guttural "No!" escaping her lips. The cold inside her flared, a desperate warning against the very thing it craved.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Harry froze, his hand dropping to his side. The hurt on his face was a physical blow. "Hermione… what did I do?"
"It's not you," she said, wrapping her arms around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the internal chill. "It's me. I'm… sick."
"Then let me help you! Let me take you to Madam Pomfrey."
"She can't fix this," Hermione insisted, her desperation mounting. He wasn't understanding. How could he? "No one can."
As she spoke, a powerful wave of dizziness washed over her. The room swam, the edges of her vision blurring into grey. The hunger had become a physical weakness, draining the strength from her limbs. Her legs buckled, and she would have collapsed if Harry hadn't surged forward, ignoring her earlier plea.
He caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. "That's it, I'm taking you to the hospital wing."
But Hermione wasn't listening. The moment his body made full contact with hers, the world tilted on its axis. It was no longer the tiny, incidental trickle from his hand. It was a flood. A torrent of warm, life-giving energy poured from him into her, a roaring river of liquid gold crashing against the cold stone of the void within. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly euphoric. The gnawing ache didn't just quiet; it recoiled, screaming, from the sheer force of the influx.
Her head fell back against his shoulder, a low moan of pure, unadulterated relief escaping her lips. Her body, starved for this energy, went limp in his arms.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice was thick with alarm, but his grip on her was sure. "What's happening? You're… you're glowing."
She opened her eyes. A faint, golden aura was shimmering around their point of contact, visible even in the dim light. She could feel his magic, rich and potent, flowing into her like an offering. It tasted of sunlight, of Quidditch victories, of fierce, unwavering love. It was Harry.
Her rational mind screamed at her to pull away, to stop this violation. But her body, her very soul, betrayed her. It clung to him, desperate for more. The hunger, though beaten back, was still there, a lurking beast promising to return the moment the connection was severed. She needed more than a trickle. She needed the source.
"Harry," she breathed, her voice a raw plea. She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to grip the front of his robes. She looked up into his eyes, her own wide with a desperate, feverish light he had never seen before. "Please… don't leave me. I need… I need you."
The raw, undisguised need in her voice seemed to short-circuit his panic. His confusion was still there, but it was now mingled with something else as he looked down at her—at her trembling lips, at the frantic pulse beating in her throat, at the way her body was pressed against his.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured, his voice now a low, husky rumble.
What happened next was a blur of instinct and desperation. She didn't know who moved first, only that the small space between them vanished. Her mouth found his, and it wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a kiss of desperate, primal hunger. She wasn't just kissing him; she was trying to drink from him, to draw that incredible, life-affirming energy directly from his soul.
To his credit, Harry's shock lasted only a second before he responded, his own feelings, long-suppressed and complicated, surging to the forefront. His arms tightened around her, lifting her off her feet as he kicked the door shut behind them and carried her the few steps to her bed.
He laid her down on the cool sheets, but the moment he tried to pull back, a whimper of pure, cold panic escaped her. The loss of that full-body contact was agony. "No, don't stop," she pleaded, her fingers tangling in his robes.
"I'm not," he said, his voice thick. He kicked off his shoes and followed her down onto the mattress, his body half-covering hers. The kiss deepened, becoming wet and open, a frantic exploration. But her robes, and his, were still in the way. The flow of magic was being frustratingly muffled by the layers of fabric.
"It's not enough," she gasped, breaking the kiss to look at him, her eyes wild. "I need… I need all of it. I need you."
Harry understood. His hands went to the clasp of her academic robes, his fingers fumbling with the catch. She, in turn, began tugging his heavy outer robe off his shoulders, her movements clumsy with haste. They worked at each other's clothes with a desperate, frantic energy, pulling at laces, fumbling with buttons. Sounds of tearing fabric and ragged breaths filled the small room.
In moments, they were down to their last layers, and then, those too were gone, discarded to the floor in a heap. The cool air of the room hit her skin, and she shivered, but the cold was instantly replaced by the burning heat of Harry's gaze.
He paused, kneeling over her, and truly looked at her for the first time. His green eyes were dark with a mixture of awe, confusion, and a raw, burgeoning desire that mirrored the hunger in her. "Hermione," he breathed, his voice rough, as if the word itself was an effort.
His eyes traced the elegant line of her collarbone, the gentle swell of her stomach, and then, with reverence, they settled on her breasts. They were full and perfectly round, the pale, soft skin unmarked and luminous in the dim light. They were the breasts of a woman, ripe and heavy, and they seemed to swell under his gaze. The cool air had drawn her nipples into tight, rose-pink buds, making them pebble in a way that was both innocent and incredibly inviting.
She, in turn, looked at him. The boy she had grown up with was gone, replaced by a man. His chest and shoulders were broad and defined, honed by years of Quidditch and a life of conflict. A light scattering of dark hair trailed from his chest down past his navel, and his skin was alive with the magical aura she craved. He was all lean muscle and coiled power, and just looking at him made the void inside her ache with a new, sharper kind of hunger.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, and the simple, honest words broke the last of her restraint.
"Please, Harry," she begged, her voice breaking. The hunger was cresting, becoming a painful, physical demand. "Now."
That was all he needed. He moved over her, and the first touch of their bare skin, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, was an explosion. A gasp tore from her throat as a wave of power, so immense it was nearly painful, surged into her. Every nerve ending was set alight, not just with physical pleasure, but with pure, unadulterated magical energy.
His hands, calloused from his broom and his wand, slid down her sides, his thumbs brushing the soft, full undersides of her breasts, sending shivers of pleasure and jolts of power through her. She arched into him, a silent plea for more. He obliged, his mouth leaving hers to trail a line of hot, wet kisses down her jaw, across her throat, and finally, to one of her breasts.
The moment his mouth closed over her nipple, she cried out. The sensation was twofold: a sharp, exquisite pleasure that shot straight to her core, and a simultaneous, massive influx of his magic. It was as if he was pouring his very essence directly into her.
The void inside her was shrinking, being filled and fortified by the essence of the Boy Who Lived. The cold was replaced by a roaring, internal fire. Her mind, once clouded by weakness and despair, became incandescently clear. She could feel his power settling within her, a warm, heavy, permanent weight.
This was no longer just about survival; it was about ascension.
The physical act became a conduit for the magical. Every touch, every thrust, every gasp was a different facet of the same energy transfer. She was a woman dying of thirst who had just been thrown into an ocean. She drank and drank, her body arching to meet his, taking everything he offered and more. She met his rhythm, her own body moving with an instinct she didn't know she possessed, driving the connection deeper, maximizing the flow. She felt the magic pool inside her, solidifying, becoming a part of her. The process was ecstatic, a perfect union of somatic pleasure and arcane empowerment.
As the crescendo built, she felt the final barrier within her shatter. A tidal wave of Harry's power, the very core of his strength, slammed into her. The void wasn't just filled; it was obliterated. In its place, a new magical core, forged from his power and her will, ignited like a newborn star.
The release was cosmic. Her body convulsed, a cry of both physical completion and magical rebirth tearing from her throat. In that moment, a pulse of golden energy erupted from her, bathing the room in a brilliant, blinding light.
Then, silence.
Harry lay beside her, completely spent, his breathing deep and even as he fell into a profound, magically-induced sleep. The drain on his system had been enormous.
Hermione, however, had never felt more alive. The chill was gone, the weakness a distant memory. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. She felt… restored. More than restored. She looked down at her own skin. It was glowing with a faint, healthy luster. And as she glanced down, she noticed something impossible. She felt no soreness, no trace of the act. Her body felt pristine, whole... new. The Somatic Restoration. It was real.
A wave of pure, unadulterlared power hummed in her veins. She raised her hand, the one that had failed her so completely that morning, and whispered the word.
"Lumos."
A sphere of pure, golden light, brighter and more stable than any she had ever cast before, erupted from her palm, illuminating the room with the light of a miniature sun. It was his power, yes, but it answered her call. It was hers now.
She looked down at Harry's sleeping form, his face peaceful. A wave of profound guilt washed over her, a bitter pill in the midst of her triumph. She had used him. She had violated his trust in the most intimate way imaginable.
But as she felt the steady, powerful thrum of the new magic circulating through her veins, another thought, cold and calculating, pushed the guilt aside.
It worked.
And Harry was just one wizard. There was a whole world—no, whole universes—of power out there, waiting to be taken.
SUPPORT BY POWERSTONS