Chapter Text
In all honesty, Hermione’s not certain why she’s here at all. She always liked Hagrid well enough, but Care of Magical Creatures had been a class she was sorely disappointed by - and that had largely been a result of his being the one teaching it.
When she had received the note asking her to come here to discuss it, the plan had been to sip a little at the tea, nibble at one of his abominations he calls rock cakes, and let him down easy that she’s going to ask Flitwick if he’d be willing to consider her for her for the assistant position for Charms class. She considered reaching out to Slughorn about working under him in Potions, since he agreed to return this year, but there’s something about him that’s slimy and makes her feel uncomfortable just thinking about being alone with him.
Coming here is a courtesy, since she and Hagrid have been friends since her first year. It had seemed more polite than just putting it in a letter, especially with all the things the half-giant has said about not liking to spend more time reading or writing than he has to and it shouldn’t have taken more than two minutes maximum, but here she is, fifteen minutes later, her body feeling tired and achy, desperately wanting to close her eyes and take a nap.
It has to be something to do with the tea. She had felt oddly thirsty walking through the threshold of the hut Hagrid lives in and he’d encouraged her to, “Drink up! There’s a good girl,” which had her gulping uncomfortably at the tea. She looks down at the mug and frowns, seeing the way her hand is shaking a little. There’s no tea left to slosh around and she deposits it quickly on the table, hands flying down to her lap to clasp together to hide her reaction to his words.
Squeezing her legs together, she avoids looking him in the eye. Without Ron and Harry with her to act as a buffer, there’s something about his attention that makes her start to sweat a little. “You, uh, you said you wanted to offer me the position of- of your teaching assistant?” she can feel herself slurring the words a little, something that he definitely notices by the way his eyes are narrowed in on her face much the same way he tends to look at an uncooperative magical beast: waiting for the right weakness to show itself so he can manipulate it to do what he wants. It makes her feel warm in a way that’s a little uncomfortable, a feeling that is familiar enough that she knows what it is, even if she’s not well acquainted with it. It always makes her feel vulnerable and embarrassed and she hates it.
“That’s right,” Hagrid tells her. “I’ve had someone help me draw up the contract already, all you gotta do is sign it and we’ll make things official. What do you say, girl?”
The way he says girl sends a shudder through her body. She’s an adult in both the magical and muggle worlds, though there’s something about the way Hagrid looks exactly the same as he did when she was eleven and he could tower over her that has her wishing she hadn’t decided to come back for her eighth year. Ron’s here as well, but he’s taking a completely different course load than her and they’re rooms are far enough apart that they only ever run into each other when he seeks her out intentionally. It feels like she has more in common with the teachers than any of the students, even the others returning for their eighth year, none of them really her friends - at least not enough to make her feel like she belonged anywhere.
Ron wants to marry her and she’s probably going to say yes, because it’s the best thing she’s got on offer for herself. She’s studied enough of wizarding culture to know that, as gross and misogynistic as it is, her good marriage prospects will be gone after twenty-one and she won’t have a chance at getting anywhere in her career if she doesn’t have a pureblood name to advertise herself with. There’s only so far she can ride the renown she has for her helping Harry end the war and if she’s going to become the first Muggleborn Minister for Magic, she needs to be married to someone with old enough magical history to even get her foot int he door for that.
As much as the Weasley family isn’t exactly highly respected, there’s no one from any higher status families who have children who are both able and willing to marry her and it’s the best she’s going to get. He always gets really handsy with her, insisting on shoving his tongue down her throat and feeling up her arse, but she’s certain she’ll get used to that eventually and stop being annoyed by it. He’s handsome enough and he’s gotten a lot nicer with her than he used to be. She does like him, but a part of her wishes that Harry had been the one interested in her. He’s only a half-blood since his mother was a muggleborn, but the name carries a lot more weight and she’d always thought he was sweeter.
If she has to be married to someone, it might as well be whichever one of them is willing to offer and put up with her, since most people find her obnoxious and overbearing. She’s already been lectured by McGonnagall about it and knows that as backwards and awful as it is, there’s yet to be a feminist movement in the wizarding world and on top of that, muggleborns are legally considered second class citizens unless they can marry themselves out of it. There’s also something worse and weirder sounding, called being a mug-wife, that she hadn’t been able to find out much about beyond that it sounds more like thinly disguised slavery than the partnership she had always set her eyes on having some day - and if she wants a shot at fixing this backwards society and bringing it into the future, she has to play by the rules to get into a position to do it.
“- just sign right there,” Hagrid is saying.
She blinks at him. Her thighs are wet, but she’s not sure why, and it’s hard to focus on him, struggling to process the words he’s saying. “Sign?” she repeats, tongue heavy in her mouth. There’s a quill her hand and she frowns at it, not remembering putting her hand on the table. A parchment is laid out in front her, the words in a small, flowery script that’s difficult to read. She squints at it, able to read enough to know that it’s about the teaching assistant position that the eighth years have been offered the opportunity to work for experience. She’ll be available to him every day between after dinner and sunset, but she can’t quite make out what the list of duties includes.
“Yes, girl,” Hagrid tells her patiently. He doesn’t have his whole hand on hers, but his fingers are massive enough that they feel like they’re engulfing her hand. They’re warm and firm, making it so she doesn’t drop the pen. “Put your name right there and then press your thumb next to it, so it can record your magical signature. I’ve already done my half, so it’ll start working immediately.”
There’s something serious about the way he’s talking. He’s talking in a way that’s strangely formal, as if he’s practised what he’s going to say. “Start working?” she parrots back. Magical contracts are special, she knows that, but the information that anyone’s written down that she’s been able to get her hands on is quite limited and no one will ever give her a straight answer about how they actually work and what it means to sign a contracting in the wizarding world. She looks back up at him.
His eyes are hungry, the way he looks at his plate of food before he’s about to dive in and start tearing through it. She shivers, wishing she hadn’t come here. Her hand is moving, him guiding her just enough that her instinct kicks in and her hand moves in the right motions to sign her name. “That’s right,” he says, voice thick with something that she’s never heard before. “There’s a good girl. Now your thumb.”
Hermione gulps, legs too weak to stand up right now. She doesn’t remember obeying his command, but her thumb is on the parchment. She can feel the tingle of magic as it’s pulled out of her, flashing into the parchment, and she gives him a confused look. “Did you drug my tea?” she asks weakly.
“It seemed the best way,” he confirms. “You’ll thank me for it, else your first time would be a lot worse and I’d hurt you. The first squeeze won’t be an easy fit, but it would be damn near impossible without some help.” He lets go of her hand and she falls back into the chair with a groan, her body just too lose and relaxed to be able to hold herself up. She isn’t paralysed, but she’s not far from it and it should worry her more than it does, a fact that doesn’t make sense in her head. She doesn’t understand what Hagrid means, what he’s trying to tell her.
He put something in the tea. It’s to make something easier, make something fit that would otherwise hurt her. She drank the tea.
She’s extremely aroused and she hates it, the feeling decidedly unnatural and unwanted. Sex has never really interested in her and she’s never gone further than letting Ron touch her a little and jerking him off once and she hadn’t felt anywhere near this horny then, or even any time she’s been by herself thinking about something. There’s a disconnect in her thoughts, she can’t quite put them together an assemble a full picture of what’s happening. “Hurt me?” she asks weakly, desperately hoping he won’t notice how aroused she is.
“Aye,” Hagrid says. “You’re a little thing, you’re sure to be a nice snug fit for me even with help. You’re lucky, I’m not as big as my father. Now that man, he’d run you through with his cock from your cute little arsehole all the way through your throat.” The words sound threatening more than they are reassuring. She’s admittedly not spent a lot of time thinking about sex or how it must work, but even just the idea of something in her- her rear hole has her confused and squirming.
It doesn’t make sense that Hagrid would want to put something inside her or that he would think about what it would be like for Hermione to have sex with the man. She had always thought it was Hagrid’s the mother who was the giant and his father the man, but now they have the awful mental image of a small, human woman not unlike herself with a full giant. “What are you- What are you going to do to me?” she asks, trembling.
“I’m going to fuck you, of course,” Hagrid informs her, rising from his seat slowly to tower over her. “I’m going to split your pretty little hole open with my cock and turn you into a nice little sheath for me.”
Hermione gulps, body thrumming with anticipation at the thought. Even if she had control of her body, she wouldn’t really have anywhere to go, groaning when he reaches out to wrap his massively oversized hands around her waist and lift her from the chair. They’re big enough that they completely encircle her sides, turning her in the air so he can place her face down on the table, helpfully moving her arms up onto it as well.
She’s only wearing a thin pair of tights and a comfortable pair of panties underneath her skirt and she makes a distressed sound when he flips the material up and then tears open her tights right in the middle. Scrambling weakly at the wood, Hermione moans as he tears a hole in her panties as well, ripping them apart until they’re nothing but flimsy scraps of material. Surely he can’t actually mean to fuck her? She was a child for most of the time they’ve known each other, it doesn’t make any sense that he’d want to have sex with her.
…unless he’d simply been waiting for the timing to be right for him to make it happen.
“Please,” she croaks, legs dangling uselessly as the ambient air from the hut makes her painfully aware of how wet her thighs are. She’s not sure why there’s so much moisture down there, she doesn’t think she’s peed herself, but there’s something that’s making her feel tingly and warm and she kind of wants to relax and spread her legs that makes it hard to worry about it.
There’s no way Hagrid wants to fuck her. He’s more than three times her age. He’s a half-giant and she’s just a human girl and so much smaller than him. If his length is as proportional to his body as Ron’s is to his, then there’s no way something that big will ever fit inside her. She’s already dreading having to experience Ron’s some day and has half a thought of drinking a bottle of wine first, to get herself too relaxed to care what’s happening.
Squeezing her cheeks, Hagrid pulls them apart. “Hush, girl,” he scolds. “I’ve waited seven damn years to crush your little puss and I’m not risking Horace or one of those damn boys getting to it first.”
Hermione makes a confused sound. Professor Slughorn hasn’t ever expressed any interest in her, having always made it clear that he looked down at her for her muggleborn heritage. She feels dizzy, barely comprehending of what’s happening when something warm and wet drags across her bared hole, so big it’s able to press against her entire crack at the same time. “Ha-Ha-!” she makes a garbled sound, a violent tremor running through her.
“Now, don’t go getting used to this, alright?” Hagrid warns her. “I’m only going to be nice to you while I’m getting you broken in, but once you’re fully trained for me, you won’t get this often.”
His tongue drags over her opening again, lapping at whatever slickness has gathered from her body, and then makes her eyes almost pop out of her head when it pushes into her folds. Even if she did have something to say right now, she wouldn’t be able to say it, her mouth slack and open against the table.
The tea did this, it made her weak and unable to fight back, primed her for this somehow, and it’s also the only reason she feels good right now. She moans, eyes rolling back into her head as Hagrid licks into her, an experience she had never so much as thought about, but that has her body hot with some kind of strange need. She shouldn’t want more of this, shouldn’t want him to keep licking her, but she does and she hates herself for it.
There’s a distant, hazy part of her that feels betrayed. Hermione had thought her teacher cared about her, that Hagrid respected her as a person and would never even think to do something like drug and molest her. Both Ron and Viktor had wanted to get her naked, but she’d always found an excuse to prevent it - Hagrid hasn’t even tried to ask. He’s just making it happen, taking what he wants from her.
Hermione doesn’t remember starting to cry, but her cheeks burn with hot tears, mouth remaining split open against the table so long that a puddle of drool begins to form. The pressure doesn’t stay only his tongue for long, soon there’s the press of what can only be his finger, the digit massive as it penetrates her tender inner walls. His hands have always been huge and his fingers are no exception, so big it feels like one barely fits. It drives deep into her, curling and twisting as he widens her entrance, making her groan in pleasure. The tea is to blame, it’s why she’s soaked and leaking around his finger as he pries her open, and she doesn’t want to want this.
Her mum had always said that only slags enjoyed things like this and even with the tea, it doesn’t feel right for her body to feel this good, for her to want him to do this to her. She can feel it as her hole pulses around him, greedily trying to drag the digit deeper. “Please,” she makes a desperate sound, slurring as she clings to the table. It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open, her vision burning hot, blurred with tears. All she wants to do is curl up into a ball and cry until the feeling goes away. “I don’t- I don’t want this!”
The protest earns her a firm slap on the rump, Hagrid withdrawing his fingers so he can hit her so hard it slams her hips into the edge of the table. Before she can process that it’s happened, the finger is back with a friend, wet with something that he pushes into her. The stretch makes her eyes burn worse, her vision going spotty as her walls struggle to remain clenched around the fingers. Whatever salve he’s using tingles wherever he spreads it and she moans when he forces it in as deep as he can. “Don’t make me get the gag, girl,” he warns, pistoning in and out of her at a rapid fire pace that makes her scream soundlessly.
No longer interested in licking her where his fingers are, the tip of his tongue drags over her rear hole, wet and sloppy pressed against the rim. She’s so relaxed it’s able to dip inside there as well, squirming its way inside her arse as two of his thick fingers scissor her open. She’s not entirely sure what’s happening when her vision lights up with sparks and her body tightens with a vicious clench of pleasure, holes flexing around him. He’s merciless, indifferent to her spasming walls as his tongue withdraws and he strokes a third finger along the split open entrance, until it’s slick enough to drive in to join the others and stretch her wider around them.
She tries to say something more, to ask what happened, ask him to stop, but the only thing that comes out is a wet gurgle, Hermione unable to do anything but lie there limply and take it as her pussy is spread open wider than it was ever supposed to go. There’s a fourth finger far too soon, spreading her wide enough that he’s able to flatten them out side by side, uncurled inside her. “That’s it, good girl,” he praises, pushing them in as far as they can go. “You’re taking it like a champ. I’ve got to be careful now, this is to make sure it takes,” he says in warning, “If I use too much of it, it’ll make you too loose and you’ll be useless to anyone but my dad.”
Useless.
The word echoes through her ruined body, making her shudder weakly in confusion. She’s already ruined, isn’t she? She was supposed to be a good girl and not have sex until she got married, like her mother made her promise she’d do, and now there’s a man thrice her father’s age and thrice her size who’s going to make sure that never happens.
She had trusted him.
She had liked him.
She’d thought he was kind and misunderstood.
She whimpers when he withdraws his fingers only to wipe them off on her side like she’s something disposable. The air is cold against her widened hole and she tries to squeeze her thighs together, but her legs don’t want to work. Too soon, she hears his belt hit the floor and she opens her mouth to beg again, but then there’s something much thicker and wider than his fingers that’s sliding between her wet folds and she chokes.
Hermione’s seen a penis before, but this one feels nothing like Ron’s had in her hand. It’s huge and swelteringly hot, so big that when he rests it on her back, it feels like it stretches across the whole span of her spine.
It won’t fit. There’s no way something as long as his arm and at least as thick as her fist will fit inside her, no matter what he’s done to her.
Her mouth splits into another soundless scream when it notches into her and he rumbles out a hungry groan, squeezing both of her cheeks in his hands as he forces himself in deeper, leaving Hermione with the uncomfortable and terrifying awareness of her body shifting to accommodate his presence. Before he’d slid in, the tips of her shoes had been able to touch the floor, but they’re unable to do more than dangle uselessly now, her rear tilted upwards as he pushes so much of himself into her. Everything is fuzzy and confusing, Hermione’s head throbbing as he hits a barrier and pulls back only to slam through it mercilessly.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Hagrid makes a hungry sound, squeezing her hips so hard she can feel the bones creaking a little. He has her spread so wide, her legs forced so far apart so he can get to her hole, and the awareness of it drags a punched out sound from her with his next thrust in. “That’s it, good girl.”
Body shuddering weakly, Hermione whines pathetically. It had been embarrassing to sneak into the library to borrow an anatomy textbook, but she does know enough about her body to know that it’s impossible to be taking him this deep. The average adult female’s vaginal cavity should only be around fifteen centimetres which means he’s had to have forced his way into her womb and then forced her womb higher up into her body. It feels like she’s eaten a big meal, her stomach bloated and uncomfortable, and she’s unable to do anything to relieve the pressure.
It could just be the drug he gave her, making her unaware of it, but there isn’t enough pain to indicate that he’s giving her internal damage, yet it’s incomprehensible to her when she realises she can feel something pushing out from inside her ribcage. It doesn’t feel like he’s all the way in, but he stops there anyway, making a frustrated sound. “C’mon, girl,” he growls, withdrawing a little and grinding roughly back in. Still, her body doesn’t allow him any deeper than that, knocking against the lower portion of her ribcage in a way that makes her ears ring. “We’ll work on that,” he informs her through gritted teeth, after the fifth thrust still isn’t able to get any deeper. He’s reached the limit to how much of his length he can force inside her. “You took more than half, but there’s still more for you. I’ll get you to take it eventually.”
Hermione tries to say, Please don’t, this is too much, I just want to go home, but all that comes out is a wheezing sound. Hagrid has carved his way so deep into her body that she can barely comprehend that it’s happening and her pelvis feels awful and uncomfortable, like her bones have shifted. What had once been a very trim waist and narrow hips now feels swollen and distended and she feels out of her body in a funny sort of way, both viscerally aware of what’s happening to her, and unable to fully process it as happening to her and not to someone else while she’s forced to witness it.
With every drive of his hips, it feels like Hagrid is pummelling her into putty, using her body to jerk as much of himself off as he was able to fit into her. It’s like she isn’t a person to him right now, like he just sees her as an animal or an object, something without thoughts or opinions, that exists only for him enjoy himself.
The first time it had happened, she hadn’t understood it, and she understands it even less the second, Hermione’s entire body flashing and spasming as a blistering pleasure rips through her and makes her choke on her tongue.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Hagrid praises, his massive hand pawing at her as he strokes her side. “You’re a lucky one,” he grunts, his pace so rough and fast that it has her hips slamming into the edge of the table each time he pushes in, a wet, clapping sound accompanying it each time. “There’s spells for it, but I wasn’t going to bother with whether or not I could get you to cum, but you were born for this, weren’t you? First time I fuck you and you’re soaking the floor. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Daydreamed about my cock a little whore, hoped I was going to claim you.”
Nothing he’s saying makes sense, but he doesn’t seem to care that there’s no reply other than the occasional weak sob every time she’s able to breathe enough to make enough sound to be heard. It’s hard to suck in a proper breath with him going so fast, Hermione feeling increasingly lightheaded as he jerks her back and forth on his length like a toy. Don’t tell mum, and, I’m not a whore, don’t make it past her lips, Hermione only able to make distressed whimpering noises and shake as each press of their bodies together sends her face sliding through the puddle that’s formed from her mouth.
It’s not even all of him and it still feels like too much and she cries harder when he grips her by the waist with one hand and pulls her off the table, keeping her wrapped tightly around him. She hadn’t thought to pin her hair up before coming here, so her loose curls have gotten messy, but it’s difficult to care when she can’t even straighten her neck. Her head hangs as limply as her arms, unable to control any part of her body as he continues to use her, only now without the table to support her limbs.
It doesn’t look like her body, not the way she always remembered it. He had to have ripped her blouse open at some point as her chest is out, one moderate sized, perky breast slipped out of her plain, brown bra, her skirt high up on her waist and stretched as open as the waistband will go. She wheezes, limp and pliant, nothing but a hot tunnel for him to use.
There is a massive bulge protruding all the way up from her pelvis, her abdomen distended outward, making a crass mockery of what had just an hour ago been a slim, virginal body. She fades in and out between wet sobs and gasps for breath. Her mother had never told her that girls could orgasm as well as boys, only ever expressing scorn for what it said about a girl for her to enjoy having sex and Hermione had never thought that she’d ever be like one of them, but Hagrid said that she’s cum, and she knows what that means - at least, when a man does it. Cumming is awful and she hates it.
She orgasms for a third time as he fills her, forcing her down onto his cock as far as he can get her and growling in her ear as he does. She can feel herself rippling around him, her eyes rolling back into her head as her entire body massages him, milking out his release. It makes her feel bloated immediately, Hermione groaning in hazy confusion when a warmth starts to build in her stomach and steadily grows.
Eventually it ends, Hagrid making a satisfied sound as he places her back down on the table and slides out of her. Hermione sinks down onto her bloated, overfull belly and makes a gurgling sound, not enough strength in her body to hold herself there. Enough of her skin is slick that she begins to slide, crumpling onto the floor at his feet as he steps away from her. “I’d get your sleeve all the way broken in tonight if I had time,” he informs her, the words echoing in her impaired mind. “But I’ve a few more chores I’ve got to run before nightfall. Clean up after yourself and if you’re still here when I get back, I’ll use your puss again.”
Hermione makes a weak sound, trying to force her body to move so she can sit up. While Ron’s release had been thin and kind of watery, Hagrid’s is thick, oozing out of her in globs, and she shudders at the awareness of how much he must have deposited into her.
The door to the hut closes behind him and she heaves for air, desperate to not be here when he returns. There’s no way her body can survive another round with him and she’s increasingly aware that it’s unlikely to bother him if he manages to break her body completely, as long as he’s able to get enjoyment out of her.
She feels more afraid and betrayed than she can ever remember feeling in her life.