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Top Chef

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Reviewing high-end restaurants and either making them or ruining them had become Hermione Granger’s mission in life. After the war, she hadn’t wanted to join the Ministry as the boys had. She elected to continue her studies, but not in Britain. Instead, she went to France. She hadn’t expected to fall in love with Paris. It was so cliche to be taken in by the cafes, bakeries, and fine dining establishments seemingly on every street. So while she did complete her mastery in transfiguration, she spent far more time and energy on the culinary arts. She was capable of putting together a respectable meal, but the head chef of the Le Cordon Bleu stopped allowing her to cook after he discovered the quality of her palette. 

He had never met someone so young with such natural talent, so he instead personally mentored her with the goal of her becoming a premier food critic. She blossomed. Chef did not know a single detail of her past, nor did he care. He didn’t look at her like she was a hero, nor did he think she was damaged. While she carried her wand at all times, she didn’t use it. Not in the kitchen where she only wanted to taste the freshness of the ingredients and the spices chosen by the chef. 

During her time in France, she thought of those she left behind. She hadn’t gone without regrets. One witch in particular still crept into her dreams. The memory of their only kiss in the heat of battle still lingered. But the lovely witch shortly suffered the kind of loss that a new romance had no place in. Not to mention that there were plenty of everyday challenges that would have made their match unlikely. 

Instead, Hermione had buried herself in work and indulged in the beautiful women of Paris. She worked studiously under her mentor for just shy of 7 years before he declared that she had learned everything that he could teach her. In one move, he fired her and sent her to a Paris-based English language newspaper, where she was hired on the spot. The first two years were hard. She filed many stories that were never printed or ended up next to the obituaries. But due to her persistence and networking in the restaurant community, she slowly worked towards the front of the Arts section. She learned that being a great writer and critic of food was to tell the full breadth of the story, not just the flavors. 

She would have stayed indefinitely in France had it not been for her parent’s request. They had eventually returned from Australia and begun to reclaim their lives. She had given them time and as much information as they wanted about the war. But when she fully embraced the world of muggle cuisine, it bridged the divide between them. They had taken out a digital subscription to the paper and read her columns religiously. Having her mum and dad proud of her again filled a gap in Hermione’s heart that she didn’t know held her back.

Packing up her life in Paris was not easy, but there was little aside from work and professional associations to keep her there. Realistically, she only knew the London food scene by reputation. It hadn’t been something that her parents put emphasis on, nor had she ventured into muggle London during the war. She had promised herself that she would treat it exactly how she had Paris. She would get a cute flat and dive into the food scene. She didn’t have to engage with the magical world on anyone else’s terms. It was hardly as though they would know that Harriet Gregg, world-renowned food critic, and Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, were one and the same. And Harriet Gregg didn’t review magical restaurants even in France. Not only was it outside of her training, but she had rarely found magically created food that she wasn’t distracted by the flavor of the chef’s magic. 

Hermione was thrilled to have been offered the restaurant critic job at the Evening Standard . Her predecessor had held the position for nearly 50 years, and it was the most coveted critic position in London. She had big shoes to fill, and she could not wait to get into it. It was her dream job.

She was pleased to have found a flat a short walk from the newspaper headquarters in Kensington. The high street was not like living in Paris, but it had its fair share of decent restaurants and shopping. With such comforts, it was far less challenging to fit in than she had feared it would be. She had not lived a largely muggle existence in England since she was 10. She always carried her wand and used magic in private. She did not wish to make herself vulnerable, but there was comfort in it not being the center of her life. 

When Hermione worked in Paris, she relied on her network and friends to find the next restaurant to review. But in London, she found a great deal of bureaucracy involved in what was on her docket to review. It was a different way of paying her dues, but considering the woman who had held the position before her, it wasn’t a terrible surprise. She dutifully worked the list as it had been given to her. Many of the restaurants were good. Some were even excellent. But they were all boring. 

So Hermione did as she had done in France. She began the process of getting to know the chef’s in her neighborhood. She bought them drinks after dinner service and talked them out of recommendations. While not every restaurant they told her about was excellent. They were diverse and exciting. It brought her greater joy than the humdrum restaurants she was reviewing. She had been contemplating how to influence the list at work but didn’t want to waste her effort on a restaurant that might potentially be less than stellar. 

But when a lesser-known chef who was in possession of a Michlin star recommended a relatively new restaurant that he could barely contain his passion about, she knew it was the one. It was so tempting that she was willing to bend one of her own cardinal rules. And it was almost too easy. The List wasn’t even kept digitally. It was written on an old yellow legal pad in her boss’s handwriting. It was all too easy for her to insert a name magically and cover her tracks in such a way that a muggle would never spot it. She didn’t add it to the top of the list for fear that was far too obvious. For the next two weeks, she worked steadily down the list, gazing longingly at Cassiopeia.  

She generally dressed as neutrally as possible when she was working. She often didn’t want to get recognized. It could, at times, significantly alter her experience. But she was so giddy about getting to choose where she would be going that she decided to dress up, just a touch. She pulled out the black skirt from Paris that made her ass look great and a crisp white button-up. She pulled on her coat and picked up her bag. It was a 20-minute walk to the restaurant. The weather was beautiful, and she would be just in time for her reservation. 

Hermione took a deep breath as she looked at the outside of the restaurant. Cassiopeia was understated from the outside. But from where she stood, Hermione had a feeling in her gut that it was going to be every bit as amazing as her friend had said. She pulled the large glass door open, and the dimly lit interior was enchanting. 

“Good evening, madame. May I have your name?”

“Harriet Gregg.”

“Right this way, madame. The chef has prepared a table for you. We are most pleased to have you dining with us this evening.”

Hermione nodded. This was not the first time that she had been found out before the meal began. She suspected her friend might have sold her out. But if this restaurant were half as good as he described, it would be no hardship to sit at a chef’s table. She was led to a small round table at the back of the restaurant. It was close to the open kitchen but still tucked out of the way. She would be able to watch the evening unfold without being the center of attention.

She was handed a menu but took her time looking around the establishment. There was a warmth to the decor that was welcoming and compelling in ways she would struggle to describe in print. It felt like coming home. She was so overcome with the feeling that she didn't bother to look at the menu. 

“Good evening, Miss Gregg. We are so happy you have joined us this evening. Chef has prepared a special menu for you unless you would rather order from the menu.” 

Hermione looked up, a little dazed. She generally would not allow a chef she didn’t know personally to guide a meal she was expected to write about. But there was something about this place and this moment that somehow made it feel right.

“Very well. With wine pairings, I presume?” 

“Of course, Miss Gregg. Would you prefer sparkling or still water?”

Hermione smirked. 

“Go ask your chef.” 

The waiter looked momentarily stunned but walked directly into the kitchen to do as he was bid. Hermione watched his back as he walked up to who she presumed was the head chef. The chef was clearly female based on her curves. Hermione didn’t mean to leer, but they were curves that she wouldn’t mind appreciating. She had hoped that the oddness of her demand would cause the chef to turn and look at her but had no such luck. 

The waiter returned with a chilled glass and dramatically opened a bottle of sparkling water before pouring it. 

“The chef hopes you find the seven courses and wine pairings. She looks forward to meeting you at the end of the meal after you have fully formed your opinion of Cassiopeia.”

Hermione nodded. It was more than a little odd for a chef who was controlling her experience so expertly would wait until the end to introduce themselves, but she would give the woman her mystery. She was suitably intrigued and didn’t mind a bit of showmanship. 

She sipped the sparkling water and took a moment to prepare her palette. She closed her eyes and could feel her magic buzzing around her in a way she had not experienced in a long time. It was both intoxicating and disconcerting. She didn’t want to be distracted tonight. She did her best to clear her mind, meditating as she learned to in the months after the final battle. She re-opened her eyes as the wait staff returned with the first course and wine pairing. 

She turned the plate slowly, taking it in. She had been to many fine dining establishments, but this plate. This simple white plate with perhaps five ingredients was somehow more than she was expecting. She looked up to the kitchen again, hoping the chef would be looking at her. Again, she could see nothing but the white jacket and tight bun. Refocusing on the food, she gently carved her first bite, Placing it in her mouth. It was a revelation . She slowly put down her fork to fully immerse herself in the experience. Each and every flavor on the plate was perfectly balanced and seasoned. Before taking a second bite, she sipped the wine paired with it. She managed to moan but just barely. If the meal progressed as it was going, she hoped the chef was single because food this good could only be described as foreplay. 

Hermione dutifully wrote in her notebook. Selfishly she wanted to remember every moment of this meal. Her wand practically vibrated up her sleeve. She wouldn’t usually use her magic, but this was too special not to capture the whole feeling of this meal to the best of her ability. She didn’t pull the wand out. That would be a step too far. But she pushed her emotions into the pages in front of her. She knew when she next read it; they would wash over her all over again. 

She didn’t usually notice her own magic and its impact on her body. But in combination with whatever wizardry was being produced in the kitchen, she was trembling. She nodded awkwardly when the first plate was cleared and replaced with a small bowl. She treated it with the same reverence. The first taste of the soup was a religious experience. 

Hermione was of half a mind to storm into the kitchen and demand to know the identity of the genius in the white coat. And yet, she managed to keep her seat through the subsequent four courses. As much as she wanted to meet the chef, she didn’t want to miss a single moment of the best meal she had ever eaten. 

When the dessert was placed in front of her, Hermione felt bereft that the meal was almost over. While she wanted to put a face to this marvelous creation, she also did not want it to end. She watched with amusement as a rich chocolate sauce was poured over a white chocolate dome. As the chocolates melted and revealed the inner treasure, she caught a light scent that was out of place. The woody, bright, slightly sour aroma of pomegranate washed over her. The dessert revealed was caramel without a red seed in sight. Hermione mulled over this mystery as she took the first bite. It was deep and sweet. It was the perfect ending to the beautiful meal. But she could not shake the whiff of pomegranate. 

And then it hit her. Magic. Whoever had made this dish used magic or, at the very least, was magical. She took another bite as she attempted to decide what to do in this situation. Hermione was under no false illusions that she would likely be recognized. She hadn’t bothered using glamour, and her fake name wasn’t all that creative. 

In days of old, Hermione would have dropped her wand into her hand and stormed the kitchen. It was the Gryffindor way to charge into a situation, but she had learned a few things about patience during her time in France. Instead, she waved her hand, casting a silencing spell and a spell of her own invention. From the outside, the table would look ordinary and boring. So dull that no one would even consider approaching it unless Hermione desired it. It was a nifty piece of magic that came in handy more often than she would admit. 

Suitably prepared for whoever had created this gorgeous meal, she refocused on the chocolate in front of her. With the spells in place, she fully enjoyed her dessert. She was mid-moan when she registered another presence in her little bubble. She turned to see Andromeda Black in spotless whites with a single eyebrow raised and a smirk on her face.  

“Well, well, if it isn't Harriet Gregg in the flesh.”

Andromeda’s voice was a balm to Hermione’s soul that she was not ready to admit that she needed. She got to her feet, not wanting to be towered over, even if she happened to remember that the witch had several inches on her. 

“Andromeda,” Hermione practically growled. 

“Oh no. I think you can call me Chef until I tell you otherwise.”

Hermione was incensed at the presumption and stepped around the table, so they were nearly toe to toe. Her memory had been correct. She did have to tilt her head back to meet Andy’s eyes. Hermione again smelled pomegranate. The magic swirling around Andy hit her solidly in the gut. She wanted in a way she hadn't for over a decade. 

“I imagine I will call you whatever I like,” Hermione spat. 

Andromeda tilted her head for a moment studying Hermione. The next moment, she was a blur of motion. Hermione barely had the time to take a breath and certainly did not have time to go for her wand. Andy pressed their bodies together with Hermione’s ass resting against the edge of her table. 

Hermione’s breath hitched, and her hips jerked at the change in position. The chef’s leg was snugly tucked between her own, solid and unmoving. Her skirt stretched just enough for her to give some semblance of pressure where she needed it. Hermione blushed at her own pleasure. 

“You smell almost as good as my food. Don't you?”

Andy spoke hotly against her ear, which did not help keep her hips still. 

“Say it, Hermione. I know you want to.”

The younger witch groaned. It was beyond frustrating that the witch was right. She was contemplating her response when Andy bit tenderly at the tendon in her neck.  

“Yes, Chef,” she groaned, much to her chagrin. “But we will discuss this meal after…” 

“Now, Hermione. How good of a job did you do casting that spell?”

Hermione tried to think, but Andy’s hands were on her hips. She rationally knew that they carried no more heat than any other human hands, but she felt like they were lighting her on fire. She tried to think about the spell she had cast, but the heat from Andromeda’s body was stealing Hermione’s ability to form coherent thoughts. 

“Hmmm, we will just have to trust that it is sufficient, won’t we. I have every intention of discussing this meal here at the table as I would any other critic. We wouldn’t want you to be biased, now would we?”

Hermione jolted. She had been unbiased until the moment she smelled Andromeda’s magic. She had been besotted with the food before. But there was no denying the effect the woman was having on her. The food itself was an aphrodisiac. But to have this witch, she had never stopped desiring leaning against her and practically promising the fulfillment of fantasies. 

“I have plenty of notes,” Hermione gasped out. 

Andromeda leaned over to kiss her neck slowly.

“Oh yes,” she mumbled against the younger witch’s skin, “I saw you scribbling away. I knew it was either very good or very bad. Then I watched the second course. Merlin. I felt like a voyeur.” 

Hermione did her best not to rut against the leg between her own, but it was a battle she knew she would lose. 

“I can be unbiased.” 

Hermione moaned the moment after she spoke as Andromeda nipped just below her ear. 

“The night isn’t over yet. Let’s just wait and see if you can write that article and maintain your journalistic integrity. I’ve been waiting over a decade to get my hands and mouth on you. You’ll have to forgive my unwillingness to simply let you slip away again.” 

Hermione clung to the witch as she was touched rather thoroughly through her clothes. 

“Say you aren’t running off again, Hermione. I will tie you up if I have to.”

The younger witch emitted a sound that was an odd combination of a laugh and moan.

“Promises, promises, Chef,” she snarked. “But perhaps the first time, you won’t tie me up quite so publicly.” 

Andromeda smiled. It was too broad to be innocent. Hermione felt like she was about to be consumed whole. 

“Oh, but Hermione, you deserve no less for being such a brat. I should bend you over this table and fuck you. Even if they can’t see you, you’ll never stop worrying that they can.”

Hermione took a moment to try to decide the correct path. She desired Andromeda on a level she wasn’t sure she had ever desired anyone. She wanted her for their past, for her intellect, for her talent… and certainly for whatever the fuck this was. Hermione tugged her close, holding her with all of the emotion she could feel brewing between them. The sweet moment lasted until Andromeda’s hand started drifting up her bare thigh. Hermione pushed herself up so she was sitting on the table and spread her legs best she could within the confines of her skirt. 

“Yes, Chef,” she said finally. 

Andy’s responding kiss was consuming and thorough. Hermione knew she was getting just enough oxygen, but her head was still spinning. Her back was thankfully to the rest of the restaurant, though if they could see her, she knew there would be no doubts about what was going on. But the hand that was pushing the fabric of her skirt up and tracing the crease of her thigh. A warm thumb pressed over her clit through her plain cotton undies. She groaned. 

Andromeda hummed contentedly. 

“Now that we have that sorted. Tell me about the first course.”

Hermione breathed deeply and closed her eyes, taking herself back to that first moment. 

“It was a perfect opening bite. The plate alone was composed beautifully. The scallop was cooked perfectly. The carrot purée was perfectly balanced with acid and salt…”

Hermione’s reverent speech was cut short by a well-placed spell disappearing her knickers and warm fingers exploring exactly how wet she already was. 

“And what was your reaction?”

Hermione subtly tilted her hips back, making it easier for Andromeda to slip a finger in her. 

“Oh, Andy,” Hermione moaned. She jolted when the witch’s other hand sharply smacked her inner thigh. 

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my name,” Andromeda hissed. 

Hermione’s chin dropped to her chest when another finger was added.

“What was your reaction, Hermione?”

Andromeda’s voice was honey and steel. 

“I'm sorry, Chef. It was the singularly most erotic opener I’ve ever had.” 

“So this is all for me then. That is high praise. Do you often find good food so compelling ?”

Hermione gasped and rocked into the fingers. 

“Intellectually and in terms of palette, occasionally. But I’ve never. Oh, fuck.

“Don’t you dare orgasm without asking me,” Andromeda hissed and stilled her hand. Hermione attempted to move her hips, but it wasn’t the same. 

“Yes, Chef. I won’t, Chef.”

Hermione would have laughed at herself, if those devilish fingers hadn’t begun moving again. She hadn’t been so deferential to a chef since she was in culinary school. But it was easy to fall back into the pattern of speech in kitchens. A chef was a god, or in Andromeda’s case a goddess, within the walls of her restaurant. 

“Good. If you can get through all seven courses without disobeying, you will get a reward. If not, I will have no choice but to take you to my office and punish you.”

Hermione trembled. She couldn't decide if it was caused by the threat or how the fingers were now moving again.  

“The salad was inspired. The dressing…” 

“I make it in-house every day. I might be willing to teach you how to make it. My friends in Paris tell me that you have considerable talent as a chef, at least until you were tempted to the dark side.” 

“Please, Chef.”

“Absolutely not, Hermione. It's been barely five minutes. A little restraint, please.”

Hermione panted, trying to reign in her reactions. Oh, she wanted to be good, but restraint was escaping her. She hadn't been intimate with anyone in months. And damn it all to hell if Andromeda wasn't playing her body as though she had prior knowledge. 

“And the soup,” Andromeda asked. She gave no quarter in her seduction. 

Hermione tried to think of the soup but could not think beyond the pounding of her heart and the sweat at the base of her spine. 

“Oh, I can already feel it. You're about to disobey me, Hermione Granger.”

She realized that Andy could no doubt feel her muscles starting to tighten without her permission. From the effort of holding back, she suspected it was going to be earth-shattering. 

“Chef,” she whined. “ Andromeda. Please.”

“Oh, you are going to look so very pretty when you come. As you will, on your knees for me and bent over my desk.” 

Hermione let go of her control. She was smart enough to know when the odds were stacked against her. And Andromeda had no intentions of letting her win this game. 

The loss, if she could call it that, was so glorious that she had no regrets. And frankly, Andromeda Black could do anything she wanted in retribution. Much like the meal that preceded it, Hermione would keep the memory close to her heart. 

“I was entirely correct.”

Andromeda sounded smug even with her eyes still closed. 

“How were you correct, chef?”

The free laugh from the middle Black sister was entirely attractive. 

“Ah, now you know how to follow directions.  It won't help your case, I'm afraid. I always make good on my promises, Hermione. But what I was referring to was how beautiful you look coming for me.” 

Hermione leaned her forehead against Andromeda’s collarbone and attempted to breathe. The hand resting on the back of her neck was solid and grounding. 

“Being adorable won't get you out of this. Get your bag, Hermione. I think it is time I gave you a tour of my kitchen.” 

Andromeda took a step back, but not far enough that she had to let go of the witch. Hermione was grateful for her thoughtfulness. She was not convinced that she would be able to stand. But one glance at that arched eyebrow had her trying to make her legs work. With a flick of her wrist, she put the notebook in her bag and lifted it to her shoulder. Hermione smoothed down her skirt as best she could. She interwove her fingers with Andromeda's, waiting to be led to the kitchen and beyond. The dark eyes that landed on her at the initiative harbored warmth that hadn't been there moments before.

Hermione felt the brush of Andromeda’s magic wash over her. It was heady and danced on the back of her palette. It felt like a spell not so different from the one she had cast. For all of the chef’s bluster, it seemed Andy was going to be protective of her. Being tugged in the direction of the kitchen was not helpful with the state of her arousal. When they stepped through the doors, the kitchen was teeming with activity. Andromeda had clearly left her sous chef in charge of dinner service. 

Andromeda stopped them on the edge of the kitchen and turned Hermione to look at the crowd.

“We are about to go into the privacy of my office. Just take a moment and think about what I might do if I was less generous. Could you cast a spell strong enough none of them would see you coming for me? They aren't all muggles, and some have excellent palettes. The light lemon and chamomile taste of your magic could give us away easily. You are going to thank me nicely for my discretion , won't you?”

Hermione mutely nodded. Andromeda painted a pretty colorful and arousing picture without pushing her too hard. Nor did she mind at all the idea of thanking Andromeda thoroughly . She turned in the strong arms and shoved Andromeda’s hips back towards the door she assumed was her office. The chef grinned and opened the door behind her back. 

Usually, Hermione would take in her surroundings, but they paled compared to the witch in front of her. She followed Andromeda closely. Once they were both through the door, Hermione raised her hand. Magically, she flung the door closed and locked it. She had enough of the fear of being seen for one evening. She ambled up to Andromeda, watching the dark eyes. They were interested and alight with desire. She reached up and carefully unwound the bun atop her head. Letting her hair down made her look like the Andromeda she knew. The riotous curls were perhaps a bit more grey than the last time she admired them. She cupped the pale cheek and traced the high cheekbone with her thumb. 

“Why don’t you sit down and rest, Chef?”

Hermione batted her eyelashes for effect. Andromeda smirked. She walked around her desk and stood just in front of her chair.

“Next, are you going to tell me to let you do all the work?” Andy let the comment sit for a moment. “You are still quite the brat. And you are still quite adorable.” 

Without eye contact, Andromeda lowered her own trousers and knickers smoothly and sat in her chair like a queen on a throne. At least until she confidently spread her legs. 

“Now, Hermione. Come and thank me properly, won’t you?” 

Hermione intended to show a bit of backbone or at the least attitude, but she was practically drooling at the sight of the half-naked witch. She put her hands on Andromeda’s knees and lowered herself to her knees. The smell of the witch’s skin and her magic were enchanting. She traced her fingertips over the warm, soft skin. The muscles that twitched at her touch were firm, and Hermione couldn’t help her need to trace them with her tongue. Andromeda’s hand rested gently on the back of her head. She wasn’t directing her, but the solid connection was affirming. She nipped at the tense muscle in the witch’s inner thigh. The responding moan was like lava pulsing through her veins. She needed proof that Andromeda wanted her as much as she found herself desiring the witch. 

She slowly pressed kisses towards the chef’s center. She glanced up to find Andy looking down at her with intense desire. Hermione had intended to move slower, but instead, she licked slowly through the abundant wetness. She sucked firmly at the already swollen clit, watching with glee as Andromeda’s head dropped back. 

“Oh, Hermione,” the witch moaned. 

It sounded enough like a warning to Hermione that she sucked harder and tucked her fingers under her chin and neatly into the witch. The trembling of muscles was intoxicating. Hermione wanted to keep Andy on this edge forever.  Having the controlled witch on the cusp of madness was a beautiful thing. 

“This would not be the time to try that, Hermione,” the older witch growled. “You are in trouble enough with me already.” 

The hand in her hair gripped tighter. It was impossible not to be impressed with the perfect amount of pressure Andromeda was using. The tug was erotic, not painful. And fuck if it didn’t make her want to be compliant. Nor could she deny herself the sight and feel of Andromeda Black, prodigious witch, and chef, come around her fingers. She refocused her efforts, rotating her fingers to change the angle of her penetration. She smiled briefly at the reaction before redoubling her efforts. She looked up again just as the crest hit Andromeda. She whimpered at the beauty of it. 

“Fuck, Hermione. I will be looking for reasons you must thank me in the future. You can be assured of that.” 

Hermione leaned her forehead against the firm thigh catching her breath and enjoying the fingertips carding through her hair. 

“Thank you, Chef,” she snarked. 

“You are entirely incorrigible. Up, witch.”

Andromeda urged her up and into her lap, bunching Hermione’s skirt so that she could sit more easily. She captured her lips in a deep kiss. 

“I taste good on your lips, Hermione,” Andromeda commented while smoothly unbuttoning Hermione’s shirt. 

Hermione focused on kissing the witch and trying not to squirm in her lap. But after having her come undone over her, it was nearly as though she hadn’t come moments ago. 

“You are so beautiful, Hermione. Not terribly obedient, but so beautiful.” 

Andromeda skated her fingers between Hermione’s legs. Hermione knew she was wet but wasn’t aware of the scale until the fingers were touching her. 

“I had thought that I would take you slowly and sweetly now, but in light of this, I don’t know that I have the willpower. Lick my fingers clean, love.” 

Hermione happily did as she was asked and took the opportunity to pull the digits as deeply into her mouth as she could. 

“So tell me, Chef. Where do you want me?”

Hermione enjoyed the look of vague outrage followed by what had to have been a spark of inspiration. 

“Bent over the desk, as I said before. Be a good witch. No need to get undressed. I like you just as you are. I will only be a moment.” 

Hermione wanted to watch whatever Andromeda was up to but feared that she might not continue if pushed too hard. So she stood on shaky legs and bent slowly over the large wooden desk. She kicked off her heels so that she could bend more naturally over it. She considered knocking everything off the surface, but she figured that she could do so dramatically later, intentionally or unintentionally. She laid quietly, listening to Andy move behind her. She heard a drawer open and the rustling of the witch moving behind her. She gasped when something warm and hard-pressed gently between her legs. 

“Oh fuck,” Hermione moaned. “Do I dare ask why you keep a magical strap on in your office, Chef?” 

“This is an interesting time to test me, Hermione.” 

Andromeda slid the toy seductively against her. Hermione heard her mumble and felt even wetter than she had been before. 

“It was a simple question.”

Hermione could not resist the urge to push the witch just a little more. 

“Oh, Hermione.”  Andromeda held her hips still and slid the toy in her in one smooth thrust. “At the risk of making your head any bigger than it already is, Harriet. I do not usually keep this in my office. But, you cannot blame me for bringing it in the hope that I had devised a way to get you inside my restaurant.” 

Hermione had so so many things to say to that, but words escaped her entirely. She was nothing but nerve endings that were alight with pleasure. She had not often allowed a partner to use a strap on, but Andy was using it so well. And she was already so close to orgasm again. 

“Andy,” she whined. She would have enjoyed keeping up the banter, but the only thing she could think about was the building pressure inside of her and the witch causing it. 

“Yes, darling? I have to say. I like my name on your lips when you say it like that. I can’t tell you how many nights I have dreamed of having you just like this, Hermione, ever since I discovered that you were active in the French culinary scene. To have all of your intellect and focus based on what is also my passion.” 

“Please, I need…”

“Oh, I know what you need. I can feel how hot and wet you are. How you are starting to squeeze as hard as you can. Your magic is reaching out. It wants to bond with mine. Is that what you want too, Hermione? To be bound to me? To create a life together. To be bent over far more surfaces than just my desk?”

Hermione was not sure if Andromeda was serious, but it didn’t sound bad to her in the slightest. She grasped the far side of the desk to stabilize her core so she could push back into the witch. It felt even better as she moved with Andromeda. Her magic was not the only one out to play. Andromeda's magic was dancing over her skin. It was evident that they were even more compatible than Hermione had imagined. Andy’s hand on her shoulder pulled her up slightly. The change in angle hurled her into oblivion. 

“Hermione,” Andromeda husked in her ear as her hips twitched and came. 

The food critic relaxed into the desk and enjoyed the warmth of the witch at her back even as she became extremely sensitive to the toy still inside of her. 

“I missed you,” Hermione whispered as their breathing came back to normal. 

Andy kissed her shoulder gently. 

“I have missed you every day, Hermione. But I am very proud of you.” 

The older witch grunted as she lifted herself gingerly away and allowed Hermione to get up. Hermione slowly got up and turned into open arms. She buried herself in the embrace. There were plenty of things that they would need to work out. But they had time. 

“Does this mean you will make me a snack,” Hermione asked almost shyly. She wanted to see the woman in the kitchen almost as much as she wanted to spread her legs for her again. 

Andromeda laughed beautifully and looked incredibly relaxed. 

“I made you a Michelin star seven-course dinner… and now you want a snack?”

“Mhmm. I have a review to write, you know. And I do think best when I am well fed.” 

Andromeda looked at her watch. It was late, but not so late that her staff would be done yet. 

“We will have to floo to my home kitchen, which I promise is well stocked. Unless you would rather I cook in front of my staff looking rather well fucked.” 

Hermione tilted her head playfully as though she was debating.

“I suppose I can suffer going home with you and having you cook in nothing but an apron.” 

“Only if you will sous for me. You can write after you are well fed as you say.”

“It's a deal,” Hermione said, buttoning up her shirt. 

Before they stepped into the floo, Andromeda turned unexpectedly. 

“To be clear, I don’t give a damn about the review.”

Hermione smiled warmly and got on her tiptoes to press a kiss on Andy’s cheek. 

“I know. But I did promise my editor. And it was the most amazing meal I have ever had. Your restaurant deserves the review. Let me do it for your staff. But you are very sweet for your concern of my journalistic ethics.”

Andy smiled at her warmly and held out a hand. Hermione took it and stepped into the fireplace. She could not wait for the promised snack.