Reflection of DesireAuthor/Artist: inamacCharacters/Pairings:
capnolagnia: arousal from watching others smokeOther Warnings:
The magic of Hogwarts allows Pansy to have some comfort in her last year.Author's Notes:
It was good to be able to indulge in one of my favourite fetishes, and to have fun with the Mirror of Erised. Reflection of Desire
In her last year at Hogwarts Pansy Parkinson finally gave in to temptation.
She had always had a bit of a pash for Madame Hooch and in that final year, with half the students gone and the rest of the members of her house practically confined to their Common Room lest they meet some victim of the Carrows or the Headmaster lying in wait to take out their frustrations on those students unlucky enough to have been Sorted into Slytherin house years before, Pansy was not the only student to take the opportunity of extra Games lessons as a chance to get away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the classrooms.
She had never been any more than competent on a broomstick so quidditch practice was out of the question, but she could throw a neat and accurate hex, and levitation had never been difficult for her so no one, least of all the games mistress, was surprised when she had volunteered for tuition in duelling and gobstones.
But what she really liked was the quiet time after the lesson was over and all the mud and sweat had been washed off in the showers. Pansy savoured the time when the girls and mistress relaxed and talked over the games they had just played, and discussed tactics for future competitions. She loved lounging on the scrubbed, bleached benches, wrapped in a warm towelling robe and watching as Madame Hooch scrabbled around in her sports bag for cigarettes and lighter. She enjoyed the moment when the older woman struck flame from the Muggle instrument, which she had taken to using when Professor Umbrage had taken over at Hogwarts in a small rebellion that Umbrage had not noticed, but that Pansy, at least, appreciated.
And then Hooch would talk about the games they had just played, broom-calloused hands moving to demonstrate tactics, emphasising points with a casually enchanted spiral of cigarette smoke, a trail of flame.
Pansy watched every gesture, every puff and drag from the moment Hooch put flame to tobacco to the moment when she stubbed it out on the iron of the bench-end and vanished
the stub. It was a secret passion, watching Hooch smoke, and her personal reward for a game well played, a hex well cast.
And then she had to gather her thoughts together as Madam Hooch swung her bag up onto her shoulder, said something about next week's practice and walked back to the staff room leaving Pansy tense and unfulfilled.
And then she went back to the dorm and wanked herself to orgasm.
That had been enough to get her through her fifth year. That and the extra duelling tuition at a time when Defence Against The Dark Arts lessons were a joke. Hooch had never been prejudiced against the Slytherins, having tutored a succession of Slytherin quidditch teams to triumph in the House Cup competition over nearly a decade. Seventh year was different, though. It was much more difficult to find time for sports practice, and any attempt to relax and have a long chat afterwards was likely to be interrupted by one or other of the Carrows arriving with messages or tasks. The spells Hooch had taught for duelling were perverted for punishments, and when, after Easter, Draco had not returned to the school, and everything had begun to fall apart Pansy had made her decision.
There was one thing that she wanted to do before she died in this insane war. Maybe it was her desperation, or maybe it was the magic of Hogwarts working for the good of the students; for she did get what she wanted.
She had decided to find some pretext for seeing Madam Hooch in private and was on her way to the staff room to set her plan in action when she heard Alecto Carrow grumbling her way along the corridor from the other direction. Any other teacher she might have braved, but faced with the possibility of having to make her excuses under those evil, gimlet eyes she lost her nerve and dodged through the thankfully unlocked door next to the staff room.
She found herself in a sort of store room. There were chairs and spare easels and boards stacked against the walls, tables with boxes of parchment, ink, quills, chalk and blackboard rubbers overflowing on every surface. It was, oddly, carpeted and her footsteps made no noise as she eased the door closed. In fact the only sound was the low murmur of voices from the adjoining room. The wall must be very thin, perhaps only a partition. She tiptoed across the room and put her ear to the curtain which covered the dividing wall. The voices grew louder. She could identify McGonagall's voice, her Scottish vowels growing more pronounced as she became more acerbic with contempt.
Anxious to hear more, Pansy pulled the curtain aside. And gasped as she found herself looking at what she most desired. There was no wall. She was looking directly into the staff room. She held her breath, expecting heads to turn towards the intruder, bracing for Alecto's crucio
which would surely follow.
But nothing happened. The occupants of the room continued their conversation oblivious of their watcher. Minerva was excusing some new Gryffindor transgression. She always defended the students of her house against whatever the Carrows planned, as did Snape for the Slytherins. Pansy felt briefly sorry for the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students who didn't have such powerful protectors.
Pansy reached out her hand and her fingers met glass. This must be some sort of magic wall then, a charm that allowed the watcher to see into the next room but not be seen. Advanced magic. She wondered which past Headmaster or Headmistress had so mistrusted their staff that they had installed this here. A Slytherin, surely.
And then she forgot everything else as, on the other side of the glass, Madam Hooch pulled out her tobacco pouch and casually started to roll a cigarette.
Pansy's breath caught in her throat. This was what she had dreamed about. The chance to watch the object of her desire indulge in her favourite vice, without having to rein in her own response.
She found that she had dropped to her knees, the carpet burning slightly at the friction. Her left hand was on the glass, fingers splayed to blot out everything except Hooch, her right was pressed to her crotch, doing little to ease the sudden ache there.
Hooch's small hands worked deftly, smoothing the paper, laying the tobacco along it and, Muggle-fashion, sealing it with a stroke of her tongue rather than with magic. Pansy's own tongue emerged to lick her lips in imitation. Both her hands were at her waist now, unbuckling her belt and opening the placket of her skirt.
In the glass Alecto sniffed and made some remark, probably about Muggle sympathies. Hooch ignored her, plying her flint and steel with uncharacteristic aggression.
As the sparks flew, Pansy flicked her thumb over her clit with the same gesture. She'd done it countless times, imagining that it was Hooch bringing her alight, but this was even better. This was... she groaned. Her fingers stilled, as she watched Hooch bring the lit cigarette to her mouth and fold her lips around it, taking the first drag.
She held that first hit down, her breasts rising with the inhalation. Pansy's breath mirrored it, catching in her throat, pressing her own nipples hard against the stretched fabric of her blouse. When Hooch did exhale, cigarette barely shifted clear of her lips in her characteristic two-fingered grip, Pansy's own fingers curled against her nether-lips, pressing into growing wetness. She was hot now, aflame like the tobacco, a hard, concentrated heat between her legs. Her eyes were fixed on the older woman, needing only the sight of that relaxed enjoyment of her little vice to keep her aroused.
There was a rhythm to Hooch's actions; lift, draw, inhale, hold, gesture, exhale, repeat; interrupted occasionally as she contributed some comment to the conversation. Pansy matched it, breath for breath, hanging, unfulfilled on the edge of orgasm when there was a break in the rhythm, then plunging over, aching and breathless, until at last it was finished, the final trickle of smoke hanging on the air, the extinguished stub crumpled in the ashtray.