Potter's exclusive lignerie ch.2

The prospect of spending hours cleaning alongside Andromeda, both of them getting hot and sweaty and progressively less formally dressed as the work progressed, sent blood rushing south with embarrassing speed. Harry shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn't advertise his body's enthusiastic response to the idea.

"Where do we start?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Upstairs, I think. The living quarters might be in better shape, and we'll need somewhere to work from."

The stairs creaked alarmingly under their weight, the wood protesting with sounds that suggested they were pushing the limits of structural integrity. But they held, and the apartment above the shop was indeed in marginally better condition—dusty and stale, but without the obvious signs of pest infestation that plagued the shop below.

"Not bad," Andromeda said, looking around the sitting room with an appraising eye. "Good bones, quality furniture. Sirius always did have expensive tastes."

The furniture was covered in dust sheets that had once been white but were now gray with age and neglect. When Harry pulled one away, it revealed a leather armchair that had probably cost more than most people's annual salary—the kind of piece that was built to last generations and only got better with age.

"He lived well," Harry observed, running his hand over the buttery-soft leather.

"He lived alone," Andromeda corrected, and there was something sad in her voice. "All this luxury, but no one to share it with. Maybe that's why he left it to you—so you wouldn't make the same mistake."

They explored the apartment systematically, pulling away dust sheets and opening windows to let in fresh air. The kitchen was well-equipped but showed signs of a bachelor lifestyle—expensive appliances that had been used primarily for reheating takeaway, a wine collection that was worth more than most people's cars, and a spice rack that contained exactly three items.

The bathroom had a shower that looked like it could accommodate two people comfortably, with multiple heads and controls that suggested Sirius had spared no expense on his personal comfort. The bedroom was dominated by an enormous four-poster bed that made Harry's imagination run wild with possibilities involving silk sheets and naked skin.

"We should start with the basics," Andromeda said, rolling up her sleeves with the air of someone preparing for battle. "Get the ventilation working properly, clear out the worst of the dust and debris."

Harry nodded, trying not to stare as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it carefully on a chair. Underneath, her white blouse was fitted enough to show the outline of her bra—black lace, he noted with interest that sent heat pooling in his groin.

The ventilation system required more runic work, this time in the cramped space behind a false wall that had been designed to hide the magical infrastructure from mundane eyes. Harry had to squeeze into a gap barely wide enough for his shoulders, with Andromeda holding a light and passing him tools.

"A little to the left," she directed, leaning closer to see what he was doing. Her body pressed against his back, and he could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her blouse, could smell the expensive perfume that clung to her skin.

"Got it," he said, his voice rougher than it should have been as ancient runes flared to life under his touch.

When the ventilation system kicked in, it brought immediate relief from the stifling air that had been trapped in the building for months. But it also stirred up clouds of dust that had been settled in every corner, sending both of them into coughing fits that left their eyes watering.

"We need to get this dust under control," Andromeda said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and leaving a smudge on her cheek that somehow made her look even more beautiful. "But without magic..."

"Old-fashioned elbow grease," Harry agreed, already mentally preparing himself for hours of manual labor.

They started with the sitting room, working together to move furniture and beat dust from cushions that hadn't been disturbed in over a year. The work was hot and dirty, and within an hour both of them were showing the effects. Andromeda had loosened her blouse and rolled up her sleeves, revealing glimpses of skin that made Harry's concentration waver dangerously.

When she bent over to clean low shelves, her skirt pulled tight across her ass in ways that made thinking about anything else nearly impossible. The fabric was expensive enough to drape properly without clinging, but it still outlined every curve in ways that sent his imagination into overdrive.

"You're staring," she said without looking up, but there was amusement in her voice rather than annoyance.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, cheeks hot. Felt like he was fifteen again.

Andromeda’s lips curved. "I didn’t say I minded."

The words clung between them, thicker than the heat in the room. Harry let his eyes roam now — the way sweat darkened the silk under her arms, how the fabric of her skirt pulled tight across her hips when she bent.

In the bedroom the tension spiked. The bed swallowed the space, impossible to ignore. Harry kept imagining her stretched across those sheets, bare skin against black silk.

"Pass me that cloth," she said, stepping up onto the mattress to reach a high shelf.

He followed, the bed shifting under their weight. She stumbled, and his hands locked on her waist to steady her. Soft. Warm. Too close.

For a second neither of them moved. Her chest rose against his, fast and shallow. He could see her pulse hammering in her throat, smell the mix of dust and perfume.

"We should…" Her voice cracked, breathless.

"Yeah," Harry rasped, though neither pulled back.

Then the crash downstairs shattered it. Glass or wood. Both jerked apart, hearts racing.

"We should check," Andromeda said, smoothing her skirt with hands that still trembled.

Downstairs, one of the display cases had finally given up. The glass lay shattered, dust and scraps scattered everywhere. Among the wreckage lay pieces of lingerie that didn’t belong in the ruins at all.

Black lace, intricate as spiderwebs. Silk in deep jewel tones that seemed to glow even in the dim light. A corset stiff with boning, shaped to turn a woman’s body into something impossible.

Harry froze, pulse hammering. His jeans grew uncomfortably tight.

Andromeda crouched, lifting a black silk teddy that was little more than holes stitched together. “Trust Sirius,” she murmured, half amused, half resigned. “No shame at all.”

Harry’s imagination betrayed him instantly—her body wrapped in that silk, the cutouts revealing flashes of skin. He swallowed hard, shifted his stance, and forced his eyes away.

“There’s more in the back,” she said quickly, slipping the garment aside.

The storeroom was stacked with trunks under fading preservation charms. They left them for later. The dust and filth were enough work for one day. By the time the sun dipped low, they were streaked with grime, sweat dampening their clothes, hair sticking to their skin.

“I need food,” Andromeda announced, brushing a loose strand from her cheek and leaving a smudge behind. “And a drink. And maybe a shower.”

“There’s a market down the street,” Harry said, trying not to picture her under that shower, wet skin gleaming. “We could get supplies. Cook something here.”

The idea lit her face with a spark of energy. “Perfect. This place could use some life.”

The market was small but well-stocked. Andromeda moved through the stalls with the ease of someone used to getting exactly what she wanted, selecting tomatoes still warm from the sun, basil that perfumed her fingers when she crushed a leaf, garlic sharp and pungent, olive oil that made Harry wince at the price.

When she chose a bottle of wine, she leaned in close, their heads almost touching. “This one,” she murmured. “Life’s too short for cheap wine.”

The walk back was companionable, conversation sliding from casual to personal. Harry carried most of the bags; Andromeda let him, smiling faintly as though unused to being looked after but secretly pleased.

“You know,” she said as they turned into the narrow lane, “I could help with this place. The business side. Legal, financial, the boring parts.”

“You’d want to do that?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised.

“It could be profitable. And…” She paused, her eyes flicking toward him. “It would be interesting. Helping women feel beautiful. Desired.”

The air between them thickened. Harry’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Is that what you want? To feel desired?”

Her pupils widened, breath catching. “Maybe,” she whispered.

The word struck him like fire to dry tinder.

Sirius’s kitchen was cramped but functional, meant for quick meals and good wine. Andromeda moved with an ease that suggested practice, setting Harry to chopping while she stirred.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said, glancing at the neat slices of tomato on the board.

“I learned young,” Harry replied, the bitterness creeping through despite himself. “The Dursleys weren’t exactly nurturing. Someone had to cook.”

“What did they make you do?” she asked softly, without pity, only curiosity.

“Everything. Breakfasts before school. Dinners at night. Big meals for holidays.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I was their house-elf.”

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. And the way she said it—plain, sincere—loosened something tight inside his chest.

Cooking in that small kitchen became a dance, the two of them moving around each other, brushing close with every step. When she reached over him for a spice jar, her breast pressed against his back. When he carried a pot to the sink, her hand brushed his waist for balance.

“Here,” she said at last, lifting a spoon to his lips. “Taste.”

The sauce was rich, layered, perfect. But Harry barely noticed. Her fingers grazed his mouth, her eyes on his face as he swallowed.

“Good?” she asked, voice low.

“Very good,” he managed, his throat tight.

They ate at the small table, wine loosening their words and lowering the careful barriers they’d been holding all day. Talk of business turned into talk of family, talk of grief turned into glances that lingered too long.

Andromeda leaned forward, blouse gaping just enough to show black lace. “So. Are you going to reopen the shop?”

Harry tried to focus on her words, not the view. “I don’t know anything about running that kind of business.”

“That’s where I come in,” she said, her voice dipping. “I know what women want. What they’ll pay for. And I know you could sell it.”

“Me?”

“You make women feel safe,” she whispered. “Like you’d protect them. Like you’d worship them.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “Is that what you want? To be worshipped?”

“Maybe,” she breathed, and the word was enough to push him forward, closer, drawn by the scent of her perfume and the promise in her eyes.

“Andromeda,” he said, his voice rough.

“Yes?” Her lips parted.

“I want—”

Teddy’s wail shattered the moment like glass.

Andromeda jerked back, breathless, rushing to scoop up the boy. “He’s hungry,” she said quickly. “And probably needs changing.”

The spell was broken. But the tension clung to the air, thick and unfinished.

When Teddy was settled again, they stood in the kitchen, silence heavy.

“I should go,” she said at last, eyes sliding away. “It’s late. Teddy needs his routine.”

“Of course,” Harry said, though disappointment ached in every part of him.

At the door she paused, hand on the handle. “Thank you. For today. For trusting me with this.”

“Thank you for helping. I couldn’t have done it alone.”

“You won’t have to,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll finish the cleaning. Make plans.”

She left with Teddy, the scent of her perfume lingering. Harry stood in the doorway long after she was gone, body thrumming with want, mind full of images he couldn’t push away.

That night, alone in the apartment above the shop, Harry lay in Sirius's enormous bed and let his imagination run completely wild. The images came unbidden and unstoppable, fueled by hours of suppressed desire and the lingerie they had discovered together.

He imagined Andromeda in the black lace bra he had glimpsed through her blouse, the delicate fabric framing her breasts perfectly. Imagined her in the silk teddy, the material clinging to every curve while the strategic cutouts revealed tantalizing glimpses of skin. Imagined her in the white nightgown, so sheer it hid absolutely nothing.

His hand moved to his belt, then lower, finding himself already hard from hours of suppressed desire. He imagined her voice, professional and knowledgeable, explaining how different fabrics felt against skin. How silk moved with the body. How the right bra could transform a woman's silhouette, could make her feel powerful and beautiful and irresistible.

But his fantasies went much further than that. He imagined her on this bed, wearing nothing but that black lace bra and matching panties, her skin pale against the dark silk sheets. Imagined running his hands over lace and silk and warm skin, imagined the sounds she would make when he touched her, the way she would arch beneath him.

He imagined taking her against the wall of the shop, surrounded by all that expensive lingerie. Imagined her bent over the counter, her skirt pushed up around her waist, her stockings still on but everything else gone. Imagined the way she would feel around him, tight and wet and perfect, imagined the sounds she would make as he drove into her again and again.

His breathing quickened as he stroked himself, thinking about her hands on his body, her mouth on his skin. Thinking about all the ways he wanted to worship her, to make her feel as beautiful and desired as she deserved to feel. Thinking about her coming apart in his arms, crying out his name as he drove her over the edge again and again.

The thought of her in that corset, steel boning cinching her waist while pushing her breasts up and together, made his hand move faster. He imagined unlacing it slowly, revealing inch by inch of skin that had been hidden beneath silk and steel. Imagined her watching him with dark eyes as he worshipped every curve, every hollow, every secret place that the expensive lingerie had concealed.

He imagined her on her knees before him, still wearing the stockings and garter belt but nothing else, her mouth hot and wet around his cock. Imagined the way she would look up at him, eyes dark with desire, as she took him deeper than he thought possible.

The fantasy pushed him over the edge. He came hard, her name on his lips, his body shaking with the force of his release as he imagined filling her mouth, her body, marking her as his in every way possible.

Afterward, he lay in the dark, thinking about tomorrow. About the shop and the opportunity it represented. About Andromeda and the way she had looked at him when he almost kissed her, the promise in her eyes that suggested she wanted this as much as he did.

She would be back tomorrow. They would finish the cleaning, start making plans for the business. And maybe, if he was very lucky, they would finish what they had started tonight.

The thought made him hard again, but he forced himself to ignore it. Tomorrow would come soon enough. And with it, all the possibilities that silk and lace and a beautiful woman could offer.