Emma Watson after shooting HP movies - magic is real

“Confundus!”

She heard somebody say it from behind.

Emma slowed, puzzled. It wasn’t the first time she’d been recognized on the street—far from it. Fans usually asked for a selfie, an autograph, or just waved excitedly from a distance. But no fan had ever said that.

She turned.

A young man stood a few steps away, average-looking, a bit heavyset, dark coat zipped halfway, hair messy like he’d just woken up. Nothing remarkable. Yet everything around him suddenly felt… odd. Tilted. Looser at the edges.

Emma blinked. Her thoughts didn’t quite line up the way they should.

“Oh,” she murmured, as if she’d forgotten something important. “It’s you.”

The man smiled pleasantly, as if this meeting made perfect sense.

“Of course it’s Kyle,” he said. “We were supposed to meet today. Remember?”

She tried to search for that memory—but the harder she tried, the more her mind fuzzed, like a radio with bad reception. Eventually she simply nodded, because agreeing felt easier than thinking.

“Yes… right. Sorry, I’m just—”

She lightly touched her forehead.

“—a bit scattered.”

“That’s all right,” he said. His tone was warm, reassuring, strangely familiar. “You told me you didn’t want to walk alone today. Come on, let’s get you out of the crowd.”

Emma glanced around. The street was busy. Too busy. The people seemed louder than usual, faces turning toward her, phones lifting, whispers spreading.

She suddenly hated it.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yes, please.”

The man stepped beside her, gentle but certain as he guided her with a hand between her shoulder blades. She let him. It felt natural. Expected. Her mind floated along, accepting every prompt he gave her.

“My car’s just over here,” he said. “You said you’d show me that thing you wanted me to see.”

“That’s right,” she replied automatically, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

But it didn’t matter. Her chest felt warm with relief—someone she trusted had arrived, and she didn’t need to think anymore.

She followed him toward the side street, her steps light, her expression soft and unfocused, the spell still smoothing each doubt before it could form.

“Thank you,” Emma murmured, almost dreamily. “I’m glad you found me.”

They reached the small side street where a dark gray car waited, parallel-parked beneath a row of bare winter trees. Emma paused beside it, looking at the vehicle as if trying to remember why she was there.

The man—calm, steady, pleasantly forgettable—opened the passenger door for her.

“After you.”

She smiled faintly and slipped inside without hesitation, smoothing her coat over her lap as he shut the door. The moment it clicked closed, the world felt even quieter, softer, as though the car itself muffled whatever doubts might still be forming.

Kyle slid into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and turned toward her with an eager but respectful brightness.

“I’m really glad you agreed to this,” he said.

Emma blinked. “Agreed… to what exactly?”

He laughed softly, friendly, warm—like he was reminding her of a fun secret she’d just forgotten.

“To helping me shoot my little fan project. Remember? The short film? You said you were completely on board.”

A small crease formed between her brows, but it smoothed almost instantly. “Oh. Right. Yes. The… the short film.” She nodded slowly. “Of course.”

Kyle’s smile widened, careful, reverent.

“I’m a huge fan of yours,” he said. “Huge. I’ve followed your work for years. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me—for charity, no less.”

Emma sat up a little straighter, pride warming her expression. “For charity,” she repeated, pleased by the idea even if she didn’t remember agreeing to it. “I always try to help with charity things. It’s important.”

“Exactly,” Kyle said, leaning slightly closer, voice soft and grateful. “You’re such a big charity persona. Everyone knows that. That’s why you said yes. You told me this project of mine—my personal fanfiction short movie—deserved a chance.”

She let out a small breath, dreamy, reassured.

“That sounds… like something I’d say,” she murmured. “I guess I really must have promised.”

“You did,” Kyle confirmed gently. “You're doing something incredibly kind today.”

Emma’s phone vibrated suddenly, the cheerful ringtone slicing through the quiet hum of the car. She blinked, startled out of her soft haze, and fumbled it out of her coat pocket.

“Ah—sorry,” she murmured, answering. “Hello?” She winced from response, pulling the phone slightly away from her ear.

“Oh—yes, right. I’m… I’m fine,” she said, glancing reflexively toward Kyle. “A personal project came up. Sorry I forgot to tell you.”

The phone in her hand made some more noise, and she shook her head, her tone gentle, dreamy, unbothered.

“Don’t worry about me, okay? It’s just something small. Charity-related. It's my day off anyway. I planned it for months!”

She hung up before the protest could land, her thumb moving with an absent decisiveness she didn’t entirely understand. Kyle inhaled slowly through his nose, as if making calculations in real time.

“Your manager,” he said. “Will anyone else be worried? I thought I made sure your schedule was empty today.”

Emma frowned faintly. A tiny, confused pinch of worry crept in—but it had no anchor. It floated. Why was he asking that? Why did it matter so much? He looked concerned… but only about his project, right?

“Well,” Emma said softly, smoothing her scarf. “My manager is always worried. That’s normal. Today was supposed to be about coffee and books, not—”

Her gaze drifted around the car interior, realizing she had no idea where they’d been driving. Kyle cut her off gently.

“We’re here.”

Emma blinked. The car had stopped. She turned her head—and her breath caught.

Tall wrought-iron gates rose before them, black as ink, carved with twisting filigree and curling symbols she didn’t recognize. Beyond the gates stood a towering gothic mansion, all sharp angles and dark stone, lit by flickering lanterns that didn’t look electric. The sky above it seemed dimmer, heavier, as though the place existed under its own weather.

Emma pressed a hand to the window, her chest tightening with awe and disorientation.

“We’re… where are we?” she whispered.

Kyle smiled. Not a wide smile. Not flashy. Just knowing, pleased, almost theatrical.

“I’d tell you, Hermione,” he said lightly, “but that would break the immersion.”

She turned toward him, confused—Hermione? Why—

But Kyle had already lifted something. A wand—?

“Kyle… what are you—”

The set was immaculate. Whoever constructed this set should have worked on the movies. Emma stood behind a polished mahogany desk, arms folded neatly behind her back, posture composed and authoritative. She knew small production couldn't afford to take many takes, and to screw up in such a carefully constructed environment would be unprofessional. She focused on the lines, on the emotion. The script was surprisingly good, the dialogue sharp and the plot was... quite dramatic. The only thing not to her liking was the change in Hermione's character.

She didn’t question it. It was a fan-fiction, and people are free to express themselves.

Regardless, she was Emma Watson and she was a professional; right now she was Minister Granger, in character. The lines weren’t on paper, but she felt them shimmer in her head like half-remembered script notes.

Kyle stood in front of her desk, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. He looked nervous. Guilty. Fitting the role he was supposed to play.

Emma narrowed her eyes in a controlled, dramatic way—presenting authority, just like she’d been trained to.

“All right, Lord Mayers,” she said, voice crisp, carrying the cool, elegant confidence of a seasoned political leader. “You requested an emergency audience. Something about… a mistake?”

“Yes, Minister,” he said quietly. “A mistake concerning your husband.”

“My husband?” she repeated. The script was not anything genius, yet she tried her best with the lines.

“Ron Weasley has been engaging in high-stakes gambling with unregistered bookies.” Kyle’s eyes drifted to the buttons on her blouse. “The kind who don’t appreciate debts. The Prophet would have a field day.”

Her’s eyes tracked his gaze. Her right hand lifted, her fingers undid the first silk tie at the neck of her blouse. The fabric loosened.

“And besides,” Kyle continued, stepping closer, “those bookies have been seen meeting with senior members of the Auror Office. A scandal. Conspiracy. The charges could mean Azkaban.”

Emma’s hands moved to the next tie at her chest. She pulled it loose. The blouse fell open another inch, revealing the lace edge of a camisole beneath.

“You’re telling me,” she said, “that my husband’s indiscretions could become a Ministry scandal.”

“That they will,” Kyle corrected. His eyes remained fixed on the exposed skin. “Unless the right favors… the right cooperation… comes from the Minister herself.”

Emma’s hands went to the final button at her waist. She undid it, and shrugged her shoulders letting the blouse slid down her arms. It dropped to the floor behind the desk. She stood in her camisole.

“What,” she asked, “exactly does this cooperation entail?”

Kyle’s eyes darkened, the nervousness she had seen earlier entirely gone. Maybe he will be able to make it on the big screen.

“I think you know what I need, Minister,” he said, his voice low. A bit over for her liking, yet she did work with worse.

Emma’s chin dipped in a single, slow nod. Her hands moved to the hem of her white camisole. She gathered the fabric and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion, letting it fall to join the blouse on the floor. She stood in a simple, lace-trimmed bra.

A slow smile spread across Kyle’s face. He gave a slight, approving nod of his own.

He stepped around the desk. He did not rush, good, camera likes fluid motions. His right hand came up, his fingers making contact with the skin above her bra strap. He traced a line over her collarbone, then down, his palm cupping the curve of her breast through the lace. His thumb brushed back and forth.

Emma’s breath hitched audibly. This was a bit new for her, no intimacy coordinator, no closed set... For a moment she thought about something wrong with the whole thing. But the camera, where was it, was rolling, and the scene demanded commitment.

“Mhhh—Lord Mayers, please,” she murmured, biting her lower lip and adopting the “seductive look” the director had suggested in the script. She thought it came out alright. At least Kyle continued the act and his other hand came up to work the clasp of her bra at the back.

After a brief fumble, the clasp gave way. The bra loosened. He hooked a finger under the strap on her shoulder and pulled it down, followed by the other. The garment slid down her arms, baring her breasts to the cool, still air of the set. For a moment she looked down, thinking about how come this was the first time she ever showed her naked breasts to camera.

Kyle’s hands didn’t rush. His fingers traced the shape of them—first the outer curves, then the soft weight of each breast settling into his palms. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with deliberate, circling pressure. Watching her reaction closely, he pinched one lightly between his fingers—just enough to make her gasp—and grinned when she instinctively arched into the touch.

Emma got a bit worried, this was definitely making her aroused. It was not the first time that happen on a set, just the first time she could use these feeling for her acting. "My Lord, your fingers are so rough," she breathed, her voice catching when his grip tightened slightly, kneading the soft flesh of her skin. Could she improvise here, she wondered...

Emma bit her lower lip, letting her eyes flutter halfway shut—not just acting now. She let herself lean into his touch, her hands moving to cover his, guiding them in slow, deliberate circles over her breasts. "You... you know exactly how to touch me," she murmured, and the slight tremor in her voice wasn't entirely feigned now.

Kyle exhaled roughly, his grip tightening just enough to make her breath hitch. Then, with one hand still cupping her breast, he guided her downward gently but insistently, his fingers threading through her hair as she sank to her knees before him. The hardwood floor pressed cool against her bare skin, and for a fleeting moment, Emma hesitated—her mind flickering with the awareness that this wasn't just her usual powerfull woman role.

His belt clicked open. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Emma stared at the exposed waistband of his trousers, her pulse quickening as he worked the zipper down, freeing his cock—already hard, flushed dark against the pale fabric of his pants. She swallowed thickly, her thoughts tangling. *This isn't Hermione. This isn't feminist. This isn't—*

But then Kyle's fingers tightened in her hair, tipping her head back just enough to meet his gaze. His expression was hungry, possessive. "Open," he said, voice low and rough—and before she could second-guess herself, she obeyed.

The first press of his cock against her lips sent a jolt through her. The taste of salt and skin, the heat of him—she flinched when the tip nudged against the back of her throat, but Kyle didn't pause. His grip on her hair firmed, guiding her forward until her nose brushed against his abdomen. Emma gagged instinctively, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her throat convulsed around him.

"Easy, Minister" Kyle murmured, though his hips didn't stop their shallow thrusts. "Just relax."

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers gripping his thighs as he fucked into her mouth with slow, relentless strokes. Every instinct screamed to pull away, but the script clearly stated that she should gag on Lord mayers cock now.

And then, abruptly, he stilled, his breath coming hard. "Granger, look at me," he ordered.

She **** her eyes open, blinking up at him through damp lashes. His cock stretched her lips obscenely, the thick weight of him pressing relentlessly against her tongue. A part of her—the part still clinging to rationality—recoiled at the image she must make: Britain’s darling feminist icon on her knees, gagging around some man’s dick. At least it's just a small production.

Kyle grip tightened in her hair and yet again the tip of his cock nudged on her throat. Emma gagged, her nails digging into his thighs, but he didn’t pull her back—just murmured a soft, “Good girl,” that made her stomach clench.

Saliva dripped down her chin, her jaw aching, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The more she resisted, the more the spell whispered how right this felt—how natural. Her own arousal coiled tight, betraying her, as Kyle’s hips stuttered. “Fuck,” he gritted out, his thighs tensing. “Swallow it, Hermione.”

The name snapped something in her. Something was off. She tried to say something, whimpered around him, but her attempts to speak with a cock in her mouth just tuned as additional stimulation. Then his release hit the back of her throat—bitter, thick—and she had **** but follow the script.

Her throat worked instinctively, swallowing around him as his hips jerked forward one last time, his groan rough above her. As soon as he pulled out, she made a little show off licking her lips, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand—just like Hermione would in the script. Her tongue darted out to catch a stray drop still clinging to the tip of him, and she pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the softened head before looking up at him through her lashes.

"Please," she murmured, voice hoarse, "don't report on Ron for his foolishness. He’s my husband...my idiot." Emma's fingertips traced the softening length of Kyle's cock, her lips pressing another worshipful kiss to the tip—a politician’s practiced groveling. The taste of Kyle's cock was a bit weird though, Emma just noticed that... she actually liked it.

Her acting partner exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening in her hair just enough to make her scalp prickle. He watched her with a slow, considering tilt of his head, thumb brushing along her damp lower lip. "You bargain like a true politician," Kyle murmured, voice rough-edged with amusement.

"But I don't recall Minister Granger being this... accommodating." His thumb pressed down, collecting loose strands of his semen all over her face. Emma's lips caught it and started to suck, this was part of the script, it's just he should have forcefully put it between her lips, not voluntarily from her part. Emma got worried, she did make quite a lot of improvisation here. Hopefully Kyle is fine with those, and we would not need to do a re-shoot.

"Lord, I can be much more accommodating," she said, the words slightly muffled. She pushed herself up from her knees, using the edge of the mahogany desk for support. She turned her back to him and bent forward, placing her palms flat on the polished wood. She looked back at him over her shoulder.

Kyle was looking a bit dazed. The script said I should have presented my ass to him, why is he not reacting? "Please, Lord Mayers. My husband is a fool, but he doesn't deserve Azkaban. My... ministerial duties have been neglected. You should punish my cheating ministerial pussy for my husband's stupidity." Another improvisation, but hopefully a save for this cut.

"You see," she murmured, turning her head to glance over her shoulder—just enough to catch the glint of his gaze burning down her spine, "this ministerial cunt needs to learn its place. Teach me what happens to wives who can’t control their husbands." Her hips rocked back slightly, her damp sex exposed between the taut straps of her discarded garter belt.

Finally Kyle exhaled, and it seems managed to get back into character, his fingers followed the script and land on her ass before landing a stinging slap that echoed through the cavernous office. Emma gasped, her knees nearly buckling, but she clung to the desk, her chest heaving.

"Again," she demanded, voice trembling. Her toes curled in her heels. "Harder. Punish your Minster! For mu stupid husband's—ah!—betrayal."

Her partner obliged with a much higher enthusiasm then was for her liking, his palm striking her flesh in quick succession, alternating cheeks until her skin bloomed a furious red. Each slap sent a jolt of heat straight to her neglected clit, and Emma bit her lip to stifle the needy whimpers threatening to spill out.

"Such a greedy little politician," he taunted, his fingers sliding through her slick folds without warning. Emma cried out, her hips jerking forward—only for him to yank her back by the hair, forcing her to take the rough intrusion of two fingers with no preamble.

"You wanted punishment," Kyle reminded her, curling his fingers cruelly inside her. "But I think you just like being fucked dumb in your own office, Minister."

Emma's vision blurred as he added a third finger, stretching her ruthlessly, her walls fluttering around the relentless thrusts. She could feel her own wetness dripping down her thighs, this was not part of the script, just her body reaction. But when he started moving his fingers deeper inside she was grateful for it.

"Mm-h," Another unscripted moan escaped her lips as his fingers worked deeper, pressing against the tender spot inside her that made her vision whiten. "Lord Mayers—please—" she gasped, her forehead pressing against the polished wood of the desk, "—this ministerial cunt can't take it anymore." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and ****.

Kyle chuckled darkly, twisting his wrist just enough to make her whimper. "Oh? And what exactly does the Minister think she deserves?" His free hand gripped the back of her neck, pinning her in place as his fingers slowed to a torturous crawl.

Emma swallowed hard, her hips twitching forward shamelessly. "F-fuck me," she begged, the words dripping with unscripted hunger. "Fuck me stupid right here on my desk—prove what a worthless, cheating slut I am." Her breath hitched when his fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving her clenching around nothing. "Please—my husband's debts—my—my pussy needs your cock, not your fingers—"

The weight of him pressed against her back, hot and unyielding. She felt the thick head of his cock drag through her slick folds once—twice—teasing, cruel—before he finally, finally buried himself inside her with a single brutal thrust.

Emma screamed.

The sound echoed off the high ceilings of the set, raw and unfiltered. Her fingers scrambled against the wood, her body arching as he bottomed out, her walls fluttering around him in shocked, overstimulated pulses. It hurt—just enough to make her gasp—but worse, so much worse, was the way her cunt immediately clenched around him, greedy and ****.

"Minister Granger," Kyle growled against her ear, his hips snapping forward again before she could catch her breath, "such a tight little liar." His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, dragging her back onto his cock with each punishing thrust. "Bet you let Weasley fuck you just like this—bet you came on his cock too—"

Emma sobbed, her thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in her gut. "N-no—never—" she choked out, she knew she had to deliver the line perfectly, this whole scene depended on it. It was hard though, she was half cumming, and Kyle's rough pumps sent sparks up her spine. "Only—only you—only your cock—"

Kyle laughed, low and dark, one hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back. "Say it properly, Minister." His thrusts turned erratic, brutal. "Beg for it."

"I—I need it—" Emma gasped, her voice breaking as he hit that spot again, deeper, harder. Fuck, I need him to fuck me. Bad Emma! Focus of script! "Need your cock—need you to fuck me stupid—please—please—" Thankfully, she remembered that in the end Hermione did cum as well, maybe she could time her own release?

The slap of skin against skin filled the room, her body jolting forward with each thrust. She could feel herself unraveling, the edges of her vision blurring, her cunt clenching around him like a vice. "Please—I'm close—please—"

Kyle's grip tightened. "Come," he ordered—and like the obedient little actress she was, she obeyed.

The car rolled on through the quiet streets, the hum of the engine a soft backdrop to their conversation. Emma leaned back, her thoughts still lingering on the set.

“You know,” she said, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips, “despite the plot jumps and all, I really did enjoy working on that scene. Some moments—I could feel Hermione completely. That’s rare, and it made it really satisfying.”

Kyle glanced at her, a little hopeful. “I’m glad. That’s exactly what I was hoping for—you connecting with the character.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah. Even if parts of it were… weird, it felt real in some moments. And I liked that.”

There was a pause as the car passed a row of quiet shops. Kyle’s eyes brightened slightly. “So… would you like to participate in another scene? I mean, maybe we could shoot something else together—keep exploring the character?”

Emma considered for a moment, a playful sparkle in her eyes. “You know what… yes. I think I’d like that.”

Kyle’s smile widened, relieved and eager. “Great! I promise I’ll make it smoother this time. Something that flows better and lets you really be Hermione.”

Emma chuckled softly. “I’m looking forward to it. Let’s see what we can do.”