Unexpected

simons_flower

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/09/2003
Last Updated: 16/09/2003
Status: completed

In answer to the question: "How would Hermione deal with a more-than-slightly-tipsy Harry?"

Chapters

1. Unexpected

1. Unexpected

Author’s Note: In answer to the question “How would Hermione deal with a more-than-slightly-tipsy Harry?”

Unexpected

“Hermione....”

Hermione Granger looked up from her paperwork when she heard her name called. She wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but it sounded like it was coming from outside.

“Hermioneeee,” the voice called again, drawing the last syllable out in a sing-song voice.

This time she could tell it was from outside. A male voice outside. Setting aside her paperwork, she rose from the sofa and went to the window.

When she lifted the sash and stuck her head outside into the July night, the male voice cried out delightedly, “Hermione!”

It sounds like Harry, she thought. And, sure enough, when she looked straight down, Harry Potter was standing beneath her window.

He was swaying slightly back and forth, the movement becoming more pronounced the longer he looked up. Before Hermione could say anything else, he shook his head slightly and shifted his gaze to the ground.

“Harry?” she called.

His head whipped up so fast, he swayed again, but a mischievous grin spread across his features. “Hermione!” he yelled.

“Harry!” she cried in an effort to quiet him. A neighbor stuck his head out his window to find out what was going on.

Hermione smiled nervously and said, “Everything’s fine.” After making a rude gesture, her neighbor slammed his window shut.

Calling down to Harry again, she said, “Quiet down and come up.”

She was struck speechless when he hopped onto his broom and flew to her window. Hovering, he grinned. It was the boyish, carefree grin she hadn’t seen on him in years.

Affecting a stern expression, she hissed, “Get in here, Harry. Stop showing off.”

He flew closer to the window and, with cursing and banging of limbs, managed to climb in the window. He tumbled to the floor, laughing, a rucksack falling off one shoulder.

“Harry,” Hermione began tentatively. She’d never seen Harry quite so relaxed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” he replied jauntily, scrambling up. They surveyed each other for a moment.

Hermione suddenly began to feel uncomfortable under Harry’s gaze, something that hadn’t happened since one night in seventh year when she ran down to the common room without her dressing gown. His eyes had lingered on her body much longer than was respectable for a best friend.

A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of Firewhiskey.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked, astonished.

“Just a few. Went out with Ron.”

So that explains it, she thought. He swayed slightly again, perilously close to knocking over a lamp.

“Sit down, Harry,” she said, gesturing to the sofa.

He fell onto the sofa gracelessly. She smiled, greatly amused. He’s going to have such a hangover in the morning. She could sober him up with a charm, but decided against it. Harry so rarely let himself go that she didn’t have the heart to cast the charm.

He looked up at her and grinned as he patted the sofa next to him with his hand. “Sit yourself, Herm-her-mione.” He stumbled over her name, then gave up and sang it again.

“I don’t think I should,” she answered, shaking her head. His grin was disarming. It was the sort of grin she hadn’t seen on him since their early years at Hogwarts. Too much had happened since then for him to be that carefree.

And, on the other hand, that grin was dangerous. Harry wasn’t a thirteen-year-old flashing that grin. He was a twenty-three year old man flashing a flirtatious grin. The body language that went with it said he’d follow up on the promise of that grin.

She told herself that her denial was better for both of them.

“Didja know Ron’s getting married?” he blurted. He shook his head. “Ickle Ronniekins and Loony Lovegood.” Apparently finding this greatly amusing, he began laughing.

Hermione was torn between shock and amusement. She decided to ignore her feelings for the moment and asked, “That’s why you were drinking with Ron?”

He nodded, then swayed when the motion upset his balance. He braced his hands on either side of himself.

“It’s lonely,” he said suddenly, staring at the ground.

“What is?”

He shifted his eyes up to hers. The fact that they were bloodshot made the green stand out even more. He waved his hands absently.

“Ron...married,” he murmured. Sadness had leeched into his voice. “Ron’s getting married and I have no one.”

“No one?” she whispered. How can he say that? How dare he say that?

“No one,” he signed and threw his head against the back of the sofa.

Hermione’s emotions veered from sadness at Ron’s news–she had thought he might still harbor a crush on her–to despair that Harry still felt so alone despite all her efforts to remedy that, to anger at Harry for the same reason.

“Harry, you’re pissed and don’t know what you’re saying.” She hoped her tone was cool enough.

He lifted his head and studied her. A slow smile, much more enticing than his boyish grin, spread across his face.

“Aw, Mione, I like it when you become cool like that. Makes me want to melt you.”

Surprise and a delicious little thrill ricocheted through her. Those are not the words of a best friend–that’s a come-on. She was frozen, staring at him in disbelief.

“Harry?” she squeaked.

He stood uncertainly, rocking as if on a boat rather than solid ground. He walked toward her, stopping only inches away and well within the boundaries of her comfort zone.

“That prissy prefect tone makes me want to snatch you up and snog you senseless.”

Before Hermione could process his words–or reply to him–Harry lurched forward and passed out in her arms. She staggered under his weight until she managed to push him back onto the sofa. She gently removed his glasses and set them on the table.

He lay there, dark lashes lying innocently on his cheeks. A soft snore escaped him.

She didn’t know what to feel. One best friend was apparently getting married–she made a note to berate Ron for not telling her he was going to propose. The other best friend–who currently was snoring on her sofa, pissed–apparently had some romantic feeling toward her.

She had known of Ron’s crush in school, but she wasn’t aware he was long-since over it. The same sadness filtered through her. She’d taken it for granted that Ron still had a crush on her.

She sat heavily in the armchair next to the sofa. With a guilty sinking feeling in her stomach, she realized that Ron had been her fallback if she never found someone, her last resort; she’d been counting on that childhood crush.

Harry snored loudly and rolled onto his side.

Harry had always been there, much like Ron, but there had never been any undertone of sex or sexual desire in her relationship with him. But he admitted to wanting to “snog me senseless.” The words sounded as if they’d been a desire repressed for a long while. Since Hogwarts? He’d mentioned her “prissy prefect” tone. Has he had feelings for me for eight years?

She didn’t know. She’d been oblivious to any indication he might want more than friendship from her; oblivious to any indication he wanted a more intimate relationship.

She knelt in front of him. Unable to resist the temptation, she ran one hand through his hair. It was soft. Surprised, she tangled her other hand through the dark strands as well. Sort of silky, she thought, the way I can only dream mine might be.

Harry moaned and arched his back when she scratched his scalp accidentally.

She pulled her hands away, startled. She decided to keep her hands off him while she studied him.

She was surprised to realize he’d finally grown into his face and frame. His eyes were framed by dark brows and high cheekbones. I love his eyes. The hollows of his cheeks that were there throughout his school years were no longer there; his cheeks were filled out, but not full. He’d grown into his face. It now looked like that of a man rather than a boy forced to grow up too soon.

Her eyes lingered on his lips. When did they begin to look so kissable? They were full and pink and turned up in a small smile even in his sleep. Part of her couldn’t believe that she was having these thoughts about Harry; the rest couldn’t believe she was only beginning to have these thoughts.

She let her eyes wander down his body. He’s filled out since school. She silently admonished herself. She was usually much more observant than this, noticing details others missed, a skill that aided her in her profession, but she’d been utterly oblivious to Harry. She hadn’t noticed that his shoulders had widened or that his entire frame was wiry with muscle.

Quidditch. It must be from Quidditch. His training regimen has to keep him in shape. And he rides his broomstick so well.

At that thought, Hermione let out a sound of frustration. She should not be thinking about Harry that way. Suddenly I want him for more than a friend–I just want him.

She flung herself to the floor between the sofa and table. These thoughts never would have been in her head if Harry hadn’t implied he wanted more from her; if Ron hadn’t proposed to someone else; if she didn’t feel so unwanted at that moment. Cast-off.

“Damn you, Harry,” she muttered. He twitched at the sound of his name, but slept on.

The image of Harry riding his broomstick sent a shiver of lust through her. He has no right to disturb me like this. In frustration, she leapt from the floor and cast a withering glance at the object of her dilemma. He continued to sleep blissfully.

She stalked into the bathroom to take a cold shower, trying in vain to dismiss all thoughts of casting a sobering charm on her best friend so she could share that shower with him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry awoke the next morning with a splitting headache. Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he sat up.

Where the hell am I? he thought. The room looked familiar, but his head hurt too much to remember. He studied the furnishings, hoping they’d help him divine his location.

Neutral colors, spare lines, extremely comfortable couch, framed certificates on the walls.

Bloody hell, I’m at Hermione’s. Horror shot through him. He remembered drinking at a pub in Diagon Alley with Ron, congratulating him on his engagement. Then the pub found out that Ron Weasley had just gotten engaged and more people than he could recall began buying them drinks.

Things got fuzzy after the game of wizard’s darts–which Harry half-thought was created to torture wizards raised in the Muggle world. How the hell was a person supposed to hit the board if it kept moving?

Somewhere in the evening, he remembered talking to Ron about Hermione. He groaned loudly and leaned forward, elbows on knees and pressing his forehead to his palms.

No, no, please don’t tell me I confessed. His stomach churned threateningly. Please don’t tell me I gave up my best-kept secret.

But, buried in the fog of the night, he thought he’d leaned across the table and pulled Ron close. They’d both been pissed enough that Ron took it in stride when Harry kissed him, followed by, “I love you.”

And that wasn’t the worst part, if Harry remembered clearly enough. The worst had been when he had leaned back and said, “I love Hermione more.” Ron had merely nodded sagely and ordered another whiskey.

He had done it. The secret he’d buried deep for years, thinking Ron was interested that way in their mutual best friend. Only to discover Ron’s crush hadn’t survived their school years.

Before Harry could dwell on that too long, he heard noises from the kitchen.

How the hell did I get here? Eyes falling on the window, vague memories of his Invisibility Cloak and Firebolt flashed into his brain. Sure enough, below the window lay his rucksack, inside of which was his Cloak. A bit further into the room lay his Firebolt.

He thought he must have flown to the window of Hermione’s flat–in Muggle London–and climbed in.

Idiot, he cursed himself.

Music now came from the kitchen and the lovely smell of sausages met his nose. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to disturb his stomach except to make it growl in hunger.

Try as he might, he couldn’t remember any more of the night. Obviously, he’d passed out. Nothing of the night after arriving at Hermione’s was clear.

Cursing again, he stood. His head felt as if he’d been hit by a Beater’s bat then a Bludger. For all that, he was more afraid of facing Hermione this morning than playing in the World Cup. Considering how sorry he’d been feeling for himself at Ron’s engagement, he was terrified that he’d actually confessed his feelings for Hermione to her last night.

With effort, he resisted the siren’s call of wrapping himself in his Cloak and sneaking out. Quit being such a pansy, Potter. Pause. Oh that’s a bad combination of words with a hangover.

He grabbed his glasses and carefully made his way to the kitchen.

When his eyes landed on Hermione, he felt as if his heart had stopped. She was so damn beautiful. He’d begun to stay away for longer stretches between visits, afraid to let himself be near her for too long. After resisting her for eight years, he was afraid he’d ruined their friendship in one night because he couldn’t hold his emotions–or hormones–in check.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said brightly.

He groaned. “Morning.”

That elicited a smile. “Hangover?” she inquired. He nodded in reply.

“Do you want a cure?” He nodded again, barely moving his head this time.

It was only when she walked toward him that he realized she was wearing a dressing gown. A deep blue silk dressing gown. And that seemed to be all she had on.

His mouth went dry as his palms went damp. He mentally cursed his body’s reaction to her as he tried to banish the thought of peeling that dressing gown from her, then laying her back onto the table and making a meal of her.

She touched her wand to his temple and he hissed.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Concern filled her brown eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered. It wasn’t her fault she touched him at the same moment he was having an explicit fantasy about her.

She held his gaze for a long minute, as if she could divine his thoughts by staring into his eyes. He was exceedingly grateful that she couldn’t.

Seemingly satisfied, she recited the sobering charm and removed her wand.

The cotton left his head and the coppery taste in his mouth was gone. His stomach was still twitchy but from her nearness rather than nausea now.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he smiled.

Only because they were standing so close did he hear her sharp intake of breath. The motion shifted the silk across her skin, exposing a pale stripe of skin between her breasts.

Panic rose within him at the sight. He closed his eyes. He had to get away from her. He didn’t know if he could be responsible for his actions if she continued to tempt him.

“Sausage?”

His eyes snapped open. She can’t see that, can she?

Smiling wickedly, she repeated, “Sausage?” When he didn’t reply, she turned back to the stove. “Breakfast?”

She wasn’t talking about that. Relief washed away some of the panic.

“Yes, I’d appreciate it,” he replied.

She walked back to the stove, removing the anti-burn charm as she moved.

He didn’t think her dressing gown had been that short before. It stopped mid-thigh, exposing a long line of pale leg. Does she really have that much skin?

Despite the fact he was now sober, he still felt unwell. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Hermione was teasing him. Not as best friends tease, but as a woman teases a man. The lump in his throat felt right at home next to his nervous stomach.

He watched her like a lion watching a gazelle. Predatory. Heat rose within him as she rose on tip-toes to take plates down from the cabinet because when she did, the hem of her dressing gown rose until it barely covered her.

Harry couldn’t take much more. He was nearly to the point that he no longer cared if he’d told her about his desire for her or not. His hormones were demanding he do something about the awful tension within him at the sight of Hermione so scantily-clad.

Granted, he’d seen her in a bathing costume–and bikini, for that matter–but this seemed so much more intimate. Without much effort, he could imagine she was cooking breakfast for him after a night together. Not the sort of night together with him passed out on her couch, but together in her bed.

A groan escaped him. You’re torturing yourself, Potter.

Unwillingly, he found himself standing directly behind her, breathing in her scent, a combination of roses and vanilla. He was trying to be good. He was trying to keep tight rein on his feelings for his best friend. But, in the back of his mind, he knew he was about to fail horribly. He could only hope that she let him down easy.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked, voice low.

She started, dropping the plate in her hand–which shattered against the floor–and whipped around. He felt her breath hot on his face when she blew it out in what seemed like a relieved sigh.

He pressed closer, pinning her between him and the countertop. Potter, you told yourself you weren’t going to do this.

A bead of sweat formed on her forehead. He watched it slide down her temple to her jaw.

Don’t do it, Potter.

Unable to resist the temptation she presented, he braced his left hand on the counter next to her hip and cupped her jaw with his right. Ever so gently, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe away that bead of sweat.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, voice so low it was nearly a gravelly whisper.

Hermione brought her eyes to his, capturing his, then ran her tongue over her lips. She swallowed audibly and blinked.

“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded like velvet to him.

Cursing himself six ways to hell, he tightened his grip on her jaw and leaned forward.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He’s kissing me.

When she’d donned her blue silk dressing gown that morning, she’d been possessed by a mischievous imp. That imp wanted to torture Harry. She knew she’d be playing with fire once Harry awoke and she’d looked forward to it.

And where has it gotten you? Both of you are burning.

What she wanted was a sober confession of his feelings from him. While that wasn’t exactly what he was giving her, what he was giving her was the next best thing.

He pressed against her, the countertop to digging into her lower back. Leaning further forward, he moved his left hand from the counter to her back and splayed it between her shoulder blades.

She was bent backward to accommodate his aggressiveness. Heat that had nothing to do with the stove suffused her, sparking where Harry was pressed so intimately against her.

A moan escaped her when his hand slid upward over her silk-clad back to tangle in her hair. He held her head immobile between his hands and drove his tongue into her mouth, working it in and out, thrusting ever-so-slightly with his hips at the same time.

Involuntarily, her hands moved to his back, fingernails digging into his shirt and skin. She was clutching him, holding onto him as a lifeline, pressing herself against him, feeling like the wanton she had never been before.

Of course only Harry can make me feel this way.

He untangled his hands and slid them to her waist, gripping her hips, pulling her toward him to nestle in the notch between her legs.

Gasping, he released her mouth. Dropping his head to her shoulder, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, he rasped, “Please, Hermione.”

She couldn’t reply immediately–she had to regain her breath first. If he let go, she knew she’d collapse into a puddle on the floor.

She knew she shouldn’t be feeling this way. This was Harry. Her best friend. The boy she’d known for thirteen years.

But it’s no boy pressed against me, she thought. No mere boy nestled between my thighs.

Somewhat hoarsely, she asked, “What, Harry?” And, knowing she was teasing the lion sleeping within him, she dragged her fingernails down his back to the waistband of his jeans.

He pulled back to look her in the eye. Annoyance flashed across his features before he ripped his glasses off his face and tossed them somewhere behind her. It sounded as if they landed in the sink.

“Don’t tell me that was wrong,” he whispered. His voice was still rough from sleep and the alcohol from last night.

“Wrong?” she echoed.

His fingers tightened on her hips, causing her to rub against him again. He groaned, teeth clenched.

She smiled. Though she was hot–and getting hotter by the minute–she wouldn’t give this up for the world. Let’s torture you, oh Boy-Who-Lived.

Taking another look at her face, his eyes raking her expression longingly, he moved his right hand and snaked it into her hair. Grasping a handful of her chestnut locks, he angled her head to kiss her possessively again.

Lips met. He forced her mouth open, then withdrew. When Hermione moaned again, Harry slid his mouth over her cheek to her left ear.

He had possessed her. If he refused to confess at this point, she would be devastated. Then she would hex him. He’d branded her, broken her down and built her up again with one kiss.

She felt his breath hot on her ear, and it sent a shivery sensation down her spine. She arched against him.

“You’re killing me, Hermione,” he groaned, responding to her body’s invitation.

With what seemed like Herculean effort, Harry released her. She keened at the loss of contact, holding onto him. He managed to get free and stumble to the other side of the kitchen.

She needed him.

After spending one of the longest nights of her life tossing and turning on her bed running his drunken words through her head repeatedly rather than sleeping, she had come to the conclusion that she wanted him. She wanted her best friend. She wanted him in her bed to do wicked things to him.

It hadn’t taken long for her to confess that to herself. She supposed that meant she’d been repressing feelings for some time. It had taken a much longer time, however, to convince herself that lusting after her best friend didn’t make her a bad person.

The only thing that might make her evil were some of the fantasies she was having about her best friend.

She watched him as he leaned against the counter opposite, clutching it as if it were a lifeline of support. Given how he had felt pressed against her–nestled against her–she thought the counter might be the only thing holding him upright.

“I’m killing you, am I?” she began, one hand on her hip. “You’re the one who tormented me last night. I don’t think I slept at all.”

The words were the truth, but also not the truth. Harry paled and she smiled slyly. He’d obviously taken the double meaning and thought they’d slept together. She didn’t feel the need to correct him yet.

He swallowed audibly. “Hermione?”

She glared at him, nerves still on edge from his kiss. “Yes?”

He blew his breath out, looking anywhere but Hermione’s eyes.

I hope he doesn’t act this way after the real thing or I might be forced to curse him, Hermione thought. Harry was acting like he was fourteen, not nearly twenty-four.

“Did we...er...did I....”

“Spit it out, Harry,” she replied, exasperated.

When he brought his eyes back to hers, he blushed a deep red. “Did we have sex last night?”

“Don’t you remember?”

He moved one hand to massage the back of his neck, forcing his head down just a bit so he was looking up at her through his lashes.

Be still my heart, she thought. That’s a dangerous look.

“Um...no, I don’t remember anything after I flew through your window,” he said softly.

“That’s too bad, Harry,” she answered, now grinning. Taking slow steps toward him, holding his gaze steadily when he raised his eyes again, she continued, “Last night was very enlightening.”

Not content with that, Hermione stood directly in front of Harry and deliberately put one foot on either side of his, straddling his legs. She then reached down to cup him.

“Very enlightening.”

A myriad of emotions flickered across his face, the least of which was shock at her boldness. What remained was a little bit of shock and a lot of lust.

“Hermione?” he asked, uncertainty making his voice quaver slightly.

“Mmm?” She pressed herself against him like a cat, taking care that their bodies touched wherever possible, and reached up to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

If he was going to back off after that mind-numbing kiss, she would have to be the aggressor. She was determined to have him anyway she could get him. If that meant resorting to subversive tactics, so be it.

“Wha-what are you doing, Hermione?” he stuttered. A fine trembling ran through him when she ran her tongue along his jawline. She felt him grit his teeth.

I’m going to make you lose control, Harry James Potter, she vowed to herself.

Backing away to look at him, she adopted her “prissy prefect” tone. “Mr. Potter! I thought you’d been taught better than that. Twenty points from Gryffindor for not recognizing a come-on.” Then she ran her tongue over his slightly-parted lips. “Care to try to earn the points back?”

He tried to hide his reaction to her words, but couldn’t since she was all over him like a blanket. He pulsed against her hand and clenched his teeth even tighter.

You’re going to submit, she promised herself. I am going to make you as crazy as you made me last night, Mr. Potter.

On a shaky breath, he asked, “How do I earn points?”

She laughed wickedly. “There’s that Gryffindor bravery.”

“Or stupidity,” he murmured so softly she almost didn’t hear it. Raising his voice, he asked again, “So what do I need to do to earn points, Miss Granger?” Then he bent his head to look her in the eye.

She was lost when she saw the desire burning there. How could I have been so blind? she chastised herself. He only wears his heart on his sleeve.

Licking her lips nervously, Hermione told him, “Kiss me like you’ll never let me go.”

Shock held him rigid for a moment. Why had she said that? She’d meant to draw the teasing and banter out, trying to get him to confess. But now he knew.

“Harry?” This time it was her voice quavering.

He blinked. “What?”

She didn’t know what to tell him. She was held immobile by indecision–until she bit her bottom lip and felt him press himself against her hand with an almost inaudible moan.

Honesty.

Easier said than done when you have nearly a decade of denial behind you.

“You confessed last night, Harry.”

“I confessed? To what?”

Oh, sweet Merlin, he doesn’t remember at all. Was I right or did I misinterpret his words? After pausing for thought, she continued to herself, But what’s pressed against my hand isn’t indifference.

She took a deep breath and plunged forward. “You confessed to having feelings for me.”

He paled again, his dark brows and faint stubble standing out in sharp relief to his skin.

“Damn,” he uttered softly.

Capturing her gaze again, he asked, “It was because of Ron, wasn’t it?”

“You did say you were feeling left out because Ron had proposed,” she allowed, hoping the despair she had felt at his words wasn’t seeping through. “You said you had no one.”

“I was completely pissed, wasn’t I?” he asked, amusement lacing his words.

She was uncertain how to proceed. Amusement wasn’t what she’d been aiming for. She nodded slowly.

When she added a nervous smile to her nod, he grinned. The wicked grin he flashed after catching the Snitch. The mischievous grin he let curve his mouth when he’d broken the rules and gotten away with it.

The grin that always made her heart race.

Though she was never quite sure how he did it, Harry turned them around so she was pressed to the countertop again. He leaned against her, much like she’d draped herself over him, nudging the apex of her legs with his hardness.

“Am I earning points, Miss Granger?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her scent was going straight to his head again. It was the only logical explanation for his behavior.

So I did admit my feelings to her last night, however obliquely. He was torn between relief and anxiety over it. While it meant he could practically molest the best friend in question–and have her enjoy it if not initiate it–it did change their dynamics.

Don’t question it, Potter. She wants you.

Certain parts of his body–the ones diverting attention so he couldn’t think straight–were demanding he stop talking to her and just carry her off to bed. And keep her there for a week.

He didn’t think that would be long enough to exorcise her from his blood.

He nudged against her again and she whimpered. The sound ricocheted through him, doing to him the last thing he needed by increasing the fever for her in his blood.

Over the pounding in his ears, he almost didn’t hear her whisper, “Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.”

When he thought about it much later, he realized that had been the last straw. At the time, however, the only thing in his mind was a picture of Hermione spread out before him like a feast.

He plunged a hand into her hair, pulling her head back. Her brown eyes were dark, her pupils dilated. Her lips, those dark pink lips, were slightly parted with her increased breathing. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that before.

Practically growling, he ground out, “I’m taking you to bed, Hermione.”

He watched her throat work as she swallowed, allowing some nervousness into her expression.

I’ll give her something to swallow.

Cursing himself yet again for his body’s unruly behavior, he barked, “And keep you there.”

That evil pink tongue of hers peeked out to wet her lips. It was all he could do to keep himself together and not stain his pants like a teenager.

A small grin then lifted one corner of her mouth. In a voice he would have loved to have heard in his adolescent fantasies, she said, “Promise?”

Like a caveman with his capture, he bent and hefted her over his shoulder. That small blue silk dressing gown barely covered her. He figured she must have had some non-revealing charm on it, otherwise he would have had an eyeful.

Rather than protest, Hermione giggled. Then he felt her hands on his backside. Still giggling, she squeezed and said, “I like your arse, Mr. Potter.”

He smacked her arse for the remark, but said, “I rather like yours, too, Miss Granger.”

He kicked the door of her bedroom wide open, then kicked it shut behind them after they were inside. With a grin of his own, he threw Hermione onto her bed.

The dressing gown gaped open down to her waist, but still covered all her naughty bits. Definitely a charm.

“Since you owe me a breakfast, I think I’ll have you,” he declared.

The smile that had teased the corners of her mouth became sensual as she leaned back onto her elbows, one leg flat on the coverlet, one bent. Were it not for the charm, he would have had a perfect view of his intended goal.

“Well, then, Mr. Potter, earn those points back and come get me,” she invited.

Heat flashed through him again at her words. This was Hermione he was going to make love to; this was Hermione inviting him into her bed. In the years he had watched her, he never thought he’d had a chance with her.

He’d thought, in that way of male understanding to discuss something without discussing it, that Ron had a claim on her. Even when Ron began dating Luna, Harry had thought it was a phase.

Then, last night, when Ron was jubilant over having his proposal accepted, shock held Harry in its thrall for most of the evening. He played the part of congratulatory friend, but drowned himself in Firewhiskey.

The decision to visit Hermione was still fuzzy in his mind–and he rather suspected it always would be. He vaguely recalled standing outside Hermione’s building, broom in hand, yelling up at her flat. Then, when she invited him up, flying to the window.

His name was good for something in this case–it meant he was as likely to be fined for flying in plain view of Muggles as Hermione was of failing a test.

A slow smile spread across his face. Looking down at Hermione laid out before him, he felt predatory. He wanted to stalk and capture; he wanted her to know that he owned her.

Kneeling on the bed, he then crawled up between her thighs. He lay atop her, his weight balanced on his forearms and knees. She moaned beneath him at the full-body contact, arching her hips into his.

Biting back his own response, he moved his lips next to her ear. “I’ll have to try for the House Cup, then, won’t I, Miss Granger?”

A soft mewling sound was her only reply.

He needed to possess her. Snapping his head up, he grasped hers, forcing her to look him in the eye. He held her cinnamon gaze until she shivered.

“You’re mine, Hermione,” Harry said fiercely. “We do this and there’s no going back. You’re mine.”

Her lips parted on a soft gasp, her gaze clouding with desire. She arched her neck, tossing her head back, closed her eyes and whispered the words he desperately wanted to hear: “I’m yours, Harry.”

To seal the words, he bent and captured her mouth in a ferocious kiss. He couldn’t tell which of them was moaning, but thought it might be both of them.

He broke the kiss and rasped, “I can’t be gentle the first time, Hermione.”

Feeling her body–her willing body–pressed against his was destroying his sanity. The urge to just rip their clothes off and plow into her was nearly overwhelming.

Control yourself, Potter. You’ll have a lifetime. Unfortunately, his body didn’t care about that right now.

She grabbed his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, and replied, “Good. I don’t want gentle right now.”

He reared up until he was kneeling on the mattress. Unwilling to take time to unbutton his shirt, he ripped it off, sending buttons flying. Her eyes lit wickedly at his impatience.

A shiver went through him as he watched her fingers pull the sash of her dressing gown. The blue silk parted, revealing her alabaster skin to Harry’s heated gaze.

Now! Now! his body demanded. Eight years of pent-up longing was demanding release–and Hermione was using every weapon in her arsenal to make him lose control.

From between gritted teeth he said, “I lied earlier.” She merely cocked an eyebrow in question. “You’re killing me now.”

“I want you fierce, my lion,” she said, voice low.

There was the last of his control. He felt it dissolve as lust swept through him.

He tugged at his jeans, but they refused to come off. Finally, he stood on the mattress and pushed them and his pants down, kicking them somewhere in the vicinity of her closet.

She writhed slightly, her eyes widening when she saw him unclothed. A secret thrill ran through him at her reaction.

“Six points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter,” she murmured.

Falling to his knees, he smiled and asked, “Six points? For what?”

The blush began at her neck and traveled upward. “For your...um...for you.”

He settled back on his heels. Seeing her so flustered was helping to temper the sharp edge of his desire. It didn’t abate, but was easier to keep reigned in.

“For me, Miss Granger? And what about me would make you give Gryffindor six points?” As he spoke, he began stroking her thighs from her knees to halfway toward his goal. No matter how much she squirmed to get him to move higher, he refused to do so.

Slightly breathless, she answered, “One point for finally seeing you naked without spying”–and that comment meant he’d have to ask later about when she’d spied on him–“one for the look upon your face when you tossed me down”–and she moaned in memory of this, wriggling under his hands just enough to let him know she liked it a little rough–“one for the lust upon your face when I undid my dressing gown, one for your...um...size”–here she blushed from her breasts upward–“one because you finally worked up the nerve to tell me how you felt and the last because we’re in my bed together with salacious intentions.”

He leaned forward, letting his hands slide upward as well, until he was holding himself slightly above her. Locking eyes with hers, he asked, “Shall I show you my salacious intentions, Miss Granger?”

She grinned. “This isn’t going to make us act strange toward each other in the morning, is it?”

Pressing kisses to her jaw much like she did to him earlier, he said, “It is morning, Hermione.”

“Then I guess we’re fine.”

He thought he must have hit a sensitive spot when, kissing her neck beneath her ear, she whimpered and shuddered. Her reaction, while what he would have hoped for at any other time, didn’t help his control at all. He had Hermione Granger in his arms, beneath him, naked and panting.

He wondered if he was dreaming. Or having some drunken fantasy. Perhaps it wasn’t morning. Was he passed out at some wizarding bar with his friends laughing at him as he moaned Hermione’s name in his sleep?

Hermione’s hand snaked into his hair and forced him to look at her. Capturing her eyes with his, she whispered, “Harry, I need you.”

That flash of heat and lust sped through him again from head to toe, bouncing back up to settle in his groin.

“Are you sure?” he rasped. He couldn’t bear it if she hated him afterward because she’d felt he pressured her.

It seemed like a great effort for her to nod and arch upward, pressing her skin against his. “I need you inside me, Harry.”

That was enough for him.

With a deep moan, he settled himself between her thighs. Her continual whimpers and breathy gasps had him on edge already, but when she pressed down to try to take him inside, that was the limit of his control for the final time.

He pulled his head free of her grasp, and rose above her. Sliding his hands under her knees, he pulled her legs up, one onto his shoulder, the other around his waist.

She was spread before him. Ready.

With a fierce growl, he slid himself into her. She was wet and tight and if he weren’t careful, he’d spoil it all right then like a teenager.

Another of those delicious shivers racked her body as she moaned his name and clenched around him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

All coherent thought was lost when Harry slid inside her. She could only close her eyes, arch her back and take him as he rode her.

He bent her nearly in half with the force of his thrusts, her leg up and foot near his ear. She reached above herself and braced her hands on the headboard so she wasn’t slammed into it with each thrust.

She was burning, melting, all for him. Where they were joined felt...amazing. Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire, had no words to describe the way Harry Potter made her feel.

She was at Harry’s mercy and didn’t care–reveled in it, in fact. Prying her eyes open, she looked up at him.

Intense concentration. Those eyes were like fire-shot emeralds, glowing with satisfaction.

“You’re mine,” he whispered hoarsely, bending forward even further, driving deeper into her.

Despite the discomfort in her thigh muscles from bracing his weight and the unusual angle, it served to heighten the tension building within her.

She clamped down around him and replied possessively, “I’m yours and you’re mine, Harry.”

His responding groan vibrated through her, sending her desire spiraling upward again. She knew she was going to shatter soon. It felt like her skin was stretched too tautly over her body, and yet at the same time it was too hot, too eager for Harry’s touch.

The last two boyfriends–the ones she’d taken to her bed–had left her nonplussed about the whole event. She knew they had enjoyed it, but she had found the whole business messy and not really worth the effort.

But they weren’t Harry. Whether it was the dozen-plus years of history between them or his long-term crush on her finally realized, Harry seemed to know almost exactly what she needed. She was being used and manhandled by him and reveled in it.

His teeth were gritted with the effort it was taking him to hold back his climax. She wiggled her hips slightly, enough to change his rhythm and angle. His head dropped to hers and he stilled his thrusts.

“Hermione,” he said so softly it was like a breath on her face rather than a word. As he spoke, he moved a hand to the breast not caught under her knee. Squeezing it, he demanded, “Come for me.”

His words sent her over the edge. Heat and sensation, almost painful, ripped through her from where they were joined, flashing along her nerves. Her toes curled; her back arched; not a thought other than Harry’s name was in her head as she closed her eyes and thought she would die from the pleasure of it.

Tremors racked her, making her squeeze around him. It was her tremors that sent him over the edge. Shoving her leg off his shoulder, he moved his hands to her hips.

“Yes, Harry, yes,” she hissed, delighting in the knowledge that she could make him lose control.

Gripping her hips tight, he drove himself into her, moaning deeply as he emptied himself into her with a few thrusts. Since she still hadn’t quite recovered, he rode her over the edge again with his movements.

A few moments later, when they were both boneless with completion, Harry collapsed next to Hermione on her bed.

She heard him take a deep, shuddering breath, before saying, “If I had known it would be like that with you, I would have arrived at your flat pissed years ago.”

She laughed softly. “That would have been unexpected.”

Harry rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand and looked down at her, brushing the damp hair back from her forehead. “But would it have been unwelcome?”

“Not if you confessed before passing out again,” she laughed.

Smiling, he stroked the side of her face with his knuckles. She felt like a cat being well-petted and, with a soft sigh of encouragement, pressed back against his fingers.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again with a snap, leaning down and giving her a hard kiss. Somehow, she found the strength to wrap one arm around him and pull him on top of her again.

His weight was comforting. The smooth planes of his chest felt right against her soft curves.

After some wrestling for position, Hermione ended up on top, straddling his waist. He grinned up at her, that wicked grin that tempted her to do things she’d never contemplated before.

“Should I be thinking about molesting you?” she asked, wiggling against him.

He pretended to heave a martyr’s sigh and threw his hands back against the pillow. “Molest me if you must.”

He’s mine to play with? He’s mine? A moan was ripped involuntarily from her throat at the thought.

He closed his eyes as her hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles covered with heated skin. His work since Hogwarts, first as Auror and now as Seeker for Ballycastle, kept him in shape. She kneaded gently, drawing a cross between a moan and a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a purr from him.

“My lion,” she murmured, running her hands over his chest. He had very little chest hair–she didn’t know if that was genetic or if he performed a charm–allowing her to stroke his skin to his waist.

With another suspicious moan, he arched against her and growled, “Hermione, molest doesn’t include torture.”

She froze until he opened his eyes again. Then she allowed a knowing smile to spread slowly across her face. “You’re mine.”

The shudder that ran through him made her quiver with anticipation. She was hungry for him again. But it’s too soon, isn’t it?

She’d known him for thirteen years and had never wanted to possess him more than she did now. Right then, she wanted to control him, to have him at her mercy, to have him begging. She licked her lips and watched his eyes darken.

“I’m yours,” he agreed, arching against her.

She smiled. No, it’s not too soon. He’s got a quick recovery time.

She slithered down his body, stopping when she could thrust her tongue into his navel.

“Please,” he begged, driving one hand into her hair.

Grabbing his arm, she pushed him away. “No, your hands stay on the pillow.” Then she bent again to press kisses to his stomach. His muscles twitched with each touch of her lips.

She knew he wanted her to move just a bit further down, to take him into her mouth. She wasn’t going to do that–right now at least. She did, however, take him into her hand, stroking his hardness.

His groan of reply was a more than suitable response. When he bucked against her palm, trying to gain more friction, she sat on his thighs, holding him down.

“Tsk, tsk, Potter. One would think you had no patience.”

Eyes still closed, he hissed, “I have plenty of patience. Just not right now. You make me crazy, you make me burn.” Then he opened his eyes and bore into hers, the green almost iridescent from desire. “I thought once would be enough.”

Longing burned through her, making her even more damp than before. “Once wasn’t enough,” she whispered, voice low and harsh. “It seems you’ve started something, Mr. Potter. Care to finish it?”

He thrust against her hand. “Will I earn the Cup if I can?”

“Mmm, you just might.” She squeezed him gently. He gasped in response, her name escaping on a breath.

Desire and lust were tangled inside her. She needed him again, wanted him with a need that at that moment felt like obsession.

Moving herself over him so she was straddling his waist, she cradled him against her wetness. He shuddered at the contact, tearing a moan from him as his fingers clutched the coverlet convulsively.

“I need you again,” he admitted, pressing upward, trying to drive himself inside her.

She let him. When he sank into her again, it felt right. The sensation of having Harry inside her was nearly enough to take her over the edge. He filled her in all the spots no one else ever had.

She rose, then sank down upon him again, letting gravity force him deeper. A tingle ran through her, settling in her spine and breasts and making her clench around him as she watched his hands tangle themselves into the bedcoverings.

She watched him clench his teeth at the sensation she caused him; delighted in the way she could force him to the very edge; admired the way he could hold onto the last bit of his control even as she tried to make him lose it. She clenched him again, sliding up, then down again.

Sweat broke out on his forehead, beading along his hairline, making his scar stand out in sharp relief.

“You’re my other half,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he hissed, trying to thrust into her. “Mine.”

She fell forward, hands on either side of his head, bracing herself on her arms. Staring down into his eyes, she stroked him slowly, keeping him wrapped in her hot, wet depths.

Bending her head, she licked a bead of sweat from his cheek, the salty tang welcome. Distantly, she thought she heard a ripping sound as he pulled at the blanket.

She increased her pace, lengthening her strokes, but driving herself down upon him with more force. The bed began to creak, something that hadn’t happened earlier–or, if it had happened, she certainly hadn’t heard it.

Harry was now murmuring incoherently, arching himself against her in a wordless plea to drive him over the edge. “Please,” “yes,” and “Hermione” were run together between gasps and moans.

She was close as well. Where they were joined, she felt like she was on fire. He was so hot and hard inside her, their combined force making her certain she would be sore by evening.

With a final thrust downward so he was buried deep inside her, she clenched him as tightly as she could and leaned forward, repeating his words to her: “Come for me.”

Faster than she could see, he pulled his hands free from the blankets, grabbed her hips, stilled her movements, and thrust upward with a guttural groan. Feeling him empty himself into her drove her over the edge as well, forcing his name from her lips on a scream.

Once spent, she collapsed on top of him, her head on his chest, sweaty skin sticking together. She felt his arm around her weakly, rubbing her back in small circles.

“I think we need to sleep,” she said hoarsely, mouth dry. She felt him smile.

“I stand by what I said earlier,” he said in a low voice. She felt the words rumble through him and thought it was one of the most delightful sensations.

“Which statement?”

“That if I had known it would be this good with you, I would have gotten pissed and visited a hell of a lot sooner.”

She turned and pressed a kiss to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her lips, his breath stirring her hair.

Yes, she could get used to doing this with Harry.