Dressmaking
By Anne U
Rated NC-17
Inspired by the painting near the bottom of this webpage, http://msnbc.msn.com/id/3705225/, so please look at this first:
The usual Harry Potter disclaimers apply, of course. J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers own these wonderful characters. This story takes place in 2003, when the characters are 23 years old.
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Part 1 - Harry
She's making a dress the Muggle way. I don't know why she feels the need to do this. She and I and everyone in our world know that she was the cleverest witch of her age at Hogwarts. It would be much easier for her to conjure a dress out of a silk purse, or a sow's ear, or a pair of ice tongs. But she wants to make a dress for herself, and so she's doing it the Muggle way. Occasionally she charms the needle and thread to sew the pieces of fabric together on their own while she does something else. And sometimes while she does something else, I watch. But she doesn't know I know about the dress, and she doesn't know that I watch.
Watching her makes me feel guilty. And randy. And guilty about feeling randy. I shouldn't watch her. It's wrong, I know it. She's my best friend, has been for over twelve years. Actually, she's one of my best friends. Our other best friend lives with us too, but he's the reserve keeper for the Chudley Cannons, his favorite Quidditch team since the first day he flew on a broom, so he travels a lot and is home maybe one week out of four during the season. During the week he's home, he can't keep his hands off her, and her hands and mouth roam all over him. Of course they don't do this in front of me. That would be very rude, and they've always been careful to keep their displays of affection to a minimum in front of me. Don't want me to feel left out, I suppose. They're a bloody bit late on that, actually. I've been left out since the first minute he touched her, the first minute he put his mouth on hers. It should be my mouth kissing hers, my mouth making her moan, my mouth making her arch her back and scream my name, not his name dammit, my name.
But he's the one snogging her and shagging her and doing all the things I've wanted to do with her for at least the past five years. He's the one whose tongue laps against those breasts, whose fingers pinch her nipples and slide inside her and make her pant and howl like she's going to explode. And he's the one who explodes inside her. Him, not me. I don't explode inside anything except my own hand. Sometimes I don't even get that far, if I can't pull it out of my pants in time. Depends on how long I've been watching them and how loud they are. I know they put silencing charms all over the room before they start pawing each other. But I know what they're doing anyway. You see, they don't know about the hole. That wonderful, tiny hole in the wall between my bedroom and hers. I discovered it four years ago when we first moved into this flat together. I should have told her about it, or else fixed it and forgotten about it. But I couldn't. A chink of light caught my eye one evening and I looked toward the chink and I was hooked. She was standing there in nothing but her bra and her knickers. I'd never seen her in her underwear before, and since she was with him and not with me, I reckoned this was the only way I'd ever see her outside of her clothes.
Like I said, I shouldn't have looked. I should stop looking. It's wrong. I know it's wrong. She's his girlfriend, not mine. I'm her other best friend, but just a friend, and I'll never be anything more. And when I see him shagging her brains out I bite my lip until it bleeds to keep from yelling through the hole, "Me, Hermione! You should be doing that with me!" And I bite it to keep from yelling out while my hand does its job. And during the weeks that he's gone, it's even worse, because she clams up and goes into her room and works on that dress. She's got some odd work habits, though, because lately she's been walking around her room in her underwear a lot of the time. She'll work on the dress for half an hour or so, then stand back and look at her handiwork (critically, of course; she's never satisfied with what she's just done). Sometimes she rips up the part she just worked on and starts it over. Sometimes she sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the dress. And sometimes she leans back and slides her hands over her breasts and her back arches and her hand slips up in between her legs and her head falls back and she makes panting, gurgling sounds. And while I watch her I'm making gurgling sounds too and my hand is moving a hundred miles an hour. And afterwards I smile, but not as much as I'd smile if I were the one distracting her from her dressmaking. And I can't stop watching her, not even when she turns her head on the bed and looks me straight in the eye.
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Part 2 - Hermione
I'm making a dress the Muggle way. I suppose that sounds like an odd thing for me to do. After all, I do work for the Committee on Experimental Charms at the Ministry of Magic, and as Hagrid used to say, "There inn't a charm our Hermione can' do." Be that as it may, in my spare time I'm making a dress, and I'm either the slowest or the worst seamstress in Britain. I could very easily charm some fabric into a dress or transfigure something else into a dress, but where's the challenge in that? I'm not a Gryffindor for nothing. So I'm very slowly making a dress for myself the Muggle way, using just fabric, ribbons and thread - and just a few charms now and then.
Actually I'm making the dress because of Harry. Dressmaking gives me something to do during the many nights when Ron is gone and Harry is off in his own little world, a world he hasn't let me into since our sixth year in school. Night after night I try to keep myself occupied so that I won't have to think too hard about how I got to this point in my life and made the mistakes I've made, or about why Harry is sitting alone in his room, when I'd rather he was sitting in my room with me. Or maybe doing more than sitting.
So I'm doing something that will take me a long time to do without using a lot of magic. The act of threading a needle and pulling it through the fabric is very cathartic somehow, and the push/pull motion is very sensual. In, out, in, out, in, out... I like to get a rhythm going. Then the rhythm takes over and I start thinking about other rhythms, other movements, other things that get my body going. Thinking about that usually makes me randy, and I strip down to my bra and knickers and charm the needle to move on its own. Then I watch the needle fly in and out of the fabric. In and out, in and out. Well, you can see where this is leading, where it seems to lead almost every time I go into my room intending to work on that dress. As often as not I find myself lying in a heap on the bed, touching myself where I wish someone else were touching me. And feeling in my bones that I'm not the only person who knows what I've been doing. Somehow, Harry knows. Somehow, he's been watching me.
Actually Harry's been watching me for years. It's always been very sweet and flattering and adorable, the way he tucks his chin down and averts his eyes a bit, as if he hopes I can't tell he's been stealing glances at me. That shyness is one of the many things I've always loved about him. But now I can't help feeling he's crossed some kind of line when it comes to watching me. He and Ron and I have shared a flat in London for several years, and Harry just seems to know a lot about things we haven't discussed with him. The hints have been dribbling out of him for at least a year - a word here, a comment there, a look that would burn a hole in the carpet. And I wonder what he really knows.
Not that I'm surprised he'd want to know. Like everyone else, he thinks Ron and I are still a couple. We were a couple for about a year, starting right after our NEWTs when I found myself lying under the bushes outside Gryffindor Tower with my knickers around my ankles. Looking up into Ron's sweaty face that night, I realized I enjoyed doing what I'd just done and I really enjoyed doing it with Ron. But for the past two years or so, Ron and I have really just been shag buddies. Ron is a professional Quidditch player and he's on the road about three weeks of each month. When he comes home, he and I often end up in each other's bedrooms, shagging each other senseless. Mostly we do it because we're comfortable being randy toward each other, and because neither of us has anyone else to shag senseless. Not that I haven't considered someone else. But I know that someone wouldn't want me. That someone spent our last two years at Hogwarts pushing me away as hard as he could. Back then I believed it was because he couldn't stand his bossy, bushy-haired little friend anymore. By the time I found out he'd done it to protect me, I'd been with Ron awhile and wasn't sure how I felt anymore.
So here I am yet again, sitting on the edge of my bed in my bra and knickers, watching that needle and thread twist in and out of the fabric draped over the dressmaker's dummy. Slowly the needle dips into one piece of fabric, then ever so slowly it emerges from the other piece. In and out, in and out. I swing my legs to the rhythm and start rocking back and forth on the corner of the mattress. In and out, rocking and rolling. I mutter a charm and the needle flies faster. I'm rocking and rolling faster on the corner of the mattress and shock waves are traveling up my body. It feels better than dancing but not as good as shagging. Not yet, anyway.
It's getting awfully hot in here. My breasts are getting sweaty. I must wipe the sweat off them. I slide my hands down until I've pushed my bra down off my breasts. I rub my fingertips across the rosy little mounds and feel more shocks travel south to meet the shocks traveling north. Little shocks aren't enough now. I lie back on the bed, stroking a breast with one hand while the other hand moves south under my knickers. I find my center quickly with one finger and the palm of my hand. I can't be quiet anymore, not with these waves crashing over me. I'll drown if I don't scream. I mutter a silencing charm before the screams escape me. Ron Ron Ron Ron Viktor Ron Ron Harry Ron Ron Harry Harry Harry oh Harry oh oh oh Harry... Harry. I'm moaning Harry's name. Harryharryharryharryharry I wish you were doing this to me, Harry, I wish you were doing a lot more than this to me. Why aren't you doing this to me, with me, Harry? The waves stop, my body goes limp on the bed and my head rolls to the side.
And then I see his green eye, bright with lust, staring at me through a tiny hole in the wall.
In a heartbeat the waves of pleasure turn into a tidal wave of revulsion and titillation. The bastard has been watching me the whole time. I won't let him get away with this. I won't let him watch me and not know what he could have had years ago.
I stand up and take a guess about his exact location. I Apparate into his room and nearly knock him over. He's kneeling next to the wall, his left eye staring through the hole, face twisted in confusion, pants around his ankles, boxers down at his knees. I've caught him red-handed. Very red-handed.
Harry's face goes beet red, then paper white. His body shakes like a leaf in the wind. He looks like he's going to vomit. "Hermione, I -"
"Harry James Potter, you slimy git, you pervert, you --! What gives you the right?!" I'm screaming at him and shaking almost as hard as he's shaking, and I remember my breasts are bare. He turns his face and stares right at them and then looks up at me. The longing in his eyes takes my breath away and I realize he's beautiful and sad and completely clueless. All this time wasted, all this time perverting himself because he couldn't ask for what he wanted. And neither could I.
I close the short distance between us and lean down toward him, cradling his face. I tilt his head up and cover his lips with mine. He kisses back immediately, hungrily, like a starving man finding nourishment for the first time in months. He nibbles my lower lip and cups my breasts in his hands. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, exploring this territory that seemed forbidden to me for so long. Our tongues dance and mate and soon I'm kneeling in front of him, still kissing him, but my hands are unbuttoning his shirt. Then my palms flit across the flat planes of his chest, then his stomach, until I find what I'm looking for. I take him in my hand and stroke him slowly. He grabs my hair with his fists and shudders under my touch. When I break the kiss, his face darkens with sadness.
"Tell me you want me," I rasp into his ear, quickening my stroke.
"Hermione, please don't taunt me," he moans with tears in his eyes. "You don't have to do this. I don't want your pity."
My hand moves faster while I lick one of his nipples then trail kisses up to his other ear. "There's no pity involved here, Harry. Do you want me or not?"
He crushes his mouth against mine. I swirl my thumb around his tip and he moans into my mouth and strains against my hand. "I've wanted you forever," he groans. I stop and pull my hand away and take his face in my hands again.
"So have I," I breathe and shower his face with kisses. I remove his glasses and he unhooks my bra, wraps his arm around my waist and rolls me onto the floor beneath him. Now I start to shudder as his fingers graze my nipples and his tongue laps my breasts, then my stomach.
"I've never done this before with anyone I loved," he moans, his voice almost an octave lower than usual.
"Neither have I," I rasp, straining to met his mouth. He raises his head and gives me a long look.
"Not even Ron? But.... but..." -- his face twists in dismay - "I thought you two were-"
"No, never," I pant as he resumes licking me. "I've never been in love with Ron. I love Ron. I enjoy shagging him. But I've never been in love with him. And he's not in love with me."
A grin like sunrise spreads across Harry's face. "I love you, Hermione," he whispers, almost pleading. "I'm in love with you. Please let me make love to you. I'll never ask you for anything else as long as I live."
I'm speechless for about two seconds. Then I know. "I love you too, Harry. I guess I always have. And if you don't make love to me this second, I might have to hurt you."
He smiles that lopsided smile I've always loved and Apparates us onto his bed. He pulls my knickers past my knees and puts a finger near my entrance to test the waters. I've never been so ready for anyone or anything in my life.
"Yes ma'am," he smiles and slides into me in one thrust and sweet Merlin, we fit together like a hand in a glove. I wish I could stay like this forever, with Harry moaning and thrusting, raining kisses on my face, my eyelids, my throat, my fingertips, kneading my breasts, pushing my knees up toward my chest so I can take him even deeper. He rolls and thrusts and I meet him measure for measure and my brain starts spinning from the fire he's ignited inside me. We're both sweating and panting and I can tell he's as close to the edge as I am.
"Ohhhhhhhh Harry," I scream, pleasure overtaking me completely, "ohohohohoh Harryharryharryharry," and the waves wash over me again and again.
"Hermione... I... you... this... heaven," he pants as he spends himself inside me. I push the sweaty fringe off his brow and lightly kiss his scar. He is right. He is home. This is heaven.
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Many hours later we awake, still tangled up in each other's limbs. He kisses me again, sweetly this time, and pushes a tangled lock of hair away from my face. Then he rests his forehead against mine and his long black eyelashes brush against my eyelids and I realize I'd been lost but now I'm found.
"Hermione," he begins hesitantly, "that was...I'm so sorry. I've been a stupid, pathetic git for a long time. I never thought you'd ever want me. All these years, ever since I met you, all I've done is cause you pain," he finishes, eyes brimming with tears.
"Harry," I gulp back my own tears, "the only pain you ever caused me was pushing me away. You pushed and pushed and finally I gave up. I didn't know why you'd pushed me away until after Ron and I got together. If only I'd known, I wouldn't have given up." I entwine my fingers with his and kiss the back of his hand. "So much time lost. I could've been with you all that time."
His eyes darken and he looks broken, defeated. "I couldn't take that chance. I couldn't let you be a target for Voldemort. I had to protect you. I couldn't have gone on living if you'd died." His eyes are swimming with tears again, and I gently close his eyelids with my fingertips and kiss the tears away.
"It's all in the past now, love," I say, cradling his head against my breast. "We've lost so much time together, let's not lose any more. I love you and you love me. Just don't push me away again; I couldn't bear it."
He looks up and says what I don't want to hear. "What happens when Ron gets home?"
I pause for what feels like an hour, gathering my thoughts. "Ron knows I'm not in love with him. He knows I never have been. But he is used to shagging me whenever, and I can't do that again. I know he'll be jealous at first, and he might even hate us both for awhile."
"Well, that makes me feel a lot better," Harry chuckles mirthlessly. I stroke his hair and tilt his head up so I can kiss him again. He deepens the kiss and we lie there clutching each other for dear life, almost afraid to let each other go. I feel him harden against my leg and my blood starts to boil again. Unfortunately the clock on his bedside table reads 8:40 a.m. and I need to be at work at the Ministry by 9:00 and thanks to Harry I really, really need a shower.
"Hold that thought till tonight," I smile, stroking him lightly as I extricate myself from his bed. "I need to clean up and go to work. I'll see you this evening. We'll have dinner, just you and I."
He kisses my palm as I pull away. "I want to make up for lost time with you. Starting tonight. Please."
"Yes, starting tonight, but now I must get ready for work," I insist as I collect my errant undergarments from his bedroom floor. I blow him a kiss over my shoulder. "Have a good day, Harry. I love you."
As I close his bedroom door behind me, I see him blowing kisses back at me, a beatific smile on his face. I smile too, amazed at the difference a few hours has made. Ten hours ago I was embarrassed and infuriated; now I'm in love with him. I walk into my own room, put on my dressing gown, and collect some clothes to take into the bathroom. A glance at the dressmaker's dummy stops me in my tracks.
The dress is done. It's completed, finished, and more beautiful than I could have imagined, and now I wonder if I am imagining it. But I touch it and it's very real. All the various parts I'd ripped out and started over have been neatly sewn on, and new pieces of fabric I'd never touched have been added. I remember that in my haste to catch Harry last night, I'd not ended the sewing charm. Some say magic is intention made real. Right now I'm not inclined to argue with that. The bodice is the same pale yellow I'd originally sewn, but something has been embroidered on the left side, right over the heart. It's a pair of ovals the size and color of Harry's eyes.
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