Snitch

Please see this drawing before you read this story. I wrote this on 2/10/2004 in response to Nancy Lorenz’s fic challenge based on that drawing. Unbeta’d. Hope you enjoy it. Hugs to Nancy for her wonderful drawing that inspired this smutlet. The year is approximately 2000 and they share a flat somewhere in Britain.

Snitch

So I’m sitting in my favorite cushy chair, catching up on my reading, when in pops Hermione. Literally. She’s Apparated right into our living room and she can barely stand up. In fact she’s so wobbly she falls right into my lap.

"Evening, shweetheart," she greets me with a definite slur in her voice. She twines her hands around my neck and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. Her breath smells like one of my old Quidditch socks.

"Hermione, you’re drunk." That’s a statement, not a reprimand.

"Well shpotted, Harry. Yesh, you could say tha’ I am drunk. I think I had a lil too much firewhiskey tonight. Gonna havta get back a’ Ginny for makin’ me drink it..." Her head lolls sideways a little and bangs into mine. Now she not only smells funny, she’s trying to give me a concussion.

"You should have Flooed home," I reply carefully. "You could have splinched yourself." I wrap one arm gently around her waist, slide the other under her knees and push us both up out of the chair so that I’m standing in the middle of the room holding her in my arms. Although she’s only about four inches shorter than I am, her body is slender and willowy and surprisingly light.

"Wha’re you doon, Harry?" she mumbles into my ear as I carry her out of the room.

"I’m taking you to your room so you can lie down and sleep this off." Yes, sleep this off, Hermione. Please. Carrying you in my arms feels very good. I should not be thinking about how good your body feels in my arms. Through her jeans I can feel her supple legs and her firm, nicely rounded arse, and her hands are still wrapped around my neck as I cross the dining room and head down the hall toward her bedroom. She still smells like firewhiskey but I’m discovering that I don’t mind the smell so much when it’s coming from her mouth, which is blowing soft little breaths on my neck. I stop for a second to regain my composure. Yes, I will bring her to her room. No, I will not think about her breath on my neck. Or about her arse.

When we reach her bedroom, I mutter "Alohomora" and the door opens slowly. As she continues to purr into my neck, I place her gingerly on the edge of her bed, then kneel in front of her so I can remove her shoes.

"Hermione," I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, "why did you get so drunk tonight?" I’m both confused and fascinated by what she’s done. Usually she’s the most sober person I know, the least likely to go on a bender. I need to know what provoked her to act like this.

"Welllll, Ginny and I were playing Truth or Dare. She dared me to do somefin an’ I wouldn’ and I hadda drink a buncha firewhiskey."

My mind is racing faster that that golden Snitch I love to chase. "So what was the dare? Why wouldn’t you do it?"

"I wouldn’t show her my tattoo."

My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. "You have a tattoo?" I can’t remember seeing a tattoo anywhere on any part of her – not any part that I’ve already seen, that is. And since I’ve seen her in a bikini, I believe I’ve seen most of her body, though obviously not the best parts. Which means the tattoo must be on one of her best parts. Then she stands up next to her bed and starts unbuttoning her blouse. Merlin save me.

"Hermione," I pant as I realize that blood is rushing from my brain on a southbound train, "what are you doing?" I know bloody well what she’s doing, I just don’t know if she knows what she’s doing.

"I’m unbunnonin my blous, silly goose. So you can see my tattoo." As she finishes with the last button, my breath hitches in my chest. She’s standing there with her blouse wide open, wearing nothing underneath but a bra. But it’s not a regular bra, it’s one of those peekaboo flimsy things that’s somewhere between Aunt Petunia’s lace curtains and see-through plastic wrap. And it leaves almost nothing to my imagination. Her breasts are soft and round, not too big but not too small, and I realize they’d fit perfectly in my hands if I were to... No... I’m not going to think about that. She’s drunk and I would be taking advantage of her. And no matter how much I want to put my hands on her breasts and trace my fingertips over those rosy nipples (and dear Lord they’re already hard, aren’t they) I will make myself abstain because I know she doesn’t really know what she’s doing right now. Does she?

I take a deep breath and look away as I realize my dick is standing at attention.

"Harry, you’re blushing," she giggles, "and I bet your little friend is too." My ‘little friend’ is not so little anymore, and I can feel it straining against my boxers. I try to steer the conversation away from my nether regions.

"Hermione, you’re...exposing yourself... that bra is very sheer and I can see... almost all of you... your breasts, I mean." I’d spit it out faster if I could think beyond the fact that I’m blushing furiously and I’m harder than the handle of my Firebolt, and almost as big. "And I don’t see a tattoo anywhere on ... that part of your body."

"Riiiight," she sighs. "I so drunk I forgot. It’s not up there, it’s down here." And then she unbuttons the top of her jeans and unzips them as far as they’ll go and then I see it. The tattoo. And I don’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a golden Snitch, regulation-size in fact, delicately tattooed right where the silky skin of her lower abdomen meets that patch of curly auburn hair that... oh fuck, I can see her pubic hair through her knickers. She’s wearing see-through knickers as well as a see-through bra. Does she always dress like this? Dear Merlin, is this the same Hermione I’ve known for nine years? What is she doing? Why is she letting me see this?

"Hermione," I breathe her name slowly, "why do you have a Snitch tattooed on your belly? And why are you showing it to me?"

She takes my right hand and pulls me up in front of her. Then she places my hand on her belly right over the tattoo. My heart is racing and the blood is pounding in my ears and I think I’m going to explode and I haven’t even touched her, not really, not the way I’d like to... if she’ll let me. Then she squeezes my hand and very slowly nudges it down, down toward those auburn curls and suddenly my fingers are in those curls and the tip of my middle finger finds a fleshy nub and Hermione’s head rolls back and an Ohhhhhhhhh! escapes her lips.

"That’s why," she smiles. And then she snakes her hands around my neck again and we lean in toward each other and our lips finally touch. But the kiss is no accident and I don’t care how much firewhiskey is on her breath, because now she’s breathing the last of the firewhiskey straight into my lungs and my whole body catches fire. And I’d gladly go up in a flame in a minute if it meant I could keep my finger where it’s just been, or maybe go further.

"Hermione," I breathe her name again, this time in her ear and almost like a prayer, because whatever I say next will probably change things between us forever. "You’re very drunk. If we go any further...I don’t want you to do anything that you’ll regret tomorrow because it was with me and you were drunk. But I want you to know I’m not sorry we’re doing this. In fact I’m very glad."

Then I cover her lips with mine and kiss her long and hard. Her lips answer mine firmly and she nips my bottom lip with her teeth before she slides her tongue into my mouth and explores it leisurely. And I haven’t removed my finger and neither has she. She squeezes my hand again and starts to move it up and down. I get the hint and move it faster. And as we stand there kissing, sucking each other’s lips, touching tongues, my finger moves faster and dips inside her and Hermione moans into my mouth. She drops one hand from my shoulder and moves it to the waistband of my jeans and quickly undoes the button and zipper. Her hand dips inside my boxers and suddenly it’s wrapped around my dick and she moves it up and down slowly with a feathery touch along the shaft. She pushes my pants down and off my legs, never missing a beat with her other hand, while I do the same for her, trying to meet her stroke for stroke. My knees start to buckle and I back her up to her bed and lay her back on the mattress. We’re still kissing and stroking each other but I know that unless one of us calls a halt to it soon, that’s just the start of what we’ll do.

"Hermione," I’m almost begging her this time. My breath is ragged and my voice is deep and hoarse with lust. "Please tell me this is not just the firewhiskey talking." I look deep into her brown eyes, hoping that the Hermione I’ve always known is still in there, hiding close behind this drunken young woman who apparently wants to shag. She looks deep into my eyes and shakes her head slowly. Oh shit, she’s going to tell me she doesn’t want this, that it’s all a mistake, that she and I can never be friends again now that I’ve fingered her...shit shit shit, what I have done? My dick deflates almost as quickly as my ego.

She finally speaks. "No, Harry." Here it comes, I’m doomed. "It’s not just the firewhiskey talking. I want to do this with you. I’ve wanted to do this with you for a long, long time. That’s why that snitch has been tattooed there for over a year. You could say I got myself branded. It might as well say Property of Harry Potter," she sighs as she rolls us over so that I’m on my back.

Property of Harry Potter. Those words have a very positive effect on me, and my dick again rises to the occasion.

"Sit up, please, I have a present for you" she says, and as I sit up she pulls my legs over the edge of the bed and slides down to the floor between them. Then all I can see is her beautiful bushy hair as my dick is engulfed in warmth and wetness and her tongue slides up and down my shaft doing all sorts of things I’d never allowed myself to think of in the same sentence with "Hermione Granger." I don’t want to know where she learned them, I only want her never to stop. Well, maybe not never. There are a few other things I’d like to do with her.

She teases me with her tongue until I’m almost on the edge, and I think This is it, I’ve died and gone to heaven. Well, almost. Then she pushes me back down on the bed and straddles my legs. I discover tiny, silky knots of either side of her knickers, and I mutter a charm that quickly undoes the knots so that her knickers fall away. I reach up and take those beautiful breasts in my hands through the sheer bra and gently flick my thumbs across her hard, rosy nipples. Apparently I’ve done the right thing because she groans with delight and then reaches around her back and pop, the bra drops off. And if it’s possible her naked breasts are even more beautiful than they were when I could almost see all of them. Then she leans down far enough so I can take one of them in my mouth. While I flick my tongue across her nipple she moans and slides, wet and hot and ready, back and forth along the length of my erection. I roll us over and lean my forearms on either side of her body while she wraps her legs around my hips.

"We can stop now if you want," I whisper in her ear, my finger rubbing lazy circles around her clitoris. She shudders and licks the shell of my ear in response.

"If you stop now, Harry Potter, I’ll have to hex you into next year," she moans into my ear. "I’m not drunk anymore, and I know what I’m doing. So finish making love to me now or I finally will regret getting that damn tattoo."

So much for abstaining. I can’t abstain from this anymore than I could abstain from touching her breasts when I finally had the chance.

"Should I do the charm on myself, or do you want to do it on yourself?" I ask her, giving her one last opportunity to back out. There’s no way we can go back to being "just friends" after this and we both know it.

"No need," she replies with a sly smile. "I did the charm on myself hours ago."

I feel a goofy expression cross my face as I finally cotton on. She wanted this to happen all along. The firewhiskey just gave her the courage she might not have had otherwise. I reckon even a Gryffindor needs a little help now and then. A huge grin cracks my face and I swoop down and kiss her again, this time as sweetly as I can.

"How very like you, Miss Granger. Yes, I do recall something about cleverness as well as books. And now I believe it’s time for me to catch that snitch."

I lay one hand gently on her tattoo. "Property of Harry Potter," I whisper to her as I guide myself inside her. I feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. At last I’m home.

<3 <3 <3