Morning came, and Harry's heart sank in his chest at the realization that Hermione would likely avoid him for the rest of the term. He cursed himself under his breath, furious for letting his hormones get the best of him, and rolled out of bed, unceremoniously pulling off his clothes as he made his way to the shower. His mood was so foul and his mind so clouded, he hardly cared where his clothing landed, or who might be awake to see him stripping down.
"Way to fuck up the best thing in your life," he thought bitterly as he turned on the faucet and let the hot water wash over his aching muscles. "Go and scare the living shit out of her by snogging her senseless," he thought, "...and then grope her like an animal in heat!" He scrubbed angrily at his chest and arms, hoping to wash away the anger he felt for losing his control.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," a more reasonable part of his mind said gently, a soothing thought that he chewed on for the barest of seconds before abandoning it in the favor of his bad mood. It was easier to be angry than rational when his temper flared like this. He was tired of being the good boy, the hero, the savior -- so very tired of listening to the moral voice of his conscious, the angel on his right shoulder verses the devil on his left. Even if the angel happened to look an awful lot like Hermione...chocolatey eyes blinking innocently as she bit at her bottom lip. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he could hear her say. "Why are you always so hard on yourself, Harry?"
"Oh, bollocks," he groaned aloud. The mere thought of her had sparked the memory of the night before, most decidedly not something he should be thinking about as he was already running late for breakfast and first classes. But against his will, it came flooding back, washing over his consciousness like the water over his body, vivid recollection of the way the shadows played on her face in the light from the fire, how warm and wet her mouth was, and how soft her ass was in his hand...
He grasped his erection in his hand like an enemy he was ready to strangle for all the torment it caused him, and yet, for all his anger, he could not help but exhale with relief at the familiar sensation, the muscles in his stomach going tense in anticipation. If he closed his eyes tight enough and thought back to that stolen moment from the night before, he could almost imagine that she was here with him in the shower, all naked curves glistening as the water rolled off her. In his anger, there were no thoughts of tenderness for her as there usually were, only the maddening desire to slam her against the hard stone wall of the shower, enter her roughly and hear her moan lowly in her throat, nails digging savagely into the well-toned muscles of his back as he buried himself to the hilt inside her, trailing sucking kisses down her neck to her breasts. He could feel himself coming closer to the edge and stoked himself with growing speed and impatience. "Bloody fuck," he cursed as he found his release, collapsing against the cool wall of the shower, chest heaving and tight muscles finally relaxed, a forgotten bottle of shampoo silently emptying itself down the drain, sticky and cool around his toes.
He climbed out of the shower feeling considerably less moody, wrapping a fuzzy white towel around his narrow waist. Without his glasses, it was hard to make out much of a reflection in the mirror, but he knew without looking that he had filled out rather nicely, finally growing into his long limbs, long hours of Quidditch practice adding muscles to his lean frame. He recognized with little arrogance the fact that there were certainly plently of females in Hogwarts who would've gladly gone for a roll in the hay with him, but none of them were Hermione. For a moment he felt contemplative, wondering exactly when his feelings had begun to simmer...when he had opened his eyes to look at her very objectively...not as Hermione, His Friend, but as Hermione, The Woman.
It had been simmering for months...the realization that beneath her Hogwarts robes were small, perky breasts, a thin, tapered waist, a round, soft bottom, and long, smooth legs. He found himself particularly interested in what lay between those long, smooth legs...because although he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, he would not pretend to be nobler than his fellow teenage males in his appreciation for the fairer sex. It seemed to pervade his every waking thought...and even his non-waking ones. "Spread your legs," he whispered to her in dreams, and with a coy smile she would let them fall slowly open, offering herself to him like a gift.
He knew that he should've handled such a delicate situation with greater finesse. She was the kind of girl who expected -- and deservesed -- to be carefully wooed, artfully and slowly seduced. She would want to be loved and cherished in bed...certainly not the kind of angry, heated sex that fueled Harry's fanatsies. But such was the demon of lust -- consuming, urgent, and unsatiable.
The word "love" rolled around slowly in his head like a marble. It was a word that flitted in and out of his daydreams of her, a word that he found on his lips in the wee hours of the morning as he struggled for sleep, a word that seemed to be the very breathe behind the soft moans of his indulgences in thoughts of her. But he pushed it away, not ready to face it. Wanting to shag someone is not the same as love, he chided himself.
*****
Harry found Ron and Hermione already seated at the Gryffindor table, the latter of which seemed very engrossed in her scrambled eggs. So engrossed, in fact, that she could not even spare a moment to send a glance in Harry's direction, even after he greeted her.
"Morning, Harry," said Ron cheerfully through a mouthful of toast. "Sleep well?"
"I couldn't sleep," Harry said, looking all the while at Hermione, who kept her gaze steadly fixed at her breakfast plate.
"Thinking about Cho again, are you mate?" Ron grinned.
Harry's cheeks reddened and he glared at Ron angrily. Hermione dropped her fork, and for the first time met Harry's eyes. There was the unmistakable look of hurt in her gaze, mingled dangerously with anger, and without a word she pushed back from the table and sauntered out of the cafeteria.
"What's wrong with her?" Ron mumbled cluelessly. "Think she's on her monthly?"
"Shut up," Harry snapped, stabbing at a pancake hostily.
Ron threw up his hands in mock defeat. "I can't win," he said. "Who knew everyone around her was so cranky?" He gave Harry a sideways glance.
Harry sighed. "Well why'd you have to say that about Cho?" He had trouble masking the tone of irritation in his voice.
Ron shrugged. "It's not like it's any big secret, Harry."
There was a moment of heavy silence before Harry spoke suddenly. "It's not Cho."
"What do you mean, it's not Cho?" asked Ron, looking utterly bewildered.
"I mean it's not Cho I've been thinking about lately," he said.
"Well why'd you say it was, then?" he asked, confused. "And who is it really?"
"What's it to you?" Harry snapped, immediately regretting it at the hurt look onf Ron's face.
"Sorry, Harry," he said sincerely. "I don't mean to pry...I just -- I guess I just thought that best mates told each other stuff like that." He shifted the remnants of his eggs around on his plate.
Feeling guilty, Harry sighed. "Look, Ron -- I'm sorry. I've just been in a bad mood lately, that's all."
"No shit," Ron chuckled, giving Harry a small smile. There was a beat before Ron spoke again. "Are you sure everything's alright, mate?" His eyebrows were knitted in true concern.
"I'm fine," Harry lied, forcing a smile for his best friend. "I'll tell you all about it later. We'd best get to class unless you want another detention for tardies."
Ron groaned and trotted after Harry as they left the meeting hall, breaking into a run as the first bell rang. He grinned suddenly as he slid into his seat next to Harry in McGongall's class.
"I know why you won't tell me," he whispered as the Professor began giving instructions to the class.
Harry went red before Ron continued, feeling a brief chord of panic at the thought that Ron might have finally figured it out.
"It's McGongall, isn't he?" he smirked, barely surpressing his laughter, and Harry couldn't help but grin. "I mean, sure, she's old, but she does have a rather tight arse, doesn't she?" His snickers shook his chest, and put his friend in a decidedly better mood.
"I can't believe you figured it out, Ron," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "It's been my secret shame all these years." He grinned broadly, feeling that the day might not be so bad, after all.
Hermione sat a row behind them, pretending to be listening intently to what McGongall was saying rather than watching Harry and Ron whisper and giggle...about Cho, no doubt. She blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling, cursing herself for staying up half the night thinking about Harry and that bruising kiss he'd laid on her in the common room. "Stupid of you, Hermione," she chided herself. "He was thinking about Cho the whole time..."
It was going to be a long day.