Restless

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; they are the original creation of J.K. Rowling and I intend no profit from this story.

Author's Note: If you enjoy this story, please tell me so...I will update according to reader response!

Lying awake in the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter stared up at the ceiling, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything...thinking about her. His nighttime hours of late had been maddeningly restless, and he was drawn to the warmth of the fire that still burned here, hoping it would give him some solace and comfort.

A noise on the stairs jerked him out of his peaceful reverie. He knew almost without looking who it was, and as she stepped further into the room out of the shadows, his heart lurched at the affirmation that it was her. Hermione.

She yawned and stretched her arms high above her head, the hem of her nightie creeping dangerously far up her thighs until he could almost see her knickers -- that is, if she was wearing any -- although he couldn't imagine that Hermione would be the kind of girl to neglect such an article of clothing. Seeing her standing there yawning like a little girl and dressed in such a womanly little skivvy was a conflicting image -- similtaneously the most arousing and endearing sight Harry had ever seen. Feeling very naughty and rather warm for looking at her in such a way without her knowledge, he cleared his throat to announce his presence, and was met with a startled little "Oh" from Hermione as she realized that she was not alone. She moved with sudden insecurity to straighten her nightie, trying to tug the hem down lower to reveal less of her long, smooth legs, for indeed, it was little more than a meager scrap of fabric. Who knew that conservative little Hermione would sleep in such a tiny bit of lace?

Trying not to stare, Harry realized that the illumination of the moonlight behind her gave a clear view of the outlines of her body beneath the light fabric, and found his throat uncomfortably dry as he noticed the smallness of her waist and gentle curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts beneath the fabric and the place between her legs where they parted from one another. He gulped hard. Although he was 17, it was nonetheless the most naked he had seen a woman in person, and the thrill of it made his heart race and his head spin.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I should've put on my robe." She blushed and looked down at the floor, digging her toes into the carpet shyly.

Harry could not believe that such a stupid comment could come from a girl -- no, woman -- as smart as Hermione, because she could realize with one glance at his lap that he was most certainly not sorry that she had neglected to don her robe.

Clearing his throat again, Harry stood up, hoping that his shirt would cover the painful bulge in his thin pajama pants. He approached her wordlessly until they were standing very close, and smiled at her softly as he looked down on her, her large brown doe-eyes full of apprehension at their proximity. "Don't be sorry," he said softly. "You've never looked more beautiful."

Looking shocked, Hermione began to protest. "Oh, but my hair --" she started.

"Is beautiful, and messy, and sexy," he reassured her, taking a lock of her curls in his fingers gentle, playing with it, marvelling at it.

"Harry --" she said nervously, backing away from him demurely and stepping closer to the light of the fire. She didn't seem to know how to finish her sentence, and stood there not meeting his gaze for a moment, focusing instead on the dying embers. For once observant, Harry realized with growing excitement that he could see her belly-button through the fabric of her nightie, and let his eyes wander higher to her breasts, where he realized for the first time that her small, dark nipples were just barely visible through the fabric of her gown. She could feel his eyes on her and knew that the flush that suddenly creeped across her skin was not because of the warmth of the fire.

"Hermione," he said simply, approaching her again. The strap of her gown has slipped off her shoulder, and she looked up at him fearfully as she felt his rough fingertips on her arm, guiding it back up to where it belonged. His hand lingered there and her eyes were wide and dark, fearful and hopeful of what he would do next.

Given new boldness by the intensity of his arousal, his hand wandered up to tangle in the messy curls of her hair, tilting her head up gently. Too overwhelmed by the look in his eyes, Hermione closed her own just moments before feeling his lips descend onto hers, soft and wet and sensual.

He kissed her as gently as he could manage given the sheer magnitude of his lust for her and the sudden desperation he felt for her, for this. Her mouth was warm and wet and inviting, and she parted her lips for him, welcoming the firm assault of his tongue. Her body trembled against his as he snaked his free arm around her waist, feeling the supple, soft skin beneath the thin material of her gown, feeling intensely masculine and powerful at the smallness of her waist. A thought flew into his head and he tried desperately to push it away as he realized how dangerous it was -- the thought of how much he would like to feel those same soft sides beneath his hands as he fucked her, guiding her movements with a firm grip on her hips, watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed heavily on top of him, long legs locked tightly around his waist, slick heat enveloping him...he wanted her so badly, it hurt.

When their lips broke for the smallest of seconds, she gasped as she similtaneously felt his hand move to cup her ass and a persistent bulge collide with her thigh. He moaned softly with the intensity of it, still feeling her trembling against him. "I need you," he mumbled into her hair, knowing he had gone too far but unable to find his reserves of self-control.

She stood their like that for a tiny moment, breathing heavily against him, her round bottom poured into his palm, filling it deliciously. And then, suddenly, she moved to pull away from him, as he had known she would. It was all too heavy for her, too fast and too intense.

She said nothing as she fled from the room, casting one last look over her slim shoulder as she mounted the stairs back up to the Griffyndor girls' room. With a defeated sigh, Harry collapsed backwards onto one of the sofas, burying his face in his hands.

They would talk about it in the morning. For now, they would spend another lonely night in their seperate beds, their dreams full of soft kisses and small sighs in the dark of the night.

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.

After what felt like an eternity, the bell rang dismissing the students from McGongall's class. Hermione darted out of the classroom, weaving through the web of students with an impressive lack of jostling or collisions. Before Ron and Harry could even make it out the door of the class, she was well out of sight.

But not out of mind. It was clear to Harry that Hermione was going to be avoiding him in earnest, and yet the need to talk to her seemed very pressing. He hated to do it, but knowing her stubbornness as well as he did, he knew he would have to corner her. And thus, after dinner that evening, he followed her as she left the great hall and made her way up to the Astronomy Tower.

She stood there overlooking the grounds below her, watching the play of moonlight on the surface of the lake, her dress blowing lightly about her in the soft breezes of the late evening. The moon was bright, the air crystal clear and all the stars shining.

She felt his presence before hearing the first sound of a footfall on the stones. "I want to be alone," she said, not turning to face him.

He came up behind her, wishing she would turn to look at him and said simply, "I don't." The true impact of his words hit her when she felt his hands come to rest lightly on her sides, a gentle touch with a warmth that she could feel through the thin fabric of her dress.

"So you need a convenient warm body?" she asked, a touch of bitterness in her voice.

"I need YOU, Hermione," he clarified.

There was a beat of silence. "Are you sure?" she whispered finally.

"More than I am about anything," he murmered.

He could feel her skin, warm beneath the cloth, and finally she relaxed against him, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. "Oh, Harry," she said. "I'm so confused."

This strange transition from friendship to something more felt was to Harry akin to moving to a new country...somewhere beautiful you had read about and imagined, somewhere that turned about to be much bigger than you'd envisioned -- thrilling, but overwhelming in its newness. So much to learn, to see, to explore...it was enough to make anyone's head spin.

But despite the vertigo, Harry felt a thrill of warmth and pulled her close against him, their bodies flush together, the smooth, soft lines of her and the sharp, strong lines of him. It felt good; it felt right. It felt finally arriving at that place you'd visited only in dreams, but knew where you belonged. It felt like coming home.

And so they stood there overlooking the calm land below them in meditative silence, each occupied in their own thoughts, kept company by the familiar warmth of each other's bodies. After a long moment, Harry bent to kiss her neck lightly, meaning it to be innocent and brief. But he found her skin was so soft, warm and delicate, that he could not help but let his mouth linger there. His stubble was rough against her flesh, coarse and erotic, and involuntarily, a moan escaped her, a small sound that sent a delicious rush through him, imagining the heat pooling between her legs.

He kissed her there again, hoping for more of her soft sighs. He kissed her neck up and down, soft, wet, sucking kisses that made her skin feel hotter beneath his hands.

He let his lips linger by her ear, his breath warm against her skin. It was so easy to touch her like this, and as he closed his eyes he could almost imagine what it would be like to make love to her.

He thought of her small, round breasts beneath her snug dress, imagining her rosy pink nipples against his chest, soft and responsive to the roughness of male hands. He became very concious of his grip on her sides, of how soft her skin was, how pliant to the touch, and thought that he would like to feel her skin naked and warm beneath his hands, to grip those soft sides as he rocked into her. He thought of her legs...those long, long legs, and remembered how they moved, graceful and smooth beneath the fabric of her dress as she walked along. He wanted them wrapped tightly around his waist, and wanted especially what was between them.

With a pang of excitement, he remembered that she was a virgin. Admittedly that knowledge thrilled him, and he imagined that she would be deliciously, almost painfully tight, soft and hot and small. He thought of her ass, remembering how it moved beneath her dress, round and supple...and he decided that at the least, he needed to feel it against him since he could not simply bury himself inside her at the moment. So he moved, just slightly, guiding her body to where he wanted it with a strong hand on her waist. Now her ass, soft and round, was pressed soundly against his arousal. He heard her breath hitch.

He was unbearably hard, and he almost couldn't take the torture of it, her bottom so deliciously soft against his straining erection. He resisted the urge to simply shove her skirt up past her hips, bend her over the ledge and take her...to sink into the softness between her legs, feel it surrounding him, hot and tight and slick. Instead, he pulled her tighter against him, and moaned, not caring if he had gone too far or if he had shocked her with his boldness. He wanted to make her understand her effect on him.

"Do you feel that?" he asked her, his voice barely a whisper and deeper than she had ever heard it. She felt her skin flush at the sound of it. "Do you see what you do to me?" he choked, his breath warm and airy against her skin.

"Yes," was all she could manage. He took it as a good sign.

He turned her around, mustering some self-control and vowing to keep himself in check. He moved with greater slowness now, wrapping one arm solidly around her waist, pulling her to him. He felt an overwhelming need to feel her against him, and this closeness was a true intimacy, their faces very close together. Her eyes were dark and a bit frightened, but imploring. And so he buried his fingers in her hair and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply.

She was a soft, sweet kisser, her mouth warm and wet and inviting. If they had been in a bedroom somewhere now, he would've slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders and tugged it off her body, letting it pool around her ankles. He wanted to kiss down her neck, kiss her breasts, her stomach, her thighs...kiss and suck between her legs, feel her fingers in his hair as he tasted her there, even wetter and more inviting than her sweet mouth...but they were not in a bedroom, so he contented himself with letting his hand journey down to her ass. It filled his palm perfectly, and he squeezed it involuntarily. He was painfully, painfully hard, his erection pratically sobbing for relief. It was pressed soundly against her body, and the awareness of it sent the blood pumping through her veins wildly fast, her heart hammering in her chest.

With great effort, he pulled himself away from her, turning away, barely able to catch his breath. He didn't dare look at her, for fear that he might not be able to resist ripping her dress off her, freeing her beautiful body from the confines of clothing, spreading her legs and fucking her hard. She deserved hours of slow, soft love-making, and he knew he could not give her that now, and certainly not up here on a hard stone floor. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to keep his composure. "I know you're not ready for this."

"Harry..." she began softly.

He turned to her again suddenly, grabbing her and kissing her once more, fiercely. "We'll talk in the morning," he said.

"Procrastinator," she whispered, but he saw her smile coyly, and watched as one bewitched as she moved fluidly down the stairs back inside the castle, casting one quick glance back over her shoulder as she went.

Later that night, alone in his bathroom upstairs, he at last found the release he was seeking. The first contact of his hand against his manhood was almost enough to bring him to orgasm, delicious and familiar, and he almost whimpered with the pleasure of it as he stroked himself. He could still feel her soft body against him, and thrusting up into his hand, imagined it was her, hot and tight around him. He came quickly, and it was a long while before he was fully calm again and his breathing returned to normal. He sighed to himself, confused and overwhelmed, and wondered what the morning would bring.

A soft knock on the door of his room stilled Harry from the removal of his pants, his shirt already discarded on the floor beside his bed. The long hours of Quidditch practice in preperation for the next day's game had left him exhausted and sweaty, eager to strip of his clothes and fall into bed.

When Hermione entered the room, his plans abruptly changed. His fatigue was quickly forgotten at the possibilities posed by having Hermione alone in his room, and he smiled at her as she approached the bed and sat down gentle on the edge.

"How was practice?" she asked innocently, not giving him time to answer as she placed her hand on his neck and pulled him gently to her, kissing him lightly. He smiled against her lips and pulled her into his lap as she moved to kiss his neck. "You look good," she said quietly, her small hand journeying down towards his shoulder as she sucked lightly at the skin of his neck. "Taste good, too," she purred.

"So do you," he moaned, wishing that coming home after Quidditch practice would always be rewarded with this kind of attention.

She ran her fingers up his neck, across his Adam's apple, gliding along his collarbone, her fingers dipping into the chalice there. Her nails nipped softly at his skin, and he grabbed her head roughly, bringing her lips back down to his and kissing her eagerly.

Her small hand made it's way down his arm, feeling the strong bicep tense beneath his skin. She squeezed it in her hand, her nails digging in, and he felt dizzy as she opened her mouth to him and let his tongue slip in, imagining what it would be like to be on top of her, inside her, those beautiful lips parted with soft words spilling from them, and those nails -- those nails, biting at his skin as she held him tightly, a distinctly female touch against his back, or gripping his arm as she did now. He felt drunk on his desire, his stomach tied in excruciating knots.

Her hand made its way down his muscled forearm, and found his hand in a gesture that's sweetness contrasted sharply with the eroticism of her previous actions. Slowly, she threaded her fingers through his, and she smiled against their kiss. He felt a deep tenderness for her that was very innocent and contrasted sharply with the consuming lust he had for her.

Her right hand busied itself with exploring the smooth, sculpted lines of his chest as she moved so that she was straddling him. Her touch descended between their bodies across the ridges of his abdomen, flat and perfectly formed, the muscles tense with anticipation. Her hand roamed out to his side, feeling that narrowness of his hips, so distinctly male, and she lingered in this area, her finger tracing the line of his obliques up and down, fascinated and aroused. She ground herself against his erection, an action that he met by grasping her ass roughly and pulling her even closer against him. He growled low in his throat and fought the urge to speak, unsure of what words might come tumbling out. Instead, he moved his lips to her neck, evoking a soft whimper of approval from Hermione, who threaded her fingers into his hair in the hopes of locking his mouth there.

Her other hand unexpectedly left its resting spot on his stomach to snake down between them and caress the bulge in his trousers. Involuntarily, he thrust up into her hand, an unconscious gesture that spoke of his desperation for that contact -- the heat of that small hand where he wanted it so desperately. "Ohh," she said, a soft little exclamation of mock surprise...and also of satisfaction. She was teasing him and he knew it.

But she did not pull her hand away, and the friction of the fabric of his pants against his sex made him groan in misery, floating somewhere between torture and ecstasy.

"I should go," she said weakly as she squeezed his erection gentle. "You've got a big game tomorrow." She smiled down at him demurely as he looked up at her with wide, hungry eyes.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head in protest. "You're not going anywhere." His voice was throaty and full of lust, and though he gave her a small smile to reassure her that he wouldn't hurt her, he held her so tightly that escape proved impossible. He rolled their interlocked bodies so that she was flat on her back on the bed, pinned beneath him, her legs still parted so that he was settled perfectly between them.

His hands moved up to cup her breasts and it was her turn to be surprised. He pushed her shirt up so that his hands came in contact with the bare skin of her sides, which he gripped tight enough to bruise, the pliant skin soft and warm beneath his hands. She whimpered, this time from pain, but found herself deeply aroused at the rough turn in Harry's behavoir.

"You evil little wench," he rumbled, his chest heaving as he moved to kiss her again. "You just love to torture me, don't you?"

She couldn't respond when his hand moved to cup her sex through the fabric of her jeans.

"Do you feel how hard I am?" It was a low growl that demanded no answer. "You know what you do to me. I want to know --" it was hard to get the words out, "--what I do to you." Quickly he moved to unbutton her jeans, the zipper coming down quickly as he shrugged them off her hips, pulling her panties down with them. With no pretense or warning, he plunged one finger deep inside her, and she moaned and shuddered. No one had ever touched her there before. She whimpered as his finger moved, delirious from the new sensation.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "Oh, God." He stroked her with that one long finger, feeling her so wet that his hand was very nearly soaked with it. He added another finger and felt that he was stretching her, finding himself close to his own orgasm as her hips bucked against his hand. When his thumb grazed her clit, the rough pad of it rubbing circles across it, she saw stars as she went over the edge, the first male-induced orgasm she had ever experienced being certainly the most violently intense. Her back arched clear off the bed as she panted his name while he continued to stroke her until her shuddering stopped and she opened her eyes at last as he released her from his clutching embrace.

He did not protest her exit as she unceremoniously pulled her pants back up and stumbled from the room like a drunk, mumbling incoherently a goodnight. Aching for release that she was not ready to provide him, he sank back against the pillows and wasted no time in freeing himself from his pants, whimpering with relief as he began stroking himself, breathing heavily with the pleasure of the familiar contact of his hand against his manhood. He closed his eyes tightly and wished that it was her hand on his aching sex, wishing she was still here in his bed kissing him frantically, desperately, her lips soft and wet against his hot skin, finding every muscle coiled in the desperate tension that comes before the release of orgasm. The images, the thoughts of fucking her sped up and blurred as he increased his pace, until they were a wild mirage of clothes frantically ripped from hungry bodies, the first sighs of bare skin meeting, lips finding soft, secret places, moans on the wind, the fullness of her warm, round bottom in his hand -- he moaned out loud at that particular thought, his fantasy speeding and spinning into a thousand images as he came closer and closer to the edge of release, arching off the bed as he thrust into his hand desperately, unable to suppress the guttural moans of gratification that filled the room. It became a frantic, wanton blur of silken curves, long hair, soft breasts, tangled legs, and an encompassing, slick heat that pulled him in deeper and deeper and deeper, so tight, so deliciously tight, squeezing him, devouring him, pulling him in deeper still, hot, so hot...he thrust harder, harder...until finally, he was falling...falling...falling...

He opened his eyes, finding himself back in reality, his chest still heaving with the exertion of his pleasure, his heart still pounding heavily, his body still quivering from the absolute rapture. Sweat rolled off the sculpted lines of him, and he lay there for awhile as the wild energy waned and a deep languor set in, his muscles relaxing at long last, his desire, for the moment, abated. He closed his eyes and before long was asleep, images of her floating in and out of his mind as he slumbered.

Author's note: Thanks to everyone for the wonderful feedback! I feel so encouraged. I'm extremely surprised to get such positive reactions from this...I'm a terribly lazy writer, and I write smut because it's just so damn easy. I apologize for the lack of plot, and the rather disjointed feel this story probably has. I wrote each chapter as a stand-alone kind of thing, each months apart when I was bored, and only just now am stringing them together to try and make some kind of coherent story. This chapter is sweeter than the previous ones, but hopefully not too sugary...I can't stand fluff. (Let me know if you think this is too cutesy-snuggly-bunny orwhatever.) Anyway, I'll stop rambling and let you carry on with the story. Again, thanks for reading...I hope you enjoy this chapter, which I wrote specifically for the purposes of pleasing you readers. ;) This one's for you, guys!

P.S. Please excuse any remaining formatting errors. I think I fixed most of them...but my laptop is a bitch. Damn it!

Harry awoke to the lonely, frightful hours of early morning, covered in sweat from a horrific nightmare. The past years had made him used to troubled sleep, but never had he been more disturbed by dreams than tonight. Waking proved to be little solace for a dream of such intense effect, and as he sat up in bed, a warm rush of nausea made its presence known in his stomach. Swinging his feet off the edge of his bed, he stumbled to his bathroom and retched into the toilet, the grip of terror still firm and keen. His chest heaved as he braced himself against the sink, his heart pounding violently against his bare chest as he fumbled for a glass of water to rinse the vile taste from his mouth. Gradually the flavor of bile was lost, while the distinct tang of fear remained, the cold white hand of terror boldly refusing to release its firm grasp. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand as he groped his way through the dark back towards his bed, knowing all the while that he would find no comfort there tonight.

It was not uncommon for Harry to wake up with the desire to see Hermione, but never had the need been this strong. Tonight it pushed past the hormonal boundaries of want into an intense need, and without a thought of donning his glasses or a t-shirt, he made his way instinctually to her room.

It was only when he saw her graceful form beneath the soft downy covers of her bed that his pulse lessened and could finally draw a solid breath into his lungs. The steady rise and fall of her chest assured him that she was no illusion; the air he breathed was the air she breathed, and they were both alive. He was loath to wake her, but felt he could not truly rest until he had once again seen her eyes and heard her voice.

Softly, he shook her shoulder until sleep abandoned her and she groggily opened her eyes to see him looking down on her. Before she could question his unexpected presence, the answer hit her as she saw the glimmer of tears in his large emerald eyes. "Oh, Harry," she said softly. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He nodded solemnly as he climbed under the covers with her, pulling her tight against him, running his hands up and down her back in the hope of convincing himself that she was truly corporeal. "I dreamt that you were dead," he whispered finally, his voice uncharacteristically shaky, the sharp edge of pain and fear evident in his tone.

"I'm not," she said simply, taking his hand and placing it over her heart. "See?" she asked. "More alive than ever." His vision was blurred without his glasses, but he saw a smile cross her face. He could feel her heart beating fast within her chest.

"Are you scared?" he breathed.

"Of what?" she asked. Her voice was so soft he could barely make out the words.

"Of dying." She could feel his breath, warm against her cheek. For a moment she was silent.

"I'm scared of losing you," she said honestly. He inhaled deeply, absorbing her words and letting the silence wrap out between them, its silver gossamer threads binding them there together in the dark.

"I hope I die before you," he choked after some long minutes.

"Don't say things like that, Harry."

"But it's true," he said.

"It's selfish, but it's true - if you were dead, I -- I don't think I could make it." His voice was unsteady, a deep baritone of emotion.

"I know what you mean," she said quietly, her voice full of understanding. His hand was still on her chest and she wrapped her small one around it, squeezing it gently.

"I've never told you that before," he said.

"I knew it anyway."

"How did you know?"

"I read it in a book somewhere," she joked softly. He smiled, but said, "I'm serious, Hermione. I should have told you a long time ago."

"Told me what?"

"That - that you're the most important thing in my life. You and Ron, I mean. But mostly you." The sheets beneath his face were wet from his quiet tears.

"I love you too, Harry," she said with a small smile. They had said it a thousand times before, but it was different now. Maybe they weren't in love. Maybe they were. But whatever it was, it was love in some form. Love in its purest, rawest sense - desperate, reckless, and complete.

The silence spanned out around them once more, and he kissed her forehead softly. She sighed against his naked chest and said, "You'd better get to sleep."

"I can't sleep," he mumbled into her hair. "I have to stay awake...have to know that you're safe." His words were heavy with the mummer of exhaustion.

For a moment she said nothing, finally interrupting the silence with a simple command. "Take your pants off," she said quietly.

He was completely still for a moment, thinking he must have imagined it. "What did you say?" he asked, sure that he had misunderstood her.

"Don't ask questions," she said, the authoritarian in her taking over. "You trust me, don't you?"

Stunned, he did as he was told, pushing his pants down over his hips and kicking them off his feet. In the dark, he could barely see her face as she smiled down at him, slowly moving closer to plant a soft, wet kiss on his lips. Distracted by these ministrations, he barely noticed her hand as it drifted down his torso.

His eyes flew open at the unexpected touch of her hand on his dick, already hard from her bold command, growing harder by the moment as her soft tongue slipped into his mouth. He could feel her breasts against his chest through the thing material of her tank top as she leaned over him, her free hand lacing through his messy black hair. He moaned as she wrapped her little fingers around the length of him, impossibly hard, harder than he could ever remember being. "What are you doing?" he managed to gasp.

"Giving you a hand job," she mumbled against his lips, her tone casual, as if it were the most innocent thing in the world. Her thumb found the small bead of moisture at the head of his penis and rubbed it in a lazy circle around the head, causing him to jerk his hips at the touch. She was fascinated by the feel of it, how unbelievably hard he was, and yet how soft and smooth the skin there was.

"I've never done this before," she said needlessly, feeling a bit breathless herself. "Am I doing alright, Harry?"

He could only nod as she began to stroke him slowly, twisting her hand slightly with each up and down motion. Her hand was soft but she kept a firm grip on his member, squeezing him ever so slightly, a delicious pressure, letting the heel of her palm caress the head with each stroke as he throbbed in her grasp. There was not enough oxygen in the room to fill his lungs, and she moved her mouth away from his to better hear the little moans he made, sucking at his neck in soft, wet kisses. Gradually she moved her hand faster, gripping him harder, relishing the feeling of him thrusting into her grasp, his breathing labored with delicious little groans of satisfaction rolling off his lips.

"Do you like that?" she teased him, her voice barely a whisper.

"I'm - I'm going --" he could barely speak, "--to come," he gasped, his hips bucking up off the bed.

"That's the idea," she said silkily into his ear. "Come for me, Harry." She fondled his balls as she increased her efforts of stroking his shaft, and within seconds, the combination of her touch and her erotic commands sent him tumbling over the edge, spilling himself onto her sheets and on her hand, which continued to move on him until the last drop was spent. "Scourgify," she whispered, cleaning up the mess as his breathing returned to normal.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" he asked, amazed.

"I read about it," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing is more soporific than a good orgasm."

"Did you read that, too?"

"No..." she said, "I know that from experience." She smiled coyly at him and kissed his cheek softly

Harry couldn't agree more. With the last of his remaining energy, he dipped his head down to kiss her one last time.

"In the morning," he panted, "we'll --"

But she cut him off. "Shh. Go to sleep, Harry."
And at these words, exhaustion set in and he drifted off to sleep by her side, the first truly peaceful rest he had felt in many months.

A/N: Ooh la la...a cliff hanger of sorts. What does Harry plan on them doing in the morning? I think we all know. ;) I will update according to reader response, as always. :)

P.S. Grr...after 6,782,586,283 tries, I finally got the fucking format to work on this chapter. Arrrggh!! Fucking computers. Where's my damn typewriter?