Above Ground

Above Ground

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: When you’re floating four inches above ground, you need somebody to catch you. And if you’re looking for a plot, then you clicked on the wrong story. What you will find here is fluffy smut.

Author’s note: Before you employ a mercenary lynch mob and send them after me, I have to say something in my defense: I have never written H/Hr smut before, and am a wee bit sleepy. This is just something I wrote after discussing high heels on the wonky thread over at the forums.

While she was walking towards the long marble staircase, Hermione silently wondered whether she should have left suicide notes, or at least a testament. She could not willingly walk into the open arms of death and not tell those who loved her that she was sorry. But then again, Ginny had seen her earlier and not tried to stop her. Neither had Ron. So Hermione figured that everybody deserved it if she died.

It wasn’t as if she wanted to die. She really hadn’t given it much thought until a few seconds ago, when she first noticed the staircase.

She would describe descending them with her high, high, high, high, high heeled stilettos suicide. Harry would probably call it darwinism. He who is smart shall survive.

Speaking of Harry: she hadn’t heard a word from him all day, and it was starting to worry her. It was their routine that he’d floo her at the office when they both had their lunch breaks, and talk about things. Nothing imporant usually, but Hermione was an animal of habit, and those daily talks gave her a sense of comfort. After all, it meant that he was still alive.

She had never told him this, but everyday when he went off to work she felt this little clenching pain in her heart, and a little voice in the back of her mind would tell her that it might be the last time she’d see him.

Shoving all those somber thoughts back into the dark corner of her mind where they belonged Hermione took a tentative step towards the staircase. Up until now she’d been leaning onto a pillar, smiling coquettely at those who passed her by. But she couldn’t just stand there all evening, and that’s why she started to approach the stairs of death, as she had now called them.

Placing one elegant hand on the railing she set a foot onto the first step, very, very carefully. Upon seeing that she had not yet lost balance and broken her neck after tumbling down a gigantic staircase she gathered a little more courage and took another step.

The fleeting thought that if she died, she would at least do so with style did not exactly help to comfort her, though.

She had reached the eleventh step, approximately, when it happened. She must have somehow missed the step with the little expanse of sole her shoe provided, and slipped. Ironically enough, what would have been her last thought had not a strong pair of arms caught her in the nick of time revolved around milk. Lateron she would not remember what exactly it was, except for that it had something to do with her least favourite drink in the world.

But, fortunately, all that didn’t matter, since somebody had caught her, and, judging by the scent of his cologne, she already had a sneaking suspicion as to her saviour’s identity.

Her suspicion was confirmed when he made sure that her footage was good and then turned her around and placed a chaste kiss on her lips, his eyes atwinkle.

“You look amazing,” he finally whispered while piercing her with his bright emerald gaze.

“Thank you,” she replied, not able to hold back the slight blush that crept up her neck. She idly wondered what exactly was wrong with here – she was not a silly schoolgirl anymore, and this was Harry Potter, her very own husband. But perhaps that was just it – he was Harry Potter, the only person she ever could and would blush over.

She did not really realize that they were still tightly pressed against each other in the middle of a publicly accessible staircase. Or rather: she did not realize that they were in a public place. Pressing up against the most handsome man in Britain would have been rather hard to ignore, after all.

The fact that he was now circling the small of her back with his hands and still fixing her with his mesmerizing eyes was not helping matters either. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

“Harry-“ she said, cursing her voice for sounding so strangled.

“Yes love? Was there something you wanted to say?” He asked, moving one of his hands to lightly brush over her shoulder, and stretched his mouth into something that came very close to a smirk, which made her clutch his robes so hard that her knuckles were turning white. This whole situation was giving her thoughts about sweat, rumpled bedsheets and creaking sounds.

“Don’t you think this is a little inappropriate at the Minister’s birthday party?” she squeaked, deciding to file a lawsuit against her own vocal chords as soon as she was able to leave Harry’s delicious embrace, which meant that she’d probably have to fix this in her testament in order to have it done post-mortem.

“How about we leave, then?” he whispered and flicked his tongue to brush her ear lightly while he did so.

Even Hermione might have found some astounding reserve of resistance before this, it was gone now. The logical part of her brain, which was usually dominating her actions suddenly seemed to have left, and so she couldn’t find a reason to object.

“Okay,” she whispered back, and before she could say another word, Harry had apparated them into the bedroom of their flat.

“Were you planning on doing this?” she asked, a little surprised.

He didn’t reply, but kissed her instead, gently at first, still running his hands over her back and shoulders, while she moved hers over his arms, to his shoulders and then stopped their journey at his neck. Soon the kiss started to be more heated though, when Harry’s tongue sought and was granted entrance into her mouth, clashing with her own.

Harry was trying to pull her even closer, and her whole body was tingling all over by now, and the feeling was increasing with the seconds passing. Seconds in which Harry slowly unzipped her black spaghetti-strap dress, sending pleasurable shivers down her spine.

While he was removing the straps from her shoulders she fumbled with the buttons of of his shirt, hastily undoing them, and then ridding him from the annoying garment as fast as she could. She suddenly felt as if each and every scrap of fabric that separated them was one layer too much, and his train of thoughts must have been the same, because, after the dress had glided down her body and she had stepped out of it, he seemed rather impatient to unclasp her matching black strapless bra.

She decided to help him a little with it, while he hastily discarded what was left of his clothing, and all the while, they were sharing one of the most intense kisses they ever had.

When they had finally stripped down to nothing in record time, Harry’s mouth left Hermione’s for the first time that evening, straying over her jaw to her earlobe, nipping and suckling at it before moving on to her neck, where he payed special attention to the spot she knew he knew would make her gasp, and they were both not disappointed.

But tonight, she didn’t really want it to be like this. She was on fire, and even though it surprised herself, as ready as could be, and she could tell that Harry, whose erection was pressing into her abdomen was too.

“Harry,” she gasped when she felt his lips moving lower, stopping at her breasts, slightly taking one of her erect nipples into his mouth.

“Harry,” she repeated, pulling his head back up, pressing her lips to his again. “The bed – now,” she commanded, and Harry was more than happy to oblige.

He picked her up and swiftly, or as swiftly as you can move with the weight of a full grown woman in your arms, carried her over to the bed, dropping her rather unceremonously.

Hermione almost sighed with relief when he crawled onto the bed and with one fluid motion slid into her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that she still wanted to know why he hadn’t flooed her, but right now, that was unimportant.

What counted that he was kissing her again, and that he was finally moving. She wrapped her legs around his, digging her heels into the backs of his knees and moving her hips to complement his rhythm, making white-hot pleasure seep through her whole body.

She dug her fingernails into his back as Harry increased the speed of his strokes, making the pressure that was building inside of her finally reach its peak and scream his name as an intense orgasm washed over her, her walls clenching and unclenching around his still pounding cock.

She could feel him harden even more inside of her and knew that he was nearing his climax as well, and even through the daze she was in at the moment she was present enough to start moving again to help him reach his goal.

After a few more strokes Harry reached his climax as well, breathing her name into her ear as he did so. She knew that Harry never collapsed on top of her after sex contrary to what Luna said about Ron, and therefore was not surprised when he slid off her and lay down beside her, while they both were waiting for their laboured breathing to calm down.

“You can call me Mr. Five Minutes if I you want,” Harry chuckled after a while.

“Only if you call me Miss Four And A Half Minutes,” Hermione replied, smiling at him.

“Mrs. Four and a Half Minutes,” he replied, and then drew her head in for another kiss.

“How about we try to last a little longer next time? And how about next time is right now?” she asked, trying to give him what she hoped was a sexy smile.

He didn’t answer. At least, not in words.