Unofficial Portkey Archive

Chapter Two.

Discovery.

That night, he dreamt of cinnamon hair and gentle little kisses. Beguiling perfume and delicious soft curves, things that were blissful and sent him mad all at once. When he woke his breaths were heavy, and the thumping tingling crush of arousal had claimed him completely. In his mostly-asleep state he let his hand drift down into his pants, just to get rid of the feeling, just to utterly surrender to it. It wasn't until an orgasm crashed through him that he realised that he was thinking of those brown eyes that had watched out for him since childhood. That he'd grown frenzied and released himself over the closest friend he'd ever known. Hauling himself to his feet, he cleaned himself up and retreated to his own bathroom, guilt beginning to build up in his chest over what had just happened.

Not in your right mind, Harry. Had far too much to drink. Nobody drinks that much tequila and has normal dreams. It's the worm that does it. Makes most people dream of the silliest things, certainly.

The shower was cleansing, relieving, relaxing. His mind continued to work through the logic, that nagging guilt that chased him ever gaining.

It's perfectly natural, he reasoned. Men are sexual animals, they have naughty dreams about all sorts of people.

But it wasn't a dream, came a dark little voice. It was desire, a waking desire clear as day. In your half-asleep pawing you thought of her, Hermione. Specifically everything about her, her hair, her eyes, her pert little boobs and her perfect arse. You thought of it all and you wanted it. You wanted it so badly you spent yourself on it. Face it.

You want to shag her.

Harry was horrified with himself. He'd known her for so long, she was so very special to him. He wasn't sure what had brought it all on, this strange idea that he wanted to have sex with Hermione, of all people. Hermione!

He'd always thought her pretty, and she was. Perfectly lovely in that pixie-like way, not a flawless beauty, certainly, but a sort that he thought was really quite exceptional. With make-up, without, she was utterly breathtaking. At least he thought so. He'd never felt bad about thinking that because he always accepted it as a sound fact; Hermione was gorgeous.

He was utterly mystified, however, where this roaring blinding urge had come from, that swelled in his sleep and had consumed him upon waking. He'd never done anything like this in regards to Hermione before. He felt just a little bit dirty about it, and bugger Merlin up a tree if that wasn't a turn on.

I'm sick, he thought. I am so very sick.

Done with his shower, he walked into his room, sitting on his bed in only his towel. Without any warning there was a pop! and Hermione was by the door, looking horrified.

Harry's mouth popped open. She was half-dressed, wearing a pair of jeans and a powder-blue blouse that was unbuttoned from top to bottom. It hung mostly closed, covering her bra. When she moved it fluttered open, and to his shock he saw that it was the flimsiest excuse of a bra he'd ever seen. It was sheer, purple, transparent, and each time she paced back and forth, the shirt would flutter open and he could see her nipples. Her pink, rosy soft looking nipples. His lips and tongue itched, guilt blasted through him and he felt insane. Grabbing his clothes off the bed, he pulled them into his lap. Hermione seemed oblivious to the fact that he was only in a towel.

In fact, she was pacing back and forth and babbling with a horrified look on her face. He'd heard absolutely nothing she'd said. He gulped and blinked.

"Uhm... What?"

"Oh honestly, Harry!" she snapped, "Haven't you heard a thing I've said?"

He could only shake his head.

"I was so bloody drunk I let her talk me into it and dear GOD of all the things to put there!"

"Put where?"

"HERE!"

And then she did it. She tugged open her jeans and pulled them down about her hips. He was enlightened to the fact that her knickers were as see-through as her bra was, and by Merlin, he could see her fuzz. It was dark and soft looking, he just wanted to nuzzle it and - holy shit. Stop. Thought. Now.

Pulling his eyes up, he saw what she was so worked up about, what had made her pop into his room in such a way.

Peeking out of those tantalising knickers was the most delicate little piece of body art he'd ever seen. It was a tattoo, but like none he'd ever seen on a Muggle before. It was intricate, a life-like etching of that gold fluttering little ball he was so instinctively attuned to. The colour of it positively gleamed, and the little wings were tiny slivers of silver, just like the real thing. His gaze was captured, and he was shocked to see the wings flutter restlessly.

"It moved!"

"Yes, it does that!" she said, sounding annoyed. "It's attuned to my mood!"

Harry found it hard to drag his eyes away from it. It was enchanting, utterly beautiful.

"W-why?"

She frowned.

"Why did you get a Snitch on you?"

She blinked and, pulling up her pants, she zipped them shut and hid the tattoo. Some part of him felt terribly disappointed.

"I have no idea! No idea at all!"

Talking was hard. He managed to get the next sentence out, however.

"Why'd you show me?"

Those brown eyes were on his, neat black brows knitting together as she frowned. Pulling closed her blouse, she sighed.

"I don't know."

Without another word, she popped out of the room.

~~*~~

Harry practically crept out of the room that morning. For some reason, he didn't want to run into Ron or Lavender. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to talk to Hermione. She seemed in a terrible mood and he didn't really blame her. She was permanently marked and she couldn't remember why she did it. It would have been like Harry coming home with a flapping book branded on his bum.

He was very quiet when he toed his way into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed for work. Hermione sat at the table, staring at the paper, her voluminous hair tied up atop of her head. She wore a neat little grey jacket, a light purple t-shirt and a pair of very neat jeans. Over this was a black flowing cloak, and on her feet she wore black boots. She often dressed this sort of smart casual style to work. Tonks had always worn the most casual and laid-back of clothes, whilst other people there wore suits. Harry liked how you could wear what you liked there. He often opted for a white billowing shirt, trim pants and a cloak. Hermione had told him that the girls loved it when he dressed like that. He honestly couldn't tell.

She didn't look up as he entered the room. She nibbled on a piece of toast and studiously scanned the front page of the Daily Prophet. He quickly discovered that he hated her not talking to him. Usually when they were up, they were quickly chatting, and communicated as much with their body language as they did their words. Right now there was a wall, and Harry was at a loss to explain it.

Awkwardly, he held up the kettle.

"Tea? Coffee?"

She shook her head and looked back to the paper.

He sighed and quickly went about making himself something to eat. As he set up his breakfast at the table (across from Hermione), he watched her, trying to judge her mood. Was she tired? Or maybe cranky? Or genuinely pissed off? He sat down and he could see her face better. Her mouth was taut and she was definitely blushing. He had planned to say something nice, or something gentle or comforting. What came out was nothing of those things.

"Won't it come off?"

Those dark eyes flicked up to his and she let out an even sigh.

"No. It's a tattoo. I'm stuck with it for life."

"But it's magic," said Harry, "And you're the smartest witch I know. You can do any spell you want with a bit of practice."

She blinked and gave another sigh, rubbing her temples.

"It's not that simple, Harry. Wizard Tattoo artists aren't regulated like Muggle ones. Not in Knockturn Alley, anyway! They don't want the mark to fade, their livelihood depends on it, so they're always coming up with better and stronger tonics and potions and paints and you bloody name it! I couldn't remove this unless I was deeply knowledgeable of the trade!" She was beginning to get very upset. "And I'm not! I could kick the bums of all the tattoo artists between here and freaking Hogwarts but I couldn't get this bloody thing off me!"

He grabbed her hand, concern flooding him. He looked into her eyes and could see that she was on the verge of tears.

"Hey, hey..."

Slowly, she met his eyes.

"I think it looks very pretty."

The pretense of control fled her, and she buried her face in her arms, whimpering.

"I'm so bloody humiliated!" she moaned. "And embarrassed! And horrified!"

"Why?" he asked. "It's just a tattoo."

"No!" she cried. "It's not just a bloody tattoo, Harry! I'm marked now! I'm worse than those Quidditch girlfriends simpering at the bar over their meat-headed boyfriends! It's like I'm something to be grabbed at and fought over, a prize!"

"But look at it the other way."

"What other way?!"

He took her hand again, trying to calm her.

"Well, the Snitch used to be a little golden bird called the Golden Snidget, and it was a really big deal to catch it, because this guy was going to award a hundred and fifty galleons to the guy that caught it during a game of Quidditch hundreds of years ago. And now it's become a symbolic thing... this little golden ball. It's like... what everyone wants, more than anything. It's success, and victory, and triumph. That's a powerful thing to have on your body." He looked down to her tummy, though not consciously, and kept on. "It also represents elusiveness and desire." Pressing his lips together and blushing, he took his hand away. "I think that's pretty appropriate, if you ask me."

He didn't look at her. He was too frightened to. He couldn't believe that he'd said what he had, but it just bubbled up inside of him and came out. Maybe she'd be even madder at him, but looking up, he saw her gazing past the table, a glint of thought and mischief in her eyes.

She jumped to her feet, clearing up her place, as busy-bodied as she ever was during the morning, and she strode to Harry briskly.

"Thanks,Harry."

She dropped a kiss on his cheek quickly before grabbing a scarf and Apparating out of sight.

~~*~~

Elusiveness. Desire.

The first always piqued Harry's interests. He had always wanted what was difficult to acquire or achieve. Getting away from his relatives, being a good wizard, not dying, playing a good game of Quidditch, becoming an Auror, having the semblance of a normal life after the mess of his last years of school.

The latter was something he rarely indulged himself in. In his first fumbled attempt at romance, he was too confused and clueless to understand what was going on. Since that time, he'd slowly come to understand new things about women. Through tragedy and trial, he soon realised that the difference between men and women, beyond physicality, wasn't that marked. Both got afraid, both felt lonely, and both appreciated honesty and openness. Unfortunately being open wasn't something Harry was very good at. He didn't bother with romance again. He looked after his friends and family and he tried to be the best Auror he could be. In all his fighting, his battles and his challenges, desire was a weakness. Never let it be known to the enemy and never let it distract you or leave you open to attack.

But now Harry was experiencing a third thing that was forever bound with the first two, but something he never really had to deal with. He'd always been too busy getting the job done to stop and indulge.

Temptation.

Twisted in his mind was the vision of that golden sliver of ink, fluttering above the dark curls peeking behind flimsy purple knickers. Over and again that little Snitch would sweep in and out of his memory, distracting him from his normal trains of thought, pulling him away from perfectly droll things like reading the paper, or training rosters, or deciding which kind of whole meal salad roll he was going to have for lunch. The Snitch would flitter through his mind and settle over that forbidden crop of dark hair, and a hunger would flare up inside him, his eager Seeker fingers itching to chase it.

But it wasn't around him. He'd always be in the middle of the daily grind. He'd get thoroughly distracted and get a spell to the side of the head from a trainee, or trip on his cloak and run into a street lamp, or something equally embarrassing as that. He'd swear under his breath, banish the accursed vision from his memory and concentrate on making sure it didn't return.

Then he'd forget and it'd flit right back into the forefront of his thoughts again, and he'd nearly get run over crossing the street. She'd only had the bloody thing for about twelve hours and already Harry was singularly obsessed with the thought of it. Some part was very, very keen on seeing it again.

He couldn't really figure out why. It was just a picture of a Snitch, and it was just-- No. It would never be 'just' Hermione's anything. Every part of Hermione was special, and having that little symbol in such a potent spot made his heart sing and his mind spin.

It was while he was buying some bread and milk that the thought hit him that in some way, the tattoo might have been put there for him.

He barked in laughter, right in the middle of the deli, and shook his head, giggling at the very thought. It was probably Lavender's suggestion, the extension of some great big joke.

He'd have the chance to find out, too. Ron was in the kitchen when he got home, staring at the fridge as he was apt to do. Ron wasn't used to big, white cold appliances in kitchens, and especially not ones with Muggle and Wizard photographs stuck all over it, novelty magnets keeping them in place and a little whiteboard stuck to the door for notes. Harry and Hermione had made it their own fridge, and Harry was surprised at how much fun that turned out to be. For the first month of their moving in, they left each other notes on the whiteboard with silly or lewd drawings underneath them.

Today it was mostly empty, with "Harry's a plonker -- HG" at the top. Ron looked up as Harry came in, chewing on a peanut paste sandwich.

"I was gonna leave a message on that fridge thing," he said. He always called it 'that fridge thing', even though he'd been around a fridge for nearly two years now. He was like that with most Muggle appliances - somehow untrustworthy and disdainful of them, but not viciously so. "Lav is gonna be here after she comes home from work. You don't mind, do you?"

Harry smirked.

"Oh, of course not."

Ron rolled his eyes, knowing that tone from Harry. "Yeah, yeah, ha ha. Ron's got himself a girlfriend."

Harry put the milk in the fridge and shrugged. "I never said a thing. Is she your girlfriend?"

The redhead licked his lips in thought as he swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. After a moment's pondering, he looked up at Harry, pointing at him around the meal.

"You know, I've been thinking about that. We uhm - we -" He blushed bright red.

"Oh!" Harry realised quickly what he meant. He and Ron never really went into details about their love life when they talked. But they did share their status, as they clung to each other in the confusing and terrible arena of romance. Women were mad, quite simply. They understood each other. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"Yes!" said Ron. "It's ..." A shy grin flashed across his face. "Yes."

"Then what's the big question?"

Shrugging, Ron sat down at the dining table.

"You know, Lavender is a sort of - progressive - kind of person. You know. She's always so keen to be different and ahead of everyone. It's why she's such a good reporter, why she's so into that whole Divination stuff. But me... I'm old fashioned."

Harry looked thoughtful, sitting across from Ron. "And?"

"Well, keeping that in mind... sex might mean something different to her than it does to me. I mean, with my upbringing and everything it means... well... you know..." He blushed furiously. "I - I have no idea what it means to her."

Harry gave his best friend a sad, warm smile, and sighed.

"I'm afraid I don't have the answer to that, mate."

"I know," Ron said, nodding. He sighed, rubbing his eyeballs. "I've been training all day. I'm bloody exhausted, and I stink." With a slap of the table, he pulled himself to his feet. "I'm going to have a shower."

He walked past Harry, dropping a heavy hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"Hey Ron?" Ron looked back. "I think the fact that she wants to see you today is a good indication that she's serious about things."

Ron nodded slowly. "I guess you have a point."

Harry grinned. "I know I do. Usually after a big all-nighter, she's off in Reporter Land and we don't see her for a good couple of weeks at least."

A goofy grin spread across Ron's face. "I didn't think about it like that."

Harry nodded and knew that Ron wouldn't. He had the unfortunate habit of being down on himself, the upshot of which that he always assumed the best of others and the worst of himself.

Looking about the kitchen, Harry thought about the night ahead. He mentally set aside time for reading through some reports from work, and knew that Lavender's visit would demand at least a little bit of his attention. Lavender was like that.

He stretched, walking about the kitchen table once and, with a yawn, he decided that he, too, wanted and needed a shower. He thought a quick one wouldn't tax the flat's hot water system too badly, and even if it did, he knew a couple of clever charms that could aid him in that circumstance. Plodding up the steps to his room, he pulled at the buttons of his shirt, eyes closed, thinking about all the details of work that still swirled through his mind. He thought nothing of leaving his bathroom door open. Ron was in his room downstairs, Hermione was still at work (writing the reports always took longer than doing the things that went in them). If Ron wanted Harry, he'd knock on his bedroom door, and the bathroom door wasn't visible from his bedroom door.

He wearily tugged at his shirt, unbuttoned his pants, pulling the clothes from his body and staring at his bathroom wall.

On a framed tile, hanging on a peg, was a tacky little picture of a old-fashioned Snitch, with feathered instead of wire-like wings, fluttering away happily. Hermione had got it for him as a house-warming present (they'd all gotten each other something small and pointless when they'd moved in). In his mind he could see the sleeker, shinier Snitch that fluttered above Hermione's pubic region, the light brown skin around it, and the darkness down below.

He caught a breath and was shocked to find his breaths had become shallow. He felt fire in his blood and, looking down at his naked self, he was ashamed to see that the rest of him wasn't entirely unaffected by the memory of her tattoo.

"Again?" he breathed.

He was used to becoming aroused now and again. It was a part of life as a man. One just usually thought of someone unsavoury in a sexual situation and it would go away. He'd even grown a little firm before at some of the lovely little outfits Hermione had put on. That was normal, that was quite expected - she was a beautiful woman.

But this... the raging desire that flooded him was not something he was accustomed to, not something he'd ever thought he'd associate with Hermione. Both his body and mind seemed to be rebelling against him, however, and now he had a problem. This was the second time he'd been in the situation. Question was, did he go with it, or did he try to make it go away?

The Snitch fluttered in his mind's eye again, over dusky skin and deep brown curls...

No, no. It was not going to go away. They probably didn't make showers cold enough to deal with what he was feeling. He sighed, leaning on the sink, covering his face in his hands and wondering how the hell he got into this mess. He was so busy trying not to think about Hermione's Snitch (which didn't help the situation any, only compounded it), that he didn't hear the sudden pop and didn't instinctively reach for his towel.

He just opened his eyes and lifted his face from his hands.

At the door stood Hermione, eyes wide, the young woman utterly transfixed. She wore nothing but a dark pink silk robe and white underthings. Lacy white underthings. The front of her robe was undone and the Snitch down there burst into life with frantic flapping. The little gold ball quivered in delight. Well, some part of him thought in a droll tone, I got my wish. I saw it again. How lovely.

The other part of him was not currently capable of coherent thought. It couldn't possibly be. His childhood friend of ten years was staring at him and he was naked, sporting a raging erection, which, by coincidence, was caused by said friend. There were simply no words in existence that could express the emotions that bolted through him in that moment.

He didn't even think to cover himself.

Hermione finally made a strangled gasp of a noise, turning around and jumping out the door.

Blinking, Harry grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself, his cheeks burning up. Hermione lingered in the door, stepping from foot to foot, face buried in her hands and a gasp leaving her.

"Harry..."

"It's all right," he said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" she bleated. "I just didn't know you'd be in there!"

Harry's mouth wagged for a moment, then he found his voice. "The last kid went home early today. I just did some training with Moody and came home." He looked down and realised he was still erect inside his towel. "What are you doing home early?"

Hermione was still pacing back and forth, visibly shaken, covering her face as if unable to bring herself to look at him.

"I finished my report on the - the..." She made a funny noise. "They let me have an early day for once!"

It was normal for Hermione to use Harry's shower if Ron was in the shared bathroom downstairs. It didn't happen very often, but it wasn't an unexpected occurrence. There'd been near-misses and embarrassed chuckles as they ducked away, wrapped in towels and robes. It was the sort of thing you had to deal with when sharing a living space. Never could Harry foresee *this* kind of embarrassment though. He was sure she'd stood there for a good ten seconds, just staring in horror.

Staring at his vulnerable, undeniably sexual self.

He clutched the towel as he leant against the door. She stood in the doorway, face in her hands, eyes gazing at the floor. He wondered why she still stood there, why she just didn't laugh it off and forget about it.

Then again, if he'd walked in and saw Hermione with her legs spread, he could- Woah. Not the thing to think of in a towel.

He leant on the door, watching her quietly. "You grossed out?"

Her eyes lifted to his, genuine surprise in her eyes. They gleamed, and she sucked in a breath. She gulped, mouth parted as if she was reaching for the words. After a moment, she shook her head.

Harry felt a rush of tingles nearly floor him. All he could manage was, "Oh."

"Y-" She stopped herself, pulling her hair from her face and looking at her feet. "Are you mad with me?"

He shook his head.

Hermione did something unexpected then. She pushed herself up from the door frame, and placed one of her elegant hands over his own, which clutched his towel around his narrow hips. He looked down at her, watching her. She was gazing at their hands, as if weighing the situation. He felt the floor disappear under his feet as her fingers curled about his and pulled his hands aside. He could feel his heart in his throat as his towel dropped to the floor.

He could barely breath. He was still erect and now he was exposed to her. Except now she wasn't shocked or horrified. Her eyes glinted as she peered down at him. His mouth edged open in a tiny gasp as her fingers curled about him, the thumb running up and down the underside of him. He didn't know what to do or say, and in silence Hermione answered him. The fingertips of her other hand touched his lips, and with a sigh she leant her head on his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck. She didn't kiss him, she didn't speak. He gasped against her fingers, feeling each stroke like a crash of delight, just watching her hand work him. His legs shook as his blood roared under his skin. He could feel her eyes upon him, feel them look up to his face, and then down to her business. He had no idea at all how she got so very damned clever, and he didn't want to know. He couldn't think on that, he couldn't think on much. His body was pounding away without him, ready to explode without him even able to understand what was going on.

And then it happened. Bliss crashed through him and he was releasing all of the burning that had built in him since he'd seen her half-dressed, seen that flickering little ball. He was releasing himself too, and as he gasped for air, he looked down at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Huh- Hermione..."

She looked to him, her face gentle. She was close, so very close, the moist puff of her breath fluttering across his lips. As quickly as she leant in, she pulled away, walking to the sink and slowly, carefully, washing her hands. She dried them, pulled closed her silk gown about her, and walked to the door.

She paused in the door frame where Harry leant limply. Tilting her head, she placed a hand on his jaw, stroking it softly.

"Lavender's going to be here in half an hour," she said in a breath. "Better get ready."

He nodded, barely able to digest what she said to him. The next thing she said was crystal clear though, and he understood exactly what she meant.

She stood in the doorway of his bedroom, gazing at his unclothed form hanging against the doorway.

"You were born to catch the Snitch, Harry," she said.

Then she was gone.

~~*~~

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