Title: Escape From Oblivion
Disclaimer: All characters of J.K Rowling belong to her. I own nothing...blah, blah, blah...
Rating: NC17...definitely this time. Swearing, allusions to sex, drugs, icecream...
Summary: Harry Potter is completely oblivious and Hermione Granger is sick of hiding her love for him. So adorning a sinfully seductive dress she decides to do something about it.
Author's Note: Ok everybody...heeeere's....something. In case you didn't notice, I haven't a clue where I'm going with this story. I was supposed to end it in this chapter but I wrote this and then I came across a total BLANK! So, instead of waiting and waiting and waaaiting for my Muses to come back, I thought I'd give this to you. So I'm guessing the last chapter will be the next one. BUT THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!!! for the overwhelming response you all gave. I mean, this was just supposed to be one of those stories you had to get out of your system so you could move on with your life, but then I found out people actually LIKED it and that absolutely blew my mind. So, I hope I live up to your expectations with this chapter. I don't quite know how to end it yet. Any advice??
Well, thank you so much for reading anyway. You are all wonderful, WONDERFUL people!!!!!!!! I can't emphasize the exclamation marks enough!!!!!
Part II
What...The...She...Sock...When...What the hell was THAT??
If Voldemort were to leap in wearing a tiara and a tutu, singing a Britney Spears song, offering him candyfloss and steroids, he would not be more surprised, more astounded than he was right now. Harry Potter was very much, what you would call, lost. It was like someone had come and yanked his pants over his head, leaving him stumbling in a disoriented blur with a very uncomfortable feeling in his groin.
What the hell WAS that?
This was not in his plans at all. It was like he was in limbo, between waking and dreams. His brain was thick with fog in the confusion. This night was supposed to have gone in a very different manner, following his previously premeditated schedule that he'd originally organized down to its minute detail: Get dressed... Get Rebecca... Get dinner... Get laid. Not necessarily in that order, but nevertheless, flawless. What could go wrong?
He should have known something was up when he saw Hermione in that scandalously delicious dress. He had felt the odd shift all day, as if a sixth sense was tingling along his spine, warning him of a consequential change, some momentous event. The impending date with Rebecca lingering on his mind and the feeling of victory was his natural assumption. He'd been chasing her for an entire week now, one of the longest courtships he'd had in a while. He looked forward to the promising moment when he would get to mount his prize.
So when his body responded so fluently, so instinctively, so rawly to the sight of Hermione's lush figure adorned in blood-coloured material, when his body hardened with a raving need at the scent of woman and pure sex, he automatically presumed it was for his future conquest; not the delectable desirability of his best friend. The friend whom he'd grown up with. The friend whom he'd shared his ambitions, fears, happiness, arguments, homework and secrets with. The friend whom he'd risked his life for and whose life she risked for him. She was one third of his whole being and up until this point, he didn't realize, didn't even consider the possibility that she could be more.
He didn't know.
From the moment he'd met her, from that first instance when he'd known she was something special, he'd set her on a pedestal. Then, the more he got to know her, as the number of years increased, that pedestal kept raising higher and higher until she became somebody untouchable, some celestial being who was so much better than him or an other lowly mortal. He was honoured to have her friendship, but didn't dare hope for anything more. Who would be stupid enough to love a goddess and pray for that love to return? That was his mind's set view. That was how he'd consciously constructed the world he lived in to function.
And then she'd kissed him, and his entire world collapsed and shattered at his feet.
Hermione Granger. Mione. His Mione, wanted him? Sexually? Was that even allowed?
Over the years, he was wholly convinced that it was vital, absolutely crucial that Hermione and Ron be an imperative part of his life. Their bonds were inseparable. Harry, Ron and Hermione became one existence, one being, even one word: Harryronmione. They were the golden trio. The unbreakable triumvirate and their friendship was everlasting. Ron was his brother, his confidant, his partner in crime, his life companion. Hermione, she was his light, his mentor, his lifeline, his soul companion. His saviour.
He'd worked so hard at building their friendship and keeping it in place, he didn't think of Hermione being anything else. His focal point was seeing her as his best friend, and just his friend. It seemed foolishly impossible to think, to wish for something more. He dared not strive to reach for something that was so unattainable. He made certain that lust and Hermione did not even exist in the same frame of mind, for whoever heard of having a profound, boundless friendship and successfully adding sex to the equation?
In fact, his first initiation to the world of sex came concurrently with his discover of Hermione's first kiss. He'd stumbled upon a letter from Krum implying their sexual exploits and when reading, he felt the burning sensation of jealousy twisting his stomach into knots. It was then he knew he had to start dating. He knew he had to start accepting these strange proposals from attractive girls. He had to cleanse his foolish mind from the thought of ever containing anything but friendship with Hermione.
So one date turned into two, two kisses turned into touching and touching hence led him to another world altogether. The first time he had sex was with a girl two years his senior and two years his experience. He learnt a lot that week. As any other red-blooded male, this awoke something feral and wildly exciting in him; the hunger for the taste of flesh became so consuming, his hormones would not let him feed on anything else. It wasn't consciously intentional, but once he'd shown an interest in the opposite sex, the girls were swarming to him like moths to a flame. He became a sexual trophy females were eager to claim, and best, he didn't mind in the least. Where was the harm in sex with no emotional pain. If satisfaction was accomplished from both parties, he didn't see the problem in exploring the adventure to its highest potential. No one was getting hurt, it all worked perfectly.
With each day that passed, and every girl that came (no pun intended), he dismissed his jealousy for Hermione as overprotective-brother syndrome and a slight case of indigestion. He ignored the urge to sink his hands into the rampant curls of her hair, sifting his fingers through the softness, inhaling the sweet scent, nuzzling his nose in behind her ear, nibbling along the lobe. He shook off the desire to soothe with his tongue the indents she left in her bottom lip every time she bit it in concentration. Stamped down the need to lick the length of her neck each time she threw her head back with laughter, to stop her constant rambling with his mouth... All this he forced out of his system with an amused shake of the head, chuckling at his irrationality, storing the foolish notion deep in the back of his mind, enveloped in darkness, allowing him to swim in the murky pool of oblivion.
Her kiss, their fight, her actions tonight was like a boulder, slamming into his gut and stealing his breath right out of his lungs. It was like recovering from a lifelong blindness, only to be hit with the white-hot light of an inferno. These long lost thoughts, memories, once wishes flew at him like a swarm of butterflies, kissing into him everything he'd successfully managed to forget - the warm, melting feeling he got every time she looked at him with a smile in her eye, as if he were the only man in the world. The prickling sensation he felt whenever she touched him, as if she ripped a piece of his skin off every time she pulled away. The hunger, the flow of saliva to his mouth whenever he inhaled the exotic aroma of warm honey and lavender and sunshine, knowing that devouring her essence would be like swallowing liquid fire on a cold winter's day; warming him from the inside out.
There was only ever Hermione. The realization consumed him. And it had him pissing himself in fear.
He'd faced a manic wizard with vast intentions of universal doom and destruction, he'd faced a petrifying snake, giant man-eating spiders, dementors, death-eaters, an out of control werewolf, multiple threats of death, Mrs. Weasley angry, and this, the implication of his best friend lusting after him, the unlikely proposition of her wanting him scared him shitless?
Hell yes!
But what were even scarier, were his own feelings towards the situation. Why was he so angry with her for dressing like she did? Because it wasn't for him. Because it wouldn't be his hands feeling the smooth, silky texture of her dress. It wasn't for him to feel against his naked skin. It wouldn't be him stripping it off of her. Why was he so angry that she was in the arms of that pathetic excuse for a man? Because it wasn't him. It wasn't his arms she was writhing in. It wasn't his arms lifting her, pushing her against the wall. It wasn't his waist her legs were wantonly wrapped around.
What was going on here? What unparalleled universe was this? This was major. This was huge. This wasn't just any quick tumble in the sheets; an unemotional, strictly physical romp where both participants got off quite nicely and never saw each other again. He loved sex, he had to admit. He loved the touches, the sounds, the different tastes and scents that were all so potently addictive in their own, humanly natural ways. He enjoyed stroking and exploring a woman's body, finding those special places that made them moan in delight, shudder with longing, treating them with the genuine care and respect they each deserved. But that was all just physical, in its most delicious sense.
In truth, the emotional and mental factors of the act weren't as otherworldly as he'd previously made them out to be. If anything, sex was more of a pleasant distraction. A safe haven he knew, after quite a bit of practice, he could be comfortably confident in. His own little gratifying self-assurances every time a girl cried his name in satisfaction. Something he knew he was successful at and therefore, was devoid of any doubt. It was somewhere he could hide, absorbing his mind prolifically into the task, any troubles, any preceding insecurities all lost between the legs of another. Sex, basically, was just a nice escape.
With Hermione... with her... oh man, this wasn't that.
His intense sexuality usually got in the way of genuine friendship. It was indeed a rare occasion when they were able to combine. With Hermione, it was the other way around. Their relationship was purely platonic and familial and he was sure to keep any aspects of sex and its complications away from that. He couldn't jeopardize their bond for the urge to mate.
Now... he was going crazy with the ambivalent impulses of wanting her, needing her with an insatiable yearning like he'd never known before and wanting to brush these unfamiliar feelings off and be assured by the mere knowledge of their friendship. One that was too indispensable to risk. Too important to sacrifice for these sexual stirrings, this lustful entity offering its dying breath for just one more taste.
He wanted her; he couldn't want her. He craved her body; he needed their friendship. The ambiguous forces were tearing him apart. It was enough to drive a man completely bonkers... bonking... bonk Hermione... Damn it!
He paced the length of the floor in an enraged frustration. He wanted her. He definitely wanted her. The aching erection making itself prominent through his pants was evidence to that. And, unless he was mistaken, she clearly wanted him. So what was the problem here? Since when was sex ever a hesitant subject matter for him? There was a beautiful, amazing woman in the next room waiting for him to make the next move and he was here deliberating over it, arguing with himself about the pros and cons?
Like hell!
With that thought firmly in mind, he stormed down the hall with the severe purpose of claiming his woman. He head in the direction of the kitchen where he could hear her opening and closing the fridge door. She was making herself something to eat now? He burst in, fully intent on throwing her over his shoulder and marching straight to the welcoming lair of his bedroom... only to come to a complete stop at the sight of her in the midst of a charming conversation with his other best friend.
"...and so that's why - Harry!" Ron broke off, interrupting his own sentence with an exclamation of surprise. "I didn't know you were here. I thought you were out banging Rugburn Stratford."
Hermione burst into a peal of laughter at that, head bent over the table, while Harry stood there like a fish out of water, mouth gaping with a sort of horrified muteness. Why was Ron here? Why did he have to remind him of where he was supposed to be? Why was Hermione giggling over a tub of ice cream? When had she exchanged her dress for a sheer, satin robe? Oh dear Merlin, was she naked underneath it?
Through her cacophony of overexerted laughter, she managed to form a sentence. "Is that what you call her?" She broke into a fit of giggles again. "That is so mean."
Ron stared at her in amusement, blushing at his outburst and then turned to his other friend standing in the doorway shell-shocked, as if somebody had just poked a broomstick up his arse. "So what happened? How come you're home so early? She wouldn't give it up?" He asked, eager for Harry to expunge any grotty details, living vicariously through his friend's ever-promiscuous sex life; not at all sad by his own monogamy, but still very much a curious male.
"Urgh." Harry, on the other hand, had been reduced to a caveman, only able to offer grunts and glares while being strongly overwhelmed by the need to drag his woman back to his cave. Even if she was happily chuckling at his expense, monotonously filling her mouth with ice cream, seemingly forgetting everything that happened only moments before, ignoring the fact that she had awoken all these primal urges within him with the mere taste of her kiss.
"Maybe he's impotent."
That woke him up. Hermione's impish little remark retracted a loud, incredulous scoff from the back of his throat. He narrowed his eyes at her innocent expression, only broken by the amusement hovering within her honey-coloured orbs. Ron took advantage of his short moment of weakness, a mocking gleam in his eyes. "Is that it mate? Little Harry couldn't come out to play?"
Hermoine leaned back in her chair with a mask of smugness. She wore a smirk and her eyebrow was raised in what could only be challenge.
Ron, however, continued, oblivious to the tension raging around him between his two best friends. "Don't worry Harry, it happens to the best of us... well, maybe not me... or anybody else I know... or any other single, sane male with brains in the right head... or--"
"I'm not impotent." Harry snapped, cutting off his teasing tirade.
Ron grinned cheekily. "Well bloody hell Harry, why are you here?"
"Yes Harry," Hermione added in a husky voice, licking ice cream off her luscious lips, "Why are you here?"
Like a 'connect-the-dots' game, his brain associated a few minor details that appeared alongside Hermione's new change of attitude: the surprising revelation of her feelings, this new bold mirth he hadn't seen before or at least not directed at him, the wafting scent he'd smelt earlier but could not quite place, the exuberant bursts of laughter, the fading tinge of pink to her eyes, her sudden hunger, everything tonight, it all resulted into one astounding conclusion.
"You're stoned."
His astonished accusation set Hermione off again, chuckling despite herself, while trying to look moderately serious. "No, I'm not." She countered, offering a demure smile, unsuccessful at innocence. "Well, not anymore."
The two boys stared at her in shock. Ron immediately forgetting his previous goading rant on Harry's manhood. All attention now focused on the discovery of Hermione's admission of partaking in something so... not her. Drugs... Hermione... They just did not belong in the same sentence. But that would explain her air of nonchalance. The breezy, relaxed way she participated in the conversation of Harry's sex life. Normally she would have scowled and vacated the room by now, or at least given them a nice, exhausting reiteration of how women had brains and were not mindless sex slaves that were there for the chauvinistic male's picking whenever they felt the need for a good poke, blah, blah, blah...
Instead, she sat here uncharacteristically joining in on the teasing and mocking, eating ice cream shockingly out of the container, in what would appear to be a very sexy robe, looking and acting amazingly her age... all because she was stoned?
"Since when did you smoke pot? Since when did you smoke? Hell Hermione, since when did you do anything of our generation?" He asked incredulous.
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Honestly Ron, you make me out to be some sort of nun." Ignoring his expression saying that was exactly what he thought. "I'm a young curious woman. I wanted to give it a try." Her eyes locked onto Harry, catching his narrowed gaze and added with a smirk. "I don't know what all the fuss was about."
Her statement may have been veiled behind a drug-taking commentary, but Harry knew it was directed at him. And that made him even angrier than before. Nobody challenged his libido and got away with it. He would be only too happy to prove her wrong. Here. Now. But not in front of Ron. As much as he loved his dear friend, he really had to go.
"Where's Luna?" He asked, trying to direct the conversation towards a reason as to why he should leave.
"She's at home." This was definitely a night of firsts, Ron thought to himself. A mixture of emotions went flashing through him, some making him as red as his hair. Harry refused sex with a beautiful woman, incredible... Hermione sat wasted in her chair, impossible... Luna refusing him sex because he'd supposedly forgotten something import...
"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh fuck!" Ron cried loudly, amazed disbelief reverberating through his body. "Fuck. Our anniversary. I fucking forgot. No wonder she's so pissed." He stood quickly. "Have to go." And as fast as he appeared, he apparated home. Harry smiled, pleased at the lack of effort he put into making him leave and allowing them to be alone once again.
Ron's disappearance left the kitchen silent, thick with tension, its density smothering them. It was long and drawn out, each waiting for the other to make the first move. He eyed her slowly, carefully memorising every inch of her; the glimpses of bare skin, every mouth-watering curve, every breath she took, the movement of her mouth, lips, chest. He watched and his blood boiled with desire and the rampant urge to touch her.
He saw her, but it was the first time he ever actually SAW her. And by Merlin, what a sight. He had not met this woman before. This temptress who had his mouth overflowing with saliva every time she blinked. Hermione? This was Hermione? He had to sit down. His knees were weak with the strength of his arousal. This goddess was his best friend and... she wanted him? He walked to the table, pulled out a chair and fell into it with the force of these unnerving feelings. Actually... it wasn't so much the feelings that left him legless, but at whom they were directed.
Hermione. Her. His brain was going numb at the notion. They had to talk. They had to sort this thing out properly before he let these urges overtake him in a lust driven, savage act which had her naked on the table and him thrusting into her. This had to be sorted out. Now.
He stared across at her and found her expression rapt with a smug sort of amusement. As if she knew his exact train of thought, and the struggle he had, correlating such feelings to his best friend. The bitch was doing this to him on purpose? She was laughing at this torture? His eyes darkened with anger. This was all a game to her?
He was hard and confused and petrified at these new emotions and she just found all of it funny?
The green of his eyes darkened to a blazing thunderstorm at the possibility of this being some sort of joke to her. But before he could react on this realization, before he could even begin to voice his fury, she surprised him once again by leaping from her chair in a movement to fast for his Seeker eyes, shoved the table aside so it flew screeching across the floor and pounced - straddling him in his chair, grinding her pelvis into his clothed crotch and fastening her mouth upon his in a savage attempt to suck out his very soul. Little did she know, she already had it. It took him all of three seconds to be shocked, be dumb-founded, be bewildered and then to respond.
Her hands were sporadically clutching handfuls of his hair, her mouth sucked at his, seeking his tongue and latching onto it, teeth biting at his lips, forcing his to respond and attack with the same fervour. Her torso was painted upon his, grinding the softness of her chest upon his hard surface - heated silk over solid ivory - rubbing the yielding notch between her legs against the searching erection straining through his trousers. It took him only seconds for his arms to bind themselves around the pressing heat of her body, one hand curling under her arm, losing itself in her hair, the other grasping her arse, pushing her harder into himself.
This was... this was... indescribable. There was no way he could explain it and ever hope to seize a definition that was fitting. If this was intense, then the intensity of lightning was merely a tickle of electricity, blinking across the night. If this was aggressive, then a hurricane was merely a sigh of restlessness on the hottest of days.
If this was passionate, then he had never know the word.
The capability to think soon dwindled down to a speck of dust as the ardency of their hunger drowned out everything inconsequential and meaningless. This was lust in its most savage form. A violent rampage, ripping through the mundane tranquillity of their lives. The small trivialities of their existence seemed tedious and inadequate, the black cloud overshadowing the might of their luminescence, screaming to escape from the confines of its dark prison. Breaking through the barriers of what they held as a safety net, ignoring the true known; the purity of the right.
How had this not been seen before? How had this compelling power been hidden by the meagre minorities of what they knew as living? Living each day without this. How had he never seen Hermione for what she truly was? How had oblivion blinded him for so long?
He felt an overwhelming despair from the strength of this new reality. The sorrow of only just finding this now and having gone through life without never knowing. Sadness stroking along his spine like a chilling wind, letting him know that never again would Hermione be hidden from him, and never again would he see her as just a friend. Feeling the biting truth that she could never be anything else but this... whatever this was. Like a soul latching onto new life found and refusing to ever let go.
They ate at each other's mouths, feeding from their lips, drinking from their tongues, becoming intoxicated off the taste. Their kisses were one, two, twenty, spawning into multiple entities, becoming a drug so potent, so addictive it was devour or be devoured. It was an inescapable symptom from just one touch. The contagious fate, passing into something more serious, more lethal, imminently dangerous and with only one cure. There was no hope for them. The desolate wave goodbye to a life full of sweet little lies, the pretty poison. They were once safe in their ignorance, able to face the next day with the sparkle of false hope in their eyes, but now the truth was found and they could do nothing but run for cover.
Her hair, her glorious hair. He'd always loved it. The carefree manner in which she looked after it, tossing it into a loose ponytail or letting it flow liquidly down her back, over her shoulders, the silky tendrils curling around a breast. He'd always wondered what it felt like clenched in his hands, running his fingers through its length, trailing it across his chest, down his stomach, watch as it coiled and draped over his thighs as she took him into the damp heat of her mouth.
His body surged at the image, biting into her lip as he arched into her once again, his hands pulling at her hair so her head fell back, tilting her neck for his mouth to fasten upon and feed. His blood boiled at the gasping sounds she made at his actions. He needed to be inside her, now. He needed to be naked with her, feeling the smooth heat of her body against the throbbing urgency of his. She was straining and arching against him but it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough. So without thought, without hesitation, Harry's hands flew to the edges of Hermione's robe and tore them apart, spreading the cloth wide and open, so that his eyes and hands could feast upon her naked skin. The beauty of her body was blinding and it almost stopped his heart. He had discovered sweet ambrosia and it was his for the taking. But she would not let him linger. She would not allow the slow surety of his hands and eyes to absorb the sight, she was hungry and addicted and he didn't stand a chance as her tongue filled his gaping mouth, initiating another series of those drugging kisses.
Insatiable. They were sating their appetites on each other's mouths, on their skin, everywhere they could touch and everywhere they couldn't. This was so much more than he thought they could ever be. And yet, this was only a beginning. This was only the icing of the cake. This was just barely an initiation into something forbidden, yet constantly sought and rarely found. But they were the lucky ones. They whom were permitted a taste and the chance of resolution. They whom were allowed to explore ecstasy in the realms of its execution.
She was all but naked in his arms now and his mind was reeling. His hands burnt a path down her body, sweeping up her sides, back down cupping her arse, trailing along her thighs only to start all over again. He wanted to explore the front of her body, but she was painted so firmly against him it was as if she wanted to mould herself inside his flesh. Into his bones. Bathe in his blood. But her bare torso wasn't nearly enough to accomplish that goal. She needed more. So with an untamed force, she ripped his shirt in two, buttons flying every which way, her hands fierce and ravenous, caressing the length of his chest.
Naturally, feeling him with just her palms wasn't near satisfactory. As before, she needed more. It was always more. She had to know if he tasted as good as he looked, which was pretty damn delicious, and she always did like the practical part of her experiments. Eagerly and without restraint, her head bent and her mouth latched onto his left nipple, sucking and biting, fervently consuming the revelation of this new unknown, making him groan and arch and shudder at the shattering sensations.
His hands flew back to her hair, gripping her head so that she detached her mouth from driving him insane, dragging her lips back to his in a punishing kiss, biting at her jaw, inhaling the hollow of her neck before returning the favour and clamping his lips upon the taut bead of her breast, relishing in the soft mewling sounds escaping from her throat.
Hermione Granger's breast was in his mouth and he ate at it like a man starved. It was the sweetest piece of flesh he had ever tasted and tears pricked at his eyes from the discovery. Nothing else could be this perfect. No one else could ever replace her. He could spend his life searching for something this profound, this right and slowly waste away as his quest would continually deny him. How could he have spent the past ten years without ever knowing this? How had something so sweet, so pure, so spiritually connecting ever managed to live right under his nose and he never notice? He thought he'd found magic and its existence when he'd first learnt of Hogwarts, but he'd been so wrong. It was cliche and cheesy and overused, but there was no other way to explain what he felt now, what he knew now... it was magic.
The discovery made him want to cry, despair over not realising sooner; a relieved exuberance over ever realising it at all. But now wasn't the time for sweet words and voiced recognitions. Hermione was grinding into him with a yearning hunger that matched the strength of his own and he could not refuse her. He still suckled at her breast with practised ease and their pulses were racing in search for a euphoric completion that was ultimately within reach.
He wanted to stop her, as crazy as that was. He needed to stop her from rubbing against him so temptingly. He had to stop them before they were lost. He didn't want to do it like this - in their kitchen, on a chair, her robe barely hanging on her shoulders, his shirt revealing his torso and his pants tight and heavy, covering the pulsing hardness straining to be let free, somersaulting over and over in pleasure filled waves at the feel of her damp heat seeping through his pants with every gut-wrenching roll of her hips.
He wanted to be inside her so bad. He ached to be inside her, on a bed, both of them naked, wanting their first time to be sweet and beautiful, not hot and heady on a chair. Not savage and animalistic in the confines of their kitchen. Not their first time anyway. And he definitely, most definitely, did not want to come with his pants still on!
But in the world of Harry Potter, you just had to get use to the fact that things never went the way you wanted them to.
It was inexplicably inevitable. The primal determination of their joining; the feral hunger in their ravishment; the rampant desire raging in their loins, and the speed in which they consumed - it was only fitting that it should end the same way. From mouth to chest to groin, one kiss, one taste, one touch and the conclusion: a bliss unknown... unforseen... unbelievable.
The whimpering moan she released at the end brought about his own shattering. The sounds, her taste, the sight of her pleasure-filled face, the scent of her beguiling arousal and the feel of her clenching hands, straining sex, her teeth sinking into the lobe of his ear - he just couldn't hold back. It was impossible. The surprising yet expected arrival of her climax had him arching into a mindless completion of his own. His mouth open and groaning her name upon her heaving chest. They had both just experienced an orgasm without intercourse. Without intention. Without thought.
His face rested in the valley of her breasts, a fine dew of sweat forming over their skin, her face sunk in his hair, both gasping for control, for words, for an alarm clock to sound in the background signalling this had just been one hell of a dream. But alas, waking was not upon them. Which had to mean, this was not a figment of their imaginations, a once wish replaying in their sub-conscious. This was real and staggering and nothing words could ever, ever hope to describe. It was overwhelming, unexpected and terrifying.
"Fuck." Harry sighed into her skin. Oh well, he could say goodbye to his blossoming bachelorhood. Hermione Granger, his best friend, his childhood companion just gave him the most intense, earth-shattering orgasm he had ever experienced in his entire existence, without even touching his dick. "Fuck."
Once again, before he even had time to think, let alone move, she'd scrambled off his lap, pushing away from the solidity of his body, standing upon unsteady legs, wrapping her robe tightly around her and escaping out of the room before he even knew what was happening, once again. Leaving him sitting on the chair, alone once again, confused once again and with a damp spot in the crotch of his pants letting him know this was most definitely real.
She'd left him. Alone. Again.
This routine was getting really old, really fast.