Tortured

TORTURED

By Lady Jane

This is set during the holidays at the end of Harry & Hermione’s sixth year.

Oh, great. Terrific. Bloody wonderful. Shit. How the hell were you supposed to ignore the fact that one of your two best friends was a girl when she was walking towards you looking like- like– everything you could want in a girl all wrapped up in one delicious, brilliant package. The definition of torture? Simple: Having to pretend that you’re her friend – best friend maybe, but still, just a friend; and that she’s only a friend, too, and that she doesn’t look… Right. Stop. Can’t think about how she looks. Not thinking about that brilliant smile. Well, yes, thinking about that brilliant smile, because it was aimed right at him at this very moment as she walked towards him but NOT thinking about those beautiful, bouncy, brown curls cascading over her shoulders and around her face – and such an enchanting face, dominated by those beautiful, brown eyes and those full, soft lips. And also not thinking about those legs. Those long legs in denim shorts which were obviously designed to torment the hell out of him. And not thinking about that smooth, firm, flat stomach showing between those shorts-from-hell and the perfect white halter-neck top that covered those two perfect… oh Harry, DEFINITELY not thinking about those!

He was sitting on a bench in the park near her home. He’d gone for an early run as he’d done each morning for the last two weeks since he’d arrived at the Grangers’ and she was meeting him on the park bench after she’d had her morning shower and a quick cup of tea as she’d done each morning for the last two weeks. It was a pattern established the first morning after he’d come to stay with Hermione and her parents (having spent only two weeks with his ghastly family, the Dursleys). At dinner on his first night with the Grangers, he’d suggested to Hermione that she come with him for an early morning run and her response had been decidedly lukewarm! At first she’d asked him when and why he’d started this bizarre, uncivilised habit, making him laugh, and he’d explained that initially he’d done it simply to get out of the house and away from the Dursleys and then found he really enjoyed it.

‘Well, I’m not really into running, Harry – but how about I meet you at the park and walk home with you – and we can decide what we’re going to do for the day?’ Harry agreed with Hermione’s suggestion and the very next morning they started what would become a daily ritual. As it was, it turned out to be Harry’s favourite time of each day. He and Hermione would sometimes just sit on the park bench and talk for a while before they headed back. Other times they just strolled very slowly back to her house, chatting about this and that on the way. Once home, he’d have a shower while Hermione got their breakfast ready which was usually quite simple and consisted of fresh fruit, cereal and toast. It was a very enjoyable start to the day, one which they both took pleasure in. However, for Harry’s part, there was just one, tiny, niggling, little problem…

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The little problem became apparent the very first morning he’d gone for his run. He’d risen early, put on his trackpants, an old t-shirt and his runners and headed off. Three quarters of an hour later, he’d come back and flopped down on the park bench, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging down between them, wondering how long before Hermione would arrive and what they might end up doing for the day. As he watched the corner, she’d appeared, walking jauntily around that same corner, waving to him when she spotted him on the bench. He was pretty sure his jaw dropped and that he stopped blinking and quite probably breathing as well, but he couldn’t say for sure because all he was aware of was how she looked as she walked along the footpath and then cut across the grass towards him. That first morning she’d had jeans and a cropped t-shirt on. A very tight t-shirt that showed – What the hell?! She didn’t have a bra on! And her jeans were those low cut ones that clung to her hips, revealing that flat stomach and a gorgeous little belly button that he wanted to – his mouth had snapped shut and he’d closed his eyes, bringing his hands up to support his now violently spinning head. Holy shit! What the hell were those thoughts – about Hermione no less! – doing in HIS head?! This was bloody crazy!

He felt her sit down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Harry, are you all right? What happened?’ Her voice was full of concern.

‘I ran a little too hard today, that’s all,’ he managed, feeling a desperate need to be alone and process the mass of feelings that had just assailed him. Good God! It had only been a matter of a minute since– since your whole world was turned upside down by the sight of Hermione and the realisation of how gorgeous she is! A gorgeous girl that he’d like to – no! Thinking like that will lead somewhere you shouldn’t go, Harry. Not with this girl, at any rate.

‘Well, c’mon, let’s get you home,’ she said, tugging gently on his arm. He slowly stood up but nearly sat down again in shock when Hermione reached over with her left hand and pulled his left arm across her shoulders, holding him around the waist with her right arm, helping to support him, thinking he was a little unsteady. Harry barely managed to stop a groan escaping his lips as her touch sent jolts of what felt like electricity shooting throughout his body.

Shit! What the hell was happening? Why now? It was Hermione! And God, she smelt great. She was looking up at him. She was so close… her mouth, her lovely, lovely mouth – was moving! What had she said?

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, shaking his head, ‘what did you say?’

‘I said that you are going to have a shower and some breakfast as soon as we get home and then we’re going to sit outside and just read and talk so you can rest. Are you sure you’re all right? I thought you’d been doing this for a couple of weeks now?’

Hermione was not going to let go of him, he knew. He’d have to suffer the wonderful torture of having her arm around him, the feel of her pressed against him, his arm slung across her shoulder, her hair tickling his face…

Needless to say, what was in fact a rather short trip actually felt like the longest walk of his life.

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Since that first morning he’d learnt to steel himself as he sat waiting for her, knowing that when she appeared he’d feel his whole body tense and butterflies (or were they hippogriffs?) would start playing Quidditch in his stomach. He was grateful that his running gave him the perfect excuse for being rather red in the face and very sweaty and out of breath every time she reached him. Once past the torture of watching her walk towards him in varying outfits, every one of them rendering him incapable of sensible thought, he’d force himself to focus, relax and simply enjoy her company. He wasn’t sure how he managed this, but perhaps the thought of the humiliation he was sure he’d suffer if she found out his secret, definitely helped. Nevertheless, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the way he was feeling and what it was doing to him. And he was feeling it more and more each day. He wanted to touch her. And hold her. God, he wanted to feel her pressed up against him! He’d give his life to kiss that mesmerising mouth…

He shook those distracting thoughts from his head and once again focused on Hermione walking towards him. In those indescribable denim shorts. They were new. He hadn’t seen those before and he’d certainly remember if he had. He wasn’t prepared for the sight of those long, slender legs, previously always hidden under jeans, her hips swaying gently in rhythm with her walking and- Oh God. She didn’t have a bra on again. That should be outlawed. It was nothing less than cruel, relentless torture. He was probably going to have a heart attack here on this forsaken bloody bench by the end of summer if this kept up.

Then he realised that this morning was a little different, somehow. Was it that Hermione seemed more purposeful this morning? She had a real glint in her eye. He simply couldn’t tear his eyes away from her and when she stopped directly in front of him he leaned back and looked up her, wondering what she was up to– then suddenly, she was bending over (Sweet Merlin and holy shit! Definitely no bra!), she was taking his face in her hands and tilting his head up a little and then she kissed him! Right on the mouth! Harry couldn’t have been more shocked or surprised, so much so that it prevented him from doing anything except sit there like a stuffed kneazle once Hermione pulled away, smiling, to sit down beside him.

‘Happy birthday, Harry!’ she told him, laughing at the look on his face. ‘Sorry! I couldn’t resist!’

Harry groaned. His birthday! How the hell could he forget his own birthday? Easy. He was far too busy thinking of Hermione, that’s how. And what did she mean she couldn’t resist?

‘Couldn’t resist what?’ he asked, still feeling stunned, as he turned towards her.

She gave him an infuriatingly smug little smile and stood up again, holding out both her hands to him as she said, ‘Come on – you have a birthday to celebrate, presents to open, candles to blow out and a cake to eat and I’m going to help you with all of them!’

Harry took her hands and stood up, but didn’t make any further moves. He simply stared down at her. He was desperate to know why she’d kissed him. She’d only ever kissed him on the cheek before. And what couldn’t she resist for crying out loud? Kissing him? Him? He had to ask. He had to know and he had to know now. But most of all, he wanted another kiss. And another. And another…

‘Hermione–‘ but he got no further. She dropped his hands and stepped towards him; he was transfixed by her gaze– while his green eyes were full of surprise, her dark honey brown eyes were full of hope and anticipation and a definite twinkle.

‘Harry, I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me the last few weeks,’ she said as placed both her hands gently around his neck, ‘and since I noticed you oh, about a year ago now,’ she pulled gently on his neck, bringing his head close to hers, ‘I didn’t think you’d object too much to me giving you a birthday kiss,’ their lips were now a mere whisper apart and Harry, damned if he was going to waste this opportunity, managed to growl, ‘No objection!’ as he grasped her firmly around the waist with one arm, his other hand entangling itself in her hair as he held her around the nape of her neck and brought their lips together again. He felt his whole body become inflamed with the need to keep her against him, to keep that wonderful mouth under his – he pushed gently but insistently with his tongue against her lips and groaned as she allowed him access, her tongue sweeping sensually into his mouth.

Hermione eventually pulled back and gazing softly at him, said, ‘Happy birthday, Harry.’

‘How many kisses do I get?’ he asked in a husky whisper.

‘Harry, you can have as many birthday kisses as you can handle,’ she said with a deliciously wicked look in her eyes.

‘You will be eternally amazed at the number of birthday kisses I can handle,’ he said in a mock-boastful tone.

‘We’ll see,’ replied Hermione. ‘Now, how about another one, just for luck, before we head home?’

It was Harry’s turn to smile smugly before he bent his head to once again claim Hermione’s lips. Oh, happy birthday, indeed!

Finis