Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing. NOTHING! *cries*
Author's Note: I have writer's block. Believe me, I do. I can't seem to finish the latest chapter of the other fic I have not updated for 20 years…and I decided that maybe I'd start backwards, by writing the end and work my way towards the middle (which is where I am stuck), and this ended up happening. It became its own fic.
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He had her up against the wall. He loved it up against the wall. She loved it up against the wall. It was so dirty…sinful. But it was good. It was always best when they were semi-clothed, and all you could see were tantalizing bits. He knew that shortly he'd have the pleasure of slowly peeling off the rest of it…
He had her up against the wall, and he was loving it. Then again, he always loved it. But right now, at that moment, he never thought he'd seen anything so sexy. The sweat on her brow, those beautiful hips peaking out of her scrunched up skirt. His hands were on them, because he loved them, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life worshipping them. They were gorgeous, round, and perfect for his hands. And right now they were bumping to his quick grind oh so deliciously…that was where the magic was. Not in his wand, but in those hips.
She was moaning. She was moaning something unintelligible, though he could discern the word good somewhere in there. Good. Good was a good word. Though sometimes, she would whisper bad in his ear. But bad was good as well, because it was the kind of bad that would make his flesh burst out in goose bumps, and made him want to be the baddest bad there was…
*~*~*~*~*
Harry woke up with a start. Blast! It was only a dream…
He hated when that happened. It made him feel like some sort of randy perv…you weren't supposed to dream like that about your best friend. Especially after suffering some posttraumatic stress due to the loss of a godfather. No, dreams like that should be strictly forbidden…
But those dreams sure weren't as bad as the reality.
Or as good, for that matter.
He looked over at the bed next to his. Ron was snoring like a sick dog. Wonderful. Phineus Nigellus was also asleep, but was not snoring. He claimed he was too noble to snore, but sometimes Harry would hear a rather repulsive hack in the middle of the night, and Nigellus would always blame Ron.
And he thought there was enough lying amongst live people.
As quietly as he could, he got up from his bed and headed towards the door. He was completely unaware that as he shut the door behind him, the portrait blinked an eye.
Harry made his way towards the drawing room, seeing Sirius everywhere. Sirius had stood there, leaning against the wall last Christmas, a cross between a scowl and a grin on his face. Sirius had kicked Kreacher around the corner over there; Sirius, Sirius, Sirius…
Kreacher was still around, that maggot. Sirius had left the house, and everything else belonging to the Black family to Harry, and that included Kreacher. Harry wanted more than anything to give him clothes and have that bastard elf sent to Azkaban, but Dumbledore would hear none of it. Kreacher knew too much, and it would be best if everyone just treated him civilly. But Harry didn't care; he was Kreacher's master, and he had ordered the slimy git to keep the hell away from him. She was clearly miffed with him for a few days, but she got over it.
She never stayed mad at him for long.
When he entered the drawing room, she was there, as she usually was at this hour. She was in a pink bathrobe sitting at a small wood table surrounded by quills and parchment; A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 was open on her lap. The fire was burning in the grate, merrily dancing to some silent music only it could hear.
She knew he was there. And he knew that she knew. And she knew that he knew that she knew. And he knew that she knew that he knew that she knew. And so on…
He had come to her; it was his job to make the first move.
He closed the door behind him, and like a lion before his prey, he walked over to her, planting himself behind her. Although he wanted nothing more than to rip her clothes off and break her like some crazed Neanderthal, he decided to make himself suffer a bit.
Two words: Closet. Masochist.
Standing behind her, he was in the most excellent position to smell her hair…he loved the way it smelled. How did girls do that, get their hair to smell so wonderfully? Was it some secret trick that was passed down from a matriarchal tribe of aunts and mothers? Did they all get taught this at some private finishing school? If they did, then Hermione must have gone to the most private and most expensive one of all, for no girl could surpass the brilliance that was Hermione's unique scent…
He took a bit of her hair in his hands…dark, unruly hair. It was messy, and wild, and by Aslan he loved it! Sure, she looked beautiful when she straightened it, or tied it up…but only when it was loose and free would he be able to experience the wonder that was threading his fingers through her hair…getting them stuck inside the little curls. He loved the little curls. He wanted a daughter with those curls. Of course, not exactly at that moment, but one day, perhaps…
Who was he kidding?
He played with her hair for a while, something he knew that she loved because she would close her eyes and sigh. Normally, it relaxed her, but at the moment, she continued scribbling with her little quill, pretending not to care.
Ha! He would teach her how to pretend…
With dexterous, confident fingers he delicately bunched up her hair and placed all of it on her left shoulder, leaving the right side of her neck open to exploration. He saw the quill pause for a second - but only just - for a second later it was back to work. He would halt that thing again if it was the last thing he did…
He began by first tracing the side of her neck with his fingers. Her neck fascinated him. It was so slender…regal. Sometimes it made him feel unworthy. Everything about her made him feel unworthy. They had quarreled over this once. She had gotten so angry he thought for a second that perhaps he had, through some odd magical mishap or other, become Ron. Then he realized she wasn't mad at him, but at the people that raised him …
She blamed Harry's blatant inferiority complex on the way the Dursleys had treated him. She was right of course; but Harry didn't really understand. Instead he had kissed her anger away. Distraction was the whole point of their…arrangement. He wouldn't tolerate any real life problems to taint it…
Just as right now, he would not tolerate the continued scribbling of the quill.
He could see the goose bumps on her arms, and he was quite satisfied that his fingers on her neck had caused it. But he was still alarmed at the way the quill kept writing…he wanted it to stop. So he got on his knees, and replaced the tips of fingers with his hungry lips.
The quill dropped to the table.
Harry grinned against her neck. How he loved triumph!
Even though he had succeeded in his endeavor, he was not about to stop from kissing her neck. And Hermione wasn't about to let him. She raised her left hand, and brought it back to caress the nape of his neck, securing the position of his head. He loved it when she did things like that. It was the little things that pleased him the most.
He alternated kissing her neck, licking it, and nibbling, with short excursions to smell her hair. It was like some sort of drug that one inhales: completely intoxicating. She tilted her head, allowing him to better kiss her neck; her left hand continued to caress the back of his neck, and moved up to his hair.
As lovely as he found her neck, he soon grew restless for more, and with his left hand, he maneuvered her head so that it tilted in his direction, and so that he could place a sloppy, sideways kiss on her lips.
And aren't sideways, sloppy kisses just dandy?
The kiss was intense; unconsciously, Harry kept leaning his body towards Hermione, and her chair. And along with Harry's body, went his body weight…
And before they knew it, they had crashed to the floor.
They stopped, wondering if anyone had heard. There was no silencio charm in the drawing room, and anyone could just burst into the room at any moment and find them entangled on the floor together.
Harry actually half-wanted them to get caught already. How daft were these people? This had been going on for almost two months now…how could they not have figured it out by now? He snuck out of his room almost every night, as did Hermione. Were the Weasleys really that heavy of sleepers? Everyone always commented on how tired they looked some days…did they not find the coincidence striking? And although they did not use the Drawing Room every time, they did frequent it quite often.
These people really were daft! How much more predictable could they be?
But perhaps the genius lied in the predictability of it all. Or maybe even in the unpredictability, as no one really suspected Harry and Hermione would ever engage in such activities, let alone together.
Yes…it was so unpredictably predictable, that it was predictability unpredictable.
The portraits knew…they saw them almost every night. Why wouldn't they tell? Oh yes, they faked sleep. But portraits weren't really that good at acting.
Of course, they didn't mention, or allude, anything about this to anyone; this was their secret. This was something that started spontaneously, completely random…
And thank Godric for it.
Realizing that no one was coming, they smiled at each other, and decided to continue on in their business. Tonight was important. Tonight was very important…
Harry internally debated whether he wanted to do this on the floor. He hated the floor. It was kind of hard. Yes, he was a wizard, and he could easily soften floors with a wave of his wand, but do young wizards really think about these things when all of their blood has rushed out of their head?
Without a second thought, Harry got up off the floor, and chivalrously extended his hands to help Hermione up. With a grin, she extended her hand, and Harry pulled her up, keeping a firm grip on her hand and gently kissing it. He noticed with amusement that they were stained with ink. He glanced at her face, and he saw ink stains on her cheeks. With a chuckle, he lifted his hand to her face, and began wiping the ink away with his thumb. Hermione nuzzled his hand, and without further ado, took hold of Harry's, and brought his thumb into her mouth. She sucked on it, keeping her eyes on his the entire time.
Well, that was the last of the blood in his head, there.
As he led her over to the table with all the school supplies, he wondered how exactly she managed to do that thing with her eyes. You know, that thing. Other wizards out there would know what he meant…that thing that girls do. With their eyes. They get so big, so wide. They look so innocent, and vulnerable, and you get this insane feeling that you'd do anything for them, that you could protect them from everything, that it was your duty to protect them from everything. And you also decide that you'd do whatever they wanted. Anything. Why can girls do that, and not blokes? The world is so bloody unfair!
Because no matter how vulnerable and innocent Hermione could make herself look, vulnerable and innocent she definitely was not.
He sat her down on the table, making sure to shove everything off beforehand. She looked at him reproachfully, but said nothing. Tomorrow, he would most likely get the silent treatment for the entire day. But tonight…tonight was different. Important. Tonight was the last night…
Once secure in her seat, the first thing she did was strip Harry of his shirt. If there was something sexier than undressing Hermione, it was having Hermione undress him. He spent hours thinking about those hands running over his body, caressing him playfully before taking something off. She relished it. He could tell by her smug expression, her naughty smile. He was quite pleased that this was a side of Hermione only he got to see, and sometimes he wondered at it. Was daytime Hermione the same one he came to at night? They could be two entirely different witches…this one before him could be a sex-goddess who had Polyjuiced herself…
But then he would see Regular Hermione look up at him from behind a book with the very same expression on her face he had grown to greedily anticipate every waking hour of the day.
'Atta girl.
When Harry finally realized that the advantage was turned against his favor, he decided that it was time to turn the tables. He slowly traced his hands to the belt that held her pink bathrobe together, stopping to tickle her belly as he did so. She laughed. It was a glorious laugh. Though it was smeared by the fact that she tried to slap his hand away.
When he had the tie undone, he parted the fabric aside, almost reverently. He realized with glee that she was wearing nothing underneath…
So, the little slattern had been prepared.
How marvelous.
He exposed her right shoulder, the better to kiss it. As he did so, he wondered whether Ginny had found it odd that Hermione had gone to bed starkers. Or maybe Hermione always went to bed starkers.
The very thought made him want to die! All those years he could've taken his broom and flown over to the other side of the dormitories, and had a peak into her window…all those years of naked Hermione in bed, and he had been sleeping? Who needed sleep?
Hermione noticed that his thoughts had drifted, and her brows furrowed in concern.
"What's wrong?"
Harry snapped out of his reverie, and gave her a lecherous grin. "Do you sleep naked?"
As an answer, Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him tightly, and slammed her lips against his.
Who cared if she slept naked or not? Did he not have her in front of him right now? Naked?
Hermione loosened her grip on him, perhaps realizing that she might be suffocating him. Harry was too polite to tell her. She sneaked her hands into his pajama bottoms and gripped his erection. He sighed happily.
His hand cupped her cheek; his thumb caressed her lips, and then he brought his hand down between them, so that his thumb could caress those lips. He could feel the heat, and the moisture, and it drove him mad with need.
He pulled his bottoms down to his knees, and Hermione let herself lay down on the table. The look in her eyes told him they had to hurry…they were running out of time. Soon it would be morning. Soon they'd have to leave Grimmauld Place and go back to Hogwarts. Soon their arrangement would end.
Usually Harry was happy to go back to Hogwarts. Funny how things change…
She raised her legs and placed her calves on his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow quizzically; they had never done this. Hermione grinned, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. He bent his head and kissed her knee, smiling. She was always so full of surprises.
He entered her swiftly. There was nothing to it; they were veritable experts by now. The new position was…great. It felt wonderful to be inside her, and ever better to start moving. His hands were on her thighs, the better to control the motion. It wasn't long before the beads of sweat began forming on his brow…sex was really hard work. But it felt damn good…
He started to see the plus side of the new position almost immediately. Boy, was he getting an eyeful!
Hermione was on fire; panting frantically, her hands were in her hair, stroking her breasts and abdomen. With her left hand gripping the table, she slipped her right hand down to her clitoris, and rubbed furiously.
That alone almost made Harry come.
But he controlled himself, long enough so that Hermione could take his penis out of her, and use it to stroke her labia, and guide it back inside her.
He groaned.
She wanted to kill him! She wanted him dead! There was nothing else to it; how else was he supposed to live an entire year without her, the images of this night burned into his brain, without going mad with lust? She was a cruel, sick, twisted woman…
And oh, she was making him putty in her hands!
When he came, he came with a vengeance. She wouldn't let it be easy either; she tightened herself around him, clenching beyond her own orgasm. It was like she was teasing him. Remember, you won't have this for a whole year…
Goddam her.
God Bless her.
They stayed for a while after; Harry slumped on top of her, Hermione too lazy to make space for him. They were in a mild catatonic state. But then they heard the clock strike: four in the morning. In an hour Mrs. Weasley would be up to have breakfast ready. In four hours they'd be out of the house.
Harry ruefully got up, and slipped his bottoms back on. He didn't bother with his shirt, just picked it up off the floor. Hermione tied the bathrobe in place; she had half-worn it the entire time.
Without a word they both walked to the door; Hermione would pick her things up later.
They stopped before going out. They didn't kiss. They didn't touch. They didn't say a word. They just looked at each other. Hermione with that look that Harry found simultaneously compelling and disconcerting, Harry trying to silently articulate a thousand things that were too complicated to express verbally.
Harry placed his hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and walked out. His heart had never felt heavier than it had then, walking down the hall towards his room. But he didn't look back; he refused to look back.
Their time was up.
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A/N: Sometimes I get nagged by people to let them know the music that inspires me to write things. Sometimes they don't nag, and just figure it out themselves, and I think that's totally cool. J
But to make things easier, I've decided to post a mini-soundtrack of sorts to this fic…
1.) Time is Running Out ~ Muse (Someone figured this out and I thought it was very clever of them! But then again, how could someone who has listened to this song not have figured it out? )
2.) Still in Love ~ The Stills
3.) Desperate ~ The Killers (of course The Killers)
4.) Love and Death ~ The Stills
5.) Time ~ Pink Floyd (bonus points if you find The Killers' cover…it's at the end of a live version of On Top…you can find it. I have faith in you.)
6.) Narc ~ Interpol (This song just influences everything in the world.)
7.) Ready for It ~ The Stills (I've been in a Stills-ish mood lately…)