Our First Christmas by hippie

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 05/08/2005
Last Updated: 08/08/2005
Status: Completed

This has no spoilers. It's short and OOC, but not too much so till Chap 3. It is, however
horribly rushed. NC-17 chapter is #3, also completed. awful smut, but hope you r/r anyway




1. Part One
-----------




*A fake beard? How passe.
And look, by the chimney,
It’s his getaway sleigh.

In case you haven’t noticed,
There’s festive things to do,
So lets all rejoice for Jesus
And merry fuckin Christmas to you.

Mom got drunk & dad got drunk
At our Christmas party
We were drinkin champagne punch
And homemade eggnog
*
*This is to compare how many hits I get on an NC-17 story to my other. Also because Emma
Watson is a fox. If you’re reading this, you are now a statistic. It contradicts tons of things in
book six, and as such, contains no spoilers. This Christmas-break idea has probably been done more
than a dozen times, but I didn’t take the time to find out, so know I’m not attempting to steal
anyone’s thunder. You’ll find that each is slightly out of character, but not so much as to be
unpleasant or horribly unrealistic. I don't own Harry Potter. Please enjoy.*

Christmas rolled around from behind winter’s oppressive chill, a hint of warmth amidst the
troubled times. It overtook the blanket depression of His return, as though The Dark Lord would not
dare show his face during a holiday so holy and pure. The tang of cinnamon and citrus wafted
through the very halls, coupled with chocolate and cream; the air itself seemed to be
celebrating.

One boy (who lived) was not looking forward to the festivities. He would have to leave his
friends for number four, Privet Drive, where he had spent ten Christmases without holly jollies or
so much as a stocking on the mantle. Sixth years which passed their apparition tests were allowed
to return home in this way to surprise their families, and Hermione might be among them.

Harry would be boarding the familiar scarlet engine to leave the castle grounds which he had
long since called home. A chill managed to seep through the window of the dormitory where he lay,
contemplating every way to escape this horrible fate. The train would bear him away from the life
he loved to dump him ceremoniously into a world without magic.

It was time to go, and students were rousing and beginning to pack their things for a brief
stint of family time. Harry remained in his bed; he wouldn’t be taking anything back to his
relatives’ for fear of having it confiscated as “...funny-looking, and probably dangerous,
Petunia!”

The numbers in the dorm were dwindling as boys said their goodbyes, and those with girlfriends
would doubtlessly kiss their crushes extra to tide them over downstairs in front of the fire.
Thankful for an interjected introduction, Ron pulled back the curtain of Harry’s four-poster and
shook him; he opened his eyes with the pretext of drowsiness.

“Harry!” he said, obviously excited to be returning to the coziness of the Burrow, “Harry, it’s
morning!” Why did he expect Harry to share his enthusiasm? Oh. Right.

He snapped awake with the vision of Number Four fading into the faces of the smiling Weasley
family. He wasn’t going back to those horrible people after all. He wouldn’t have to face Diddy
Dunky-Dums or an empty sock upon the hearth. He might even get presents. He swung his legs over the
bed, fully awake, letting the morning light and cold sting his eyes.

“Where is she?” he said dumbly, Hermione on his mind.

“Eh? She’s getting dressed,” (the prospect of which make Harry grin the tiniest grin) “She’s
changed her mind again about coming, you know; going to go with her parents.”

Damn. That’s right. No Hermy for Christmas. Oh well, he’d get over it. He never felt as complete
without Hermione’s presence, throwing around nit-picks and suggestions, making that darling face of
defiance whenever Ron said something offensive about house elves or study ethics. He allowed her to
fill his mind as he got dressed.

O she was pretty. He imagined her chestnut hair up, then down, then up again, and in her robe,
without it, and with it again. He smirked at his private screening of her getting dressed. Or
undressed.

“You coming?” Ron implored impatiently. Harry had been lacing his shoe for thirty seconds. He
managed to gather this and that and waltz down to the common room without thinking of her
again.

The sight of her waiting for them downstairs was one to behold; o did she ever look good. She
was dressed to go already, wearing a festive jumper that just barely reached the hem of her belled
jeans. He pictured her belly button centimeters above. She looked very out of place amidst the
robed students bustling in and out, gathering last minute possessions and indeed exchanging
overzealous goodbye snogs.

She saw Ron first, and he received a hug before Harry got down the steps, the stretch revealing
a wide sliver of her back. He fumed at Ron in the back of his mind and felt his face flush. When
Harry approached her she said nothing; did nothing; but her eyes passed over his with a hint of
loneliness, as one looks at a beloved pet someone else is going to take care of in their
absence.

“Are you appariting to London?” he asked conversationally, a little flustered by her lack of
greeting or farewell. He passed her by on his way to help himself to refreshments laid out, no
doubt, by house elves the night before. She smelled better than the delicious hint of chocolate in
the air.

“I changed my mind again,” she said reproachfully, as though expecting retribution for her
second change in plans. Harry positively beamed at the opposite wall, biting the head off a
Chocolate Frog.

A mass of students made their way down to Hogsmead Station through snow that pooled around their
knees with every step. Harry was so grateful she was coming to spend the holidays with them that he
had to stop himself from skipping several times.

Ron seemed even cheerier too, and they all discussed what they wanted for Christmas, including
brooms and books, and boxes of booze (Ron’s idea of a Very Merry Christmas). They were all freezing
and soaked by the time they made it aboard the train.

The three of them stuck together through the throng and found an unoccupied compartment; not
difficult considering the train had all its cars and half its usual fare. The first part of the
ride passed in comfortable silence, a few Christmassy conversations here and there as the
excitement built. They were each in good humor, and Harry felt the spirit of the season welling as
thoughts of the Burrow filled his mind.

So often it was now that his burden overtook his emotions, but on this day it was so far removed
from thought that he enjoyed himself unconditionally. He was silently extremely grateful for the
carefree nature of a holiday trip with his best friends.

During stints of quiet, or while the other two occupied themselves in idle chat, he reflected on
their friendship. For the first time since puberty blindsided him years ago, he was looking at
Hermione in a new light. She had always been there as his friend, but she wasn’t just one of two
anymore. Maturing together over time grows an indivisible bond between two hearts, and hormones
lead to viewing that bond in different ways.

Damn she was pretty. He watched her double over slightly, laughing at something Ron said. It
pulled her top up to show the small of her back again. Harry caught himself leaning up hopefully
for a look at her panty line, and so did she.

“What are you looking at?” she inquired, still chuckling at Ron’s comment, which had gone wasted
on Harry. He looked up at her face too quickly and she smiled too wide. His heart melted in place
and dripped down somewhere into the region of his lap. She ignored his silence and they continued
joking about using pet Skrewts to light fireplaces, or some such.

Over the past several years, he had come to love her. He knew it now, and recalled (with a
well-timed smile alongside their banter) a time when her place in his heart was occupied by others.
It seemed so long ago, and Harry wondered where to draw the line between having thought of her as a
friend and a female. He wished Ron would suddenly remember an appointment at the opposite end of
the Hogwarts Express.

Ron pulled his robe from over his head to reveal that he had dressed in plain clothes already,
and as though at Harry’s telepathic whim, he wandered from the compartment, saying something about
going to look for Ginny.

“You’d better change too, Harry,” Hermione told him wryly. It was with great concentration that
he avoided blushing. He obliged by digging though his only luggage for muggle clothes. The car
seemed claustrophobic now as he changed, and several times he checked to see that she was facing
the wall. Only once he finished pulling on his jeans did he realize she was seated in place to see
his reflection in the window.

“Hey! Were you looking at my butt?” he exclaimed in mock accusation. She failed to save face and
laughed her head off, giving up her charade to half-watch him pull on his shirt. Harry was quite
impressed with himself now, and made a show of pulling on a tee, though she suspected she wouldn’t
notice his attempts at tensing his abdomen to look taught and sexy. When he sat down, he made sure
it was on her side of the car.

They exchanged patient looks of appraise, eyeing each other up with a mixture of equal parts
lust and innocence. Some of the innocence might’ve been feigned, but Harry noted that the other was
definitely not. He felt like giving up his own charade and kissing her; maybe it would be romantic.
Maybe he’d get to fu -

“Whelp - almost there, then,” announced Ron as he was opening the door and stepping in,
accompanied by his little sister. Harry and Hermione both snapped their heads to look opposite
directions, facing no one. It was impossible to hide their embarrassment, as well as their prior
ogling; Harry noticed his rapid heartbeat slowing.

“And what have you two been up to?” Ginny made fun, stifling her trademark giggles. When they
both said *Nothing* at the same time, each laughed. It was, to Harry’s great relief,
forgotten, but he and Hermione continued to make eyes at each other significantly as the pair of
Weasleys took the opposite bench seat.

He had flirted with her in recent weeks, and she had shown no signs of backing down. In fact,
she was positively returning his advancements, especially just now. The line between Friend and
Female became infinitely more distinct, and Harry knew which side of it he was on. The look in her
eyes the rest of the otherwise lighthearted trip showed she assessed the same thing.

Mrs Weasley, dressed in her usual awful attempt at fitting in, (a loud nightgown and bunny
bedroom shoes with an unmatched scaly leather purse) was waiting for them outside Nine and Three
Quarters, just beyond the barrier. As always, no one noticed them passing through the wall of solid
brick.

There was no one else with her, and she greeted them each with vociferous maternal nags and hugs
and tidying adjustments. (“Geroffme, my hair looks fine mum” - At which point, Harry, Hermione, and
Ginny exchanged hearty grins.)

They had to take a muggle bus to reach walking distance of the Burrow, and the trip through the
countryside was largely uneventful, apart from Harry’s unvoiced smug belittlement of Ron’s
hair-straightening. It gave him something else to share with Hermione. They sat close together,
which everyone else noted in silence.

To miss Weasley’s delight, Fred and George met them at the entrance of the home. She hadn’t been
expecting them. They told her Charlie would be spending Christmas with Bill and Fleur in Romania;
something about Gringotts hosting a dragon festival. Nobody mentioned Percy.

“Get your things, then, come on,” she urged merrily, ushering Ginny into the house, preceded by
the others. Everyone had packed light, perhaps expecting a holiday haul to carry back to school.
Harry and Hermione edged into the doorway together, brushing stomachs. They each apologized to the
other for show, though both might’ve been guilty of conspiring separately to do so.

Something big was up; something was going to be different forever, whether for better or worse.
They were flirting heavily all though dinner; Harry risked a game of footsy with her under the
table which became a topic of general discussion when she brushed Ron’s leg on accident. Their
faces burned for the rest of the meal. Ron seemed impressed rather than jealous, which had been
Harry’s previous suspicion.

It was Christmas eve-eve, and the Burrow was decorated accordingly; the clock which showed the
entire family in “mortal peril” was concealed by a large tree which filled the house with the
nostalgic scent of the season. They were all, save Ginny, who retired early by choice, allowed to
drink. By one in the morning, when Miss Weasley finally noticed the time, each of them was
exhausted from a mix of fatigue and Irish eggnog.

In the space of roughly four hours, Harry had impeccably managed to move from his end of the
couch to Hermione’s, and in the cheer of the alcoholic noel, they were just shy of outright
cuddling. His arm had crept around her and her head found its way to his shoulder. No one seemed
perturbed by this, and in fact, before sending them off to bed Ron’s mom commented tipsily that she
was: “Glad the two of you aren’t trying to hide it anymore,”

(“After all, everyone knew you were peas in a pod,”)

The Burrow had more than enough space to accommodate them, and before retreating to separate
rooms and separate beds with separate dreams, they kissed. The pretext of mistletoe was
unnecessary, although it gave them the excuse they’d been longing for. It wasn’t gratuitous; maybe
each was too inebriated to risk moving too quickly; but it sealed their unvoiced intention with a
short wet promise.

*Eh? EH? Well, I’ll write more to this quickly; there was a certain resolution to the first
story I posted here, but this one is wide open. I know I don’t do a lot of dialogue; and I know I
use too many semicolons. It’s a rushed approach, and only makes sense with the context that they’d
been flirting for ages, but I want to attempt a love scene between them and I simply don’t have
time to build up to it as adequately as Rowling had by book 6.*

*Will they screw? Please read and review!*

*Hippie, August 5, 2005*












2. Part Two
-----------





*I do have a problem with pacing; originally I wasn’t even going to separate it into chapters
but I ran out of time for the day. It’ll be at least three, one for each day I suppose, and aw
heck, might as well have a gratuitous shag at the end. The reason for the brashness in the latter
half of chapter 1 was that that was when I started drinking too.*

*I wasn’t going to beat around the bush, and the contextual assumption of already having
slight affections ended up being a rushed mistake; I couldn’t bring myself to get them in bed
together, and now I find myself doubting my ability to pace it sweetly. That wasn’t my original
intention, but I suppose it is now, and I have to slow his testosterone; thanks for the reviews,
I’ll try and pull them apart long enough to give them time to think.*

*I recognized they were out of character, but I’ve never tried to write with other people’s
characters before, so tramping them around is second nature to me. My favorite characters of my own
creation were usually brash and gritty with their innocence locked away; having to present the
opposite is a challenge. Glad you all seemed to like what I did so far though; the encouragement is
gas on the fire. Wouldn’t be doing this without you guys; fanfiction is a truly unique process. All
of which are American dreams.*

A dream, and nothing more. He had a slight headache and a cramp in his belly that lead him to
believe otherwise, and sure enough, his sensitive eyes slowly focused on the ceiling of the old
room, lined with all sorts of things he hadn’t bothered to take in the night before. It was still
dark outside; only the slightest sign of daylight peeked from under clearly visible stars.

The air was cool and fresh against his cold sweat; the window was ajar and so was the door to
the hall. He took it in soothing breaths, coaxing his headache out from behind his eyes. He had
really done it now. Nothing felt the same; the Christmas spirit escaped him entirely. He felt like
a Judas. A mildly hung-over martyr to the cause of being a douche bag. Lord of douche-baggery.
Mayor of asshole-villie.

How did she feel about all this? Would she be as angry as him as he was at himself? How could he
toss six years of devotion aside for a Christmas fling? What was he thinking? In a corner of the
room which Harry couldn’t see, still on his back with his legs asleep, knees hung gracelessly over
the foot board, Hermione was waiting to answer his questions.

She approached the bed hesitantly, still in her clothes just like he was. Where was Ron to make
a comic crack when you needed him? He felt positively awful, thoughts of his betrayal flooding back
to him as she moved noiselessly to the bed. He made to hoist himself into a respectable position,
but she sat down in such a way as to prevent this. He felt violated, as though he’d been watched
for a long time.

She looked down at him with doe eyes, oddly reproachful but full of unmistakable adoration. He
looked up at her sideways, still on his back. She was upside down to him, which seemed to bring a
fresh pang from his light headache. She doubled over and kissed his lips in a way that pressed his
nose to her chin; brief but not sharp. Instead it was a hesitant exchange that replayed itself in
his achy mind in a whir, making him dizzy with the same adoration.

His eyes were closed, and he didn’t want to open them again. His head was just short of being
propped on her thigh; he shifted his legs uncomfortably but Hermione paid him no notice. She was
bent over him, breathing slowly just shy of his mouth, reluctant to sit up.

When she did, she had already begun flirting over his hair, her warm fingers brushing his cool
forehead lightly while she parted and smoothed and gathered small fingerfulls of it. His head
lolled side to side against her leg, though barely enough to be noticed. His anger at himself
seemed to subside along with the pressure behind his eyes. The queasy feeling in his stomach,
however, persisted. He realized he was smiling.

His leg muscles began to have the unmistakable pins and needles of suffocation, and he winced
sharply and quickly pulled himself into that dignified pose he was talking about, gathering himself
into an involuntary fetal position. Hermione was still beaming at him when his eyes focused
again.

Giving Harry a reassuring tingle that he had done nothing wrong at all in the past twelve hours,
she slid down into bed opposite him, curling into a similar position so that her knees bumped his.
The blood begging to flow through his legs gave him its sharp reminder and he struggled momentarily
to return her pacified stare.

“Hi,” he said, very deep and groggy, stifling a yawn now that the faux pain had subsided. She
smiled at him softly in a kind way that revealed her magical dental work. Her smile might’ve melted
his heart before, had he been as enthralled with her then, but her face was so picturesque and her
smile so beautiful that it turned his soul to gelatin.

“Hi,” she returned, not ceasing her innocent smile which, met by one of Harry’s, transformed to
a grin. They chuckled briefly about nothing. He glanced down to her hand, around which she promptly
assisted his fingers. They held hands across from each other for ten years, dawn still only
threatening to break.

Harry dared to speak first, (“Hermione, -”) but she cut him off with: “Harry. There’re some
things I have to tell you.”

*Gee, what could she possibly have to say?* Everything that needed to be said now loomed
before him like an accusatory finger. There was so much; books full. Harry hadn’t formed a train of
thought before he spoke up anyway, and he supposed what he was about to hear had been rehearsed to
some degree.

Grateful for being able to play the audience, he let her begin. With obvious difficulty, she
started, “Ever since I found out – ever since you told us in this room – what you have to do,” She
almost trailed off but found her voice and spoke slowly:

“Harry, I’ve been so worried. You just couldn’t know. I know, that sounds so selfish but,
(*was that a sniffle?*) but it’s made me think of what could happen. It’s so unfair; it’s a
self fulfilling prophecy now; no matter what happens - whether it was rubbish before, now it’s
real. Each of you has made it real.”

She didn’t seem finished, but she still stopped speaking. Harry looked at her with six years of
skewed friendship quickly realigning in his eyes. He hadn’t expected quite this. The shift in his
awareness seemed to be her cue:

“I know what you have to do, Harry, and I fought the losing battle to tame how I feel about you.
But I know there will only be one thing that will give me any resolution. I’m so scared of losing
you,” (she whimpered something about ‘so special’ but ‘not invincible’ before picking up with:
)

“But I’ve decided, that if the worst did happen; if I had to live life without you; I’d regret
not having memories of being close to you like this.” Her feelings seemed to resolve with her
speech, though it didn’t come through in her voice, which still pitifully implored him to perform
some impossible feat.

What was he doing here? His last memories of consciousness were already somewhat fuzzy, and he
struggled to obtain a conclusive reason he should be lying across from his best friend, hands held,
having kissed before sunrise. The catch twenty two of Trelawney’s prophecy seemed dwarfed by
theirs. How could things ever be the same? One thing or another would have to happen from this
point, because, was he terribly mistaken, or was that time-hardened love in her voice?

She fidgeted her hand in place to force his to do the same, giving him another smile through the
dark. He smiled too, wondering why seconds ago he was searching for an argument. Would he confess
his love? Would he say the four letter word just now? Maybe it would be romantic. Maybe they’d get
to –

“Oh Harry? Last night? I wasn’t drinking.” She drew him into a kiss, one that they shared for
nearly a minute, which seemed to expunge every ounce of stress and worry between them. He didn’t
even dwell on the mention of his so-called Fate; his future with Hermione was infinitely more
important to him at this moment.

They inched closer together, swapping legs to overlap in a (supremely comfortable) lower body
embrace, each playing with the other’s fingers and squeezing the back of the other’s hand. Both
their eyes were closed, and they kissed again. The Christmas spirit came back to him.

They broke apart at the lips and gazed at each other with all the relative depth of six years of
love and friendship. Who would dare accuse him of not knowing what love was in this moment? Who
would challenge his untold –?

*Untold?,* he thought. Now was the time for him to say: “I love you.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but he had moments ago. Instead she smiled in an exhausted way, as
though a tremendous weight had been lifted from her. The smile brimmed over into her second
too-wide grin as she opened her eyes and said, “Well duh.”

He made to tickle her but it would’ve been redundant, as she laughed at his mock frustration and
said in a way fitting a marriage vow, “I do too.” (“Love *you*, I mean,” – which got more
laughter.)

Apparently wee morning had hung on too long, because Mr Sun chose this moment to cast warm light
over their bodies. They were wrapped up too tightly to notice. Nor did they notice breakfast some
hour later. Nor did anyone else notice, or least of all investigate, their absence.

*You know the drill, I do enjoy those reviews, so as long as someone reviews, I’ll probably
have no choice but to keep doing fanfiction with Portkey. Thanks for the advice, stretching it out
a bit & conversing may make the difference in the caliber, though now I don’t know how to
follow it up yet. It’s late, and I’ve run out of time again, because in that situation, I’m afraid
I’d have locked the door and skipped to the NC-17 part.*

*Yours,
Hippie 08/06/05*












3. Part Three
-------------





*This is a shag scene. It is only a shag scene. Had it been a real love scene, I would’ve had
ten thousand words to build up to it, and a sweet climactic end befitting such a lengthy wait.
There’s no mentioned emotional compensation for their actions; Instead I have to force them to do
it, because this could go on forever, and if they didn’t, it would either be overlong or
incomplete. So to make it a whole story, I’ll let them work off their already grossly OOC
aggressions. Besides, I have another idea for a less OOC, far more patient plot, which could
develop and get posted here soon. Reviews on the completed story will be most appreciated to let me
know how to better convey sex without having to use the word “cock.” Please enjoy the brief
unabashedly Out of Character conclusion to Our First Christmas. O brother, even the title is super
generic; there are enough screw stories here that having one more shouldn’t peeve anybody. OOC will
be my brand name for this story, I need to include a big capital notice in the summary: O. O.
C.*

*I consider out of character to mean something a character would never do under any
circumstances. Therefore, this, ladies and gentlemen, is either extreme circumstances, (which it is
not,) or it is me abandoning all hope of rescuing my story, and transforming the beloved Hermione
into a dominatrix. Two whole lines of dialogue.*

*Enjoy anyway, Hippie*

*Aug 8, 2005*

If it was any atonement for his overeager hormones of the day before, on Christmas Eve, Harry
had a very different take on his relationship. Somehow in a space of twenty four hours, the
inevitable crept up on him in a blind spot and jumped in his path to rear its head. Its gorgeous
wavy bushy brown head.

Roughly two months had passed since he began picking up on Hermione’s subtle hints. Hints of
affection that somehow bypassed Ron altogether and appeared directed at Harry. Though Ron’s actions
often brought about such comments, she only ever shared them with The Boy Who Lived.

Suddenly he was The Boy Who Loved Hermione Granger. The swift nature with which the emotion
swept over his life, removing all else from thought, could be compared to provoking a docile tiger.
Only when it sinks into you tooth and nail do you realize just how folly it is to tease a beast
like love. It seemed to come out of nowhere; a euphoria that encompassed his entire existence,
filling all holes and answering all questions.

They had danced around the idea, poked fun at it, enjoyed their private daydreams in the absence
of courage to communicate it, but now that it was lying in the open, it seemed wounded and pained.
He was happy, and she was happy, but the relationship lie bleeding and choking between them,
suffocated by starvation and suddenly breathing deep, feasting on fresh amorous air.

Happy as they were to have confided in each other, and relaxing as the other’s arms might’ve
been, this was a beginning, not an end. It didn’t feel as though they’d solved the problem; rather,
they took a break from it to hide in each other’s embrace. It still stood before him in his mind’s
eye, looming, accusatory and indefinite. It was the beginning of something wonderful, but it hadn’t
reached the wonderful part just yet.

It was closer than it had ever been, and only now that he was this close did he realize how much
he wanted it. No, not that. He wanted her whole self, inside and out; he wanted to feel her
feelings and think her thoughts and breathe her breath, and he felt so close to achieving that
connection that he dared not stop now.

She was lying in a most vulnerable and innocent position; her top lip even slacked and hung
slightly separated from her bottom. She looked tranquilized, and his pupils burning against her
eyelids seemed to pull her out of a little doze. She smiled so happily and stretched to hook her
arm around him in such a darling drowsy way that his heart seemed to trickle to his stomach
again.

Neither of them had slept for very long the night before, and they dozed off and woke impeccably
at the same time. It was afternoon; Harry could tell because the sun no longer lit the room
properly. Hermione rose and shied out the door without looking his direction, *probably to avoid
being overly honest and saying, “I’ll come right back, I have to pee,”* he thought. Before he
knew it, he was asleep again.

He was heading down to the kitchen when she finally reappeared and followed him down the hall.
How were they going to introduce this concept to Ron’s family? *Here’s how*, he thought as
Hermione scooped up his fingers and grasped them between hers with no sign of abashment. They
paused before passing the doorway, exchanging indiscernible looks.

She kissed him; she was acting completely different than just a few days ago; different than
last night, even. It felt to him as though she’d been holding back a high tide of emotions all her
life and had finally been given his blessing to show him. When they crossed into the next room,
however much he had wanted the Weasleys to see the two of them together at long last, the kitchen
was empty.

Hermione looked wryly pleased with herself. Harry stuck his head into several other rooms before
calling out the names of Ron’s parents and siblings. He knew Ron would be gone today to pick out a
new –

Hermione slid her arms around Harry’s waist in a sultry way, making as much lingering contact as
possible. She pressed into his back and nibbled the back of his neck. This was not good. “I
convinced them all that they needed some fresh air,” she said in a deep voice unlike her usual
bemused satisfied tone. This tone sounded like she was plotting to overthrow Harry’s whole universe
in a single sentence and knew she had succeeded: “- Told them we could use some privacy.”

Harry broke out of her grasp cautiously and looked at her aghast. Was she serious? When had she
planned *this*? How often did she rehearse this moment in *her* bed in the preceding
months? He certainly had, but never gave the thought any credibility; he wasn’t even sure, until
two seconds ago, that she lusted after him in the same manner he craved her.

It seemed stupid for the following two seconds, during which he hesitated for hours in his mind,
trying to grasp her behavior. He couldn’t just stand there looking as though her plan disgusted
him; he tried edging in close to hide his face over her shoulder, but she cut off his attempt with
curt kisses which escalated to a continuous tug of war. Far from giving him time to think, it drove
her rash, out of character behavior from thought. His most important questions were silenced at the
source.

All that mattered was winning this round of tongue fighting. All that made sense were her hands
creeping around his sides, and her lower body pressed heavily into his. Who cared that a year ago
he would’ve wanted this from someone else? Who cared that Hermione had never shown any sign of
wanting it at all? She obviously did now. Who was he to deny this new Hermione?

Though her movements remained slow and lingering, she began to force her hips against his with
what might’ve been mock desperation, and kept kissing him huskily. Startled rather than forced, he
backpedaled several inches, bumping heavily into the dining room table, jostling everything on it
with a brief noisy clank of china and silver. She never broke her kiss.

Her eyes were open, then closed, her mouth was kissing him, then his face; she splayed her legs
over one of his and straddled it standing while he struggled not to lose balance. He was almost
sitting on the table, trusting his weight on its surface while he wedged his arms around her back.
They were locked in an embrace, and Harry, though his heart was desperate for reason, found little
time to ponder one.

Hermione seemed desperate for *him.* She leaned into him, adding her weight to his
continued effort to remain standing. She was blind from kissing him, utterly lost without thought
of consequence or hesitation. Where did this come from? Need he bother to hunt for reason in her
logic when she seemed hopelessly impatient to fuck him on the table his surrogate family ate
from?

She was trying to eat his face, he decided. She was ten-hundred-thousand times different than
he’d ever witnessed her, and he truly didn’t mind. He himself would’ve never given into this
before, so what did it matter that they were both hopelessly changed, and their relationship taking
leaps and bounds to an adult level? Was it even mature? Love at all? This part was lust; just as
surely and wholly as he’d felt her love the night before, he felt her immediate ache for him
now.

Was this that well of emotions breaking the levee? An atypical tidal wave of hormones or a full
fledged tsunami of love just making landfall? Why did it matter so much to him? He felt the dormant
love threatening to tear him apart the night before; why not release it in the closest way
possible? His heart sank; she was a step ahead of him the whole way. He was just wondering if he
had been keeping up properly when she crossed her arms to the hem of her thick shirt and lifted it
gracefully over her head, turning it inside out.

The festive markings on it looked horribly out of place when the weave was backwards, but the
skin she hadn’t flinched to reveal gave him goose bumps. They must’ve looked horribly out of place
amidst decorations of Christmassy cheer; gentle and warm while the two of them were hot and
ravaging. At least, she was, dropping her jumper to the floor unceremoniously.

It made no sense to him, but he decided that it didn’t have to. The torrent of pent desires was
the tiger. Wholesome wholehearted love had its place in it, but the ferocity of the conception of
that love being born was dominant in this moment. They would’ve never given in without the love. He
wasn’t really thinking about *this*, either.

She tore at his clothes, removing his shirt with his counterproductive bewildered help. *She
was the one to give in,* he realized. It turned him on to no end. She rubbed his chest widely, a
lusty haze over her eyes. How could this be her? Why was she the one to be dominant? Why did she
get to wear the pants for their first sexual encounter?

He felt dejected, uncomfortable, and almost violated, but outweighing those feelings was the
cumulative reminder of every single time he’d wanted her this way in the past year. Including,
though probably amended in his memory at that moment, their entire past, which suddenly seemed to
include them gazing lovingly at one another between heroics. He couldn’t recall wanting her this
zealously, or for that matter, wanting her to be this zealous.

To interrupt his self interrogation, she deftly took down his jeans, causing him to stand erect
(not like *that*) till they crumpled oddly around his ankles. He struggled to step free of
them and fell back against the table again, catching the faintest warmth of a smile from behind her
hungry eyes.

Good. She was still *her*. Somewhere in there was the same Hermione. And at least she let
him keep his underwear. She stood back to her full height and finally broke character, almost
giggling at the situation like she normally might, had it ever been normal for her to yank his
pants off in a horny fit. The way she beamed at him lifted the uncomfortable feelings of hesitation
and he was left with, quite appropriately, a perfect balance of love and lust.

She led him by the hand with the same girlish air, shy of skipping, down the familiar path to -
O God. As if it wasn’t enough for him to be dragged by the hand through Ron’s house, having been
aggressively undressed by his other best friend, now Hermione led him unerringly to Ron’s
bedroom.

Granted it was the only room they were always allowed in, and the only one that wasn’t
unfamiliar and dark, but Jesus Herm. Way to add insult to injury. Or maybe Ron agreed, who cared?
She was topless, breaking her hold on Harry’s hand to undo her bra. She faced away, making sure to
show him only her back. Was she? She wasn’t. She wriggled out of her pants and stepped out of them
nimbly.

It was about this time that Harry’s brain stopped working. The little hamster in the wheel said,
“Ah fuck it,” and he was left to stare at Hermione’s light skin, lit by mid day light, every inch
of her body exposed to him. He didn’t remember consenting to anything; in fact, every bit of this
situation beyond his flirtation was her doing. (as if)

The first thing he consented to knowingly, and perhaps the biggest decision he had made towards
any friendship, was to stride to her backside and wrap his arms around her acceptingly. Love filled
his heart, and all trace of wanting or desire beyond holding her to his body momentarily
dissipated.

She felt the same, or must’ve, because they basked in the warmth of the window and each other
for minutes, grudgingly separating enough for her to turn in place face him. They held one another
and seemed lost, their eyes focused on each other but somehow distant, as though they didn’t need
to see for this. They were reembracing warmly again and again, testing their skin contact and
teasing and rubbing together, filled with both evil anticipation and the purest of adorations. It
was a giddy feeling, something fully happy without remorse or complaint.

They sank into Ron’s bed. It seemed less out of place than he thought it might. As a matter of
fact, Hermione taking charge was the only way they’d ever be in this position. Harry accepted in
the back of his mind, along with dozens of other simultaneously formulating notes for the future,
that he would’ve never taken this direct route, and for whatever reason, it was what she wanted.
She wasn’t so off base in her actions, although they stuck out like a sore thumb in the face of
Christmas eve.

It appeared that it was still Harry’s turn to make a move. They separated on the bed long enough
for him to decide what the *hell* he was going to do. He wished she would go on pacing things
for him. The look on her face was unreadable; it was very content, but mixed with zeal. Very
innocent and sly at the same time.

Her body was every bit as beautiful and soft to the touch as he imagined. Without hesitating too
long or leaning into it too quickly, he moved to kiss her. She obliged; he still felt like she was
in charge. She seemed less zealous; Harry knew it wasn’t entirely an act to begin with, and
suddenly missed it. He hovered over her; she obliged even to lie back on the bed.

Just as Harry became determined to set the pace, she parted her legs so he could lie across her
whole body. It wasn’t so much that he wanted contact as that his arms and legs buckled from
underneath him; he lay on her, feeling her breathing through her stomach and chest. Their bodies
were so soft and warm where they pressed against one another; he felt claustrophobic but it was
invited.

It wasn’t hard to kiss and steadily begin to make the motions of the thing that was on their
minds. He was in control, but she had a resolve to her demeanor that led him to question himself.
It felt so good; that was why they were going to do it, right? What ulterior motive could possible
exist here, clinging to each other, kissing desperately, hips rolling & bellies heaving? Was
there a world outside this one; a world which had anything to offer that could make him feel better
than being this close to Hermione? Was the give and take that was about to take place all it was
cracked up to be? He stopped asking questions. The hamster took the rest of the day off.

Before they committed, wearing a pair of frankly surprised slack-mouthed expressions, they were
kissing heavily. Though he’d never remember exactly how, he’d managed to join her in his birthday
suit and laid, ready and contemplating, lifting his hips awkwardly to position himself by trial and
error. Again, it wasn’t too difficult.

It felt to Harry as though they were made for each other, engineered specifically to fit
perfectly locked in each other’s grasp. She dug her nails into his back for several seconds; he
hardly dared to move, both for the sake of her expression, contorted with cute ridges in her brow
to mask her pain, and because he felt as though he’d crumple on her and die on the spot.

They hardly looked from each other’s faces. Brand new sensations didn’t have to be observed
except with the senses that perceived them. It was indeed, brand new. Warm and alive. Apart from
the physical pleasure washing over the pair of them, it was like having climbed an emotional
mountain and having found the plateau. He felt closer to her now than ever, as though every plane
of emotional responsibility had been reached and covered. There was nothing to loom over him, no
threat of misguided intentions, and absolutely no way he would ever look at her without recalling
the love and respect in her eyes as they looked back at him meekly.

*Oh. Okay. This is how you do it,* he thought, risking a slow and awkward rhythm. Now it
truly felt like all the holes in his heart were filled, and every past encounter with her flooded
back to him with a loving rush. She filled his mind, his world, and he filled her belly. *No,
that’s mean,* he smiled to himself.

She smiled at him and he smiled back. Smiles. Lots of smiles and kind strokes, gentle affections
and light embraces. Lots of repetitive grinding, slowly speeding from a cautious lull to a more
confident motion. He even tried different movements to see what suited her best. She was keeping
quiet as a mouse, but her eyes communicated everything in the world to him. He saw what felt best
to her, which often felt the best to himself, and what hurt her, which still unfortunately felt
fine to him. They were happily at a loss of words, swapping kisses without breaking eye contact,
occasionally sharing sharp inhales or slow exhales, or causing the other more satisfaction,
grinning over it.

She seemed to pick up the rhythm on her back, moving her hips at the right intervals, though
they were getting to the point of laughing over it when they missed a beat and had to start over.
He could tell she was enjoying herself far outside the realm of physical pleasure. Course, it
didn’t hurt either.

She seemed happy, she seemed more like herself every second until there was no differentiation.
There was no horny Hermione, no friendly bookworm Hermione, no girlfriend; she was just,
*her*. He himself found he had shed many masks and taken down his guard to the lowest it had
ever been. It seemed rushed in retrospect, but they were taking there time now, weren’t they?

Nope. Not really. He was making a sincere effort to make her wear that pitifully strained
expression again, and succeeded promptly by quickening his pace. Their bellies pulled apart with a
sticky sensation, the same one he got pulling away from her topless hug; skin on skin. He knew his
newfound ruthless pounding probably hurt, but he could also tell it felt good to her. It was all
the same to him now that he was confident he wasn’t going succumb to the pressure right away.

The animal lusting came back; he knew how Hermione felt before they started making love; now he
was the tiger, forcing into her while her body worked to opposite ends. She held a continuous
humming moan in her throat, clutching fistfuls of Ron’s sheets while she grew louder. It wasn’t
caught in her throat anymore, and slipped out. It egged Harry on further. He knew precisely what he
was driving her towards, and wanted her body wracked with pleasure, to know he caused it.

What the hell? Oh, right, the hamster took the day off. The sweet part was over; why did the
sweet part need to last so long anyway? They had been at this, by the clock on the wall, twenty
minutes. O yeah. He was going to give her a finale. Hopefully encores. He encouraged her, unable to
keep entirely silent his whispers of, “come on, ‘atta girl,”

Apart from looking a little shocked and more than a little pleased, Hermione beamed at him with
familiar eyes. She was all his. There was love in those eyes that just couldn’t have been there
days before. It couldn’t have. Harry doubled his efforts without changing pace. He found anything
he could do to her in the seconds she climbed towards an orgasm that would make her body quiver
under his. If there were one word to contrast her inevitable loss of control from the preceding
moments? “Loud.”

That fuckin hamster was never coming back. She called his name with a quiet desperate voice, but
he wouldn’t relent. She surrendered under the pressure and Harry found out, quite immediately, what
a girl’s orgasm feels like to the one that gave it to her. He did, indeed collapse on her naked
form, buried in her still, and felt like he was dying. Or being born. *Or hell, I dunno, it feels
fuckin perfect,* he concluded, while her arms slacked around his neck. Her feet were slowly
replaced on the bed; Harry hadn’t noticed how contorted they were.

*What the* hell *do I do now?* he asked himself. He stayed wrapped up in her grasp and
made to tighten their embrace. It was the closest he’d ever felt to anyone, he wasn’t eager to
separate. Amidst not knowing what to do, hardly making heads or tails of his own emotions, and
having to presume things about his friend that he wouldn’t have thought possible, he had found the
girl of his dreams.

Only she would’ve wanted him so much, or would’ve let herself be in this position. She was the
only person he could think of to be in that position with. The thought of any other body underneath
his seemed ludicrous. Love or lust? Dormant passion finding an outlet at last or new passion to be
written off as heat of the moment? Why? The why wasn’t necessarily the most important part of their
story.

Christmas came, and went. It seemed uneventful. They dressed shyly, Harry having to retrieve his
pants from the kitchen. How it came about, and how it just happened all of a sudden & out of
nowhere? Must all be in the spirit of their first Christmas.

*You wanna know why? Cause Harry and Hermy need to be together and I only get two hours a day
tops to write. Eh this was bad sex, but at least it wasn’t completely tasteless. I have accepted
the fact that it makes no sense, but instead of rectifying myself I thought I’d dig the hole deeper
for your reading pleasure. Shit, this could’ve been R-rated, couldn’t it?*

*Hopefully I’ll get to write out some ideas for a new story, which would undoubtedly be better
& have nothing to do with sex till after 10,000 + words. Thanks for reading, please write me
some heinous reviews to make flouting the characters out like tramps worth the hours I spent doing
it. I ran out of time and interest, which is why it ends so horribly. I didn’t even get an author’s
boner. =[*